Folks, I just found out this morning that one of my stories won a prize in the voting for the MPAs. I'll give you more details after all the prizes are awarded on October 31 (Halloween—how not?). Anyway, for now I'd like to thank all of you for encouraging me, Dragonfly for betaing my stories, and Farflung for nominating two of them. Of course, a big thanks as well to all who voted for either or both of the stories! Hmm. I need to write an acceptance speech. Sounds as if I've already begun!

Grumpy: I will have to show Legolas and the twins reacting to the discovery that Arwen and Aragorn are in love. No doubt mixed feelings, but ultimately respectful.

Farflung: I was actually thinking of Peter Jackson when I inserted that line because somewhere I did run across a complaint that the Trolls aren't supposed to be out and about in the sunshine, yet Jackson's Trolls obviously were. Yes, I am glad whenever I have an opportunity to give female character a larger scope for speech and action.

Rinny Leonhart: I think I can promise never to write a girlfriend for Legolas into the story—at least not in any serious way. I'm looking forward to describing the adventures of Legolas and Gimli after Aragorn's coronation, and a girlfriend for either of them would be a bit of an impediment.

Mo: At some point I will definitely write a story in which Gandalf believes he has lost his little elfling. He'll be filled with grief and guilt, and then, like Tom Sawyer, Anomen will reappear! Wonder how long it will take for Gandalf to reassume his gruff persona. Oh, probably about a quarter of an hour.

Terreis: As I mentioned to Grumpy, I promise to show the twins reacting at some point. Also Legolas, Elrond, Erestor, Glorfindel, and etc.

Vicki Turner: Ah, you liked the dialogue between Elladon and Legolas. Thank you!

Joee: More Aragorn coming up!

Chapter 53: Spring-singer

Elrond smiled as he looked across the Chamber of Fire at the Elves clustered eagerly around Arwen, who graciously acknowledged each and every one of them with a smile or a word.

"Like flies to honey," said a voice at his elbow.

"Not a very elegant way of putting it, Glorfindel."

"True, but accurate nonetheless. What are you going to do about this matter?"

"Do? Nothing."

"Nothing? The Lord of Imladris will do nothing as his daughter is besieged by wooers?"

"I believe," said Elrond calmly, "that Arwen is perfectly capable of looking out for herself. Did you not hear Elrohir and Elladan's account of how she acquitted herself during and after the Orc skirmish on the journey home?"

"Ah, so she is to fend off these young Elves with bow and arrow, is that what you are saying? Well, they have all been shot through the heart anyway, so I suppose it would be only fitting if she riddled them with additional shafts. They all of them already claim that she is subjecting them to the greatest of torments. You should have heard the nonsense one of them was spouting the other night under her window. Something along the lines of 'I find no peace, and all my war is done: / I fear, and hope; I burn, and freeze like ice; / I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise'. It ended with the extraordinary, not to mention paradoxical, statement that 'my delight is causer of this strife'."

"One would think," observed Elrond wryly, "that if love were as painful as all these poems would have it, no one would indulge themselves in it. Yet it is manifest that these lovers be not discouraged, neither from wooing nor from versifying."

At this moment, Arwen disentangled herself from the knot of admirers and crossed to her father.

"Ada," she said softly, "I am going to walk about outside for a bit. Do see that no one follows me. I have scarcely had a moment to myself since returning to Rivendell."

Elrond smiled and nodded, and Arwen slipped out the door. As the eager Elves made to pursue her, and before even Elrond could speak, Glorfindel stepped in front of them.

"Today the lot of you performed poorly on the training fields," he growled. "Is there some reason for that?"

Abashed, no one answered.

"It is not to happen again," declared Glorfindel. "And to make certain that it does not, you will follow me at once to the fields for a supplementary practice. I will keep you there until you demonstrate an acceptable level of proficiency. Aye, I will have you shoot by torchlight if it comes to it."

Glorfindel winked at Elrond and strode from the room. In his wake trailed the disappointed swains.

