Coronation day.
Ten hours. That was what separated the past from the future. 88 years, 32 days, and ten hours. Aragorn was about to fulfill the destiny of his house. His destiny. He thought about his forebears, all of them. Of the guardianship of Elrond, watching over his brother's kin through the generations. Waiting. For the right moment. For the return of the King. Ten hours. 88 years, thirty two days. And hundreds of years. And fathers of fathers and mothers of mothers. He thought of Faramir's family, standing guard against the shadow. Sitting and wondering if the line of Isildur would return to succeed the failed line of Anárion. Wondering when Sauron would strike. And it was left to Faramir to understand a world in which both of those fates would happen at once.
Four weeks had revealed near as much to Aragorn as those preceding 88 years and 32 days. His friends stayed few, but those he had he'd grown to cherish all the more. Legolas and Gimli and he had taken to wandering the city at night, reminiscing about their childhoods. He often ate breakfast with the Hobbits, speaking at length with Sam and Frodo of the parts of the journey after they had separated. Frodo had recovered miraculously well, despite the shadows still in his eyes. He spoke of Bilbo, and wrote. Aragorn loved when Frodo asked him to read portions of his manuscript, once in a while holding back tears at the moving descriptions and details that Frodo brought alive on the page. Frodo and Sam rarely asked for details of the battles, but always of the food and the land. The Hobbits' conversations had also turned distinctly back to the Shire.
Merry and Pippin spent an inordinate amount of time in the Steward's House, playing chess with Faramir and composing songs with Lothíriel about their adventures. The daughter of Imrahil was a musical prodigy. With the help of Lothíriel, Merry and Pippin had written an incredible tale of the time in the woods with the Ents, of returning Isengard to its natural beauty.
Evenings were often spent quietly in either the Steward's or Imrahil's courtyard, speaking and joking. It was where Aragorn first got to see Faramir's skill with a blade, sparring with Éomer. Not only was Faramir talented, he was an excellent teacher. Éomer's own skills had vastly improved, and Aragorn could sense the amusement in Faramir and exasperation in Éowyn when Éomer landed a particularly heavy blow. Éomer lets his blade speak to his protectiveness over his sister, Aragorn had mused. But it was only when Aragorn had finally offered to take a round did he truly see Faramir's mastery. Their sparring was less combat and more dance, one that both men recognized. Though Aragorn was the superior swordsman, he was not sure he would have been able to beat Faramir if it ever did come to blows.
More than anything, he had not considered how fast and overpowering his love of the Steward would become. The mingling emotions had not abated, but had grown so familiar as to be a comfort. There would never be secrets between them, because there could not be. True, Aragorn did not speak to Faramir at length of the lonely nights looking out to the North longing to see his beloved in the distance. Nor had they spoken of his feeling Faramir's contentment and love when he walked past Éowyn's apartment at night. Yet in meeting the envoys that had arrived from Middle Earth, they had developed a secret language between them. Faramir's annoyance gave away troublesome lords and ladies, and Aragorn could always count on the Steward to help him end conversations when his own annoyance threatened to overpower his courtesy. In joint Gondor-Rohan meetings, Éowyn provided this service to him as well. Both were adept in those situations, having grown up around such crowds and with such expectations. Aragorn knew he would learn. In due time.
Being around the pair of them had provided him a joy he had not imagined. Their love brought him hope that Arwen would come. When he met her, he had not had the privilege of experiencing Éowyn's playfulness, which was nearly as devious as the Hobbits. She even brought playfulness out of Faramir, something that Imrahil and his family had said was near unheard of before her arrival. The shadows of guilt had not completely left Aragorn around Éowyn yet, but at least the grief of failing her had now dissipated.
Ten hours. The sun was rising over the White City, to become Minas Anor again with the crowning of the King. His crowning.
A quiet knock came to his door. He could feel Faramir's excitement and smiled. This was a moment they were both waiting for. And they would have it together. Aragorn opened the door.
"You look haggard," Aragorn winked, Faramir's embarrassment in his gut.
"I work during the night and I sleep during the afternoon," Faramir answered.
Aragorn looked at the man, and felt defiance and love. Éowyn always called on Faramir in the afternoons. They guard each other's sleep. He grinned, unsurprised, but moved all the same. Aragorn dropped the inquiry, "What is it you have for me Faramir?"
Faramir's excitement was uncontained, "It's finished."
The King's House, Aragorn realized, "Your timing is impeccable."
