With every minute of sunrise being closer, the remaining elves grew more restless, more and more of them openly pushing for continuing the search for those of their friends still missing.
That made it needless for Legolas to rebel much himself. One challenging look at Faramir was enough.
"Dawn isn't far now. Just a few more minutes, Your Highness."
It took all of Faramir's rhetoric skill to convince everyone that prematurity would only lead to even more victims. Probably to leave no doubt though that he was being just as worried as all of them, he started waking up his men early to have them prepare to leave.
By now, in spite of their fight, Legolas admired the man's stamina. The thick clothes he wore under his dark grey armor couldn't stop him from visibly freezing; ice crystals caught in his strawberry blond hair and beard. But he let hardly any weakness show. With some effort, he just stretched his numb limbs while shaking his soldiers by the shoulder, one after the other. Every now and again, he impatiently coughed into his shoulder. The Steward wouldn't let himself be stopped from this quest any more than Legolas himself; he gave him great credit for that.
"Thank you, Steward. We're ready when you are."
Legolas decided to apologize for his hotheaded words from yesterday later. That their collaboration in Ithilien had ended in such a horrible way was no reason for the two of them to part on bad terms.
Camhanar waited for Faramir to be out of earshot before approaching Legolas. He nodded towards the other elves. "They found some of their energy back; they can come with us."
"I couldn't do without any fewer soldiers anyway, just to have them be brought out of the swamps as well," Legolas explained briefly. "We lost enough time. I trust you to take care of them in case one of them is getting worse again." He sounded surprisingly unemotional, far soberer than yesterday.
That wasn't a reassurance. For the moment, their leader had pushed the grief entirely away from him. He sounded as if he was talking at the morning meeting, before the group would split up, about one of the many daily duties waiting for them in North Ithilien. Only without the usual smile – that the others had always easily known to be fake –, but with his eyes fixed at the swamp, at the spot where daylight would soon reveal the corpse of a far too young elf.
"You don't believe we will find any more survivors." Until now, Camhanar had held on, knowing he couldn't afford even a moment of inattentiveness if he was supposed to take care of his friends, part of whom were being inexperienced in combat.
Seeing Legolas' hopelessness had this stubbornness leave him. He dropped to the ground next to his leader and hid his face against his knees. "I have failed you. I wasn't strong enough."
"It wasn't your job, defending the settlement." The sudden collapse ripped Legolas' from his lethargy. Slightly roughly, he got Camhanar to stand up again. "Get the others. Somewhere out there, our friends are waiting for our help. At least that is what my heart wants to tell me."
"But not what you think." Camhanar kept on standing and waiting there ever until Legolas turned away and looked to the horizon where a few first pale sun rays crept across the puddles.
"In the war, I spent enough time close to Mordor to sense when evil celebrates a triumph. It is cutting into me like the wind that means to push us into the depths of these waters. Innocents have died tonight."
"The gift of foresight has been given to but a few of us." Camhanar did his best, remembering the composure that had already helped him yesterday to free Legolas from such thoughts. "A troubled mind sees many nightmares, especially at this hour. Do not give up, Your Highness. You were the only one of our kin with the will to take another stand for this world at the foremost front. And you have won. You can do it again. You just cannot give in now. I don't know if we can make it without you."
"It is not me who brought peace." Legolas raised his hands, as if in trance, and unfastened the three ritual warrior braids in his gold blond hair that had accompanied him since the beginning of the War of the Ring, replacing them with the same simple tail that Camhanar used to keep his tresses out of his face. "What you speak of, greater men than me have achieved. It was presumptuous, thinking I could create the same my father has in his realm once, based on a legend that was being made of exaggeration and romantic glorification. But as long as there is still one soul breathing in these swamps, no more elves will pay for this mistake. Let the light of the Galadhrim that has been given to me in the hour of despair in Lórien, brighten the way for those I have plunged into darkness one last time. Thereafter, I will put down my weapons and my duties."
"We have your back, Your Highness." Not even as a good friend, one had a chance to fight that much self-hate; so Camhanar did what he had been asked to do, with the sad certainty that Middle-earth was about to lose one of its last great elven warriors to the mistakes of Men.
And that everything that had been accomplished in Ithilien in the last few months would have been for nothing then.
"We're getting far too close to Mordor." Just a short while later, Faramir canceled the search again, reluctantly, with clenched teeth. "Out here, we're an open target for every orc still hostile to the Free Folks. If that's the fight you want to court, do it without my men," he turned to Legolas before he had said even one word.
