Returning to his room in Rivendell, Aragorn found Arwen hovering on her heels over the neatly laid out the contents of his pack.

“Is this all you take?” she asked.

As the pack had been filled and tied closed, he assumed the question was rhetorical.

“Socks, fire kit, sewing supplies, whetstone, herbs, dried meat and fruit, cheese… it is not much for such a long journey.”

“I travel light, lady.”

She plucked a basket off the floor and shyly offered it. “I thought you could use ointment for sunburned skin, lembas and miruvor. Is there room?”

“For your gifts? Always.”

“Everything ready for the journey?”

Hithdol, the king’s majordomo, drew himself up and preened. “Yes, Sire. We leave at dawn: a hundred horse, a troop of infantry, the honor guard, three carriages for the Queen and her ladies. The large campaign tent, the other tents, wagons with the bed and furnishings, the traveling bath.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Farriers, cooks, armourers, barbers, supplies… near two hundred servants and forty-seven wagons. No trouble, sir. It will run as smoothly as ever.”

“I’m sure it will.”

The desert. A bath, a bed, and his lady. It was good to be king.