CHAPTER 15. A TIME FOR ACTION

Aragorn cast his gaze out across the city, the dusky light blending the sky and the land into a mesh of deep oranges and purples. The streets were quiet as merchants packed away their market stalls for the day, and traffic slowed to workers returning to their homes.

From this viewpoint, it was difficult to imagine any wrong befalling such parts. And yet, even now, sections of the city wall lay collapsed into little more than piles of rubble - a stark reminder that, just a few short months ago, Minas Tirith had been at war.

The thought surprised the king - had he really forgotten the long, woeful days of battle after so short a time? He shook his head of the thought. Of course not. Few nights passed when he did not dream of the bloodshed and destruction of days passed, and his waking hours were filled half with reconstruction plans, and half with listening to the stories of his people. It was the role of the king to behold those who had helped save the city from conquest, to commend them, to sympathize. Each day they came in droves, with tales of children rescued from crumbling buildings or orcs slain before they could breach the walls.

Aragorn was taken aback at the bravery of the people of Gondor, and especially by those who had no such requirement. Men who were not soldiers had done as much to hold back the forces of Mordor as the king's armies, and women had taken up their slain husbands' swords to join in the fight. Yet for every victory there were ten defeats, for every triumphant gleam, a dozen tear-filled eyes. The people of Minas Tirith had not suffered lightly, and the ground outside the city walls was filled with the bodies of the unlucky ones who had not made it through the long nighttime of war.

The king could relate. It had not been just meaningless faces falling alongside him in battle. He had seen friends and foes alike fall, his kinsmen and brothers cut down like trees by a woodsman - Boromir, Théoden, and even Gandalf, in a sense - and his thoughts were plagued by the ghosts of each and every one of them.

No, he had not forgotten those dark times, and he suspected he never would.

For even now, every resting moment went towards his memories. Should he have fought the balrog alongside Gandalf? Had he been there, alongside Boromir at the riverbank, would the man have been slain? If he had of remained with Théoden on Pelannor Fields, would he have been able to hold back the fatal sword that pierced his armor?

That, he supposed, was why he was keen to act quickly in regards to Legolas - he did not want his friend to be another regret, another ghost haunting his dreams and waking thoughts alike.

There was a hasty knock at the door, and Arwen appeared in the doorway, looking flustered.

"My love, you should not push yourself so. Do not forget that you are with child - you cannot go dashing about the city as you once did. You must take care of yourself." Aragorn scolded gently, striding forwards to embrace her. Arwen shook her head, eyes wide.

"Aragorn, a letter has arrived for you." she stated, holding out a scroll of parchment.

He gave her a puzzled look. "Hannon le, Arwen, but why did Faramir not-"

"I thought it best to receive it from me. It is from Edoras, you see, sent with greatest urgency from Éomer." she explained hurriedly, holding out the letter again. Aragorn took the scroll from her hands, breaking the seal quickly and scanning the page. The writing was smudged in several places, as though it had been hastily scrawled.

Aragorn,

Gimli arrived at the Golden Hall in the early hours of this morn, burdened with ill tidings. He is quite unharmed, but the same cannot be said for Legolas. My friend, I am sorry, but the Elf has been taken. We know not by whom, nor with what purpose. He was snatched away in the night whilst the pair travelled in Fangorn, and Gimli managed to escape only by Legolas sacrificing their only horse to his passage. The Dwarf insisted I send word to you.

I implore that you act with a calm head - hastening into actions will help none. Legolas may not yet have come to harm, and rash actions will only get you both killed.

Best wishes, my friend, and the best of luck,

Éomer.

Aragorn looked up at Arwen, horror struck. She snatched the letter out of his hands and read it quickly, her face mirroring his in grief. Hers, though, was paired by concern for her husband.

"Aragorn, you must not-" she begged.

"No, on the contrary, I must."

"Éomer bade you be cautious-"

"Cautiousness has gotten me thus far - now action must be taken." Aragorn snapped. Arwen bowed her head, the sight of her defeat causing such distress in Aragorn that he felt as though he could collapse from the weight of it.

