"Can I do anything for you, milady?"

"Not since you asked ten minutes ago. And by the stars, stop calling me that already. Someone's always listening."

"Very well, mil … Captain."

An apology for her gruff behavior would probably have been in order.

Instead, Tarisilya suddenly had to smile when the marchwarden left her alone with his head lowered, just far enough to not disturb her. Not far enough to no longer be able to keep an eye on her. It seemed, there was truly nothing that could knock the over-worriedness out of these soldiers. That was calming.

A moment later, tears streamed down her cheeks. She quickly pulled the hood of her long cloak low over her eyes and bent deeper over the railing though there wasn't even anything to see down there, except for deep water. Flowing calmly and sluggishly thanks to a summer without much rain, except for the narrow swathe that the traveling ship was carving into it, black in the darkness of the night except for the stars glistening on the surface. A pretty sight, actually, if you had a second look to spare.

Tarisilya had given up on trying to find strength in the beauty of the stars. Her fate had no meaning on a day when she had to hide her shape, her ancestry, her whole being behind a soldier's silver-grey uniform.

In the uniform of the very same captain no less who was laid low in her hold home Lórien, badly injured, since the lossy battles of the War of the Ring. The one whose place Tarisilya's twin brother Tegiend would very likely have taken by now if she could have made him stay on Middle-earth.

All these centuries since leaving childhood behind, in a way, she was trying to pass for her brother again to not be recognized by anyone. This time, not to escape a boring lecture though but a potential threat. But it wasn't the fear or the old parting pain that made her cry once more. At this point, she had come to hate her own tears. She couldn't remember much of the last few days, but the sounds of her own hollow sobs, somewhere in a remote corner of her talan, where she had impatiently waited for departure, were still echoing in her head.

If there had been anyone talking to her, she hadn't noticed it. Her thoughts had been focused solely on her futile attempts to make contact with her husband in her head, via their completely useless-seeming marriage bond. And on this one fateful message from Gondor, on this simple piece of parchment that was crumbled by her firm grip by now, the writing blurred. There was no more need for her to be able to read it. The two short sentences had been etched into her memory as if Thondrar had been standing right beside her, whispering them to her continuously in his melodic voice.

Come back, milady. Your husband needs you.

No greeting, no ending, and least of all any further explanations, and yet Tarisilya was still clinging to this piece of paper as if her life was depending on it. No matter how big her shock about these new bad developments in her new home with Men was, there were two things this message was clearly expressing. A formality for once that she would actually rather have expected from Glorfindel and not his son – therefore, the letter must have been penned in a hurry. Whatever it was that was going on North-Ithilien this time, time was short. But what counted even more: Legolas had at least been alive when this clear cry for help had been sent.

He was still alive; Tarisilya just knew it, deep inside her soul, though the Galadhrim that Lord Celeborn had sent on this journey with her for her protection, would surely have called that wishful thinking. She would have felt it if he was not, no matter how much her connection to the moon had suffered, and even without the rings from the war that Lady Galadriel had given them back then. Their wedding had bound Tarisilya to Legolas forever, and while they might both have done far too little to train the mental connection between them so far … The same way, she had been able to feel his love for her in her heart in the few especially intimate moments with him, she wouldn't have failed to realize it either if fate had punished her husband for his hateful approach in the Stewardaides crisis. There was still hope.

And that was why she couldn't have stayed in East Lórien, no matter how long and hard Celeborn had tried to make her, stating dozens of arguments that she knew best herself. Not a minute passed when she didn't pray to the Valar that they would protect her unborn baby. She didn't need anyone to tell her that she was behaving like the world's worst mother. If anything happened … She wouldn't be able to climb this steep mountain of loss again; that, she was fully aware of. She wouldn't deserve to either, and she wouldn't have been able to live with the wrath for herself anyway.

But losing her husband wasn't something she could survive either. Which meant, her baby couldn't either. It was plenty ironic that Tegiend of all people who had never wanted to accept Legolas as the elf by Tarisilya's side, had been the only one to understand that she only had the choice between two evils. Knowing she had gone for the lesser wrong should have calmed her.

