For this chapter I must give a nod to Nemis, from whom I have learned so much about Elrond and Celebrían. The name "gwilwileth" belongs to her.

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Chapter 19 – Revelations

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Sitting alone at his desk, the King of Gondor stared aimlessly at one of the woven tapestries hanging on the wall of his study. In these late days of summer there was no need to light a fire. The room was quiet, almost dismally so.

There was a modest amount of correspondence to read, but Aragorn had little ability to focus on it at present. His thoughts continually drifted to his conversation with Arwen from last night, both their words ringing in his mind. You need not bear this alone, he had offered. And yet... I do not know if you can understand this...

The King shook the thoughts away and tried once more to concentrate on the paper in front of him, a letter from the Lord Faramir informing him of the White Company’s activities. In Eldarion’s absence this year, the Steward’s eldest son had taken on much of the leadership duties. But even still, it was strange not to be hearing such news from the prince.

Aragorn sighed, looking down at the letter. It was not pressing, but... perhaps it was an excuse.

With a twist of doubt in his stomach, he rose from the desk. It was time to make ready for dinner.

After the meal, while in their chambers, he broke the news to Arwen.

"I must go to Ithilien." Aragorn said abruptly. He was standing in front of the long mirror, looking down as he unfastened the buttons of his shirt.

The brush in Arwen’s hand paused in mid stroke. Her mind had been elsewhere, as had been common for her in recent weeks.

"When?" Her back straightened and she set the brush on the dressing table in front of her.

"Almost immediately. Tomorrow morning, in fact. Lately I have been in correspondence with Faramir," Aragorn continued, "Without Eldarion there this year, I have not been able to keep as informed as I would like about the White Company’s campaign."

As Aragorn spoke he turned to collect his less formal clothing, to replace what he had worn to dinner. Arwen twisted in her chair towards him, but he had looked away.

"Summer will soon be over, and since Minas Tirith has been… quiet in recent weeks, I thought there would be no harm in leaving straight away," the King finished.

To Arwen this did not seem pressing business.

"You will not stay away for long?" she asked.

"Only as long as is necessary." He opened his mouth again as if to speak but then paused, rethinking his answer. "I must go and complete preparations, while there are still a few hours left in the evening."

Arwen caught his eye briefly, and thought she could see a flicker of something, almost of regret. She rose hastily from her dressing table, unable to keep confusion from her voice when she spoke again.

"Aragorn..." Resting a hand on the door, she paused to see him turn back to her. "You are certain you must go?"

She watched him regard her carefully for a moment before answering. Again his expression hinted at some hidden emotion.

"I have given the matter a great deal of thought, but I think it is best, for the moment. If it is solitude that you require, then I will not stand in the way of it. But neither can I stand idle, and see you in pain knowing I can do nothing to help."

Arwen looked down, her brow furrowing with concern. He had offered to help her and she had turned him away. He was right.

She remained silent, unsure of what to say next, but before she could decide she felt him take her hand.

He met her eyes and spoke softly. "I trust you will find your way."

With a brief squeeze of her hand he turned and went from the room, leaving Arwen to wonder alone at this new development.

* * *

"’Twas a fine dinner, Doreth."

Doran rejoined his sister in her kitchen, the evening meal long over by this point. He sat back easily in one of the wooden chairs, stretching long legs out before him.

"Ah, thank you Doran, it was nothing. You are always welcome, you know that."

Doreth removed her apron and took a seat next to him at the table. Glancing into the next room, she saw the children happily tormenting Adair to recount more tales of his recent trip to the market at Edoras.

"I do not think Connor will stop questioning him for some time," said Doran, observing the same scene. "Wanting to join his father on the same trips, no doubt."

The fair-haired lady chuckled to herself. "I do not think his curiosity about other places will ever go away. Especially since seeing the Royal City."

"Hmm, yes, I think you’re right."

Doreth watched her brother trace a knot in the table’s surface. Whenever their journey to Minas Tirith was mentioned, he only grew quiet, remaining passively secretive about what had passed between him and the princess royal.

She leaned over her folded arms, whispering so as not to be heard by the occupants of the next room. "Adair found a birthday gift for Nolan, as well. A coat."

Brown eyes looked back up at her. "You shouldn’t have."

Doreth waved his concerns aside. "It is big enough that he will have time to grow into it. And there is one for Connor as well, to save for his birthday this winter."

