~Prologue: A River Introduces Itself~

Good day to you, lonely wanderer. You have been walking along my shores all morning, why don’t you sit down and rest for a little while? I know of a nice, quiet place where you can sit very comfortably. Yes, right over there, under the lee of those willows. The grass is soft there. How I know that? I have been told so, by other wanderers like you. That’s good, make yourself comfortable. No, I don’t mind if you eat something, not at all. As long as you don’t leave litter behind.

What? Does it surprise you that I can talk to you? I understand your amazement, but why wouldn’t a river be able to speak? After all, I am a living being, just like you. I am always in motion, I have seen many things… I talk to any living creature, be it horse, bird, or tree. And sometimes I have a little chat with a two-legged being like yourself, but only if I so desire. If I had to converse with every single one of your chatty folk, I would definitely go crazy.

Enjoy your meal by the way. Well? Didn’t I point out the perfect picnic spot to you? And isn’t it good to feel the sunshine play on your face? My point exactly.

I am called Anduin, as you probably know. My roots lie in the north, and I flow into the Sea, further to the south. Tell me something about yourself; judging by your earthly good looks, you must be one of the human folk. Strange that I have never seen you before. Oh, you live far beyond my shores? That explains a lot. You are visiting your family in Caras Gwedeir, the capital city of Ithilien? Ah, yes, I know them a little; very friendly people.

I have known many Men during my long existence, from all layers of society. From carpenters to kings. One of the most remarkable Men I ever knew was Aragorn, son of Arathorn. During his long life, he was a healer as well as a warrior, an outcast as well as a king. He was King Elessar of Arnor and Gondor for many, many years. Ah, you have heard his name? Good, good… Shall I tell you a tale about him?

Hmm, many tales can be told about this Man, but I think I know of one just perfect for this beautiful day. It was in the month of May that Aragorn first came to Ithilien as king. Fifteen years before, he had fought in the War of the Ring and played a major part in the fall of Sauron. You have heard about the Quest of the Ring, and the Fellowship of which Aragorn was part? Good; that simplifies things. But I’ll wager you didn’t know that Aragorn, in addition to his bravery on the battlefield and his wisdom as a ruler, also had a great ability to care, and love. His affection he gave generously to many; his love, to few.

Does it surprise you that I know all this? Ah, but you should know that I hear and see much of what happens on my banks. I see people, I hear them talk… I can even see into their heart and soul But only if I choose to; if I had to see what goes on in people’s hearts all the time, I would cry so many tears that I would flood all of Middle-earth within hours.

Aragorn met his Queen, Lady Arwen daughter of Elrond, at a young age. He was devoted to her from the moment they met, and he knew that she was the woman he would one day marry. But life turned out to be less simple for him. He had to take responsibility, he had to fulfil the task fate had given him. So he rode off from Imladris to face his destiny, and in the process of doing so, found out that his heart had even more love to give. He had not thought it possible to love another and he did not choose to, but this was something his heart decided for him. It caused him much sorrow and many sleepless hours, even long after the ending of the War. He married Arwen in the end, as he’d always known, and was crowned king; and still, one part of his heart never beat for Arwen. He ignored it; but then one day, years later, something stirred up some long-forgotten emotions within him, and he finally listened to the voice of his heart.

Hah, I see I have your full attention now. Curious? Shall I tell you what happened in that beautiful month of May many years ago, when Aragorn came to Ithilien? Very well, how shall I begin? I think we will have to go a little further back in time, to a day in February that same year, fifteen years after the War of the Ring. That day started out as a normal, average day in the life of a king. The sky over Minas Tirith was overcast, and Aragorn faced another day of ruling his kingdom, not knowing yet that fate had some changes in store for him, and that one of his staff members was the one to set it all in motion by giving the king’s son homework.

Lie back in the grass and listen to my tale…

~Part One: Poems, Prayers And Promises~

Minas Tirith, February 11th, F.A. 13.

Aragorn:

Aragorn folded the piece of paper in his hands, put it on his desk in front of him and leaned back in his chair, pondering the content of the letter he’d just finished reading, written in the strong hand of King Éomer.

“Rohan continues to thrive, Elessar,” Éomer wrote him. “Numerous flocks of sheep crowd our meadows, our farmers predict a good harvest and our horses are more beautiful than ever. I foresee blooming trade between our kingdoms this year.”

Yes, these were happy tidings. Aragorn was pleased. The letter ended with a personal note, for in addition to fellow rulers, Aragorn and Éomer were also good friends. “Give my warm regards to your lovely Queen and to the young prince. I hope to receive a letter from you soon, filled with equally good news concerning your beautiful kingdom.”

Aragorn put the letter on the pile of paper next to him. Yes, he would write a response and he would do it today, as soon as he had dealt with more urgent matters. He reached for the ink jar and took the long quill between his fingers. He then pulled some papers to him, agreements and contracts that needed to be read and signed.

As he was reading, there was a soft knock on the door. Aragorn smiled; he was king now, but his former life as a Ranger had sharpened his senses, and that alertness could not be switched off. He had recognized his son’s light footfalls.

“Come in.”

In walked Eldarion, his and Arwen’s young son. “Hello, Papa.”

“Hello, son. Aren’t you supposed to have your recital lesson right now?”

“Yes,” the boy replied. Then, seeing his father’s frown, he quickly added, “But Master Odin gave me permission to leave and use the rest of the hour to do my homework.”

“Ah.” Aragorn let the quill slide back into the jar, folded his hands and eyed his son affectionately. “And what brings you to my study, then?”

Eldarion looked around him, his eyes scanning the book-cases covering almost every meter of the walls. “Master Odin mentioned a collection of elvish poems and songs. I must learn one poem by heart for the next lesson, tomorrow. I hoped to find that particular book in your extensive collection.”

“Poetry, eh?” Aragorn turned in his chair and studied his impressive book collection. He then pointed out one of the book-cases towering against the southern wall of the room. “Try it there; most of the poetry sits on the two bottom shelves.”

Eldarion seated himself in front of the book-case, cross-legged on the floor. For a while, he just studied the backs, most of them engraved with gold letters. He then carefully took one book and began turning over the pages. Aragorn, after having watched his son’s profile for a while, continued reading; for a while, nothing could be heard but the rustling of paper.

