On the eve of the Coucil of Elrond
The discussion had been long, and at times tense. Aragorn felt the weight of his forefathers pressing heavily on his shoulders at times, aided by the words of his foster father. There was no doubt in any of their minds that the halfling Frodo carried the One Ring, and the only question now was how to destroy it.
“The elves can reforge the shards of Narsil, but only one can wield it,” the Elf lord had reminded him, not for the first time.
At one point when Erestor had come with some information for Elrond, Aragorn had excused himself and walked the halls, hoping to clear his mind a little of the dark shadows that were encroaching upon it. He came to the resting place of the shards Narsil, book in hand he sat, searching the pages for answers he knew lay there not. Another approached, he looked up, the figure that of a Man, not Elf, and he watched silently as the other studied the artwork depicting the fate of the sword in the hand of his ancestor.
"You are no elf..." the man said, turning to find why it felt like he was being watched.
“Men of the South are welcome here,” the ranger replied gently.
“Who are you?” The Man’s face was displaying his curiosity.
“I am a friend of Gandalf the Grey.”
“Then we are here on common purpose……friend.” The Man seemed unsure, as if wanting it to be so, but not willing to commit to such a claim without more knowledge. Aragorn remained silent. Growing uncomfortable with the lack of any response the Man looked to his left, finding welcome distraction with what lay there.
“The shards of Narsil,” he breathed in low exclamation. He picked up the intact hilt, holding up the shattered blade, closing both hands around the long hilt and weight it as would automatically be done by a warrior used to handling a sword.
“The blade that cut the Ring from Sauron’s hand.” As he spoke he ran a finger lightly along the edge of the blade, a small cut appearing, a gasp of surprise clearly audible. “It’s still sharp,” he murmured, looking from blade to finger, something seeming to come to his mind as Aragorn watched him. Slowly the Man turned to look at him, his face now showing the unsurety that was borne, and with haste he went to replace the hilt. “But no more than a broken heirloom!” he muttered as the realization appeared to hit him that he may have betrayed some inner turmoil. Aragorn’s lips tightened as the hastily discarded hilt clattered to the stone plinth beneath its normal resting place. The Man had turned, leaving, but the sound brought him to a halt, almost as if he was considering returning, but instead left.
Aragorn rose, slowly moving over to retrieve it, at first reluctant to touch it, but finally reaching down and picking it up. The metal felt cool at first to his touch, but almost against his will he weighted the handle, immediately recognizing how well it fit his palm. Slowly, with just the fingertips of his other hand he replaced the hilt, stepping back a pace as he thought of the man who last wielded it.
Footsteps this time were not caught by his ears, instead the voice of the maiden he loved reaching his ears. “Why do you fear the past?” He knew Arwen believed he would one day again carry the sword, no matter how often he tried to convince her that he could not.
“You are Isildur’s heir, not Isildur himself. You are not bound to his fate.”
Not for the first time did he wish he could have her faith, her strength of belief in him. “The same blood flows in my veins.” He stepped back, turning to look at her, his eyes filled with self-loathing. “The same weakness.”
She stepped forward, the strength of her belief in him now clear in her face, the urgency to convince him clear in her hushed voice. “Your time will come. You will face the same evil, and you will defeat it.”
His ears were filled with the beauty of her words as his eyes took in the grace of her strength.
“The Shadow does not hold sway yet. Not over you... not over me.”
As he stood, captivated by the strength in her beauty, the ethereal timelessness of her faith in his destiny, and her desire for him to believe also, the moment was broken, albeit politely, by the arrival of Erestor.
“Lord Elrond is ready to continue,” he said quietly after bowing his head to the lord’s daughter. Arwen nodded, giving Aragorn leave. “I will leave you to your duties,” she told him gently, moving away as quietly as she’d appeared, Aragorn’s eyes remaining on her until she turned past a corner. After a final glance at the art depicting Sauron and Isildur a heavy sigh shuddered from his lungs and he traced his footsteps back to the talks with Elrond.
Once they were finished he slowly made his way along the path toward his pavilion, reaching the bridge and looking up to see Arwen standing on the other side. As he stepped onto the low stone arch she came to meet him in the centre, the moonlight lending even more radiance to that which he believed came from her naturally. As they met he smiled in greeting, hoping it hid the tiredness in his eyes. Elrond’s bidding had been that there was much left for Aragorn in this world, that he hoped he realised the loss it would be to all if Arwen were to remain. It weighed heavy on his mind, and seeing her there also weakened his resolve to do what he knew he must.