"It is too much," Doran replied in the same whisper, still surprised but cheered nonetheless at the gift, "You spoil him."

"Well, we have only one nephew, therefore it is our duty to spoil him," his sister responded with a wink.

Not a moment too soon, the boy in question entered the kitchen. Nolan came up beside his chair. He rubbed one eye absentmindedly, face flushed from the activities of the day that was now coming to a close.

Doran ran a hand over the top of his son’s head, brushing blond hair out of his eyes.

"Tired already?" Nolan only nodded, leaning against his father. "Then perhaps we should be going."

"Papa, may we not just stay here tonight?"

Doran caught his sister’s eye briefly before responding. "No, I think we will go back to our house."

"But it is so far to walk," Nolan protested weakly, rubbing his other eye.

"Not so very far," Doran said calmly. He did not like to have to coerce his son in this matter, but they had a place of their own, that they spent far too much time away from. "I shall carry you on my back, if you like."

"Really?"

"Well... just this once." He smiled wryly, observing Nolan’s expression beginning to brighten. "Come along. We shall say our good-nights."

It had been unseasonably warm in recent days, even for the late summer season. Tonight, however, was an exception; temperatures had finally cooled enough to make the evening comfortable.

Long after Nolan had fallen asleep, Doran stood at the doorway to his home, leaning against the doorframe, looking out at the stars. The moon was nearly full and cast silvery light over the surrounding meadow, and the stables nearby.

At length he turned away, setting his lamp alight before moving back through the quiet house.

It had been intended as a home, all those years ago, for so much more than just the two of them. For so long it seemed that there were too many rooms, simply too much space to move about in. It was no wonder Nolan preferred his aunt and uncle’s house to this one.

But now there was a glimmer of something in his mind, perhaps hope, for something different. And no matter how often he told himself to forget it, he could not.

Before Doran reached his bedroom, he paused at the small table that was used for a desk. He drew out the paper and ink that he had discretely asked Adair to purchase for him on this latest trip; Doran could not remember a time when he had written so many letters.

He pulled out the latest one, and read it over one last time, just to be certain.

My dear Lady,

I hope this letter finds you well, and I send my best wishes for you and your family.

There were the usual pleasantries that followed, of course, but he came quickly to a much more pressing subject. Their correspondence had now passed the point of filling pages with trivial matters.

You asked me if you had revealed too much, but if so then I am grateful to you for it. I am so very happy to know how free you felt to write such words to me, for despite all propriety, free is the way feel to be able to write to you.

As I write I imagine you before me, hearing my words instead of reading them. At times I stop and remind myself who you are, that your station is so very different from mine. For the image of you in my mind is not of the courtly lady, in her jewels and fine gown (though perhaps it should be… perhaps I overstep my bounds even in the mentioning of this…) In truth what I remember first is the young woman I met, with her arm in a bandage and her hair long and dark. The one who caught a cricket in her hand, and laughed when the music was merry.

In one of your letters, you once asked me about my late wife. Of course I remember much of her, and think of her often. I think of her when I see my son wearing a certain expression, or hear him questioning so many little things about the world. In two days he will be nine years old. He is a cheerful boy, and growing fast, before my eyes. So long as he is a part of my life, Nola will be also.

And yet I think of you, as well. I remember seeing you on the grass after the rain, when your clothes were so wet and heavy, and your cheeks were pale and cold. But then you came awake, and you touched my hand as you reached out. Even as we rode from the river, my only thoughts were of helping you to be well again. I had only my jacket to wrap you in, and wondered if it would be enough to take the cold from you.

I did not know it then, how my life would change as a result of that meeting. Only months ago, I would not have expected to take a journey to the White City, to be a guest of your father the King, and to share your company. Now that I am returned and my life goes on in your absence, my little corner of the world seems so very different. I can feel every mile of the distance between us... there is hardly a moment of the day when I do not wish to be where you are.

You occupy my thoughts, and my heart.

Yours, always,

Doran

He carefully folded the letter and sealed it, to be ready for the messenger who would come tomorrow to take it. Doran knew the only thing harder than sending the letter would be not to follow it in person.

* * *

Arwen entered the library with much of the same hesitation she had felt over recent weeks, but a kind of determination had now risen in her. She had thought herself able to handle such a situation alone, but in shutting out her family she had only made things worse.

