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Chapter 24 – Two Departures

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Sitting in the quiet of the parlour, Arwen looked up from the embroidery in her hands, to see her second daughter enter.  Lúthea came over cheerfully, carrying a few messages.

“That looks pretty,” said the young princess, running her fingers over the floral pattern her mother was fashioning on a hooped canvas.

Arwen smiled.  “It’s for Elenna’s room.”  She gave a nod to the items in her daughter’s hand. “Letters, so late in the day?”

Lúthea nodded excitedly, her dark eyes bright. “From Eldarion.”

The Queen exchanged her needle and thread for the small collection of folded parchment, as the princess sat down to join her on the sofa. 

“So soon?” she said fondly as she saw the addresses written in her son’s hand.  “His last was little more than two weeks ago…”

“Ah, I shall not complain that he has more to share about the north,” said Lúthea softly.

Arwen paused, still holding the letters in her raised hands, and regarded her daughter wryly.  Although she saw messages for herself, her husband, and Mírra, there seemed to be one missing. “Why do I have the feeling you have already read yours?”

Lúthea reddened sheepishly, which was enough of an answer for Arwen. She placed an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and gave a gentle hug.

“I daresay your enthusiasm is catching,” she said, letting out a chuckle.

“Ah, it is all because of what Eldarion writes,” replied Lúthea with a faint blush on her cheeks, “It sounds so exciting, the things he’s doing.”

Arwen pondered this, knowing full well the territory her son would be adventuring in, but at the same time wondering what he was discovering, that she was not aware of.  “In that, I think you are right,” she murmured, finding herself not yet ready to open her own letter.

Lúthea watched her mother’s face for a moment.  “Shall I take Mírra her letter too?”

The Queen paused, and despite herself, tensed inwardly. Doran’s visit would likely be coming to a close soon, but there would be one important discussion to be had first.

“Perhaps not just yet.  She and your father are meeting.”

“Oh. I see.”  She frowned a little.  “Will it be much longer?”

“I honestly do not know.” Arwen would have matched her daughter’s expression of concern, if she had not been telling herself to remain calm for the better part of the day.  “I hope not.”

* * *

In the South garden, sitting on a bench across from his oldest daughter, Aragorn wondered if he should have chosen a different location to have this particular conversation. 

If it had been Eldarion, they would have talked in his study, perhaps shared a cup of wine, but not in this case. Affairs of the heart were more than matters of business. 

Arwen always seemed to handle such details effortlessly.  To him the garden had seemed the simplest, most comfortable setting.  Now, however, it seemed too quiet, too calm, too pronounced a contrast to the discomfort of the situation. 

Whatever reaction Aragorn was expecting, however, it was not this one. Mírra had simply answered with a nod, and looked down at her lap.  Not unpredictably, she felt uncomfortable, but seemed to conceal it with stillness.  She knew that if she even blinked, her eyes would grow wet.

Aragorn folded his hands together and leaned slightly forward. 

“Are you not unhappy with this decision, then?”

“Nay, I am,” she said impossibly quietly, eyes fixed on her own clasped hands, “But what consequences will come of expressing my disappointment?”

The King gave a fair moment of consideration to his daughter’s remark.  “Helping me to understand, perhaps? I do not wish to deceive you in this.”

Mírra looked up then, her dark grey eyes, that were so like her mother’s, shrouded by skepticism.

“Would your decision change, if I were to make my feelings for Doran clearer?”

Her father sighed sympathetically. 

“Perhaps not.”  He sat up straighter, with much of the same disguise of stillness settling over him.  “But no matter what you feel for this man, I do believe it is best for you to wait for this time, for this one year, before making a decision. It is the same thing I will say to Doran.”

Mírra was silent for a moment then, before questioning him again.

“Do you think I am confused?  That I do not understand what I feel for Doran?”

Aragorn shook his head.  “I have never said that.”

The princess stood decisively, and stepped a few feet away.  She folded her arms across her chest, but her face remained still.  “It is his status, then?  That he is not a nobleman? I am not so foolish as to be unaware of such things.”

In his own mind, Aragorn had been over this detail of his daughter’s potential match.  Arwen had heard his misgivings many times, but strangely enough Doran’s occupation was not his primary concern. 

“I do not think you foolish, sell-nin. But if he were of the highest rank in the White Company, or Lord of Annúminas, I would still say the same.”