He took a step towards her and lifted her chin with a gentle hand. He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers, feeling the softness of her skin, inhaling her beautifully inhuman scent-

She pulled away, shaking her head. He felt a stab of guilt when he saw that her eyes swam with tears.

"Vow to me that you will return." she demanded, voice wavering slightly.

"I cannot do so and keep my honor." Aragorn replied gently. "But I will vow you this - I will return Legolas, your kinsman, to you. He will protect you if all else fails."

"You speak already as though you expect to die." she whispered sadly. "My care is deep for Legolas, but he is not my husband, nor could he ever replace you."

"Well, m'lady, I best make sure we both return, as to spare your fine heart any trouble." Aragorn said playfully, making Arwen laugh tearily. She reached forwards and grabbed his face, pulling it towards hers. Their lips collided, this time with urgency, ferocity, and the solid awareness that this kiss may well be their last. They broke apart, and Aragorn gave her one more glance before hastening from the chamber.

The king sprinted down the stairs, running towards the stables with a complete lack of dignity that left those that beheld him in confusion. He swung himself onto the back of the nearest horse, not bothering with a saddle - he could ride equally quickly without one.

"Aragorn!"

The king turned, and his face fell as he saw Faramir standing in the doorway, puffing slightly, as though he'd just run.

"I heard about the letter from Éomer." he panted, striding towards the side of the horse. "I am sorry, so sorry, my lord."

"There is no need for you to apologize." Aragorn replied brusquely. "It is not your fault, but mine, that led to this."

Faramir sighed. "I don't suppose I can persuade you from your path?"

"I am afraid it is too late for that." Aragorn replied, his voice laden with genuine regret. The steward nodded slowly.

"That being the case, I bid you travel with all the fortunes of Middle-earth overhanging you, that you may return to us with speed." he concluded. "And, should your fortunes not be enough to keep you from harm, take this."

Faramir undid the buckle of his sheath and handed the sword to Aragorn, who took the weapon gratefully, weighing up the blade in his hands with an approving nod.

"Thank you, my friend. Let us hope I need not use it." Aragorn murmured gently.

"Travel swiftly." Faramir said finally, and pulled open the stable door.

The king wasted no time, kicking the horse carefully but firmly into action. Moments later he was out of sight, gone in a flurry of hoofbeats and tail dust.

~~~{###}~~~

Aragorn navigated the city with cautiousness and the excellent horsemanship of many years' practice. His speed was such that, whilst he could easily dodge any stray civilians still wandering the dusky streets, there was not sufficient time for anyone to catch a glimpse of his face and recognize it as their king. Once he had descended the many levels and cobbled streets of the city, he passed under the grand stone gateway, following the stars westward and out onto the plains.

Here he picked up in speed, and, beneath the clear, midsummer sky, he felt a sense of freedom he had not experienced in a long while. With only the beat of hooves and the whistle of the wind in his ears, he was the only man within miles - his memory failed to recall an instant in the last several months where that had been the case.

The solitude was, oddly, a feeling he had missed. As a Ranger of the North, in days so far passed that they seemed more a passing dream than a memory, he had spent months roving the wild forests by himself. There was a certain sense of privilege associated with that lifestyle, he thought in reflection. No responsibilities, no ties to a certain place or person - just him and the land, the way it had been for the Rangers for centuries uncounted.

As night progressed, Aragorn dismounted, checking that the track he followed still proved true. Despite the decades that had past, he still remembered every detail of his training in tracking and reading the land, and his eyes were keen even in the dark. Also, well did he know Legolas and the paths he was likely to take, and so he was able to pursue the near-invisible trail with little hindrance.

It was nearing dawn, the time when sunlight just threatens to break across the horizon, when the White Mountains appeared in the distance. Bleak, foreboding and desolate, they seemed to issue a sort of chill that had no association whatsoever with the actual temperature. Aragorn had scarcely felt so reluctant to visit a location, and simultaneously could not recall riding with more haste as he did now.

The plains pelted beneath his horse's hooves with a reawakened vigor, just as the first rays of day broke across the land.