She found the small reading room had been left tidy, with every book returned to its proper place. As she looked over the shelves she ran her fingertips lightly over the spines, a gesture she had performed so many times in her father’s library, over the very same books.

Soon enough she found the volume she sought, the one that had been the source of so much unexpected sorrow. Swallowing back a lump in her throat, she pulled the small diary off the shelf.

There was her mother, as clear as if she had been standing before her, brought to life by the words on the pages.

Arwen sank against the bookshelf, letting herself slide down to sit on the floor. She tucked her knees up and rested the open diary upon them, and quietly began to read.

The diary was small, and held only the occasional entry, but it was all there, in the scattered notes. Celebrations and begetting days. Sickness and uncertainty. Visitors to their home, and visits paid to Lórien and Lindon. A family’s life.

It still pained her to read the last entries.

The wounds cannot heal...

I see how my husband regards me, with that glimmer of hope that I will return to myself. It is just as hard for me to speak of it, but we must. Such a parting is not something I could undertake unless... if there was any other way...

I cannot stay only to become a stranger to my family, force them to sit and watch while I fall apart inside.

Arwen remembered how difficult that time had been for all of them. So much waiting, hoping for the best. But then the decision had been made, and despite their grief over the separation, there was also a certain calm to be found in knowing there was indeed a resolution to it all.

Today I heard Arwen playing the harp. She let me play with her for a time, and I even found a joyful tune still within me. It brought a smile to my lips. Ah, she is so accomplished, so beautiful, so sure of who she is. I have such hope for her.

To be parted from my children, alas, that will be the most difficult, I fear. Their own choice is still before them, I know. But only in the fullness of years will they discover their paths, and I regret I cannot be there to see it...

I know you will be here to give them guidance, meleth-nîn, should they require it.

I know also that my thoughts will never stray from you. Your heart has given me more strength then I ever imagined.

At last I come to the end. Having unburdened myself with these thoughts, they shall remain here. I have in my memory all that I wish to take with me.

I wonder if the sea air is as fresh as I imagine?

Arwen touched her fingertips over the last few words written in her mother’s careful hand. How strange it was to be trespassing on such personal thoughts.

With a sigh of melancholy she skimmed the tip of her thumb over the corners, fanning the pages that she thought were blank. But she found, with surprise, that her mother’s final entry was not the last to be found in the diary.

The following pages were filled with more entries, and Arwen recognised her father’s writing immediately.

Time has passed so strangely in your absence, gwilwileth. Our bed is too large, with only me to sleep in it.

I wonder how you fare, across the West. I hope that you are healed, you know I do. But truly, I should not worry.

I do not remember how I first came to this diary, nor can I say how long it was before dared read what you had put upon these pages. In a strange way it is a comfort, to feel connected to you in such a way, to be able to speak to you from afar.

With a mixture of astonishment and curiosity, Arwen continued to read. This was a side of her father she had so rarely seen. His concern for Elladan and Elrohir as they journeyed long in the mountains. The growing pressure placed on Imladris as a place of refuge. Then a greater theme, a concern that had remained hidden from her.

His mother is strong, but she has had no other choice, it seems. I sense it was as difficult for her to bring him here as it was to endure the events that made it necessary. To have come here in such a time... They need protection.

Such a burden should not be placed on one so young. He knows nothing of what has passed, or of the footsteps he must one day walk in. And yet his survival brings hope for their people. But no... perhaps his life will have meaning for more than the Dúnedain. Something forbodes.

Long years may yet pass before a conclusion is reached.

"Estel," Arwen whispered, a curious smile tugging on her lips.

I tried so to remain calm, meleth-nîn, but I could not.

Does Arwen truly know what she forsakes? I have asked her, and every time her response is firm. Even so, she is gentle, she does not want to hurt me. But yet she must.

He loves her truly, as she loves him. I will not try to deny it.

You would have been overcome with joy to see her today, arrayed in such splendour, smiling with love. (We once looked at each other in such a way. Indeed, I still remember the shine of the silver in your hair against the white of your dress...)

It is done now. She has found her path.

Arwen swallowed a lump in her throat. How difficult it had been to let go, and yet how simple a choice it had been in the end.

How shall I finally leave this place, this land, this home? Now, at the last, I cannot fathom it. I could not bear the thought of your separation, but now I am faced with yet another.

