Prologue

(Flashback)

His injuries hurt. Something soft and damp was being run over his wounds, and a groan escaped before he could stop it.

"Don't move."

His healer's voice was soft-spoken, gentle yet strong, delicate and clear. Like Arwen's? No, not like Arwen's… Beautiful Arwen, whose destiny lay not with him, but with her people in Valinor. Slipping down into despair, he felt that he had lost all hope.

His healer's name was Kitta, he remembered that vaguely. She'd told him her name when she'd found him after the battle with the band of orcs. He'd been fighting like a demon, himself against many, trying to forget… Elrond wanted Arwen to leave Middle-Earth. He would have none for his daughter but a King of Men. And Aragorn could not see a future in which he attained such a position, for he did not want to be Isildur's heir. He did not want his heritage. He didn't want to be the last of his bloodline.

His foolhardiness had led to this. He'd been injured far worse than ever before, and now here he was, in Kitta's home, being taken care of. She was the village healer, and pretty by human standards, with light brown hair and laughing green eyes. Coupled with her gentle personality and grace, she was like the human version of Arwen, and her village loved her. He'd been here a while, he'd seen it in how they treated her and talked to her.

He even understood why.

Too bad his heart belonged to the Evening…

Like a wolf could not be of two packs, neither could he cleave himself to two women. But for now, the temptation was there, lingering in the back of his mind... It would always be there, and Aragorn did not know whether to give into it...or not.

Would it be so wrong? He couldn't have the Elves' Evenstar… Would anyone truly blame him for trying to forget it all…?

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Chapter 1

(Present day)

The city of Gondor looked as splendid as it always had, white stone touched with faded flame from the light of the setting sun. Soon it would be dark; night would cover the land for a while as the sun rested in the west. But for now, the city was beautiful, resplendent beneath the veil of twilight.

This was the land he loved, where his ancestors had sat for long years as Kings, where he now ruled, and where his son would one day rule as well.

Seated on his bed, King Elessar cast a fond look towards his young son, who had fallen asleep clutching a carved wooden horse to his chest, his favorite toy that had been a gift from his Uncle Éomer of Rohan. Eldarion had been fussing all day, until Aragorn had brought him in to play on Ada's and Naneth's bed while his mother settled his younger sister's dinner routine.

It had been a good nine years, reflected the King, even as he rose carefully to gather the sleeping child in his arms. The boy had light brown hair and blue-green eyes, and a sturdy frame that he'd inherited from Aragorn himself. His personality, as seen through the six years of his life thus far, was a unique blend between Aragorn's stubborn determination and Arwen's gentle strength, and Aragorn had little doubt that he would one day make a great King. In the future, of course, for right now was no time to be forcing Kingly duties on him, not when they wanted to enjoy him as he was.

Eldarion's own room was not far from their royal suite, and he currently shared it with Elbrían, his younger sister, as he dared not sleep alone. It was furnished with all the things a child his age enjoyed, and had a window that faced the city gates. It was from this window, having tucked Eldarion in, that Aragorn first saw the beginnings of trouble.

A lone figure that was distinctly feminine in shape, walking towards the city, trudging through the snow – the first that had fallen since he had become King - in a warm winter cloak, with two smaller figures traipsing along behind her. A chill of foreboding traveled down his spine, prompting him to take a second look. The travelers bore no banner, nor any distinctive clues as to where they came from, and led only a shaggy chestnut pony on a short rein, with a few packs tied to its skinny back and sides. There was something about them… Elessar shook his head. No. They were just travelers seeking shelter in the city, in all likelihood. He was making a mountain out of a molehill. Taking a last look at his sleeping son, he turned. Dinner would be served soon in their private rooms, and Arwen would be waiting for him to join her there.

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Meanwhile, the trio in question was making their laborious way through the knee-deep snow. In front, the woman found it little trouble for her long legs, but the boys behind her were having some trouble – or at least, the smaller of the two was. Also, the two had no cloaks or wraps, and so the chilly air was slowing them down. The smaller boy nearly floundered into a snowdrift, and his pale skin was turning slightly blue. The bigger one, who was sturdily-built and had dark brown hair, pulled him out without a word, then tried to push aside the snow for his friend to make the going easier.

"Why can't we ride on Trouble?" he asked at last, looking with rather accusing eyes at the woman in front.

"Because I said so," she answered, turning an ice-cold silver gaze on him. "Now shut up and walk, Tavi. Iori, don't be such a little weakling. Hurry up. I want to get to the city before sunset. Chin up, and quick march like a man."

Flushing, the smaller boy pushed his brown hair – a shade lighter than Tavi's - out of his eyes with his hand, and stumbled valiantly forward.

"He's tired," Tavi said, chin tilted up, his gray eyes fierce and protective. "He's never traveled this far before. He's not used to it. Can't he ride on Trouble?"

The woman sent back a dark glower, one that silenced Tavi from making further complaints. She looked contemptuously down at Iori, who ducked his head, gray eyes fearful in his young face. The woman's mouth twisted derisively.

