Guys, sorry for the late update. This chapter should have been longer but I was anxious to update since I am awfully late.

The poem in this story was written by Vale_Undomiel, a special and close friend of mine. She has a group of beautiful poems right here at CoE in the poetry section. Thank you, Vale, for your lovely creation for my story. **Hugs**

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Summer of that year was destined to be remembered by the companions for many years to come. Events would unfold of such a nature, to render some happy and others sorely grieved. But while that time followed closely upon the heels of summer, Lady Fate had intervened to defer its manifestation until the fulfillment of several engagements. Perhaps her long-sighted vision was efficacious in stirring her compassion and ordained it so that memories would be wrought to succor the suffering of a few in the years to come.

The White City was a perfect symbol of the pride and dignity of the people of Numenor, here in Middle Earth. From the acme to the nadir, it was wrought of carved stone, vaster and more splendid than anything dreamed of, greater and stronger than Isengard, and far more beautiful. The years of strife had, however, tarnished its proud beauty and stripped it of its unparalleled glory. But that was soon to be remedied. Gimli had returned to Gondor with the aid he had promised to King Elessar. He brought with him many dwarves from his homeland of Erebor. Surpassing their forefathers, these dwarves were especially skilled in the erection of cities, towers and other formidable structures. There were smiths, welders, stone wrights, masons, and dwarves of equally estimable skills among their numbers. They had accomplished great works in the city of Dale where the stoned paved roads sported many colors and the waterways and pools were lavishly and artistically designed.

A thorough reconnaissance of the city had unveiled a plethora of problems. The passage of time coupled with the ruinous siege, had compromised more than was apparent at a glance. At best, the city walls, roads, and public spaces were cracked and steadily falling into disrepair. At worse, foundations would have to be reinforced or re-constructed anew. It was time for Gondor to undergo physical healing from the irascible scars of the turbulent years. It was time for GondorÂ’s cleansing from the defilement and profanity of fell creatures that once assailed it. In short, it was time for GondorÂ’s rebirth.

The undertaking was daunting, it is true, but Gimli and his kinsmen swore by their word that it was achievable over the course of several years. The royal couple, their project committee, Gimli, and a few select dwarves, therefore set to work to formulate a feasible plan to cover the early years of the project life. Logistics, remuneration, time frames, and the likes, were discussed at length. In exchange for their expertise, the royal couple deemed it necessary to equitably compensate Gimli and his kin. For this, Gimli was significantly perturbed. He considered it an injury to his word to accept any remuneration exceeding the reasonable costs of procuring them a comfortable living arrangement in Minas Tirith. But the royal couple was quite sensible to the substantial disparity between GimliÂ’s proposal and the valuable services the dwarves were to render and thought it best to acquiesce to his wishes only for the short term. In the long run, however, they fully intended to revisit the matter at the time when generosity would at last give way to practicality.

For the present, Queen Evenstar placated herself with the task of commanding all to the comfort of the dwarves. They were domiciled in a spacious, private dwelling situated in close propinquity to the Telcontar residence. Their abode was distinguished with an ample-sized household staff to cater to their domestic needs. In light of the arduous labor ahead, it was a judicious decision on the part of the royal couple. This, however, was unfavorable to the dwarves, whose love of secrecy was eclipsed only by their regard for the works of their hands. Consequently, the original number of their domestic aide was gradually reduced to a number more to their liking.

Gimli -and those gregarious dwarves who were inclined to seek the companionship of others- dined frequently at the Telcontar residence. On the nights when they undertook to partake in the singing and sharing of tales, there was such a confluence in the talents displayed by the elves and dwarves that one could easily forget the enduring discord between the two races. But in all honesty, these were the elves of ElrondÂ’s household. Like their former master, the majority entertained little prejudice against the dwarves; especially those descended from the line of Durin.

For their part, GimliÂ’s kin was quite familiar with the goodwill of the Lord of Imladris, and felt no less would be accorded them in the household of his daughter and King Elessar, whose reputation as a just and noble-hearted man had prevailed far and wide. Hence, for the time being, all was at peace, and nights were generally passed away in a medley of flutes, harps, fiddles, clarinets, and drums.

The only festering root of disquiet amid such easy camaraderie stemmed from AranweÂ’s reception of Gimli. He still felt keenly, the wound inflicted by the base slaying of his beloved king. And he abhorred that venal race to which the propagators of DoriathÂ’s misfortunes claimed a kinship. From this enmity, he would never depart, having been inveterately embittered by the events of the past. Notwithstanding his incorrigibility in this matter, to his credit, he never beleaguered Legolas with any words of reproof regarding his alteration in feelings toward the dwarves. Although, it must be revealed that a foolish sentiment of betrayal had begun to germinate within his breast. He was, however, silent on the matter. But the elves around him were sentient of his voiceless rage, especially the Prince of Greenwood.

