Silently, he enters the room and creeps towards the bed. When he sees that her eyes are closed, he soundlessly sighs in relief.

Warily, to not disturb her, he lies down next to his wife. She is a light sleeper, due to her elven nature. But this night she stirs not, and he is grateful. Moments later he escapes into the land of dreams also, his nightly excursion already almost forgotten.

~~~~~

Soft, gentle strokes through his hair and over his face awaken him far too soon. Yet, he enjoys what he feels and with still closed eyes grasps for his beloved.

“Arwen…,” he murmurs.

But then her fingers find the sore spot at his temple, and her none too gentle prodding at the bump brings him to full awaking in moments.

“Oh Aragorn,… what have you done this time?”

Aragorn, who is not only King Elessar, but also a mighty warrior, a stealthy ranger and great healer, cringes slightly. He does not fear anybodies wrath or anger, not even Arwen’s. But in her voice is disappointment, and that is a blow he is deeply aware of. And worse, he knows she has every right to feel that way.

“You were in a tavern again, were you not? I can still smell the smoke in your hair, and those bruises are from a fight, surely?”

With a sigh, he nods. “It is but a small injury, my love. A few more hours of sleep, and I’ll be as good as new.”

Something he cannot read flashes through her eyes, but her voice is calm. Too calm. “You have no hours, but mere minutes. Your meeting with the guild masters is taking place in half an hour.”

Abruptly, Aragorn sits up. How can this be? He feels as if he crawled into bed just minutes ago. Suppressing the impulse to look up to a ceiling where he would rather have stars to check the time instead of meaningless marble, he is once more reminded of everything he has lost when gaining kingship of Gondor. Still he has not learned to tell the time here in this prison of stone from the limited signs of nature that reach through, so a glance at the clock confirms what Arwen says.

Clenching his teeth, and biting back a curse, he rises. He is where he belongs, he tells himself. He is needed here. Istari and elves much wiser than he ever will be have foretold it ages ago and made it possible, some even at high personal cost. And Arwen gave up her immortality to be at his side. He would not make her suffer now because he still has trouble adjusting.

Schooling his features into a friendly mask, a mask he would wear during the rest of the day, he kisses her on her cheek and murmurs an apology before he hurriedly washes himself and dresses. He stares at his crown for long moments before he places it on his head, and then he leaves their private chambers.

~~~~~

Hours. Surely hours have gone by, and still Calderond, the guild master of the blacksmiths, speaks. Suppressing a sigh, Aragorn resists the urge to close his eyes, or even better, to cover his ears. His head began pounding a while ago, and he knows the pain will not lessen before he can rest.

“… if you just could use your connections to the dwarves, so that they would sell me the much needed raw materials for the appropriate prices.”

The last part of the long speech belatedly reaches his mind, and the friendly mask he managed to keep in place until now finally slips.

“You and I both were present last month during the negotiations. I thought they were concluded to everyone’s satisfaction?” His voice is not harsh, not yet, but his annoyance shows, and Calderond chews on his lip for a moment before he says, “Their price is too high, my Lord King. I am hard pressed after the long war. We all have suffered so much for your cause. I am sure, if you were to intervene, I could at least get the copper for less.”

He hates this. With war he can deal. Pain, hunger, freezing cold, the danger of death, all these are no strangers to him. But the corruption and the decadence he unwillingly encounters more and more often make him sick. Having been raised by elves, these darker traits of mankind still tend to catch him by surprise, even though his long years in exile provided him with enough experience to recognise their existence. These days, he feels as if most of the people who approach him do so only to gain a personal favour, to improve their own station in life.

His eyes travel over the burly guild master, and all he sees are fine clothes, a fine cloak held by a huge shining jewel, a heavy golden belt that must be worth a fortune.

Before his inner eye the sight of the youth from last night flashes. He was an apprentice of a blacksmith and wore old dirty clothes on his half-starved frame. His hands were torn and bloody from the constant hard toil, but he had not even the money for a decent evening meal. A thin broth was all he could afford, until Aragorn passed him a coin. To defend this youth, Aragorn entered the brawl in the first place, and still he does not regret his action, only the resulting growth in the rift between him and Arwen.

