In the ground we bury

The seeds of a pear tree

And all the things we carried

Now we're down to our bare feet

May I have this dance?
To make it up to you.
Can I say something crazy?

I love you.

- May I have this Dance, Meadowlark

Aragorn, bone tired, bloody and bruised remembered a distant, far off room away in Helms Deep. He remembered the misty sunlight through a high, slitted window and Hedda, undressed and stained with orc blood and her own, washing the blood and pain and war from her skin and his. He remembered a stolen day he'd had with her, curled in his arms in a sleep so deep and weary she'd not stirred, even when he had to look on her face. As he walked from the houses of healing on sapped strength and weak legs he thought of her, resplendent in soft leathers sitting on rocky outcrop half a world away, his pipe stolen from his grip and smokey rings falling from her lips. He thought of the freckles on her face and shoulders and back, remembering a new part of her with every aching step. In the midst of battle he could turn little thought to her, not with an army of ghosts behind him and an orc horde before, but in the gentle daylight, he could think of little else.

None in the houses of healing knew her fate, some said she was within the houses of the dead, keeping the peace for her people, a haven she'd carved out in the city for Gondor's people. But some in the street said she'd never come, that she'd promised she would - to sit with them and soothe them and help them as the rocks rained down on their city, but that she had never come. Some knew the name Idis, some knew the name Amsden had called her - Nurthan. Aragorn had seen the steward's son in the houses of healing, resting fitfully in a deep, wounded sleep, Aragorn knew him only by armour and the similarities to Boromir in his face. He had not woken, but Aragorn had heard a parched throat speaking Idis's name in the throes of a fever.

In the houses of healing he saw no sight of her, asking after her in name and description and though near everyone knew of her, they had not seen her for certain; only fleeting glimpses and guesses on their lips. Eomer and Eowyn beside him did not admonish him his questions, not when their father, bloody and broken as he was, shattered beneath his own horse clung to life beneath his hands and breathed slowly. The labour in his lungs lightened as his legs were splinted by a volunteer, his blue eyes hazy and unfocused as he called for Hedda, for Eomer, for Eowyn. He was comforted by his niece and nephew, Rohan's children coaxing him through Aragorn's healing until he calming him until sleeping herbs took effect. Aragorn would find his daughter's fate soon enough, he promised him before he slept.

A horse walked slowly by his side, the beast tired and weary of war as they climbed the steep pathways toward the citadel. He would find soon enough what had happened within, and it was enough to force him on, like a pull toward the white towers he'd fled all his life. They were met at the courtyard by a retinue of servants that bowed gently, not seeming as wearied as they. Gimli, Legolas and Eowyn and Eomer at his side and Kottr trailing paces behind but not losing sight of them. When they tilted their heads down in respect he could see the snarled branches of a tree, bone white and reaching toward the sky.

"My Lords," they sang, voices low and gentle and he swallowed dryly, his fingers twitching when they added, "Your Grace, we were asked to greet you." They led them through the hall of kings, offered them rooms, food, wine but Aragorn doubted that they were being led any such way, their path taking them deeper and up into the citadel. His words steady, he asked if Gandalf the Grey was within. He wasn't certain what name she held now if she was within, but he felt certain she would be with Gandalf. In the halls of his forebears, in this bloody mess of a city the very rock seemed ready to fall in around him. They were lead to the throne room and a steady stream of soldiers, generals and poorer looking fellows passed them in the halls, parchments and orders clear in their hands and hearts as they walked. There was a renewed strength in all of them, half in gleaming armour, some in ragged servants clothes

He pressed forward, his strides long as he rounded the last corner, his companions a few paces behind. The very walls above him seemed to lighten, the white stone lighter than air.

"Ior will you enlist the guards from the houses of the dead to go and bring the refugees back from the mountains? They will not wish to be long from home and work," a voice, strong and steady rang out as he reached the open doors of the throne room.

"Yes My Lady," a quiet voice came, followed by a shuffle of paper as at last, his steps speeding she came into view. A servant slipped past him, her eyes widened at the sight of them all but he didn't see her, his eyes affixed.

