A/N: With thanks to Cairistiona and Salvage for the beta!

*****

T.A. 2955

They’d had to delay the captains’ council this year. Usually held on the eve of the harvest, the council was all but forgotten when the first frost came through in early September, a raiding party of orcs on its heels. They needed every available hand to help with the harvest, while Aragorn led a party of Rangers to aid those who fought across the river. But at last, their enemies defeated and the harvest saved, captains from each region of Eriador reported in safely. Nethril aided Faelhen in assembling the tables in the hall of the Chieftain’s House into the great square that would be used for the council proceedings and fielded questions from Aragorn regarding matters of the harvest. That she could not participate in the council itself rankled her a little, but that was the way of it.

She sat now with Ivorwen on a bench to the right of the tables, where she had a good view of Aragorn at their head. Lady Adanel sat to his right, circlet threading her grey hair into place, though her presence at the council table had become a formality long ago. She’d officially stepped down as acting Chieftain three years before, despite the fact that Aragorn would not turn twenty-five until the following spring. Her cousin’s youth, so often discussed in his first years as Chieftain, now barely seemed to register to the captains. They looked to him with deference and respect as he led the council with quiet confidence, the uncertainty of his early years gone.

His grey eyes were turned now to Captain Marach, who spoke for the Rangers defending the Shire. “Orcs are still encroached past the Weather Hills, though we’re slowly routing them out. And I doubt the Breelanders will thank us for our trouble. Old Barliman nearly drove us from the inn, this past summer.”

Dírhael stirred at Aragorn’s other side. “Our charge is often thankless. But if the innkeeper gives you any trouble, next time, tell him the Pinesman sent you. That ought to carry at least a sliver of goodwill.”

Nethril raised her eyebrows. Her grandfather rarely discussed his history with the Breelanders, nowadays—too much trouble had befallen the town, too many hard times easily blamed on Rangers passing through. It grieved him, she knew, but the their reputation abroad was the least of their problems.

“There was a wedding in town when we last passed through, and the joy was enough to stave off mistrust. Perhaps we will be lucky once more. And something for you to think of, eh, Lord Aragorn?” Marach dared a mischievous wink at his Chieftain. “High time we had a betrothal to celebrate.”

Nethril spared a glance towards Aragorn—her cousin’s even temper tended to dissolve when talk of marriage reached his ears. But Marach’s playful tone seemed to keep him mollified, for he only chuckled and rested his elbows on the table, his eyes mirthful when he met the captain’s. “You’re one to talk, Marach. Seems you ought to be searching for a wife yourself, at your age.”

Nethril felt Ivorwen stiffen beside her, and Adanel’s eyes narrowed in disapproval, but the other captains chortled, a few chorusing in to dig in at Marach. The moment passed, and the council moved on to the business of trade and reorganizing the southern patrols. She made quiet notes in a ledger on her lap, to be entered later into the Chieftain’s rolls. No one had kept records of the councils before her, but Aragorn found it useful when debates among the captains cropped up throughout the year.

Finally, stone cracked against the wooden table, and Nethril breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The council always made her tense, no matter the circumstances, and this year it came on the heels of an ever-darkening season. Three men had died at the hands of trolls over the summer, a grief already muted and hollowed out by the time of the harvest frost. It was a miracle no Rangers died in the recent Uruk raids, a victory that raised Aragorn even higher in the esteem of the Dúnedain, but it only reminded Nethril of what they stood to lose in defeat. Aragorn turned to her now, her relief mirrored in his eyes, and she embraced him tightly.

“We stand as ever, cousin,” she murmured in his ear, before she disappeared into the kitchens to help Faelhen.

***
It was tradition for the Chieftain to feed the captains following the council, as a sign of thanks and to dispel any tempers that might have awoken during the meeting. Nethril helped Faelhen bring out heaping bowls of soup and baskets of bread they’d baked earlier that day, and the familiar smell of stewed meat helped her relax somewhat. By the end of the meal she’d almost begun to enjoy herself, and she threaded through the men who stood talking quietly in small groups, laughing between pints of ale and the haze of pipeweed.

She stood now with Findroch, the captain from the river settlements, and tried to keep the longing out of her voice when she spoke. “Halbarad is well?”

“Your brother sends his fondest wishes,” he said gently. “As does his wife. Poor man wanted to come in my stead, but I needed him in the field. He didn’t argue it, much as I know he wished to.”