Perhaps Calderond sees his fuming anger, for hastily he goes on, “Lord Denethor would have…”

Abruptly, Aragorn gets up before he is even aware of what he is doing. He towers over Calderond, and the guild master takes a small step back.

Aragorn’s voice is sharp and his hand travels unconsciously to the place where it normally would encounter the hilt of a trusted weapon, “What I see when I look at you is a wealthy and whole man in costly clothes, the head of your guild with a well-filled belly. Tell me, Master Calderond, have you ever-“

A slight sound brings Aragorn back to his senses. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees Faramir, who is also standing by now and nervously shifting on his feet.

The other guild masters back up, or begin to murmur angrily amongst themselves, depending on temperament and bravery. Aragorn forces his hand away from his leather belt, relaxes his fingers and stiffly sits down again. He is not one to lose his calm easily, but Calderond truly is overstepping his boundaries right now.

What to do? Faramir has more experience in matters like this. Aragorn could smoothly hand it over to his steward. He could even claim a feeling of illness, for Faramir asked him earlier already if all was well with the king. But Aragorn also needs more practice with situations like this, and he is not one to back down from a challenge.  

So he thinks for a moment longer before he again speaks.

“You complain to me about the hardship it takes on you to aid me in rebuilding this fine city and Gondor. And indeed, I ask much of all of you, of all my people.”

He pauses, watches them to find out if his words have an impact. Faramir is looking at him with guarded interest now, and a few of the guild masters relax. Calderond still is tense, though.

“Therefore, Master Calderond, I shall do as you wish and speak with Lord Gimli’s chosen negotiator about the copper.”

Again he makes a pause, this time to let his words sink in. And just when he can see the beginnings of a sly smile on Calderond’s face, he continues sternly, “I have one condition, though. Any additional winnings I can bargain for shall be used to provide for better food, clothes and lodgings for the poorest of your guild, and only for them.”

The smile freezes on the guild master’s face. With narrowing eyes, the man stares at him, but then he nods curtly.

~~~~~

Finally they are all gone, all but Faramir. Wearily, Aragorn puts his hurting head into his hand and closes his eyes for a moment.

“Are you well, my Lord King?”

It took Aragorn months to finally get Faramir to address him by his name when they are alone. And now he uses his title, not his name. Faramir is not happy with how he dealt with Calderond. Suppressing another sigh – of late that seems all he is doing – Aragorn murmurs, “What should I have done instead, Faramir? Have you seen the signs of wealth they all wear carelessly? I am so sick of it…”

Faramir answers him not, and all of a sudden Aragorn has to fight a black cloud of despair. He feels lonely, lonelier by far than he ever has while alone in the wild. When Faramir quietly asks to be dismissed, he only nods his permission without even looking up.

~~~~~

Three times he begins the letter, but after having written only half a page he throws it into the flames each time. He cannot put on paper what is weighting down on his soul. For there is danger the letter could fall into the wrong hands. But even more important, he simply has not the words to speak of his troubles. If just his friend were here with him. Perhaps he could say what he cannot write. But it will be a long while before he sees Legolas again, for he and Gimli are travelling together, to visit the Glimmering Caves and Fangorn Forest.

Again he has put only a few lines on paper when he hears someone enter. Almost inaudible steps. Arwen. Torn between the desire to be comforted by her presence and his feelings of guilt for last night’s escapade, his hand lingers over the paper for a moment too long. A drop of ink falls onto the sheet. With a suppressed curse, he throws his latest attempt of communication in the fire as well.

“Come to bed, Estel.” Soft hands gently massage his knotted shoulders, and he leans into her touch. By now they are married long enough for her to recognise his mood, and to not try and talk to him, and he is grateful. For a fleeting moment he considers if perhaps he should attempt to speak of his troubles now, but then he feels something shift at his back.

The unborn baby moves. With a smile, all worries forgotten for the moment, he turns slightly and softly lays his ear against Arwen’s belly, while his arms encircle her waist.

