"Coochie coochie coo!"
"Oh, do stop that," said Arwen. "I think I shall take ill again if you continue."
"But how can I resist my sweet little Miriel?* What a good girl you are! Who is such a good little girl?" asked King Elessar Telcontar of the reunited kingdoms of Arnor and Gondor. Miriel, being blissfully unconscious, did not answer him.
Arwen put on an expression of weary suffering, though Aragorn could tell his wife was secretly amused.
"Anyway, a letter from the hobbits has arrived for you, Estel," spoke Arwen while perusing said letter. "It seems that they are doing well...Merry and Pippin have become quite the young-men-about-town since their return from their 'excursions'...Sam had a child, or rather, Rosie did, and Sam has acquired political aspirations, imagine that. Hobbits are such quaint creatures. And Frodo..."
"What about Frodo?" said Aragorn distractedly while tickling his daughter's tiny feet.
Arwen's neck displayed a slight twitch. "Oh, he is doing as well as can be expected," she said indifferently.
"What do you mean?" asked Aragorn, looking up from the cradle at her odd tone. "May I read my letter?"
"Not at this time, I think - goodness, look at that!"
"What is it? What is it?" exclaimed Aragorn, his eyes following her finger as it pointed randomly out the window. "Why, there is a party approaching the castle!"
"Really?" said Arwen, blinking. "I mean, of course!" She gazed out the window and gasped sharply.
"Aragorn! Do you see?" she hissed, sounding oddly distraught.
He strained his eyes, wishing that he had Elven sight, feeling disadvantaged as he often had while growing up in Rivendell. But his vision was better than that of most humans, and certainly very good for his age, and he perceived a group of eleven riders hooded and cloaked in grey. Except for one--a slim, shining figure in white with long golden hair, riding tall and proud upon her horse.
"Oh my Valar," he breathed, "It is Eowyn."
Arwen slapped him on the back of his head.
"No, it is not She-Who-Must-Not-be-Named. That is my grandmother, as well as my father and brothers. Oh, and Celeborn."
"Oh," sighed Aragorn in relief. Then: "Oh!"
"What can they be doing here again after only a year? We had an agreement that they would not visit often!" muttered Arwen to herself. She picked up Miriel with efficient, no-nonsense movements and handed her to a silently waiting maid.
"Take Miriel to the music hall, Lenneth. It is time for her music appreciation class."
As the maid shuffled away, Aragorn stared after his daughter as if he would never see her again.
"Compose yourself, Elessar. We must ready the city for the arrival of our lords, though they arrive uninvited and unannounced and completely unwelcome."
"What horrible timing they have," grumbled Aragorn.
"Or rather, what exquisitely calculated timing they have," commented Arwen with narrowed eyes. Her hand moved to the letter she had tucked away in her sleeve.
"Sister dearest, you look absolutely delightful!"
"Radiant! Glowing! As if you just gave birth--"
"I did," said Arwen tersely to her brothers.
"Imagine that!"
"How stunning!"
"What a remarkable coincidence," Elrond remarked blandly.
Sometimes, when Arwen felt a vague sense of homesickness for Imladris, she needed only to remember what her former home was actually like to rid herself of such weak-hearted vacillations.
"Granddaughter, how lovely you, look, I can hardly notice that you were recently bloated with child or that you are an aging mortal." Galadriel, Arwen noted, was wearing about fifty pieces of glittering jewelry, most of which had once belonged to Gondor's treasury. No wonder Aragorn had singled her out from such a great distance.
"Miruvor, anyone?" offered Arwen between gritted teeth.**
"Yes, that would be wonderful. You seem somewhat unwell, sister," remarked Elladan.
Though dangerously irritable, she silently agreed that his observation was true. While Arwen's body was simply too perfect to have become swollen at its extremities or flabby in the stomach…still, something was distinctly, humanly off about her. "If I seem unwell, imagine how distinctly wretched you would feel after giving birth, brother dear," she said, then left to get the miruvor feeling a distinct urge to strangle someone.
"No, I think she is always like that," Elrohir observed once she was out of earshot.
Arwen came back with a troupe of servants who set out a very nice 4 o'clock miruvor with an assortment of biscuits and all of the lembas leftover from her pregnancy. She was desperately sick of the stuff now and wanted to get rid of it. Her relatives, after making some polite comments about how sumptuous everything looked, sat themselves and began talking about their impending trip to Valinor.
