For Idrils_Scribe, who wondered how and when Arwen and Elrond heard of Aragorn's arranged marriage, and for JulsaIthil, who asked for something from Aragorn's point of view. Not quite Aragorn's POV, but here we learn more of his thoughts on the matter. 

Set between the events of Halbarad and Nienelen’s first conversation and the wedding feast of that evening.

~oOo~

Halbarad made the slow climb from hall and hearth.  There was naught to hear above stairs, though light steamed in through the slats in the shutters.  The sun lit upon the lingering smoke that had seeped through the floor from the hearth below and upon the curtains pulled open about the canopied bed. 

All was still and quiet.  Were he to approach the side of that bed with dread in his heart, would be none who could blame him.  For not long ago had he come upon the man lying within, bloodied and scarce breathing, cold and sunk deep in the mud upon the Ettenmoors beneath a tangle of dead men and orc. 

But though the skin of his face was pale so that hair and beard lay stark upon it, he breathed, the blanket rising and falling in shallow rhythm.  And so Halbarad sat and resumed his vigil.  He waits for sleep to lighten and his kinsman, Aragorn, lord and chief of the Dúnedain, to awake.  It will not be long.  He already shifts and then swiftly stills, his brow furrowing at the prod of pain that comes with movement. 

“How did she take it?” comes Aragorn’s voice once his eyes have opened.  He moves little, and that cautiously.  Low and short of breath he speaks, as dare he draw in but a little air.  He grunts lightly and arches back in attempt to find a more restful place upon the bed.

“As could be expected.  She accused me of playing her for a fool.”

This earns him the barest of smiles.  “Then, aye, a woman of good sense, as you said.  It cannot have been easy, your conversation.”

At this, Halbarad answers his kin’s smile with a wry one of his own. 

“No.  No, ‘twas not,” he says, for indeed it was an awkward discussion, regardless of the necessity of it or the help offered when he was at a loss for words.  But it was not this that makes him pause. 

“What is it?”

Halbarad shakes his head and rubs roughened palms against the cloth of his breeches.  “She is changed,” he says after some moments. 

“She is not near so young, as when first you met her.  Mayhap it is this.”

“Aye,” he agrees, though uncertainly and then shakes his head.  “Nay, ‘tis more than that.” 

Mayhap his kin had little strength with which to aid his thoughts or mayhap he simply waits and listens, for the silence stretches out under Aragorn’s keen eyes, and Halbarad’s thoughts are slow to form. 

“She was never one for much speech,” Halbarad says at first, “though eager to know more and asked questions I was hard pressed to satisfy when I was their guest.

“But she was once amused by the simplest of things,” he goes on, his voice quickening.  “It would take but a look from her sister to set them to merriment.  But now, there is little of joy about her as once there was.” 

Aragorn considers him, making a soft, thoughtful sound.  “I would be surprised, were she unmoved,” says he.  “Her sister and aunt are gone, and now, the last of her kin is dead.  She is very alone.  Had I not you, you might find me the same.” 

Here Halbarad nods and, with a quick glance at the parchment folded and sealed upon the bedside table, plucks at the cloth bunched about his knee. 

“You think we take advantage?  We could ask another.”

Halbarad snorts lightly.  “Aye and give grave insult to Nienelen, when she just consented to marry you.  Had I thought the conversation requesting her hand was painful, would pale when compared to spurning it.  She is not one to forgive easily.  ‘Tis said Bachor offered her a place among his kin and she turned his sister from her house ere she had set foot in the door.”

“You could always offer to marry her yourself, in recompense,” comes the reply, though offered with somewhat of amusement. 

“Aragorn, are you that willfully dense?  Must I explain it to thee again?”

“You were very young, and but newly released from Haldren’s tutelage.  ‘Twas a long time you went without company,” he says and smiles a little more broadly.  “I think I might have composed just such an ode to a man’s parts, were I in your place.”  He coughs a little and then grimaces as should he have regretted moving so sharply.

“I am pleased you recall it so fondly.  Shall I sing it for you again?”

“Nay!  Pray you, do not.  ‘Twas endearing enough at the first recitation, but then you were very drunk, and recited it within Elrohir’s hearing.”

“Not my wisest choice,” Halbarad observes wryly.

“Nor your best effort.” 

“Though I hear he has improved on it.”

“Aye and put it to song, added another several verses, and has not stopped singing it since.”

Halbarad chuckles and for some time cannot speak for the laughter that wells atimes.  “Aye, well, Elrohir gives me enough fodder for my revenge without being either very young or very drunk.”

“Verily!”

After a moment, Aragorn drags a hand from beneath the covers and taps his fist upon his kin’s knee ere laying his hand there.  “Yet you have always wanted children, a family.  You said she was of a sensible nature.  She could live here, for she would be kin of the House, should you take her to wife.  Mayhap you could come to an arrangement of some kind, should you make the terms you offer worthy of her.” 