“No, he wouldn’t have,” Nethril said with a sigh. A small group of Rangers and their families had left the Angle to establish a small outpost just south of Tharbad three years before, to better organize and deploy men patrolling the Greenway. It was another of Aragorn’s accomplishments, yet Nethril’s pride at its success was tempered by the absence of loved ones who dwelt there: her brother, Halbarad, his wife Mellaer, and Isilmë, though they had not parted as lovers. It did not stop her from missing all three of them, from wishing, somehow, that their duty did not so often…

She sighed. It was too easy for her to fall into melancholy, these days. In the spring, perhaps, she could make a visit to her family in place of Aragorn and save him the trouble.

A firm hand grasped her by the elbow, and she turned to see Adanel at her shoulder, the lady’s circlet glinting in the candlelight. “Your pardon, Captain. Nethril, may I see you for a moment?”

“Of course.” Nethril looked at Adanel in confusion, but the older woman only shook her head and steered Nethril toward the map room, off the corner of the main hall. Nethril stood by to allow Adanel to pass through the door, and Nethril followed her to see that Ivorwen and Dírhael both stood behind the room’s table, the great map of Middle-earth spread below them. Adanel took a seat between them both, and Nethril’s heart beat a little faster when she shut the door behind her.

“Nana, Ada.” She nodded at her grandparents in turn. “Is everything all right?”

“It most certainly is not.” Adanel said in a clipped tone. “This has gone on long enough.”

Nethril’s stomach sank. “What has?”

Dírhael gave her a look somewhere between amusement and pity. “Your cousin’s bachelordom, my dear. Aragorn cannot keep denying the council.”

“Ah.” This was not the first time Nethril found herself ambushed by the three of them, and she doubted it would be the last. As before, she found it best to say little until she had a full grasp of the matter.

Adanel shook her head. “He comes of age next spring. He no longer has the excuse of youth, as if that ever held water. Gilraen herself wed when she was not yet twenty-two, and in times less desperate than this.”

“Adanel—“ Ivorwen’s eyes flashed briefly at the mention of Gilraen.

“I am sorry, Ivorwen, but I am tired of watching my grandson risk his neck without thought to what it would mean, should the line end with him. He does not have to have a child immediately. But there should have been a betrothal years ago, at least a promise that—“

“I couldn’t agree more,” Nethril interrupted pointedly. “But I think I’m the wrong person to have this conversation with.”

“Aragorn and I have had this conversation.” Adanel threw her hands up in exasperation. “Many times. If you’ll recall, they usually ended in shouting.”

On whose part? Nethril wondered, but she held her tongue. She knew Dírhael had also continued to doggedly push the matter with Aragorn, and for whatever reason, it always ended in her two most equable relatives snapping at each other in dark corners. The worst was when her Uncle Tarcil had joined the argument on Dírhael’s side at midsummer last year, and the fight was so fierce it reduced the children at the table to tears. As far as Nethril knew, no one had brought it up since, and she’d hoped that meant her elder family members would allow Aragorn to come to the decision in his own time.

Somewhere, beyond the circles of the world, Túrin Turambar was laughing at her.

“You have talk to him,” Adanel urged. “Make him see sense.”

And there it is. Nethril sank into the closest chair and resisted burying her head in her hands. “What makes you think I will have any better luck?”

“He listens to you,” Dírhael said. “He comes to you for counsel, and you’ve yet to steer him wrong. And, Valar willing, you may have some perspective we of the elder generation lack.”

Nethril raised her eyebrows. “You place a great amount of faith in the Valar, Ada Dírhael.”

Her grandfather snorted. “I should hope so. It’s kept us here thus far.”

Adanel knit her hands together atop the table, the tips of her knuckles just brushing Arthedain on the map. “Get him to agree to a betrothal by the spring. I don’t care to whom. The wisest choice would be for the two of you to marry, but…”

The words hit her like a plunge into the Bruinen, and Nethril could not stop the horrified noise that escaped her. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, do not act so scandalized,” Adanel said. “It has been done before. And at this stage, the people almost expect it. You already perform the duties of the Chieftain’s wife…”

Nethril shook her head firmly. There was one particular duty that she had not performed for her cousin, and the thought made her want to crawl out of her own skin. “No.”

“Fine. There are plenty of other young women for him to choose, all of whom would be more than suitable. They have never stopped hoping.”