Fortunately for Legolas, his burden was temporarily lightened by the impending arrival of the Lord and Lady of Ithilien. The months subsequent to the ball were spent in Ithilien implementing his design. It would take at least a year before all his plans achieved fruition, given the time required for the growth and maintenance of the gardens. Aranwe, and such of those from the Telcontar household who delighted in the works of nature, had assisted the prince in the realization of his project. The resulting creation was exemplary of the splendor to come, when in after years the gardens became distinguished in the west lands of Middle Earth for their astounding beauty.

A formal ceremony was also planned to welcome the Lady of Ithilien into the ruling family of Gondor. It would be a chance for the city to look once again upon the fair lady, who had won renown in the slaying of the Witch King of Angmar, before she assumed her abode in the fair hills of Ithilien. Subsequent to that ceremony, the royal couple intended to host an intimate dinner consisting of some eighty guests, in honor of the newly wedded couple. Within a fortnight following that event, the companions were tentatively scheduled to journey to Dol Amroth. Prince Imrahil had invited the group to summer on the shores of Dol Amroth for a brief spell. The summer was unseasonably warm that year, and many counted the days until relief was attainable.

Unfortunately, the Rohan party was delayed because of some undisclosed reason. They were soon to learn that it stemmed from King EomerÂ’s desire to accompany his sister and her new husband back to the White City. Or, at least, that was the putative explanation. But, anyone of keen perspicacity could not have failed to discern the growing affection that he now harbored for Lothiriel of Dol Amroth. Moreover, Prince Imrahil had also extended an invitation to him to join the escapade to the city of Dol Amroth, though, really entertaining little hope of an acceptance by the king. Apparently, he too was insensible to the pervading gentleness that had taken a hold of the young kingÂ’s doughty heart. Consequently, a ready acceptance by the king was summarily acknowledged by him and given no further thought.

While the wedding party lingered in Rohan for several additional weeks, given very much unto their pleasures, the Minas Tirith party labored on. The dwarves had commenced the welding of a new gate for the city and preliminary preparations for re-construction had begun. It was a prolific opportunity for the men of Gondor to profit from the instruction of the dwarves. In fact, many years hence, the leading smiths and stone wrights of Gondor had, at one point or another, apprenticed for a time under the leadership of the dwarves.

Elsewhere, the tumult of re-construction resonated in the distance of consciousness. Over the past few months, Nessa saw very little of Lady Arien. Her father had returned shortly after the ball afflicted with a mild case of exhaustion. Lady Arien had attended him well, with all the filial adulation of a doting daughter, pouring all of her love into his care. Fortunately, he had recovered some weeks later, once again allowing her the freedom of her pleasures. But it was not for long. He began to insist that she acquaint herself with the affairs of his estate just as Lord Alcarin had done.

“My darling, one day your poor father will no longer be here to watch over you. What will become of you then?” he had asked, tenderly. “Place my mind at ease,” he had further implored. “I can depend upon Alcarin to care for you, but I prefer to place my faith in you. And to you alone I wish to commend your care.”

Lady Arien had frowned. “Father, why do you speak thus?” she queried, her voice tremulous with unbridled affection.

He had swiftly enclosed her in his paternal arms. “I grow weary, Arien. You must have seen it, my child. My steps are no longer what they were a month ago nor a week ago.” To this, Lady Arien had groaned in resistance. “Shhh!” her father had whispered soothingly, endeavoring to calm her agitation. “Death is nothing to be feared, my little one. I accept it with the grace of the men of Westernesse, who still live many years beyond the life span of other men. Six score years have been given unto me and I have spent them well.” For Lady Arien, those words had been difficult to hear and she had begun to weep silently. “My darling, my life has been long and my memories are abundant. The time for me to rescind this gift approaches with certainty. I say this only to prepare you. Would that I could spare you this pain, which has already begun to taint the innocence in your eyes, the very windows to your soul. But I cannot.”

From that time until recently, Lady Arien had adopted the life of a recluse, living only for her father, it seemed. Nessa saw her occasionally. But that was soon to be remedied, however, since ArienÂ’s father had accepted Prince ImrahilÂ’s invitation to join the party journeying to Dol Amroth. Nessa had exhorted a promise from Lady Arien -who seemed determined to influence her father against the journey- to at least consider the reputed restorative powers of the seashores. She even cited to Lady Arien several accounts of healing that she had unexpectedly discovered during her perusal of various literary material in the Telcontar library. In the end, Lady Arien was the decider of her own course. She had reasoned that the brief reprieve from duty would serve to preserve her fatherÂ’s favorable constitution and might even augment his vigor.

