~BV~
Aragorn hesitated, his pen hovering over the thick parchment laid out across his camp desk. Finally excusing himself from the hubbub in Emyn Arnen, he had grabbed his writing things and snuck away to finish the necessary messages for Minas Tirith. Gandalf kept hounding him about the damned things and how he really should have Meriadoc brought to the Field of Cormallen before Frodo and Sam regained proper consciousness. The commander of the Army of the West was fully in line with this. Meriadoc needed to be brought to them – and soon.
It was another concern that stopped his hand halfway through a letter to the Master Healer. If he requested Merry's presence . . . could he also request hers? Slip it into the missive as an afterthought?
If she has recovered to full health, we would greatly appreciate the company of the Lady Éowyn as we celebrate this great victory.
Too many greats. Perhaps something a little more understated?
I would like to echo the Lord Éomer's urging that his sister journey to meet the Host of the West at the Field of Cormallen.
That was even worse.
The man scrunched his nose in concentration as he searched for a diplomatic way to make the request.
After having played a small part in the destruction of the Dark Lord, I would now like to single-handedly destroy my word and my honor by meeting the Lady Éowyn upon the Fields of Cormallen, setting my lips upon her brow, and–
He could not even finish the rest of that statement, repulsed as he was by his own weakness. How like his nature this was, to falter at the last test, to waver right before the fruition of all his hopes. How mortal and human of him!
The Ranger shook his head to clear it, as if the movement could create some sense in his befuddled brain. He loved the lady Arwen – this he knew, deep in the marrow of his bones. He did not love Éowyn.
But I could, said the dishonorable, treacherous voice that lurked in a deep recess of his heart. I could.
I should not. I dare not. It would be wrong, countered his mind.
But you could, insisted the other voice. You could.
Blurting something profane, Aragorn hastily scratched his signature at the end of the document, sealing and addressing it with shaking hands. In the end, he had added nothing. Éomer was writing to his sister, inviting her to come. If she desired to, she would.
He folded the camp desk and lifted it easily underneath one arm. The Ranger strode through the campsite, back towards headquarters where the messenger waited. Aragorn focused on greeting his men, speaking to them in their native dialects, all the while attempting to ignore the singsong voice inside his heart:
I could. I could. I could.