They stay in this awkward embrace for a few minutes, just enjoying each other’s company, before they retire to bed. And for a while Aragorn can let go of the burdens of kingship. Right now he is merely a man. A man still so very much in love with his beautiful wife.

~~~~~

The next day finds Aragorn in a better mood. While he and Arwen break their fast, he mumbles sheepishly, “How can you put up with me?”

She chuckles, but a tinge of sadness is in her voice while she answers, “I know it is hard for you, beloved. You still have to adapt, to life in a city, to being king, and to being married. We both have. And we will. I just wish you would trust me with your worries instead of taking all the burdens on your shoulders alone.”

Aragorn sighs. They have had this exact argument before, and he is grateful that Arwen just states the facts without accusing him. Still he feels like he fails as her husband, but he knows not how to do better. He needs to shield her from worry, even more so now since she is with child.

And he cannot promise to not venture out again.

Now is not the time to speak about this further though, he is already late. With a tired smile, he leans towards her and kisses her lightly before he whispers into her delicately pointed ear, “I love you.”

Then he gets up and leaves for his weekly meeting with Faramir.

~~~~~

Faramir stands by one of the windows in the long hallway before the throne room, probably waiting for him already. But he gazes towards the mountains in the distance and idly plays with something in his hands. It takes Aragorn a moment to realize what it is, and when he does, he frowns in surprise.

“That looks like a beautiful dagger, my friend.”

Faramir startles and almost cuts himself. Once recovered from his jolt, he thrusts the dagger towards Aragorn, hilt first, with an unreadable expression on his face. Slowly Aragorn takes the weapon. It is a fine blade indeed, sharp and shining, perfectly balanced.

Quietly, Faramir speaks, “Calderond made this. Actually, he made two. One for Boromir and one for me. Boromir lost his years ago, but I have cherished mine all the time.”

He sounds as forlorn as I sometimes feel, is Aragorn’s first thought. This might be the opportunity he is hoping for. They have a good working relationship already. Faramir’s knowledge of Minas Tirith and its people are invaluable. The young man is a perfect steward and treats him with utmost respect. Aragorn needs not another willing subject though. He needs someone he can trust, someone who would dare to contradict him if he wronged. Someone who can acknowledge his faults and aid him to find a way past them.

Presenting him this dagger now is as close as Faramir ever got to argue with him, and Aragorn seizes the opportunity.

“Tell me more about Calderond.”

“There is not much I could tell you, my Lord King. As a child, I escaped my guards once, and then I managed to get lost on one of the lower levels. Calderond took me in, fed me and calmed my fears until Boromir came to fetch me. A week later he gifted us with the daggers. My father aided him to become guild master after that.”

To Aragorn it sounds like a well-calculated move to gain access to power on Calderond’s part. But for Faramir obviously this event meant much more. Despite the meagre words Faramir uses to relay his tale, his voice grows wistful and his eyes shine slightly too bright.

Perhaps the truth lies in the middle, Aragorn allows, while he refuses a sudden temptation to finger his crown. Likely my judgement of the guild masters is clouded by my own qualms. I still feel out of my depth in the role of the king.

Softly he says, “Faramir, it is not my intent to harm his business, or to push him from his office. But I could not give in to his demands as long as I had to fear that he and the others want only to increase their own wealth. They have a responsibility to their people, just as I do.”

Faramir lowers his head, so that Aragorn no longer can see his eyes, and murmurs, “Yes, of course, my Lord King. I meant not to criticise your action.”

Oh yes, you did, and rightly so, for you are my steward and have information I have not. And fool that I am, I chose the wrong approach, so now I have intimidated you again into silence. When will I ever learn? Silently, Aragorn berates himself. All his earlier counsellors were either older or wiser – or both – than he. He is not used to this submissive behaviour of one from whom he expects argument and critique. And judgement, he suddenly realises.

And then he understands. He is not the only one who fears being judged and found wanting.

