Again, this story has wound its way through the intricacies of Appendix A.  Some situations are very reminiscent of Tolkien's words - and some parts are quoted directly.

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Devotion

Thorongil paused, allowing his weary horse a brief rest.  Below him to the east, the Anduil meandered its way across the broad plain, a silver ribbon in the palette of muted greens and browns.  The intimidating depth of green behind marked where Fangorn brooded between the Downs and the Misty Mountains, but, in front of him, shimmering like the promise of eternal bliss, the distant gleam of gold spoke to those who knew of the mallorns of Lothlórien and the power of the Lady.

He released a slow breath.  Thorongil no longer, he reminded himself.  It was time – again – to resume the identity to which he was born: to become himself.  He allowed himself a moment of self-pity as his mind skittered over the nearly fifty years of his life so far – if he knew who that person was.  There were scarcely any to whom he was Aragorn and even fewer called him by the name.  He was ‘my lord’ to some, ‘captain’ to many – and to some he was more than a title, more than a figurehead, but few among them recognised him by the name his father had given him. 

Adar had warned him, he thought.  His path would be long and hard and lonely before at last – if he were lucky – he could steer his ship into harbour.  He rubbed his hands over his gritty head and pictured for the thousandth time the baths of Imladris, wishing he had known enough to appreciate them while he had been able to enjoy them.   There had been times, he acknowledged, when the shallow comfort of a soft body and a comfortable bed had almost been enough to lead him astray – but he had held to his purpose.  The inspiration of her – like a lighthouse guiding vessels to safety through knife-edged rocks of desolation – had burned in his mind: clear and cool and perfect as the moonlit night – and her grandfather’s star had shone before him as a perpetual reminder of his faith.

For he was more than a single man.  He was the heir of Elros; the descendant of Isildur; the Dúnadan; raised by the Lord of Imladris; calling the Elrondionnath his brothers; befriended by Mithrandir; sought by Sauron.  He grinned wryly.  Eking an existence in the wild, wallowing in mire, living by the sword, passing the finite years of his life in the shadows, while around him the world turned and the age spiralled towards its end.  Since he left Gondor’s service, if it had not been for the occasional arrival of a Ranger of the North bringing quiet word of matters beyond his power to affect, or a brief visit from his brothers, he would, he felt sure, have begun to doubt his own reality. 

But he could not sit here forever, he thought, allowing the weak spring sun to warm him and cleanse him of the despair of Mordor.  He was, for the first time in years, free to go home for a while – and the thought lifted his heart.  For upbringing told, he decided, urging his horse to continue.  Man he was in body, man in experience, man in mind – but his heart was still among the elves.

Despite the apparent emptiness of the broad plain, the man bearing the symbol of the White Tree on his worn leather coat kept careful watch, taking advantage of what shelter he could find.  Orcs, he knew, crept into the dark corners of the nameless lands beyond the Limlight – and he would be a fool to take a chance now, after surviving so much worse.  If he was lucky, the Lord and Lady of the Wood would grant him sanctuary for a while – and then he could aim for Imladris with a light heart.  Of course, if he were to be turned away, he would end up wishing that he had decided to journey on the far side of the Misty Mountains, for his path would pass too close to the core of evil that festered in Dol Guldur and that was a place worth avoiding.

His voice rusty with disuse, he found himself starting to sing – a rhythmic ditty that his naneth had taught him when he was still young enough to rest on her lap, with silly words about farmers riding to market.  His mount twitched shaggy brown ears and he matched the pace of the song to the loping canter as they advanced across unchanging grasslands to a horizon of trees that remained ever-distant.

***

The sound of the looms always soothed her, Arwen decided.  Even though she did not greatly enjoy engaging in this task with those who worked within to produce the tight-woven grey cloth that shielded from cold and wet – and the prying eyes of enemies, she liked the sound and the sight and the smell of the growing expanses of fabric.

‘The stores are growing,’ Galadriel approved, ‘and the quality is good.  Cúraniel is proving a hard task-mistress.’

