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To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 35: The White Tree

   And Aragorn planted the new tree in the court by the fountain, and swiftly and gladly it began to grow; and when the month of June entered in it was laden with blossom.

The Steward and the King                                                                 The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   Very fair it looked today. Its white flowers glistened in the bright afternoon sun and beneath it the water of the fountain echoed its shimmering silver light.

   The White Tree was thriving.

   Aragorn was sure it had grown even in the short time it had been in its new home. It was his firm belief that the tree recognised it was in its rightful place at last and that was why it flourished so. After he had found it, high up near the snows of Mindolluin, he had carried it down from the mountain and carefully planted it himself where the dead tree had stood for so long. Every day since then he had come to gaze at it, to see how it fared; in truth to ensure that it still lived.

   The new king had escaped for a time from his many unfamiliar duties to spend a few precious minutes alone outside in the fresh air. For one so accustomed to solitude, the demands of his new life could at times leave him a little overwhelmed. He had met an enormous number of people in the last few weeks, many of whom looked to him to resolve matters of great importance. They all required a judgement of some sort on his part and he only hoped he made his choices wisely. Such were the needs of the times, there had been no easing him into his new role. He was king now and expected to deal with anything brought before him. So it was good to steal a little time between one duty and the next, to just enjoy the sun and be alone with his thoughts.

   It was a perfect afternoon. High above the plain, the Citadel caught the cool airs softly sweeping down the slopes of Mindolluin, gently mellowing the heat of the midsummer sun. Aragorn sat lazily on the edge of the fountain with his legs stretched out before him, listening to the birds singing and watching the tree grow.

   It was such a symbol of hope for him. In his heart, he was sure this was the sign he had been waiting for and the more the tree thrived and blossomed, the more also did his belief that Arwen was on her way to him. He reached out a hand to gently cup one of the clusters of white flowers. Each one was perfectly formed and beautiful, their delicate fragrance a pure delight. He still marvelled that this was an actual, real ‘White Tree’, a living scion of Galathilion, itself an image of Telperion, a line that had survived from the depths of Ages past. In Minas Tirith, the emblem of the White Tree was to be seen everywhere; on every heraldic device; on every suit of armour; above every doorway in the citadel, as well as above his own throne, but no one in the city had ever seen an actual, living White Tree before.

   But so much was changing now. The war against Sauron was finally over; all around him people were still rejoicing at the newly won victory. Some had found it hard to believe at first that the defeat and occupation they had so long feared and dreaded would not now come to pass. He wondered himself sometimes just how he had lived through those endlessly gruelling days of the war. But although he too had joined in many a celebration and within himself there was now a sense of peace such as he had not known since his childhood, he knew his days as king would be long and empty if the one reward he truly desired was denied him.

   ‘Any day now,’ he thought, ‘any day she will come.’

   He closed his eyes and relaxed. There was no urgency today; whatever he ought to be doing could wait a little while longer. He knew he had so much to be thankful for that he was almost ashamed to ask for anything more. If nothing else, at least he lived and was still whole and unharmed; many others were not so fortunate.

   Numbers beyond reckoning had died; he grieved for them all; the people he knew, as well as the faceless others whom he did not. Most of all he missed Halbarad. Even now, it took only the merest unguarded thought for a lump to form in his throat and that terrible moment when Halbarad’s horse had been cut from beneath him would once again flash before his eyes. In whatever years remained of his life, he knew he would never forget his terror as he raced to his friend’s side. But his memories of Halbarad’s last moments were still far too agonisingly raw for him to dwell upon them, and it was not as if he was the only one who had suffered such loss. There were so many gone; Theoden and Denethor the most lamented among them.

   Countless more had been injured; many would be scarred for life. He had worked alongside the healers in the days following the battle at the Morannon, bringing such aid as his skills allowed. But of all those maimed, it was Frodo who troubled him most. He feared he might never fully recover from his hurts. His were no ordinary battle scars; Aragorn did not know what deeper harm had been inflicted by the burden he had carried so bravely for so long. He owed his dear friend so much he would do anything in his power to ease his suffering, if only he knew how.

