Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, and all its characters, races, and creatures, as well as our beloved Middle Earth, belongs to JRR Tolkien.

I am shocked at myself.

I am lying here in a man's arms after sharing lustful passion with him, and I cannot muster up the good sense to be ashamed of myself. I was wanton, wild and totally out of control. As was he, I might add. We are still here, in my private garden underneath the Wishing Tree. I lay naked in his strong arms as he sleeps.

Yes, I am shocked. Who would believe just a few short hours ago, when I had needed the solace of the garden, that I would find in this night any such diversion as this from life on Middle Earth? Certainly not I. The night did not start out that way at all—not at all.

Just past midnight, after the heartbreak I had endured in the wards, I retreated to my sanctuary, sitting on the patch of grass surrounding the tree. I was lost in thought, drowning in all the horror and destruction going on around me. The dead child-soldier's face and that of my Tristin floated interchangeably through my mind. I had just witnessed a child die in my arms—empty arms that should still be cradling my own half-grown son, who now rested in Eru's arms instead.

I was numb, yet in searing pain. My psyche was rhythmically running scenes of death and destruction past my mind's eye. The memories were so unbearable it felt as if they were eating my brain as I sat there.

As it turns out, the garden is not as private as I thought. I slowly became aware that someone had joined me here in my refuge. As if from thin air, he emerged from the shadows. I could barely see him in the deep darkness. Only the light of a distant lantern, one lighting the street, cast any light at all. I could not sense much of anything but blinding numbness, so I felt no fear. He almost stepped on me and that startled him much more than it startled me. I had been aware of his presence, while he had not known I was there.

I almost laughed at his alarm. His gasp was nearly comical! What wasn't as funny was his unsheathing of his sword and his fearsome growl of, "Who is here?" I had scrambled to my feet as his boot made contact with my thigh and had to take a step backward to dodge his brandished blade. Being threatened with a weapon, it did not take me long to emerge from the numbness in which my memories held me. Thanks be I am quick on my feet.

"Tis I, Maeren of the Houses of Healing, my lord," I breathlessly announced as I ducked, hoping he would remember our meeting in Eowyn's room a few hours ago. I recognized who he was as soon as I heard him speak. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the soon to be King of Gondor, if Sauron be vanquished.

His breath escaped audibly as he relaxed, and he returned his sword to its scabbard. "You scared me out of a year's life," he said, relieved.

I could barely suppress a laugh and I was surprised at my sudden levity. Through my unexpected smile I said, "I am sorry, my lord. I don't usually encounter anyone in this place. You are the first visitor I have ever had here in my garden."

"My mistake," he said. "I was in the city long ago, and when I needed some peace or time alone, I would come here. I did not know that it has since acquired an owner. Pardon my intrusion. Good evening to you, my lady." He turned to leave and I do not know what made me reach out to him and bid him to wait. My fingers caught his sleeve, stopping him even as the cloth slipped from my hand.

"Tis no matter," I said. "Truthfully, I would not mind the company. My thoughts torment me this night."

With a sorrowful edge to his voice, he muttered, almost whispering, "As do mine."

My healer's heart went out to him, so in guilt, I suppose, I admitted, "I do not truly own this place. I know not its rightful owner. But I, too, come here to escape when life seems unbearable. I seem to come here much of late."

I tiredly slumped down onto the grass once more, crossing my legs beneath me and tucking my dress around my body. Again, not very ladylike, but quite frankly I did not care in the least. Aragorn seated himself in the same manner as I had, and very closely, too. I wondered at his familiarity when he explained himself, as if he could read my mind.

He spoke quietly, almost whispering. "I wish no one to find me, so if you would not mind, I will sit close to you so that we may converse; that is, if you wish to converse." He pulled a few blades of grass from beneath the tree and, dropping them, watched them waft to the ground. The bits of grass fluttered down, catching in the dim light of the street lantern as they descended.

"Do not be pulling my lawn out, sir, or I shall have to take my trowel to you," I quietly said. He chuckled at that. I was glad. The feelings of sadness, or worry, or both, I really could not tell, emanated from him oppressively.

