As he slept, he dreamed.
And in the dream, he was Strider again.
Not Aragorn, the son of Arathorn, nor Elesar, King of Gondor and Arnor, but Strider: the Dunedin ranger of the north, dressed once again in his old, familiar leathers.
His reflection stared up at him from a small puddle of water, and he smiled at the face he beheld there, for it was young again, the face of the prime of his life.
The pains of his old age were beyond him now, and he reveled in the joy of his old strength returned.
Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply of the cool autumn breeze blowing gently across his face and through his hair, and listened to the small noises it made as it wound its way through the grasses which surrounded him.
And when he had opened his eyes and lifted his head, he found that he stood upon the Pelennor Fields; the white city of Minas Tirith, shining brightly in the sun, on his left hand, and Osgiliath, sprawled out across the river Anduin, upon his right.
A mist rose up before him then, and in it he began to see visions of his past, laid out as if he stared into a mirror that had been filled with his memories.
He saw himself first as a child: playing with his mother in the woods of Rivendell, under the watchful eyes of Elrond, who had taken in and sheltered them both so many years ago.
And then, as a young man: riding to war alongside Thengal, then King of Rohan, and his Rohirrim; the thundering of thousands of hoof beats shattering the stillness of the morning air.
And then older: back-to-back with Haldir, as they and the Elves fought against orcs and goblins in the northern Lorien, driving them back to their holes deep within the Misty Mountains.
And then older still: watching Hobbits, first singing and dancing atop the tables of the Inn of the Prancing Pony in Bree, and then cheering and crying for him as he accepted the crown and kingship of the people from whom long ago he had chosen exile.
But yet, though his life unfolded out before him, he did not see her, and he longed to now, with all his heart.
As the mist of his memories faded away, he felt a gentle nudge at his shoulder.
Turning round, his breath caught in his throat; for standing there was Brego, his stallion of old, dead these many years, as royal and magnificent looking as he remembered.
Instinctively, his hand reached for his pocket, and finding an apple there, he fed it to him.
Whispering loving words in Elven to the majestic creature, he stroked the proud head, and patted the strong neck, and Brego nickered happily at him in return.
As he mounted the mighty warhorse, the silence of the air was rent asunder by the sounding of a horn of Gondor, and so he turned his steed and beheld two riders approaching him, galloping hard from Minas Tirith.
As they drew near, his eyes widened with wonder, for he recognized them: Boromir and Faramir, the sons of Denethor, last steward of Gondor, each resplendent in their armor, looking as they had when he had ridden with them in the days of their glory.
They hailed and saluted their king, bowing low before him when they had dismounted. He grasped their arms in comradeship and begged them tell how they came to be here, alive long after their deaths. They replied that they knew not, but only that they were come to aid him in his quest for her, if he wished it so.
And so, somehow knowing that she was not to be found in Gondor, the three struck out towards Rohan, in order to inquire of her there.
And when the three had gained theborder, there came they upon two more riders and friends, clad in their shining armor of old: Theoden and his nephew Eomer, again both long dead, yet somehow here in his hour of need.
And he saluted them: his Brother-King, and his Captain of the Rohirrim, and they greeted him and welcomed him back to Rohan.
He begged them tell him news of her, and they shook their heads and told him they had none, but that if he would have their company they would ride with him and help him search.
And so the three became five, and rode on to Edoras, and there were greeted at the gates by more old comrades who could not be there but were: Hama, and Gamling and gruff old Grimbold, who bowed to them and escorted them to the steps of the great golden hall.
There, upon the steps, stood Eowyn, as young and lovely as he remembered, and she hugged him and kissed his cheek, and bid him welcome to Meduseld.
He thought, for a moment, that he saw a flicker of sadness in her eyes when he asked had she seen her, but he could not be certain of it. She replied that she had not but that she wished him well in his search.
So he thanked her and kissed her hand, and then the five rode out to continue their journey.
To Fangorn they rode, and there met Treebeard, shepherding new trees from there to Isengard, but he could tell them nothing of her, and so on they rode.
They spoke with the last of the Elves in Lorien, and then with the newly returned Dwarves of Moria, but none could say anything of her whereabouts, and so turning to ride south, they came upon two more companions of old sitting there by the wayside, awaiting them: Legolas, Prince of the Green Elves, and Gimli, son of Gloin.
And they greeted their third hunter and asked to join his quest. Overjoyed at the sight of them, he embraced them, his two closest friends, and of the tears that flowed down his cheeks, he was not ashamed.
So the five became now seven, and they rode on with fresh hope rising within them.
Then they forded the Isen, and searched all throughout Eregion. They inquired at Rivendell, in the hope that she might be awaiting him at the last homely house, yet none there knew where she might be found.
They sought her at Weathertop, and asked of her at Bree, but no one had seen her, and so they galloped away.
The seven pressed their search through Buckland, to Hobbiton, and there found three more awaiting them: Merry, and Pippen, and Sam, and they all cried to be reunited once more.
He asked them had they seen her, and they sadly told him no, but they offered him their company, and so the seven became now ten.
But on the road, they met old Tom Bombadil, who told them he knew not of her, but that he had seen from afar a great light at the Grey Havens. So they thanked him and rode on as fast as their mounts would carry them.
As the ten drew near unto their destination, they heard a voice singing gently upon the wind. Hope rose in his chest at the sound of it, for he was certain it was her.
And so they followed the song, riding swiftly through the streets to the docks, where a white ship lay anchored. There a fire burned, brightly blazing, as if it were a signal to guide him here.
Standing there, on the pier, were three more old friends long since departed for the Undying Lands: Elrond and Galadriel, and even old Bilbo Baggins, and they bowed their heads to him, as he dismounted and approached.
Her song was still there, quietly surrounding them, but though he looked all about him, he still could not see her.
Then anguish and despair arose like a serpent within his breast, and he begged them to reveal her whereabouts.
Without a word, Galadriel, smiling with the wisdom of ages, stepped aside and waived her arm towards the ship.
And so he ascended the gangplank, up and onto the ship, and there, in the middle of the deck, stood a smiling figure robed all in white.
Gandalf bowed deeply to him and in answer to his unasked question, pointed towards the foredeck of the ship.
There, at the prow, underneath the figurehead, atop a large coil of rope, sat Frodo, calmly smoking a pipe, his smoke rings spiraling upwards on the gentle sea breeze.
He smiled at the little Hobbit, tears in his eyes, and embraced him as he would a brother.
When he could speak again, he told him of his long search for her and asked if he knew ought of it.
And when he had said this, Frodo laughed at him, and said, "Silly old Strider! She is right beside you! Only open your eyes and you will see!"
Then everything disappeared, and he began to feel as if he were falling. Yet, her song was still there, urging him onwards towards a tiny light in the distance.
Drawing courage and strength from the memories of all his old friends, he began to move towards the light.
Yet as it grew nearer, he began to feel his strength slip away, but he would not be denied now, and so he pushed on with all the might his will could muster.
He began to feel old again, the familiar aches and pains returning to haunt him once more, yet he could still hear her song, and with a great, final effort of his will he reached the end of the long tunnel.
The light poured in as he opened his eyes, making everything fuzzy at first, but, as his vision cleared, he saw at last her face come into view, as she sat by his bedside, gently singing to him.
He felt so tired and weak, that he knew he could not stay awake for very long, so with the last of his strength, he smiled at her and whispered her name.
"Arwen. My love."
She took his hand in hers, and smiled lovingly at him, her eyes bleeding tears freely down her beautiful face.
He closed his eyes, to tired to remain awake any longer, and just before oblivion overtook him, he told himself that he must remember when next he awoke to ask her why she was crying.