While this conversation had been taking place, Aragorn was cresting the mountain that rose above Rivendell. He paused and looked down into the valley whence stood his childhood home. His grey eyes gleamed as the sun shone upon him, and his hair flowed in the breeze. Were it not for the stubble upon his face, at that moment the tall and slender young Man might have been mistaken for an Elf. Certainly he moved with the grace of one as he began the descent into the valley.

"I will not go straight to the Hall," he murmured to himself. "Too long have I walked upon the rough rocks of the Northern Waste. I would feel beneath my feet the gentle power of the land of Imladris."

He directed his feet toward a particular spot, a stand of birch trees in which he had often lost himself in dreams. As he walked, he softly sang the Lay of Lúthien. It was a ballad both beautiful and melancholy, a tale of great love and great loss, for it told the story of the mortal Beren and the elleth Lúthien Tinúviel.

As Aragorn entered into the cool shade of the birches, he was singing that part of the tale that told of the meeting of Beren and Lúthien in the forest of Neldoreth. Suddenly it seemed to him that he had wandered into the song itself. For lo! There stood Lúthien, her garb flowing, her hair raven, a crystal pendant upon her breast. Forgetting himself, Aragorn cried out, "Tinúviel! Tinúviel."

The elleth turned toward him.

"Who are you? And why do you call me by that name?"

"For a moment I did indeed believe that you were she. My confusion must be pardoned, for surely she could have been no more beautiful than you!"

The elleth smiled.

"You are a most gallant youth," she said teasingly. "But what is your name?"

"Once I was Estel. But now I am known as Aragorn son of Arathorn. I am Isildur's Heir, Lord of the Dúnedain."

As he spoke, he began to feel a little silly. As yet he had done nothing to merit these grand titles. How childish he must seem to this elegant elleth, flaunting as he did borrowed honors.

But an expression of delight crossed her face.

"Estel! Little Estel! We are kinsfolk, you and I! Don't you recognize me?"

Suddenly he knew her.

"You couldn't be, you're not—Arwen!?"

She laughed at his bewilderment.

"The same. Surely you did not think that I had stopped growing even as you shot up to manhood."

"You have been gone for so long. I had forgot." He rallied himself and fell into the light-hearted banter that matched her own spirits. "Now I understand why Elrond kept you in Lothlórien for such a great length of time. Often is it seen that in dangerous days men hide their chief treasure!"

But though his tone was light, as he looked upon her he saw grace and goodness, beauty and bravery, and he loved her. For her part, as she looked upon him, she saw courage and compassion, vigor and wisdom, and she likewise loved him. From that moment, the Doom of Men was laid upon Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar of her people.

But Man and elleth gave no thought to such grim matters as they walked together upon the greensward. They had many tales to share, one with the other, and laughed much as they strolled and gossiped. At last Arwen bethought herself of her father, who was surely wondering why she stayed so long, and she bade Aragorn a loving farewell.

"We must speak again, cousin, and soon."

"Willingly I will spend many another hour with you, my Lady Arwen!"

"So gallant!" teased Arwen once again before she turned toward the Hall, leaving in her wake a bedazzled Ranger.

Aragorn was not yet ready to enter the Hall and subject himself to the boisterous welcome he was certain to receive at the hands of Elladan and Elrohir. "I am sure that she is indeed more beautiful than Lúthien must have been," he murmured dreamily, drifting rather walking. "Ow!"

"What in the name of the Valar do you think you are doing!?" harrumphed Erestor angrily, rubbing at his face. "You have squashed my nose so that I am sure I shall be mistaken for an Orc! If I am bristling with arrows by nightfall, it will be entirely your fault!"

"I beg your pardon," said Aragorn humbly. "I, I, I was, I was—thinking!"

"Thinking! Thinking! Then I forgive you. The unaccustomed effort must have left you addled. I have heard it said that a Man cannot walk and think at the same time."

"Have you forgotten that Elrond is Peredhil?" Aragorn retorted, nettled.