Finally, Eldarion broke the silence. “I think I found it.”

Aragorn looked up to see his son holding one particularly volumous book in his hands. “That is the book Master Odin was talking about?”

“I think so.” Eldarion turned the pages one by one.

Aragorn shoved his chair back and patted his thighs. “Come here,” he said.

Eldarion looked at him doubtfully. “But, Papa, aren’t I too old now to sit on your lap?”

Aragorn chuckled. “Not as long as you don’t have hair growing on your face. Come, do your old man a favour.”

Eldarion came and sat on Aragorn’s lap. Aragorn held the book for him, for it was heavy, and let Eldarion turn the pages. Being the son of a Man and an elven woman, Eldarion had learned both the Common Tongue and Sindarin, and so he had no difficulty reading the words; but to understand them, that was another matter. The poems were written in an old form of Sindarin and Aragorn saw several words which had fallen into disuse.

“Look, Papa.” Eldarion pointed out one of the poems. “This one seems familiar.”

“Ah, yes. The Fall of Gil-Galad,” Aragorn said, as he traced the words with a finger. He began to sing it softly, and Eldarion soon joined him, hesitantly, his high voice mingling with his father’s low-timbered one. This is what they sang, the opening verses of the ancient lay:

“O Gil-galad i Edhelchír

dim linnar i thelegain:

Im Belegaer a Hithaeglir

Aran ardh vethed vain a lain.

Gariel maegech Gil-galad,

Thôl palan-gennen, ann-vegil;

A giliath arnoediad

Tann thann dîn be genedril.

Dan io-anann os si gwannant

A mas, ú-bedir ithronath;

An gîl dîn na-dúath di-dhant,

vi Mordor, ennas caeda gwath.”

The song ended. “It’s quite difficult,” Eldarion said.

“An old friend of mine once made a beautiful translation,” Aragorn said. “I believe it was like this…” Aragorn then sang again, the same melody, but this time in the Common Tongue.

“Gil-galad was an Elven-king

Of him the harpers sadly sing:

the last whose realm was fair and free

between the Mountains and the Sea.

His sword was long, his lance was keen,

his shining helm afar was seen;

the countless stars of heaven’s field

were mirrored in his silver shield.

But long ago he rode away

and where he dwelleth none can say;

for into darkness fell his star

in Mordor where the shadows are.”

He smiled to himself, his heart warmed by the memory of hearing old Bilbo’s translation for the first time, long ago. He had heard it being sung by Sam Gamgee, as he was camping with the Hobbits on their journey to Rivendell. He had been Strider back then.

Together they continued turning the pages of the book, occasionally lingering on a page to read another poem. Then a knock on the door again.

“Come in.”

The door opened and one of the king’s guards stepped in. He saluted, then said: “Sire, a messenger has arrived from Ithilien. He wishes to speak with you.”

“Let him come in,” Aragorn said. He then turned to his son. “Eldarion,” he said, “I have a visitor. You must leave now, but here, you can take the book with you to your room. But be careful with it.”

“Thanks, Papa.” Eldarion pushed himself off Aragorn’s lap and left with the book under his arm. Aragorn leaned back in his chair and smiled. The song-singing with his son had filled him with melancholy. So many memories.. some sweet, others bitter. A quick frown crossed Aragorn’s face, but he slowly shook his head and rose from his seat to greet the Ithilien messenger as he entered, a strange, tired-looking Elf. Aragorn felt a quick flash of disappointment. Fool, he thought to himself, did you really think that he would show up here all of a sudden? You know better…

“Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” the Elf said, bowing. “May the Valar watch over you and your family.”

“And over yours,” Aragorn replied with a smile. “Welcome.”

“My name is Calan,” the Elf said. “I have come from Ithilien with tidings. As you know, our city, Caras Gwedeir, is flourishing and the Council of Men and Elves has decreed that a grand festival will be held this spring to celebrate this fact. Messengers have been sent out to invite our friends from all over Middle-earth to join in the celebration. The Council has made it very clear that the festival won’t be complete without a party from Minas Tirith, with which our city has such close relations.”

“I see.” Aragorn thoughtfully rubbed his chin. “A lovely idea. I have witnessed Ithilien’s prosperity over the past years with great satisfaction, and this will indeed be a great opportunity to renew all political bonds, which are so important in these times of rebuilding.” He was silent for a moment, then asked: “You did not bring a letter with you?”

“No, sire.”

Aragorn bit away the disappointment. He then asked, “Must you turn back immediately? Before I can tell you how big a delegation I will send to attend the festival, I need to make some inquiries.”

“No, sire; I must leave the day after tomorrow at the latest.”

“Very well. I will consider and let you know about the size and composition of the delegation from Minas Tirith tomorrow evening. In the meantime, have a good rest after your journey; I will make sure a room is prepared for you.”

Calan bowed.

Eldarion:

Eldarion kicked the door of his room shut behind him and dropped onto his bed. He lay the book on his lap and opened it, fanning through the pages in search of the poem he had been reading when the guard had come in. As he did so, suddenly a small amount of loose, different-looking papers slid from between two pages and whirled to the floor. Eldarion put the book aside, pushed himself off the bed and kneeled on the floor to collect the papers. They had obviously been hidden in the book for quite some time, for they were yellowed.

Curious, Eldarion quickly went through the papers; most were filled with his father’s handwriting, just political notes Eldarion did not understand. He unfolded the last paper.

This one was different. Still his father’s handwriting, but a poem this time. It was in Sindarin, but less dated and better understandable than most of the poems in the book. Eldarion turned the paper around, but nothing explained the origin of the poem; it didn’t even have a title. Just those twelve verses.

Eldarion started to read it attentively, mouthing the words as he did so; he did not understand all the nuances, but he understood quite well what it expressed. For some reason, he found it both beautiful and sad. After he had finished reading, he sat thinking for a moment. Perhaps Master Odin would give him permission to learn this one for tomorrow.

Eldarion collected all the other papers and put them back in the book. The paper with the mysterious poem he lay on top of it. He wanted to stand, but then something caught his eye. Another piece of paper had slipped beneath his bed. He reached for it; it felt different, less solid. He pulled it out from under the bed.

