AUTHOR’S NOTE: Thank you to those of you who are reading this story!! evil_rings_lady: Thanks!! It would seem like a slow story in the first few paragraphs :). Atar is Quenya, not Sindarin, for father and all of my elvish will be Quenya just to let you all know. There is some more dialogue from LotR since only Tolkien can create such powerful words…Enjoy ch. 3&4!!

3: Approach of Fate

Arwen looked up from her book as Elladan and Elrohir entered the room, each alike in appearance to the other with identical smiles gracing their elven faces. “Elrohir! Elladan! It is good to see you again,” she said leaping to her feet and embracing both of them at the same time. They all three laughed and smiled and began speaking to one another at once.

“Your stay in Lórien was well?”

“Yes, how went your journeying with the Dúnedain?”

“Quite well really. I heard there was great rejoicing here when you arrived.”

“Yes, they say there was a feast of special magnificence!”

“Indeed. Tell me of your journeys and let us sit together.”

They all quieted and sat outside in the courtyard where stone benches had been placed. Arwen listened as her two brothers recounted some of their affairs with the Rangers of the North.

“That is indeed thrilling,” said Arwen smiling at each of them. “Sometimes I wish I could join you.”

“Ai, but your place is with your people. They seem heartened wherever you go.”

Arwen wondered if Aragorn was with the Dúnedain now. He was someone with too many layers for her to understand at once. She saw ahead of him a terrible choice of incredible greatness or to forsake his burden to fall into darkness. She realised she was staring off into the trees, and her brothers were watching her. Her eyes shone when she returned her attention to them.

“You wander paths we cannot take,” said Elrohir. “I have often seen you distant even before mother sailed into the West.”

“I believe we did not gain that which is precious to our kin…the foresight gifted to many of the Elves by Ilúvatar. Father has it, yet we do not.”

“Dear sister, you have the gift, and I have seen it in your eyes many times,” said Elladan meeting her gaze with eyes of brilliant grey.

Elrohir laughed. “Even the line of Númenórean kings were gifted with it; the greatest ones anyway.”

Arwen tilted her head at this. “Does Aragorn son of Arathorn?”

Elladan and Elrohir both fell silent for a moment.

“You know of him then…” Elladan murmured. “Few in Middle-earth know who he truly is and that he even exists. The Enemy would hunt him like a deer of the wood if he found out.”

“And slay him without thought for there are none of Men he fears more than the Heir of Isildur,” said Elrohir. “Aragorn still must hide his identity even now.”

“And, I fear, for many more years of Men…though little time for us,” said Arwen. The twins nodded almost in unison. “He is different than other Men
even in his youth.”

“We taught him well!” Elladan smiled grimly. “The minions of the Enemy cannot match him in anything but the sense of dread that comes upon those near them. This Aragorn only has against the enemies of all Free Peoples.”

The sun fell behind the snowy range of the Misty Mountains, the shadows lengthening and falling across the valley. A cool breeze suddenly came down from the mountains from the West caressing the leaves of the trees and the petals of the flowers. Arwen and her brothers waited as the grey of evening passed and the stars appeared one by one. She gazed up into the rich purple heavens, immediately focusing on a star that glittered a bit more and shone a bit brighter than all the others: Gil-Estel, Star of Eärendil.
* * *
Aragorn had been now three years with the Rangers roaming the North and stemming the tide of evil things attempting to enter Eregion. They had come to respect his skill and his quick wisdom over the long months. Aragorn and two others were in Bree for the night at an inn called The Prancing Pony. They no longer had to instruct him—they had not much in any case—but he had become a part of their force against the shadow. He had even wandered the Wild without companions for three months.

Aragorn had found that the people of Bree were not exactly fond of Rangers; they thought them vagabonds of the Wild to be feared or disfavoured. Aragorn often kept his hood far over his face so he did not have to abide the stares from some of the Bree-landers. He moved swiftly on his long legs down the streets, brushing past other men—quite shorter most times—and attempting to blend although it was difficult when they gaped at him.

He continued to conceal his sword beneath his cloak and still had not even shown it to the Dúnedain for it was no simple woodsman’s cot he carried. When Elrond informed him of his noble bloodline of legends, he had given him two things: the Ring of Barahir, which he now wore on his finger, and the Shards of Narsil. This he kept in a sheath at his side shrouded in his dark cloak while his useful blade was strapped to his back so that he would not remain completely unarmed.