   Yes, he was very fortunate. He had come through his many battles unscathed and so he had been spared to enjoy this new Age. And strange and daunting though his new role was at times, it nonetheless felt right. It was after all his birthright. It was what he had long prepared for and had spent all his adult life working towards. The rewards for his long years of hardship would be great; he had every reason to have hope for the future.

    But still he yearned for more.

   In his mind he could picture Arwen as she had been on that grey winter’s evening when he left Rivendell for the last time. Although weighed with care, she was still as young and fair as on the day he first met her. He smiled at the treasured memories of that encounter under the silver birches of so long ago; they were still as vivid in his memory as if it had been just yesterday. The tumult of emotions that coursed through him on that momentous day had seared the images into his mind for ever.

   And after they plighted their troth in Lothlórien, he knew Arwen had never wavered in her love for him. In the thirty long years they had spent apart, he had often been plagued with fears that she may come to regret her choice. But when she had at last returned to Rivendell, those worries had proved quite groundless. He knew he had no reason to doubt her now. Nor in his heart did he doubt Elrond. He had after all, achieved everything that Elrond had demanded of him, impossible though it had seemed at the time. Elrond would honour his promise if, at the last, his daughter was still willing. 

    Aragorn laid a hand on the smooth white bark of the tree’s slender stem. He could almost believe it was warm such was the sensation of life surging within it. The feel of it brought him joy. The line of trees had suffered at the hand of Sauron, much as his own ancestors had done. Yet Nimloth’s line had survived; he could only wait patiently to know the fate of Elendil’s.

~oo0oo~

  The afternoon was slipping away, he must soon return to his duties. There was much to do; there were new alliances to forge and old ones to reaffirm. The Third Age was ending and the Fourth about to begin; with it would come many new challenges. But he was more than ready to meet them. After Sauron, no enemy could daunt him now. There were still battles to be fought and order to be brought to a war torn world, but he knew in time all would be achieved and the new Age would bring an era of peace and prosperity. But in spite of his joy that all this would come to pass, it saddened him that much would also be lost. The passing of the Firstborn into the West grieved him terribly; so many would sail; Elrond; Galadriel; people from Rivendell that he had grown up with and thought of as his family. And then there was Gandalf.

   Aragorn sighed and got to his feet. It was too lovely a day to dwell upon all the friends he was going to miss. He was about to make his way back to the Citadel, when he saw his Steward walking purposefully across the court towards him. Faramir bowed as he came before his king.

  “My lord king, please forgive my disturbing you,” he said.

   “You are not disturbing me, Faramir,” said Aragorn with a wave of his hand as if to dismiss his apology. “It is time I returned to my duties. I have idled here in the sunshine long enough.”

   “I’m sure such idling can be forgiven on as glorious a day as this though, my lord,” said Faramir as he raised his face to the fresh breeze. “There are no matters of such urgency that I can not deal with myself, should you wish to remain here a while longer.”

   Aragorn smiled. He liked Faramir. The young man was the very embodiment of the finest qualities of his Southern kin. He had the same easy, straightforward manner as Ecthelion, yet his wits were as sharp as his own. And his sense of duty to his office and his devotion to Gondor were unquestionable.

  “Nay, I have tasks I should not neglect for too long,” he replied, “but thank you all the same. Tell me though, Faramir, do you not think the tree looks very well in the sunlight today?”

   Faramir studied it for a moment. Aragorn wondered if his Steward had any leisure to spend on such trifles as gazing at the tree. He appeared to have laboured tirelessly at his side ever since his coronation.

   “It does look very well, my lord,” Faramir said at last. “It never fails to bring joy to my heart. Ever did I hope for the return of the King but I never expected such a thing to come to pass in my lifetime.”

    He suddenly looked a little abashed at having spoken so, but Aragorn smiled sympathetically. “I am truly glad it brings you such joy, Faramir; it fills my heart also. And if it is any comfort to you, over the years there were more times than I care to remember when I too doubted the king would ever return. In those far off days when I served your grandfather, it always saddened me greatly to see the dead tree standing thus.”