"Fine. Let the little sluggard ride, if that's what he wants. He certainly looks about to faint in the snow. Pathetic, Iori. I expected better of you." She turned back to her path, now ignoring the boys completely. For all her beauty, there was a darker aura about her that gave no comfort to her tired charges, an icy indifference and contempt for those whom she viewed as weak and unimportant. Iori swallowed and ducked his head lower at her comments, but he accepted Tavi's helping hand to climb onto the pony's back. As he made himself comfortable, the reason for his slow progress and weariness became clear, for Tavi had to help him slide his left foot into the stirrups, gently handling the limb where a bandage was wrapped snugly around his ankle.

"Thanks," whispered Iori, and the bigger boy nodded.

"It'll be easier for you now," he said softly. "And when we get to the city, we'll find a room or something, and you can rest, maybe even soak your leg in warm water if we can, to help with the swelling." He scowled suddenly, head jerking towards the one in front. "If she'll let us."

Iori nodded, too tired to speak, and he hung on grimly as Tavi led the pony onwards, making it trot a little in order to catch up.

"Wait, Vanira!" he called, but the woman did not turn, walking on, purposefully deaf to his voice. The boy's face darkened with anger, but he said no more. Iori made a soft sound in his throat – not of anger, but of fear. Vanira inspired those feelings in him, and Tavi could do nothing about it, for Iori lived inside his head more than most children his age, and mere words would not change him. It was because he'd been alone most of his life, and so he was what people described as a thinker. Tavi had been his only true friend until recently, and then…

Tavi sighed as he thought of what had happened in their village. Ever since Inga, their healer and leader, had died and Vanira had assumed her post... nothing had been the same. Things had changed so quickly that they'd been powerless to stop the danger as it came, overwhelming them and all in its path in a blood-red wave. The boy's fists clenched around the lead-rope. He was only ten summers old, like Iori. A mere child. It was the worst thing in the world, to want to help the people and home that you loved, but to be completely powerless to do so. It paralyzed him, yet made him furious at the same time.

"Tavi!" Iori's excited whisper broke into his thoughts, like an arrow piercing into the depths of a calm pool. The brown-haired boy looked up. Iori's gaze was fixed on the city, wide with wonder.

"It's a castle out of the old stories," he whispered reverently. "A real castle, Tavi. Do you think we'll get to see what it's like inside?"

Forcing a smile, the bigger boy shrugged. "You never know. We may yet, Ior. We may yet."

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She led their party to the old Guesthouse in the first circle of the city and settled the boys down in a room there. It was a large old building of weathered gray stone, set back from the street a little, with many windows and a porch with pillars. A flight of steps led down from the porch to a green lawn in front of the house, and two wings stretched out towards the street on either side of the lawn. Their room was a cozy little place in the Western wing, where the cheaper lodgings were, but it mattered little to Vanira, who hoped to spend little if any time in the room. She knew that Iori was more than ready for dinner and bed, and Tavi would stay with Iori – the little leech needed Tavi, for alone he had little courage, little strength. One thing her sister had not taught the boy was independence – true, few women thought their children needed independence at so early a stage, but Iori was a little odder than most boys his age. That fool of a sister of hers… she'd insisted he was sensitive and needed special care. Vanira's lip curled scornfully. An excuse to spoil him rotten, of course. "Sensitive"? Please. She knew what the boy really needed….but if she wanted her plan to bear the fruit she wanted, she couldn't give it to him, more was the pity.

No matter. He feared her, and that was almost as good. He feared what she could do. Her lip curled, revealing near perfect white teeth in a sinister smile. Iori would be the pawn on her chessboard, and she would use him to take down the King.

Slipping through the streets, finding her way from one level to another, she looked at everything around her not with the eye of a woman who had never before left her little village, but with the calculating eye of a prospective buyer. She wasn't one to count her chickens before they'd hatched, no, but she saw no harm in making plans for what she would do with this city once it was hers. And hers it would be, she would make certain of it. One way or another, Gondor would fall.

Ah. There it was. She paused thoughtfully by the entrance of a shop that was closing up for the night, drawing her hood up as she stared at the entrance to the level of the King's residence, the beautiful palace-like place that Iori had been admiring so much earlier. Made of white stone in some sort of Dwarven style, the stairs leading up were strong and sturdy, beautiful yet made to maintain the craftsmanship of the original builders.

Beautiful. Vanira nodded thoughtfully to herself. Tonight she would rest and prepare. But come morning, the King and his family would have rather a nasty shock…

Turning again, she walked the long way back to the Guesthouse. The boys were asleep when she finally reached the room, empty plates all stacked and washed on the table – they were used to doing the chores at home, and it seemed that they had not forgotten their habits. They'd left some for her, but Vanira was too excited now to eat. They were finally here, in Gondor, and the first step of her plan could begin. She had been planning this for a long time; she had always known that she wanted to rise above her station in life and aim for greater things. Why settle down as an ordinary village healer when with her skills and brains, she could become Queen of the reunited kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor?

And all it would take, was one little boy… and his mother's diamond pendant.

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