There are things they need to talk about, but not here in the hallway. Aragorn hands the dagger back to Faramir, and says, “Come with me, Faramir.”

~~~~~

Aragorn leads the way outside and keeps walking until they both stand on the prow, high over the beautiful White City. There Aragorn stops, sweeps his hand over the magnificent view, and asks, “When you look at Minas Tirith, what do you see?”

Long Faramir stands motionless and quiet. Then he speaks. “I see destruction and despair. Formerly beautiful buildings in ruins. And people who once had so much have lost it all. Minas Tirith has retained but a shadow of its former glory.”

It is as Aragorn feared. He says nothing though, just continues to look over the city. One level below them a market is held. The street is bustling with people and animals. The soft wind carries their voices to them, and Aragorn hears laughter amidst the loud proclamations of the salesmen. On the third level a big group is repairing one of the main storage halls. The men toil hard, and there is much damage still visible, even months after the War has ended.

Suddenly, Faramir speaks again, disrupting Aragorn’s musings, “I wish I could have presented her to you in a better state.”

Ah, now perhaps we are making progress… Aragorn thinks while he turns towards his steward, and smiles at him.

“She is great as she is. Faramir, you did not fail her, or me.”

Faramir bows slightly, but answers not, and keeps his eyes down. Aragorn continues, “Where you see destruction I see reconstruction. Where you see despair I see hope for the future.”

Still Faramir looks unconvinced, but is too polite to contradict his king. With a soft sad chuckle, Aragorn admits to himself that he has not the words to convince Faramir. But perhaps words are not what are needed to open Faramir’s eyes.

“I know a tavern at the lowest level. Tonight, I want you to accompany me there.”

“What!?”

Aragorn barely manages to suppress another chuckle at Faramir’s undignified reaction. He adds, “Tell no-one where you are going, and wear casual clothes. Perhaps your ranger gear might do. And make sure you pick a cloak with a hood. Meet me half an hour after sundown in the garden, behind the huge oak.”

And before Faramir can recover from his surprise, Aragorn is gone.

~~~~~

The sun has set, and he should depart. He knows it. He already made an excuse to Arwen and sent his guard away. He is as ready as he can be. And yet, he stands as if frozen in the small room where he keeps his old things.

Then, suddenly, he whirls into action. With a determined face and long strides he enters Arwen’s study. She sits on the balcony, a book in her hands, but she is not reading. Moments later he is crouching down at her side and takes hold of one of her hands, ready to defend what he is about to do.

To his astonishment though, her gaze is not unfriendly. Surely his clothes give his intent away, and he expects an argument, or at least her silent anger. But now even a slow smile develops in her beautiful face. Wide-eyed he stares at her, and his voice is almost breathless from surprise, “You’ll let me go, willingly?”

“Of course, I let you go. And I thank you for telling me this time.”

He gapes at her. “You will not worry?”

Now she chuckles with true humour and says, “Oh Estel! I shall worry in any case, but knowing makes the fretting much easier to bear. It would calm my nerves even more if you could give me a time when you expect to be back. For then I could send a troop after you if you were to return late.”

He laughs in simple relief at her understanding. And also because of her threat. She will never do such a thing, he is sure of that. She knows the workings of a royal household even better than he does and would not risk the gossip such an action would ensure.

But still, sending someone trusted after Faramir and him in case something truly goes wrong might not be such a bad idea. It is against his every instinct of independence, but now he also has an obligation to his people and his wife.

“Send Gajandir if there is need. He is trustworthy and knows how to handle himself on his own. If I am not back in four hours, tell him to start searching for Faramir and me at the Smouldering Dragon. It is a tavern on the lowest level, near the main gate.”

Arwen simply nods, and then they are in each other’s arms and embrace with a force as if they were never to see each other again.

