Chapter Thirty–One
Home. Isn't That Where The Heart Dwells?

It was another week before Dídauar set out from Lothlórien. Haldir improved dramatically and was declared physically fit enough to return to duty (something Celeborn was reluctant to do) two days before Dídauar left and both he and Elrohir had forced Dídauar to talk about those that had fallen, confront her grief and tried to persuade her that she didn't have to hide her emotions behind masks or her stow her heart behind barriers. Celeborn and Elladan took on the more physical task of dealing with the outcome of the forced counselling sessions – Dídauar still couldn't deal with a lot to emotional bloodletting and since she was closely watched, thus preventing her flight, she fell back on her military training and used sparring to release whatever pent up distress she had. As Aragorn had once commented, Dídauar generally lost sight of who she was actually fighting when she sparred which resulted in all three of them leaving the field with a few minor cuts and bruises.

"You are absolutely convinced that you are ready to face the walls of Minas Tirith again?" asked Celeborn watching as Dídauar readied her mare. Haldir and Rúmil were going to escort the Dúnadan to the south-eastern borders of Lothlórien where she would meet Gildor, some of his Elves and a small troop of Gondorians, for the journey south to Minas Tirith.

"I'm sure Elrond wouldn't mind taking you in the caravan that will arrive here within the next week or two."

"I am sure that he would be delighted," replied Dídauar with a small smile. "And he wouldn't be the only one, but I have been away from my people long enough. And I have faced the wall of Minas Tirith before, it shall not be so difficult this time."

"I do not want to see my little sprite choked behind bars," murmured Celeborn. Dídauar stopped fiddling with her stirrups and turned to properly face the Elf that so long ago she had learnt to call Grandfather.

"We have had this conversation before," she said.

"The last time you came here to escape," agreed Celeborn. "Tell me, what does Lothlórien offer that Imladris or the North does not?"

"Peace," replied Dídauar. Celeborn canted his head, silently asking Dídauar to continue her explanation. "Time seems to slow down, almost to the point of stopping. The ancient trees offer their wisdom with the gentle patience of a mother, not asking for anything in return. West of the mountains, I am a leader. Even in Imladris I am a Captain or the daughter of Elrond, fostered or not. Here in Lothlórien I am a child once more. No one looks to me for aid, I do not have to carry the burden of leadership."

"I would not have thought that would offer you comfort," said Celeborn. "To be so out of control."

"It was these Woods that saved me as a child," said Dídauar. "I trust them the same way I trust their Warden and Lord. As I trust my King."

"Which is why you return to the South," conceded Celeborn. Dídauar smile brightened, though it did not widen. She stepped forward until she was mere inches from the Elf. Taken his hand, she pressed a kiss to its palm before reaching up and kissing his cheek. Celeborn smiled at her with the pride and love normally gifted by a mentor shining in his eyes. Raising his free hand, he cupped Dídauar's cheek.

"You have grown," he said. It was Dídauar's turn to cant her head in question. "Spiritually, you have matured. You have tempered but not to the point of being docile, but enough that you can be the leader the people of Gondor need."

"Wrong twin," said Dídauar. Celeborn shook his head.

"Faerlain had a reputation that reached even our firesides and it is not something that can be easily swept beneath a carpet or expunged from history," he said. "The Wild-child of Rohan's Plains may have vanished nigh on three decades ago but Aurél is there to pick up the torch she left behind."

Dídauar smiled gently. "I hope I can do her justice," she said, not caring that she was talking about herself in the third person.

"You will," assured Celeborn, raising both hands to cup Dídauar's cheeks. "Do not wait too long before you grace this Wood with your presence again. Energetic spirits such as yours and your Halflings are exactly what this place needs to regenerate itself."

"You make me sound like one of Adar's potions!" exclaimed Dídauar. "And they are not my Halflings!" Celeborn laughed.

"The twins talk Kalya, I know what you did in Rohan and Gondor concerning the little ones, particularly the raven youngster. They are yours, whether you verbally acknowledge that or not. As for being a potion, for this place maybe that is what you are," he said, bending his head and pressing a kiss to Dídauar's forehead. Dídauar responded by brushing her nose with the Elf-Lord before the pair broke all contact and the Ranger gather up her mare's reins.

"I will return," she said.

The journey back to Minas Tirith took just over a week, the horses refusing to be tempered by their riders – if they wanted to gallop, they were going to gallop; if they wanted to walk, they were going to walk and the riders could either learn to cope with the sudden changes of pace or get off and travel under their own power. They travelled down the west side of the Anduin, following the path of the river and Dídauar insisted on stopping at Sarn Gebir. Most of the Elves in the travelling company were a little tetchy about the stop, still sensing the evil that had tainted the area but Gildor rebuked them sternly. Dídauar had her reasons for visiting the area and they were to respect those wishes, even if their own were to be miles away. Dídauar quietly thanked the Elf and, taking with her four of the Gondorians, she went to Amon Hen.