‘She has surprised me,’ Arwen admitted.  ‘And her own work grows better with every bolt she produces.’

‘I will save this for something special.’ Galadriel ran her hand over the dense weaving appreciatively.  ‘This will conceal the wearer from all but the most determined sight.’  She looked up under her eyelashes to observe her granddaughter.  ‘And it is not just here,’ she smiled.  ‘The storehouses are full – lembas fills more barrels than I knew we had, and the bushels of arrows are sufficient for an army, while our few smiths work constantly to produce more weapons than tools.’

Arwen shook her head.  ‘It is still not enough,’ she said.  ‘I have discussed it with Daeradar – and spent time with Haldir considering the needs of our wardens.  It is a matter of mathematics.’  She folded the cloth Galadriel had released and moved it to a section of the shelves reserved for the Lady of the Wood.  ‘Mathematics and availability,’ she amended.  ‘Centralised stores are all very well – they are easier to record, for one thing, but should attacks come on more than one front, as Daeradar fears they might, it will be essential to have caches of weapons in reserve, hidden in places of safety.’  She sighed.  ‘And the needs of the healers must be considered.  Much of what they need has a finite life – and must be replaced at intervals.’

‘Incursions are – as yet – rare,’ Galadriel commented. 

‘And unsuccessful,’ her granddaughter added with satisfaction.  ‘But Glorfindel long since taught me that it is foolish to rely on your enemy continuing to behave in a way that suits you.’

Her daernaneth raised eyebrows of dark gold.  ‘So Imladris is constantly prepared for war?’

Arwen smiled brightly, but refrained from speaking.

‘Yet,’ Galadriel looked through the screens to the pale sunlight warming itself on the rich butter-yellow of the leaves, ‘we cannot be prepared for everything.  There is always the unexpected – the jolt that comes from nowhere to remind us that we are not invincible.’

‘I believe that Glorfindel refuses to concede that he has frailties,’ Arwen said solemnly.  ‘He prefers to be prepared for all outcomes.’

‘The way to appear all-knowing, my child, is to be aware when defeat stares you in the face – and have someone cut in and hamstring it,’ her daernaneth said wryly.  ‘Glorfindel has learned flexibility – something your adar has yet to do.’

‘Adar is a healer,’ his daughter remarked lovingly.  ‘It offends him that there should be anything he cannot make better.  He spends himself and asks little in return.’  She sighed.  ‘I miss him,’ she admitted.  ‘I have spent far too many years away from him.’

‘Come,’ Galadriel commanded, refusing to take up something that had been the subject of so much debate, ‘there are tasks to complete beyond these walls – I would have you ensure that those who dwell here do not lose themselves in preparations for a war that is, as yet, only a smear on the horizon.  We are elves, child, and we need to cherish the beauties of Arda.  Let us prepare a feast, where we can dance and sing and watch the stars.’

***

Elrond stood at the wide window and looked south where the midday sun hung low in the sky.  The doors stood open and the air smelt of rain and good turned earth and growth.  The cup of tea in his hands steamed as it warmed his long fingers.

‘So none will die here this day,’ Glorfindel’s honeyed voice remarked as he closed the door behind him. 

‘No.’ Elrond sounded absent, as if he was listening to something beyond the hearing of most.

‘I am surprised the Dúnedain made it this far,’ the golden elf said chattily.  When Elrond was this exhausted, he needed nothing more than to be brought back into the world – something Celebrían had always been able to achieve with no more than a touch.  Although, Glorfindel conceded privately, she had had resources lacking to the chief among Elrond’s advisors. 

‘It is remarkable what parents can achieve if the end result is the life of your child,’ the dark half-elf stated unemotionally. 

Glorfindel glanced swiftly at the still figure, unsure if his friend intended the shades of meaning that those close to him would read into the words.

‘You need more than tea, Elrond,’ he said finally.  ‘When did you last eat?’

‘Before the horses came.  Whenever that was.’  He raised one hand and smoothed it over his dark hair.  ‘It was so close, Glorfindel.  If the patrol had taken any longer to find them – or had the orcs been any further from Imladris, that Ranger – what is his name? – would have lost more than his wife.’