He was learning that the Dúnedain were much different from other Men, and some in Bree were more like ruffians of the road. Some actually were travellers staying in the village of Bree even in the same inn as Aragorn.

As he strode past an alley small and cramped, he heard a manÂ’s voice sharp and angry. When he slowed to see, he saw that a burly man had an iron fist clutching the collar of a man a foot shorter and looking quite frightened. He caught a little of the conversation.

“You stole my horse!”

“I swear I didn’t! I swear it!”

The big man tightened his grip. “Of course you did; who else would? You’re the only one who hates me so much,” he said in icy tones.

“But I wouldnÂ’t steal no horse! IÂ’ve got my own and finer it is than the one youÂ’ve got…had,” said the frightened man. The other man released him but made sure he did not bolt out of the alleyway.

Aragorn heard not only truth in the small manÂ’s voice, but logic as well. He felt his feet move towards them when the small man was struck in the stomach and handled roughly. He seemed used to the wretched treatment as if this had happened before.

“Leave him be,” Aragorn said stepping forward.

Both men looked his way with astonished faces. Aragorn drew up before them tall and lean and his youth evident.

The burly man still seemed confident as he crossed his thick arms. “Who do you think you are, boy?” This’s no business of yours.” He eyed Aragorn’s height and did not apparently notice the sword upon his back. He sniffed. “Go back to your playing and leave the men to their own ventures. I’m merely serving out justice to this wretch.” He turned round to continue his browbeating, yet Aragorn would not allow it to pass so easily.

“Do not touch him again, or you will regret it,” he said leaving his hands free to do what he must for he knew the mind of the sturdy man. He was a fool not to see the danger building in the youth. Aragorn’s voice was cold and stern which brought a relieved look to the small man’s face. He at least had faith that he would be saved.

The burly man laughed and paused before throwing a mighty swing, intending to make contact with AragornÂ’s face. Moving swifter than mortal sight and far smoother than the other man expected, Aragorn evaded the thrust as he knocked the man to the ground with a quick boot of his foot into his stomach. He fell in a doubled heap moaning and muttering, but Aragorn did not draw his sword.

“If you were a follower of the Enemy, I would have slain you,” Aragorn said leaning down and grasping the manÂ’s collar. “We do not take lightly harassing other men who have done nothing to provoke wrath or justice. Take care you do nothing of the sort again…or I shall know of it.”

He stood and left before they could say or do anything. The small man ran the other way as the other slowly stood, using the wall for support. Complacency filled his heart, and he stood lighter as he entered the Prancing Pony. Men would learn that the wickedness of their hearts was not tolerable when the Rangers of the North were around. The Enemy would lose one less village to his intrigues.
* * *
Gandalf leant upon his gnarled staff and gazed on Weathertop tall and stark before him against the hazy sky. It was almost evening and the sun was already setting in a blaze of crimson and purple. The ruins of what used to be a mighty tower now stood at its head, crowned with stone.

He made his way slowly to the top to gain a view of the land about him, yet he halted abruptly when he glimpsed a still figure among the ancient ruins. At first glance it seemed a part of them, a statue, until he looked closer: it was a young man. The way he looked appeared to Gandalf a stone figure of the Kings of Arnor of old made flesh, though younger perhaps and not as richly clothed. He was garbed in dark green and brown with a cloak of grey upon his shoulders while he carried a long sword on his belt and another upon his back.

The young man turned his head, and Gandalf stared up through bushy eyebrows with great curiosity for he had longish dark hair, pale skin, and eyes that glistened from afar. So noble and handsome was his face that the old wizard began to conjure ideas of his identity. But why was he alone in the Wild at such an age in the middle of nowhere?

“Greetings, father,” he called from only a few yards away. His voice was rich and deep. “You have been standing there long. Why not come and join me.”

Is he so careless? Gandalf thought before approaching. Does he not know the dangers that lurk in the Wild of the North? But he looked again and knew it was certainly not youthful foolishness. He passed through the fallen or crumbling columns to reach the man. GandalfÂ’s dark eyes burned like coals beneath the wide brim of his hat as he faced the youth.

“You wander alone in these lands?” Gandalf said bent beside his tall staff.

“As you do, stranger.” He had grey eyes that gleamed brightly in the fading light. “It seems Amon Sûl is a fine place to stay for the night. I never thought to meet another here.”

The wizard paused when he heard the youth call the hill Amon Sûl, not Weathertop. “You are learned, I see,” he said studying him. “Many would have named this Weathertop, not Amon Sûl. By this…I guess you are of the Rangers of the North for they of few call it by that name and few others journey here alone.”