Nessa, for her part, was counting the days until a very personal and joyous occasion. Her mother was expected in Minas Tirith any day now. Her delight was almost too formidable to maintain. After a year of separation, she was unsurprisingly ecstatic. Aredhel had also arranged to have her mother domiciled next to her, affording them the ease to communicate from one room to the other.

The days of her enthusiasm were soon lessened, however, by an unanticipated alteration of events. It had all began quite simply with the communication to Amandil of her motherÂ’s intended visit. As was his nature, he had exhibited little interest beyond an urbane response remarking his wishes to finally make her acquaintance. This admittedly, had wounded and partially infuriated Nessa.
Since that day, exchanges between them had become vaguely affected.

To AmandilÂ’s credit, he had rapidly discerned NessaÂ’s ill humor and was fully prepared to address the matter when time allowed it. As it was, his time was not his own. Furthermore, being a man of phlegmatic temperament, he naturally attributed minimal value to her discontent, thinking it would quickly pass away. However, the time soon came when he felt it necessary to forfeit his habitual imperturbability to place matters at peace between him and his young friend.

“What is this obscurity I sense between us of late?” he had abruptly inquired of Nessa, early one evening. He was descending a stepladder that was resting against a bookshelf in the library, while addressing her.

Nessa, who was executing her own part in restoring the library to rights, had turned to observe him. In that single keen glance, she felt how strongly he still regarded her as a mere child and unwilling to restrain the tumultuous emotions that surged within her breast she allowed her feelings to burst forth.

“Do you see me?” asked she, in an impetuous outburst that was largely characteristic of her ingenuousness. “Do you truly see me?” Her eyes challenged his unfaltering gaze. For an ephemeral instant, and only that, she perceived a slight tightening of his finely sculpted jaw. The silence effected by her utterance was sobering. “Will you say nothing?” she asked him, her voice barely audible, her mortification succeeding her receding courage.

Amandil, who had been momentarily surprised by NessaÂ’s passionate assault, had resolutely maintained his inscrutability. In fact, anyone baring witness to that scene would have immediately pitied the young, fair maiden, whom it seemed, had failed miserably in eliciting the faintest sentiment from her cold companion, who had remained blanketed in his mantle of indifference. But judge him not too quickly, for, this was a man of noble heart and gentle convictions despite his perpetual air of severity.

“Why do you ask this of me?” he calmly queried, his blue eyes searching the lovely countenance of his interlocutor. “Have I slighted thee in some way? Tell me! I am fully prepared to humble myself in the asking of your forgiveness, and I hope you will grant it of me.”

Nessa, who was still very much mortified, had been swiftly disarmed by his gallant though veracious words. For, it was readily apparent that he was fully prepared to do whatever she wished to procure her forgiveness. She felt absolutely ridiculous, even fearing she had vastly overreacted. When she realized that he awaited her answer expectantly, she wrestled with the decision whether to liberate her soul and risk everything or remain silent and risk nothing.

Amandil thought he comprehended all in terms of Nessa’s regard for him. Unfortunately for her, he thought it only a case of fixation. Reserve and caution had been his tools to stem her enthusiasm. Mutual time spent enjoying poetry had progressively dwindled within the past few months. Yet, hope was still evident within the reflection of her gray eyes.”

“You are young,” he softly told Nessa, “and you are at an age where the heart often rules the head.” He gazed at her with an expression of gentleness. “Do not allow yourself to be overwhelmed by capricious passions. They will yield little reward in the end.”

A small sigh of anguish involuntarily escaped NessaÂ’s lips. A maelstrom of emotions callously and inexorably beset her. She promptly suppressed it, however, quickly regaining her dignity. Suddenly the room felt incommodious and the atmosphere stifling. She was deeply and utterly disappointed. All her expectations, no matter how quixotic, had been hurled down from their heights in a trice. Reality was forcefully impressed upon her consciousness and a biting wound gnawed at her insides. Let it be known that in this most unfortunate affair, her pride suffered little. She was genuinely wounded in her love. A love that was breed of limitless reasons to the credit of him he who inspired it. It was true that he was a remarkably handsome man with a profound air of mystery about him and prodigiously endowed with a rare gift of astuteness, but it was principally his noble qualities that had inflamed her chaste heart and inspired her to love.

“Truly you are an honorable man,” Nessa heard herself saying. “I am indebted to you for your sincerity.” She extended a graceful hand to him. He gently took it, before gallantly bestowing it with a kiss. She felt the warmth of his lips upon her hand and her heart fluttered with renewed though fraudulent hope. But thankfully, the emotion waned quickly. Numbed as she was by his recent disclosure, she did not intend to be deceived by a mountain ingeniously disguised as a molehill.

“You still have not told me what it was that displeased you,” Amandil reminded her, his eyes scrutinizing her expression.

