Note:  Chunks of the last section have been taken from Appendix A: The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen.  Because some things you can't change.

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Meeting

‘There is more to running Imladris than the provision of regular meals,’ Arwen declared, her eyes snapping.  ‘You know that, Daeradar.  While you are protecting me here from I know not what, the life’s blood that supports the Hidden Valley is leaking to the Havens!  Soon there will be no-one left to deliver even the most basic care to those who stay at Adar’s side.  I am taking a stand, my lord!  Like it or like it not, I am going home.’

Celeborn stood immovable.  His granddaughter could rail as much as she wanted, but she was not fool enough to depart Lothlórien unattended.  The respite had lasted even less time than he had expected – and his hopes had never been high.  Orcs were breeding like maggots in the corpse of the brief peace and the Shadow again crept forth from Dol Guldur to crush the small signs of recovery that had sprouted in its absence.  Arwen knew only too well the dangers that confronted even the wary in the mountain passes.  As long as he remained firm, she would rest safe beneath the canopy of the Golden Wood.

Unexpectedly, Arwen’s face softened, as if she saw his stubbornness as an expression of his love rather than a desire to frustrate her wishes.  ‘I can go with your blessing or without, Daeradar,’ she said conversationally, ‘but go I will.’  And, having made her position clear, she stepped up to him and kissed his cheek before moving to the door and leaving with a cool maturity that surprised him.

From her seat by the wide window, Galadriel eyed her husband, but remained prudently silent.

Celeborn’s chin dropped and he appeared to examine the pattern of leaves that danced on the sun-brightened wood.  He remained silent, his brooding frown shadowing his tall figure, until finally he sighed and turned towards his wife.   ‘When did she grow so determined?’ he asked.

‘We cannot hold her against her will,’ Galadriel remarked mildly.  ‘To do so would only force her into taking action that we might regret for ever.’

‘But we have kept her safe for so long – I cannot bear to abandon that now and let her take her chance with what will happen.’  Celeborn’s pain was almost tangible and, without hesitation, Galadriel dropped her stitching and rose to embrace him.

‘We have done all we can,’ she murmured.  ‘To interfere further will only make things worse.  She will need her Daeradar before the end, my love, and you do not want to damage the bond between you.  Let her have her way.  The time has come to stand back: I feel it.’

‘Will you at least go with her?’ Celeborn pleaded.  ‘She will listen to you.’

Galadriel smiled wryly.  ‘As I listened to those who wished to advise me?  I am not so foolhardy.  We have both seen and experienced what happens when those who feel they know better choose to interfere – and we have always congratulated ourselves on having the fortitude to ignore the nay-sayers.’  She touched gentle fingers to her husband’s cheek, trailing them to follow his jaw.  ‘There is still hope.  One way and another – there are many paths that lead from this moment.  We cannot be sure which of them leads to the end for which we strive.’  She rested her head briefly on his shoulder and sighed.  ‘I cannot leave the Wood,’ she said.  ‘I am needed here – to hold what we have tried to build.  And neither can you go: not at this time.  There is too much at stake.’

‘There are times,’ he murmured intensely, closing his arms round her in a fierce clasp, ‘when I could wish to tell the world to care for itself and leave me to guard what is mine.’

‘Not and remain Celeborn,’ she replied, lifting her chin to smile at him.  ‘You were not born to let others down, my heart.  We will let her go – and we will offer our support to our daughter’s daughter and hold ourselves ready for the fall that will shadow us until the end of days.’

He stilled and watched the twist of a smile gleaming like sun through winter rainfall.

‘For a fall there will be – one way or another,’ she mourned.

***

Her arms filled with the silver stems of honesty, Gilraen emerged from the gardens just as the weary horses clattered through the entrance to the stable yard.  She shied back, disconcerted to see so many elves she did not recognise, fair-haired and clad in pearly-grey rather than the blues more familiar here in Imladris.  She had forgotten, she realised, how alien she had felt in those first difficult months in the valley, when everyone had seemed strange and unearthly to the eyes of a young woman brought up among the practical farms and villages of the Dúnedain.

‘Welcome.’  Glorfindel’s suave tones cut through the bustle of arrival with an impressive ease.  ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.  It has been some while since Lothlórien has sent so large a party to Imladris.’