“Do you remember when we first met?” The question was almost the only thing he could imagine would bring a smile to his face at that moment, and he recalled the moment, only too clearly, as if it was yesterday.
He’d been walking alone in the woods, the day after Elrond had told him his true name and identity, and passed to him the ring of Barahir, the elven ring that was an heirloom of his forefathers. His heart was full of hope and his voice rang out strong and clear, the Lay of Luthien the words it carried. And through the woods he’d seen her, the one he believed had been a gift of Elven-minstrels who’d brought his words to life and gifted them with form.
“I thought I had strayed into a dream,” he replied, his face softening as he remembered.
“Long years have passed. You did not have the cares you carry now.” His face leaned toward the touch of her fingers as they trailed down from temple to jaw and his eyes closed slowly. “Do you remember what I told you?”
He opened them again, her promise still clear in his mind. The moonlight caught the silver jewel that lay against her skin, his fingers caressing it lightly. “You said you’d bind yourself to me…” Her eyes rose to meet his, the blue as deep and translucent now as it had been then. “… forsaking the immortal life of your people.”
“And to that I hold. I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the Ages of this world alone.” His hand was enfolded in hers and as she spoke the last words he looked down, opening his fingers to see the Evenstar jewel resting in his palm. He looked up, half in dismay and half in despair. How could he accept it when he knew there were perils that lay ahead beyond their imaginings? And he had not told her of Legolas, the warrior Elf even now awaiting his return.
“You cannot give me this!” he exclaimed, eyes rising quickly to meet hers again only to find themselves captured in her gaze. “It is mine to give to whom I will,” she told him with nary a hesitation, “like my heart,” she added as she closed his fingers on the jewel again. As much as he wished he could tell her everything, this moment was not it, not when she was gifting him with such, her immortality, her very soul. He was not sure he was worthy of such a gift, but she was more than worthy of his love, all that he had for her, and he could only find it in himself to accept her gift, and her kiss, returning it with the warmth of a promise he hoped he could find some way to keep.
Fingers still clutching the gift, Aragorn found himself at the doorway to his pavilion, standing and staring down at his hand.
“The elves can reforge the shards of Narsil, but only one can wield it,” the Elf lord had reminded him, not for the first time.
At one point when Erestor had come with some information for Elrond, Aragorn had excused himself and walked the halls, hoping to clear his mind a little of the dark shadows that were encroaching upon it. He came to the resting place of the shards Narsil, book in hand he sat, searching the pages for answers he knew lay there not. Another approached, he looked up, the figure that of a Man, not Elf, and he watched silently as the other studied the artwork depicting the fate of the sword in the hand of his ancestor.
"You are no elf..." the man said, turning to find why it felt like he was being watched.
“Men of the South are welcome here,” the ranger replied gently.
“Who are you?” The Man’s face was displaying his curiosity.
“I am a friend of Gandalf the Grey.”
“Then we are here on common purpose……friend.” The Man seemed unsure, as if wanting it to be so, but not willing to commit to such a claim without more knowledge. Aragorn remained silent. Growing uncomfortable with the lack of any response the Man looked to his left, finding welcome distraction with what lay there.
“The shards of Narsil,” he breathed in low exclamation. He picked up the intact hilt, holding up the shattered blade, closing both hands around the long hilt and weight it as would automatically be done by a warrior used to handling a sword.
“The blade that cut the Ring from Sauron’s hand.” As he spoke he ran a finger lightly along the edge of the blade, a small cut appearing, a gasp of surprise clearly audible. “It’s still sharp,” he murmured, looking from blade to finger, something seeming to come to his mind as Aragorn watched him. Slowly the Man turned to look at him, his face now showing the unsurety that was borne, and with haste he went to replace the hilt. “But no more than a broken heirloom!” he muttered as the realization appeared to hit him that he may have betrayed some inner turmoil. Aragorn’s lips tightened as the hastily discarded hilt clattered to the stone plinth beneath its normal resting place. The Man had turned, leaving, but the sound brought him to a halt, almost as if he was considering returning, but instead left.