“Oh,” he said unconsciously. It was not a piece of paper. It was a leaf, a dried leaf of a shape that was unfamiliar to Eldarion. He carefully turned it around, admiring the fine web of nerves. Being Arwen’s son, he had been taught to respect nature, and to see and appreciate its beauty; this leaf intrigued him. It was obviously foreign, and very old. His father would probably know where it came from; but that could wait. Eldarion put the leaf in the book, closed it and took the piece of paper lying on top. He then ran out of his room, to find his teacher.

Arwen:

Something was bothering her husband. She could tell by the way his shoulders slumped, the way he stared out the window absent-mindedly, the way he listened to her words without really registering their meaning. She’d seen him like that before and she knew that something was troubling him. She could not put her finger on it, but she guessed it had something to do with that messenger from Ithilien.

He came late to bed that night. Arwen heard him move softly in the room, not wanting to disturb her; finally, he slipped between the sheets. Arwen wondered what would happen next. Would she have to drag it out of him, or would he share his problem with her of his own free will?

A warm, masculine hand slid around her waist. “Arwen.”

She peered back over her shoulder and smiled at him. “My love.”

He leaned in to her and kissed her neck. “I’m still not sure who I will send to Ithilien,” he murmured against her skin. “Of my ministers, both Torlin and Borlag are willing to go, but I can’t miss both of them. I’ll have to make the decision for them.”

This puzzled Arwen. “I assumed you would go yourself,” she said, frowning.

Aragorn stilled for the slightest of seconds before brushing some of her hair away and kissing her temple. “I don’t think I will. Nothing the messenger said indicated that my presence is desired. No, I will send a delegation and remain here; I have business to attend to.”

“Business so urgent that it can’t wait for a week?”

“My desk is filled with inventories, trade agreements, contracts… And more come every day. It’s a hectic time, not a good moment to go off and party.”

Arwen slightly turned to face him. “Honey… you have been working day and night during the past months. Why don’t you hand over some tasks to the Council and allow yourself to relax a little?”

“I have made up my mind, Arwen.” He said it kindly, but with determination. “I’d almost think you want me to be away for a while.” She heard the smile in his voice. “You’re not hiding something from me, are you, my wife?” His hand found her thigh and moved upwards beneath her night gown.

“I am not,” she sighed. Aragorn kissed her, gently at first, then more passionately. He parted her thighs with one hand and settled between them, not breaking the kiss. As he stretched himself on top of her, she could feel his need. She wrapped her arms around his neck and lifted her hips encouragingly when he sought to remove her gown. She smiled; she knew what he was doing, he was using sex to distract her from the conversation. He’d done it before. She was not done with him yet, but, she decided as he continued to kiss her passionately, she was willing to drop the subject for now.

Later, as he was lying with his head on her chest, she decided to restart the discussion. “You never told me what happened between you and Legolas,” she said, stroking his hair.

He was silent for a moment. “What makes you think something happened?” he finally asked.

“You were close friends when you set out from Imladris with the others of the Fellowship,” she said. “But when you returned, your friendship had cooled down. You haven’t seen him in years, even though he lives not far from here. And now the perfect opportunity comes along, and still you refuse to go. I wonder why.”

“Nothing serious happened.” He sounded even. “A disagreement, that’s all. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Elessar, it’s been fifteen years. Don’t you think it’s time to put the past behind you?”

“Arwen, I said I didn’t want to talk about it.” He sounded downright irritated now. “I’ll remain here, end of story.”

Arwen sighed. Since long she’d had her suspicions about the alienation between her husband and the prince of Mirkwood. She was saddened by the cooling-down of a friendship that once had been so strong, and even more by the fact that it seemed to stand between her and Elessar. Sometimes he would close up, lock her out; he would get a sad, distant look in his eyes and Arwen suspected he was thinking about Legolas at those moments.

If only Elessar would admit to himself that he should not remain idle! One simple gesture, one word, could be enough to renew the friendship and clear the sky. She closed her eyes, inwardly praying for something that would convince her husband to do something.

“Elessar,” she tried one final time, “I don’t like it when you shut me out like this. You know you can tell me anything.”

He looked up and touched her cheek. “I am sorry, Arwen,” he sighed, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But this is something between me and Legolas. I am not yet ready to resolve the misunderstanding separating us.”

“When will you be?”

But Aragorn did not reply. He remained silent until he fell asleep in Arwen’s arms. She held him and stared long into the darkness, until at last, sleep came for her, too.

Minas Tirith, February 12th, F.A. 13.

Aragorn:

The following day, Aragorn retreated to his study after lunch. He started making a list with the names of those who would go to Caras Gwedeir. He had decided that Borlag would go, and that Torlin would remain in Minas Tirith. With his minister would go several other officials, and some minstrels, who would brighten the festivities with song and story. Borlag had suggested that his daughter would go, too, for she was gifted with a beautiful voice and would be a great addition to the male minstrels. Aragorn had given permission.

Aragorn went over the list, counting the names. Yes, a nice assembly to represent Minas Tirith. He put down his quill and rubbed his hands over his face tiredly. The words Arwen had spoken the night before still lingered in his mind. He felt terrible about being dishonest to her, but what else could he do? What had happened between him and Legolas was known only by the two of them, and it should stay that way.

He called his secretary to him, a young, enthusiastic man in his early twenties with blond, shoulder-long hair and a fashionable goatee. Rulof was his name. “A letter to the Council of Men and Elves of Caras Gwedeir,” Aragorn announced, “to accept the invitation for the festival.” He paced the room, dictating, while his secretary wrote it all down.

“… thankful for the kind invitation. I have selected a fine group to represent Minas Tirith, consisting of the following people: High Minister Borlag…” Aragorn gave all the names and Rulof wrote them down feverishly. “They will set out from Minas Tirith on the 7th of May,” Aragorn continued, “and arrive in Caras Gwedeir approximately two days later.” He paused, then added, “I would once more like to voice my appreciation for Ithilien’s prosperity and the support Caras Gwedeir has given Minas Tirith in the past few years, and my hope that this gathering of souls will result in even closer bonds between the different realms and people of Middle-earth.”