It wasn't difficult to find the battlefield, broken blades, misfired arrows and rotting corpses still littering the ground with not even the carrion birds choosing to feast on the Uruk-Hai. Dídauar bit back a pained gasp as the scenery began all to familiar and, without warning, she sank to her knees. Damrod, one of Faramir's former Ithilien rangers, nearly fell over her when she came to a sudden stop, though quickly regained his balance.

"My Lady?" he asked cautiously.

"It was here," said Dídauar. Damrod raised an eyebrow, still confused. "This is where he fell."

"The Captain-General? How can you know that?" asked a second Gondorian.

"His name was Boromir," replied Dídauar, ignoring the second question as she caught sight of something in the foliage. Shifting the leaves she uncovered a familiar black, silver and gold trinket was uncovered. Dídauar bit lip as she reverently scooped the insignia from the ground. While the Great Horn denoted Boromir as the heir to the Gondorian Stewardship, the charm in Dídauar's hand was more personal. It was a piece of a disk that when complete, was about three inches in diameter. Denethor, who was a lot more sentimental than people gave him credit for, had had the insignia commissioned as a Solstice gift when Boromir was eight years old. With the shadow of Mordor reaching further, Faramir was still a sickly youngster come the winter months, seeming to contract every chest infection, cold and bronchial problem going, and Finduilas also beginning to show signs of ill health, Denethor had wanted to bolster courage and hope within the family, in his eldest son especially. The disk itself was made of a thin piece of onyx and was traced with two designs – on one side delicate threads of Mithril depicted Minas Tirith and on the other gold had been used to capture Dol Amroth, the ancestral home of Finduilas – and had been divided in what appeared to be a haphazard manner but slotted neatly into place with the other three pieces. Denethor had split the medallion before his family the same way he would a loaf of bread, fastening a chain around each of their necks and explaining the significance of the gift.

"We live in dark times my dear ones," he had said. "And there maybe times that you are separated from your home and your family. This medallion is in pieces but it can join together to become a whole, just as we do as a family. Keep it safe, and when you feel lost or scared or alone, all you have to do is concentrate on the pictures and we will be there for you, reminding you that you are not alone."

Finduilas had lightly chastised him for being so dark and brooding, especially around the Solstice festival which was supposed to be a time for celebration and cheer, while Dídauar had teased her friend something terrible about being sentimental. The boys had been proud of their sections of the medallion, though Faramir's quickly acquired scratches around the edges from where he had chewed the thing, and the fact that the piece Dídauar held was in a relatively untarnished condition and was to be found miles from civilisation, coupled with stories of reminiscence from Merry and Pippin, showed Boromir had continued to believe the tale Denethor had woven around the object even into adulthood.

"I've seen that before," commented Damrod. "Faramir has one the same."

Dídauar shook her head. "Faramir's piece goes here," she said, indicating the lower right side of the object. "Take it Damrod, it belongs to your Captain now."

"That would be you," pointed out Damrod. "Faramir handed over authority to the King who in turn bestowed the title of Captain-General to you until there was another heir." Dídauar gave the young man a sad smile.

"It belongs to Faramir," she said, pressing the object into Damrod's palm and pressing his fingers around it. "Allow the men to pay whatever respects they desire, but do not allow them to disturb the area with anything more than footprints and tears."

"We are men not boys!" protested another Gondorian. Dídauar looked at him sharply.

"Even a King can shed tears," she said before climbing back to her feet. "I am going to the riverside. Allow me to wander for half an hour."

"My Lady," said Damrod, making to bow by way of acknowledgement and agreement. Dídauar stopping him.

"You do not bow to a Captain," she said. Damrod looked a little startled but compromised with a military salute. Dídauar smiled at him before heading towards the rushing water of the Anduin, her hand once more finding the Tree and horse charms beneath her tunic.

Continuing on their path along the Anduin's west bank, the company passed through the East Emnet of Rohan, where they were briefly accosted by members of the East-marsh Éored who were, understandably, still a little jumpy about strangers crossing their land uninvited and unannounced. A lone rider they could cope with but a company of at least a dozen, all of whom were bedecked as warriors was cause for concern. A couple hasty conversations later, aided by the fact Dídauar was still capable of speaking flawless Rohirric, albeit a couple of decades outdated, and the company found themselves with a Rohirric guard, though its intent was protection rather than escorting unwelcome visitors out of the country. The task was then taken over by members of the garrison at Cair Andros, the soldiers there glad to see their own comrades back in one piece – tales of Galadriel's Elven sorcery having reached even their ears – and delighted to welcome their Princess back. While Dídauar managed to persuade the commander that sending a messenger really wasn't necessary, being only eight hours ride from Minas Tirith and the passage of people and goods being an almost continual event, news quickly reached the White City that Dídauar was back.