"You shall adore Tirion," gushed Galadriel to Elrond. "My mother Earwen holds stunning balls every night and contracts the most shockingly expensive caterers and decorators so that everyone has something to gossip about. She is such a thoughtful woman. And the guest lists! Elves from what would be called legend and history here, but actually close personal friends of mine over there. I am afraid Middle Earth simply cannot compete."
"That is nice," said Elrond, non-committal.
"...and it shall be so amusing when Gimli comes in a few short years as well!
"The dwarf!" exclaimed Elladan and Elrohir in equal and simultaneous horrification.
"Those who dwell in the Undying Lands will not allow it. They must not," said Arwen queasily.
"Nonsense," said Galadriel, "I will merely put in a few words for dear Gimli once I reach Aman. I do not mean to boast, but I am high in favour with the Valar.
"Of course she is," said Celeborn sullenly to himself. Everyone ignored him. Meanwhile, Aragorn had a distinct sense of déjà vu.
"But surely there will be mounds of red tape to work through in order to gain entrance for the dwarf!" protested Elrond. "You do not want to spend your time in Valinor muddling through bureaucracy, Galadriel."
Before she could reply, Celeborn muttered under his breath, "But that is what she likes to do best."
"What did you say, husband?" said Galadriel sharply.
"Nothing you would care to hear," said Celeborn, louder.
Galadriel turned her gaze away from him and continued to prattle. "I will write a letter of introduction-could you give it to Gimli when I am gone, Estel? - that he may bring with him once he sails, so even Thingol's folk will not be permitted to carry out their grudge - the Elves of Doriath can be so mulish at times."
Celeborn stood abrubtly and pounded a fist on the table with unexpected force. He had to cradle his injured hand afterward, but it was still an arresting gesture. Galadriel and Elrond, who had known him for millennia and had never seen him act so violently, gazed at the Lord of Lothlorien with unabashed surprise.
"Perhaps you have forgotten, dear wife, from whence I came?" he said acidly.
Galadriel, recovering from her shock, gazed at him steadily. "I have not forgotten," she spoke, her voice as lofty and cold as the stars. "My memory is old and deep; deeper even than yours, husband."
"Oh, do stop bragging, it is so tacky and there are no ignorant dwarves here to be fooled by it," sneered Celeborn.
"You should not speak of tackiness, Sir I-like-to-dye-my-hair-silver-to-match-my-wardrobe."
Elladan coughed pointedly at this point. Elrohir, knowing his brother's mind (literally), grabbed Aragorn's arm so the three of them could quietly escape together. Arwen glared at them enviously but decided to let them go; it would be much easier to placate her grandparents without the terrible trio around.
"More miruvor, anyone?" she said sweetly, purposely interrupting a particularly nasty exchange regarding personal hygiene.
Everyone ignored her, but at least she did not have a distinct sense of déjà vu.
"Nice garden," complimented Elrohir.
"Yes, very. And now that we have quit that horrible scene," announced Elladan with relish, "we can finally speak of a matter over which we have pondered long and hard."
"What say you, Estel? Is it better to be Man or Elf?" asked Elrohir with affected casualness.
"I would not know," answered Aragorn carefully, "since I have never been an Elf. Mayhap Arwen is the better one to ask."
"No, she is not," said Elladan, waving a hand negligently, "for she has already chosen, yes? And this is not a question for the womanly half of the pair."
"And why is that?"
"We ask you because you are one among many Men who have wedded the most beauteous Elf-maidens throughout the ages. It began with Beren and Luthien...then Tuor and Idril...even Conan the Hideous of Harad and Lady Terebithia of Rivendell most lately. And you might also count among the blessed Turin Turambar, much loved by Finduilas daughter of Orodreth, though she died alone in horrible agony and he ended up accidentally marrying his sister."
"And now myself and Arwen," mused Aragorn. "You have researched well. All the most lovely Elf-maidens..."
"But not Galadriel," interjected Elrohir, "for she married an Elf. And an Elf very unlike Men, if I may say so."
Elladan raised a graceful eyebrow at his twin. "I do not consider our grandmother among the eligible.
"But you would count our sister?"
"Ooh, touché. We would not want to go into Turin and Nienor territory in our considerations."
"But why do you make these considerations now?" asked Aragorn, puzzled. "You have, literally, all the time in the world to choose.
"Dear Aragorn, you must know that women avoid committing themselves to us because we have not chosen? The Elven women dread that we shall choose the world of Men, and the human women dread that we shall choose the world of Elves."