He stilled in the grand doorway and simply looked. Bathed in dappled sunlight, her golden red hair tangled beyond belief. She was bruised visibly, shadows carved beneath her eyes and a wound at her temple that had not been cleaned but valour - she looked alive. Her hands were on her hips, looking over a swath of maps and stacks of paper, slowly humming numbers to the guard by her side. He recognised Amsden from the encampment at Dunharrow, the rider she'd sent but his eyes slid past him quickly enough. At last, he took another step forward and her eyes raised, finally reaching him, her words stilled and mouth open just slightly.

"Hedda," he murmured, shocked by how still he was, shocked by the way not one person in the room seemed willing or able to break their gaze or shake them from it. He took a step toward her, his legs curiously clumsy beneath him. She mirrored him, stepping from her place at the head of the table, her hands falling slack by her sides. The next moment they were before one another, his hands bracketing her face and his lungs tight and he didn't care for any eye upon them, pulling her toward him. How many days, how long had he waited to see her again, how many fears, how many dreams had he had about this very moment and when it was before him he could hardly think. "Hedda," he breathed again, voice light, quiet, unwilling to stir even the air around them as he held her freckled cheeks between his calloused hands. Her eyes fluttered shut and she leaned toward him, leaned into him, her hands covering his own and he could feel the warm metal of his ring on her finger against his own. He laid his forehead against hers, her breathing as tight as his own and shared, warm between them.

"Aragorn," she breathed in return, their voices low as not to attract the ears of her assembled counsel. His eyes shut slowly as she moved her hands, slipping them around her waist to embrace him and he followed, curling his own limbs around her so tightly and certain he would not be parted from her again.

The shift of footfalls moved behind her, and he looked up to see Amsden, the flaxen haired rider with a kindly smile, muttering to Gandalf. The wizards white robes were ashen by war but smile not dampened as the two slipped from the room with the fellowship and Hedda's cousins, talk of food on their lips. She cleared her throat, a flush rising in her cheeks as she slowly pulled away, but her hands caught his wrist, fingers folding around his own bruised skin. When he looked down her could see his ring, the old thing that had held him, titled him for so long gleaming on her thumb.

"Did I see my cos and our fellowship behind you?" she breathed at last, her lips turning up into a smile and he met her, his own smile brilliant as they stood, locked together, his eyes tracing her face as if he feared she'd turn to dust before his very eyes.

"All are well. Your father is badly wounded but Shaka and her war healers treated him quickly enough to save his life. He may never walk again, but he asks for you,"

"And I take it Eowyn fought in the battle," she said, her voice gentle, gathering the facts she needed about her family. He had his peace to know she was well in the city, but she had been waiting just as long to know what had happened beyonds its gates.

"None would stop her, she brought down the witch king of Angmar to protect your father," he said, his voice gentle and proud. But rights she should not have remained unscathed, but Aragorn wondered if the gauntlets Hedda had left behind, the gauntlets dotted with white flowers that Eowyn had taken up and gifted by so long ago by Galadriel had more power in them than good smithing.

"You all survived as I said you would," she said, her face an expression of pure bliss, eyes shut at the glad news. She unclasped her hands from his wrist, stroking her fingertips over the band at his wrist once more, those horse hair knots still shining in the sunlight.

He raised her hand gently, bringing her knuckles to his lips and kissing the calloused skin of each knuckle and then just below the ring on her thumb, the familiar metal so much more suited to her hand than his own. He didn't let her go, his fingers knotting with her own. Near a moon had passed since he'd touched her, seen her, spoken with her, and he felt certain that to let her go now would be a cruelty. But a part of him knew their separation had been so long, and their parting so shaky and uncertain that perhaps she regretted her words in the stable. I love you, she had said, but she had been so unwilling to give him those words he longed for. Duty, family, demands all in their path were gone now, but perhaps without those walls there she still did not wish to offer them. The thought made his heart stammer, certain it would ruin him to hear it so he could not ask it yet.

"When Amsden came to the camp he said you were jailed, imprisoned," he said, his voice thick and he swallowed, seeing her eyes flick to the floor and her shoulders rise with a gentle sigh.

"I told him not to speak of it," she said, perching on the edge of the table and he sat beside her, his body tilted toward her. "An arrangement could not be made -" word of the assignment she'd sought here made his own shoulders tighten when he thought of Rohan, waiting on that hill for the beacons to light and tell him his heart was gone, bartered away for a truce. "I was foolish perhaps - impatient - but he had no intention of honouring an alliance. When I forced his hand…" she trailed off, a small, sardonic grin on her lips as she lifted her leg pointedly and let it fall. "Gondor does so love punishing their presumed lessers," she said, a shrug lifting her shoulders.