   The two men contemplated the tree for a moment longer, before Aragorn said: “But I am sure you have not come out here to discuss the White tree. What can I do for you?”

   “Actually, my lord, I have tidings I believe you may wish to hear at once,” replied Faramir. “I have just received word from the look-outs on the walls of the Rammas Echor that a great company of Elven folk is riding from Amon Din towards the city.”

   At last! At last!!

   They were on their way! Aragorn nearly embraced his Steward as a tumult of joy and relief surged through him. 

   “Thank you, Faramir, this is great tidings indeed,” he said, struggling to maintain a calm he most certainly did not feel. “Come, there is much to do; all must be made ready. We shall have many guests to entertain in the city tonight.”

  Then, his face a beacon of joy, the new king cast a last grateful glance at the tree, before leaving to await the arrival of his queen.

~oo0oo~

   “Come and see; there is something I must show you.”

    Aragorn was smiling as he took his new bride’s hand in his and led her quietly away from the dancing and singing in the Merethrond. He hoped no one noticed as they slipped under the great arched doorway that opened into the Court of the Fountain. Outside, the night air was warm and still, a welcome relief from the noisy celebrations in the great hall.

   It was a perfect evening. The court was bathed in soft moonlight and the clear sky was lit by countless glittering stars.

   “Estel, where are we going,” Arwen whispered conspiratorially as if they were children playing truant, though she completely failed to suppress the giggles bubbling up inside her. “Should we really be leaving this early? Our absence will be noticed.”

   Aragorn grinned, feeling rather like a naughty child himself. “There are those who would no doubt agree with the king that he has waited long enough already for his desire and would not grudge him his impatience,” he said as he drew Arwen nearer to him and softly kissed her shoulder. “But I can be patient for a few more hours yet. No, my beloved, my intention is otherwise; I have something I wish you to see tonight.”

   “You are being very mysterious. Is it a wedding gift?”

   “Yes, I think perhaps it is,” said Aragorn as he led Arwen through the moonlight towards the great fountain in the centre of the courtyard.

   Since she had arrived in the city earlier that evening, Aragorn had not a single moment alone with his beloved; there had been so many people to welcome and entertain and court formalities had needed to be strictly observed. His head was still spinning from all that had happened that day and he was glad for a chance to catch his breath. He was deliriously happy and still felt as if he was floating in a whirlwind of pure delight. He had not known it was even possible to feel such joy.

   Earlier that evening, Elrond had presented him with both the Sceptre of Annúminas and the hand of his daughter. Everything he had longed for and dreamed of since he was twenty years old had finally come to pass and it was almost overwhelming. He desperately needed a moment or two away from all the celebrations and well wishers to be alone with his bride and actually convince himself that he was not still dreaming and that he would not at any moment wake and find himself cold and alone by a dying fire somewhere in the wilderness of Middle-earth. 

   Aragorn halted as they came before the sapling and quickly dismissed the guards. Once they were alone, he brought his hand to rest upon the slim truck of the small tree.

   “I wanted to show you this,” he said.

   Arwen stood and gazed at the youthful sapling, its white blossoms glinting silver in the moonlight. “It is a lovely tree, Estel.”

   Aragorn smiled at her bemused expression. “It is no ordinary tree, Arwen, but a White Tree, a descendent of Nimloth no less. Unknown to any, it was growing high up on the side of the mountain. The seed must have lain dormant all these years only to bring forth life now as the return of the king approached. I still wonder at the timing of it.”

   “Oh Estel, a living White Tree, this is indeed wondrous,” cried Arwen as she suddenly understood. She too reached out a hand to feel the smooth bark and lightly touch the delicate flowers. “I never thought to see such a thing. It looks well and I can see with my own eyes it is already thriving. This surely bodes well for the future. Oh I am so glad you showed this to me. May we now be blessed with long years to dwell in this place and watch it grow and flourish into a great and fruitful tree.”

   “I truly believe in my heart that we shall be so blessed,” said Aragorn, softly, squeezing her hand. “The life of the Tree and that of the King shall be entwined forever, just as they always were in the past. My hope soared when I first beheld it. I knew then that you were on your way to me, though I confess I had feared that at the last you would not forebear to leave Elrond.”