A slender hooded figure around whom the warriors milled dismounted with a speed that disconcerted those whose task was clearly to offer protection and leapt towards the tall golden elf with an enthusiasm that made Gilraen wonder.   Even more surprising was the expression she caught briefly on Glorfindel’s face as he gathered the stranger into his arms.   For a moment, Gilraen wondered if this was the elleth who held his heart, but almost before the thought formed, she realised that it was a father’s concern she saw in his eyes rather than a lover’s, and she knew who the stranger must be.

‘I have missed you!’ The emphasis in the musical voice was heartfelt.  ‘You and the valley and Adar!  How is he?’

‘He will be displeased,’ Glorfindel informed her, kissing her affectionately on the brow, so that her hood fell back and the glorious satin of her hair unwound to tumble down her back. 

‘Oh, pish-tush,’ Arwen told him airily.  ‘It is not as if I have run away with no more than a bundle of spare clothing and a belt knife!  We have been quite safe on the road.  As if a couple of dozen of Daeradar’s most ferocious warriors could not keep me safe!’

Glorfindel lifted an elegant brow.  ‘I am sure he would trust anyone else to their care, child,’ he said, ‘but Elrond would not consider an army of elven warriors enough – and you know it.  I am surprised at Celeborn.’ 

A spurt of laughter like the ringing of bells acknowledged Glorfindel’s remark, but Arwen seemed disinclined to agree.  She twined her arms around the elf lord’s and turned towards the house, calling her thanks to the warriors busy seeing to their horses and inviting them to seek food and shelter as soon as they were ready.

So that, Gilraen thought, retracing her steps to seek another way to the house, was Lord Elrond’s daughter, of whom she had heard so much – and been told so little.  She could see a look of the twins in the elleth, Gilraen mused – a look that probably spoke of their naneth, whose fate haunted Imladris still – but her adar was there, too.  His strength and authority – his kindness – and the warmth that made the valley a place of healing to so many.  The exiled widow of the Dúnedain’s chieftain wondered if she would be discreetly shepherded out of the Lady Arwen’s way – as she had, from time to time, been kept from other visitors to the halls.   It would be interesting to discover, she smiled, if she would find a soft-eyed elleth requesting her assistance with some task that would keep them both out of sight over the next weeks.  Interesting, too, to see if the twins, when they brought her son back to their father’s house, would draw a veil over their eager faces and affect ignorance of their sister’s presence.  It was not unlikely – it had not taken her long to realise that she was told only what Elrond thought she should know and even less time to grasp that she learned more by listening than asking.

The dried seed pods looked good, she decided as she arranged them in the tall vases.  They lightened the corridor, catching and reflecting the light.

Gilraen paused, leaning on the carved chest, unexpectedly breathless.  Why did she feel that some event of great magnitude was upon her?  Some feeling of doom was bearing down upon them all, with all the inevitability of a flash flood, that could only be turned aside by something as solid as a mountain, while it tossed great trees and boulders from its path as easily as if they were leaves in a stream.  She closed her eyes to steady herself.  This was Imladris, she told herself firmly.   She let the peace of the golden afternoon fill her as she listened to the soft rustling of the leaves and the peaceful progress of the day’s duties.  Crises might happen elsewhere in the world, but not here.  Not in Elrond’s house.

***

‘Of course I am happy to see you.’  Elrond stroked his daughter’s hair as if every touch was a treasure to lay up in storage against some time of famine.  ‘But the passes grow more dangerous with every passing day, my daughter – and I would rather know you to be safe.’

His daughter smiled at him mischievously.  ‘I am safe now, Adar,’ she declared.  ‘And, should you have me remain so, then you will have to accept my presence in your halls.’

‘You have been absent too long, child.’  Elrond closed his eyes as he clasped her to him.  The boulder was rolling down the hill, he thought, gaining momentum over the steep slope.  Trying to place objects in its path to divert it had given them some illusion of control – but events were proving different.  The Third Age was moving to its close and all that was left for him was to stand firm.

‘What is it, Adar?’ Arwen’s voice was soft with concern. 

He shook his head.  ‘It is nothing,’ he told her.  ‘Just – I miss your naneth even more acutely as time passes, I think.’

His daughter combed her fingers in his hair and rested her head on his shoulder.  ‘The time will soon come for you to be reunited with her,’ she said.  ‘You have endured long enough, Adar.’

‘There is no reason why you could not go before me,’ he suggested impulsively.  ‘I would have no fears for your safety then.’

Arwen smiled.  ‘No, Adar.’  She stroked his cheek gently, offering him comfort.  ‘It is not my time to sail.  I am needed here.’

