The guard they met in the hills sent one running ahead of them, and so when they arrived at last on the threshold, the Master of the house himself was there to greet them. She bowed deeply to Lord Elrond, but as soon as he turned his back her eyes slid away, searching the shadows of the doorway for one who was not there. Another brought her to her room, the same she had stayed in through the winter, and it seemed oddly, disconcertingly as though no time had passed.

But it had, and she felt the weary ache of it, for the last days had been hard. Aragorn had stumbled again, straining his injured ankle enough that she had to take some of the damage of it so they could keep their pace. And his black mood returned as they drew near the valley, though she could not imagine why. But he would not let her near it, and so for the two days they walked in near silence, and she felt it as a weight on her own heart. But now she pushed that away, set down her pack and stretched her aching shoulders, and began pulling off her worn, muddy boots.

There was no noise of Girith's coming. But when she looked up he was there, in the shadows of the doorway, firelight on his face. His eyes were bright, but he stood still and said nothing.

She let out a breath, and her smile broke the stillness in him, and he stepped into the room. "Dunadaneth," he said softly. And then, closing the door behind him, "Keep the warmth in. You have had enough of cold." She nodded, and then somehow there were tears in her eyes, though still a smile on her lips. He took her hand, and she felt his warmth like sunlight in spring, let his mind hold her mind as his body held her body, and found her head rested easily on his shoulder.

Her clothes were wet, hands stiff and clumsy, and so he helped her with buckles and buttons, but turned away when he was no longer needed, and watched the moonlit snow. "The robe will be too large," he said quietly, as she pulled off her damp, filthy shirt, and she wondered at it, for clearly, deliberately he could not see. But she thought of the night of midsummer, of things known but not spoken, and her face flushed warm.

He was right – the sleeves came nearly to her fingertips, and the hem brushed the floor, and she felt briefly, unsettlingly small and childlike. But it was soft and light, warm but not bulky, and she smiled unthinking at the simple pleasure of it. He turned then, and saw her smile, drew a breath, and though still a shadow lingered in his eyes, he too smiled, and he bowed slightly. "There will be food soon. For now, rest and be warm. Shall I leave you?" He said it lightly, as if he had no care for the answer. But a tightness around his lips betrayed him, and she knew then with sudden certainty that she did not want him to go.

"No," she said quietly. "Please. Stay."

He watched her a long moment in stillness, then he turned away and sank into one of the chairs facing the fire. The movement was abrupt, almost careless, as though strings had been cut and he was no longer entirely in control of himself. It was so unlike him that she said immediately, instinctively, "Are you all right?" and then flushed at her presumption.

But he drew in a breath and let it out, eyes not on her but on the fire, new enough that it still burned bark with a bright, flickering yellow flame. At last he turned to her, and said almost sharply, "I am well. I feared for you, though I tried not to, and now you are here, and I am so relieved I could weep. And I am trying not to do that either." A brief, dry laugh. "This is not a place I am used to finding myself. Forgive me."

She stared at him, though still he did not look at her, for this was not the Girith she knew. But an echo then of their first day, autumn sun slanting in the windows of his room, grief still fresh in her heart. 'Forgive me. That was not how I intended to begin this morning.' And she remembered his gentleness, and his soft unflinching resolve, and without thinking she reached out and laid her hand on his where it gripped the arm of the chair. "There is nothing to forgive," she said. And then, with a self-conscious, self-deprecating smile, "My hands are cold. There is your recompense."

He turned to her, searching her face, turned his hand so his palm met hers. "Dunadaneth."

The food arrived soon after, and she ate hungrily, and he sat in silence and watched the fire. With another perhaps it would have been strange, but they had grown used to being together without speaking and fell back into it easily. At last she sighed, stood with an effort and brushed crumbs from her robe, but with one hand only, for the other gripped the arm of her chair, to steady her against sudden dizziness that made the room waver. Rustle of cloth and sudden smooth movement, and then he was standing before her, hands on her shoulders. Stillness for a moment, as his eyes met hers, and then gently he drew her to him, and she let herself rest against him, let him take some of the weight from her aching feet.