Glorfindel swallowed.  He had heard enough about what the patrol had found to worry about the effect the information might have on the elf-lord, but he had rather hoped that the news had not yet reached the ears of the one who had been focusing his attention on saving the children whose grasp on life had been so tenuous.

Elrond threw him a sardonic look before returning his gaze to the sun-bathed freshness of spring.  ‘The girl was conscious enough to know what was happening to her mother,’ he said.  ‘And old enough to understand.’  He sighed.  ‘She will recover physically,’ he said, ‘but I do not know if she will be able to come to terms with her survival.  The boy was worse injured, but had the grace of remaining ignorant of much of what occurred.  He will do well, I think.’

‘The filth were too close.’  Glorfindel’s jaw tightened.  ‘We have spoken of this before and I know that you are against it, but I want your agreement to take patrols beyond the borders,’ he said.  ‘We can join with the Rangers to attempt to eliminate the menace – or, at the very least, drive the orcs back into the pits that spawned them.’

Elrond waved a hand.  ‘As you will,’ he said.  ‘I leave such matters in your hands.’  He kept his head turned away to conceal the bleakness in his eyes.  ‘I should have ensured this ended last time,’ he murmured.  ‘I should have made sure that Gil-Galad’s sacrifice was not in vain and that the Ring went into the fire – even if it meant wresting it from Isildur’s hand.’

‘No.’ Glorfindel pronounced.  ‘We have spoken of this many times, Elrond.  It was not the task appointed to you – still it is not.  You cannot take the choice from those to whom it is given: not without becoming like Sauron.  You guided Isildur – advised him well – but the decision was his.’

‘And how many have died because of his choice?’

‘Many,’ Glorfindel acknowledged.  ‘But it is not your fault.’

‘If I had forced his hand, Celebrían might never have been hurt.  The Age of Men would be here – the elves would have taken ship.  The North Kingdom might not have dwindled – there would be no prospect of the heir of Isildur taking my daughter from me.  My failure leads to her sacrifice.’

‘To her,’ Glorfindel said softly, ‘it is not a sacrifice.  Any more than Celebrían sacrificed herself in taking you to husband.’  He smiled.  ‘And now you know how Celeborn felt.’

‘It is not the same.’

‘No,’ his friend sighed.  ‘It is not the same.  It is never the same.  Finarfin parted from his daughter in the knowledge that she was exiled and he would not see her again in the lands of her birth.  Elu endured Lúthien’s passage beyond the circles of the world.  Nerdanel knows that Fëanor and her sons will never return to her while Arda endures.  But it is never the same.’  He stepped closer to the other and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.  ‘You will have to trust Arwen to know what is best for her,’ he said.  ‘And have faith that she makes the choice that will ensure the success of everything for which we have striven for so long.’

Elrond turned his head and a sad smile lifted the corner of his mouth.  ‘This is Arwen, my friend.   She will no more betray her heart than she would defy the dictates of her reason.  She has always known what fate holds for her – and she will not try to evade it.  I just wish . . .’

‘You just wish that all your children could follow you to peace in the Blessed Realm,’ Glorfindel concluded.

Closing his eyes, the elf-lord drew a deep breath.  ‘Do you think he is well?’ he asked.  ‘It so many years now since he left Imladris.’

‘But it will not be long before he returns,’ Glorfindel predicted.  ‘No longer a boy, my friend, but a man and a leader grown and honed.  If your sons are to be believed, he is another of whom you can be proud.’  The tall elf tightened his fingers.  ‘Will you hold him to your demand that he shall remain alone until his destiny is fulfilled?’

Elrond sighed.  ‘It is not I who demand it,’ he said.  ‘For all I would wish him to change his heart and find a woman of the Dúnedain with whom he can be happy.  I have seen that his quest will fail lest he follows the narrowest of paths – and I would not have that happen.’  He glanced at his friend.  ‘You doubt the wisdom of this?’