Nethril groaned, knowing it was pointless to argue with her old mentor. She turned from Adanel back to her grandparents. “You are all agreed on this?”

She locked eyes with Ivorwen, whose expression remained carefully neutral, and pleaded with her silently. Besides Halbarad, Ivorwen was the only other person who knew of Aragorn’s true reasons for remaining unmarried, who knew of the longing that still plagued his heart. What can I say to him? That he must abandon his love, his hope?

But Ivorwen only nodded. “It is time. He will hear it best from you.”

“Best matters little, when it comes to this,” Nethril sighed. Adanel opened her mouth to protest, but Nethril held up a hand before she could speak. “You are right, all of you. I will talk to him. Just give me time.”

****
Nethril held off another week before Adanel’s pointed looks got the best of her. Aragorn carried on as if nothing was amiss, and it was clear he didn’t think anything of Marach’s comments at the council and the quiet storm they’d engendered.

Finally, she awoke early one morning and stole down to the kitchen just before dawn. The fire had gone out in the hearth, and she shivered, wrapping her shawl around her tightly before she prodded the ashes aside. She built the fire back up and set a kettle over the hearth for tea, some warmth returning to her fingertips when she reached into the cupboard for the box that held her mother’s tea leaves.

She settled into her chair at the table and looked around the kitchen, dim light glinting over the pots that hung on hooks over the hearth, so different from the tiny corner of her childhood home where her mother cooked their meals. Nethril had moved into the Chieftain’s house nearly three years before, when it became pointless for her to keep flitting back and forth between her mother’s house and the business of advising her cousin. When Aragorn was out in the Wild she kept the household running, with the occasional aid of Adanel and her young maid Faelhen, who had helped Adanel in the days before Aragorn’s return. “A house of hens,” Adanel once sardonically proclaimed, but Nethril had long grown used to their arrangement, even took comfort in it. With the coming of a new bride, she supposed, her own duties would scale back significantly.

“You’re up early,” a voice said behind her, and she turned to see Aragorn standing at the bottom of the hidden stair that led from the kitchens directly to the Chieftain’s bedroom. She smiled at him and held out the box of tea leaves.

“I couldn’t sleep. Would you like some?”

“Please,” Aragorn said, and took two cups off the shelf. Nethril removed the kettle from the hearth and poured the hot water into the cups, the bitter, aromatic smell of her mother’s tea blend a welcome familiarity. She wrapped her hands around the warm cup and sat back down at the table, watching Aragorn carefully. He held the tea close to his face and inhaled, the steam dampening his whiskers.

“This is what I miss, when I’m on the road,” he said. “No one’s tea is finer than Aunt Finnael’s.”

“You should tell her yourself,” she said.

“I have, often. But I will say it again before I leave. She does not hear it enough.”

She sighed. Her little cousin would make a fine husband to any of the young women in the Angle—if only he would look at them. She did not even know how to begin the conversation, not without bluntness that would set him on edge immediately.

“You’re leaving?” was all she asked.

“I’m going to return to the eastern patrol in two days. We still do not know where these orcs are coming from, and I want to try and rout them before the heavy snows come. With luck, I’ll return in time for Mettarë.”

Nethril nodded and gripped her mug tighter. Her heart rose in her throat, as it always did before confrontation, and she cast bitter thoughts in the direction of Adanel and her grandparents. There would be no other time to have this conversation.

“Aragorn, may I ask you something?”

He looked at her with mild surprise. “Of course.”

She steeled herself. “Have you thought any more, about marriage?”

Silence greeted her. She stared down at the table, unwilling to meet her cousin’s eyes, fixated instead on the grain lines in the wood.

“I have tried not to.” His tone was deceptively light. “Why—you’re not proposing, are you?”

“Of course not.” She forced herself to meet his gaze, which had gone slack and neutral. “But you cannot put it off forever, much as we may wish.”

“Our grandparents put you up to this.”

She flushed and resisted looking back down at her cup. “Perhaps they did. But they are right, Aragorn. The people spent eighteen years without an heir, thinking the line had ended with your father’s death. They deserve the promise of an heir, that the line will not end should you fall in battle.”

“I have no intention of falling in battle.” Aragorn’s mouth quirked up in a faint smile. “And those eighteen years were not my doing. Is it not enough that I am here now?”