Aragorn paused for a long time. The secretary waited patiently, assuming that the king would continue dictating, but when Aragorn finally looked up, he only said, “With warm regards, yours sincerely, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, Elessar King of Arnor and Gondor, etcetera.” He briefly drew his hand over his eyes. “Finish it up, seal it with the royal seal and put it on my desk.”

The secretary bowed. “Yes, sire.”

“Next, I want you to make an inventory of the goods that will go with our delegation. I want a horse for every individual and two carts for everything: musical instruments, provision, gifts for the Elves, tradegoods. And I want that inventory by noon tomorrow.”

“Yes, sire.”

At that point, a knock on the door. Arwen.

“Yes?”

Arwen opened the door and smiled at Rulof, then at her husband. “Sorry to disturb, my love, but do you have a moment?”

“It depends,” he said. “What for?”

“Our son has learned a poem for his recital lesson and he made it very clear to me that he would like us to be there as he recites it.” She smiled.

“Ah.” Aragorn smiled too. “Yes, I remember. Very well, let us go together.”

As they walked down the hallway, Aragorn glanced at his wife beside him and felt remorse wash through him. He loved her, the mother of his child; how he wished he could be completely open with her. As they walked on, he took her hand in his own and brought it to his lips for a quick kiss. She looked at him in surprise and smiled.

Together they entered the room where Eldarion had his lessons, and found that their son, in his youthful enthusiasm, had gathered an impressive audience of court officials and some of his other teachers. He smiled delightedly when he saw his parents.

“Ah, the Lord and Lady are here also,” Master Odin said with a smile. “Good. Let’s begin then.” He placed a hand on Eldarion’s shoulder and began, “When I gave Eldarion the task of learning a Sindarin poem by heart, I was quite unprepared for the enthusiasm with which he dedicated himself to this I had recommended a particular collection of poems to him, but initially he meant to recite a poem he found elsewhere. I forbid this, but then he offered to recite two poems, one from the book and the one he’d found himself.” He smiled. “This I could not deny him, of course.” He let go of Eldarion’s shoulder, stepped aside and gestured for him to begin. “Go ahead.”

Eldarion began. To Aragorn’s surprise, his son had chosen to recite The Fall of Gil-Galad, the verses he’d sung with him the day before plus a great deal more. It was a long and difficult poem but the boy did remarkably well, and when he had finished, all applauded. Even though most of them did not speak Sindarin, they knew what the poem was about, for it was well-known, even among the Men of Minas Tirith. Arwen gave her husband a meaningful glance, beaming pride. Aragorn smiled at her.

Eldarion then straightened himself once more and began reciting the second poem, his clear voice ringing out. It was a poem unfamiliar to all in the room, with one exception.

“Na 'Aear, na 'Aear! Mýl 'lain nallol…”

Aragorn’s smile fell from his lips and time seemed to stand still for a moment. It had been many years since he’d last heard those words, but he recognized them instantly. He remembered last hearing them as if it had been only the day before, and he remembered very well that back then, the words had had the same strong effect on him as they did now: a great sadness rose within him. He stood as if frozen as Eldarion continued.

“I sûl ribiel a i falf 'loss reviol.

Na annûn hae, ias Anor dannol.

Cair vith, cair vith, lastal hain canel,

Lamath in-gwaithen i gwennin no nin?

Gwannathon, gwannathon taur i onnant nin;

an midui orath vín a dennin inath vín.

Trevedithon 'aear land erui ciriel.

Falvath enainn bo Mathedfalas dannol,

Lamath vilui vi Tol Gwannen cannen,

Vi Tol Ereb, ned Bar-in-Edhil i Edain ú-gennir,

Ias lais ú-dhannar: dôr en-gwaith nín an-uir!”

The poem ended and there was applause again. “Very well done, young Eldarion,” one of the officials said, “a beautiful poem. But pray tell us, what does it mean?”

“Ah, yes,” Master Odin said, “I have been wondering the same thing. I never heard of it before and my command of Sindarin is not sufficient to fully understand the words. But our Queen will be able to share their meaning with us, surely?” All looked at Arwen.

“I have never heard of it, either,” she said. “But I’ll translate it, if you wish. Have you heard of it, Elessar?” She turned to her husband, and saw to her surprise that he looked downright miserable; an expression of pain and grief was on his face. “Elessar? What is wrong?”

Aragorn suddenly became aware of all the eyes resting on him and he did an attempt to pull himself together. Eldarion suddenly said, “Yes, Papa knows it; it’s in his handwriting. Look!” He fished a piece of paper from his pocket and waved it around.

“Indeed,” Aragorn said, managing a smile, “I wrote that down, a long time ago.”

“But you did not make it yourself,” Arwen said. She eyed him sadly, the only one in the room who instinctively understood why the king suddenly looked so sad.

Aragorn dared not look at her. “No. I heard someone sing it many years ago. I wanted to preserve it, so I memorized it and wrote it down. I didn’t know I still had it somewhere. Where did you find it, Eldarion?”

“In the book, Papa,” his son replied. “Together with some other pieces of paper.”

Aragorn held out his hand. “May I see it?”

Eldarion came to him and handed him the piece of paper. Aragorn eyed it and had a hard time controlling his emotions. The words blurred and he blinked a couple of times to clear his vision.

“Well?” Master Odin said, unaware of the effect the piece of paper had on the king, “what is it about, sire?”

Aragorn closed his eyes, trying to remember the exact meaning of the words. Ah, how well he remembered the day Legolas had sung that song! He could still see Legolas going down the hill, singing, heartbreakingly beautiful in the warm light of the ending day. Their relationship had already been troubled back then, on that day shortly after Galadriel’s prophecy had come true. What had her words been? Yes, he remembered them:

“Legolas Greenleaf, long under tree

in joy thou hast lived; beware of the Sea!

If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore

thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more.”

Alas, those words had proved to be only too true; the cry of the gull had stirred the Sea-longing in Legolas, something that lay hidden in every Elf. From that day on, the longing was a part of Legolas life, as fear had become a part of Aragorn’s; fear that Legolas would give in to his heart’s desire and sail over the Sea to the Undying Lands, leaving Aragorn behind. What a selfish thought that was! But Legolas had resisted the call of the Sea until now and had come to live in Ithilien.