"When I came here, I had no thought of company," he said. "But I find myself glad to not be alone after all."

I noticed the absence of his aura, so to speak, and decided he had gone to tidy up before he wandered out here. I could see in the dimness that not only had he bathed and changed his clothes, he had also availed himself somewhat of a razor, although he still kept a beard.

I must admit I was curious about him. Had what I learned in the wards really been accurate? Could there be a grain of truth in the feverish babble of a dying ranger, claiming this man to be Isildur's heir? Surely Eomer could not be mistaken about such an important person. I decided to find out.

"My lord," I started hesitantly, "did you know a man named Castagard, a ranger of the North?" I could tell even in the dimness of the night that he had closed his eyes, as if to resign himself to another painful casualty of this war. It took him a few moments to reply to my question.

"Aye, I did. A good man and a good ranger." He paused for a moment. "I take it that since you speak of him as if he were no longer here, that he chose your wards in which to die," he finally said sadly.

"I wish it were not so. He was brought in alone, no others around him dead or alive I was told. Given his condition, he had obviously been wounded days prior to coming to the wards and he was sorely ill. Very feverish he was and he talked of you just before he passed on. He was very much in the throes of delirium, so I gave little credence to what he was muttering. He spoke unceasingly of Aragorn, son of Arathorn—Isildur's heir. So after meeting you earlier tonight in Lady Eowyn's room, I had cause to believe what he said may be true. And according to any history I may have learned at my father's knee, if you are indeed Isildur's heir, that would put you in line for the throne of Gondor."

"It seems you know much more of me than I do of you, my lady," he said dryly.

That put an end to my uncertainty.

"Please, just call me Maeren; I get 'my ladied' to death and I am sorely sick of it, truth be known!" I noted that my voice sounded almost indignant. I paused a moment to collect myself and apologized. "I am sorry, my lord. Please excuse a tired old sawbones her sharp tongue."

"No need to apologize, Maeren." He was smiling now, I could tell. "Old sawbones, indeed. However, if you insist on such a lapse in my courtesy to you, I must insist on you calling me by my given name as well."

"Consider it done, Aragorn," I replied.

My curiosity again nagged at me. My curiosity had a bad habit of nagging me, and it often resulted in my embarrassment. But I wondered. Had Aragorn been successful in the healing of those in the wards with the mysterious sickness? "Aragorn," I started, "were you able to help Lady Eowyn? I had to leave the wards suddenly and had not the time to ask after her health."

"Yes, Maeren," he said, wearily. "I have been in the Houses seeing to her, and the others who had fallen with the same malady. They are suffering from the 'Black Breath', a condition wrought on those who come into contact with the Nazgul. I was able, by virtue of my station, to heal those that I could, until I could no longer do so without falling dead myself. The ones I had not the strength to heal, I left in the care of my foster brothers, the sons of Elrond. They, too, as well as their father, possess the gift of healing."

We sat in silence for a little while, just soaking in the quiet and solitude of the garden. The intermittent clatter of hooves on the stones of the street, and muffled voices heard occasionally as others met and passed each other, were the only sounds breaking the eerie quiet of the night. In spite of the strange stillness, it was most peaceful, sitting here on the grass with a quiet companion.

He finally broke the silence. "Tell me, Maeren, what troubles your thoughts tonight?"

It was a question, but sounded more like a request. For some reason still unknown to me, I began talking to him as if he were a lifelong friend.

"I was thinking of the past—and the present. I had a young soldier die in my arms not even an hour ago. I call him a soldier, but he was only a lad—no more than fifteen years, by my estimation."

Aragorn let out a long sigh and said, "I had hoped that it would not come to pass that our youngsters would have to fight the Nameless One. It is inconceivable how large his army has grown, and we tasted but a small bite of it today on the Pelennor. I fear that very soon I shall be forced to do that which haunts my thoughts tonight."

"And what may that be, Aragorn?" I asked.