"Not with how entirely drained these soldiers are and what little information we have about how many enemies are staying in the ruins right now."
Whereas Faramir had expected more arguing, Legolas turned away from the threatening darkness in the distance instead, from the cloud of thunder, flashes, and never-ending rain that still symbolized the terror of Sauron's long existence in this part of Middle-earth even a year after the war.
Following the example, the other elves combed the immediate area with the sharp eyes of Firstborn, looking for traces that would hopefully lead them in a less dangerous direction.
Only once the fog thinned out thanks to the sun gaining some strength, the soldiers who were being better trained in such arts but lacking supernatural eyesight, did the same.
Faramir caught up with Legolas to make further arrangements. His own overtiredness almost had him slip on one particularly slippery spot. Only Beregond's quick intervention kept him from falling. It was one of these moments when he had to be really grateful that one of his oldest friends could see through each of his movements ever since he and Faramir had started their soldier training together. Through his movements, all of his expressions, often, basically, through each of his thoughts. Without that hand on his sleeve coming out of nowhere …
When he straightened up, shivering, one bright light on the surface, in particular, caught his sight, the face of another dead person. An illusion clear enough to remind him of two people he had lost not too long ago in a war similar to the one that had raged here. It wasn't all that unlikely that he was seeing an image of one of his ancestors that bore resemblance to his father surely not just by chance.
If he'd looked harder, not even Beregond could have helped. Faramir's exhaustion started to play serious tricks on him. He wanted to get away from here, as fast as possible. But for that, first, he had to know if there was still any hope for the last missing elves.
"Nothing. I guess the night and rain destroyed the last clues." Still trembling from what had just happened, he came to stand next to Legolas. "I'll send some of my soldiers ahead to the city together with your people. Those of us still capable to do so will go on." Again, he was surprised that there were no objections. By now, even an elf was probably too exhausted for that.
"Captain, look at this." Beregond waved at him, alarmed, and pointed at something that all three of them had almost walked past.
The tracker in Faramir noticed immediately, it was exactly the prints they had been searching for the whole time. Hardly visible and from narrow feet. And the warrior in him who had lived at Sauron's doorstep for years could even make it out where those tracks led with the naked eye. The black soul of this place had sent the last three elves straight to Mordor.
Once they'd showed the others what they had discovered, everyone fell silent. At that moment, they probably all felt the same: the wish to advance even further into the dangerous territory to prevent the worst. But you didn't just run towards Mordor without a plan, especially not when the enemies were being as unpredictable as they were right now.
"We'll follow them." Camhanar was the first one to speak up, with a short look at Legolas to seek his approval. "It's not too late to get them back yet. But if we wait for reinforcements, we'll lose them to either torture or a quick death."
Faramir closed his eyes for a moment to sort out his feelings. Éowyn's face in his memory, looking just as pale, just as fragile as it had ever since the war, didn't make that easier.
"Let's leave the swamps first. We'll take the long way to the city." That offered not one but two advantages: He didn't have to ask the elves to wander between the ponds once more, and he still had a little time to decide what he should do now. A time that he could also use to finally thoroughly eye the elves under his protection on this day one by one, to memorize their faces – something he should long have done; after all, these beings had already been living in his front yard for months. There had been just as little time for such things as for a marriage that consisted mostly of silence and tears right now.
From explanations given by that very one elf of all people that Faramir had found dead yesterday, he vaguely remembered that most of Legolas' followers originated from Imladris. Which explained why they had such a hard time coping with all this. Imladris, being more of a gateway to the west for elves these days than shelter from dangers, had been affected the least by the War of the Ring as far as Faramir knew. Of all the big elven realms, they had been struck least by tragedy, though there had been incidents with orcs at the borders repeatedly. A few of his allies, Legolas had in fact only just schooled in the most important maneuvers of attack and defense, in case of emergency, in the last few months.
Only the warriors, like Legolas himself, like the two silver blond former marchwardens of Lórien, or like Camhanar for that matter, who had served in Lord Elrond's army before his wife's pregnancy … They were being used to death. Even to the death of close friends, to saying good-bye to them for what often was a long time in the Halls of Mandos. They knew hours like this in the same sad way that shook Faramir himself again and again when it happened: because at some point, you realized that the worst thing could be growing numb like that.
It wasn't the first time for him to wonder why this group had wanted to start such a difficult new life in these lands, indefinitely, instead of sailing away immediately like most of their kin. He doubted that he would still get a chance to ask now. Not even the elves themselves would probably know an answer now anyway.