She chose her next words carefully. “If we were to cast off every burden placed upon us by our elders, we would not be here at all. Sometimes we must sacrifice for our duty.”

At this, his face darkened. “I have sacrificed plenty in the name of duty. This, I will not give.”

“Aragorn…”

“Nethril, you know why I put off this subject, why I hold the matter close. I told you because I trusted you to understand.”

Her patience finally left her. “Oh for pity’s sake, cousin, it’s been four years! Four years since you left Rivendell with a broken heart. Has it truly not healed?”

Aragorn let out a low growl and sprung from his chair, pacing back and forth across the table. “What I would not give for it to heal, Nethril. You think I wish this love? To her? Ah… if you were to view her, in all her beauty, you would understand.”

“Elbereth, I know the beauty of the Elves.” She remembered well her infatuation with Merineth, the lady archivist from Rivendell who had visited the Angle a decade before. “But she is Elrond’s daughter. Even if she felt the same way as you, it would never happen. You are not Beren, Aragorn. Have you not had enough time to consider this?”

“Time enough, and my answer has not changed,” he snapped. “And I will not hear any lectures from you, cousin, not when your heart guides your choices as much as mine.”

She froze at his words. “What are you talking about?”

He let out a bitter laugh and gestured out the window. “How is your love for Isilmë any different than mine for Arwen? When it is not spoken of, when it keeps you from marriage?”

She was on her feet before she was fully aware of it. “I left Isilmë a long time ago. I left her because of all this. Because we have a commitment to something larger than ourselves.”

“You left her, but have you married? Have you accepted the courtship of any man? Look me in the eye, Nethril, and tell me you do not still love her.”

Her hands had begun to tremble, and Nethril clenched them tightly into fists. They had always been on borrowed time, her and Isilmë, but her cousin’s return to the Angle had driven it home in ways neither had expected. If, Valar forbid, some misfortune came upon Aragorn before marrying, the line would fall to Halbarad, then her, though the blood of Elendil ran thin in their veins. So they’d made the decision mutually, to end their relationship, and Isilmë left for the river settlements not long after. It made the parting easier to bear, in some ways, for Nethril did not have to see her face every time she stopped at the blacksmith, and be reminded of what she’d lost.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she dug her nails deeper into her palms, glaring fiercely at Aragorn. She would not be so cruel as to blame him for her own choices, not when so many factors led to the decision. And he was right—no man of the Angle had even come close to courting her, though she could not say if it was that they expected her to take on the mantle of Chieftain’s wife in fact as well as name, as Adanel said, or if she had somehow subconsciously held them off. Despite her declaration that she must marry and hold up her charge as a woman of the Dúnedain, the prospect was still so remote, so foreign to her that she could not even imagine the reality.

“It’s different,” she finally said. “It’s different, and you know it.”

It was a flimsy response, but she could not say anything else. Aragorn pressed on, relentless. “The only difference is that you are not Elendil’s heir, and you know better than to throw that in my face. Do not tell me, too, that I must sacrifice my heart for our people. Not until you are willing to do the same.”

Nethril had to suppress a sudden, violent urge to take her teacup and throw it at her cousin. “Fine. Hang us all on your own stubborn head. At least I can tell Adanel I tried.”

She turned on her heel and stalked out the kitchen before he could say anything else. Her throat closed up, and she paused in the hall, holding her mouth in her hand to suppress a sudden sob from escaping her. How cruel it was, that the person who could comfort her best was leagues away, because of duty. That they had each given up something her family could never understand.

***
Nethril spent the rest of the day shut up in the map room, studiously avoiding Aragorn and Adanel. Faelhen poked her head in to say that Ivorwen had come by, but Nethril turned her away; she did not trust herself to speak without causing more hurt. She was furious with her grandparents and Adanel for calling on her to interfere, when it came with no resolution and her own, long-buried pain now dragged to the surface. Aragorn vacated the house, busying himself in preparation for his departure, and she would not be sorry to see the back of him.

The next day was much of the same, and she finally left the house to pace through the Angle, avoiding eye contact with anyone she met. The sun started to go down when Dírhael found her at the shore of the Hoarwell, attempting to skip rocks along the surface. It was not yet cold enough for the river to freeze, but her breath escaped her in short clouds when she flung her right arm forward. It was a child’s game, the rocks, one she had never quite mastered, the stones plunging into the water on first contact. But it was a safe space for her to vent her frustrations—when Aragorn left, she could return to the practice fields.