‘He has done well so far,’ Glorfindel admitted, ‘but harder times come fast upon us – and I believe he will fight more fiercely if the jewel before him is closer to his grasp.’

They stood in silence as Anor moved steadily to the west, dropping finally toward a bed of distant pines.

‘Perhaps,’ Elrond said at last.  ‘I shall do nothing to encourage it – but I shall let events take their course and put no obstacle in the way of their meeting.’

As if in approval, the final rays of light turned the streams of high cloud to molten gold and the blue took on a glowing blush of pink, so that the hidden valley was crowned in radiance.

‘Now, if only I could make it do that at will,’ Glorfindel said dryly. ‘I would be able to convince you of anything.’

***

Elrohir fastidiously wiped his hands on the short grass.

‘Polluting nature’s gifts,’ his brother observed.

‘I do not intend to remain covered in orc’s blood,’ Elrohir protested, ‘merely in order to keep grass – or water – free of it!’

‘It is too cold to bathe.’  The gruffer voice of the stocky Ranger sounded more horrified than it had at the appearance of the band of orcs.

‘It is never too cold to clean away the stains of battle,’ Elrond’s son said firmly.

Elladan looked suspiciously round him, taking in the scrubby pines and the shadows thrown by the weather-worn rocks.  It was dark enough and wild enough, he conceded for Sauron’s creatures to feel safe – but he could not see why the Dark Lord’s captains would find it necessary to have their minions roam these hills.  What was there for them here?  For every Ranger patrol that roamed the landscape, there were wide swathes of bleak land empty of all but the hardiest of life.  Orcs must, at times, be reduced to going hungry – or feeding on each other, in which case he supposed he should be glad that they were here.

‘They are seeking him.’  Elrohir interrupted his thoughts.  ‘And they are getting more desperate.  They see him now in every Ranger that rides the north – and are working on the idea that, if they kill them all, they will eventually rid themselves of the danger he represents.’

‘Perhaps,’ his brother agreed slowly.

‘They watch you, my lords.’  The broad-shouldered Ranger finished cleaning his blade and returned it to its sheath.  ‘You are more noticeable than others – elves in battle are not forgotten, however invisible they can be the rest of the time – and you have been in battle more than most.  The orc captains care not how many of their patrols are slain in keeping track of you – those who drive them are certain that, sooner or later, you will lead them where they want to go.’

Elladan looked at him.  He was not unlike Estel, he considered.  Not as tall; not as lean, but dark-haired and grey-eyed like most of the Dúnedain; weathered by long years of service in the wild and clothed in the bedraggled cloak pinned with the star that reminded him of his heritage.  ‘We are endangering you?’ he asked.

A brief laugh escaped the Ranger.  ‘No more than we endanger ourselves simply by being here.’  He looked at the bodies gathered now for the funeral pyre that would rid the lands he guarded of a few more of the orcs that infested them.  ‘And your presence is often all that keeps disaster at bay.  We have all walked away from this today because you were here.’  He stood, stretching until his joints popped.  ‘And I, for one, am grateful.’  He left with a brief nod, going to check on the rest of his men.

‘I had not thought of that,’ Elrohir admitted after a few moments of considered silence.  ‘Might we lead the enemy to our brother?’

‘It is not impossible,’ his brother granted reluctantly.  ‘I think, at times, we underestimate the mind behind our enemy.  We fight these . . .’ he indicated the smouldering bodies, ‘disposable dogsbodies – and, if we are not careful, we can be deluded into thinking that this is all there is.’  His eyes looked dark as they lingered on the orcs.  ‘If it were that simple, this would have been over long ago.’

‘Must we avoid him?’ Elrohir asked, before turning his question round.  ‘We must not seek him out – we would never forgive ourselves if we led his enemies to him.’

‘Neither would our sister,’ Elladan added dryly, ‘and we have had experience of how long she can hold a grudge.’

‘And over so paltry a matter as a doll, too!’ Elrohir shook his head.  ‘We would do well not to stir up her wrath, my brother.  She expects us to keep Isildur’s heir safe – and we had best use whatever means are under our control to comply.’  