"Now let us make sure that so is its craftsmanship," replied Faramir, and the men began walking.
The King's House had never been razed, and sat still as stone, a mausoleum to the times of old. It was a remnant of the glorious times of the King, dilapidated and weather-worn, though miraculously intact after those hundreds of intervening years. Aragorn and Faramir were now facing a black door, white tree glistening upon it. Faramir then looked at Aragorn and placed something in his hand. A key. Made of Mithril, and carrying the crest of Elendil.
"It appears Gimli has been busy," Aragorn smiled broadly.
"So he has," Faramir replied, and love flooded between them. A key for a King, and a seal for a Prince, worked by the masterhand of the jocular Dwarf.
Aragorn placed the key into the hidden hole, and turned until the lock clicked. The two opened the door. The hall was massive and empty. Faramir turned and put his arm on Aragorn's shoulders.
"It is yours to do with as you please. I've seen to its structure, but left decisions about its decor to its owner. Now go and explore. There is parchment and quill should you want to ask for further renovations. Tomorrow you will have a staff ready to begin dressing the house to your liking. I'll be next door if you need me," Faramir smiled, and Aragorn could feel the joy and sadness from him, "My King."
Aragorn pulled Faramir in for a hug, affection they now showed each other regularly.
"I hope that for most of our lives, we will walk together as friends. Not as King and Steward," Aragorn whispered, feeling the tear in his own eye, "My path to my destiny has been blessed because I keep encountering people like you on it. And tell Éowyn I said hello."
A gut lurch, then a smile. Faramir pulled from the King, and walked from the King's House. His house. One he dreamed of sharing with Arwen. Now completely alone, he walked further in, taking in the sitting room, the garden, the sunroom. He walked upstairs and found the adjoining chambers meant for a King and a Queen. Rooms for children, a library (though without books), a study. After his once-though inspection, Aragorn wandered back out to the garden. It was sparse, but the earth was fertile. An apt metaphor for Gondor, Aragorn mused.
The house was beautiful, and grand. And desolate. Aragorn nearly called Faramir back so that he was not in that place alone, then he realized why Faramir had left. Faramir was giving him those last moments of solace before the tidal wave hit him. Never again would Aragorn get to truly be free. This was his chance to commune with that new reality. He was becoming King… now in nine hours. And the house he stood in was his chance to be alone, to mourn, to accept. Without prompting, Aragorn could feel it. Laying dormant for near his entire life as he fought for his survival. The pain.
He tried to hold down the tears, but he could not. In that empty house, in that empty garden, waiting for him to grow into the expectations that had been pressing on his shoulders since he found his name was Aragorn son of Arathorn, not Estel. That he had been bred and raised to become a King, whether he wished it or not. The melancholy that followed his mother through her life was springing out of him. He had never controlled his own destiny. At least when Sauron was the looming enemy, that seemed alright, as his destiny was to protect Middle Earth, but what about now? It did not matter if he did not want it, it was thrust upon him. The Chieftain of the Dúnedain destined (or was it doomed?) to walk from the forest and name himself King.
"Aragorn?" a soft voice broke him from his sobs, and he felt two pairs of hands on his shoulders, and a sense of calm come over him
"We felt your despair. and your loneliness."
Faramir and Éowyn were there. Aragorn looked down, and Merry looked up at him too. He realized it was the Hobbit who had spoken.
"If you prefer these moments alone, we understand," Faramir's eyes pierced his tear-muddled vision.
"No…" Aragorn looked at the three standing in front of him, concern and healing radiating from all of them. Merry: a halfling who marched out of the safety of his home and thrown himself into the horrors of war and torture to protect his friends. Éowyn: living with the everyday battles and humiliations of being both overlooked and hunted. Faramir: second son living under the press of the shadow with a father falling slowly into despair. So tuned to grief were they that they seemed called to his.
"Tell us your sorrows Aragorn," the words were soft, Éowyn's.
The three in front of him knew him, saw him, were inside his soul because he was also inside theirs. There were no lies that could be told, no mask that could be worn that would shield his heart from them (or their hearts from him). His moment of weakness, doubting his destiny, projected for all to see. But no. It was not everyone, it was these three. Who would not betray their friend. He stood upon a precipice between his past life and his future life, and he was afraid to jump. And they were there, so he could jump.
"I was never given a choice in my destiny," Aragorn used their calm to collect his own thoughts, "And now I am here, fulfilling it. Never having had the chance to say no."