Sadly, the work of the wicked is never complete, nor is it the case with Kings apparently. Aragorn was due more than a few days reprieve from duty considering the almost continual travelling, fighting and grieving that the man had had to contend with since the previous December but his people in Gondor were not so obliging. When Dídauar arrived back in Minas Tirith, Aragorn had been closeted with the Throne Room, embroiled in an argument as to where the best defences needed to be placed. It seemed that not everyone was willing to accept that the War was over and that Sauron was gone forever.

"……still run unchecked through Ithilien. We must tighten the north-eastern border to prevent them re-entering Mordor or running rampage across our lands," one soldier pressed as Dídauar and, at the Dúnadan's insistence, Damrod slipped into the Throne Room.

"My men are already stretched beyond their limits protecting the border against the Haradrim," countered another.

"The Haradrim are a dying threat," dismissed the first. "Without Sauron's promises, they have no prowess or cause to fight Gondor."

"So why are they attacking Ithilien? They are suddenly short on firewood are they?" rebuffed the second. Damrod clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle a chuckle at the response of his commander. "Sire, I would suggest removing some of those posted to Cair Andros and have them strengthen the northern border. That way, my men and I can concentrate on the southern border."

"Cair Andros is a strategic defence position, we cannot leave her unguarded!" protested the first.

"I didn't say unguarded. I merely suggested that the guard there be reduced and the soldiers redeployed where they will be of immediate benefit," retorted the second.

"All right," interrupted Aragorn as the first speaker made to retort again. "Commander Anborn, how many men would you need to increase the strength of the southern border?"

"At least fifty," replied Anborn.

"Fifty!" exclaimed the first. "What do your men do? Spend half their time sleeping!"

"Trust me, sleep is the last thing they do," replied Damrod coming to his commander's aid. Anborn's eyes seemed to light up upon seeing his friend once more and the widened still further when they settled on Dídauar who was perched on the steps beside the Steward's chair. The Ranger held up her hand to prevent any mention of her presence.

"Fifty additional men would mean more patrols and would mean that those already fighting can take the rest that the Haradrim's presence has so far denied them."

"And you have them," replied Aragorn. "For as long as the Haradrim remain a threat to the southern border."

"And the Orcs to the north?"

"The additional forces should see better results from the both camps. I suggest that a further thirty soldiers are moved from the garrison here in Minas Tirith to strengthen the forces on the northern boarder of Ithilien. Should there be a major catastrophe, they can easily be recalled. Now, Damrod, you have returned from Lothlórien, can I assume you are not empty handed?"

"You're orders were followed to the letter Sire," said Dídauar, answering for the Ithilien ranger. Aragorn swung around at his sister's voice and found himself grinning as he caught sight of said sibling sitting pixie-like on the marble steps before the throne.

"The Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel send their greetings," she said, making an Elven salute to her King. "Now, might I suggest you define a major catastrophe before your Councilmen demand the immediate recall of those you have just deployed to Ithilien?"

"So are you staying?" asked Aragorn as he shuffled the papers before him, canting his head in Dídauar's direction.

"For the moment," replied Dídauar, slipping off her perch and wrapping her arms around Aragorn's shoulders from behind and planting a kiss on his crown. "Now tell me, how does it feel to be finally King?"

"On days like today, I wish I was still a Ranger. On others, the smiles of hope that I get from the people are enough to make everything seem worthwhile," replied Aragorn, bringing a hand up briefly to clasp Dídauar's wrist. "And I no longer have to listen to long speeches about me fulfilling my destiny or my duty."

"At least not from Adar," smiled Dídauar, releasing her brother.

"There is one thing I greatly dislike though," said Aragorn as Dídauar perched on herself the edge of the table.

"Oh?"

"I can go nowhere without someone following me, whether it is a servant or a councilman or an armed guard," groused Aragorn. "I go to relieve the call of nature and I have a valet waiting on the other side of the door, I go to bed at night and there is warrior standing outside my chamber. That is changing as soon as I am married!"

"Ah, but you are a King not a vagabond ranger. And now you know how Denethor felt," grinned Dídauar. "Has Norín got her hands on your riding leathers?"

"A vagabond ranger has more privacy. And no she hasn't, though that is not through lack of trying!" chuckled Aragorn.

"Good. Go change into them while I find Faramir. I'll meet you at the stables in fifteen minutes," said Dídauar.

"What do you have planned?" asked Aragorn, noticing the mischievous glint in Dídauar's eye.

"Using the skills I was taught by a boy who was in entirely the wrong profession though his parents would kill me for saying that," replied Dídauar. "Now go!"

Gandalf stood quiet and unnoticed in a corner of the Throne Room, watching the play between the twins and a gentle smile formed on his features. Dídauar may not be Minas Tirith for long periods of time, but it was almost a guarantee that, for the most part, when she was there, court etiquette and tradition would be disregarded.

The people could gripe, complain and protest all they wanted but not even great could stop the change that was coming to Gondor.