They all were relieved when they finally reached the barren woods separating the swamps from the mountains towering above them, without incident.
The men waiting there had cared for the injured elves as well as possible in the meantime. Every single one of them seemed just as unbelievably tired as Faramir felt, more than ever before in his life.
"Get them to Minas Tirith." It was Legolas, making up his mind before Faramir could even try, giving an instruction meant for both him and Camhanar. Though his words were being clear, everything else usually indicating an order was missing, some attitude as well as strictness. He felt obligated to do this even though every rationality was screaming that he might not come home if he approached Mordor alone. That his wife might be waiting for him in vain for a very long time then.
Faramir startled and turned to Camhanar, but the elf just shook his head while Legolas already set forth on the path north without looking back, the one to the debris of the Black Gate.
"You haven't met His Majesty Thranduil in person yet if you think, there's anything now that can stop an elf of this kind."
A few of the elves and she-elves suddenly started to cry, no longer able to deal with the situation. When Camhanar took one of them by the shoulder supportively, Faramir clearly saw him fighting to not show his own pain openly as well. Everyone in the group was shocked about this turn of events, but no one seemed to feel the need to do something about it.
"Would you leave one of your men behind?" Camhanar asked when Faramir made a move to follow Legolas, to change his mind, by force if necessary. "Would you let people hail you for bringing most of them home safely, knowing that you sacrificed the others for that?"
Beregond was standing next to Faramir once more, grabbing his elbow again for a moment, not in order to steady his leader's stumbling body this time but his soul.
There were reasons for the two of them already having been so close long before Aragorn had appointed Beregond Captain of the White Company of Ithilien. Not even Faramir's Rangers would have realized so easily how badly Faramir wanted to make the mistake right that he had made on the clearing of the Stewardaides. And even though Beregond seemed extremely worn out as, though his clothes were completely soaked, his chin-length brunette hair lumps of ice, his hands very cold … He wouldn't be among those to ride home. Even if that meant not seeing his wife and kids ever again.
"If you want to relieve your conscience, I'm by your side."
Now that someone had made a start, other men spoke up immediately, thereby wiping Faramir's last doubts away. If he hadn't tried at least, it wouldn't even have taken Aragorn to release him from his office. Then it would have been him, unable to bring himself to keep on administering it.
"Your Highness, wait! We're coming with you."
He quickly selected the soldiers most likely still in the shape for another march and sent the others away.
This time, the news that his men would bring to Minas Tirith would be better, but somehow, Faramir doubted that Éowyn would be particularly happy to hear them anyway.
While Faramir had not expected enthusiastic gratitude from Legolas, the elf's silence burdened him more with every step they took towards Mordor. A short discussion of their strategy at least would have been advantageous, but Legolas had no word to spare in that conversation.
If the Crown Prince was allegedly the friendly member of his family, as he'd emphasized in the past, Faramir didn't even feel a desire to ever meet His Majesty Thranduil.
When their destination came within sight clearer and clearer and they still hadn't found any new clues, he finally had his men stop.
Legolas didn't seem to feel addressed by that either, given he kept on walking without even looking back.
An annoyed shout already on his lips, Faramir suddenly saw something in the distance that had him jump forward immediately, with all weakness forgotten for the moment. "Take cover!"
Slightly overestimating the distance to the Prince, he crashed into him so hard that his shoulder plate provoked an unpleasant crunch in Legolas' arm. That had been either luck or instinct though, given how closely one of the arrows whistling towards the group out of nowhere, passed above both their backs before getting stuck in the ground right behind them.
Somewhere in that barren piece of land that was all that was left of Sauron's former home, there were a couple of archers, with such good eyes and such an excellent aim that they would almost have been lucky.
"What is wrong with you?" Faramir didn't let go of Legolas immediately. "Your elven senses leave much to be desired if someone like me has to save you from a threat like that!"
First, he thought, Legolas' snow-white skin color and the horror in his ocean blue eyes came from the attack barely escaped, but when he followed the elf's glance to the side, his own heart skipped a beat.
This arrow had been shot at the Prince for a reason. Instead of feathers, three long strands of hair were inwrought in the rear end of its shaft, two of them silver-blond, one black. Their tips were clotty with blood.
"Come on!" Without regard for a possible injury from the impact, Faramir yanked Legolas to his feet, just in time before further missiles came their way. Those were missing them by a long shot though. Maybe they were only being meant as a deterrent. Now that the orcs had informed them about what they had to say, they apparently wanted the message to be passed on.