Mírra had crossed to a low wall at the edge of the garden, overlooking a small courtyard and turret below.  Aragorn rose and quietly came to stand beside his daughter, listening in case she did speak.  She remained silent, however, having run out of questions. 

“It is not the way of your people to wed so young,” he told her simply, “I would not have you enter into such a match before you are fully ready.”

Mírra’s tone of voice revealed disappointment that her expression had carefully kept hidden. “You wish to test me? Test him?”

Aragorn replied with sympathy. “You have known this man for only a few months, but I am not so blind, to be unaware of how you care for him, mir-nin.”  He sighed gently. “If this is truly the right course, then a year’s delay will be but little against a lifelong union.”

“Then I must say farewell to him now, not knowing when we will meet again?  Not knowing what will happen?” 

She looked away, to find herself blinking away at surprising tears, and inwardly wishing away the animosity that had risen in her.  As she herself had said, she was not so foolish as to ignore the things that stood in the path of a match with Doran, but still she could not have helped herself hoping.

“I do understand this situation, mir-nin, perhaps better than you realize. If Doran loves you, then he will as well.” Aware of her unhappiness, Aragorn briefly laid a hand behind his daughter’s shoulder.  “Look to your heart, and to his.”

For a long moment, Mírra kept her eyes cast down, before she did look up to her father.

With a nod of resignation, she replied quietly, “I will, ada.”

* * *

That night, the King returned to his chambers, shut the door without disturbing the quiet of the room, and crossed to the bedroom without speaking.

Arwen sat up in bed, a book open between her fingertips, and observed her husband’s expression carefully.  She had left the correspondence on the table in the anteroom, but he had not seen it.  “Eldarion has sent new messages.”

Aragorn brightened slightly.  He retrieved the letter and stepped back in, scanning the page, his face lit by the flickering lamps in the room.  After a few moments he folded it away, saying he would respond in the morning.

His wife watched him sit on the edge of the bed.  Rubbing a hand briefly over his eyes and face, weariness began to show.  His shoulders seemed heavy as he looked down at his folded hands.  Arwen sat up and knelt beside him on the mattress. 

After a time Aragorn’s voice broke through the stillness.  “Truly, if he would make her happy and keep her safe, I would not worry.”

“He would. Yet I know you do still worry,” Arwen said softly.  “You are her father.”

Aragorn pursed his lips and bowed his head.  “But in time we shall have to let her go.”

She met his eyes as he finally turned to her, all too aware that his feelings were mirrored in her own expression.  Arwen nodded, and he pulled her close as she put her arms around him, burying his face in her shoulder.

* * *

The next morning, despite the apparent resolution of such an important question, an air of much the same deceptive stillness had settled over the King and Queen’s company.

Arwen sat once again with her stitching in the parlour, attempting to complete one final section of the floral design.  She remained quiet, her outward attention focused on the needle and thread.  Just across from her sat Aragorn in one of the large parlour chairs, legs comfortably crossed, his own attention devoted to the letters he had set aside yesterday.  Arwen heard very little sound from him, aside from the flipping of papers. A tea tray was set on one of the far tables, but it had been little touched.

At length she saw him collect the letters together and set them back in their folder.  Aragorn held the bundle in his lap for a minute, and scratched his cheek.  He seemed to be looking far away, but Arwen could not tell whether it was due to anything more than simple thoughtfulness.

When he did not speak immediately she decided to ask, “Eldarion is well, I trust?”

Aragorn blinked calmly, and with a smile returned his focus to his wife.

“Nay, there is no worry there,” said the King, “But it seems he will remain in Imladris through the winter season.”

Arwen gave a tug on her needle, pulling thread through the canvas.  “He… implied as much to me as well.”

“It will be a good experience for him, I think.”

“Mmm.”  The Queen frowned slightly as a knot crept into her thread, stopping the needle abruptly.  Turning over the canvas, she attempted to untangle it. 

Noticing the hesitation in her voice, Aragorn rose, and stepped over to join his wife on the sofa. He took her hand gently. “I miss him too.”

“Ah, it is to be expected,” she murmured, flushing with what he thought was a touch of embarrassment.  “There should be no urgency in his returning, if he is spending valuable time there.”

“The decision was made quickly after his last reports to us, and in a happy mind, to be certain.”