I do not know why I do not take this with me, why I leave it with Imladris. But perhaps you faced the same question, meleth-nîn, when you left. Perhaps there were some feelings best left behind. Did you leave this, knowing that I would discover it?

And now I wonder who shall discover this, after I have departed. Whether that thought should trouble me or not, I find I am strangely relieved to be closing this book for the last time. I shall leave it tucked away, unmarked, with the collection on Eriador that you used to return to so often.

Ah, I am weary, gwilwileth. I know that seeing you again will bring me much needed peace.

Arwen turned the page, and found it blank. The next one was the same; she had reached the end. She closed the book and held it tightly to her chest. Bowing her head, she shut her tearful eyes, awash in memory.

When she looked up again she saw her daughter standing in the doorway. Before Arwen could rise from where she sat, Lúthea approached, wearing an expression of sadness.

"Oh, my darling..." Arwen held her arms out and the girl rushed into them.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you."

"My tears are not your doing, Lúthea, you must never believe that." She held her close, rocking a little as they sat together.

The princess sat up and sniffled a little, noticing the book in her mother’s hands.

"It was your mother, who wrote it?"

Arwen dried her eyes, nodding. "And your grandfather as well."

"They have sailed to the West, haven’t they?"

The Queen nodded again. "Yes. But my mother... she left many years ago, long before I met your father. It is hard for me now to think of what she will miss, as we are parted."

"They will not return?"

Arwen let out a slow breath, steadying her voice. She had known such questions would come eventually. "No, and neither will I be able to sail, and see them. I chose to remain here, with your father."

Lúthea looked down, confusion evident in her face. "But how could you make that choice? To leave such a world behind?" She asked not out of incredulity, simply a desire to understand.

"It has always been difficult for me, to think of what I have given up. But in doing that I have also gained so much. I have you, and your brother and sisters."

"But… ada is mortal, he… he will die. We will die." She looked helplessly to her mother, not wanting to comprehend. "What shall become of you, when he is gone?"

Arwen spoke simply and honestly, though there was some pity in her expression. "As part of the mortal world, I shall remain here."

A tear slid over Lúthea’s pale cheek. "But that fate should not belong to you if... if there is another place for you, where your family awaits you."

Arwen reached out to her daughter, to simply brush away the tears, gently stroke her hair.

"Yet my family too, is here, family I could never have done without. This is my place, as Middle-Earth has always been. I may have given up a greater world, but in exchange I have this life. I have you."

Extending her arms gently, she let her daughter in once more, and hugged her tightly.

"Im míl le, goll sell nín." She kissed Lúthea’s hair, held comforting arms around her, did not bother to dry her own eyes gain. "Do not doubt that, ever."

"I love you too, nana," Lúthea whispered. "I did not want to hurt you."

"Oh, sweetheart… You could never do that, never. This is your family, they are part of your history, as well as mine. You should not feel ashamed to ask about them."

"Are you unhappy, without them?"

Arwen regarded her daughter’s face as she pondered the question. "I have been sad. But that is not the same as being unhappy."

The princess nodded. "Ada must have done wonderful things, to make you fall in love so deeply with him."

Arwen smiled gently, and could not help a slight flush of colour from appearing on her cheeks.

"One summer, he came to me in Lórien, and he offered me flowers."

"That is all?"

Arwen chuckled, feeling some of the sadness becoming replaced by warm memories. "It was enough. But soon after that I realised that he would need to leave again, and we would remain apart for many years. And when we were apart I knew I could not do without him."

"Lórien, the Golden Wood?" the girl asked with some fascination.

"Yes." The Queen let out a sigh of reflection. "I do wish you could have seen my grandmother’s gardens, as they were once."

"But you can tell me about them. And I can read about them. That is something, is it not?"

Arwen felt a grin spread over her face. My wise daughter indeed. "Yes, that is something."

Lúthea reached out to hug her once more, perhaps verifying that all was indeed well again.

"Do you feel better now?"

Arwen sighed deeply, rubbing a soothing hand over her daughter’s back. There was no question in her mind about what she had to do next. She only hoped it was not too late to repair the mistakes she had made.

"Almost. I must first go to your ada. I must make things right."

Translations (Sindarin):

meleth-nîn = my love

gwilwileth = butterfly

Im míl le, goll sell nín = I love you, my wise daughter