Aragorn lay on his side, waiting for the pain to ease up as Elrond explored the site of the wound on his hip.
"It is healing well. It might heal faster if you would keep your weight off of it, Estel," the elf-lord admonished, setting a new poultice over the incision.
"That's hardly fair," the king protested, glaring sidelong up at his adoptive father from the bed. "I'm not able to lose the time you ask of me."
"I am asking nothing of you, Estel," he said sternly, raising an eyebrow as he worked. "Your body, though, is begging. The hip is one of the greater bones, it was not meant to break, and it will take much time to properly heal, even if you were treating it correctly. You're merely prolonging your own pain."
Aragorn, being a healer, was well aware, as most people would be. Seeing as it was his hip that was broken, he also had an extra layer of understanding that was reinforced by ever step he took.
"Some things are worth the pain," Arwen said suddenly, speaking up for the first time since Elrond had arrived to check on Aragorn's swollen injury.
"You condone his behavior?" Elrond suppressed a bitter laugh.
"No, father, but I see its necessity. You give him too little credit." The edge of a warning crept into her voice, and Aragorn glanced nervously up at Elrond, who shook his head.
"It has been in him since he was a boy. Where there are two paths, he will invariably choose the harder way, as if it is a delightful past-time to seek out pain."
"You did not give him two paths," she said sharply, voice growing cold. "He is king now, and so he must carry the pain of it. He cannot rest, and it was you who set him on this path. Do not admonish him for playing too well the role you gave him."
"I shall make more of an effort to rest," Aragorn said sheepishly, hoping to defuse the argument. "I shall call Imrahil back from Dol Amroth… again…"
Unfortunately, Arwen was not finished yet and motioned him to wait. "He does this for Faramir. So little help there is among the nobility of these people, a nobility our family has as much claim to be able to chastise as the royalty of this country, but you chose to leave Gondor and her people adrift when the line of kings broke. There is much blame that can be placed at our feet that stretches out through ages if you want to seek it." She paused to let her words sink in.
Aragorn winced, feeling mildly ill.
"Or," she continued, and everyone present knew she had already won. "You could set that blame aside and speak what you truly mean," she said the words gently, her previous ire cooling into warmth and sorrow. "He cannot see your heart, father."
Elrond sighed heavily and turned away to vigorously polish one of his instruments. "I worry for you, Estel. It grieves me to see you… wounded." His voice quavered and he cleared his throat.
Aragorn's eyes darted from Arwen to Elrond and back, uncertain of how to proceed.
It was clear to him that there were layers to the Elven-Lord's words that he was missing out on.
His mind raced almost as if he were in battle, seeking an opening, but here, looking for any connections that might reveal the hidden meaning in front of him. "It is… hard for you," the king ventured at last, uncertain whether to sit up or remain still.
Elrond turned sharply, a look of shock on his face. "How-" The look cleared immediately as his eyes landed on Aragorn, and he composed his face back into its usual grim neutrality. "You don't know," he said flatly. "Yes, it is difficult for me."
Aragorn could remain prone no longer and sat upright, immediately earning protests from his father and wife. "Then explain it. I want to know you better."
Elrond's face did not change as he lowered Aragorn back down and resumed binding the wound to keep it safe. He was silent for a long while, but just as Estel was beginning to think the Elf had nothing to say, he spoke again. "I fear my skills are not great enough."
"...What?" Aragorn could not understand what had just been spoken.
He saw Elrond tense, unprepared to explain the statement.
Another silence passed between them, but this silence did not end, and before Aragorn knew what to say, he was alone with Arwen.
At last he sat up, glancing at her, hoping she would see his question.
"No," Arwen agreed. "I don't know what happened either." She checked his work, though it was more for her own satisfaction than any sense that Elrond may have needed correction. Her hand trailed up past the bandages to the bare skin of his side and paused there as she bent down to kiss his forehead. "I'll come to bed soon," she promised. "I'm going to find him."
He watched her from the bed and pulled himself into a reclining pose that had him half upright.
She slipped shoes onto her delicate feet and tied her hair back with a ribbon, but as she turned toward the door, stopped abruptly and tilted her head. "We have a guest." Arwen stepped lightly across the floor and into the antechamber, where Aragorn heard her open the door.
"My lady," said a nervous voice, muffled by the distance and a wall. "I have an urgent missive for the king."
"At this hour?" she asked. Her tone was only ever courteous, but Aragorn could read the displeasure from his wife. "The king is resting. I will take it for him."
"Please, my lady, I know I must seem impertinent, but he must see it tonight," the man sounded near panic.
"I will see what can be done," she said in a masterfully evasive way. "Rest easy and go about your business."
"Yes, my queen."
He heard the door close after another moment, and the apartments fell silent. He shifted uneasily, half tempted to go after her.
"Stay in bed," Arwen insisted, stepping gracefully past the door. "I wish I could say he was wrong, but see here, the seal of Harad." She waved a folded piece of paper in the air, displaying the red wax like a wound on the ivory flesh of the missive.
"Never a good sign," he grumbled, shifting against the pillows.
She split it open with one finger, as simply as removing a seed from a pomegranate, tearing the head off the snake in a way that he could not be sure was unintentional. Her mouth tightened to a line and she shook her head. "If you did not need to read it, I'd simply burn it. They will not treat with me, and the request has insulted them. They are now insisting that peace talks be held in Harad as a sign of good faith."
"Then I will simply write them back that they insult me with their refusal. You are a part of my very soul, Vanimelda." He caught her hand, laying a kiss on her fingers, then wrist.
"No," she said firmly, sitting on the edge of the bed, though she did not reclaim her hand. "We cannot stoop to their level. The people do not deserve the strain of our ire. Any attempt on our behalf to punish those in power will only fall on those crushed beneath the tyranny."