“Indeed,” Arwen replied with a nod. Giving his hand a squeeze, she stood to collect a cup of tea, leaving Aragorn to wonder at her quietness.  He watched her pour her drink, stirring honey into the cup.  After a moment he spoke again, no less thoughtfully, but much more carefully.

“You saw Mírra this morning, then?”

Arwen paused before turning to look back at him.  She nodded.  “Briefly, just after breakfast.”

“How does she now?” The answer was only partly necessary. Although Aragorn had a hard time reading his wife’s expression, it was enough to confirm what he had expected.

“The same.” She gave a soft shrug of her shoulders, returning to her seat next to him, and setting her cup down. “Quiet.”

“She seemed to accept the decision, before.”

“I know she has, dearest, but that does not also mean contentment.” she sighed again, touching her fingertip to his face. “We waited longer than a year, ‘tis true,” she said softly, “but I know you remember the melancholy that came with the waiting.”

Aragorn smiled ruefully.  “Well enough indeed.”

He regarded her for a moment.  On a gentle impulse he put an arm around her shoulders, as if remedying their mental detachment. She responded, leaning in to the comfortable familiarity of his embrace.

In his arms she quieted again, leaving Aragorn curious again at the reason. “Your mind is not on our daughter, though, I daresay,” he said quietly, as she rested her cheek comfortably against his chest.

She smiled.  “I’m not that transparent?”

He returned her expression.  “With all of Eldarion’s news, I would be surprised if you were not thinking of Rivendell, truly.”

Arwen sighed, almost with relief to admit it. “I’ve been thinking about it for weeks now, since we first heard from him, really.  Thinking about home.”

He could not help but note the use of her final word. Though now tempered with pride for their son’s current visit to Rivendell, it was impossible to forget the anxiety that had accompanied a mention of Elrond’s House in recent months. 

“I have, too,” he said calmly, meeting her dark grey eyes as she turned her face upwards.

Her cheeks grew slightly pink.  “Do you remember the view of the sunrise on the northern hillside?  I was thinking how lovely it would be in a just another month or two, with the colours of the iavas leaves?”

He could not help but smile.  “It is a fair time of year.”

Arwen kissed his cheek briefly before leaning back against him again, seemingly content in her own reflection. The renewed silence caused Aragorn to look away briefly, mentally reassuring himself that his upcoming question was the right course.

“Would you like to see it yourself this year?”

At first his wife only turned to him with a quizzical expression.  “But what do you mean?”

Aragorn paused to breath calmly, if only to subdue any premature eagerness behind his eyes. “Iavas in Imladris.  We could travel there, all five of us.  See Eldarion, see your brothers.”

Arwen did not answer immediately, but he watched her expression change; she sat back and blinked once or twice as if caught off guard, a smile of surprise gradually fading.

“You are serious, aren’t you?” Her voice was soft, apprehensive. She wondered if this had been the true cause of his reflective mood this morning… how long had he had this idea in mind, but hesitant to suggest it? 

“Yes,” Aragorn almost whispered, with a nod.  Though they spoke very little, their gazes remained upon one another, each aware of the other’s caution.

“But your work… to be away even for a season, will it not set you behind…?”

He took her hands, thinking on the question.  “There is only some lingering business with Eomer… I can arrange with Faramir and his sons for counsel here in my absence.”  ”

Searching her face, Aragorn saw Arwen’s thoughts rapidly in motion.  “But Elenna, she is so young still...”

“Her sisters will help her, as will we.  She’s eager.”  Giving her hands a squeeze, he continued with gentle encouragment, “We’ve traveled before. We can do this.”

Whether it was simply to hold him or out of a need to be held, after a moment Arwen reached her arms around his neck.  She felt suddenly apprehensive, but knowing the reason why did not seem to alleviate it. For what seemed like a long while, neither spoke.

“I haven’t been back there, not since…”

“…since before we were married,” Aragorn finished for her. 

He had made only one or two visits himself, on tours of Eriador, but the two of them had not been to the North together since before Eldarion was born.  It seemed appropriate now for him to be the catalyst for their return.

“What if it has changed?”

He placed a hand between her shoulders, holding her gently.  “You know Elladan and Elrohir will do right by it.”

“I do.”

Aragorn hesitated, finally whispering.  “I do not want you to feel afraid of it.”

