The camp was quiet except for the gentle sound of the winds in the tall grasses and the soft song of the crickets, signing to their lovers in the night. The ranger, for that was the man he felt he truly was, sought not the comforts of his bedroll but those of his thin-barreled pipe. Sitting against the foot of a tree, his sword resting carefully next to him, the words of the Evening Star played on his mind.
As the winds from the north brought the summer heat, so it seemed the night breeze carried whispers from Rivendell. The past, Aragorn had found, even at its most agonizing moments, was still a greater pleasure to dwell on than the unknown and ever darker future.
The voice of one he knew he would never hear again haunted him like phantom lights in a storm. They called to him with promises from the tender beginnings of a love stronger than any illusion, only to be crushed by the weight of knowledge. Arwen was traveling to the Undying Lands, where she would soon come to forget the sixty years she had spent in the arms of the last dúnedain, washed away in the sight of three thousand years of memories.
The light of the evening star does not wax and wane.
Aragorn brought the pipe to his lips but could not complete the act; the words were heard as clearly now as they fell upon his heart as when they had fallen upon his ears all those months ago.
It is mine to give to whom I will, like my heart.
A war, possibly greater than any he had ever fought, but not as great as the ones he feared to come, waged in his soul. For it is never good for the heart and the head to disagree in such ways.
"Go to sleep," whispered the winds and the wisps, and Aragorn felt his heavy eyes obeying.
"I am asleep."
The tree that held up the ranger relaxed its bark and melted into pillows of silk and feathers. His war-torn clothes—rough, dirty, and bloodstained—changed into soft, cleanly pressed fabric. The snores and loud breaths of the sleeping camp were replaced by the soothing sounds of Rivendell: the river, the harp, the birds.
The elvish princess sat perched on the edge of a bench as she watched her love fall into the dream. His eyes were shut but he did not sleep. Arwen knew her ranger far too well to assume he would have gotten any rest on his quest of late.
The man opened his eyes to find the face of the one who summoned him there.
"This is a dream," Aragorn said, never one to fall into the vice of waking fantasies.
Arwen smiled softly, he was always so practical, so focused on his next move. "Then it is a good dream," her lilting voice spoke as the elleth leaned down and pressed her lips against his. The kiss was pure, peaceful and full of the love that flowed between the two. Her hands came to rest on his chest and shoulders as she slowly rubbed his tired body with a healer's touch, willing her presence into his straining muscles and aching bones.
The back of the ranger-king's hand came up to caress Arwen's cheek. She was more beautiful than anything he had seen in all his travels. Four blue eyes locked, and both elf and man lost themselves in the other, falling deep into the calming tides of their loving gaze.
Arwen broke free first and concern filled her as she took in the exhausted state of her mortal. She glided the tips of her fingers down the side of his face, whispering her earlier command once more, before pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. Arwen sat up, her fingers moving to graze over his chin and throat as if he was a marble statue and she its critic. With one last look to make sure he obeyed, she left the chaise.
Looking out at the valley, Arwen let herself imagine a time when they could be together with no boundaries between them. A time when she could bind herself to him without her father's disapproval, without worry that the ranger-king wouldn't come home from an impossible journey. A future that had once shown ever bright, and now seemed to slip further and further away from them.
It was no sooner than his love leaving the seat, that the ranger reopened his eyes. He watched as Arwen walked to the edge of the pavilion and looked out across the land.
"You once told me," he started, and she turned back to look at him. "This day would come."
"This is not the end," she said, knowing the words which he remembered so heavily. "It is the beginning. You must go with Frodo. That is your path."
Aragorn stood up and closed the distance between the two. Pulling her close, he rested his forehead on hers, the softness of her eleven skin still calmed him after all these years. "My path is hidden from me."
"It is already laid before your feet," Arwen contradicted, passion and truth filling her words. "You cannot falter now," it was as much a warning as a statement. She believed with all her soul that he would not fail, not now. The object of her love seemed to overcome every obstacle thrown into his path.
"Arwen," his strangled reply began but she stopped him with an unhurried hand to his lips. They needn't rush.
"If you trust nothing else, trust this," the elleth cupped the evenstar that hung around his neck. If there was ever a doubt in his mind, she willed that he would know what he held around his neck. "Trust us," she begged. Her hand and came to a rest above his heart, her heightened touch feeling it hum beneath her fingers.
Aragorn covered her hand with his, noticing for the first time that his roughly cracked and calloused hands had been restored for the time. His hands had not been this soft since the first time he had left Rivendell as a young man. He had been ready for adventure, for freedom and independence, now he would give anything to return to the simplicity of Estel.
He gazed into her eyes, they were love and compassion incarnate. He took refuge from his worries under their soft and warm urging. Pressing his lips to hers with gentle force, coveting the way her actions pliantly pleaded for more of his soul, his heart, his being. He was at rest and restless, his heart calm but racing, his hands sure but trembling. She was his everything.
He would return to the war for all mankind tomorrow. Tonight, he would have his peace.