Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or concepts of Middle Earth, they belong to the estate of JRR Tolkien.  Tanathel, however, is my creation and I would like to be asked before she is used in any other fic.

Author's note: This story is set in an Alternate Universe of my own making.  It is after the War of the Ring and several years into the Fourth Age.  Boromir will feature in this story, and if you wish to learn how he survived, you will have to read.  This will be mostly movie-verse, since no one knows what happened to Saruman after the Ents trashed Isengard in PJ's world.

Dedications: To Evendim, who helped me find the courage to seriously write in this fandom, and who has given me great fun with her own AU series.  And to my darling AJ, without whom I would never have had the courage to allow my stories to see the light of day.  I couldn't have done it without you, ladies, and I love you both for it.  Don't ever change.

Revolution and Retribution

Chapter Eight: Realizations Eryn Lasgalen, formerly Mirkwood Forest

Aragorn knelt beside the bathing pool, mind and body numb from the events of the last few days.  He was unutterably weary, in both flesh and spirit, and yet he could take no rest.  Each time his eyes slipped closed, he was assaulted by the images of his family, torn so violently from his life, indeed from life itself.

A tear slipped free and traced its way down his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away.  Instead, he dipped his hands into the cool water and scooped it up, splashing his face with it, then slowly removed his leathers and settled into the cool, clear water, allowing some of the filth he had accumulated to be borne away.

He had loved his life as a Ranger, had actually toyed with the idea of never claiming the throne in Gondor.  But when the moment was upon him, he had not turned from his true destiny, instead embracing it and stepping forward to unite the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.

All that had been secondary to his most heartfelt desire.  He had tried, oh, how he had tried, to convince Arwen Undomiel, the Evenstar of the Elves, to take the ship across the seas to Valinor, there to forever remember their love, and not be touched by the cruel fate of mortality.  She had chosen instead to remain with him, gifting him with her heart, her body, her love, and forsaking the immortality of her people to bind herself to him.

Haunted by grief, he stepped from the bath, clothing himself in the garments supplied by Legolas.  The newly crowned King of the Greenwood had made certain Aragorn was comfortable in his accommodations, and then tactfully taken his leave to allow his friend time to freshen up and perhaps rest.  It had been a very thoughtful gesture on the Elf's part, but Aragorn expected to take no rest.  The sights that he had seen upon his flight from Minas Tirith were seared into his eyes and he saw them each and every time he felt himself relax. 

His people, some dead, some wounded, others in chains for daring to defend their King.  His family, his children, broken and lifeless, Arwen, his beautiful gift of love, bearing the sword strokes of the attackers with no pain, battling for revenge for her slain children, never seeing the blow from behind that had taken her so abruptly from his life. 

Each victim danced before him when he closed his eyes, demanding justice for their deaths.  Each one paraded before him, demanding an answer to the one riddle he could not solve.  Why?  Why had they died?  Why had this happened?

Such thoughts were not conducive to rest and he carefully blanked his mind, trying desperately to hold out the ghosts that threatened to reappear.  Carefully, slowly, he forced his weary body to relax, employing the techniques he had learned living among the Elves of Rivendell to loosen each muscle in turn.

Sleep still eluded him.  His body had relaxed, but his mind would not.  Arwen was everywhere, in the empty space beside him, in his thoughts, in his waking dreams.  Each time he reached for her and encountered empty air, the knife in his heart twisted further.  His grief was so strong, it was a physical blow.  It stole his breath from him, left him feeling bruised and bloodied, left him wishing for an end to the excruciating pain of loss and loneliness.

Never again would Arwen wake him with a gentle kiss, nor would he feel her light touch on his face.  Never again would he hear her beautiful voice, speaking soft words of love and devotion.  Never again would he hear her laughter.  It was too much to be borne.

His mind chased itself in circles.  How had he come to this fate?  He had waited so many years for the only one he could truly love, and she had been taken from him too quickly, she and the children she had borne him.  Fate had surely cursed him! 

To be held apart from her for so long, at the whims of her father.  To have had to achieve what was nearly impossible for one of the Eldar, and he a mere mortal!  And yet there had always been one more condition, one more task that must be done before Aragorn son of Arathorn would be allowed to wed the beautiful Arwen.  Always his foster father Elrond had found something lacking, that Arwen could not be his.

Then it had happened.  He had finally come into his own, faced his destiny, and claimed it.  The Ring had been found, and he had helped to destroy it, pitting a hopelessly undermanned company against the very Gates of Mordor to allow Frodo enough time to cast it into the fires of Mount Doom.  Finally he had completed the last of the tasks he had been set, and was granted the right to wed his love.

It had been bliss.  They had been so happy, and never more so than the night Arwen delivered their firstborn, a son.  He had been named Eldarion.

Unbidden, the images of the carnage rose again before his eyes and he almost cried out at the staggering pain of the realization.  Never again would he feel her touch, nor hear her voice, nor play with his children.  They were gone, beyond the veil, where he could not in all conscience follow.  His people still had need of him.

He drew his duty to him like a cloak and wrapped himself in it, but his grief was not to be dismissed so easily.  Instinctively, he grasped for the pendant Arwen had given him, the Evenstar that had lain against his breast for so long, and finding it missing was the final stab.  Hot tears scalded their way down his cheeks, though his weeping made no sound.  It had been necessary, he reassured himself, necessary to send the Evenstar with Tanathel, but the loss of it brought everything into the sharpest focus.  His life was in ruins, everyone he had loved gone from him.

No, not everyone.  He felt strong arms go around his shoulders and wept anew.  Legolas knew.  The Elf understood what the Man was feeling, far better than anyone realized.  In three thousand years, he had seen his share of grief, and for his comfort, Aragorn was grateful.

Legolas simply held his friend, the Man he had come to call brother, crooning soft Elvish reassurances as his friend wept himself into oblivion.  "Rest, my friend, my brother," he said softly as he gently covered the now exhausted Ranger and left him to his rest. 

Gimli stood waiting just outside the chamber, concern writ large in his eyes.  "Easy, laddie, you look as haunted as he did when ye brought him in," he said softly.  "Ye need to rest, if we're to go about helping to put him back where he belongs."

"Aye, Gimli, and I shall.  But know this."  Legolas drew himself to his full height, his gaze off somewhere only he could see.  "I will do whatever is necessary to avenge my brother.  Though it take every one of my people, though it cost me my life, I will see him back on the throne of Gondor where he belongs.  And I will see justice done to Saruman for this horror he has inflicted.  That is my vow."

Gimli merely nodded, understanding that the Elf had needed to put voice to his fury.  "And we Dwarves will help ye, laddie.  Aragorn has no shortage of friends to come to his aid.  And that is what will bring Saruman down."  He had carefully steered the Elf toward his own chamber, and now gave him a gentle push through the opening.  "Rest yerself, Elf, this won't be easy.  But nothing worth doing ever is."