"I am sorry, I wish not to speak of it. I should not be burdening you with my troubles at any rate," he answered.

As I look back on it now, it surprises me that I was so comfortable with Aragorn. There I sat with the heir to the throne, conversing with him as if he were one of my closest friends. Even knowing who he was, it felt good talking to someone other than those familiar to me. I found it a welcome distraction from my own pain, even if it was only temporary, listening to someone else's troubles instead of being obsessed with my own. It was refreshing, in a way, to be with someone of whom I knew very little and who knew little or nothing of me. I continued with my answer to his earlier question.

"I had a son who would have been about the same age as the young lad who died this night. I thought of my Tristin as I held this dying boy, lying to him and telling him that he would live. I knew full well that his life was ending even as I spoke. And all I could do was watch helplessly—and hold him. That was all I could do. But I could not even do that as I watched my Tristin die. It is a helpless feeling to stand by when you can do nothing for someone who needs you so much." My voice trailed off to almost a whisper. Tears were a breath away. I looked up at Aragorn and was stunned by what I saw.

Aragorn's face was profoundly sad and his eyes glistened with unshed tears, yet I knew what I had just told him was not the only cause of his pain. I could not help myself—the sight of him brought out my healing and nurturing spirit. I leaned forward and gathered him into my arms, pushing his head onto my shoulder, stroking his neck beneath his hair.

"I am sorry," he breathed as if embarrassed. "I have never burdened another with my emotions before. It is a foreign thing to me."

"I know not what troubles you, Aragorn. And I need not know. If I can help you even a small bit by holding you like this, please allow me to. I will not feel helpless twice this night," I whispered defiantly into his ear.

In response, he inched closer to me and held me to him tightly. We each held on to the other as if by doing so we could draw strength from one another. I could not tell if he truly wept, but he spoke haltingly, into my ear. "I lost someone on the Pelennor today who was dear to me. Halbarad—one of the rangers who fought beside me. He was as a brother to me and his loss wounds me."

Aragorn held me even tighter. He was trembling, probably from his quest of keeping tears at bay. I wept - I could not tell if it were with or without him - sharing his loss as well as my own—that of my little family. Even though years had passed, tonight I felt their passing as if it were only yesterday.

Aragorn took a deep breath and sat up, wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of one arm. He then took my hands in his and bowed his head, our foreheads nearly touching. He continued in a quiet and solemn voice. "For years my life has been in shadow and secrecy and suddenly I am thrust into the leadership that is mine by birthright, but that which I have never wanted nor wished for. I am leading men—some of them years long friends; some of them as family, for whom I would give my own life—into a battle in which we have little hope of victory. Most likely leading them to their deaths. I deeply hate and fear what I must do; but I must do it. My whole life depends on it—and it is not the kingship of which I speak." Again, another long sigh, as if he held the weight of the world upon his shoulders, and in truth, he did. His voice trailed off and he finally added, "I am weary beyond speaking. So very weary."

I untangled my hands from his and pushed against his shoulders, guiding him back, laying him down in the grass beneath the tree. He resisted for a moment, not understanding what I intended. I said, "Trust me, Aragorn. Just rest here underneath the tree for a while. I will keep watch over you and allow no harm to come to you. I promise."

I began messaging his temples, willing his jaws to unlock so that at least his face might relax. I had done just this thing for my father and brothers so often it felt very natural to me. That, and the fact that I was a healer, and was used to having my hands on others allowed me to do this without a second thought. There was no awkwardness in my touching this man. I had no other wish than to ease his mind somewhat. I did not really know Aragorn, Son of Arathorn. But he was a fellow human being and he was in pain. It is my life's calling to ease pain and that was what I was trying to do.

He watched me and I gazed down upon his face. As I looked into his eyes shrouded in the darkness of the night, he said to me something I shall always remember: "Sweet Maeren, how is it I deserve you tonight?"

It took my breath away. Those were almost the same words my Dustin used to say to me often at night before we slept. And before I knew what I was doing, I leaned down to Aragorn and pressed my lips against his, reveling in the feel of a man so close I could feel his heart beating.