Elrond pushed his anguish from him.  He could not make her choose – he would not if he could.  Little though he liked the idea, she had the right to decide her own destiny.  ‘Then why have you crossed the mountains, my daughter?’ he asked serenely.  ‘Surely you do not believe us so helpless as to be unable to cope without your presence?’

‘Of course not,’ Arwen said with a wide-eyed and wholly artificial innocence. 

Her adar tilted his head and inspected her somewhat cynically, until she giggled.

‘I wanted to come home,’ she admitted.  ‘Badly enough to fight Daeradar – badly enough to win.  I needed to be here.  Why, I am not altogether sure.’

‘Oh, my Evenstar,’ he sighed.

‘My brothers are not here?’

‘Not at the moment,’ he said, hoping that their return would be delayed.

‘And their protégé?’

‘Is old enough to be learning the skills he will need to take up his role among the Dúnedain.’

‘Already?’ Arwen sounded surprised.

‘His naneth dwells still among us,’ Elrond offered.  ‘She will be glad to make your acquaintance.  I think she often feels lonely among so many elves – your naneth would have set her at her ease more easily than I have ever managed.’  He considered for a moment.  ‘She is a woman of great courage and resolution,’ he conceded, ‘but I think she longs for the day when she might return to her kin.’

‘I can understand that,’ Arwen agreed.

Elrond raised his eyebrows.  ‘Your grandparents are your kin,’ he pointed out.

‘And I love them dearly,’ she said.  ‘But there are times when I want you and my brothers.  And Glorfindel and Erestor,’ she added, ‘and my home.’

‘Well, you are here now,’ her adar remarked.

‘Indeed I am,’ she said contentedly.

***

A large drop of water rolled off the inadequate shelter of the leaves to land on Estel’s brow, scattering to wet a face already dripping.  He sighed.  It was one thing to abandon himself to the demands of the wilderness on fine summer days – such as the ones he had spent in the woods of Imladris when he was still a boy, when his foster brothers had spent endless days teaching him how to follow the faint trails of the small forest animals that watched him in bemusement.   It was quite another to slog through the clinging mud in search of any evidence of the passage of vile creatures whose one desire seemed to be to seek him out and put an end to his miserable existence.  And his brothers had spent centuries living this kind of life.  It was enough – almost – to make him wish to take up the life of a scholar.

‘The rain is easing off,’ Elrohir remarked in a low voice.  ‘The skies should clear by nightfall.’

‘Just in time for us to freeze in the dark,’ Estel grumbled.

‘More than likely,’ Elladan agreed.

‘And you will say that only a fool would light a fire and offer a beacon to those who would love to find us.’

‘You have at least been listening to some of my words of wisdom.’  Elladan grinned briefly at the young man, before returning to his careful study of their surroundings.

‘You may yet live long enough to prosper from them.’

‘Do not take Elladan too seriously,’ Elrohir recommended.  ‘We should be beyond the borders of the valley before dark.  Once there, we can afford to seek shelter – and I, for one, intend to rest in the dry and eat a hot meal, even if I can look forward to soaking in abundant steaming water and sleeping in my own room tomorrow.’

‘I have almost forgotten what it is like to be dry,’ Estel shivered, sending a spray of raindrops from his cloak. 

‘After only a couple of months?’ Elladan managed to sound incredulous.  ‘I thought we had trained your memory better than that.’

‘He will tell you now of the wet winter we endured some century or so ago,’ Elrohir commented idly.  ‘When we spent months on patrol with a group of Dúnedain – and everything was soaked – to the point where wood refused to light and food went mouldy in our packs.  The men had sores in places about which you do not even want to think.’  He smiled ruefully.  ‘Even we suffered – and that is not a common thing, let me tell you.’

‘But at least we escaped the fevers that carried off many of those too frail to endure cold and wet and hunger any longer,’ his brother added sombrely.

‘The life of a Ranger is hard.’ Elrohir glanced at his young foster brother.  ‘There is more to it than wielding your weapons well, or having an understanding of battle strategy.  The patrols spend most of their time surviving in uncomfortable conditions, unseen and unappreciated by those whom they keep safe.  Their life consists of endless boredom and discomfort interspersed with terrifyingly hectic bursts of action.  I would say that you are not yet old enough to undertake it.’