“And so you are correct,” he said bowing slightly.

“You are quite young to be of their number if I know them well.”

The Ranger donned a queer smile. “Yes, it is true of me. There are many strange things of me…Gandalf the Grey.”

Gandalf had been pleased by the surprise on his face when he named him of the Dúnedain, yet it was his turn to be amazed. He leaned back and pulled on his grey beard. “Is that so? How did you come to that conclusion?”

“Well,” the Ranger’s eyes sparkled, “I have heard much of you from both the Elves and Master Elrond who call you Mithrandir, and my kin have also spoken of you as the Grey Wanderer. You are well known among my friends and companions.”

Gandalf chuckled, his voice deep and clear. “Well met, my friend! Well met indeed! You surely speak as they do in Rivendell,” he glanced at the sword on his back, “and your sword is of elven make. You are a walking riddle!”

He smiled and beckoned Gandalf to follow him. “Come, my friend! Let us go out of sight for the night and share our questions and tales.” The two settled in a dell in the side of the hill and chose not to build a fire to keep unfriendly eyes from spotting them. Gandalf pulled out his pipe and leaf from the Shire and began to puff contentedly on his long-stemmed pipe. The young man sat across from him.

“So, young Ranger, what is your name? You know that I am indeed Gandalf the Grey, so I would know yours.”

“You are close to Elrond, yes?”

Gandalf nodded, wondering why he evaded the question.

“Has he told you of someone who dwelt in his abode as his own son for a time whom is not of the elven-kindred?”

“Perhaps.”

“I remember how you were in Elrond’s close confidence as no other, so I assume you know. I shall tell you who I am though many do not know that I even live.”

Once he spoke in this way, Gandalf began to speculate. His guess fit the man perfectly with the way he had seemed in the ruins, his appearance in body and voice, his kinship with the Dúnedain, and his talk of Lord Elrond. Could it truly be him? The age fit when he thought upon it more carefully, and he wondered to think how the boy had grown.

“There was a young boy who was brought to Elrond many years gone, and had grown up in Rivendell until recently, half-raised by the Lore Master himself. This boy remained a secret for the Dark Lord himself wished him slain if he knew he was alive.”

“The Heir of Isildur,” Gandalf murmured thoughtfully looking into the man’s deep grey eyes and knowing his first guess was correct.

“I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, Heir of Elendil and Chieftain of the Dúnedain,” he said with a voice that held authority and brooked no argument even in his youth. He shattered the solemnity when he smiled. “Yet I am called Strider when I cannot be called by my true name in the presence of others.”

“I am honoured to finally speak with the renowned man for I only caught a glimpse of you when you were but eight years of age playing amongst the trees of Imladris.” He blew a ring of smoke into the cool evening air. “It is no wonder you are one of the youngest Rangers I’ve met.” He chuckled once again in his own thought.

“I am the honoured one, Mithrandir,” said Aragorn. “You are the most revered and respected of all that I have heard, and I find what others praised you for true. You are the Grey Pilgrim! Old wanderer among Men, Elves, and all Free Folk.”

“So it is. I have travelled far and meddled in many causes,” he said with dark eyes glittering secretively. He half-lidded his eyes and nodded with a grin. “And I’m already finding your company pleasant, Strider.”
* * *
Arwen approached her father where he stood gazing out over the land in deep thought. She touched his shoulder gently. “Atar…it is time.”

He pulled out of his reverie with saddened eyes. “I know. Be safe, my daughter, for the roads darken and are perilous in these shadowed days. May the blessings of the Elves go with you.” He led her out into the shrouded light of day, and she left him to mount her white stallion. Her cloak blanketed its flanks in silver-grey.

“Namárië, Atar. Namárië.”

The five other Elves escorting her trotted out into the trees as she followed in their midst. Elrond watched grimly as he was left behind standing tall and dark in the sunlight. The Evenstar would return to Lothlórien, the Golden Wood of great light.
* * *
Arwen felt torn between the two lands: Imladris and Lórien. Each held a special place in her heart, yet the people there did as well. Wherever she went, the Elves were heartened by her brilliant presence like a star unveiled. The journey was uneventful, yet not in the Evenstar’s mind. Her mood had diminished with the darkness of the Enemy fallen upon her heart.