“My lord?”

Aragorn opened his eyes. “I believe the translation goes like this:” He cleared his throat and began to sing the melody as he recalled it.

“To the Sea, to the Sea! The white gulls are crying,

The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying.

West, west away, the round sun is falling.

Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling,

The voices of my people that have gone before me?

I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me;

For our days are ending and our years failing.

I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing.

Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling,

Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling,

In Eressea, in Elvenhome that no man can discover,

Where the leaves fall not: land of my people for ever!”

The song ended. Aragorn’s eyes met Arwen’s. She was looking at him sorrowfully, and he knew she understood. She understood whose song it was and what it expressed, for she, too, knew what it was like to hear the Sea call. She had seen her father leave Middle-earth by ship, knowing that she would never follow him.

“That was quite beautiful,” Master Odin said. “I’ve never heard anything so sad.” Others nodded their agreement, and Aragorn stared at the piece of paper in his hand. How could he have forgotten? How could he have forgotten about this song?

“Is my son excused for the rest of the hour?” he asked Master Odin.

“Yes, yes, of course…”

“Eldarion…” Aragorn turned to his son. “Do you still have that book in your room?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“I want to see it.” He looked at Arwen and gently took her hand. “Come with me?” He was not going to hide anything from her anymore. She instinctively must have guessed half of it anyway. She nodded.

In Eldarion’s room, the boy took the book from his own little book-case and handed it to his father. Aragorn opened it and immediately saw the leaf on top of the other pieces of paper. The sight of it struck a deep chord inside him, and he carefully picked it up. His vision blurred once again as he recognized the shape, the fine turn of nerves. Yes, he had forgotten about this leaf too. How could he have?

“I meant to ask you what it was, Papa,” Eldarion said, “but I forgot.” When his father did not respond, he turned to look at his mother. She had a strange look in her eyes, too. “What is that, Mama?”

“That is the leaf of a mallorn tree,” she said, looking down at him and stroking his hair. “I haven’t seen such a leaf since I left Lothlórien.”

“Lothlórien,” Eldarion repeated, in awe. He had been told many a bedtime story about that ancient realm of the Elves. He and Arwen both watched Aragorn as he slowly turned the leaf round and round in his hands. Too many memories clung to this object; they all flooded his mind as he stood there.

…keep it safe…

…I will…

…do you promise?…

…yes, I promise…

Resolve suddenly hardened within him. He took a breath and looked up to meet Arwen’s gaze. “I must go to Caras Gwedeir,” he said.

She only nodded. “Yes, you must.”

“Is that really a mallorn leaf, Papa,” Eldarion asked, pulling on his father’s sleeve.

“Yes, son. I brought it from Lothlórien a long time ago.” He ruffled his son’s hair. “Thank you for pointing out a couple of things to your foolish father, Eldarion,” he said.

Eldarion looked at him quizzically, but Aragorn did not explain himself further. He put the leaf and the piece of paper back in the book and took it under his arm. “You won’t need this anymore?” he asked his son, patting the book. Eldarion shook his head. “You did very well today, Eldarion,” Aragorn said with a smile, “I’m proud of you.”

“As am I,” Arwen said.

“Now there are some things that I must see to.” Aragorn kissed his wife quickly. “I will see you later.”

That said, he swept out of the room. On his desk, he guessed, lay a letter that needed to be rewritten. Now where was that Rulof?

~Part Two: Friend Of Mine~

Minas Tirith, February 12th, F.A. 13.

Aragorn:

Aragorn sent a servant to find Rulof and retreated into his study. Not much later, Rulof came.

“Sire,” Rulof said as he stumbled into the room, “I finished that letter you asked for. It’s on your desk.” He pointed.

Aragorn couldn’t suppress a smile at seeing his secretary. The young man was certainly good-looking, but also charming in a disarming, boyish kind of way. This was mainly caused by his youthful eagerness, and, of course, the fact that he was always covered in ink. Rulof couldn’t pick up a quill without getting at least one smear on his hands, arms, clothing, or even his face. Aragorn liked to make fun of him, but in his heart, he was very fond of his devoted secretary.

“Yes,” Aragorn replied, quickly glancing at the letter. “Nicely done, Rulof. But there’s been a change of plans, and the letter will have to be rewritten.”

“Yes, sire!” Rulof immediately produced a piece of paper and a quill. He dipped it in the ink jar and held it over the paper. He waited for Aragorn to begin dictating, then rubbed his nose, leaving behind a black smear as he did so. Aragorn felt the corners of his mouth twitch, but he managed to remain poised and he began dictating again. The beginning of the letter remained the same, but this time, he announced that he would attend the festival, too, as one of the Minas Tirith delegates. He then paused, waited until Rulof finished writing, and then asked: “Have you ever been to Ithilien, Rulof?”

Rulof looked up, surprised. “No, sire. Never seen many Elves, either, unfortunately. Queen Arwen, of course,” he added quickly. “Mighty interesting folk, they are.”

“They sure are,” Aragorn smiled. “If you like, you can add your own name to that list, Rulof.”

“Really, sire?” Rulof sent him a broad, surprised smile. “Can I come too?”

“I would like you to come. Unless you’d rather stay, of course, and help Minister Torlin while I’m away.”

“No, sire!” Rulof said. He then blushed and said, “I mean, uhm, I’d prefer to come with you, thank you, sire.”

“Very well.” Aragorn smiled. “Then add your name. The rest of the letter can remain what it was.”

As Rulof expertly finished the letter and sealed it, Aragorn moved around, organizing things. He flung the old letter in the fireplace, then sat down behind his desk. Soon, Rulof had the new letter ready to be sent with the messenger to Caras Gwedeir.

“Thank you, Rulof,” Aragorn smiled. “You are dismissed, but will you please find Calan, the Ithilien Elf for me and send him to my study?”

“Yes, sire. Good day, sire,” Rulof bowed, and he left.

That evening, Aragorn found Arwen already in their bedchamber. She sat in front of her mirror, brushing her hair. She smiled at him via the mirror. He didn’t smile back, but positioned himself behind her. He gently took the brush and started to silently brush her hair. Neither of them spoke as he thoughtfully watched the long, dark strands slide free. He finally put the brush away, took her gently by her elbows and made her stand.