‘Elrohir!’ Estel was indignant.  ‘I am already older than most of those who start with the patrols.  You cannot continue to keep me safe in Imladris for ever – I am a man full-grown now.’  He urged his horse on along the slippery path.  ‘And, anyway, what am I supposed to do if I do not become a Ranger?   I cannot grow old sitting in the library and being lectured on history by Erestor.’  His face sobered.  ‘I have seen my naneth’s face, Elrohir – she is bidding me farewell every time she looks at me.  She knows that the time has come for me to take on adult responsibilities.’

Elladan glanced at his brother and they shared one of the silent exchanges that still managed to frustrate their young foster brother.

‘But tomorrow, at least,’ Elrohir said mildly, ‘she will be able to welcome you as you return to her.’ 

***

‘May I join you?’  Arwen hesitated at the entrance to the secluded garden, as the late roses bobbed round her head in the soft breeze.

Gilraen looked up from shirt she was embroidering.  ‘Of course, my lady,’ she agreed.  ‘It is surely I who should ask to join you – is this not, after all, your naneth’s garden?’

‘It was her sanctuary,’ Arwen smiled, cupping one of the small white flowers in her pale hand and enjoying the fragrance.  ‘But she has not needed it for a long time now.  It is good to see someone else finding it to be a place of peace.’  She turned back to Gilraen.  ‘I am only sorry that we have not met before,’ she admitted.  ‘I hope you do not think that I resented your presence in my adar’s house.’

‘I wondered, at first,’ Gilraen confessed, ‘but Lord Glorfindel assured me that it was nothing of the sort.’  She looked intently at the elleth.  ‘And I have learned that a score of years is an insignificant time in the lives of elves.’  She indicated the shady seat beside her in invitation. 

‘My grandparents and adar are very protective,’ Arwen told her, ‘especially after what happened in the Redhorn Pass . . .’  She paused.  ‘And I do not like to oppose them – unless it is necessary.’

‘It is always wise,’ Gilraen acknowledged, ‘to save your energy for the battles you do not intend to lose.’  She met Arwen’s eyes.  ‘I fought to marry my son’s father,’ she said.  ‘My father thought I was too young – and so did the one I loved.’  She glanced down at her hands.  ‘They both wanted me to wait – but I would not.’  She smiled wryly.  ‘And it is as well I did not.  We had little enough time as it was – and I would not have missed a minute of it.’

‘If you knew then,’ Arwen asked, ‘what you know now – would you have chosen otherwise?’

‘Not for one moment,’ Gilraen returned immediately.  ‘For all we had so little time together, I treasure every hour we had – and I have his son.  Some things are worth sacrifice.’

‘That is what I thought,’ Arwen mused.

‘And,’ Gilraen added, her fingers tracing the pattern on the shirt collar, ‘there are times when the outcome is more important than the wishes of the individual.  Much of the time,’ she sighed, ‘men cannot see that – time passes too swiftly and a single lifetime does not encompass the change that the elves can observe – but the birth of my son was one of those times.’  She smiled.  ‘He is my gift to Middle Earth.  My hope.  And, in the end . . .’ She stopped.

‘I remember Arathorn,’ Arwen said.  ‘He was a responsible young man – serious and determined to do what he could for his people.  I expect he was a good Chieftain.’

Gilraen gazed at her, but remained silent.

‘I am not a fool,’ Elrond’s daughter pointed out.  ‘Who else would your son’s adar be?’  She shrugged.  ‘But I will not ask for confirmation – at least until Adar agrees.’

‘I know,’ Gilraen said carefully, ‘in my head, that your naneth sailed some five hundred years ago – but it can still surprise me when elves speak so easily of times long past.’

‘And yet my family still treat me as if I am a child,’ Arwen informed her.  She smiled.  ‘It is best, I find, to ignore the passage of years and treat people as they seem.  You have, after all, considerable experience in dealing with my brothers in the guise of trouble-making adolescents – and they are older than I am.’

‘I do not know how I would have managed without them,’ Gilraen said affectionately. ‘Estel would have been a very lonely child without their light-hearted encouragement.  He loves them as brothers – and admires them as heroes.  They have trained him, played with him, led him into mischief – and taught him to face its consequences.  Much of the man he will become has been shaped by the sons of Elrond and their adar.’

‘And by his naneth,’ Arwen said.  ‘And because of his adar and kin – who had the courage to do what was necessary.’

‘He is the son of us all,’ Gilraen concluded.  ‘Borne, reared, shaped – and it is time to set him free.’

‘You will miss him,’ Arwen said sympathetically, ‘as he flies.’

‘It is what a parent does,’ Gilraen sighed.  ‘You invest your love in your children – and you let them go.’