   “I can not deny it does not break my heart to do so,” said Arwen, quietly. The grief that passed across her face was only fleeting, but still it tore at Aragorn’s heart. In spite of his joy, the sundering of father and daughter would forever cause him sorrow.

   But Arwen smiled, her sadness put away. “You are my entire life now, Estel; I have made my choice and I shall never regret it.” She spoke firmly and with great assurance.

   “Do you remember all those years ago when first you won my love, you came before me as a king? That day I glimpsed a promise of what you would yet become.”

   Aragorn coloured slightly at the memory of how he was attired on that morning.

   “I felt ridiculously over dressed, Arwen, yet even in Galadriel’s finest weaves, still not worthy of the Evenstar.”

   “You were worthy, Estel, even then, so can you begin to imagine how great now is my joy at beholding the fulfilment of that promise? Our long wait is finally over and it gladdens my heart to see your face so free of care and your smile so lit with joy. Do not allow guilt over Elrond to mar your delight. He would be the very last to wish it so.”

   Aragorn nodded. “I do know, truly I do,” he said. He had been over this a thousand times in his mind; he had always known hearts would be broken, whatever Arwen’s choice. From the moment he first laid eyes upon her under the silver birches and his heart was lost forever, the doom of all three of them was made.

   But then he frowned suddenly as he remembered his most immediate concern. “I have not yet had a chance to ask you if you think you will be happy here in this city,” he asked. It was his dearest wish that she should be, but he was greatly afraid that she would not. “How do you find Minas Tirith, my dearest? This city of stone is not Imladris or Lothlórien.”

   Arwen’s fingers tightened around his, “No, it is not, but it is the home of my beloved and so it is my home. I shall be happy anywhere in Middle-earth if you are beside me, Estel. But this is a fine place. I shall be well content to make this my home and here we shall raise our children.”

   Aragorn smiled, relieved. “I’m glad. And we shall return to the North again one day, as soon as my duties allow it, I promise.”

  As Arwen stood beside him, her pale skin flawless in the moonlight, her long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders, he suddenly could not prevent his hand from rising to touch her perfect face. His fingers trembled as they traced the exquisite line of her cheek and lightly trickled over her throat. Her eyes shone with joy and, to his delight, he saw the same longing and desire within them that he knew was mirrored in his own eyes. She was so lovely, the most perfect of all Eru’s creations. And she was his. Anticipation was rapidly rising within him and he suddenly found he could hardly breathe any more, let alone speak.

   “I can scarce believe this day has finally come and we are truly together at last,” he said, his voice breaking with the flood of emotions cascading through him.

   And the love glowing on Arwen’s face almost undid him completely. “You are my Beren, Estel, and we shall not be sundered again.”

   Tears of pure joy welled in Aragorn’s eyes. He could only choke the words: “And you have ever been my Lúthien.”

   She gently captured his fingers in hers and raised them to her lips, kissing them softly.

   A tremor ran through him as he drew her close and suddenly his lips met hers. Somehow, he knew not how, his hands found their own way to her hips and he could feel her quivering against him with the same uncertain tremor that coursed through his own body.

   “Oh Arwen,” he murmured into her hair. He felt her arms around him and her hands, warm and caressing, exploring him gently. An explosion of delight rampaged through him at her touch. He held her tighter; his heart was pounding now, his kisses urgent and unstoppable. The rest of the world was swiftly fading to nothing as all his senses were filled entirely with the woman he adored. For a fleeting moment, Aragorn thought they should perhaps be returning to the celebrations. They would soon be missed. But he had waited all the years of his manhood for this moment; and right now there was nothing and no one in all Arda with a greater claim on his attention. This night belonged to him and his beloved alone.

   And so it was that, beside the youthful tree and under the ancient stars, he gave himself completely and joyfully to fulfilling the love that had for so many long years been denied him.

~oo0oo~

   “Now not day only shall be beloved, but night too shall be beautiful and blessed and all its fear pass away!”      Frodo

The Steward and the King                                                                 The Return of the King