Afterward, Faramir wouldn't remember how he had managed to cover the short distance to the others, haunted by the memory of his last battle in the war when a similar offensive had killed his whole group, the attempt to reconquer Osgiliath ending with a fall from his horse before he'd had a single enemy before his blade.
This time, the only choice was to flee if he wasn't to fare similarly. Sure, he could have ordered an attack as well. Under different circumstances, he wouldn't have hesitated, not with what he'd just had to learn, not with how many stories he remembered about elves who had been tortured to death in Mordor in the past, about the cruelties they'd had to endure, often for days, before the only relief in the shape of their journey to the Halls of Mandos had found them. He said a silent prayer to the Valar, wishing the worst for those three was over already and that this hair came from dead bodies. Unfortunately, he knew exactly how small this hope was.
To his relief, his men were returning the attack already. The retreat would prove difficult but unless one of them neglected their cover, they would hopefully make it unscathed.
Seeing the soldiers in danger who had stood by his people for so many long hours revived Legolas' mind. Tearing away from Faramir, he ran into the midst of the men, into the protection of their armor to improve the one of his own borrowed, improvised one, before reaching for his bow himself. After the attack of the wargs at Cair Andros, there weren't many arrows left in his dirt-covered quiver, however, his shots at the shadowy target, almost covered completely by foam, were more effective than those of Faramir's men who were missing a couple of thousands of years of experience. The hail of arrows quickly stopped.
They anxiously awaited a second attack, maybe one from behind that they would notice too late to get through it without losses, but the battle cries of the orcs had fallen silent. There was no doubt at all though that in a minimum of time, more of them would come if the soldiers tried to approach the enemy fortress again.
And next time, they might not be that lucky. In their current lineup, this plan had indeed been doomed from the start, and Legolas had now understood that too, though it was probably the hardest decision he'd ever made in his life as a warrior. They could leave the battlefield undisturbed, heading towards the fire in the distance that they could hardly see anything more of than a blurred circle by now.
The arrow with the gruesome trophy on it that Faramir had passed Legolas instinctively, unable to look him in the eyes though, the Prince carried before him in both hands.
It wasn't long since they'd left the enemy territory behind when more reinforcements from Minas Tirith came to meet them unexpectedly, in the shape of a Ring Companion. Faramir had never been so happy to see a dwarf.
Since not even the sight of Gimli could get the slightest emotion out of Legolas, it was up to Faramir to greet him, and to learn, with horror, but not really entirely surprised, that there had been a fight in Minas Tirith as well. How badly the King was supposedly doing right now did nothing to calm his guilty conscience about how much time he had wasted, trying to negotiate with Barhit.
"Thank you for taking on this arduous ride here anyway." Many Dwarves weren't the best riders by nature. You couldn't ignore now, either, how hard the trip at too fast a pace had been for the Lord, even with an animal fitting his size.
"In vain and too late, and not for the first time in these last few days," Gimli replied unusually harshly. "If I had been informed as soon as the first problems started at Cair Andros, we might have fewer victims to complain about. Then the King would already be busy planning how to punish these bastards right now who have dared to kill elves. Instead, I've been held up in a tavern in town while Aragorn was almost murdered."
"I personally sent a pigeon to Rohan before I left, but you were faster than it," explained Faramir, tired of justifying something that, strictly speaking, had just been inconvenient timing. "Believe me, if I had the choice, I would go to battle with you anytime. But for the moment, it is more important that we take care of those who have been harmed in the last one. And you're just in time for that."
Gimli couldn't really argue with that, and he accepted the not very discreet hint without objection. While he, too, did not get even a single syllable out of his old elvish friend, he at least managed, with gentle force, to take this damned missile from Legolas before the poison on it could burn his palms further. Wrapped securely in a resilient cloth, in the Prince's quiver, it could at least not cause any more damage.
Legolas did hardly react to that either; Faramir had to wonder if he'd even recognized his friend. But at least he didn't resist either when one of the soldiers helped Gimli to sit on Legolas' horse behind him and Gimli wrapped his arms around Legolas' waist to hold on, possibly a little more tightly than necessary.
And no matter how mechanical the movement seemed, Legolas didn't fail to express his gratitude for his friend's silent support by squeezing his hand quickly before he spurred his horse back on.
A kiss on the forehead tore Aragorn from a condition that, when being awake for a brief moment a few hours ago, he hadn't expected to ever be able to free himself from. For seconds, his still weakened senses didn't allow anything through but this one sensation, and the thought that apparently, Arwen was still sitting by his side.