"Are you sure they simply do not simply dread your attention?" said Aragorn dryly.
The twins put on identically affronted looks. "You cannot doubt that we the most eligible bachelors in all of Middle Earth!" exclaimed Elladan. "I mean, just look at us."
"What a fine looking fellow you are, brother!" said Elrohir appreciatively.
"And you!" concurred Elladan.
"Yes, we have all the right traits, do we not? Looks, lineage, a massive trust fund waiting for us once father leaves..."
"And quite the perfect age for marrying! How old are we, Elrohir?"
"I have no idea."
"Exactly!"
"But, my dear brothers," said Arwen's voice from the archway unexpectedly, "I had heard that Legolas is now considered the most eligible male Elf in Middle Earth." She entered the garden and seated herself placidly beside Aragorn.
"Who?" said Elladan mock-casually. "You mean Legolas-come-lately?"
"He is only, what, barely three thousand years old? That upstart! No offense meant, sister," added Elrohir, belatedly remembering her age.
"Much taken," retorted Arwen caustically.
Elrohir, shifting uncomfortably under her glare, gracefully and with Elven subtlety attempted to change the subject.
"So what did you discuss with father and grandmother and grandfather?"
Arwen's perpetual glare intensified. "'Discuss' is not the word for it, dear brothers who fled in the face of adversity."
"Ah, I see. Er...Estel! Seen any good pheasants lately?"
"Oh yes," said Aragorn enthusiastically, eager to talk about a subject in which he was well-versed. "Why, just yesterday I saw a nesting pair with at least six eggs--"
"Not on your supper table, I pray?"
And lo, they all laughed uproariously at that, and Elrohir was spared his life and his dignity, though not by much.
"So really, how did grandmother and grandfather's little spat turn out?" asked Elladan once he sensed that Arwen's temper was suitably pacified by laughter.
Arwen's smile turned smug. "Thanks to a few adroit words on my part, grandfather is now weeping and pouring out his feelings of inferiority and fear of the loneliness that shall plague him once grandmother sails to the utter West and grandmother has suddenly become very soothing and supportive and I do think I deserve a medal."
"Er, we are very proud of you, sister."
"Right."
Aragorn put on a vaguely anxious expression. He had to at least pretend he cared a whit about his in-laws, after all. "Should we see if Celeborn is all right?" he asked aloud. Everyone ignored him, which gave him a distinct sense of déjà vu.
"Aside from the torrent of tears and tyranny, did anything interesting happen?"
"Not really," spoke Arwen almost abruptly. And she said nothing more.
Elladan looked at her suspiciously.
"So this is where you say, 'nothing happened except for the bit where Queen Beruthiel leapt out from under the tablecloth and demanded that we tell her where Tom Bombadil is hiding, that rascal, so she can launch a paternity suit against him,' am I right?"
"No."
"Are you sure," chimed in Elrohir, "that a dying Nazgul clothed entirely in black and breathing in an oppressively heavy manner did not crawl into the room while hissing, 'Elrond, I am your father'?"
"No."
"Did you all discuss that letter from Frodo?"
Arwen looked at Aragorn in astonishment, and before she could control herself she blurted out, "How did you know?"
Aragorn, not used to being in a position of non-subjugation to his wife, could only mutter something about being a good guesser. He had a distinct feeling that he should be getting some déjà vu right about now.
Elladan and Elrohir collectively decided that they could help their stepbrother grow a spine later. They leaned forward as one and inquired, "What did this letter say?"
"Frodo intends to sail from these shores," answered Arwen gravely, as if she had not learned this months ago when the hobbit had wrestled his ticket to Valinor from her. "He goes with father and grandmother and grandfather; and Mithrandir as well."
"Frodo is leaving? And Gandalf is leaving as well?" said Aragorn in surprise. "Then why is he not here with the others now?"
"Pipeweed convention with Radagast," supplied Arwen.
"Ah."
"This is surely a bittersweet age," said Elrohir, "that sees the passing of the ringbearer and the wizards and the Elves..."
"...And yet, it will be so much more fun around here without those doddering old folks meddling in our business, yes?" finished Elladan.
"Oh yes, we shall have to throw a party as soon as we get back to Rivendell. How long do you think it should last this time? A month or three?"
"My small-minded brother, I was thinking it should take at least a year!"
Arwen stood gracefully. "Elladan, if you call Elrohir small-minded, you insult yourself as well, for you each account for one half of the same mind. Come, Estel, these two shall not be good company for the next week. Not that they are under any circumstances.