***

The pale-haired marchwardens had been instructed to let him pass, Aragorn realised.  They looked at him suspiciously, as if afraid that, like an untrained dog, he would foul the purity of their wood, but they accepted him grudgingly and sent two to escort him to the Lady.  Largely, he felt, that they could be sure that one had the point between his shoulder-blades in view at all times. 

He kept his hands carefully away from his weapons, certain that those piercing eyes had noticed the bulge of each hidden knife and kept his soft Sindarin for his horse.  They had gazed at him blankly when he had addressed them in the accent of Imladris and affected not to understand – but he was just as certain that they did as that they were familiar with the basics of Westron.  The Lady, from what his brothers had told him, would not tolerate ignorance among those who served her – and elves, after all, had plenty of time to learn.  Unlike him.  Aragorn sighed and strove to recall the hours he had spent being drilled in the Silvan tongue, even though he was fairly convinced that his – escort – would feign not to understand that either.

Brandor whickered, making the man grin and pat his neck consolingly.  ‘Do not worry, my friend,’ he whispered.  ‘I am fairly sure that even in Lothlórien, elves do not eat horse.  I am not nearly so safe.’

‘We do not eat men, either,’ the elf behind him sounded offended.  ‘They would taste foul.’

‘I did not mean to suggest that you might.’ Aragorn attempted to placate him.  ‘But I do not feel that many of my kind pass your borders.’

‘You are the first in your lifetime,’ the elf before him remarked.  ‘And you will probably be the last.’  He turned enough for his mist-grey eyes to inspect the man thoroughly, looking him up and down before fixing his disconcerting gaze on Aragorn’s face.  ‘I do not understand why our Lady should wish to see you.’

The man withstood the stare easily.  That was one thing, he decided, to be said for growing up with elven foster-brothers.  It took Glorfindel at his most haughty, or Elrond gleaming with authority, to intimidate him into submission with no more than a look.  The Lady – or the Lord – could doubtless send him gibbering to his knees if they so chose, but no mere marchwarden could achieve it.  ‘Does she always confide in you the reasons behind her decisions?’

The elf turned away abruptly, a faint flush high on his cheekbones, clearly disconcerted by the unexpectedness of the man’s reaction.  ‘You will learn soon enough the folly of attempting to withstand her will,’ he said.

Aragorn sighed deep in the privacy of his mind.  Too isolated, he thought fleetingly.  He had heard Glorfindel deplore the way the elven havens had cut themselves off from each other, like islands in a wild sea, and he had, over the years come to believe that the elf-lord was right – and that his words applied not only to elves, but to men and dwarves.  This suspicion played into Sauron’s hands, making it easier for him to exploit the divisions between his enemies, who, when it was said and done, all wished to live in peace in a world free from evil.

Such structured thought, though, did not survive long as his guides took him deeper among the trees.  This Wood was not the ordered glades of Imladris, nor yet the hostile groves of the Old Forest or Mirkwood’s half-strangled shadows.  This – the rays of light blessing the verdant dells of golden elanor and white niphredil, the pure silver notes of birdsong, the trickling of ice-pure water in little rills, while grey-green trunks of the trees soared skywards, broken only by the delicate tracery of fresh leaves: this was a dream of perfection in a marred world.  He could feel the peace dulling his wariness as the pressures of time and duty faded – and he could understand why the Rohirrim dreaded the Wood and the Sorceress they believed to be at its heart.

‘I will not harm you.’  The voice seemed to be all around him, yet rang in his mind as if the words had always been there.  Soft, amused – amiable – but a power that left him in no doubt that these were the Lady’s words.

Aragorn saw her then: a figure spun from light – gold and silver and white, too bright, almost, for his sight to comprehend.  Beautiful beyond the understanding of men: tall and slender; crowned only with hair the gold of winter sun; eyes deep with the knowledge of ages and the awareness of ages yet to come.

He did not even notice when his escort melted away, taking Brandor with them.  He stood – whether for moments or hours he knew not – while Galadriel considered him.