“Elessar,” she protested with a smile as he made her turn around to face him, “I am not done yet. I must braid my hair for the night or it will be a mess in the morning.”

He lightly cupped her face with both hands. “You had your hair like this when I first saw you,” he murmured. Judging by the glimmer in her eyes, this remark took her by surprise. “I love you, Arwen,” he said, his thumbs caressing the skin of her cheekbones. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” Arwen smiled; it had been a while since he’d spoken such words and only now she fully realized how much she’d missed it.

“Never forget that, Arwen,” he continued, “know that I love you.”

“I know,” she said, brushing a strand of his hair behind his ear. “I also know that one little part of your heart will never be mine.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she quickly sealed his lips. “It’s all right, my love; deep in my heart, I’ve always known. I have accepted it. I am content with the part of your heart you have given me.”

Aragorn was silent for a moment. Then, he said softly, “I wish I could give you all of it. I am so sorry, Arwen…”

“Do not be. Love is a complex thing; Elves are aware of that more than any other race on Middle-earth. I won’t say that I wouldn’t rather have all your love, but this is the situation as it is and it cannot be changed. I am reconciled to it, as long as you’re honest with me, and don’t hide anything from me.”

“I won’t. Not anymore.” Aragorn took her hands and brought them to his lips. “I have done you wrong. Forgive me.” He then kissed her on the lips, a gentle kiss that soon grew more passionate. Later, Aragorn found himself lying on his back, dazedly admiring how her satinlike hair cascaded down her shoulders and chest as she straddled him. He’d always loved her hair. He realized he’d been twice a fool in the past few years; he loved his wife, but in his effort to deny his love for another, he’d done both of them wrong. But no more. It was time to give them both what they deserved.

Caras Gwedeir, March 22nd, F.A. 13.

Haldir:

Haldir’s heart sang as he rode his horse in full gallop over the gentle slopes of South Ithilien. It was only March, but he was far to the south and his long-sleeved tunic and woollen jerkin were quite sufficient. The wind against his face brought the scent of young grass and salt. The supple muscles of his horse’s flanks moved rhythmically beneath his legs. Haldir was riding bareback, his bag with belongings slung over the horse’s shoulders and secured about its neck with a soft rope. With one hand, Haldir was holding a fistful of the horse’s mane; his other hand rested loosely on his thigh. A smile adorned his perfect lips; so nice to ride.

He had been riding since sunrise; he had seen the fogs disappear and the fields, moist with dew at first, grow dry beneath the burning sun. Spring had come.

The sun was still climbing in the cloud-flecked sky when Haldir guided his horse through a cleft between two hills. Suddenly, he stopped his horse with a soft-spoken word and looked in wonder. Beneath him in the outstretching valley, a few miles ahead, curled the River Anduin, a shimmering silver ribbon in the morning sun. Vessels were going downstream, to the south. A little downstream he could see his goal: the capital city of Ithilien, Caras Gwedeir, where Men and Elves dwelt peacefully; the Men led by Faramir of Gondor, and the Elves by Legolas of Mirkwood.

“Come,” he said to his horse, “a stable with fresh hay is very near for you. But let us linger on the shore of the River first. I wish to know whether the scent of the Sea is even stronger here than in Minas Tirith.” That said, he galloped westwards down the slope, making straight for the River.

When he got there at last, he stood there for a few minutes, watching the boats and listening to the faint voices coming over the water. He then turned southwards and made his horse walk downstream along the shore. He was in no hurry to reach the city, and there was much to see on the River.

After he’d ridden for about five minutes, something caught his eye. Further downstream, he could see someone standing ankle-deep in the River. Haldir narrowed his eyes. There was no mistaking it; the one standing there wore the attire of the Elves, and his long golden hair was lifted from his shoulders by the breeze. As Haldir came closer, he could see that the Elf was staring at the River in front of him, shading his eyes with one hand. The Elf had rolled up the legs of his trousers.

Haldir scanned the shore for other Elves, but the Elf was alone. Suddenly, he removed his hand from his face. “Oh!” Haldir said unconsciously. But he knew that Elf. Quite well, in fact. He smiled and spurred on his horse. The other Elf heard his horse’s hooves and turned.

“Good morning, Legolas!” Haldir called, “May I say, the Anduin is currently the most enviable river in Middle-earth!”

Legolas started to smile broadly, and he began wading to the shore to meet Haldir. “Why is that?” he called back as he stepped onto the sand.

Haldir swung himself off his horse. “I dare say any river would gladly have the opportunity to lick your feet,” he smiled, then had his breath knocked out of him by Legolas’s firm embrace.

“You haven’t changed a bit, Haldir,” Legolas said with amusement in his voice. “What a nice surprise!”

They held each other at an arm’s length distance and studied each other, smiling. Ah, Haldir realized, his old friend was still as beautiful as ever. Everything matched the picture he’d cherished in his heart all those years; the strong jawline, the thin but sensuous lips, the high cheekbones, the dark eyebrows, the bright eyes, blue as the sky on a summer evening. Then, Haldir frowned unconsciously. No, something about the eyes was different. It was hard to describe. Some sort of utter tiredness lay hidden in those blue depths that used to be so full of joy. A cloud seemed to veil the sun suddenly. But Haldir forced a smile to his face and said, “So sweet to see you again, Legolas. It’s been many years.”

“Too many.” Legolas clapped him on the shoulders. “What brings you here, my friend? What have you been up to? What have you been doing since we last met?”

“That’s too many questions for me to handle,” Haldir laughed, “and it will take a long time to answer them all properly. For now, I will only say that I have been all over Middle-earth and that the last place I wanted to visit before returning to Lórien was Caras Gwedeir. Oh, Legolas,” he suddenly said, taking Legolas by the elbows, “I have been to the Grey Havens. The Grey Havens, Legolas, I have seen them!”

“The Grey Havens, Haldir, truly?” Legolas’s eyes widened slightly. “And you’ve come back? You have resisted the call?”

“Yes.” Haldir let go of Legolas’s arms. “But I already knew that before I went there. I am not yet ready to leave Middle-earth. Not ready to leave Lórien, even now it’s fading.”