When she reached the Elven-kingdom and abode there for a time, Lady Galadriel perceived that her eyes no longer shone as brightly, her face was rarely graced with a smile any longer, and she spoke little in company of her kin. Galadriel had seen it many times over the long years when shadows quenched their elven-light, and they soon departed for the Grey Havens; yet she knew that was not Undómiel’s fate. Perhaps it would not be so unlike her forebear Lúthien the Fair.

4: A Meeting of Hearts

Aragorn smiled with gladness as he reached the borders of Lothlórien where the Elves dwelt in safety and peace. He stepped through the golden leaves of the mellyrn scattered upon the ground beneath the eaves of the silver trees. His eyes took in the sight as he awaited the border guardsmen to hear or see him. His keen ears caught the slightest brush of feet on the earth and looked around carefully to see the Elves. His eyes were also sharp, though not as far-sighted, and he caught the glint of golden hair in the sun beaming through the branches. Aragorn halted in his tracks.

1.”Umin cotumo. Nan i Dúnadan.”

The Elves came into sight with their bows in hand, but they were lowered when they heard him speak in Elvish and saw their friend standing there. There were three. One stepped forward with a smile on his face, and Aragorn and he firmly placed their hands on each others shoulders.

2.”Dúnadan ar Eldandil! Márië ana centyë enapa limbë yéni,” said Haldir. The two spoke as they walked to the talan where the three brothers stayed during their watch. Haldir then invited Aragorn to stay there with them.

“Nay, my friend. I must reach the city tonight for I am weary of my travels. But I thank you for your hospitality,” said Aragorn. “I will stay and talk if you wish for a short time.”

“Only if that is your will. I will not hinder you from going to Caras Galadhon to see the fair city again for there you will find rest and peace. Now go and pass through unhindered for you know the way, I deem,” said Haldir pointing in the direction of the city of the Elves in Lórien. “Namárië till next time we meet.”

Aragorn bowed and continued on his way deep into the forest to the heart of Elvendom.
* * *
When Aragorn met the Lady of the Wood and her spouse Celeborn, he bowed low.

“Welcome son of Arathorn,” said Galadriel warmly. “We are honoured by your presence.”

“I thank you greatly. It is an honour for me to be here in your fair realm in your protection. You do me more service than I could ever hope for,” he answered.

“We shall prepare a place for you to stay as long as you wish. You must rest for your journey was toilsome, and you have been long away in Southern parts. Come…” Galadriel beckoned him with a pale hand.

Aragorn son of Arathorn was clothed in silver and white garments with a cloak of silver also. A bright gem was on his brow. Even the Lady Galadriel marvelled at how lordly he stood, though he was Edain, with his noble face gleaming with a light like the sheen of stars; yet this mortal had a bit elvish blood that was of the noblest sort and had been raised by the Fair Kindred. He was elven-wise, behaved as an Elf, and spoke as one in a fair voice. Aragorn knew the Elvish languages whether it was Sindarin or Quenya.

Galadriel watched him wander away through the trees, brushing a hand against a silvery bough as he went. She saw how his mind revealed the mannerisms of Elves when amongst the trees with the water’s song in his ears. She suddenly realised that Arwen, the Evenstar of the Elves, was amidst those same trees near Cerin Amroth where Aragorn was headed. She wondered then what fate had been woven that they should meet again after so many years when Aragorn was in the glorious fullness of manhood.

“I wonder that it so happens now, when the Evenstar’s light is dimmed, that he comes to our woods. Their fates are bound together,” she murmured as she watched the trees’ boughs waver in the wind. “No one can sever those ties now…not even Morgoth himself.”
* * *
Arwen was walking through the trees, breathing in the air of them and feeling the ancient life that thrived in Lórien. She was arrayed in a dress of shining white that contrasted with her dark hair hanging about her face and down her back. Her grey eyes glimmered in the evening that had come. Thoughts ran through her mind that were more blithe than usual to bring her a small comfort in peace; like the sound of the golden leaves rustling in the breeze and the smell of the night air.

Then she saw a glint of white through the trees, moving languidly. She thought it to be an Elf, yet few often wandered the further places in the evening. Arwen had paused without realising it and began walking lightly along the grass again. She attempted to draw nearer the Elf but could not seem to catch another glimpse of him.