"You must sleep now," he said softly, felt as much as heard, her head on his chest. She nodded against him, let him steady her and guide her across the small room. He is a healer, she thought vaguely. Of course he knows what to do. But still she marveled a little at the deftness of his movements as he eased her into bed, covered her with soft blankets, put out the lamp. But he did not leave then, only settled himself in a chair by the bed and took her hand, and with the gentle sense of his presence by her, she slipped into sleep.

He was not there when she woke, but she felt he had been not long before, the chair beside her bed only newly empty. And even as she was blinking herself awake, thick-headed still with weariness of more than body, the door opened quietly and he slipped inside, closing it swiftly behind him to keep the heat in. He must have kept up the fire during the night, for it burned brightly, and she smiled in a soft, lazy way, content for once to do nothing but be warm. He set a steaming mug on the small table beside her, and her eyes followed him as he sat down, and her smile faded a little when it was not returned. But he took her hand, question unasked in his eyes. She knew what he meant by it, though she had not before been this way with him.

But now I am the one who is in need.

And hardly thinking why she did it, or in truth refusing to think, she let him take the pain, the damage, all that she would not let Aragorn touch. He pulled in a breath, and his face tightened a little, but that was all, and when it was done and he made to release her, she did not let him go but brought his hand to her lips and kissed his fingers. He did smile then, at last, and it made his pale face beautiful in the morning light.

He turned his hand in hers to brush his fingers over her cheek. "Good morning." And then, gesturing to the mug, "You should drink, before it goes cold."

She pushed herself up to sitting, took the mug and drank gratefully. It warmed her like sunlight, and she drank it all, then pushed back the blankets and swung her legs carefully to the floor. Her muscles ached, but no more than they ought to after a hard journey on the edge of winter, and though she put a hand on the table to steady herself as she rose, she did not need it. She stood still for a moment to be sure, crossed the room and then came back to him, and nodded.

"Good," he said in answer, "then you must dress. Estel wishes to see you."

Her clothes had been washed and mended, and lay folded on a neat pile by the door. Even her boots had been cleaned, but soft house-shoes sat next to them on the floor that she was clearly intended to wear instead. And they were in truth more comfortable on her still-aching feet. He left while she dressed, but returned as she was dragging a comb through tangled hair. Without speaking, he took it from her hand, and his fingers were more gentle than her own had been. "I'm sorry," she found herself saying, "it's so dirty…"

He laughed softly. "No matter. You can wash later, after you have eaten."

Deftly he brushed and braided, and soon it was done, indeed more swiftly and neatly than she could have done herself. She turned to face him, felt her hair and smiled. "Thank you. At least I'll not disgrace the Chieftain."

"That you could never do." Low and swift, and then he blinked and shook his head. He turned from her. "Come, child. I will take you to your lord."

He did not take her to the hall but in the other direction entirely, to a high part of the house close by the river that she remembered vaguely from before. At the end of a long corridor there was a doorway paneled in dark wood, with small blossoms of yellow gorse carved in a corner of the frame. But before Girith could knock, a voice behind them, and she heard the smile in it even before she saw his face.

"Good morning, maloseg." And then, in a different tone, with a slight bow to Girith, "Nestoron."

Girith returned the bow, face and voice without expression. "My lord Estel." And then, with a nod in her direction though he did not meet her eyes, "Dunadaneth." And he turned with a whisper of robes, and left them.

"He is happy to see you," said Aragorn quietly, when Girith had gone. "No, perhaps happy is the wrong word. Glad. Pleased." A soft sigh. "He has known so many of us." Silence then, and Miriel did not know what to say. But he seemed to shake himself, and the smile returned, and he inclined his head toward the maloseg door. "You will not have to face Lord Elrond yet, not this morning at least. He left early and will not return until late. Something about the peace of winter in the hills, I think he said." And she smiled too, as she was meant to, and repressed a shudder at the memory of cold.

But perhaps not entirely, for mirth slipped from his face, and he laid a hand on her shoulder. "Miriel," he said softly. Nothing more, but she felt the question unasked.