“Come back safely,” she whispers, and he nods and leaves her to her book and her thoughts.

~~~~~

Faramir follows him only hesitantly out of the garden where they met and through the streets down to the lowest level. Aragorn grimly smiles; he can almost hear the unvoiced questions of his steward and answers them in his mind, Have no fear, my friend, I haven’t lost my mind. Nor have I plans to inebriate you or me. But perhaps, if you just can see for yourself…

Aragorn enters the by now familiar dusky room. He leads the way towards a corner. There is a tiny table that is rarely used, for most people come here in groups too big to enjoy its small size. Faramir sits down next to him, his ranger instincts probably tell him to have the wall at the back and to face the other patrons, as Aragorn does. And then Faramir’s eyes roam over the unusual interior of the tavern, while Aragorn amuses himself with observing his steward’s reactions.

“This is a most unusual place,” Faramir finally states.

“That it is,” says Aragorn with a chuckle. The assortment of furniture and decoration is extremely diverse, every piece unique. The stools range from three-footed wooden constructs to most comfortably looking plush chairs. Not even two of the mugs are alike as far as Aragorn knows. Some have Rohirric design, while others were made by local craftsmen. Others look as if they found their way here from as far away as Harad or Arnor. The one standing in front of Aragorn is even of dwarven make.

But it all looks beautiful in its diversity. That is what astounded Aragorn when he first set foot in this tavern a few weeks after his coronation, and what draws him back again and again. Every piece is well cared for and has a history. If asked, Horgan, the barkeeper, willingly submits a detailed story how he came to this or that exemplar. But Aragorn asks not this night, and Horgan reads the signs correctly and leaves them to their thoughts.

Aragorn drinks sparingly, as he always does in situations like this, to keep his head clear. And Faramir seems more than willing to follow his example. Also the younger man is slowly relaxing; presently he even smiles, while he listens in to the bantering of two men who just this week became fathers for the first time and are trying to best each other with great stories of the feats their sons already have done in the few hours they are on Arda.

Suppressing a grin, Aragorn allows himself to enjoy the evening in his own way. He also visits this place to find a connection to the ordinary people, to those people a king normally is not meeting. When they fare well and are as content as they are this night, he feels he does right in his duties as their leader.

But not every man seems to feel well this night. In the darkest corner sits a man, garbed in dirty and torn clothes. His hair and beard look as uncared for as his attire, and he drinks ale at a steady speed. Aragorn keeps an eye on the man, knowing that trouble is brewing in this corner, but hoping that the generally calm atmosphere the Smouldering Dragon is famous for will keep the man back. He seems not intent on causing trouble as it is; rather he is absorbed in private musings, Aragorn notes with part relief and part worry.

An hour later Aragorn is about to get up to order a new beer for himself and Faramir, when suddenly the man in the corner jumps to his feet and begins to shout, “They come, they come!”

With this cry, the man grabs the torch nearest to him and throws it towards another man sitting nearby, who raises his glass to drink in exactly that moment. The flame meets high-spirited fluid and finds new fuel there. Instantly, hair and clothes of the man are on fire, and flying sparks threaten to inflame the wooden table and stools.

The other occupants from the table rush to the aid of their comrade. One has the sense to grab a cloak and throw it over the poor fellow, while another threateningly draws his sword and advances towards the causer of the sudden commotion.

Aragorn jumps up and towards the man in the corner, who is about to get hold of another torch. Over his shoulder, he hurriedly, but quietly says to Faramir, “I’ll handle him, keep the others away from us.”

And then Aragorn and the aggressor are face to face. The man’s eyes are hard; his face speaks of his determination, while his hand urgently searches for a weapon that is not where he seems to expect it. So he swings his torch threateningly instead and harshly commands, “Back, you bastard! Go back to where you came from!”

Aragorn halts where he is and slowly raises his empty hands to show that he is unarmed. “I mean you no harm. Here is no danger, friend.”

For minutes they stay like that. Aragorn continues to murmur to the drunkard who still threatens him with torch and furious glance. He does not let the man out of his eyes and is on guard to instantly fight, even while he keeps his body calm and relaxed and his voice soft. Then he feels Faramir’s presence behind him, and quietly, only for his ears, his steward informs him, “No real harm done, luckily. The flames are out; the man only lost some hair and his vest. But they are all agitated and want revenge for the unprovoked attack. Should we call for the guards, or do you wish that we arrest this man on our own?”