"I must agree," said Aragorn, rising and taking her hand as the twins' discussion turned to the matter of how easy it would be to acquire the severely alcoholic stuff without their stodgy father around.
The king and queen walked quietly by themselves through the stone courtyards of their home, leaning upon each other as they watched the sun in its inevitable descent.
"You are sombre, my lord," said Arwen after a while. "Does my news of Frodo's departure distress you?"
"Perhaps, and Gandalf's as well. But I think that 'distress' is not the name for the feeling in my heart."
"What would you name it then?"
"Ahh...I do not know. Perhaps I feel old."
Arwen scrutinized his face carefully.
"You have no more wrinkles than yesterday."
He laughed lightly at that, and said, "Twilight makes me feel old."
Later on, Aragorn and Arwen popped their heads into the tearoom where the dreaded in-laws had passed out from the drugged miruvor Arwen had given them. Elrond was drooling all over the table. Galadriel and Celeborn, she noticed with great satisfaction, were sprawled on the settee and holding hands, snoring lightly.
"All is well," Arwen reported softly so as not to wake them.
"That would be my line," said a creaky voice behind them.
Arwen spun around and punched Gandalf in the nose.
"Ow."
"Oh dear, I am sorry."
"That did not sound very sincere."
"You startled me."
"That would be my job."
"Gandalf!"
"Hello, Aragorn. Hoo...have you redecorated this room? Very nice, swirly colour scheme, I must say."
Aragorn looked at his wife in puzzlement, who sniffed the air and murmured, "Pipeweed."
Gandalf, usually so perceptive, did not seem to notice this. "I came to give you some advice, young ones. And that advice is this: evil is very evil. There, I am done." He took a deep breath. "I have imparted my wisdom upon the next generation. I can go home and take a nice, long nap now. Good night."
Then the great Mithrandir, Gandalf the White, He Who Has Almost But Not Quite As Many Names as Aragorn, toppled onto his nose like a pile of old wizard and fell asleep.
"How the mighty have fallen," remarked Arwen.
"Have you noticed that too?" said Aragorn. "All of them, in this room. If an assassin came in right now he could make a sizeable profit."
"I shall miss them," said Arwen suddenly.
Somewhere, a feminine scream issued forth. Then came the sounds of a terrible beating and what sounded like Elladan yelling like a little girl.
"Well, somewhat."
"At least your dear brothers are staying."
"Such a comfort."
"You have me for comfort."
Arwen raised her hand to his lined face.
"There is that," she sighed.
The next morning, a group of groggy elves and one old wizard awoke outside the gates of the White Tower, on which a sign saying "And Stay Out!" blared belligerently.
They shook their fists at the tower, fell over at the effort, picked themselves up, and finally left.
The king and queen of Gondor watched from their high window with their daughter beside them.
"Say goodbye to the old fuddy duddies, Miriel," cooed Aragorn.
"Goodbye," said Arwen.
* Míriel was the name of Feanor's mum who died giving birth to him, proving that that brat was a troublemaker from the start. There was also a Míriel in Numenor, she who was the true heir but whose throne was usurped by the last king of Numenor, Ar-Pharazon. Hm. The history of the name has no relation to this fic, so far. I just picked it because a) it sounds nice; b) it's Numenorean and Elvish; and c) I'm too lazy to come up with my own name.
** Miruvor is that Elvish drink that Gandalf administered to the Fellowship on Caradhras to warm them up. I think. Someone borrowed my copy of FOtR so I can't check this.
Author's Notes: An unusually serious episode, and unusually long too. And Aragorn and Arwen's newborn kid played an unusually minor part. Stay tuned, folks.
Which leads me to my next point. How would you like to name one of Aragorn and Arwen's kids? Just chuck a vaguely Elvish or Numenorean sounding name at me in a review or in an email (miluda@hotmail.com). There's no guarantee I'll use it, but if you give me a female name, or better yet, multiple female names, your odds go up astronomically.
There a reference to Valkyrie Profile (a Playstation RPG) and a reference to a Newberry Winner book in this chapter. If you spot one, you get a whole virtual cookie! For free! But spotting the Harry Potter reference gets you zilch--that one's too easy ^_^.
So, when's Eldarion going to be born?
Whenever I feel like it! Tokien didn't specify a date, as far as I know, and I'm not sticking to the timeline anyway, and Aragorn and Arwen live until they're about a gazillion years old, so I've got all the time in the world to get the little moppet born.