Nessa turned away walking toward the window. “It was nothing of consequence,” said she, forcing a small mirthless chuckle, whose timbre resonated strangely to her ears. “We can none of us always be at one with peace.”

Amandil was not deceived by her response. However, he thought it best to pursue the subject no further. With the one score difference between their ages, he would have readily believed her reason for the dismissal of his concern, but her behavior had convinced him otherwise. At the commencement of their interview, he had sensed her frustration and had hoped it was not born of something he had done. He was now perfectly certain that he was not guiltless in the influencing of her disquiet.

“Very well then,” said he, hesitantly. “I must leave you now.” He looked at her expectantly, hoping for the confidence that was not forthcoming. She remained impassive and enveloped in her silence. Finally, in resignation, he adjured her to get some rest before at last quitting her presence.

Alone in the library, Nessa smiled sadly to herself. Her interview with Amandil had, in the duration of an hour, wizened her in heart. She was not sorry for it. As painful as the truth had been to hear, she bravely reasoned that it would have been more unfavorable for her to persist in her former expectations of him, since he obviously did not esteem her in the same way she did him.

Like most who has ever been wounded by loveÂ’s fickle caprice, her repose was incessantly disturbed throughout the night, tormented as she was by vacillating bouts of self-reproach and self-pity. Upon reflection, she clearly saw her folly. Her vigilance had been wanting. Ever since the night of the ball, she had allowed herself to become complacent in her expectations toward him, never heeding the signs that, in hindsight, were distinctly clear. He had remained unchanged in heart toward her. And now his certitude on the matter had her doubting her own heart. Did she truly love him? Or was it really a case of fascination? Her heart was indignant at such an allegation but her thoughts pondered the possibility.
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Midsummer morning, Arwen awoke to the beautiful fragrance of flowers. She smiled dreamily when she remembered the significance of that day. Her long eyelashes blinked back the remnants of somnolence that threatened to elongate her stay in bed. Her arms roamed over to AragornÂ’s side of the bed, which was still vaguely warm, suggesting that he had not too long abandoned his rest. Somewhat disappointed, she leisurely raised herself upright, adjusting the bolsters behind her to her comfort. The plenitude of her black locks fell loosely around her, creating a deep contrast with her skin and the white of her nightgown. She stretched her arms lazily above her head, basking in the loveliness of the morning sky, which was clearly visible through the glass windows. Her glance now turned to investigating the source of that heady scent that permeated the atmosphere of their room.

Sure enough, there on her night table stood a lovely glass vase bearing two-dozen long stemmed pink roses. A smile hovered at the corners of her lips. A quick glance toward AragornÂ’s side of the bed apprised her of another glass vase bearing two-dozen long stemmed white roses. She squealed with delight, partly smiling, partly chuckling. In the far corners of the room, situated on two exquisite mahogany tables, were two similar glass vases, one bearing another two-dozen long stemmed pink roses and the other, two-dozen long stemmed red roses.

But the most astonishing and gratifying surprise of all, was the vision of a large standing vase, on the floor, near the window, bearing a wide assortment of flowers, all of which, at one time or another throughout the past year, he had noted that she loved. Her smile further deepened when her gaze fell upon a roll of parchment, bounded by a strip of ribbon, lying beside the base of the glass vase on her night table. With an anxious heart, she reached over, taking possession of the elegant piece of parchment and proceeded to release it from its bind. She unrolled it slowly, unwilling to end her suspense. It was an epistle written in superb penmanship by a precise and firm hand: the hand of her beloved. It read as follows:

My Beloved,

It is with the utmost adoration and regard that I sat to the task of conveying my feelings to you through this medium. But alas, I realized too late the difficulty of the task that I have set to myself. I would indeed be writing forever were I to do admirable justice to my heart. Therefore, my dearest heart, I pray that you will accept these few words as an abridged testimony of my enduring love for you.

One year together,
No more apart,
Útulië ‘n aurë, my wife,
For now thatÂ’s what thou art.
So long weÂ’ve been waiting,
So much weÂ’ve been through,
I cannot believe, vanimelda,
That now I am with you.
Whenever IÂ’m breathing,
I now know IÂ’m alive,
For thou my Undómiel
Art now my new life.
Choking was the pain,
Enduring the sorrow,
But with you IÂ’ve been blessed
For great happiness has followed.
When IÂ’m in Minas Tirith
Lying with you by my side,
I always look at you sleeping
With your eyes opened wide,
For I remember my Undómiel
When I was out in the night
I would always look for them
And their bright Elven-star light.
Then I used to be a Ranger,
Always used to be alone,
There had never been for me
A real place to call home.
Now thy arms are my harbour,
The only one I long to be
When IÂ’m cast ashore
By the waves of the sea.
Now thy smile is the bright light
That I always look for
When away into battle
I can find hope no more.
But I know thou art here
And thou always shall be
For thou art waiting, lotëlda,
Here at home just for me.
So I shall make you a promise
To always safely come home
For thou art the one reason
I reclaimed GondorÂ’s throne,
And from that one day forward
With you by my side
I feel like I shall win
All the battles to which I ride.
“Arwen Vanimelda, Namárië” I was
once fool enough to say,
now “Arwen Vanimelda, Metinyel”
I declare to thy Elven eyes of grey.