Suddenly his presence found her, and she was surprised at the things she felt in him. There was power and greatness there like that of Master Elrond and the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien. Could it be Lord Celeborn?
* * *
Aragorn strode through the woods with a high heart in that resplendent place. It had been a lengthy amount of time since he had visited Lothlórien, and he remembered it well. His senses suddenly grew alert for there was someone else there with him in the shadows. He turned his head and saw nothing, then turned the other way seeing nothing of note there as well. A shiver ran down his spine. He wondered at the reaction for the woods of Lórien were protected from enemies, and no evil could remain there for long.
* * *
Arwen restrained a gasp of awe when she first saw the tall man in silver and white. He appeared as an Elf-lord out of the West, so great and noble was he. Her heart leaped into her throat, and she could not move, halting in her silent steps. There was something about him that was familiarÂ…yet different. It was as though he was of elven blood, but also of different descent.

When she realised with stark amazement who he was, it was then he felt her near him.
* * *
Aragorn now knew someone was watching him or coming towards him, so he thought of where they were and turned his keen eyes in that direction.

A maiden as fair as the morning sun and the evening stars reached out a slender white hand to alight against a tree as she glided past to make her way to him. The tree seemed to thrive with life at her touch. Her eyes were like stars themselves as they shone with wisdom pooling in the brilliant depths. The maiden’s tresses were shadowy falls running down her back, and a strand gently brushed her face fairer than mortals. Aragorn had never seen anyone so stunning, and he could never forget such a face that appeared in his dreams so often. No words came to him. He could not speak while gazing upon the beautiful maiden that was now at arms-length, her eyes inquisitive.

Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elrond, stopped and smiled, and it made him shudder at the loveliness of the brightness of it unfolding upon her face. She spoke in a silvery voice full of curiosity. “Favourable it is to meet you again, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Lord of the Dúnedain.” The smile faded. “You are much changed last I saw you.”

Aragorn thought he glimpsed wonder in her eyes, and he bowed before her. “Yet little changed are you, Maiden of Light. I wonder that we meet again now after so many years.”

“Yes…long have I been in Rivendell and Lothlórien, though you I have not seen in all that time since you departed. You wandered the Wilds of the North?”

“I did, with my kin the Dúnedain before I journeyed further south into the lands of Men: Rohan and Gondor.”

Arwen shifted closer on the cool grass. “Noble are the Men that abide there in those lands for their blood still runs true. It is grievous that the Elves and they are estranged after all these years.”

“Indeed, Undómiel. Indeed.”

Aragorn’s eyes searched hers, silvery liquid mingling with shining stars. Arwen felt her heart was quickened and her hands restless. Never had any man found such excellence in her eyes, and Aragorn son of Arathorn appeared the greatest of lords and kings in his shining silver and glimmering white apparel.

“Would you care to walk?” Aragorn asked. He also felt his heart beating heavily in his breast as he gazed upon the maiden who had haunted his dreams with visions of shimmering starlight and golden sunlight.

She took his arm, and they continued walking. The golden leaves were scattered at their feet but hardly rustled as the two passed for they stepped without sound.

“How, then, are the Southern kingdoms of Men?” Arwen asked softly.

Aragorn glanced down at her radiant face. “Mostly well, yet hope wanes in some hearts for the days of legend are lost, and dark things are burgeoning. Ever all Free Folk fight against the Enemy, yet will Middle-earth ever be free of him?”

“Perhaps,” Arwen murmured stepping over the twisting root of a towering tree. “There are too many choices ahead of too many people to see what will become of us all. Many are tied to the fate of Middle-earth.” She looked up into his noble, kingly face. “You are one of them, Estel.”

Aragorn nearly faltered in his step when he heard the name she called him by: the name he had been called in Rivendell until his fate was revealed to him by Elrond. To hear it from her sweet lips bestowed upon it a new meaning in his heart. “My path has been laid for all the ages of this world, and I was set to find it in my youth. If it is as you say…it will lead down a dark road.”

ArwenÂ’s smile was gradual as she stopped to look at him. Their eyes met once more, and she held his intensely. Aragorn’s gaze bore into hers with a kindness and care she had never felt before alongside the same strength as she possessed.

“We should return to Caras Galadhon,” Arwen said quietly. “It is growing late, and the evening wanes.”

Aragorn agreed and she laid her trembling arm in his once again. It stilled in the reassurance of his strong yet gentle grasp. The look in his eyes was something she would never forget, not until the ending of the world.
* * *
That night, Aragorn was given food to eat—for which he thanked the Elves—but the Elf that brought him the meal glimpsed something strange in the man’s eyes that had not been present earlier.