Instead, the fear only grew by the hour. She simply wasn't a warrior, and a masquerade couldn't make that forgotten. Neither could the tightly laced top of the uniform hiding the first signs of her pregnancy give her security, nor the camouflaging deep green cloak made by the legendary tailors of her folk, or the long dagger by her side. Her husband and King Elessar had only just begun teaching her how to handle a short blade and a bow, and even that had happened only irregularly, since her calling as a healer had always been in the way of any ambitions for fighting. Tarisilya had no illusions about being able to hold her ground against a trained enemy if it should come to an attack.

While the six Galadhrim by her side did count among the best elvish fighters still lingering on Middle-earth, on her way to East Lórien not too long ago, Tarisilya had already witnessed how quickly even a short inattentiveness could become a deadly trap. In spite of having someone like Lord Glorfindel by her side back then, she would almost have fallen into the hands of a small, misguided tribe of Dunlendings, some members of which had already beastly murdered six other elves shortly after the war. How should that make her feel protected by simple soldiers?

Until they arrived, all she could do was be careful, not granting herself a minute of relaxing, listening into the night's silence when the elves were alone on deck and listening even closer to the words of the fellow travelers by day. When you were not alone, even the shortest boat trip could take an eternity.

Celeborn had at least been able to accompany her personally as far as past Lórien before giving her to people who were better trained on the weapon than even he was who'd only seldom gone to battle recently. They had taken the snow-white swan boat that Tarisilya had always looked upon with glistening eyes as an elfling, that only a few people were allowed to sit in at all.

Tarisilya hadn't been able to feel any pride; the certainty had prevailed too clearly that this had only happened for her protection. For a silly moment though, she had felt hopeful that Lady Galadriel herself would be waiting in the boat for her when the Galadhrim had escorted her to the river.

She hadn't been there of course. Galadriel had her own folk to look after. And since Tarisilya couldn't bear the emptiness of her former home even for a short visit, not even to see said injured elf who had been so close to Tegiend, she knew by now that she wouldn't see her friend and advisor again before she would sail west herself one day.

Until reaching the elven realms' border where passenger ships were leaving for Gondor in regular intervals, she had stared, blind with tears, at the Mellyrn trees at the shores that would bear no more golden leaves in the foreseeable future, and had said her last good-bye to the immortality of her century-long refuge. And tried, at the same time, to come clean with knowingly bringing her child into danger once more.

She hadn't managed to, and now there was no more time for self-reproaches. Now she was being among Men again. That alone was reason enough to never forget watching her back, given how vocally Legolas had sworn revenge in Minas Tirith for the murdered elves of his settlement.

It was a small boat, only two decks and a number of rooms easy to watch; the warriors had been able to calm her about that at least. But the mistrustful, fearful or even aggressive glances of the Secondborn from all sides remained. Their whispered conversations revealed to Tarisilya that they thought, the Galadhrim were sailing to Gondor as a backup for the elves there who were ill-affected to Men.

The baseless accusations had Tarisilya realize once more how much Legolas had really brought about in his helpless grief for the first direct subjects he had ever lost, and how little she had done against it herself. A few clarifying words of hers wouldn't have achieved anything here; especially not in her bad mental shape.

In the end, she had declared the filthy rear her safe haven. There was hardly anyone straying back here, and the wistful look back at the woods had provided her with a rest of serenity.

But now, they were driving through an area little known to Tarisilya. The lack of a tangy smell from the trees and the music of the wood animals falling silent left an unpleasant hum in her ears that not even the rushing of the water could drown out. Neither could the usual throb of yearning in her heart – that would someday reach even the last elves in these realms willing to leave them and lure them to Aman – that the sight of the water was triggering.

Unlike these other lingerers though, Tarisilya wouldn't just be able to leave. She would still be stranded here for a long time to come, bound by her promise to her husband and to this world that didn't even want her anymore …

The slight tremble in her hands was spreading, it made her whole body shake, so badly that she had to step away from the railing. She was alone. No one dear to her heart was left to tell her that everything would be alright. With a quiet sob, she sat down on the moldy ground, braced back against the railing, and fought to gather her composure before someone foreign would possibly take a walk here at this hour after all and wonder about a certain captain's weird behavior.

