It was dark outside, which meant he had missed dinner again and he should have been home quite a while ago. The window of The Oliphant's Tusk was gray and fogged, but he could see the sky well-enough. He had thought the alehouse was a strangely named place until after he had followed Hildanir through the front door—the bar's rail was made completely from the tusks of a mûmak. Aragorn made a mental assessment that if Haradrim were ever to visit Minas Tirith, he would never allow them to come within a stone's throw of the place. They might have another war upon seeing the beasts they loved treated so carelessly.
Another round of ale was set in front of them, the whole tavern flooded with soldiers of Gondor who were off duty and could find no better place where they would rather be. Aragorn, cordially invited because he happened to be in the right location at the right moment, sat across from Mennev as the man laughed at another joke from a fellow soldier. The evening had been good for him, spending time with men who were as earthen as he used to be, though he had never spent much time with others when he had taken the name Strider, or Thorongil, for that matter. But it was good to remind oneself from time to time that you were only a man, not a King…and this happy meeting with the guard of his citadel was more than welcome. And a good drink was a help after having so many days with far too much weighing on his mind.
He had, however, over the last half-hour, become a bit more withdrawn. Something, somewhere, was beginning to worry him. It had been gnawing away at him like an old wound that pained for no reason; a strange likeness, but that was how it felt to him. He could not quite place the oddness, the strange thought that he ought to be elsewhere…or that he was needed elsewhere. But he felt nothing from Arwen, and had heard no news, and there were no idiots saying foul things to him tonight. But still…it was late enough.
Lifas shoved Hildanir in the shoulder, unusually powerful due to the amount of ale he had consumed. "So where's the pretty lass you been seein'? Haven't seen her much in the last few days."
Hildanir shook his head. "No, we are…not seeing one another anymore."
Aragorn's head came up as he heard the conversation coming from behind him. He was all surprise to hear that Hildanir was not seeing the apothecary's daughter; he had been taken by her for quite some time.
"What? You're over the moon for that girl!"
"I was," Hildanir replied, and though his voice was loud enough to be heard, it was clear he was not pleased. Lifas clearly sighed and hit him on the shoulder; Aragorn could tell the sounds.
"I'm sorry to hear that, lad. What happened?"
"It was a…differing of opinions," he said, avoiding a complete answer. Aragorn had half-a-moment to wonder about what had happened before his thoughts were interrupted by a holler.
"Goin' for another round, my Lord?" asked Mennev, nodding toward the half-pint sitting before Aragorn, and the man held up a hand.
"I think I have finished for the evening, Mennev. It is time for me to be heading home."
"Must get home to the missus!" he said with a nod. "Aye, we'll see you in the morning!"
Aragorn smiled at him, bowed his head. "It was good to be here tonight. Enjoy the rest of it." He stood and took his leave of the considerable group of men within the tavern; by the time he made his way outside, it was over half-an-hour. The shadow that had been seemingly following him for the time before he had left was hanging over him quite steadily now. He still could not point to anything specific, but he knew his heart well enough. He needed to be home, and he could smell a storm in the air.
"My Lord," he heard behind him, and he turned, standing in the lamplight in the street before The Oliphant's Tusk. The weight of what was pressing on him caused him to not return, but Hildanir approached him.
"Forgive me, Hildanir," he said, smiling patiently. "I forgot you in my farewells."
Hildanir shook his head. "Thank you, Elessar," he said, "but that was not why I followed you out." He stopped next to him and bowed his head. "Is it possible that I might walk with you on your return home?"
Aragorn inclined his head to the street before them, and the two began walking. "I did not realize you had wanted to leave as well; I could have included you easily as I tried to excuse myself."
"It is no problem. Though you should not be roaming the streets on your own." He shifted uncomfortably, and that awkwardness alone made Aragorn pay attention.
"Is there something on your mind, Hildanir?" he asked.
The soldier sighed. "I…have something I wish to confess to you."
Aragorn looked over at him as they walked. "Confess?" he quoted. "What happened?"
"You remember Trena, the woman you had encouraged me to see?"
"Yes," he acknowledged. "I overheard you telling Lifas that it did not end as well as I had hoped. I regret that I was eavesdropping…and I am sorry that it fell apart."
"I am not sorry," Hildanir said, his jaw set, and Aragorn was surprised to see him so clearly angry. "We argued quite ferociously, and then I went out."
"Do you know each other well enough to argue?" Aragorn asked seriously, shocked. "She must have wronged you terribly for—"
"It was not me she wronged," he said, and for the first time, raised his head to look into Aragorn's eyes. "It was my Lady, the Queen."
Aragorn's stride slowed a little bit. "Her words offended you?"
"It was not only me," he stated, "though I was angry, and I would have told her off simply for saying the words to me. But…it was before the Queen, to her, that she said them. She said several things, but the one that is trapped in my brain was that she was…well…"
Aragorn had heard them all before. He knew what Hildanir was going to say before he said the words. "Trena said she was barren."