The brief flash of enthusiasm had disappeared from Legolas’s eyes and they were dim again. “Lórien,” he sighed, “I am thankful for having seen it one last time in its last days of glory.”

Haldir smiled sadly, recollecting how the quest of the Ring had brought Legolas and his companions to the realm of the Lord and Lady. “And you, Legolas?” he asked softly. “The Sea is calling to you strongly, is it not?”

“I resist its call,” Legolas said, looking away, “but I find it hard.” He suddenly embraced Haldir again. “I’m glad you’ve come,” he said. “Will you stay here for a while?”

“I’ll be glad to,” Haldir replied with a smile. “In fact, I was hoping you’d let me stay until, say, June?”

“Ah,” Legolas smiled, “you’ve heard about our festival, then?”

“Yes. I learned about it two days ago, when I was visiting Minas Tirith. King Elessar told me about it.”

The effect those words had on Legolas was astounding. A sudden expression of pain quickly crossed Legolas’s face, and everything about him seemed to grow dim. This surprised Haldir; he’d always known Legolas as an Elf who had full control over his emotions. Something was terribly wrong.

“Of course you can stay,” Legolas said, regaining his composure, “as long as you like.”

Haldir studied his friend for a moment. He wanted to ask him what was wrong, but then he decided to wait for a better moment. He glanced over Legolas’s shoulder, at the River. He gave Legolas a mischievous smile, then bent down to remove his boots.

“What are you going to do?” Legolas asked, surprised. “I thought I’d take you to the city, and show you around.”

“Not yet.” Haldir dropped his boots to the ground and followed Legolas’s example by rolling the legs of his trousers up. He then stood upright again and pulled his jerkin over his head. “Do not look so shocked,” he laughed when he saw Legolas’s expression, “do as I.” Haldir’s fingers quickly opened the fastenings of his tunic. “Come on,” he encouraged as he shrugged the tunic off his shoulders, revealing a firm chest, “there is no need to be shy. I’ve seen you naked before.”

“I am not shy,” Legolas retorted. Still looking bewildered, he started to remove his own jerkin. Soon, jerkin and tunic joined Haldir’s on the ground.

“Come,” Haldir said, taking Legolas by the hand and leading him to his horse. He lifted his luggage from the horse’s neck and made Legolas mount. Haldir lightly leaped up behind him. “Let’s have some fun,” he murmured into Legolas’s ear. Legolas peered back over his shoulder, a surprised smile on his lips. Haldir then gave his horse a command and made it move straight to the River.

Soon, they were galloping together there where the water was shallow, the horse’s hooves making the water spurt up high, drenching both Elves, who were shouting in delight. The Men on the passing vessels interrupted their activities for a moment to watch the two half-naked, elated Elves; blond and beautiful, entrancing in their excitement. “Strange folk they are, Garald,” one of them said to his companion. “Older than the trees, but young in their behaviour.”

“Yes,” the one called Garald said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “That is something my children would do.” He studied the scene for a moment. “I feel for the horse,” he said with a laugh. “The Elves are slender, but there’s two of them. Must be quite a burden.”

“No,” the other said. “Something tells me that two Elves weigh less than two Men. And besides,” he added, thoughtfully rubbing his bearded chin, “I know a horse from Rohan when I see one.”

The Elves were oblivious of the attention they were getting. Legolas was loosely holding the horse’s mane, Haldir had his arms around Legolas’s waist. “Turn around, Aglar, turn around!” Haldir cried, increasing the pressure of his leg on the horse’s right flank. The horse obeyed, making a quick turn. “Shall we go a little further in?” Haldir shouted.

“Yes!” Legolas shouted back, breathless with laughter. Haldir guided Aglar further from the shore, where the water was deeper, reaching to the horse’s shins. Both Elves were spurring on the horse now, and larger amounts of water splashed over them.

“First one to fall in is an Orc!” Legolas cried.

“Then you’ll be the most attractive Orc I’ve ever seen!” Haldir shouted.

Their laughter sounded over the River.

Gimli:

The Dwarf stood just outside the city walls, thoughtfully smoking his pipe. His eyes were not as keen as the eyes of Elves, but he could clearly see the two Elves as they were having a wild and, he assumed, very wet ride. The sun caught their swaying blond hair and the horse’s white fur. He could hear their clear voices ring out and he smiled to himself. It had been far too long since he’d heard Legolas’s laughter.

He lightly tapped the tip of his pipe against his lower lip. In the past few years, Legolas had been nothing more than a dim reflection of the Elf he’d once been, and ever since Aragorn’s letter had arrived, Legolas resembled a hunted fox. His smiles were quick and fleeting, his visits to the River more frequent.

Legolas had never told him, but Gimli had guessed what the source of Legolas’s apparent unhappiness was. After the sundering of the Fellowship, Gimli had been tracking the Orcs together with Aragorn and Legolas, and the tension between his two companions had been hard to miss. They had been too worried about the Hobbits to linger on their personal worries, but every now and again, Gimli had caught them exchanging snappy remarks, or angry glares.

He did not consider himself an expert on the race of Elves, but he knew a little about them, and he was surprised to see that Legolas allowed himself to suffer so badly without even trying to make up with his former friend. And Aragorn! He was not a vindictive person, far from that.

Gimli lifted his gaze and looked at the Elves again. He had met Haldir for the first time when passing through Lórien after Gandalf’s fall, but he knew that Legolas and Haldir went way back together. Haldir now had his arms around Legolas’s waist and was shouting something to him in Elvish. They were controlling the horse with nothing but the firm grip of their legs and an occasional touch or word, but the animal obeyed instantly at every command. They shouted with glee as a particularly high spurt drenched them both. Gimli shook his head disapprovingly, but could not help smiling. The Elves looked beautiful together; even he had to admit that. It was obvious that they were fond of each other. And if such indulgencies helped bringing a smile back to Legolas’s face, it was well worth it.

Perhaps Haldir’s arrival was just what Legolas needed. Perhaps Haldir was the one who could help Legolas overcome his problem with Aragorn. Surely Haldir would stay for the festival?

Gimli’s pipe had gone out. He emptied it, stuck it behind his belt and disappeared into the city, after a last glance at the frolicking Elves.