It felt vain. Those words from his mouth. He was reluctant to claim his title of King and wanted to retreat back into the forest. But he was afraid. He was afraid that becoming King would destine him to forgo happiness, which often came from long journeys and communion with Middle Earth in solitude. He did not get to choose the destiny that would make him happiest (wandering and planting with Arwen). He was to be King.
He expected exasperation from the three, but instead he got understanding and love. Yes, of course Faramir and Éowyn understood. They were as much tethered to their destinies as he was. And so, in that empty garden in that empty house, ready to fill with the expectations of him, Aragorn let down his guard and spoke. He let himself be scared. He let himself be angry. He let himself cry and mourn. And somehow in that hour, sorrows he had only ever shared with his mother or Arwen fled from him. It was an hour of healing Aragorn had not even realized that he needed. Somehow, the gravity of sitting in the King's vast house had finally broken open the floodgates.
"Don't fear for your happiness Strifer," Merry piped up, "Happiness is not like destiny. Happiness is about looking at what is around you with open eyes."
Aragorn felt the little Hobbit's hand on his, "You will be a happy King, because you will have the woman who loves you by your side. And you will remember that your deeds for all those years created the happiness you see in the eyes of your pupils."
"Happiness is knowing that there are people who love you and know you in your life," Faramir spoke quietly, "Happiness is having places you can seek your solace, and a Steward who will know when you need it."
Aragorn laughed, "I practically had to beg to get you to agree."
"Not practically… you did beg my liege," Faramir chuckled in reply, "You gave me the choice of my destiny, even as you lacked that choice yourself. I cannot give you the freedom of choice you granted me, but I will always find ways to give you respite when your destiny sits too heavily upon your chest."
"As will I," Éowyn said, "Trips to Ithilien to speak of business in Rohan will always be a resource should you desire to seek solitude."
Aragorn realized at that moment that Éowyn and Faramir had spoken of this together. Of finding ways to protect their King. It did not stop the tears that seeped from his eyes, but it changed their nature. He felt safe letting himself feel grief, which he was ashamed even existed. But not with them. They would know his grief for losing his old life existed without his telling them that it existed, because he knew the roots of their deepest sorrows too. How fortunate it had been, he had saved their lives and they had made his life richer. Aragorn sighed and thanked his friends.
"Unfortunately I have your schedule for today Aragorn, and you are needed for the multitude of meetings with envoys and private audiences," Faramir sighed, "We will leave you. I will see you soon in the Citadel?"
Aragorn nodded, and watched as the three companions left. Their hurried paces told him that his despair had called them away from other tasks. It moved his heart, for he knew that they did so not because he was King, but because he was their friend. Aragorn took one last tour, then headed back out to his apartment. Honorable guests meant that the fine clothing that Faramir had begun procuring for him would need to be put on. Much of the wardrobe was uncomfortable, but he suspected that was in part because of his discomfort with the role of King as much as the clothing being itchy.
Out the door, and the rest of the day passed in a blur. Aragorn's smile was wide as he greeted the joyful faces of the Dale envoy, the quiet reserve of the small group sent from Harad with peace banners, the war refugees. Word had reached Gondor that Elves were traveling from every corner in Middle Earth they dwelt, converging in Minas Anor. Aragorn often found himself daydreaming of seeing Arwen on her horse next to Elrond. But the elves would not make it before the coronation.
So Aragorn would wait for Arwen, and he would wait for her as King. Oftentimes when Aragorn's mind wandered, he felt his gut lurch - Faramir's message to him that his wandering attentions were being noticed. Just as often, Aragorn had to stifle his laughter at Faramir's signal, which he saw radiate to Faramir too (and Éowyn, when she was in the room).
One hour now. How had time traveled so quickly? How many people had he heard from? How many whispers had he shared with his Steward? He was ready to change out of the itchy clothing, and he would do it in his apartment. Plus, those last moments of freedom, he wanted to be among the people who called him "Strider."
"Thanks everyone for coming," it was Faramir's voice, "The coronation begins in an hour. We will see you on the terrace at sunset."
Faramir then looked at Aragorn, and tipped his head toward the door. Aragorn did not need to be told twice, and nearly sprinted out. Unbecoming a King, but for the next blessed hour, he was not a King. Before he even made it to the apartment, he could smell the pipeweed. Faramir had dug through the Steward's stores and found a small stock of Longbottom leaf, likely for Gandalf. Every last leaf had been given to the Hobbits, who were working their way through it impressively fast. Aragorn knocked on their door. Small feet shuffled to the door, and it opened, revealing Sam.