"I will be well," she answered. And then, "Girith has been kind to me. He will see that I have all I need." And unspoken, You need not worry about me, not here.

After a moment he nodded, and put the smile back on his face. "I have just been with my brothers, and they asked after you. Most insistently." She laughed a little, and his smile broadened and he squeezed her shoulder. "Shall we go?"

Elladan and Elrohir were most certainly happy to see her, though their broad hints about Girith soon had her blushing furiously and avoiding Aragorn's eye. But he affected not to notice, and when it was clear she would not be drawn out, they gave it up. Or gave her up, and turned their attention squarely on him.

"Have you spoken with our sister yet, Estel?" Elladan cocked his head and flicked his eyes to Miriel, and she almost thought he winked.

"No," said Aragorn flatly.

"How discourteous of you." Elrohir raised his eyebrows in show of indignation. "You must greet the lady of the house."

"I did not wish to disturb her."

"Disturb her? Nonsense. She surely knows you are here, and she will be offended if you do not see her."

"I doubt it."

"Do you know her better than I, her own brother? She pined for days the last time you left."

"That is a lie."

Elrohir laughed. "Perhaps. But still, you ought to see her."

"I will. But not with you two in tow."

"Oh-ho, unchaperoned! That's your game, is it?"

"You know very well it is not." Still Aragorn managed to keep his voice calm, almost bored, but she thought a flush crept over his cheeks. He lifted his chin. "Miriel will come with me."

She raised her eyebrows, and cocked her head in question, but his lips tightened and he flashed her a glance that said as clearly as if he had spoken, Don't ask. Just do it. He rose at once, which seemed to disconcert the twins, but Elladan laughed and gestured to the door. "Very well, brother." And then, with a definite wink and a broad grin at Miriel, "Give Girith our best wishes." She flushed again but said nothing, and followed Aragorn out of the room.

He walked quickly, and she thought there was a sharp edge to his movements, almost as if he were angry. But she did not ask, only followed him around many turns and corners, until they were far from the brothers' room and unquestionably alone. Then he stopped, leaned against the wall and let out a long breath, and closed his eyes. She stood by him and did not question, only let him compose himself, until at last it seemed that he had calmed, and he gestured her to a bench beneath a window and sat down with a sigh.

"I am sorry, Miriel," he said quietly. "I should not have brought you into this."

"I—" She did not know what to say, for to ask Brought me into what? might presume too much, yet she could not accept an apology for a fault she did not understand. But he said no more, and looked so genuinely troubled that she drew a breath and forced a smile. "I swore an oath to you, my lord. Irritating brothers were not mentioned by name, but if that is your need, I will answer it." A brief chuckle. "I did grow up with two sisters, after all. And Meren."

He laughed a little, but it did not reach his eyes. Tense and quiet again, as his lips tightened and his fingers gripped the bench. At last, in a low voice, looking away from her, "I should not involve you in this. For any number of reasons, I should not. But you are here, and I think now there is no better option." He sighed, and then turned to her. "You know that you must speak of this to no one."

"Of course, my lord."

A faint, real smile, the first she had seen from him since they entered the brothers' room. "Of course." Half to himself, and he shook his head, but it seemed that a weight had been lifted from him, and he straightened his shoulders. "Lord Elrond has a daughter," he said, calm, almost resigned. "Younger than Elladan and Elrohir, though that hardly matters." A soft, empty chuckle. "She has never been betrothed, and has told both her father and her brothers in no uncertain terms that she does not wish to marry. Anyone. Ever. But it would seem that her brothers, at least, do not believe her, for they have been insisting, ever since I first came to manhood in this house, that I should marry her." He sighed. "I will not bore you with ancient history, but their house and mine share a distant ancestor, and they think it would be most fitting that the lines be reunited. Almost prophetic." The scorn was now clear in his voice. "The heir of kings and the daughter of one of the last great elf-lords in Middle Earth, the most beautiful woman of this age of the world. What could be more perfect?"