"No, I have not forgotten. No doubt his human half directs his walking whilst his elven half does the thinking!" Erestor shot Aragorn a triumphant look.

Aragorn had to laugh in spite of himself.

"Erestor, you are wise!"

"Of course," Erestor replied complacently.

"But," sighed Aragorn, "in the matter that concerns me, I fear even your wisdom would not serve."

Erestor was seized with a sudden desire to be helpful, partly because he genuinely liked to be of use, partly because he never neglected an opportunity to demonstrate his erudition.

"Ah, but perhaps I could be of assistance. What is this matter?"

Aragorn hesitated, then plunged on recklessly. Surely it wouldn't hurt to confide in Erestor. If the elf lord's advice seemed impractical, the Ranger could always disregard it.

"Very well, Erestor. I am, I am, well, I am in love."

Erestor's eyes gleamed. An incipient love affair. How delightful! A chance to woo by proxy!

"In love! Wonderful!"

"But what am I to do, Erestor?" cried Aragorn desperately.

"You must take a bath."

"I know that!" exclaimed Aragorn, offended.

"Allow me to finish," replied Erestor coolly. "After you bathe, dress yourself—"

"You don't say?" said Aragorn sarcastically. "I never would have thought of that."

"—in presentable clothing rather than your usual garments. Oh, yes, I had forgot. When you bathe, do use soap."

"Erestor!"

"It will also be necessary for you to comb out your hair. I would also suggest that you trim said hair, as well as that furry stuff on your face."

"It is a beard, Erestor."

"Whatever you may call it, trim it."

"Yes, yes," said Aragorn impatiently. "I will bathe, dress nicely, trim hair and beard, and comb my hair carefully. Will that do?"

"For a start. Then it is necessary to sing."

"Sing?"

"Sing."

"As in the melodic and rhythmic rendition of lyrics?"

"That is what is generally involved. Can you do this? It occurs to me that I have never heard you sing in the Hall of Fire."

"True, but Legolas gave me singing lessons before he departed for Mirkwood. He said that my voice will now pass for that of the least-gifted of Elves."

"Ah, that will do, then," said Erestor, who assumed that Aragorn had fallen in love with a human maid who would be astounded to be serenaded by someone with a voice that would have barely passed elven muster. "Now, each dusk, you must position yourself outside your lady's chamber and sing sweetly until dawn. After a few days of your singing, she will summon you inside for a tête-à-tête, which will hopefully progress to a heart-to-heart, and from there you should be able to progressively align each body part until everything is in place."

"In place for what?" said Aragorn stupidly.

"We'll leave that for a later lesson, my boy," said Erestor. "Get as far as the tête-à-tête and report back for further instructions."

That evening, as the nightingales began to sing, a nervous Aragorn stood outside Arwen's chamber. His face was nicked at several points, and he smelled strongly of soap. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth—and nothing came out. In agitation, he paced back and forth for several minutes before again coming to a halt before his beloved's window. Unbeknownst to him, an amused Arwen stood hidden in the shadows next to the window.

Aragorn took several more deep breaths and again opened his mouth. This time he managed to produce a tune, albeit a quavering one. Arwen stifled her giggles as Aragorn doggedly worked his way through the seventeen stanzas of a song celebrating spring and the renewal of life. That would be seventeen stanzas plus the refrain, of course. Elven songs tend to be long, and rightly so. After all, Elves, being immortal, have more than enough time for indulging themselves in song and merriment.

"Echuir echuir!" warbled Aragorn. "Celu celu!"

Arwen could no longer resist; she stepped from the shadows into the moonlight.

"Ah, a swallow is outside my room—the tuilelindo, spring-singer. Or do you rather sing of sources and stirrings?"

"My Lady?"

"Celu means 'spring', but also 'source'; echuir means 'spring', but also 'stirring'."

"My Lady, you be all three. You are the source of the warmth that would transform the coldest day of winter into springtime."