"Yes, and that she could help her!" he scoffed, affronted. "Who…who says such things? To the Queen of the Citadel? How…how dare she slander her, but how dare she do it before her, on a public street…despicable."
Aragorn frowned. So Arwen has been hearing the people's words as well. I should have known; sometimes, Aragorn…for so discerning an individual…you can be very thick. "Perhaps she did not think that offering help would offend," he said softly. "She is an apothecary's dau—"
"I do not care if she were the Queen of Rohan!" Hildanir growled, his hands balling into fists. "There is no excuse for utter ignorance, either. Even were she dumb she could not have thought that her words would not be offensive! And because I was there, I feel responsible for them, for her words. Never will I court another woman without first judging her character."
"Hildanir," Aragorn began softly, "why would you have ever thought—"
"Yes," he agreed, "I never would have. Someone who appears so innocent and sweet should not be able to speak such things, even without knowledge. I do not have a desire to spend time with such an empty-headed woman." He sighed loudly, looking up at the heavy clouds. A rumbling of thunder was heard over the Pelennor. "My Lord," he said, turning his head to look at Aragorn again, "you know that I would defend my Lady's honor with my last breath."
Aragorn gave him a smile and placed his hand on the man's shoulder. "You are a good man, Hildanir. One of the most loyal friends a man could ask for; thank you for defending her. I am sorry that your courtship, albeit brief, did not end well."
"I am not," he said again, and there was fire in his eyes as they made their way past the stables on the sixth level. "To me, anyone who slanders the Lady should be in the stocks for at least a week, perhaps more. And anyone who wishes her ill should be put to death…publically," he finished darkly. "Thank Ilúvatar that I am not the King and someone sensible has the duty."
"Sometimes, Hildanir," he said with great regret, "the most difficult things in the world are to be calm and reign in your anger. Sometimes, I imagine coming to fisticuffs on many things, yet I always draw back at the moment before; I cannot allow myself to be so…disorderly."
Hildanir nodded. "That is why you are the King, my Lord." There were a few moments of silence before they reached the tunnel to the highest level. Here, they both paused, Aragorn to move onward, Hildanir back. "Will you forgive me, Elessar, for what happened?"
"Forgive you?" he asked. "No, I would thank you, Hildanir. For your courage, and for your kindness. You are truly steadfast in your faithfulness. May I always be lucky enough to have your friendship." He extended his hand and clasped the man's arm.
Hildanir bowed his head. "I believe in you, sire; you are my King, and it is I who am lucky enough to call you, friend. Have a good evening."
"Good evening, Hildanir," replied Aragorn as the two parted ways. His gait increased.
The moment Aragorn stepped into the House, he felt a great heaviness in the air that weighed down his heart. It was so dark and quiet when he closed the door that he thought it was possible Arwen might not even be home. He remembered for the first time in heaven only knew how long to take his boots off in the sitting room corner where Arwen had been asking him to. He noticed that the only dim light was coming in through the windows on the back porch; even that was barely enough to see when it was about to storm. Arwen had lit no candle tonight, and that caught his attention. Enguina and Erumar must have truly exhausted her today beyond anything he had ever seen…or…
Worry crept in, and then his danger sense began running amok. He scanned the sitting room with keen eyes, but there was nothing except the rocking horse in the corner. As there was nothing here, it must be elsewhere, and he padded quickly into their bedroom. He found nothing out of the ordinary; his wife lay still on their bed as thunder rolled outside. He could hear the beginning pings of rain upon their roof. The only thing odd here was that Arwen was lying on her stomach—a completely unusual position for her. Asleep on her side, yes, but not her face half-buried in the pillow like that. He let her be, wondering if she was truly exhausted. He wandered about in the dark to collect his clothes and prepare for sleep.
What Aragorn did not know at that moment was that Arwen was wide awake. Her eyes stared emptily at the wall before her, glazed with tears, her face red and wet. She had been lying there for hours; she did not know the time and could not have cared. She would never have heard the bells ringing the hour, and it was painfully obvious that she could focus on nothing but the agony of the day. She had exhausted herself with tears and had fallen into a restless sleep. After only being asleep for a few moments, the most horrible nightmare had assaulted her mind and she had woken only a short while ago, breaking down once again. Perhaps, if she could pretend well enough, he would not know she was awake. Perhaps she could lie here and he would never know. It was almost no time at all before the sheet lifted; it was a cooler night than the last few nights, so a sheet had been welcome. He was so soundless in the dark that he almost startled her, but that would have given her away so she forced herself to stillness.
There was nothing for Aragorn like climbing into bed beside her; there never had been, and there never would be. After so many years alone, watching his back, sleeping with one eye open, to wrap his arms around her and hold her tight was a privilege that he would never stop thanking Ilúvatar for. It was contentment, peace, a sanctuary in his heart to lie beside her and rest. On nights, like this one, when he would be late, he loved sliding over to her in the middle of their bed, slipping his arms around her and drawing her close to his chest. He slid his arm gently over her waist and pressed himself into her back, breathing in the scent of her hair.