‘You need to bathe,’ she said finally, her voice sounding more like his naneth’s than that of the intimidating Elda whom he had glimpsed so briefly.  ‘And I do not know what you think you are wearing, but it will not do!’

‘My apologies, my lady,’ he said, a bubble of half-hysterical laughter rising in him.

The touch of her hand was like fire on his skin – or ice – and it made him gasp, before he realised that it was neither, but the warm touch of one who cared for his well-being.  He wondered that he saw her perfection only with his eyes and not with his heart, but, even as he thought it, the dark beauty of the Evenstar shone in his memory and the Lady’s golden flawlessness was eclipsed.

She smiled with satisfaction.  ‘Come,’ she commanded, ‘the water is warm – and you may take your leisure, as once you did among the pools of Imladris.  Wash the weariness of these last years from you and take respite among the mellyrn.  I will see to it that you have food and fresh clothing – and then we will talk.’

***

She clothed him in silver and white, with a cloak of elven-grey.  His dark hair gleamed to his shoulders, less like silk than satin, its rebelliousness curbed and held in place with a band of mithril studded with a bright gem at his brow.  Unknowing, the descendant of kings straightened to fill his princely raiment: tall and grave and full of the promise of a strength as yet only at its beginning.  He seemed less a man, Galadriel sighed, than an elf-lord from the west, more than he was now, but still less than he could be.

Aragorn walked where she pointed him beneath the trees of Caras Galadhon, and the mellyrn showered him with golden flowers, heady with fragrance and bright as hope.  He caught a few as they fell and cupped them in his strong hands as gently as he would hold a butterfly, continuing aimlessly on the soft path.  He did not know why the Lady had chosen to favour him, but the dream-like beauty of the Wood had him bemused, so that all he felt able to do was listen to the song around him and wish that he could be part of it.

The Evenstar saw him emerge from between the trees, no longer the boy he had been, but a man striving for success on a quest that could take him to the stars and beyond, and, as he had loved her at sight in the glades of Imladris, so she loved him and her choice was made. 

‘You have changed,’ she said as he stopped before her.

‘But you are as beautiful as ever you were,’ he answered.  He hesitated, then offered her the flowers in his hands.

She smiled, aware that he knew not of the significance of the offering, and deliberately took them, tucking one blossom in the braid behind her ear.  ‘You do not look in the least bit like a bush,’ she said solemnly.  ‘Nor do you resemble a goat.’

‘Elladan and Elrohir?’ he sighed.  ‘When did they say that?’

‘Some years ago.’  Arwen placed her right hand formally on his arm and, with a nod in the right direction, allowed him to lead her along the sunlit paths.  ‘After they had visited you in Rohan.  I have not seen them since.’

‘They were most scathing about the style of the Horse People,’ Aragorn told her.  ‘They seemed to think that the only time the Rohirrim thought grooming mattered was in relation to horses.’  He grinned.  ‘They were not far wrong.  I had not realised that your brothers were so very elven until I spent years among men.’

‘They have their peacock moments.’ Arwen looked up at him, her eyes sparkling. ‘Although they are not as bad as Glorfindel.’

‘Ah well,’ Aragorn shook his head.  ‘He is a lost cause.’

Their pace slowed and they turned to look at each other, each lost in the other’s face.  Arwen reached up to touch his cheek gently.  ‘You must tell me what you have been doing since last we met,’ she said.

‘Thinking of you,’ he said softly.  ‘Dreaming of you.  Seeing your face before my closed eyes, hearing your voice, feeling your touch, smelling the scent of your hair.’

She drew a breath and released it slowly.  ‘I am surprised you have made it this far, then,’ she reproved him, ‘and that no enemy has managed to remove your head.’

He took her hand and lifted it gently to his lips.  ‘Oh, you mean, how did I waste the moments in between?’ he asked.

Celeborn’s fingers tightened bruisingly on Galadriel’s arm.  ‘You have permitted this to happen?’ he breathed from their vantage point in the trees. 