I abruptly sat up and whispered, mortified at my behavior, "Please forgive me, Aragorn. I know not what came over me. I have been widowed these past three years, and the words you spoke to me just now were often spoken to me by my dear husband. I was overcome by my need of him. Please forgive me," I repeated.

In answer, he lifted his hand and placed it in the nape of my neck, pulling me back down to him. He returned my kiss. Soft and gentle. Sweet and tender. "There is naught to forgive, Maeren. It has been long since I have allowed anyone close enough to give me comfort. It is comfort you give me and I truly welcome and thank you for the gift."

I could not help it—I kissed him again, and this time, we did not break apart. Our joined lips nourished both of us, feeding each of us the warmth and closeness of which we both had desperate need.

Our kisses turned hungry, our mouths opened to each other. We tasted our hurt and sadness and kissed both away, at least for a time. His hands had my dress unbuttoned before I was even aware of it. I began fumbling at his lacings and fastenings, not having much luck. Eventually I was successful, because suddenly it seemed, we were together, on the sweet grass under the wishing tree, moving as one, loving each other; driving away the inner demons that had been torturing us, that would torture us again on the morrow.

I wish I could say that was the end of it, but I must truly be shameful. I stopped counting after we had made love twice. My wounded and clouded conscience would not let me know just how sinful I was being. In my defense—if I have any defense—our first joining hardly counted, much to Aragorn's chagrin. He apologized and I advised him to hush and make love to me again. Which he did again—thoroughly. And again after that, until I lost count.

So here I am now, beneath the tree with my one night lover, willing my shock to disappear. I wish not to regret, but to relish this feeling of blissful peace and relief that are as eiderdown softly caressing me. As I lay here, I wish for Aragorn to be sleeping calmly, and feeling at least a small bit of the peace he has given me.

I lay there with my hand over his heart, wondering just who this man was. How did he feel about things? What was he like? I had not spent enough time conversing with him to uncover anything much about him. I giggled silently at my unintended jest. He was indeed uncovered—completely.

He stirred from his slumber then, with a jerk; frantic for a moment with uncertainty of where he was, his heart beating in his chest as if he were being chased by demons unknown. I lay my hand against his face and he relaxed once more, letting out a long breath.

"I must have been dreaming," he said. "I was wielding my sword and of a sudden it was knocked from my grasp. Thank Eru I find myself in the presence of a beautiful woman instead of an Orc."

I laughed. "Oh do not think to flatter me at this point, Aragorn." I could not keep the laughter from my voice as I spoke.

"And what is so funny?" he asked; "the fact that you are beautiful, or the fact that you are not an Orc?" He countered.

"I've been called many things since I have come here to Minas Tirith, but beautiful was never among the epithets, I am afraid. Perhaps Orc would be more near the mark," I replied.

He laughed quietly. "You have obviously been keeping the wrong company, Maeren."

He yawned deeply and sat up, stretching. "How long did I sleep? Has it been only hours or days?"

"Only hours, my love—only hours. I suspect it must be a bit before dawn," I replied.

I felt him stiffen. Why the sudden change? What did I say to disarm him so?

I repeated to myself what I had said to him aloud. 'Only hours, my love, only hours…'

"Maeren," he said, interrupting my thoughts, "I must apologize to you for what I have done. I had no right to use you so, for that is what I did, I am afraid." He lowered his head, shamefully.

"Then I must ask your forgiveness as well, Aragorn. But I wish not to. You have given me such peace as I have not felt for so long it pains me to think of it. And I would not deny acceptance of that gift for anything," I replied with complete sincerity.

He started to stutter. "I—I—did not mean—I was not saying—"

I placed my fingers to his lips. "Well then, repeat after me—I, Aragorn, do not take you to be my love for life. I take you only as you have given yourself—as a friend who gave only as much as she received."

He kissed me tenderly once more and said, "I do."

We both smiled at that and rose, knowing it was well past time for us to be on our separate ways.

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