“You should settle things with him, before he leaves,” Dírhael said gently. “Neither of you wish to part on bad terms.”

Nethril snorted. “Don’t tell me you’ve never left the Angle with a quarrel unresolved.”

“I try not to. And I’ve always regretted it, those few times I did.”

“Talk to him, then. I’ve done enough reaching out on your behalf.”

The words were harsher than she’d meant, but she could not bring herself to take them back. Her grandfather stood beside her in silence, his steady, powerful presence one that had brought her comfort so many times as a child. The sun cast a muted, orange glow upon the water, almost too bright for her eyes, and she turned to face Dírhael, tired sorrow etched between the lines of his face.

“None of us would have asked you to leave Isilmë,” he said at last. “Not a one.”

Nethril sighed and sank to the ground, her cloak absorbing the dampness of the cold soil. “You would not have asked, no. But it was expected all the same. And why shouldn’t it be? We dwindle each year. Men fall in battle; women and children lost to illness and worse. Why should I indulge my love, when…” she could not finish her sentence.

Dírhael sat beside her. “We are fortunate, those few of us whose love and duty are the same. When Arathorn first came to me and asked Gilraen’s hand in marriage, I refused, because I did not think she loved him, and I did not want the burden of the Chieftain’s wife for my daughter, so young and innocent. It was your grandmother who convinced me, with her foresight, who said through them, hope may be reborn for our people. And so it was.” He gestured back up toward the Chieftain’s house. “There is no greater hope for us than Aragorn. But it came at a cost. I have not thought enough about what other costs I am asking of my family.”

“Nothing more than what we are willing to give,” Nethril said softly.

Dírhael reached out to take her face in his rough, weathered hand, and tilted it towards his own. His eyes were bright. “I do not want you to pay that price, child. Not when you have already given so much.”

Nethril fought to keep her own eyes from filling with tears, and she embraced her grandfather.

“It is too late, now,” she murmured. “She is far away.”

“She may not be always.” Dírhael kissed her gently on top of her head. “And you are both still young. Plenty of time for you to lead with your heart.”

“And Aragorn?”

Dírhael snorted. “I do not pretend to know that young man’s mind. Perhaps he has his own love he is just not telling me.” Nethril went very still. “But maybe it is time we remembered that Estel means ‘trust,’ as well. And that hope does not always take the form we think.”

“Tell that to Adanel,” Nethril said wryly.

Dírhael laughed. “Leave Adanel to me. Twenty-odd years have taught me to weather her storms. And she could stand to be reminded of when she was young, and had loves of her own.”

***
She found Aragorn early the next morning in the stables, standing before his horse Maebrôg. He ran a loving hand down her velvety nose, murmuring softly in Sindarin, when Nethril approached from behind to touch his shoulder. He turned, his expression instantly changing to one of discomfort, though it softened when Nethril held up her hands in a gesture of peace.

“I’m sorry,” they both said at once, and she laughed. “I should know better than to pick fights before breakfast.”

“You were only doing what was asked of you,” Aragorn said. “And I should not have brought up Isilmë. That was unfair.”

“Well, it may have done you some good, in the long run. Ada Dírhael likes her.” Nethril’s mouth quirked upward in a smile. “He says he will talk to Adanel about leaving the decision to you.”

Aragorn blinked in surprise. “That would be a pleasant outcome. Still, I cannot say I’m sorry to leave while the dust settles.”

“No, I think it is good. Doubly so if we can put an end to those cursed Orcs.”

“I will send word when I reach Eregion. And I…I may come home by way of the river. Make sure all is well there.”

The old longing stole over Nethril once more, but she masked it with another smile and embrace for her cousin. “Do that. Just promise to be home before the heavy snows.”

“Of course.” Aragorn kissed her on both cheeks before he shouldered his pack and mounted his horse. She stood back and allowed him to pass, and she leaned against the stable post to watch him go.

“Aragorn!” she called out.

He stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“If you see Isilmë…” she paused. “Tell her I send my best.”

“I will. Gladly.”

She followed him to the gate and watched until he faded out into the horizon, and she hugged herself tightly against the cold. She had said herself, once, that love among her people was never as satisfying as the great tales of old. But perhaps in time, they could carve out enough to quiet their hearts.