She shivered slightly.  She tended to forget that her husband could, when roused, be dangerously single-minded.  ‘I did not prevent it,’ she said staunchly, refusing to be intimidated.  ‘It is not my right to prevent it – and I could not if I would.’

‘I could,’ he declared in a voice that rang of the finality of blades. 

‘Kinslaying?’ she challenged. 

‘He is no kin of mine,’ her husband pronounced.

‘Look at him.  Look at him without prejudice, without resentment – he is the heir of more than Isildur,’ Galadriel hissed.

Celeborn reluctantly took his eyes from him granddaughter to gaze broodingly at the man who drew her attention and his fingers slowly eased their grip.  ‘Eärendil,’ he said in surprise.  ‘Who know how many generations have passed – and Elros’s heir stands there looking like the Mariner!’

‘I desire this outcome no more than you do,’ Galadriel murmured, allowing her distress to shade her tone, ‘but this is part of the price we must pay.’

The elf-lord shifted his grip to one more comforting and folded his wife in his arms.  ‘We shall see,’ he said.

***

Days flowed like water and nights drifted by like smoke.  Arwen wandered through the dream-like groves of Lothlórien, Isildur’s heir at her side, with eyes for nothing but each other.

Cúraniel watched, aware that a step had been taken from which there was little chance of return.  This was no tale that promised a happy ending for all, but instead offered only a temporary satisfaction for any of those involved.  She had thought to remonstrate with her friend, but knew from the set of Arwen’s jaw, from the look in her eyes, from the sound of her laughter, that there was no point.  The cause of her friend’s increased gravity in recent years was apparent: Elrond’s daughter knew what was asked of her.  She had considered it and, in full understanding of what it meant, had decided to accept it.

The man felt it not, but the gentle sorrow of the Wood echoed with the song of loss, as the elves watched him win their Evenstar.  Some hated him, but most watched Galadriel and Celeborn and accepted his presence with dignity and restraint.

Haldir watched him with eyes like flints, hoping that his lord would say the word that would expel the intruder from the golden glades.  ‘Why do they tolerate him?’ He jabbed his finger towards the waterfall where Arwen sat with Aragorn, their eyes seeing none but the other.  ‘Why does my lord not simply offer him up to the orcs that haunt our borders?’

‘It is obviously not that simple.’ Cúraniel hunched her shoulders in irritation.  ‘If you want to know, why do you not go and ask?  I am sure my lord would appreciate your curiosity.’

‘I would take her home,’ Haldir declared, ‘and let her adar see off this menace.’

‘Or perhaps you would carry her off,’ Cúraniel said sharply, ‘and put her on a ship heading west.  After all, she is an elleth – why should she have the right to decide her own destiny?’

‘You would permit her to offer herself to this . . . this Aftercomer?’ Haldir said incredulously.

‘She is old enough to recognise what she wants to do!’ her friend declared.  ‘I might not like it, but I have enough sense to see that it is none of my business.’  Cúraniel met Haldir’s eyes unflinchingly.  He pressed his lips together and turned, clearly unconvinced.  She watched him march away before turning to look again at the besotted couple by the water.

All they were doing, she sighed, was standing and looking into each other’s eyes.  As far as she knew, they had not yet taken the irrevocable step of plighting their troth to each other – and it was a step that would take them across a vast chasm into the unknown.  Few elves had sworn faith with mortals – and those that had generally learned over uncounted centuries that their brief happiness came with a price.  Not, the elleth thought ruefully, that Arwen would pay the same penalty for her love as others of her race.  While Mithrellas dwelt still among the golden trees, yearning for a man long dead and grieving for children who had grown old and left the world in their turn, Arwen’s fate would be that of Lúthien.   She would forsake her people in full truth and become mortal, following her love beyond the circles of the world, sundered from her family until the end of days.

And Arwen had known, Cúraniel realised.  She had returned from Imladris knowing that this choice lay before her.  It was no wonder that her face had been more grave and her laughter seldom heard in recent years.  It was no wonder, either, that her brothers seemed ever more protective of her, holding her close as if to savour the final taste of a special vintage. 

