I know you won't believe these words from me,

But still, they're mine to say -

That I will always love you,

In my own crazy way.

~~~Rod Stewart, In My Own Crazy Way~~~

'Vanimelda, Halbarad. Vanimelda.' Aragorn kept his voice light, as though he was joking but no declaration of love since Beren's oath to reclaim a Silmaril in exchange for Thingol's daughter Luthien, or maybe Arwen's quiet forsaking of the immortal life for Estel, the man raised by Elves, had carried more conviction.

Manwe can hear all that passes on these shores of Middle Earth; did he hear those three words and if he did, did he accept or do the Valar still have the power to affect us here if we go against their wishes for the Secondborn? Can they take Gondor from me after the years of toil; can they reach me or Halbarad? What have I done? Oh, Elrond, forgive me.

Halbarad glanced across the Greenway at the older man; the Sickle of Doom shone down on his face and burnished his black hair golden although the rest of his face was cast in shadow that flickered as though fire cast. There was an air of amusement about him, amusement tempered by suspicion as unthinking as that of a wild beast.

'Vanimelda, Halbarad. Vanimelda.' He echoed Aragorn's words; his accent that had been softened by days without count on the meandering borders of Rohan altering the words, making them less believable than Aragorn's Elven voice. The Rohirriam had no words, no phrases like that, their love reserved for their horses, for great chargers and faithful mares and stumbling foals rather than mortals.

Aragorn nodded and taking several steps along the grassy path turned to the North and the Sea, glancing up at the moon. Rana, wanderer like me, doomed to forever follow and seek for one that we love without rest or peace because the one that we love does not care. Halbarad, looking after him could see only his outline, moving inky midnight in the dark.

'You're beautiful, Halbarad. I love you.' He lapsed into the Common Speech. 'Since Mordor, maybe since when I first met you, months and months ago.' His voice trailed away as relief washed over him.

Halbarad turned abruptly, away from Aragorn so that neither could see the other. 'Arwen? Arwen Undomiel, Elrond Halfelven's daughter who turned to you so dearly? Are her voice and her face so soon forgotten - fifteen years in the Wild? Is that such an eternity for a man of Numenorian blood to survive on his own?'

Aragorn winced, both physically and mentally. It is hard, Halbarad. Why can you not understand that, Dunedain whose birthright is the same as mine? I may be weak, too weak to rule Gondor or even the Rangers, but no man alive, even the Valar can resist love. And I love you, Halbarad.

'She is not forgotten, Halbarad. I can never forget her, but she is Elrond's kin. It is not right for a man to love and keep one of Elven kind, especially Elrond's daughter, the dying flame of her race, as we are the last of the Dunedain. It is not right.'

'And by that, you mean that it is right for a man to love another, for a Ranger to gift his heart to another wanderer of the Wild, even when Arwen Evenstar is his?'

No, Halbarad, it is not right. Can you understand how that has hunted me for months, since first I saw you in the star shine, standing on the walls of Minas Tirith? 'Was it wrong for Turin to love his sister, Tear-Maiden as he did? No, because he did not know and he could not help himself, no more than can I.'

Despairing, his heart bleeding, Aragorn turned back towards Bree. It hurt more than any wound sustained in battle, than any fever suffered alone in the stretches of Rohan's studs, than any infection in filthy wounds healed on mountain slopes. Dimly, he heard Halbarad's soft footsteps following him, as calmly as the stepper seemed to be.

By all the Valar and by Gondor too, Halbarad, how can I convince you when even the sound of your voice holds me in thrall? Why have I said this, when I could have stayed with you? The longing would have been pain, agony, but pain paid for by seeing your face, by hearing your voice, watching you ride and sleep and change, in not seeing your face crease in bewilderment when I am here. You would always have been here.

In the Prancing Pony, Butterbur was watching out for them. It was the small hours of the morning now; all the other travellers were asleep or abed already - hobbits, another Ranger and such men as still wandered the wild. Unbeknown to the pair, Gandalf was there now, asleep at present but with an urgent errand awaiting him.