My dearest heart, every day spent with you has been a celebration. Every night spent with you has been a dream fulfilled. To thee I give these flowers, whose number equates that of the days since our memorable union. Each flower is intrinsically unique in its value and honors each day spent with you. May the Valar continue to bless us in our love, today, tomorrow, and forever.

Your loving husband, who is the happiest of men,

Estel

Arwen gently wiped the corners of her eyes before raising the letter to her lips, tenderly kissing it. Her enlightened glance sought the vases of flowers, where indeed it seemed that 365 stems of flowers were adeptly arranged in a lovely display. She arose, adorning her satin robe and slippers, before proceeding to each vase, inhaling the perfumed scent of their contents. She was still holding the epistle in her hand when the light pad of footsteps was heard on the lower floor of the bedroom. The privacy drapes hid her from view. However, she heard AragornÂ’s voice speaking in a hushed elvish tone to the servants. She carefully placed the invaluable epistle in the drawer of her nightstand and secured her robe around her.

The pleasant aroma of breakfast dishes drifted to her, effectively arousing her appetite. She was famished. She slid back the drapes to reveal a table spread with an intimate breakfast for two. Aragorn smiled up at her and gesticulated with a swift movement of his hand for the servants to depart.

“Did you sleep well, my dear?” he asked approaching her.

“Peacefully,” she said, her face glowing with a knowing smile.

Aragorn reached up, firmly lifting her down with a twirl from the three steps that separated them. Arwen threw her head back laughing before he sat her down on her feet. “Breakfast awaits you,” he said, his fingers caressing her locks.

Arwen kissed him firmly on his lips. “I need to refresh myself first,” she said hurriedly, making ready to depart.

Aragorn quickly grasped her hand, pulling her to him. The next moment he had her encircled in his arms. “Must you leave me now?” he asked sweetly. He began to nuzzle her ears.

Arwen chuckled. “I promise you, I only need a moment to refresh myself.”

Aragorn allowed his gaze to roam freely over her person. “Stunning!” he whispered, incontinently. “The most gifted artist to ever grace Arda can never do justice to your beauty.” He raised her hand to his lips, gently kissing it.

Arwen was abashed by his ardent words. Him, her exceedingly handsome husband, was still besotted by her, even after a year together. She allowed herself to be swept up in the moment, never begrudging him the freedom of his caresses. Their lips were joined in a passionate kiss and everything but breakfast forgotten.

“My beloved,” Arwen pleaded, after breaking the kiss, “our breakfast is growing cold and I am simply famished.” Aragorn sighed regretfully. Arwen smiled mischievously. “We do have the rest of the day together to spend as we so desire,” she reminded him.

This urged the hint of a sheepish smile to AragornÂ’s lips. He bent to kiss her firmly on her lips before allowing her to depart to refresh herself for breakfast. When she returned, Aragorn had already uncovered the dishes of food arranged on the table. She seated herself across from him, took a freshly baked roll, and proceeded to spread it lightly with butter.

Half way through breakfast, she realized Aragorn ate very little. Rather, he seemed content to tranquilly observe her while they engaged in light chatter. Eventually, she arose, going around the table to him. He extended his hand, gently seizing her around the waist and pulled her down unto his lap. “I enjoyed your poetry,” she told him earnestly. “The romance of poetry, the courtship of flowers, I want for nothing else.” She gently kissed his brow, his eyelids, and his cheeks.

“Nothing else? Are you certain?” Aragorn asked lightly, between her ministrations of affection.

Arwen smiled. “What else is there? Unless you are willing to compose a song in my honor.” The smile on Aragorn’s face stiffened. “Estel, did you write me a song?” asked she, a look of amusement shrouding her expression.

Aragorn laughed and Arwen smacked him lightly on the hand. “I am uncertain which scared me more: the thought of you writing me a song as lacking as you are in the language of music or the thought of mortifying you with the honest dispensation of my opinion.”

Aragorn’s laughter was augmented by her declaration. When it subsided, she looked into his light gray eyes saying, “A year together: a collection of countless special moments. How shall we celebrate?”