Arwen’s clear grey eyes met those of the woman of the Dúnedain and her slender hand covered the fingers that still caressed the fine stitching on the white linen.  They sat together in silence beneath the nodding heads of the roses and contemplated the silent courage of those who remained behind.

***

Elrond rested his aching head on his hands, massaging his temples with his thumbs.  It could have gone better, he sighed.  He had given so much thought to this moment over the past year or two, questioning Estel’s – Aragorn’s – readiness, considering just how much he should reveal to Arathorn’s son, worrying that he would be putting too much pressure on one too young to understand why these decisions had been imposed upon him – but in all his picturing of the occasion, he had envisioned Estel as a silent participant.  He had not expected to see Elros’s accusing eyes in his distant descendant’s face, or to hear Elendil’s voice emerging from those young lips.  Or, come to that, to see in Aragorn the face of Isildur as he rejected Elrond’s advice and turned away from him.

And yet he loved Estel – Aragorn – as an adar.  No matter that he was a man.  No matter that he would grow old and take Eru’s gift, leaving his elven family to grieve his loss.  No matter that his taking-up of his destiny would signify the final sundering of elves and men.  Estel was his son, as Aragorn was not.  And he hoped – please the Valar, he hoped that he had not lost that son.

‘He did not take it well?’ Glorfindel’s hand placed a cup of steaming tea in front of Elrond.

The valley’s lord inhaled the fragrance gratefully, allowing the scent of summer meadows to disperse some of his tension.

‘It was less than easy,’ he allowed.

‘He needed to know,’ Glorfindel reassured him, ‘but he is, as yet, too young to understand.’

‘I hope he finds it easier to forgive Gilraen for her part in hiding from him the knowledge of who he is,’ Elrond remarked.

Glorfindel placed an affectionate hand on his friend’s shoulder.  ‘He will challenge your strength,’ he said, ‘but he will be gentle with his naneth.  And she, perhaps, will help him come to terms with what he has discovered.’

‘I hope so,’ Elrond replied soberly.  ‘It would be the ultimate irony if, in our desire to hide him and keep him safe until he was grown, we have driven him to reject his destiny.’

‘We have, among us, raised a better man than that,’ Glorfindel averred. 

‘He says he is leaving.  As soon as he has bidden his naneth farewell.  He intends to make his own way among the Dúnedain.’

‘He is very young,’ Glorfindel said tolerantly, as he turned to watch the activity beyond the window.  ‘His kin will care for him as he learns to be his father’s son.’

‘He intends not to tell them who he is.’  Elrond sighed.  ‘He said that, if nothing else, he has learned the art of keeping secrets.’

‘He deludes himself.’

‘And he demands that Elladan and Elrohir keep their distance.’

‘That, at least, is probably wise.  Even though he demands it in a welter of hurt feelings.’

Elrond looked up from his cup.

‘He needs to become a man among men, my friend,’ Glorfindel pointed out.  ‘His companions will be watching his every move – they do not need to see him as the protected pet of the Elrondionnath.’  He pressed his lips together as he inclined his head to inspect the dark-haired half-elf.  ‘You are seeing this as his adar, Elrond.  Look at the broader picture.’

‘I cannot.’

‘Not yet, perhaps,’ the golden-haired elf allowed.  ‘We have been training him towards this over the last decade, Eärendilion.  He has been taught all we can cram into him in the time we have had – and he is as ready to be your brother’s heir as we can make him.  He now needs what only added years and experience will give him – and to gain that, we have to release him from tutelage.’   He tapped his long fingers on the frame of the wide window.  ‘He is angry,’ he shrugged, ‘and resentful – and unsure of how his world has changed.  But he will grow into what he has learned.  All we can do is love him and assure him that Imladris is still his home – and that we are still his family.  He will return, my friend.’

‘I hope so,’ Elrond said softly.  ‘I hope so.’

***

Estel – Aragorn, he told himself angrily – could not rest in his elegantly tidy room, cosseted in his soft bed, enclosed by billowing curtains of pale fabric.  This was not his home – he had been brought here: disposed of by those who should have cared for him: tolerated by an alien race for the sake of a bond ages old: deceived by those who should have told him the truth.   Adar – Lord Elrond – had deliberately kept him in ignorance and hidden him even from his kin.  His brothers – the sons of Elrond – had connived in misleading him.  Even his naneth – the person he should have been able to trust above all others – had remained silent and permitted him to forget who he was.   He sniffed and was immediately enraged by his feeling of betrayal.