'Evening, Masters. Is everything all right? I have a room prepared for you, looking North, as you normally prefer. I'm sorry it's only the one but tonight's busy and I cannot afford to turn people away, I'm afraid. I hope it will serve, Masters?'

Aragorn barked a laugh that had nothing to do with amusement and everything to do with pain and bitterness. Last night, by the Brandywine, he woke me from a nightmare, lay close enough to hear my cries even in his own sleep. Yet tonight…he will not sleep tonight, I believe. I mean him no harm - I love him.

On the other side of the building, Gandalf stirred in his sleep; uneasy in a dream of three mounted men, Northland bladed swords clashing against tarnished Orc blades. The footsteps of the two Rangers and Butterbar's incessant chattering invaded his sleep but did not wake the wizard who slept the sleep of exhaustion, one step removed from death.

Later, when the hours of night had lengthened and the first dull light of dawn would soon touch the horizon, Halbarad glanced across the room. The fire that one of the hobbits servants had banked up during the night was burning low, the small room dim. Yet, as all Rangers have keen eyes, he could see Aragorn as a dark shape laying atop his blankets with his cloak over him.

He is a strange man, neither entirely of Men nor Elves. He is not a warrior, lying awake when he could be resting, despite his skill with weapons. Heir to Gondor I can well believe because in him is something hat even Elrond believed vanished from this world in the Eldar days, long ago. How old he is I cannot say, a few years older than me in age and more than that in his mind.

And he loves me, or so he claims. Doubtless Arwen heard those words also, under the stars in Rivendell before anyone saw this darkness approach and the world seemed fair and unspoilt. Do I love him? No, for great and admirable as he seems, it is only that; as a young soldier may admire a great captain or a boy his father do I respect him.

As though hearing the unspoken thoughts, Aragorn rolled over on his bunk, pulling his cloak tighter around his neck shivering despite the warmth of the fire. His grey eyes were dry now but still stinging from the tears he had wept while Halbarad had shifted restlessly in his sleep. How long has it been since I wept? At Melarod's death, and before that in Harad when the Easterling and I fought and he won, so I lay bleeding into the black sand in a country where the stars are strange. Before that…I cannot remember.

Their eyes held each other so intently that Halbarad shivered at the intensity of that gaze as he noticed how Aragorn observed him. He means me no harm; yet is he even aware of how he looks at me?

With an effort to keep his voice level, Aragorn spoke softly. 'I still love you, Halbarad, despite what you are. Maybe I am wrong, but never will it change.' He plunged to his feet, a shadowy outline of a king distorted by shoulder length sweat lank hair, a muddy cloak and the expression on his face. The dying fire silhouetted him, a pale shade of Numenor standing in Middle Earth, in a kingdom too small for him.

Halbarad stood as well, surefooted as a cat. The look in his eyes - I have never seen him look like that before. Or has he, and I have not seen it because he has never worried me until this day?

The older of the Rangers pulled one hand across his eyes, brushing dark hair back from a pale face and stepped forwards, towards Halbarad. Halbarad stood tensely like a fox at bay that was prepared to sell his life dearly. With an impulsive gesture, he rested one hand on Halbarad's shoulder.

Halbarad's answer was swift and sure, although not entirely unexpected. The blow caught Aragorn off balance, forcing him to step backwards to avoid falling. It was not a hard blow and Halbarad had not aimed to hurt the other man.

Gandalf gazed up at the sky, assessing the rosy dawn light in the hope that it would be a fine day. The ground was stained red by the light, and the Maiar remembered battlegrounds that had taken on the hue. Slowly, he walked stiffly across to the stables and whistled to the bay horse that stood there. That big stallion, and the grey mare - Aragorn's horse and Halbarad's also. How long have they been here, and where is Melarod? As the old wizard rode away, he forgot the Rangers.

In mute unbelieving silence, the Rangers faced each other across s room now flooded with sunlight, their hearts shining hopelessly from pain filled eyes.