"Strider! Oh… um. Elessar my King!" Sam had turned red, and he bowed low.
Aragorn let out a snort, which quickly became a chuckle. No, this would not do. Not them. Not ever. Aragorn's laughter had drawn the rest of the Hobbits into the entrance.
"You will never need to call me King Sam," Aragorn kneeled down, "None of you. Ever."
"That seems ill advised sir," Sam smiled shyly, "For if we continue to call you Strider, people will be very confused. You already have more names than could be advised for a person."
Aragorn let out a raucous laugh. A fitting statement from a Hobbit.
"Well I will always call you Strider, especially when you make me laugh so!" Merry had caught Aragorn's laughter, and reflected them back to him, "Plus it is one less name I needs must remember."
Aragorn shook his head. These four. The saviors of Middle Earth. Every last one of them.
"I was hoping to spend my last hour of freedom amongst my dearest friends," Aragorn spoke quietly.
"Then come in! And please share a smoke with us," Frodo replied, smiling brightly. The shadows lingered in his eyes, but they could not chase away the joy there anymore.
Aragorn joined them, and another knock came to the door, which opened before a Hobbit had answered. Gandalf.
"I see I am not the only one to desire such company and smoke in the hour before sunset," Gandalf's eyes twinkled, and he joined the Hobbits and Aragorn. Frodo offered both some of the leaf in their stores, and both pulled pipes out of compartments in their wardrobe. They smoked and told stories and laughed. And Aragorn knew that with the Hobbits he would always be Strider, and hoped that they would always treat him as Strider. Suddenly Gandalf looked out the window.
"I do believe the crowd that is gathering will be expecting a King, so you best change, Aragorn. I will walk with you to the Citadel," Gandalf's voice was stern, but his eyes twinkled. Aragorn nodded. It was time.
He changed quickly. From formal to regal. If the previous garment felt off, this one felt positively stifling. He felt the panic rising in his blood, he forced it down. A calming presence came over him yet again, and he knew his Steward had come.
"I convinced Mithrandir to let me join you both. Merry reluctantly left with the other Hobbits," Faramir looked splendid in his own regal ensemble, his hair expertly braided by Éowyn, "We are all here. Let yourself feel your joy for this new beginning Aragorn. Mourning what has ended does not account for what is to come. And I am not sure I have ever fully told you… I think you will be an extraordinary King."
The words had caught Aragorn off guard. He thought of those council meetings. Those late discussions. Those arguments. The times Éowyn and Faramir had created a united front to disagree with him. He realized it then. He had never considered that Faramir enjoyed being Aragorn's Steward, having remembered that haunted night at Imrahil when Faramir had agreed to become Steward to protect Gondor from him.
"I don't need to read your thoughts to know what those feelings meant," Faramir looked at his King, "You proved my choice to be the right choice. I serve you Aragorn, and I am not sure I would serve any other."
Aragorn gave Faramir another hug.
"Come my King, it is time for me to pass this realm to you." Faramir grinned. The two walked out the door to see Gandalf standing, smiling.
"I should never worry about the fate of this world seeing whose care it is left in," Gandalf said, "Oh. Aragorn, I have what you asked for."
Faramir looked puzzled, Aragorn delighted. Gandalf reached into his robe and pulled out… a circlet. When Éowyn had come to Aragorn to ask about the design changes to the Ithilien seal, Aragorn had been inspired. His new prince required a crown befitting his house and his station. And so he had nearly run to Gimli and Legolas to ask for one more commission. They'd agreed in good humor (though Aragorn suspected he had signed over a year's worth of Gondor's mead supply to the Dwarf at some point over the wine of the night…). He handed the crown to Faramir.
"The circlet of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, of the House of Húrin," Aragorn said, and felt tears in his eyes. Faramir's tears.
"This is… incredible," Faramir marveled, then handed the circlet back to Aragorn, "Little in my life will I cherish more than this. How recently we've met Aragorn, and how dear you have become to me. It should remain with you until you crown me. In that, it appears we will be trading crowns."
Gandalf coughed, "it truly is time now both of you. Or we shall be late."
The three finally began their way to the terrace.
"A King is never late, he arrives precisely when he means to," Aragorn said, Gandalf nearly blurted out a laugh.