AragornÂ’s smile deepened. In answer, he rose to his feet, lifting her in his arms. He cautiously ascended the three marble steps to the platform on which stood their bed, and rested her upon the pillows.
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At sunset that day, while strolling in the gardens, the two were reminiscing upon the season they had spent together wandering the green planes of the hidden land. Above floors, in the royal suite, the servants were preparing the rooms according to their masterÂ’s request. The fine candle fixtures on the walls were resplendent with lighted candles. A pleasant aroma diffused through the air of the suite from the covered platters of dishes. Three musicians, grasping violins, were making preparations in a dimly lighted corner of the sitting room, while the servants continued to busy themselves with the arrangement of the repast.

“What is this?” asked Aragorn, whom Arwen was guiding carefully, a trace of amusement in his voice. The two were traversing the first floor near the library.

“You gave your word,” Arwen cheerfully reminded him.

Aragorn chuckled before lightly saying, “Indeed I did. But it is awfully uncomfortable being led this way.”

“You do not trust me?” Arwen asked, feigning an injured tone. “I promise you that no harm will come to any of your limbs and least of all, your handsome face.”

“Ah, she mocks me,” countered Aragorn.

“Indeed, no!” Arwen exclaimed. “But, here we are! You may open your eyes.”

The first vision Aragorn had was of his lovely wife beaming radiantly with anticipation. His gray eyes were adjusting to the soft lights of the room. He surreptitiously surveyed the room in a single glance. A slow smile warmed his lips. The smell of leather blended with a sweet scent pervaded the atmosphere. In the center of the room was a beautiful billiard table sculpted from fine mahogany wood. A newly arranged lounge area could be seen at the far end of the room near the mantle place. A combination of leather club chairs and matching ottoman completed the design of that section.

“Well, what do you think?” Arwen slowly asked him.

“Have you any conception of the impact you have created here?” asked he, trailing his finger along the delicate cloth of the billiard table.

“Pardon!” Arwen uttered, somewhat confused.

Aragorn smiled. “I cannot be held accountable if you see less of me from this day forward.”

Arwen smiled sweetly. “I can always have the billiard table removed to one of the guest rooms on our floor. Perhaps it would be of great comfort to you subsequent to your banishment there.”

Aragorn rolled his eyes. “Of what use are idle threats,” he said humorously. “They are as a blunted blade.”

Arwen laughed. “Even a blunted blade can inflict much harm. But seriously, do you like it?”

“I love it!” Aragorn simply stated. He embraced her in his arms, slightly lifting her off the floor.

A soft knock on the door jolted them from their playful banter. “Enter!” commanded Aragorn. It was Melian. “Arwen, Elessar,” Melian cheerfully greeted. “Well, was he pleased?” asked she of Arwen.

Arwen eyed Aragorn sedulously before answering, “Too pleased, I believe.” To Aragorn she said, “Thanks to the assistance of Melian, Amandil and several of our kindred.”

Aragorn took Melian’s hand and kissed it. “I assure you that I was only just now apprised of my indebtedness to you.”

“Not at all,” said Melian. “My contribution did not exceed anything beyond the satisfaction of a solicited opinion.”

“Nevertheless, you have my gratitude,” Aragorn returned. Melian bowed slightly.

“My darling,” interrupted Arwen, “we are long overdue for dinner. Forgive us, dear Melian. Avallon is probably quite irritable by now, thinking we have put his dinner plans to ruin.”

“Certainly,” said Melian, who watched as the amorous couple disappeared through the double doors. Her heart rejoiced for her cousin’s blissful condition but lamented for her own barren situation.
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Dinner was over and the servants were clearing away the remnants of the evening meal. The room was dimly illumined. The waning candlelight flickered from the draft through the open terrace doors. The serene music of the violin courted every ear that heard it and every heart that felt it. Aragorn and Arwen were no less entranced. Lost in their mutual regard, the two wiled away the evening, sometimes speaking endearingly to the other, sometimes dancing under the stars, and at other times, simply silent and enwrapped in the arms of the other. They were sincerely wealthy in their love. A love that was all the more exquisite being born of the constancy of one and the sacrifice of the other.

After the musicians were gone, the candles extinguished, and the night at its end, Aragorn and Arwen were left in solitude. The night had ended somberly. Aragorn had presented a portrait to his wife depicting great likenesses of her parents, grandparents, and her brothers. It was a gift he had commissioned of Elrohir, who had been quite eager to comply.

For Arwen, it was the likeness of Celebrian that most pierced her heart. The likeness was so perfect that she might have thought that her mother had sat for that exact painting. As it was, Elrohir had provided the elven artist with a former portrait of their mother, to imitate.

“I was hesitant about presenting it to you,” Aragorn softly admitted to Arwen. The two were standing on their softly illumined terrace.

Arwen reached up, gently caressing Aragorn’s hand, which rested on her shoulder. His face was buried in her fragranced hair, his eyes closed. She sighed. “Tis a lovely gift. One that is more valuable to me than all our earthly possessions combined.”