When he opened his eyes though, instead of her lovely features, he saw the slightly rounder face of another she-elf above him who briefly touched his forehead and cheek before straightening up and pulling open the curtains before the balcony windows. Blinded, Aragorn blinked a few times, almost expecting the she-elf to vanish again as it often happened in fever dreams, but Tarisilya was still standing there with her arms crossed; he had last seen her look so haggard in the war when she had almost died of a broken heart on a sickbed right before his eyes.
"I thought, I was dreaming …" While his voice was hoarse from the long battle against the poisoning, it still was loud enough. He felt something moving next to him almost immediately – not something, someone.
Arwen was sleeping on her chair, half-braced on the bed, with her head on the pillow next to his, her hand resting on his chest. She probably felt that something had changed but didn't wake up yet.
Aragorn would rouse her, in a moment, when he would be able to do more than turn his head – that alone might take minutes. That infections and pain were gone for the most part didn't mean he was healthy already. Whether he would ever be able to use that shoulder right again alone was probably written in the stars.
But these tumbling thoughts had to wait. For now, he needed to thank the being who had gone through the darkness for him, literally. It was better not to let anyone hear that, not even Arwen. "I wish I'd only dreamed this."
He felt more shocked by the second, eying Tarisilya, her stringy hair that she had reduced to almost half of its former length at some point during this conflict. Parchment-like skin that didn't even look a normal shade in the sunlight, a stubbornly fleeing glance … That was surely not what Legolas had had in mind when he had asked Aragorn to take care of his wife.
"You shouldn't have done this, Ilya." It was the first time for him to call her that since he had first met her in Imladris decades ago. This night had created an intimate bond between them, maybe a closer one than it was beseeming a friendship of this kind. Which was just one of the reasons why he would have stopped her, given the chance.
"You live, Aragorn." Tarisilya of all people who had always refused to call him anything but "Your Majesty", even before he'd become King, let him know by using his actual name as well, that a healing process like last night didn't allow for the same distance as before. Their acquaintance had turned into a deep friendship which did not only mean good things. "You will make full recovery. This realm will not lose your heart, your spirit, and your will to fight. In the end, that's all that matters."
Turning away, she leaned her head against the window glass and looked outside into the light of morning that would have drawn at least a small smile from anyone else and that seemed to hurt her eyes instead. "But your miracle had its price, you know that. I won't make that better by pretending."
"I don't know what I can say except … thank you." The instinctive notion of shrugging only reminded Aragorn harshly that he should better be lying very still right now if he didn't want to fall right back into pain delirium.
"You don't need to. This was and is no one's problem but my own. I have given Gondor its King back when he was already thought lost, that cannot be bad. And I don't have to say good-bye to yet another friend after losing so many already. But I'm afraid." Tears hastily wiped away joined the traces of blood and dirt on Tarisilya's quite worn-looking dress.
"What if people ask me to do something like that again? If they want to know why the life of a child is worth less than a King's? What if someone that I love is dying? My father was thousands of years old when he tried spells like this for the first time, and even then, he still was intimidated by it. Your foster father will never grant me access to Imladris again if he learns about this. When it came to me, this was always exactly what he's been afraid of; he's already told me that hundreds of years ago. And you'll probably have to fire your elvish advisor to keep him from getting rid of me as a potential threat for the King. Yet I had no choice, not after killing that Uruk-hai in Rohan back then. I had to find a way to compensate for the parts of my abilities that I lost. Shall I go back now to doing without them again? Suddenly you don't know when to stop anymore."
"You're not alone, Ilya." Feeling that tiredness wanted to take him again, this time, Aragorn moved his bandaged shoulder on purpose to have the stinging throb in it make him see clearly again. There still was much to say before he could allow himself that luxury. "But I'm not the one you should have this conversation with."
"I know. That at least, I have understood in the last few days." With some effort, the she-elf pushed herself away from the window and wrapped an old robe around her body that one of the healers had forgotten, to hide at least the worst stains on her clothes. "I'll get the others."
"No."
Aragorn's firm tone had her look up in surprise and follow the gesture of his chin towards the gardens with a small grimace. "Wrong direction. Out of the question. I'm not going out there."
"My advisors can wait. The people need to learn immediately that they no longer have to fear for me and the line of Kings, and unfortunately, I won't make it yet myself to appear before them. I also won't let another healer take all the credit due to the elves. If you can't bring yourself to be proud of what you achieved, do it for me and for Gondor. The people need a reminder of how important your kin is for Mankind, now more than ever. Go tell them. I need a bit of time on my own anyway." Given he'd only just got up from his death bed, Aragorn mastered his commanding tone quite well again already.