He moved, slipping to the floor, kneeling before her without thought. He looked up at her and found her expression open, a curve to her lips as he eased off her boots and rolled up the hem of her loose, rough hewn leggings. He ran the tips of his fingers slowly across the underside of her shin, his fingertips catching on fresh but healing wounds, still a harsh red as he smoothed his palm across them, cupping her limb a moment before standing. When he spoke his voice was cold, meeting her gaze with fire in his own. During their parting he'd had cause to hate the steward, just another of those barriers that had separated them, to hear how he'd harmed her, to see fresh scars on her skin made fury rage, unabated within him. "What was his fate?" He said, his teeth gritted and shoulders taut.

"Last reported he was screaming for his sons in the cell he locked me in. But I do not think he will have friends enough to liberate him while he awaits the kings judgment," She said, her palm coming up, the tips of her fingers stroking his jaw and the messy ends of his hair back as he moved closer, fitting his body between her legs until they were chest to chest. He leaned his face into her touch hungrily, taking every offering he could from her, her touch smoothing away the anger within him like water dousing a flame.

"Not the judgment of their queen?" He asked, a small smile quirking his lips as he watched her expression closely, one dark brow raised as she rolled her eyes.

"I deposed the steward, perhaps I can take his title but not that one," she smiled, her expression yet light, not refusing him his words the way she once had. "They have been waiting for you. As have I," she said, her voice catching on her last words, looking down as if she were embarrassed by the sentiment. She looked away, her eyes flickering to the raised throne behind them, a throne he'd hardly seen

"Every sunrise that came I only thought of riding here to find you," he said, his words intense, his eyes catching hers and holding them, preying she understood, praying she would accept his words as she hadn't before. Her shoulders lifted lightly, taking a breath as she began to speak

"Aragorn, what I said in the stable -" she didn't look away and his heart raced, feeling, at that moment, more fear in his heart than in the heat of battle until she continued. "I came here because it was right, I don't deny that. But in truth… riding to Gondor, to the fight here, even with all that happened, it was simpler than to imagine loving and being denied you." her palm slipped from his face, her thumb running along the column of his throat and catching on his unkempt stubble. "If duty or you -" he interrupted her, his palms coming to catch her face once more and bowing his head, catching her lips with his own. Her lips were ever soft, still a moment in surprise before meeting him, a gasp spilling from her lips as she returned the embrace. His body felt over warm, melting against her own and certain he'd not know the peace he felt under her touch in any other.

"I could never deny you. Nor would I allow anyone or anything to deny us," he spoke, voice gentle as he brushed back those pale golden red locks and saw her cheeks lift. Her eyes shut languidly but her smile was brilliant. "Not when I love you so."

A laugh broke through her lips and he knew that he had never spoken a greater truth. "I love you," she breathed, and his heart sang. She had said it before, there in the stables with tears in her eyes and on a path divergent from his own. He had hoped, wished, dreamt to hear it said like it was a happy thing, not a chain on her or a thing to be cast off. "I would not leave your side again," she said, voice quiet as she leaned up, taking his lips like a promise, swallowing further thought of words he might have left.

A short knock rapped on the doors of the war room and she moved apart from him, slipping from the table gently, though her cheeks were still lifted with a smile and his own shoulders were too light for talk of war. She called for them to enter, her place in this city so established that when he pictured their future, a crown on his brow and one on hers - it did not seem difficult any longer. It seemed fated. She walked towards the door, opening it wide to see Gandalf, their fellowship and her cousins returned, servants carrying food and ale.

"Our duties are never done," she said in a low voice to him as they began clearing away the maps and scraps of paper to set a table for them to eat. They had duties, aye and they likely always would, but to share a duty with her was not so terrible a thing.

But first they deserved some peace, some food and fellowship.

Their work was not yet done, but they had done enough for now.

I made Theoden live and don't regret it. Aragorn's big healing moment is done through him, as Eowyn was protected from the witch kings poisons by the gauntlets Galadriel gave Hedda in Lothlorian.

Will be posting a short epilogue just to wrap up but then it's done!

Please let me know how you liked this reunion, it was so damn hard and I know you've been waiting on it. x