He tilted his head in an inquisitive fashion when Aragorn set the tray on a nearby table. “Is something troubling you, Dúnadan?” he asked, hoping the man would feel comfortable enough to share his thoughts.

Aragorn looked up with wonder at how discerning the Elf was and hoped his feelings could not be often read so easily by others. He answered quickly before the Elf really believed something was wrong. “No, I am well. Thank you.”

The Elf nodded and bowed before leaving Aragorn in solitude. He sighed in relief that the Elf had not inquired further into the matter. His heart ached at the thought of leaving, but eventually he would have need to return to the North. He wondered if the fair Evenstar was staying much longer or if she would ever leave Lothlórien. He had planned to stay in Rivendell for a time, yet he wondered if his plans would change now that the circumstances became known to him.

All he could think of was Arwen Undómiel that night, depriving him of rest, and he ate little. When he finally fell asleep, his rest was dreamless and without comfort.
* * *
The next morning dawned bright and golden with voices of the Elves singing of the sunÂ’s rising filling the crisp air. The sun sent her rays through the silver branches and into many dwellings, brightening the woods. Aragorn woke early that day and was again brought food. He smiled warmly before taking the elvish bread with him down to the earth where he walked again through the wood that filled him with such peace and hope. There he greeted many Elves in their own tongue and held converse with them for some time. He felt strangely at home here differently than in the stone walls and buildings of Minas Tirith where he had last dwelt. Though it was his destiny to rule and live there when the time came, he did not know how he would endure it for the rest of his life to not be able to take rest and enjoyment in the lands of the Elves.

He stumbled by chance upon the Evenstar who sat on a tree root that made a curving seat, watching the sun rise with a cluster of grapes in her hand: the remains of breakfast. She appeared so ethereal in the sunlight that Aragorn could not approach her at first. There was no need. Arwen caught sight of him first. She smiled and beckoned him to sit beside her on the large root as she moved over, which gave Aragorn a peculiar feeling for the other Elves glanced at the two with interest. It was not common to find one of the Edain in close company with one of the most renowned and most beautiful of the Elves.

Arwen turned to look upon him, seeing his sharp eyes looking out over the land. She saw his longish dark hair lying still about his handsome face without the breeze breathing through it and studied him to make sure she would never forget; though she doubted such a thing would ever occur within her heart after the decision she had made.

She quickly turned away before he noticed her gaze lingering too long and said softly, “How long shall you stay here in Lórien?”

“For now…I do not know. Time passes swiftly here, and I cannot follow as well as in the lands of Men. There time is commonly predictable.”

“Is Gondor a fair land?” asked Arwen.

Aragorn saw before him a vision of pale majesty in white stone built as strong as the mountains where it was placed and lofty towers and fortresses of great girth. Impregnable were the high walls harbouring the great city, yet once one had seen the city for long years, the signs of decay began to seep through. Minas Tirith was the fairest and mightiest city of Men, yet slowly time crept into the cracks of stone and dark corners of walls. The white banner of the Stewards flew upon the great height of the Tower of Ecthelion glimmering in the shining sun, but it was not the banner of Kings that had flown of old when the Throne was occupied.

Aragorn described Minas Tirith and its proud levels to Arwen as he thought an Elvish minstrel might, and he glimpsed a sparkle of wonder glaze her eyes.

“Wondrous are your words, Estel, for you speak as the Elves do in song. I have seen Minas Tirith in a vision of your speech. If I come to that resplendent city, blessed will my days be.”

They sat in each other’s company for some time in silence. The sun now rose high above the earth, her golden orb glowing with heat. Nonetheless, the heat was not too much to bear in Lórien. The air was temperate most often if not cold with winter.

“Estel, I must leave you for now,” said Arwen after their time watching the sun rise into the clear blue sky, “for I must speak with Lady Galadriel. I shall surely see you again…perhaps later today as well. Come and dine at the Lord and Lady’s table tonight for it would grace the grand hall to have you with us.”

“I shall if you wish it,” he said standing after she had. He bowed low and found her watching with shining, esteem-filled eyes of grey. Before she left, she looked deep into his eyes and smiled softly. Aragorn released the breath he had been holding while she held his gaze and watched her recede into the distance to find Galadriel, Lady of the Wood. Something had changed in her demeanour that had not been present before when he first met her; and it was certainly for the better in his mind.
* * *
1.I am no enemy. I am the Dúnadan.
2.Dúnadan and Elf-friend! It is good to see you after many years.