"Then you do not love her?" That much at least was clear, though she had to push back wonder and unsettled awe and vague fear as he laid it all before her. He is right. It is not my place to know this.

But you are here. And so you know. All you must choose is what to do with the knowing.

And put that way, there was no choice.

He sighed, and met her eyes. "No. I do not. How is that for failing the needs of legend? I sometimes wish I could, but I do not. Mind you"—a brief, dry laugh—"I will marry her, if it comes to that. If it is what I must do. As will she." At her look of surprise, he smiled a little. "She is heir to a legacy deeper and older than mine. If this is what is needed, she will do it, for she loves her father and her people. And me, but only as a brother." He sighed, shook his head, said with a slight, ironic smile, "There are worse fates."

"But then—then you can't marry the woman you love." Even as she said it, she knew it made her sound like a little girl, and she flushed with shame.

"There is no woman I love." Immediate, low and scornful, so harsh she almost flinched at it. But he seemed to sag, leaned his head back against the wall and let out a sharp breath, and when it had passed and he turned back to her, there was apology unmistakable on his face. "Perhaps someday there will be," he said quietly. "And perhaps not. But there is no use in dwelling on it now. Come, maloseg." He stood, and reached down with a smile to pull her to her feet. "You must meet Arwen."

She was beautiful. She sat in a pool of light, early sun streaming through an eastern window, and dark hair gleamed, and soft garments shimmered, and pale skin nearly glowed in the sunrise. She smiled, and rose when they entered, and held out a hand to Aragorn.

"Estel." Soft and low, but there was joy in it.

He kissed her hand, let it go and bowed. "My lady."

She laughed, and Miriel found a smile edging her lips, though she did not know why. But then the Elf woman turned to her, and she found her face hot under the gaze of those perfect eyes. She bowed to hide it, said to the floor, "Miriel daughter of Sirhael, my lady."

"You are welcome here, Ranger of the North." Miriel straightened and found Arwen's eyes on her, a smile still playing about her lips. "Someone must take care of my foolish brother, else he might lose himself in the snow. Or so I understand." This to Aragorn, mild but with an eyebrow raised.

He looked away from her. "If you heard it all from your father, you need nothing else from me."

"You are discourteous, brother," said Arwen gently. "You are still weary, and in pain. Rest this day. We will speak later."

Aragorn turned back to her, but the anger Miriel had expected was not there. "Thank you, my lady," was all he said, softly, and bowed, and Miriel followed him from the room.

In the corridor outside he turned to her, a small, wry smile on his face. "So you see how it is."

Choosing her words cautiously, "She...cares for you, my lord. She worries about you, when you are in the Wild." Sudden, disconcerting echo of Girith, and she found herself wondering where he was, if he would be in the hall, or perhaps in her room when she returned.

Not now.

But Aragorn seemed not to have noticed. "She does," he said, almost heavily. "As an elder sister." A swift glance, and the corner of his lip quirked upward. "And you know how those can be."

She smiled, as she was meant to, though the reminder of Darya was a reminder of her mother, and dread whispered through her. But she said, "I do, my lord."

He must have heard something in her tone, for he stopped abruptly and turned to her, searching her face. He said nothing, but took her hand, and briefly she felt him with her, felt the heaviness slip away, and she thought the lines of his face softened a little. "Thank you, maloseg," he said gently. "You did not have to do that." He smiled. "Come, you must be hungry."

Note:

Another major change to canon here; apologies to Arwen fans, but I'm trying something different. I am fully aware of how close the Beren-Luthien/Aragorn-Arwen relationship was to Tolkien's heart (I visited his grave this summer, talk about a personal pilgrimage!), but in the end I decided that I just couldn't tell the story I wanted to tell while staying true to canon in this respect. I have never found the courtly love paradigm appealing, and the Aragorn who would carry on a 60-something-year chaste courtship with a perfect, untouchable woman is not the Aragorn I want to write. There's more to it than that (I mean, giving up your immortality for a man? WTF?!), but that's enough to be going on with. Again, my apologies to the purists and the Arwen devotees - I hope you can forgive me!

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