“Ah, ‘tis not that,” Halbarad says and falls silent, considering his kinsman for a long moment ere he moves.  With a careful touch, he plucks the folds of parchment from where they rest between cup and pitcher on the table, setting the inkhorn that had rested against it rocking.

The bundle is not as thick as he had thought it would be.  Mayhap there was not much to say other than the barest of announcements and regrets. 

“You have written it,” Halbarad says, turning it between his thumbs so the light skims across the wax seal. 

This does not earn him a reply.  Mayhap, too, there was not much to say here as well, though his kinsman’s hand still rests warmly upon his knee.  When he looks to the bed, it is to find Aragorn considering him, his face solemn.  There is little of sorrow to be found there, though he would allow the man has had many years to learn the art of the concealment of his heart. 

“Do you truly wish this?”

“Do you have objections to the match?” asks Aragorn, his voice low.

“Not to the match, Aragorn, to the whole idea of it!”

He shifts a little on the bed and sighs. “Have you discovered by what means she outmatched Bachor?”

Halbarad shakes his head.  “Do you wish me to continue the attempt?”

“No, best stop, now she has consented.”

When no other answer seems forthcoming, Halbarad presses his lips tightly and taps the edge of the letter upon his knee ere pointing its corner at his kinsman.  “Do not lie or attempt to evade me.  I know you too well.  You do not wish this.” 

“Halbarad – “

“Jest or no, why else make the attempt to foist her upon me?”

“Halbarad, you make too much –“

“I know, Aragorn!” he says, his voice rising.  He glares at the man despite the hand that squeezes his knee.  He lifts the letter and shakes it. “I should burn this thing rather than send it!”  He claps it down upon its edge upon the table between cup and pitcher.  “This is not what you want, what you delayed and sacrificed all else for, else you would have found another woman among our kin long ago.”

“Halbarad!” Aragorn says louder, wincing at the strain.  ‘Tis this, and the sight of eyes clamped shut and a face pinched in pain that makes his kinsman cease.

Halbarad leans his arms against his legs, clasps his hands and there rubs his thumbs one against the other. 

“Halbarad,” Aragorn says after some moments, shaking his knee and looking earnestly upon his kin.  “I have neglected things too long, here, and left it in hands that should not have had the burden.” 

“You are a fool should you think us unwilling.” 

“My mother was not a young woman, Halbarad, but she should not have aged as she did,” says Aragorn.  “You tell me; what manner of man does naught but bring pain to the women he loves?”

There is no answer to give his kinsman.  Not that there is no rebuttal, but none that had been successful in satisfying him.  And Halbarad had tried them all. 

“And what manner of leader of men does not listen to the pleas of those who depend on him,” Aragorn continues, “but does only what his own heart desires?”

With this, Halbarad sighs and rubs at his brow, still unable to look upon his kin.  ‘Tis uncertain why the warmth of his kinsman’s touch at such a time brings discomfort.  But it does, and Aragorn’s grip tightens as he would strengthen his plea with his touch.

“We have never spoken of it,” says Aragorn, his voice growing soft and earnest, “but I know your heart, Halbarad.  ‘Tis one of the many regrets I bear that it is not in me to fulfill what it would wish of me.”

When his kin stops to catch what breath he can for the pain it causes him, Halbarad would have stirred to put an end to aught else he might say, was it not for the burning of his eyes and the poor trust his voice deserves at this moment. 

“Do not think I have failed to see what you sacrificed at my behest,” Aragorn says.  “How can I do any less?”

Words well beneath Halbarad’s thoughts, but there are none that seem fitting.  And so, he remains silent. 

“She has the wit to measure the scope of that to which she has consented, aye?”

Halbarad nods and clears his throat with some effort.  “She does.”

“Then that must be enough.”  With this, Aragorn withdraws his hand, sinking back into the pillow.  Already he tires, his eyes dull and face grayed with the cost paid for so little speech.

“Ah, look at me,” exclaims Halbarad.  He sniffs and swipes at his cheeks with rough hands.  “I have tired you without need.”  He rises. 

“Be easy,” he says and lifts the blanket and linens so his kin may ease his arm back to the mattress unhindered.  “My misgivings are my own.”

“Sleep,” he commands and tucks the bedclothes about the man’s shoulders.  It will not be long.  Already Aragorn’s eyes drift unfocused and he settles more deeply to his bed. “I will wake you when it is time.” 

With that, Halbarad takes up the letter, weighing it in his hands for a moment ere he collects inkhorn, quill, and writing desk.  For within it are missives to the Lord of the Hidden Vale and, no doubt, his daughter. 

They shall have a long way to travel and their news will be old ere they arrive.  But now, now that faint sounds arise from down the stairs of men sweeping away leaves drifted beneath door frames, chasing vermin from their nests in the buttery, restocking the pantry, scouring flagstones, and setting up tables for the wedding feast, there is no longer a cause to delay the start of their journey.