A/N: Sister-song to Memories, which may be found on my profile. This tale is the product of a demented imagination that does not own the Lord of the Rings and has problems with coherent explanations.
Aragorn the king slept lightly in his days as Strider.
But always in his dreams he came to one place, a meadow of green-gold light, the dappled shadows of the trees playing across a fallen tree on one edge. It was his refuge, his sanctuary in the madness of the days.
She did not come to him until the Fellowship had been formed, and had gone on from Rivendell.
When camp had been made, and Legolas assigned first watch, Aragorn abandoned himself to sleep, and sleeping, dreamt.
He dreamt of his glade, and the fallen tree lying across it. For the first time, there was another in the meadow. Seated on the the tree was a slight figure, raven hair falling to obscure her face, but Aragorn knew her all the same.
"Arwen?" he said.
She looked up, and he could hear the laughter in her voice. "Hello, love."
"Am I dreaming?" he asked her.
"Yes," she said.
"I don't care," Aragorn said.
"I did not think you would," she said, smiling.
"Arwen?" he called across the empty glade.
"Hello, love," a voice whispered teasingly into his ear.
"Arwen," he scolded, but his heart was not in it.
"Welcome back, lord," she said, brushing his hair out of his face.
He caught her wrist, and looked down into her face. "I love you," he said. "Even if this is but a dream."
"It is merely a dream," she said, "and you that know full well. Have we not met every night?"
"Every night is not near often enough for me," he said.
"Why are you so perfect?" he asked her once, as they sat together.
"Because I am not real," she said.
"You are real," he said. "You are real to me."
She shook her head. "You would not love me if I were," she said.
"Would I not?" he said. "You are so certain."
She rose from his side, and looked out across the quiet meadow, into the hazy distance, the trees fading slowly into shadow. "You love Arwen," she said.
"You are Arwen," he said, confused.
"Am I?" she said. "You are so certain."
"Éowyn," said Arwen, frowning.
"What of her?" Aragorn asked, as he seated himself on their log.
"Dear heart," said Arwen, "you are very blind to some things."
"How," he demanded, "am I blind to the king's niece?"
"She loves you," Arwen said.
"Oh."
Arwen shifted on the grass. "Or more like she is in love with the idea of you, not the true Aragorn."
"I love you alone," he said.
"I know," she said. "But be gentle to the girl, my love."
It was not until he awoke, lying there alone, that he realized how he loved her, Arwen, this Arwen. More than anything, his heart longed to see her, to feel her, to hold her once again.
"Is reality so much more real than a dream?" he said softly into the night.
"My lord?" said a voice, Legolas', immediately.
"I am sorry," he said, turning away from the campfire. "I did not realize I woke you."
"Dreams," Legolas persisted.
"We do not mourn," Aragorn said slowly, "when we depart our loved ones in reality and dream. So why sorrow to wake?"
Legolas was silent for a long time. "I once gave my heart to a mortal," he said slowly, softly. "And I sorrowed to lose even one moment to sleep. I cannot answer your question, my lord."
There was the rush of battle, the headlong charge, an orc appearing out of nowhere. There was a feeling of endless falling over the edge of the cliff, until he struck the water, and blackness closed over him.
Aragorn found himself lying on his back, in the grass of his familiar meadow, but it was not the same. The soft darkness of night blanketed it, and he could see the bright stars above him.
"Aragorn?" said Arwen's voice. "Aragorn, what are you doing here?"
For the first time since he had dreamt of her, she sounded afraid.
"I am with you," he tried to say, but his tongue would not obey him, and his head ached.
"What have you done?" she said, and he felt her hands ghosting over his forehead, checking for injury.
"Fell..." he slurred. "Over cliff..."
"Aragorn," she murmured. "You are badly hurt. But you must go back, my love, and return to fight."
"Want to stay with you," he managed.
"Love," she said, "with me, you are dying. And you must live, you must live and return to the true Arwen, whom you love."
"Arwen," he murmured, but she could not tell whether he spoke of her or the other.
She brushed his long hair out of his face, and leaned down, and kissed him. And as she kissed him, she felt him fading away from beneath her, leaving her all alone.
In the glittering streets of Minas Tirith, a thousand throats cried, "All Hail King Elessar!"
But the king had eyes only for one elf-maid, who stood before him, smiling.
"Arwen?" he said incredulously.
"Hello, love," she said. The words were so incredibly familiar, and his heart wrenched. But her beauty seemed somehow less luminous than he remembered, and her voice less melodic.
"Is it really you?" he asked later, when they were alone.
"Of course it is," she laughed. "Who else?"
And he almost replied.
"I love you, Aragorn," she murmured, nestling her head against his shoulder.
"I love you, too," he said. "You're my best dream." And it frightened him a little, how easily the lie slipped out.