-1Chapter 1

The night was cold and the restless wind blew white petals from the tree in Gondor's court. Aragorn stood before it staring into the sky with weary eyes. Amazing that those same stars shone down on him but a year ago when all the armies of Mordor were loosed and Gondor fought desperately for its existence. There came a soft rustle behind him but Aragorn knew it so well that he didn't turn to it. The voice of Queen Arwen broke the silence.

"My love, you look tired. Does the night trouble you again?" She laid a slim hand on his shoulder and he took it in his, brushing a kiss gently across the skin and turning towards her. In her arms she held tightly rapped their son no more than a month old. Aragorn smiled gently down at his son with fatherly pride as he answered his bride.

"It troubles me less and less, but still it burdens my heart." He returned his gaze to the stars, his voice quavering. "I look to Elbereth for wise counsel and a hopeful peace but she is silent tonight."

"You still bare guilt of what fate you sent Frodo into, but it was his choice and his alone that took him to Mount Doom — and had he not, the ring would be in the hands of Souron and there would be not hope for Middle Earth. Shake the guilt from your shoulders and look upon your son." She shifted the sleeping babe into his father's arms.

Aragorn smiled once more. The petals of the white tree eddied gracefully in the night wind around the child's head as if forming him a crown. Moonlight cast shadows upon the babe's eyelids and Aragorn pulled his cloak around his son's tiny body. For a moment his cares were forgotten.

Just then a guard came up from one of the lower citadels with sword drawn. "Lord! King Eomer of Rohan cries for aid! The beacons were seen lit not but five minutes ago; Do we ride lord?"

Aragorn sighed and gently slipped the babe back into his mother's waiting embraces. "We ride, Elthmon. Prepare the horses and gather the horsemen." Elthmon ran to obey but Aragorn turned back to Arwen, wearily drawing his sword. "The scum of Mordor are not yet obliterated and while they still roam there shall be no peace in my heart; such are the burdens of a King."

"Did you not know it to be so from when you still stumbled barefoot as a child over the paving stones of Rivendell?"

"Yes. I knew it even then." Aragorn glanced longingly towards the stars but no voice descended to give counsel. He began towards the great gate at the end of the courtyard, turning back only to bid Arwen inside before the babe became chilled, and he walked out of the gate with head erect on tired shoulders.

On the third citadel Aragorn was brought his steed. The music in the taverns still rang softly but the clink of armor was quickly smothering it. Horses stamped impatiently held by young stable hands who were awed at the sight of the assembling men at arms. Aragorn himself — who wore now a crowned helm and gold breastplate along with other such armaments — stood alone overseeing the process.

Pages scampered back and forth on errands and the like, busy with their work as slowly men began to seep into the streets, mounted and armed. Soon the procession began their narrow way down to the first citadel and out of the great gates now repaired of the damage caused by the Dark Army's battering ram.

Such a grand sight! Standards were flown from every tower of Gondor to see them off as they marched in long ranks with Aragorn at the head, the great banner that Arwen had so carefully sewn a year-and-a-half ago flying from his spear.

Eomer paced the great hall of Meduseld impatiently. His sister could do nothing for him accept for watch anxiously from the side. A page stepped hesitantly into the room and made his way through the shadows to her side, afraid of the king's mood.

"Did you have the beacons lit?" Eowyn asked in a whisper.

The page nodded twice, keeping his eyes averted from hers.

Eowyn glanced worriedly towards her brother. "Good. Though Aragorn and Eomer are friends, my brother's pride does not allow him to call for aid — and if we do not, it shall not only be the Riddermark that diminishes in numbers…." She left her sentence unfinished, cringing at the thought. "The orcs remaining yet in the land are becoming braver. If help does not come soon, Rohan shall be just another empty waist riddled with the dead and strewn with ashes. But help must come; it must!"

Eowyn bid the page, who had been standing nervously at her side, to leave and he scampered away. Hesitantly she stepped from her place aside one of the great pillars, her thoughts racing. Dare she approach him at such a time? His mood was foul after news of the latest attack on the riders of the Riddermark where the lives of at least thirty good men where snuffed from the land's archives. But she could not bare to see him suffer so, agonizing, mourning and raging about the loss night and day. Pushing her own fear aside, she approached him.

"My lord, my brother… will you not at least eat a morsel or drink a mouthful? Maybe I could call for the minstrels and the Bards; surely you miss their music and gayety?" Reaching his side she gently placed a hand on his shoulder but he shrugged it aggressively aside.

"Never, my sister! Never until the land is healed and my people's grieving at an end! Long have we suffered and as King I must suffer too! For what is a king who will live in luxury while his people starve: would laugh and sing while his people mourn?"

"No less a King for lifting his spirits so as to be able to rule his people with a wise mind and kind heart and with his laughter bring joy and hope back to their hearts."

But Eomer turned his face hastily away from hers, a scowl spread across it. "My mind has already been set and try thee not to detour it. We march on the orcs!"

Eowyn gasped. "But my lord! This is most foolish a thing that you ever could do! You do not know where the orcs take dwelling and even if you did they still number far above our own. You ride to your death if you go!"

"Never the less my mind will not sway; my decision stands! I, along with the remains of the Riddermark and those willing of my people, will march to war!"

"No!" Eowyn gasped and drew back into the shadows appalled and in fright, leaving her brother standing alone in the golden halls of meduseld, a lonely figure bathed in a single pillar of moonlight that descended into the room through an opening in the ceiling covered over with rock crystal. Making her way swiftly to the battlements she halted beneath the flying emblem of Rohan, a horse running over green fields and gazed up at it and beyond where she could see the light of the first beacon burning bright into the sky. Staring at it with wishful eyes, one could almost picture her in the forests of Lorien, golden hair streaming behind her in the breeze. And as she stood there with gown billowing about her, she whispered a prayer:

"Hasten Aragorn. Hasten for the sake of my brother and the lives of many; ride swiftly to us, ere my brother rides to his death!" And the wind took her prayer and bore it to the skies.

The same wind swirled about Aragorn as he rode forth from Gondor to aid his friend in Rohan's need. And bore upon it came what seemed to Aragorn's keen ears a light whisper, but he could not make out the words. Behind him as he looked back over one shoulder towered Minas Tirith and it's seven citadels of white stone that glistened beneath moonlight. Before him stretched plains running long and far before ever reaching Rohan and the halls of Meduseld. The weary burden he had felt upon his shoulders earlier that night had not grown less but now weighted his mind all the more and he glanced at the stars again, hoping to take comfort in their ever watchful gaze. But none came and the night continued as dark and heart-burdening as it had begun.