It took everything within her to not break down again at the moment he touched her. She felt his breath on the back of her neck where her hair had fallen aside, and she nearly trembled. He felt her body tense and he pulled more decidedly against her back, spooning around her. "Beloved," he whispered, "are you awake?"
It must have been the tone of his voice, or the whispered words against the back of her neck, or the way he held her so tightly. She wanted to melt against him, to cry out in agony, to break into a rage against the heavens, to weep into his chest and beg for mercy—a hundred, thousand things in that single moment—and yet, all she did was say three words.
"It is late." Her voice was barely a whisper, but it was thick and hoarse. She had been crying for hours; she had not spoken or taken drink in all of that time and so her voice cracked in its lack of use. He heard her swallow—hard, and he knew something was very wrong.
He leaned upon his right elbow and tried to see down into her face, but it was mostly covered by her dark hair and there was no moonlight now. The rain picked up; the thunder rolled overhead. He leaned further, pressing his chest harder into her back so he could see her face, but then it was obscured by her dark hair. Lifting the hand that held her, he brushed the hair back, dragging his fingertips across wet skin.
"Arwen," he whispered, and he watched as her eyes closed, but not before he caught sight of the endless pain within them. "Beloved, what—" Her breath caught and it stilled his lips; he did not hear it so much as feel it against his chest. He wrapped his arm back around her and attempted to take her shoulder to turn her; she held fast.
"Please…" she begged, and as she gasped, tears flooding her eyes, the tight control she had over what he had been feeling from her through their bond slipped. She felt him jolt against her in the burst of suffering he received, and his arm instinctively tightened on her. Desperate to stop it, she scrambled to rein it back in, physically curling on the bed as she tried to do it in her mind.
How! How had he gone all day without feeling this from her? He was taken aback by the incredible pain she was feeling, so shocked he could hardly send peace back; all he could do was wordlessly caress her with his mind. She choked on tears.
"Arwen, speak to me," he whispered to her, his hand tight on her waist now as he reacted to her pain. "Tell me what is wrong! What has happened?" He was terrified! Was it Enguina? Erumar? Had she had a vision? Had she had a terrible nightmare?
"Estel…" she whimpered, her eyes tightly closed, attempting to hold him at bay. She knew it would not last as the lump at the base of her throat threatened to explode. But how could she tell him? How could she tell him about her fears, her jealousy, her insane fury at the child that Enguina was carrying? He would think her ridiculous! Or worse, he would think her pitiable, or be ashamed of her, and that would be the end of her heart.
Yet…his body was so warm against hers, and she felt him reach for her both physically and mentally. He wanted so desperately to comfort her, and she wanted so desperately to pull away and retreat into the shattering shell she had frantically built for the last few hours to protect herself. Tears spilled over and down her nose, running into the pillow as she trembled with the force of her sadness. She wondered how much more she could cry.
Arwen, let me in…please, Ilúvatar, let me in…
She felt the words resonate within her mind, pleading with her to let him help, to let him heal her heart from whatever had broken it today. He took her shoulder in his hand and turned her slowly onto her back; she did not dare fight him this time. She tried to draw her hands up to cover her face, to prevent him from seeing what a mess she was, but that did not work either. He could not hold her this way, get his arms around her, so he sat them both up and brought her into his chest, wrapping her body tightly into his arms. The warmth he offered was too much, his comfort like the blanket she had been wishing for since that afternoon, desperate to have all day as she had remained in the House alone, never realizing she had not eaten or that she had not seen Enguina or Erumar for dinner. She had never known anything so comforting, and even though it did not stop her weeping, it provided enough warmth for her to tuck her hands against his chest and then bury her face into his tunic and neck as though she never wanted to be seen again. He wrapped a hand around the two of her freezing ones, holding them against him as she drew one shuddering breath and then another.
She was a wreck, and she knew it. When she let go and let him in, there was a torrent of pain, agony, sorrow that swept over him. It could only be one thing; he knew that only too well. Oh, if he could take this away from her and keep it so she would never feel it again, he would. He would in a heartbeat. He whispered her name again and she shook her head forcefully against him, the edges of her fingers gripping his tunic beneath his hands.
"Please do not ask me!" she stuttered out, her voice breaking with her tears as she clutched at him, crying into his chest. "Can you just hold me?" She begged him, the words out of her mouth before she even knew what she had been going to say. She wept into him.
The force of her words struck him; he ached to know exactly what had happened. He knew nothing of the situation, except that she was full of sorrow. Her grief washed over him, and he heard her in his heart, crying for him. He wrapped himself around her like a shield and prayed for her, prayed that his love might reach her through the great darkness that surrounded her. He pressed his hand to the side of her head and held her against his chest, her ear close to his heart.
Estel! Estel…please! Help me!
I am here, beloved…I am here.