"If war resumes, it shall fall on them anyway. The country is near ready to split, and has been for many years," he said, rubbing his forehead. "I cannot split my interests to them. I am not their king, and my first priority must be to my people."
"Yes," she agreed. "And yet I think you would regret such a hasty response."
He fell silent, lips all but hiding in his beard as he tried not to show how bothered he was by her reasoning.
She was correct of course.
He forced a breath through his teeth. "That means this will take me away from Minas Tirith."
"To Harad?" She scoffed at him and used his distraction to take his hand captive, freeing her own to cradle his fingers against her cheek. "My love, I cannot allow that. You are still badly injured, and we both know it could be an attempt on your life."
"That would mean it falls to Faramir," he protested and she nodded slowly, her vivid blue eyes boring into him.
"Have faith, husband," she instructed. "He is more capable than anyone knows."
He scrubbed his free hand across his forehead. "I cannot allow him to come to harm, either. It would break me. I must consider carefully."
Not for the first time, he wished Boromir had survived; the elder son of Denethor was a strong general and powerful leader, his tactical sense near unparalleled. Faramir was no less competent in his own ways, but he was accustomed to smaller tactics, the movement of singular patrols, and the coordination of secrets.
The more Aragorn considered it, though, the more it made sense to let Faramir handle the diplomatic mission to Harad.
It might be best to fight subtlety with subtlety.
"I would still prefer to go myself," he started, but Arwen leaned close, placing her hands on either side of his head so that their eyes were level.
"I forbid it," she whispered, and he could only nod. She drew back, finally, and he found himself mildly disappointed. "That still leaves the matter of a response, and what stance to take with the delegation."
"My stance is unchanged. So long as they maintain the practice of slavery, we shall conduct no trade, and permit no travel across the border. It is not peace, merely armistice." He winced. "In such a case, they may attempt to hold Faramir hostage as leverage for diplomatic terms."
Arwen nodded. "I expect so. Sufficient force may prevent such an act, but may provoke further violence." With a heavy sigh, she slipped her shoes off. "I think I shall have to find my father in the morning."
"I'm sorry, Vanimelda, I did not mean to keep you," he said stroking her arm comfortingly.
"I am kept for good reason. I knew what it meant that I would be queen," she said, catching the hand on her arm to briefly squeeze his fingers.
"I must insist the negotiations happen on the border," he decided.
"A fair compromise."
"And I am going to correct them about you." He set his jaw.
There were many reasons he hated the ruling powers of Harad, the institution of slaver, the caste system, their treatment of women, and the shameless disparity between the very rich and the destitute, who made up most of the population, were but a few of those reasons. Adding insult to his wife only served to solidify his unwillingness to tolerate their behavior. He knew it was petty, but for sixty years he had fought for her hand- it was impossible not to love her first.
"Pen and paper, please, my love," he said at last, having decided on his response.
Arwen stood from the edge of the bed and left the room for a moment, returning with the requested items and a cutting board.
He smiled to thank her and began to write.
To the esteemed Chieftain Enhik Echhaya,
I have received your letter requesting a change in location for negotiations. I am willing to move the delegation, but only as far as the border.
I fully understand your reservations about diplomatic exchange with a woman, however, as she is my wife, she is a part of me. In refusing her, you have refused me. I will look past this insult as I see it is born of a difference in culture, and I shall send my Steward to represent me instead.
I look forward to your response,
Aragorn Telcontar, Wielder of the Flame of the West, High King of Gondor and Arnor.
Rarely did he use his full title on official documents; it was petty, but dealing with Harad such pettiness was almost necessary.
He shook the paper a moment to dry the ink from the quill and passed it to Arwen, who read it and raised an eyebrow.
"Your rebuke was well phrased. They shall find difficulty pressing you over this," she observed.
"Not without seeming ungracious- it also gave me a reason to send a representative rather than appearing myself. I don't want them knowing I am injured," he said, shifting the cutting board off his lap.
"I'll seal this and send a rider," she said, slipping her shoes back on. "Sleep now, I'll join you soon."
He watched as she put out the lights and the room fell into a cool darkness that covered him like a blanket. His eyes felt heavy, but he had no desire to sleep alone, so he listened. He could hear her moving unhindered by the dark, the fabric of her dress whispering as it swept around her form, the shuff of her shoes over the stone floor and carpeting.
At last Aragorn heard her close the door to the antechamber, and he could hear little else from her until the door to their apartments opened and closed again.
He lay, still half upright for a time until he could fight off sleep no longer and slowly eased himself down, into the pillows where his rebellious eyes fell shut.
He woke again, startling as the door to the apartments opened, hand landing on the elvish dagger he kept on his bedside table.
The door closed again, and then the door to the room opened.
"It's me," Arwen said, her voice calming him immediately. "You can put down the knife."
The door clicked shut and he relinquished his hold on the blade.
"I missed you," he mumbled, listening as she changed clothes and then slid into her side of the bed.
"Sleep," she ordered, nestling her head against the back of his neck. "We are together now."
His head moved in a sign of acknowledgement, but he struggled to relax, and when he was finally able to drift off, his fractured dreams showed him a snake, war, citadels crumbling under time, and sand awash with blood as Faramir cried for help.
The snake overtook him, wrapping Aragorn in its coils, mouth yawning wider than a chasm, wider than the gaping mouth of a balrog.
He struck out, bathing himself in scarlet as the head tumbled away, but the coils tightened around him, pouring blood into his face and down his throat, burning his skin with unused venom.
Arwen screamed and he jolted awake covered in sweat, Elvish knife clutched desperately in his shaking hand, side pulsing with renewed pain, as if he had been in a vice, skin tingling, and eyes stinging.