"That is all very well for 'spring' and 'source'," teased Arwen, "but what of 'stirring'. Surely you are not going to tell me that nothing is stirring!"

Aragorn blushed. "Half a minute. I'm sure I can think of something!"

"I certainly hope so!" rejoined Arwen. "I should be very disappointed else."

Aragorn was thrown into confusion. Somehow it seemed to him that his efforts at playing the gallant lover had gone awry. Arwen beckoned to him to come nearer to her window. Aragorn stepped forward and opened his mouth to speak, but Arwen placed a finger upon his lips.

"I can think of better uses for this mouth," she whispered. She leaned forward and kissed him lightly, then stepped back.

Aragorn stood gaping. Arwen shook her head in amusement.

"You had better close your mouth. We do not know each other well enough to share that sort of kiss."

"What?"

"Never mind," laughed Arwen. "But do have a chat with Elrohir and Elladan before you next visit my window—especially Elrohir, I think."

Aragorn had a sudden memory of the day that the twins had arranged a demonstration of 'man-kissing', one which had involved Erestor and Glorfindel as the unwitting 'instructors'. He turned a red so fiery that it was a marvel that his hair did not burst into flames.

"Am I the source of this warmth that suffuses your face?" smiled Arwen.

By this point, Aragorn was about as articulate as a Troll.

"Strange," continued Arwen. "Only a few minutes ago you spoke so eloquently, like a chivalric hero out of a romance." She deepened her voice and imitated him. "You are the source of the warmth that would transform the coldest day of winter into springtime," she declaimed with mock seriousness. "Now the swain who uttered these gallant words has vanished. But I am glad!" she added vehemently.

Aragorn stirred at last—no, not that way, you evil-minded Reader.

"You are glad?" he said inquiringly.

"You may change your name, Estel, but do not change who you are. Middle-earth needs Estel. And," she murmured softly, "I need Estel." Speaking aloud again, she continued.

"Arda needs no courtly hero out of a sentimental tale, but a warrior and a leader, a man of vigor and courage who does not file his tongue pleasingly so as to ingratiate himself with others. Honeyed words will have no effect upon our enemies—as they have no effect upon me."

Hearing her words, Aragorn suddenly returned to himself—and smiled.

"Arwen, I think I can promise you that I will utter no sweet words in the future—for one thing, I believe I may have used up my entire stock in this one conversation!"

"Do you also promise not to sing before my window—I cannot tell you how mortifying it is to have wooers hanging about and crooning love lyrics at all hours of the night."

"I promise."

"Oh, yes, you also must promise not to recite poetry, especially not verses of your own devising. Generally people in love are too addled to compose decent poetry. As for the ancient poems, they have been quite worn out by being repeated ad nauseum."

"Arwen, I will neither compose nor recite poetry."

"Excellent! And now, if you don't mind, I would go to my rest."

She began to move from the window but suddenly turned back.

"One more thing, Aragorn."

"Yes?"

"You are supposed to rinse the soap off. If you were to go hunting Orcs tonight, they would smell you coming from miles away. You would never get within an arrow shot of a single one."

"Oh. Well, Erestor said to use soap, so I did."

"Erestor! You sought advice from Erestor! What were you thinking?"

"It isn't so much that I sought advice from Erestor, Arwen. It's just that, well, that I, I, well, I—ran into him!"

Arwen giggled outright.

"Aragorn, when you say you ran into him, you mean that literally, don't you?"

"Well, yes," admitted Aragorn. "But figuratively, too," he hastened to add, "as Erestor did counsel me."

"Yes," said Arwen tartly, "according to how things were done in the Second Age, I'll warrant. This is the Third Age, I hope you know!"

"I shall remember that," said Aragorn humbly. "Goodnight, Arwen."

"Goodnight, Aragorn."

Arwen vanished from the window, and Aragorn made his way to the entrance of the Hall and thence to his room. Things had not gone altogether as Erestor had planned, Reader, but that was probably all to the best, as no doubt Elrohir and Elladan would have said.