After yet another silence, that gave him pause, Arwen met his eyes again.  She gave a rueful half-smile.  “Afraid of a memory, perhaps.”

Encouraged by her expression, he touched a fingertip to her cheek.  “They would smile to know you were there again, meleth-nîn, I know it.” 

This time she gave a nod, reaching a conclusion.  Her eyes at last gleamed again.

“We shall go.”

* * *

“A year,” Doran sighed, “It is twice the time we have known each other.”

Mírra cast her eyes down.  “I cannot help feeling afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That perhaps this isn’t what I hope it is.  That, now that I’ve seen you again, I won’t think of you as often, or in the same way.”  She swallowed awkwardly, willing away uncertainty.  “I shall write to you.”

“And I as well… but if you do journey to the north, it will take 5 times as long for them to arrive, or more even.”

The princess appeared to contemplate this, before answering softly but decisively.  “Then I shall have to write letters 5 times as long.”  She gave a small smile. “Or more, even.”

Doran took her in his arms then, and their mouths crushed together.  Mírra held his whiskered cheeks, tasting his tongue, his lips, memorising every part of the sensation.

They parted and stood breathing together, foreheads touching.

“This cannot be the last I will see of you, it simply cannot,” Doran said almost in a whisper.

“You are certain?”  Mírra’s voice was hopeful.

“Mmm.”  His eyes twinkled a little.  “For I have simply become far too accustomed to being able to kiss you.”

Mírra grinned before wrapping her arms around his neck, and granted him once more that to which she had also become so happily accustomed.

At the end, it seemed neither one of them knew how to let go, and so they remained clasped, hardly speaking.

“One year,” Doran repeated.

The princess looked up at him, smiling softly.  “You’re worth the wait.”

* * *

The next week, preparations for the family’s journey were nearing a quick conclusion.  Though summer was tapering to a close, there would still be time enough to reach the Northern kingdom by boat, before the very cool months of autumn arrived.  They would sail out of Minas Tirith, following the coast westward before turning north.  Aragorn set arrangements in motion for a meeting party at the Havens, who could escort them to Annuminas, before reaching Imladris. 

A growing excitement from the second-oldest princess accompanied these plans.  She eagerly brought out all her brother’s letters, poring over details of what to expect when they finally did arrive.  Her older sister was uncharacteristically less ebullient about the travel.

“And Eldarion also enclosed a sketch of the Bruinen valley near Rivendell, and a small map of the route to Annúminas around the edge of Lake Nenuial… He says he’ll be going to spend another month there soon,” Lúthea read with enthusiasm. She looked over to her sister, who was still quiet.  “Mírra?”

Despite her sister’s obvious interest, Mírra had not truly been listening for many minutes.

Sitting in the older girl’s bedroom, the two princesses could not have been more of a study in contrast. Lúthea knelt on one side of the bed, and reached for a pillow absentmindedly. She had thought to provide some welcome distraction from the afternoon’s events, but it did not seem to be working.

Mírra rolled on her side.  “I’m sorry. I am glad to hear all these things…” 

“I know,” Lúthea finished for her. “You’re thinking about Doran.”

Her sister gave a sigh.  “A year is such a long time.”

“You will see him again, Mírra,” said Lúthea softly.

The older sister gave a sidelong glance.  “I’d almost think we were taking this trip to get me away from him, it’s all happened so quickly.”

“Oh Mírra, Ada isn’t so unkind as that, really.”

The oldest princess let out a deep sigh, and lay back on the bed again.  She knew it was unfair, and did not truly believe it.  “No.  I know he isn’t. I don’t know why I said it.”

Lúthea paused a minute before asking her next question, as if apprehensive. “Do you really want to marry Doran?”

Her sister gave a melancholy smile, and after a thoughtful pause, gave another nod.  “I can’t imagine ever letting him go.”

Lúthea seemed surprised, but her expression revealed only a little of it.  She sank back next to her sister on the bed.  They stared quietly up at the ceiling for what seemed like a long moment.

The younger girl tried to think of the best advice she could.  “Well…. if he’s the right one for you, then he’ll be worth the wait.”

Mírra looked back with a half-smile, to hear her own words reflected from her sister.  The smile turned into a grin, thinking of the man who waited for her, several miles away.

“Agreed.”

iavas = early autumn

To Be Continued! :)

Next chapter coming soon...