Aragorn gently spun her around to face him. Cupping her face in his hands, he said, “That is what I thought. I deemed it more meaningful to present you with such a gift, whose value surpasses that of all the precious gems that this kingdom could procure. One day you will come to look upon it with untarnished joy and that is all I hope for, for your sake.”

Arwen made no answer, but buried her face in the breast of her beloved.
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Peels of laughter could be heard along the hallways mingled with excited chatter. The majority of guests were directing their footsteps toward the ballroom. It was an unusual sight to behold. Flurries of colorful silken dresses, velvet tunics, silver belts, lengthy beards, and long miens were visible throughout the reception rooms. The Lord and Lady of Ithilien had arrived to a wide scale celebration. The people had partaken of this occasion during the earlier ceremony that day and the Lord and Lady of Ithilien, one could only guess, must have been exhausted by dinnertime. But if they were, there was very little trace of it. Their cheeks were aglow with the bliss of their newly cemented happiness and all thoughts of exhaustion were expelled from their minds.

The throng of elves, dwarves, and men patiently awaited the announcement of the guests of honor, whose presence was required to commence the dance. Eowyn, whose hair was golden as the sun, was adorned in a gown of a mellow yellow color. Faramir appeared very stately, in a wardrobe of dark blue velvet with gold embroidery. The two were absolutely radiant in their love, forgetting everyone, and exclusively attuned to the silent language of their hearts.

“Look at them,” Prince Imrahil was saying to King Eomer, “they are so much in love.”

Eomer, who was distracted by another lovely vision in the ballroom, nodded politely. “I have no doubt that they shall be happy together.” His furtive glance ascertained that Lothiriel was about to quit the room and he hastily voiced his excuses to Prince Imrahil before pursuing her footsteps.

At the threshold of the door, he halted her retreat. “You leave already?” asked he. The two had developed a friendship during her visit to Rohan.

Lothiriel smiled graciously. “I did not think that my presence would be regretted among this festive crowd, my lord,” replied she.

“The room already pales in vivacity with the loss of your laughter,” he declared earnestly.

Lothiriel blushed, not so much from the compliments bestowed upon her, but from the author of those compliments. The life she led had not sheltered her from the respectful adoration of other noble men. It was simply the pleasure felt from Eomer’s attention that tainted her cheeks with color. While in Rohan, she had enjoyed his companionship. He was nothing like she had imagined. On the contrary, she was quite at ease with him. He seemed to value their conversations and on numerous occasions had sought her company.”

Eomer saw that she blushed profusely and decided to promptly curtail her distress by asking her hand in the dance.

“With pleasure,” said she, accepting the hand he extended to her and grateful for the brief chance for recovery before any further observation.

Across the room, Nessa was introducing her mother to Erchirion, Lord Anarion, and Lady Erendi. The two older ladies were quickly comfortable with each other, and before long, they encouraged their young companions to join the couples on the ballroom floor.

Erchirion, however, accompanied Nessa, who was particularly anxious to quit the ballroom, into the gardens. For a time, the two strolled leisurely in mutual silence.

“Are you well, Nessa?” Erchirion inquired, the concern palpable in his voice.

Nessa smiled faintly. “I am well, thank you,” said she.

The two strolled on, but Erchirion was unconvinced. “You are altered in attitude since last I saw you.”

Nessa felt her eyes moisten. She firmly pressed her lips together to restrain the piteous emotions that swelled within her breast and threatened to betray her frailty. She was grateful for the darkness of the night. “I have reason to be,” she answered in a strange voice. “My mother is here and my joy at beholding her is limitless.”

Erchirion hesitated. “And I would be pleased with that explanation if I did not sense a feeling of melancholy about you.”

“Be satisfied that what ever it is that ails me is sure to pass away quickly,” said she to Erchirion.

“Since you speak with such certainty, I must believe you.” Nessa smiled weakly, but in the dimly lighted garden, Erchirion was ignorant of this. “This humidity is unbearable,” said he, after a time. “Would you care for a cold beverage?”

Nessa accepted his offer. He glanced around worriedly but she stayed his concern. “I will be fine,” she assured him. He hesitated for another instant before finally taking his leave.

Nessa, whose eyes had now grown quite accustomed to the dark, noticed that a solitary figure sat on one of the stone benches that were ubiquitously situated throughout the gardens. It was Melian and she had heard every word of Nessa and ErchirionÂ’s verbal exchange.

“Why Melian, what are you doing here?” asked she with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment.

“Star gazing,” replied Melian. “I have not done it for some time.”

“Might I join you?” asked Nessa.

“Certainly,” answered Melian. Nessa joined her and she began to instruct her in the names of various stars, briefly alluding to the history behind a few.