But there was no use. Numerous vigorously suppressed images of the last few months slipped through the wall around her mind that turned more porous by the second, and showed her all that had led to this night of loneliness in merciless detail.

Helm's Deep, Legolas' blood on her hands, and Tegiend's hate-distorted expression, badly disguised by a tense smile of good-bye when Tarisilya had finally made her decision for Middle-earth.

Six mutilated elvish corpses, bathed in blood, naked and headless, executed by a few sick men in sadistic satisfaction.

Blood on her legs. Unbridled hate in Legolas' eyes when he had left her alone to punish the murderers of their unborn child.

An orc arrow with three elvish strands of hair at the shaft that their friends' blood was still clinging to. Even more hate going rampant like the flames blazing at that mourning ceremony back then.

And the utter emptiness in Legolas' ocean blue eyes at their last meeting. Right now, not even their closeness could wipe out this feeling that had accumulated in him ever since the war. Would he even want her to try and help him? Or had he stopped caring like he'd stopped caring about his friendship with Men, with Gimli, with Aragorn?

Hardly audible pitter-patter in her immediate proximity had her head jerk up and made her feel the handle of her weapon; then something was drawn from her lips that she recognized only belated as quiet laughter. "What are you doing here? You were supposed to stay in the woods."

Her cat had only a quiet mewl to spare for the reproach, and a pitiful glance when she jumped on Tarisilya's bent knees. No matter how she had sneaked aboard – Conuiril had an exceptional talent for hiding in blankets and bundles –, she had to be hungry. Apparently, there weren't enough mice here. Or the animal was simply once more too lazy to hunt.

"Come on." Sighing, Tarisilya stuffed the animal under her cloak, grinning for a moment when Conuiril protested against the sudden stuffy tightness, trying to scratch her with a hiss, only to get stuck in the leather of the uniform, before her small claws scraped over metal. "Mithril, sweetheart. Not even you stand a chance against that."

Celeborn couldn't have given her a more useful parting gift, though Tarisilya was still wondering where this shirt had come from that was fitting her as if it had been crafted for her specifically. Dwarves and Lórien residents hadn't exactly been famous for having the best neighborly relationship in the past. She would ask Gimli if he had something to do with it – in case she would ever be allowed to see Legolas' cheerful Ring Companion again. The gloomy thoughts tried to gain the upper hand once again.

Conuiril's whining quickly brought her back to the present. It was only a small comfort, the hint of a memory of a slightly happier time. But if it helped to not waste any more strength with crying, she would happily take care of another small creature.

"Very good." Celeborn acknowledged the progress with East Lórien's outdoor facilities with a last benevolent look around and nodded at the leader of the workers gratefully. "If we stay on this schedule, we can rehouse by the end of the year."

"We'll do our best, milord." The slightly coarse-looking elf returned his smile with a sadness hard to ignore. It wouldn't be easy for any of the Galadhrim to leave the Golden Wood behind, but they all knew that soon, there soon wouldn't be anything left there to keep them in them. "If you allow, tomorrow, I will …"

He paused, pointing at the sky in surprise. "A message."

"Another one?" With less patience than his many millennia had actually taught him, Celeborn waited for the white dove to sit down on a twig next to him and unfastened the scroll from its thin legs that did indeed carry his name. What by the Valar had happened this time?

Why had he not stopped Tarisilya? He just should have given that careless elf maiden some more sleeping tea, this time without asking her beforehand if necessary. This new message bearing the still so new deep green seal of the elvish settlement of North Ithilien was probably a written all-clear signal, and his charge has left them needlessly …

Celeborn froze.

"Milord?"

Celeborn only realized that he was scanning the parchment for the third time, his wide eyes wide with fright, when the worker addressed him. "Has something else happened? Shall I muster the Galadhrim?"

"I'll have to do that myself." With trembling hands, Celeborn stuffed the message into one of his robe pockets and hurried to the paddock to get his horse. "The first message was a forgery."