"You are neither a wizard, nor are you yet a King." Gandalf replied, "I see you've spent an inordinate amount of time with the Hobbits."
"Not enough time," Aragorn replied.
"Hobbits will be a part of Middle Earth as long as the sun still shines," Gandalf said, "For the Hobbits, the only thing that changes tonight is that they will demand special treatment from the kitchen staff on the King's orders, rather than the Steward's."
"I wouldn't put it past them to demand it on both our orders," Faramir spoke, his amusement clear. Gandalf chuckled once more.
Just before they came to the terrace, Faramir took Aragorn's forearms one last time, "I will see you soon my King." then turned and rushed away.
Aragorn felt Faramir's calm come over him. He had not said and I will be here for you, but Aragorn felt the words as if Faramir had spoken them plainly. It was a day to mourn the past, enjoy the present, and celebrate the future. He had done so with friends, and would do so long into the night. From this day forward, he was Elessar King to Gondor, but he would also always be Aragorn, or "Strider" to his friends.
"I'm ready," Aragorn spoke the words to Gandalf, and for the first time, he meant them.
The ceremony passed as if part of a dream. He spoke his verses, re-appointed Faramir as Steward then addressed the jubilant throngs. Before he knew it, it was over, and he was no longer Aragorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, but instead Elessar King. This moment, supposedly the greatest in his life, did not feel it. Arwen was not there. Neither was Elrond. A ceremony to fulfill his destiny, and yet it was not for him.
This day was Faramir's, and it was Éowyn's. It was Imrahil's, and it was Gimli's and Legolas's. It was Ioreth's and the Warden's. It was Merry's and Pippin's. And especially was it Sam and Frodo's. It was the villagers' whose house burned in the fires of the war. It was the soldiers', fallen, injured, and healed. It was everyone's, and only was it a little bit his. He was their symbol of hope, Estel. He was theirs now, not the other way around. It was this, the realization that Aragorn was giving himself to Gondor, not taking Gondor away, that he truly accepted his place as King. His life was for the people of this land.
Then it was done. He was King. Faramir was Prince. And the crowds cleared to lower levels of the city, rechristened "Minas Anor," to continue their jubilation. The return of the King had come.
Without so much as a pause, it was time for the feast. One of great celebration, but also one of goodbyes, as Éowyn and Éomer would depart the following day for Rohan. Aragorn smiled brightly, thanked the many well-wishers and great lords and ladies, Faramir by his side, whispering names in his ear if he needed. He'd then given a grand speech, of alliances renewed and territory reclaimed. He spoke of his thanks to the people of Gondor standing firm against the shadow. He spoke of bringing peace and prosperity. And he bowed to his new Prince to speak of his vision for Ithilien. Cheers rang through the room at each new declaration. But Aragorn had one more announcement to make.
"And a final moment of joy and new beginnings for Gondor," Aragorn raised his glass high in the hall, "Our own Steward and Prince of Ithilien…"
Aragorn's gut lurched surprisingly hard. It seemed both Faramir and Éowyn had become aware of what he was about to do. He grinned and projected his feelings of joy to them. He beckoned both to stand.
"...has asked the Lady Éowyn, Shieldmaiden and Princess of Rohan, for her hand in marriage," Aragorn spoke loudly, feeling what was initially shock change to excitement, "Lady Éowyn has heartily agreed, and will marry Faramir Prince with my and King Éomer's blessing in Rohan in six weeks time, when we escort the great King Théoden to his final resting place."
The cheers were near as tremulous as they had been as he was crowned. He knew many in the room were aware of the trothplight, but such an announcement was still fitting. His Prince and Steward, marrying a Princess and Wraithbane for love. Faramir and Éowyn (who had been conveniently seated next to each other) took hands and smiled. Their joy was Gondor's joy, and Gondor's joy was theirs. A tear came to Aragorn's eye, both for the love he felt between these two kindreds, but also for missing Arwen. He hoped his new people would accept her as they had him.
A few more speeches passed others' lips, and supper became dessert, then came the wine. It was at this moment that Imrahil stood up.
"A toast," Imrahil spoke, cheeks red with drink, "To friends and kin. To the new Dawn. To the Hobbits who gave us this day. And to our King."
Aragorn had been watching intently Imrahil all night. They raised their glasses higher, and just before they brought those cups to their lips, he saw it. Imrahil's index finger had brushed his nose. The game was afoot.