After some time had passed, the two lapsed into a peaceful silence. “Did you overhear my conversation with Erchirion?” Nessa demurely asked Melian.

Melian nodded. “Unfortunately,” she confessed. “I thought it would do more harm than good to alert you to my presence.”

Nessa nodded. “Am I really that altered in appearance?”

“Nessa, you grow more beautiful each day,” Melian warmly replied. “Did not your mother comment on your enhanced beauty?”

Nessa smiled. “Show me a mother who does not think her child the most beautiful creature in the world.”

Melian chuckled. “I can brook no argument there.”

“Melian, how can you determine if your regard for someone is authentic?” Nessa solemnly asked.

Melian had stiffened. The question was quite unexpected. “I do not presume to be a judge in such matters,” said she. Nessa was beginning to feel disappointed, when Melian suddenly continued. “I think love is suppose to be selfless and I would tend to use that as a measure to determine its authenticity.”

Nessa exhaled painfully. “I suppose that means desiring happiness for the one you love even if it means being excluded from sharing in that happiness.”

“Yes,” Melian confirmed in a somber voice. “No matter the pain.” She grasped Nessa’s hand, lightly squeezing it. “Give it time, Nessa. He is not ready.”

“You know of whom I speak?” asked she in alarm. Melian nodded. “What must he think of me? Was I that obvious?”

“Indeed no!” Melian re-assured her.

“Is everyone aware of this?” Nessa demanded, almost dreading the answer.

“My darling, calm yourself,” Melian admonished.

“How can I be calm? This is too much. Where was my discretion?”

Melian hugged her to her side. “Do not alarm yourself! I assure you that no one thinks poorly of you! Since when has innocent love been sullied by shame?”

“Does Arwen know?” asked Nessa irrationally.

“Just once, a very long time ago, she had expressed some concern for your feelings in the event that something like this occurred. That is all.”

“I have been such a fool, Melian. The signs were there, but I chose to ignore them. Never again shall I be guided by my heart.”

Melian silently agreed with her and therefore said nothing. Instead, she took care to enlighten her further on Amandil. “Unlike Elessar, the desire to wander has not yet cooled in his heart. A relationship is a distraction, an obstacle even, and one that would deprive him of his liberty.”

Nessa seemed in a trance. “I am barely past one score in years, and already I have loved and lost,” she mourned. “The bloom of my years reaps me naught. I am lost.”

Melian smiled at the fatality of her young friend’s words. “You are descended from the Northern Dunedain, from father and mother. Do not be deceived by the bloom you have already seen. There are many years of growth before you, both in beauty and in mind. Your life has just begun. Have faith! One day you will be justly rewarded.”

“Your words comfort me. You inspire me to hope, yet, it has served me ill, prey as I was, this past year, to its whimsical tendencies.”

“Hope abandoned leads to despair and despair has no wings,” Melian reproached. “You are young, Nessa. You will soar again.” In the darkness, she perceived Nessa’s silent tears and knew that she suffered more cruelly than it appeared. Melian embraced her, at first tentatively, having no desire to exacerbate her distress. But Nessa, by now, had succumbed to the full enormity of her sorrows, prompting her comforter to strengthen her arms around her, willing her strength to support her.

Fortunately, Erchirion was impotently detained in the mansion by the social exchanges of several acquaintances. By the time he returned to the gardens in search of Nessa, Melian informed him of NessaÂ’s regrets for being unable to bid him good night. She had retired early, pleading an indisposition. Erchirion thanked Melian for her information and proceeded to offer her the cold beverage that he had reserved for Nessa.

Some time later, after Melian had retreated to the mansion, Erchirion strolled the gardens alone, lost in solemn meditation.
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“I never imagined such wide spread celebration to welcome me into this kingdom,” Eowyn declared to her husband, while travailing the gardens. “It warms my heart to be thus welcomed.” She was leaning comfortably on his arm.

Faramir smiled. “My people have not forgotten your heroic deed,” said he, proudly. Eowyn smiled. He touched her face gently. “To them you are the shield maiden who slew the Witch King, and to me, you are the conqueror of my heart, the savior of soul. These past weeks with you has amplified my appreciation for life. I view it through the altered eyes of a husband, a lover, and a friend. The magnitude of my pleasure in sharing my days with you is indescribable. Welcome home, my love!”

“Indeed I am home,” responded she, “for I must reside where my heart is. And to you my husband, I have pledged my word and heart in a felicitous bond of enduring love. You cannot imagine my ecstasy to at last be home, where our dreams and future abound. Here, I know I shall be happy, and my husband no less situated.”

Then the two embraced in love and Faramir took his wife lips in a warm and passionate kiss, under the stars of Minas Tirith, the sacred place of their first meeting.

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The story will continue in Dol Amroth.