Legolas:

That night, Legolas watched in amazement as Haldir feasted on the meal. He ate properly of course, but he ate much, and when he filled his plate for the third time, one of the Elves present smiled and said, “Our cooking seems to be to your liking, Haldir.”

Haldir looked up. “Yes, it is excellent. And it tastes even better because I have been living out of a bag for the past two days.” He smirked.

“Ah, yes, I heard you were in Minas Tirith two days ago; in the Citadel, King Elessar’s house.”

“Yes, I was.”

Legolas grabbed his cup of wine and emptied it at one swallow. The strong brew burned his throat. He did not like the direction in which this conversation was going. He caught Gimli peering at him from across the table.

“Did you speak long with him?” the Elf continued. “And Queen Arwen, how does she fare?”

“She’s doing very well.” Haldir’s gaze met Legolas’s and his smile faded. “This bread is excellent,” he said casually, picking up a piece of bread and breaking it. “I have never tasted anything like it. Do you bake it yourselves?”

The conversation continued on the subject of bread, and Legolas let out a sigh. He was thoughtlessly staring at his hands when he suddenly felt a knee against his under the table. He looked up and met Haldir’s eyes. Sincerity and concern were in the green-grey eyes; he gave Legolas a reassuring smile. Legolas returned it.

The Elves of Caras Gwedeir did not grant Haldir a moment of rest. After dinner, when the table was cleared, they started asking him a thousand questions about his travels. Apparently, he had been all over Middle-earth, to Gondor, Imladris, the Shire, and, of course, the Grey Havens. That part of the story was what the Elves were most interested in, and they made him recount every single bit until his voice started turning hoarse. At that point, Legolas rose from his seat.

“Gentlemen, that will do,” he said. “Our guest has travelled long and is tired. I suggest we call it a night. If you have any more questions, ask them tomorrow.”

“I will do that,” one of the Elves said with a grin, “I had some more.”

Later, Legolas escorted Haldir to his room. They stopped at a junction; the hallway to the left led to Haldir’s chambers, the other to Legolas’s.

“We’ll talk again tomorrow, Haldir,” Legolas smiled. “Good night for now.”

“Sleep well,” Haldir replied, then he suddenly reached out and gently took Legolas by the arm when he wanted to turn. “Legolas,” he said, “if there’s anything you want to talk about, anytime… I’m here, you know that, right?”

Legolas gave a quick, surprised smile. “Yes,” he said softly, “I know.”

Haldir did a step, so that he stood close to Legolas, and leaned forward. It happened too quickly for Legolas to register it all, but suddenly he felt the light touch of Haldir’s lips against his own; warm and soft, and faintly tasting of wine. Before Legolas could give any reaction, Haldir retreated. “Good night, Legolas,” he said with a little smile, then turned and disappeared down the hallway.

Legolas stayed behind, utterly confused. He hesitantly reached up and touched his lips. Where had that come from? Yes, they’d made many double-meaning jokes throughout the years, teasing comments on each other’s looks, they were not afraid for an occasional touch… but this? A kiss, however light? A real, tender kiss?

Legolas slowly turned and made for his chambers. He was probably placing meaning on things that should not have meaning; Haldir was just glad to be with him again. And the Lórien Elf had had a reasonable amount of wine. That explained a lot.

In his bedchamber, Legolas undressed and eased himself into the bed, naked. As he lay on his back, his arms folded beneath his head, the familiar images rose in his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. But still they came, as they did almost every night. He closed his eyes, trying to banish the memories from his thoughts, but he knew it was useless. Why, he thought to himself, why does it have to be like this every night? Why can’t I just forget? Why does something that happened fifteen years ago still haunt me?

After fifteen years, the memory was still painfully vivid. A rough kiss on his lips, a tongue seeking entrance. The faint scent of leather, the taste of tobacco. Legolas could almost taste it again. When he felt a familiar stirring in his groin, he shook his head in denial. In an attempt to ignore the hardening of his member, he seized his pillow with both hands, squeezing until his knuckles turned white.

Hands, pulling him down to the ground and sliding his leggings down his thighs. A warm, wet mouth engulfing his cock and quickly sucking it to full hardness.

Legolas’s cheeks burned with both arousal and embarassment as his hand found his erection beneath the sheets. He’d lost the fight. But then again, didn’t he always? He bit his lip as his hand started moving on his own flesh. Quickly then, to get it over with.

A skilled mouth, quickly sucking and licking him towards completion. A thousand shivers, rippling through his limbs. His head, thrashing upon the leaf-covered ground. Every muscle of his body preparing for a quick, but violent release.

Legolas buried his face in the pillow, stifling his moan as he found shameful release in his own hand. He then grabbed the pillow again and covered his face with it, feeling his cheeks burn with embarassment. Will this ever end, he wondered, will this ever end?

If there’s anything you want to talk about. That’s what Haldir had said. Legolas sighed. He’d never spoken with anyone about what was bothering him. Gimli had noticed something, of course, and had probably his own ideas about what the problem was; and Legolas guessed that Haldir had some suspicions of his own, too. But to discuss it openly with his friend? That was far too humiliating.

Legolas threw the sheets off him and stepped out of the bed, weary. He needed to rid himself of the foulness clinging to him, for it was too confronting a reminder of his shame. Still a month and a half to go, he thought while he splashed water over his hands and his face. A month and a half until the festival would begin. The endless waiting was horrendous, even worse than the prospect of having to struggle through the event itself.

As he walked back to the bed, he passed by a tall mirror. He stopped and turned, sadly looking at his own reflection for a moment. People used to call him beautiful, and perhaps they still would, if he but gave them the chance; but what was the use of being beautiful if you couldn’t even remember how beautiful life used to be? What was the use of being called beautiful by everyone, but not by the one you loved, the only one you wanted to hear it from?

Legolas found it impossible to look at himself any longer. He moved away from the mirror, slipped under the sheets and curled himself up on his side, his arms around his knees. He then remembered his too-short moment of light-heartedness at the River with Haldir, and his heart seemed less heavy for a moment.

If Gimli had been there, he would have been glad to see the little smile on Legolas’s face while he slept, for the first time in months.

Read Author's Notes for these parts.