"A forgery so perfect in seal and handwriting?" the other elf asked doubtfully. "Who …?"

"The same people who stole letters from the sky over the Cair Andros for weeks and do therefore know exactly what they have to copy." The worker could hardly keep up with Celeborn anymore. He was more talking to himself anyway as if he had to realize first how foolishly he had let a few primitive men trick him. "Peace has returned to Ithilien. There have been no losses, and that's exactly what the Stewardaides now want to take revenge on one of their worst enemies for. The last enemies of the King still on the loose only wanted to lure the Princess from her hideout."

Aragorn and his wife were only just returning from their short trip to Cair Andros where they had celebrated the victory in Emyn Arnen together with the elves, and Legolas' final appointment as the leader of these people on top, when Aragorn was already being targeted by his advisors so badly that spending time with Arwen alone wasn't possible. Since there was of course much to deal with after Arwen's and his kidnapping and the battle in South Ithilien, he followed Verilas' request for a special meeting without a comment, albeit not without sadness.

The first half an hour of that conference, he was basically only spending convincing even the most skeptical man at the table that the elves in the settlement really posed no more danger, that the group was no longer guided by thoughts of revenge.

Statements of praise followed next that robbed them of even more time but were still necessary and coming from the heart.

These twelve people had surpassed themselves when both Aragorn and Faramir had vanished; Verilas, in particular, had acted gallantly and achieved far more than could actually even be asked of his elderly body, in spite of contradictory information and doubts from all sides.

But Aragorn had of course not been called to the meeting room for a round of applause. These men weren't there to just unquestioningly execute his instructions as it had often been the case in the end under the former Steward. Their suggestions were his support and an admonishment at the same time to never rest in any regard.

"People are still in turmoil." Verilas spoke up soon, visibly reluctant to dampen the mood that had just been so fine. "Your words after the Stewardaides' first attack on you still are on people's minds; yet the word is out in the street that you should set a warning example. This week, the realm has almost lost every leadership. People are afraid. They want the people responsible to hang so that no one gets any more ideas about organizing riots against the Steward and you."

"Am I the only one who doesn't think, controlling the people by having them fear me is the right way?" Aragorn leaned back on his high-backed white seat tiredly, absently rubbing his right shoulder where the wound that his torturers had cut open again was still dully throbbing away.

"One of the reasons for me to let myself be crowned King was improving the former ways of government. Denethor might have preferred hiding away in his tower in the end while his guards were intimidating everyone, but I will send no one to the gallows. Where is that supposed to end? What if – may the Valar spare us – a murder happened in the streets of this city that has nothing to do with the Stewardaides one day? Will the relatives of the dead not demand the same punishment? Once the blood of our own people has been shed, everyone might soon be asking for much harder punishments. Will you explain then why an injustice against me has outweighed that? Not to mention that I would be surprised if anyone in here volunteered to build the gallows and play the hangman."

Relief allowed him to soften his tone when his audience turned away in shame. Sometimes he had to remind himself that some of these people were younger than he was though thanks to his Númenór descent, he was showing it only in the shape of a few wrinkles around his eyes. That he had suspected this subject to come up again in the foreseeable future, didn't make it easier. After all that he'd seen, he could of course understand the men, just like he had been able to understand Legolas' pain that the elf had only just begun to process; but mourners in their pain did unfortunately often not think any further.

"I also doubt that any of us would want to visit the families of the executed men afterward."

The death penalty that Aragorn was fighting tooth and nail might solve the Stewardaides Crisis on the outside but not one of the problems that had caused it in the first place. Maybe one really did have to go through sixty years of loneliness, fighting and war like him to understand that. There was a reason for hate existing in these lands that had been passed on for generations, for centuries already. The conflicts with many tribes of the Dunlendings and the Haradrim that had caused both First- and Secondborn so many losses already being just one example.

"What if they regroup?" another advisor finally asked anxiously into the silence. "Barhit could try to free his people or just start over. His writings were successful among the people again and again. As a deterrent, I'm in favor for at least those among them who have committed most of the crimes to be executed."

