Aragorn pushed open the door of the bedchamber. So sunk in thought of Arwen was he that he was startled to find her sitting at the window, as if he had summoned her. Her chin rested on her hand, elbow propped on the sill, and she seemed to gaze at something outside, but her eyes were unfocussed and distant with sleep. They seemed also reddened and terribly grieved, even in repose. Has she been weeping? Aragorn wondered.

A flare of protective anxiety surprised him in its ferocity. I care for her. I love her. The idea gelled into reality even as he said it to himself. I do love her, though in not the same manner as she loves me. How can I hurt her this way?

He drifted forward, compelled, studying her face as if he had never seen it before. I remember our first night together, our first night as husband and wife – I lay awake for hours, watching her sleep, this beautiful being that had deigned of her own free will to bind herself to me. Ah, Valar, Great Ones, forgive me, I was not worthy – but I cannot do this thing. Though it be for my good and hers, I cannot send her away!

His hand reached unconsciously to stroke her hair, dark tresses shining with the light of Telperion. My wife—

The gentle touch woke her. Feeling his proximity, she started to her feet, tensing, the back of her hand pressing to her mouth to stifle a cry. Her eyes were wide with shock and something akin to fear.

"Arwen?" Confounded by her response, Aragorn let his hand fall uncertainly to his side. "What ails you, dear one?"

The reactive fear slid away, replaced by disbelieving anger. "Sweet words, Aragorn?" she asked heatedly. "Am I to credit them?"

"What—" In one great rush of hideous, nauseating realisation, he comprehended, biting off his half-formed question. By all holy! She knows! She knows!

For long minutes, they stood paralysed, staring at each other, a maelstrom of emotions seething beneath the silence that stretched between them. Then Aragorn's expression seemed to crumple, and his hands came up to cover his face. "How…?"

"Does it truly matter?" Her voice was a mélange of pain, fury, bitterness. "I believe that the more pertinent question would be why."

Aragorn looked up at her, and the remorse and guilt in his eyes at once rent her heart and turned her stomach. "I love him," he replied at last, a helpless whisper.

She choked out an incredulous laugh. "Indeed?" she inquired harshly. "A fine time you choose to tell me, my husband!"

"Arwen, I swear to you – I never meant to wrong you!"

With a dry sob, she turned away, collapsed into her chair. "Elbereth," she pleaded, gazing out the window at the gathering dusk. "Gilthoniel, Tintallë…" She lapsed into her own language, speaking too softly for Aragorn to hear.

Long after her muted prayer had ended, they remained where they were: she looking away into the distance, he standing silent behind her. A tableau, lit by the setting sun, that might have appeared tender and peaceful in a different circumstance.

At last, Arwen breached the silence, her voice painstakingly deliberate to prevent its breaking. "What will you do, Aragorn?" Weary, deeply wounded, yet somehow not the tone of one who expected a major change in her own way of life.

"My wife…" Estë, sweet-worded one, help me now. "I would not hold you as my wife any longer. It would be a great sin—" Bitterly, he added, "Greater than that which I have already done you."

Her head whipped toward him, fathomless shock blanching her expression. "You would divorce me?" As swiftly as it had paled, her face flushed, and she rose sharply to stand eye to eye with her husband. "In favour of your – your – catamite?"

He is older than you, a corner of Aragorn's mind said helpfully, but the observation was irrelevant. A fell rage knotted his stomach, and he felt his teeth gritting. "Speak not so of him," he ground out, struggling to hold his voice level.

She made a derisive sound. "So the King keeps his lover in secret, with a fair wife to display on formal occasions."

Fumbling at the back of his neck, Aragorn replied, "I would give you an honourable divorce, Arwen—" He extended his hand.

"No, Aragorn!" she cried, recoiling from what he proffered, shaking her head in wretched denial. "Do you not understand? I love you!" She shut her eyes, and a single tear slipped trembling from her lashes, betrayed her. "I love—"

Abruptly she whirled and fled from the room, leaving Aragorn standing stunned, the light of the Evenstar dangling from his outstretched fingers.