The moonlight gleamed through the trees; cool shafts of light casting sharp shadows.  Night’s cool breeze stirred his hair and calmed him somewhat.

It had been done with the best of motives, his naneth had said.  He would not have lived to grow to adulthood outside the sanctuary of Imladris.  Estel – Aragorn – tensed.  So many had sacrificed themselves that he might live.  How could he be worthy of those who had invested their faith in him?  The young man leaned against the rough bark of an ancient oak and lifted his face to the sky.  He was not fit to be Chieftain to the Dúnedain.  How could they not hate this impostor coming out of nowhere to assume a position he had not earned?

His naneth said they were waiting for him.  That he was not a stranger to them, for all he had not known who he was.  That he had grandparents and uncles who knew that he would soon emerge from his secret life to take on his father’s duties.  And he was not sure that that was not worse.  How could he measure up to a line that could be traced back to Eärendil the Mariner and beyond?  How could he fulfil the role expected of him – he who was still little more than a child?

He cupped his hands before him, the ring of Barahir feeling like a shackle, binding him to a future over which he had no control.

Tears began to gather in his gleaming grey eyes and he wished desperately that he could return to the ignorance in which he had returned to Imladris, when his greatest worry had been proving himself to be worthy of being foster-brother to the sons of Elrond.  A time that now seemed long past, when he could dream of establishing himself and making his own way in the world.

He did not know how long he had stood there before the song of the stars began to penetrate his self-absorption, but as the perfection of the sound harmonised with the sounds of the forest round him he found himself drawn towards the clearing where Ithil’s beams turned the rippling stream to silver and sparkled like diamonds on the beads of moisture that trembled on the blades of grass.

And she was there.

Her bare feet flicking above the grass, her shining hair twining round her in the dance, her pale face gleaming, she span in a ghostly radiance.  The music of the trees and water echoed in harmony with her song – as clear as the tones of the nightingale, as pristine as the wind over the wide sea, as pure as snow melt in spring sunshine.

She was beauty incarnate, the night made real, Imladris personified.

Aragorn came closer, drawn by threads of light twisted by the dancer into bonds of mithril, enthralled by her song, spellbound by her movements, entranced by the sight of this dream made real.  ‘Tinúviel,’ he whispered, and sang to himself the words that had haunted him from the time he had first heard them.

The dancer faltered, turning to gaze into the shadows that concealed him.  ‘Who are you?’ she said.  ‘And why do you call me by that name?’

‘You can surely be no other than Lúthien Tinúviel,’ he said, more boldly than he would have believed possible, ‘for you walk in her likeness.’

Grey eyes filled with stars considered him.  ‘So many have said,’ she answered gravely.  ‘Yet her name is not mine.’  She studied him thoughtfully, adding, ‘Though maybe my doom will not be unlike hers.  But who are you?’

‘Estel I was called,’ he said, ‘but I am Aragorn, Arathorn’s son, Isildur’s heir and Lord of the Dúnedain – or so I am told.’ 

She laughed breathlessly.  ‘Then we are akin from afar.  For I am Arwen, Elrond’s daughter, named also Undómiel.’

Aragorn moved forward, as one walking in his sleep.  ‘Often is it seen,’ he said, ‘that in dangerous days men hide their chief treasure.  Yet I marvel at Elrond and your brothers; for though I have dwelt in this house from childhood, I have heard no word of you.  How comes it that we have never met before?  Surely your adar has not kept you locked in his hoard?’

‘No,’ she said, and looked up at the mountains that rose in the east.  ‘I have dwelt for a time in the land of my naneth’s kin, in far Lothlórien.  I have but lately returned to visit my adar again.  It is many years since I walked in Imladris.’

‘Then I am fortunate,’ he said, ‘that this is the moment of your return to your adar’s halls.  For I would not have missed this chance to see you dance and your image will live with me and sustain me as I go out into the world beyond these bounds.’

Arwen inclined her head and reached out to place her hand on his arm.  ‘Perhaps,’ she said.  ‘But I believe that it is not yet time for you to depart, son of the Dúnedain.’ She smiled.  ‘We will yet have the chance to learn to know more of each other.’

The breath Aragorn drew was ragged.  Her lightest word would hold him, he thought dizzily, where Elrond’s calm reason and Gilraen’s pain would not.   For, despite the elven light in her eyes and the wisdom of her many days, he knew at once that his heart was lost to Arwen Undómiel.