Aragorn rose, slowly moving over to retrieve it, at first reluctant to touch it, but finally reaching down and picking it up. The metal felt cool at first to his touch, but almost against his will he weighted the handle, immediately recognizing how well it fit his palm. Slowly, with just the fingertips of his other hand he replaced the hilt, stepping back a pace as he thought of the man who last wielded it.
Footsteps this time were not caught by his ears, instead the voice of the maiden he loved reaching his ears. “Why do you fear the past?” He knew Arwen believed he would one day again carry the sword, no matter how often he tried to convince her that he could not.
“You are Isildur’s heir, not Isildur himself. You are not bound to his fate.”
Not for the first time did he wish he could have her faith, her strength of belief in him. “The same blood flows in my veins.” He stepped back, turning to look at her, his eyes filled with self-loathing. “The same weakness.”
She stepped forward, the strength of her belief in him now clear in her face, the urgency to convince him clear in her hushed voice. “Your time will come. You will face the same evil, and you will defeat it.”
His ears were filled with the beauty of her words as his eyes took in the grace of her strength.
“The Shadow does not hold sway yet. Not over you... not over me.”
As he stood, captivated by the strength in her beauty, the ethereal timelessness of her faith in his destiny, and her desire for him to believe also, the moment was broken, albeit politely, by the arrival of Erestor.
“Lord Elrond is ready to continue,” he said quietly after bowing his head to the lord’s daughter. Arwen nodded, giving Aragorn leave. “I will leave you to your duties,” she told him gently, moving away as quietly as she’d appeared, Aragorn’s eyes remaining on her until she turned past a corner. After a final glance at the art depicting Sauron and Isildur a heavy sigh shuddered from his lungs and he traced his footsteps back to the talks with Elrond.
Once they were finished he slowly made his way along the path toward his pavilion, reaching the bridge and looking up to see Arwen standing on the other side. As he stepped onto the low stone arch she came to meet him in the centre, the moonlight lending even more radiance to that which he believed came from her naturally. As they met he smiled in greeting, hoping it hid the tiredness in his eyes. Elrond’s bidding had been that there was much left for Aragorn in this world, that he hoped he realised the loss it would be to all if Arwen were to remain. It weighed heavy on his mind, and seeing her there also weakened his resolve to do what he knew he must.
“Do you remember when we first met?” The question was almost the only thing he could imagine would bring a smile to his face at that moment, and he recalled the moment, only too clearly, as if it was yesterday.
He’d been walking alone in the woods, the day after Elrond had told him his true name and identity, and passed to him the ring of Barahir, the elven ring that was an heirloom of his forefathers. His heart was full of hope and his voice rang out strong and clear, the Lay of Luthien the words it carried. And through the woods he’d seen her, the one he believed had been a gift of Elven-minstrels who’d brought his words to life and gifted them with form.
“I thought I had strayed into a dream,” he replied, his face softening as he remembered.
“Long years have passed. You did not have the cares you carry now.” His face leaned toward the touch of her fingers as they trailed down from temple to jaw and his eyes closed slowly. “Do you remember what I told you?”
He opened them again, her promise still clear in his mind. The moonlight caught the silver jewel that lay against her skin, his fingers caressing it lightly. “You said you’d bind yourself to me…” Her eyes rose to meet his, the blue as deep and translucent now as it had been then. “… forsaking the immortal life of your people.”
“And to that I hold. I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the Ages of this world alone.” His hand was enfolded in hers and as she spoke the last words he looked down, opening his fingers to see the Evenstar jewel resting in his palm. He looked up, half in dismay and half in despair. How could he accept it when he knew there were perils that lay ahead beyond their imaginings? And he had not told her of Legolas, the warrior Elf even now awaiting his return.
“You cannot give me this!” he exclaimed, eyes rising quickly to meet hers again only to find themselves captured in her gaze. “It is mine to give to whom I will,” she told him with nary a hesitation, “like my heart,” she added as she closed his fingers on the jewel again. As much as he wished he could tell her everything, this moment was not it, not when she was gifting him with such, her immortality, her very soul. He was not sure he was worthy of such a gift, but she was more than worthy of his love, all that he had for her, and he could only find it in himself to accept her gift, and her kiss, returning it with the warmth of a promise he hoped he could find some way to keep.
Fingers still clutching the gift, Aragorn found himself at the doorway to his pavilion, standing and staring down at his hand.