Lowering his hand, Aragorn stared at the man at the other end of the table sharply ever until the advisor until looked away. "And you are in a position to judge who of the prisoners did? Were you there when they planned their attacks and gave their orders? Given everything I've seen from the Stewardaides, almost all of them are merely henchmen. Most of them have not even reached full adulthood yet. Many were blinded and despaired because of losing everything in the war. Barhit manipulated these people cleverly, that is correct, and he needs to be stopped at any cost. That is already being taken care of. And all the other Stewardaides still on the loose as well who resist being taken prisoner will fall victim to our soldiers' blades. This order, I am maintaining, even though I don't like it."

"I, too, do not think that even more violence will help. There is one complication you should not underestimate though." It was plain to see how grudgingly Verilas said his next words, but his worry for his leaders won. "There is still at least one Stewardaid living in the Citadel with access to the groceries. Until now, we've had no success, finding out who they could be. It's probably only your strict food processing inspections still keeping them from striking. A public execution would hopefully scare this person enough to discourage them from going through with their plans. You don't need me to tell you what a threat within these buildings means especially for your wife and the heir of Kings in her belly."

Aragorn got up in irritation and braced himself on the table with both hands but startled back again immediately because his shoulder couldn't deal with that strain yet. "Do you think there's anything else I can think of right now? It's only been a few days since I almost lost my family."

With a sigh, he went to stand at one of the head-high windows as he always did when he needed a moment to think, looking outside to the busy ado in the Citadel court.

At least none of the washerwomen, gardeners, and servants there seemed to sense any danger. On a day when the sun shone down so undimmed on the white walls and people were still high on good news like Arwen's pregnancy, no one was ready to fill their minds with troubles.

Sometimes, Aragorn yearned for the same luxury. Verilas had touched his sorest spot. That something might happen to his wife in their own home even had him wish – in secret, forbidden moments – that he could just get rid of these men in the dungeons and of their mates forever and finally learn what levity was. But things never were that easy.

"Has any of you actually ever met even one of those people? If we execute a few of them, the others will take revenge regardless of their own safety. If we were lucky, the Stewardaid would just flee the Citadel, doubtlessly to be replaced shortly afterward. Now there's still a chance to take the guy prisoner."

In a movement surprisingly determined for the tremble of age and sickness in his body, Verilas got up as well and cut another of the men off.

"You're right, Your Majesty. The question of how to keep on making citizens understand this decision still remains, but the two of us can discuss that alone. What you need right now is as much rest as possible, not meetings that your orders are ceaselessly being doubted in."

"That is your job."

Still grateful though, Aragorn turned to leave. "I can't avoid holding another speech in the foreseeable future anyway. Have it announced that I will talk to the citizens again in a few days." He only waited for the advisors' obligatory deep bow, then his way led him to the Queen's chambers.

Aragorn found Arwen on the broad windowsill in her living chambers, with her knees drawn up and her eyes closed. She seemed to enjoy the sun on her skin; a light smile was curling on her full lips.

That was not a moment Aragorn wanted to interrupt, so he quietly went to the door that connected their chambers to change clothes. He hadn't even got around to doing that today. He didn't make it further than a few steps.

"Something's weighing on your mind."

Arwen still didn't open her eyes when he made a surprised sound, only tilting her head a little. "I'm from the folk of elves, mîl nín, though my senses are not what they used to be. It would be pathetic if I hadn't learned anything at all. Your steps are heavier than usual."

"After all this time, you can still surprise me. It's alright, don't worry. Nothing important." Aragorn lowered himself next to her on the heated marble and gave her a short kiss on her forehead.

"How are you feeling today?" He tried his best to hide the worried tone in his voice.

The pregnancy complications had come back already. At Cair Andros, his wife had only been lucky for a while. Now a small stain at the front of her bright dress revealed that she had probably thrown up once again after their return. She had tied back her thick black hair unusually carelessly, probably for the same reason. And Aragorn was quite sure that yesterday, these circles under her pretty, deep blue eyes had not been there yet.