Only his smile when he turned to Arwen again softened this newfound determination.
"If that's what His Majesty desires …" Tarisilya showed an exaggerated curtsy and left the room with something that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.
Aragorn just watched Arwen sleep for a few long moments, something he hadn't been allowed to do anymore for half an eternity. She still rested with her eyes open though except for appearances, her body was much more equivalent to a woman's than to a she-elf's ever since she'd given up immortality for him. She still was beautiful like a Firstborn though.
The same yearning as years, as decades ago filled him when he eyed her beloved face so close to his, her full, broad lips, her narrow nose, the silken black hair; very clear skin that was still reddened from crying a lot last night. It hurt, having to disturb her, to destroy this peaceful image. Though he had spent a little time with his beloved almost every day of the last few months, it was as if he would really be seeing her for the first time in a while.
Arwen promptly stirred a little in her sleep, murmuring something quietly.
Aragorn gently caressed her arm with his fingertips until she turned her head aside, the fog of dream leaving her deep blue eyes.
His betrothed stared at him silently for a few seconds, then rested one slightly trembling hand on his cheek. "Please tell me this isn't another dream."
"I sure hope not. It's been long since last I was allowed to wake up in such a nice way."
Aragorn rested his hand on hers lovingly, meaning to say something else, but in the next moment, Arwen buried her face against his neck, with her arm wrapped so tightly around his chest that it hurt. A few bright, salty drops fell onto his skin. "Everything's alright, mîl nín. Stop it, please. You've shed enough tears for me …"
"These are tears of joy, you fool." Arwen audibly tried to get her choked breath, her emotions back under control as Firstborn usually so easily could, and nuzzled even closer to him with a deep sigh.
"Insolent as ever." Aragorn had to laugh. With some effort, he made it to put his healthy arm around her.
"As if you would want me any other way." She managed to wipe her last tears on the pillow and wink at him. "How do you feel?"
"I'm alive, and nothing is going to change about that anytime soon."
"Your shoulder?" Arwen's face was already darkening again when she eyed the thick bandages on his upper body. The kind of consequences such an injury usually had now seemed to come back to her, as well.
At least, if you couldn't bank on the support of some of your friends' extraordinary abilities. "After everything, Ilya did for me last night, I'm inclined to believe her optimism. But let's not talk about that right now."
Aragorn's fingertips quickly grazed her lips, then her cheek. After having been certain for hours that he would never be able to enjoy being close to his betrothed ever again, now he couldn't get enough of every smallest touch, every one of her smiles, every shiver running down Arwen's arms when he was fondling her delicate neck like this. He'd denied himself such things out of stupidity and an exaggerated sense of duty for far too long; that would soon be over. "Listen, Nauriel, what I told you before blacking out …"
"Don't worry about that." Arwen interrupted him with a jerky headshake. "You thought you were dying, and you were running a high fever. You were about to say good-bye. I'm not taking you up on something like that. We have time, and the folk is in more unrest than ever. We shouldn't cause even more." In spite of the arduous rationality of these words, the same shadow already darkened her expression once more that had weighed down on her so heavily in the last few months. She tried to turn away, to get some distance between them. Suddenly, she seemed to feel almost as lost as last night.
Aragorn seriously considered punishing himself with a well-deserved slap on his right shoulder for what he had done to the she-elf without even realizing, by making her wait for so long once again. Even for a King, there couldn't be any priority in his life higher than love, than honoring the bond of a family, or he would be just as bad a leader as Denethor at his end. He could never allow himself to forget that again, and his partner shouldn't either.
"Arwen ... believe me, my mind was never clearer than in that night." He motioned her to bend down to him, rested his hand on her neck, and gave her a long kiss. "We won't wait for even another moon. I finally want you to become my wife."
"There's nothing I want more, mîl nín." This time, it wasn't tears of grief in Arwen's eyes.
Cheers arising in the city's streets interrupted the scene. Tarisilya had apparently announced that the King would survive. It wouldn't be long until the members of his advisor council would want to check on him.
In fact, they could hear the first quick steps in the hallway already.
Aragorn only just managed to squeeze Arwen's hand before his first advisor Verilas knocked, storming in without waiting for an invitation to corner him with questions.
In the long minutes that followed, he didn't let go of her even for a single moment either.