***

The days lengthened and the mystery of night retreated before the sun.    The devotion that had been slightly embarrassing from the boy, from the man stirred Arwen’s pulse.  The gentle touch of the calloused hand on her cheek stirred her blood and stopped her breath.  This bearded stranger, clothed in fine linen and rich silk, looked at her through elven eyes, his heart clear for her to read, and told her of his life.  He was not free, as other men, but trod the path of duty, wherever it took him.  He spoke to her of Gondor, of the White Tower gleaming in dawn’s light; of the plains of the Rohirrim, where grasses bent before the wind with the song of the sea; of distant Harad, of the burning sun leaching life from the earth; of the ice flows in the far north, where frozen rivers tumbled finally to the hungry sea.  He spoke of Gilraen, of what he had learned of his father, but he did not speak of love.

She knew why. 

The boy had not seen what he demanded of Elrond in his youthful arrogance, had not known its cost – but the man understood.   His devotion was unswerving, but he knew the sacrifice demanded of them all if he were to achieve his heart’s desire and he would not ask.

Why he thought it better for them all to suffer, she could not fathom.  He knew little of the fidelity of elves if he imagined that she could forget him and thrust her love for him aside to choose another – and he had little faith in an adar’s love if he believed that Elrond would rather have his daughter abandoned to a life of heartbreak and his foster-son to loneliness than accept the cost of their union.  She smiled.  Aragorn could not accept happiness at the expense of those he loved, she knew.  It was part of what made him fit to rule – but this time she had to make him understand.

‘Your adar told me,’ he said seriously, ‘when first I set eyes on you, that I should have no wife, nor bind any woman to me in troth, until my time comes.  I am a wanderer, Arwen, driven across the world by the demands of destiny.  I have no home to offer any bride, no position to give her honour – I live in constant danger of my life.’  He looked at the elanor and niphredil about their feet as they walked on the fair hill of Cerin Amroth.  The softness of the grass caressed their bare feet and the gentle breeze stirred their hair.  ‘I would not choose to come between you and Lord Elrond, Undómiel.’

She smiled.  ‘What makes you think the choice is yours, my lord?’ she asked.  ‘The roots of this are buried in a time so far past that few but my grandparents remember it.  I have been waiting for you for close on three thousand years – and, in you, I have found all I have ever hoped.  It matters not that I must wait until your time is finally come – it only matters that I will not be parted from you – here or beyond the circles of the world.  My adar would have it otherwise, but he will accept my decision, for he loves us both.’

Aragorn bowed his head, his hair falling forward to conceal his eyes.  It was not, he felt, as easy as the Evenstar would have him think.  Perhaps because he only had a century or two to consider the matter, he felt himself tormented by the thought of taking his adar’s daughter from him throughout all the ages of Arda.  He loved her beyond question, beyond thought, beyond the limited days of his life – but how could he take a child of the Eldar and expect her to give up her people for him?  For a blaze of happiness that might last no longer than a shooting star across a night sky?

Her long fingers pushed back his hair and tucked it behind his ear and his heart stopped at the touch of her cool hand.  He could not even think while she was this close.  The softness of her breath on his cheek removed his will and left him nothing to do but adore her. 

‘Here, in the heart of the Golden Wood, on the hill of Cerin Amroth on this midsummer eve, I do plight thee my troth, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur’s heir,’ she said deliberately.  ‘No matter what the cost, I will have none other than you.’

He looked at her in shock as the repercussions of her words burned in him and he felt the change in the very core of his being.  No longer alone, for the words of Elrond’s daughter had bound her fate with his, and his mouth automatically produced the words of his own vow, dreamed of for so long, that he had never expected to speak.  ‘Arwen Undómiel, Elrond’s daughter, you are as far above me as the star for whom you are named,  and I deserve you not, but if you will have me, I will plight you my troth, that I will be true to you now and for ever.’

She kissed him then: as the shadow to the east cowered from the fiery whips of the westering sun, and they were glad.