Arwen shrugged and sighed. "Ioreth still claims vehemently, you only feel sick in the morning though I have been all day. It's nothing bad. And you're not just worried about me having a headache, are you? What did the advisors say?"

Since Aragorn knew that Arwen hadn't let this go in spite of her condition otherwise, he summarized the conversation in brief words.

To his disappointment, Arwen first kept silent when he was finished, looking outside to the garden again. He could see it in her that she didn't really know what to say.

"Do you think my decision to be wrong too?" That was unfortunately something Aragorn already should have expected since Arwen had threatened one of the Stewardaides so clearly at a visit to the prison back then.

Actually, he'd hoped that she would have remembered by now, there were good reasons why her father as a realm leader would never allow any of his subjects to raise a weapon against his own people either. After all, she had tried to appeal to Legolas' conscience herself more than once during the crisis.

But accepting something in your heart, too, was unfortunately not the same. "These people are responsible for the deaths of some of my people, Estel. Legolas' pain is my own. Many soldiers of Gondor have also died to protect us from them. How many families did these people leave behind? The relatives of the killed elves might not do it as loudly as Legolas' subjects have not too long ago, but don't make the mistake of thinking, they're not hurt endlessly deeply as well. They're fortunately in good hands, with the rest of their families; many of them do even live under the blessing gaze of the Valar in the west already. And someday, they will see the ones who were killed again. But that doesn't right the wrong. Me, I almost lost our child, and you, more than once. Knowing there's still some of these madmen around … You know how much I hate it to be afraid. But …" She paused for a moment, pulled her legs even closer to her chest, and rested her chin on her knees, looking him deeply in the eye.

"There's no doubt that your enemies think, death is a small price to pay for their aim. They'd surely even prefer it to a life in captivity. Who is it that we would be punishing? It's not these people screaming for vengeance who will cry for a beloved person under the gallows. As long as the Stewardaides are in prison, their families have at least a chance to see them. Should we have punished Ilya by executing Legolas for his outburst, as some rulers would have done? The suffering of the Stewardaides' families wouldn't be any different."

Arwen leaped down from her elevated seat, noticeably still quite confused, and sauntered to the table where a jug with juice had been placed. But her hand was suddenly trembling so badly that she had to put it down again, with worry for her baby and the worry for Tarisilya, too, that the memory had resurfacing.

The shaking only subsided when Aragorn put his arms around her from behind and kissed her neck. "I know why a few minutes spent with you were always enough to make the problems of whole months forgotten for a while. You never fail to remind me, how much warmth there can be in a single being, Nauriel. You're helping me more than any advisor with well-meant counsel, no matter how experienced."

A cautious knock on the door interrupted the conversation. One of the servants reported that lunch was ready to be served.

"I'll be next door for a moment, or I'll have to sit at the table with this sweaty tunic."

"I've seen you bathed in orc blood more than once. A little salt on your skin won't put me off." Arwen insisted on following and watching him.

"Half of the court ladies would be fainting in shock if they'd heard that." Amused, Aragorn got another tunic out of his dresser, one not that tight and costly, and switched the other one for it slowly enough, a mischievous glint in his eyes when Arwen stared at him from head to toe with visible interest, biting her lip yearningly.

Not in the middle of the day – he didn't need hour-long debates to know what his advisors would think about that – but it was nice to know that she was pining for him just as much as he was for her. No matter how much her former elvish blood did really still influence her or not, the passion that started to grow in her people during the so-called days of the children, definitely didn't seem to leave her cold either.

"Every now and then, a pinch of proper civic behavior doesn't hurt a Queen, does it?" She laughed in surprise when Aragorn pulled her in his arms and gave her a passionate kiss.

"It makes you the best Queen I can wish to have by my side."

He hid his face against her fine neck for a moment, to not let her see that his smile was already fading again. For a small group of people who were all the louder though, Arwen was unfortunately not the right woman by his side at all. Until even the last Stewardaid would be in captivity, he would keep on lying awake next to his wife often enough, but not out of passion but because nightmares wouldn't let him fall asleep.