“A drink for everyone might help to calm them, and perhaps the offer of a gold coin to the man who was burnt, to make up for his losses,” Aragorn suggests, without taking his eyes off the aggressor. But then, feeling that Faramir is unsure about the whole situation and wants to solve it quite differently than he himself, he adds in a whisper, “I need a few more moments here, Faramir. Please, keep them off my back a while longer.”

He speaks not as king. It even never once crosses his mind to use his position to call for assistance or to give this whole business over to the guards or his steward. In this moment Aragorn is the lone ranger again, who sees more than he lets on and has only himself and perhaps a fellow ranger to rely on. It is not the first time that he is in a situation like this. In fact, he himself has acted like that for a time, years ago. Harsh experiences and little resources to recover from them can do that to a man, he knows.

Softly, he continues to speak to the man, “All is well, friend. You are in no danger. Whatever you saw, it is not happening now. You are safe here…”

Aragorn knows not if his words brought the other back, or if just the spell has run its course to the end, when finally the man blinks, shakes his head as if to clear it, and stumbles. A moment later Aragorn is at his side and supports the now trembling figure. Gently, he takes the torch out of an unresisting grip and helps the man to sit down. Then he quietly explains, “You are in the Smouldering Dragon, in Minas Tirith. I am called Strider, and I mean only to aid you. How may I call you?”

“Strider? My name is Brendan…,” he hesitates, and nervously looks around. Nothing is left of the angry and dangerous, torch-yielding man from moments before, “… what happened?”

It is as he thought; Brendan was not himself while he attacked. Calmly, Aragorn explains the events in a few short sentences and is not surprised when Brendan starts to shake in earnest while he listens. Then Brendan brokenly whispers, “It was not my intent to do harm. You have to believe me! I even left my sword at home, to not endanger-“

Suddenly, Brendan breaks off, and a fearful expression flickers over his face. Knowingly, Aragorn asks, “It happened before, did it not?”

Brendan looks as if he considers denying it, but then he gives a hesitant nod, and pleads, “I beg you, do not hand me over to the king’s guards. I could not endure the dungeons again… the darkness… please…“

Aragorn hesitates only a moment before he says, loud enough to be also heard by Faramir and the men nearby, “Have no fear, Brendan. There was no real harm done, now was there?”

Faramir has done what Aragorn asked him to do, and more. The burnt man and his friends murmur their agreement and slowly start talking amongst themselves again. Brendan thanks Aragorn in a broken whisper, but soon falls silent. Aragorn knows, to prevent an instant relapse in the still distraught man, it would be best if they talked. It is unlikely that a seasoned soldier – for Aragorn is sure that Brendan has fought in the war – will confide easily to a complete stranger, but he still can try.

“Were you fighting at Pelennor Fields?”

A hesitant nod.

“You spoke of the darkness in the dungeons…,” Aragorn reconsiders what he is about to say when he sees Brendan stiffen. Following a sudden hunch, he asks instead, “Brendan, have you encountered one of the Nazgul?”

When Brendan gives Aragorn only a confused look in response, Aragorn clarifies, “One of the Wraiths on their black flying beasts? Did you see them?”

Brendan shudders and tries to speak, but no words come out. Nodding to himself, for his questions are answered now, Aragorn gently lays his hand on Brendan’s arm. He feels the tensed muscles and the dark troubled thoughts of the man and sends feelings of warmth and safety through the meagre contact. He cannot openly use his healing skills here and now, but he will do what he can to aid the tortured man. Softly he murmurs, “I apologise for reminding you. Relax, Brendan, and forget these stressful times. We are at peace now, and they will never come back here again.”

Faramir chooses this moment to rejoin his liege at their table, and Aragorn, who can sense that Brendan is calmer by now, slowly pulls his hand back.

“Peace....,” Brendan whispers with a hopeful voice. Then he looks Aragorn in the eyes and says, “Thank you, Strider. You brought me hope where I could only see despair. I have to ask my leave of you now, though. My daughter is waiting for me; she will be worried why I am not back yet.”

With these words, Brendan stands up to first talk with the man he unwittingly attacked, and then with Horgan before he leaves. Aragorn and Faramir can see that once more a few coins change their owner in both encounters, and Aragorn smiles. Faramir hesitantly says, “If I had not seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it possible. He is calm now and in control. I thought him to be a lost cause. Are you sure he is safe?”

Sighing, Aragorn admits, “He might relapse, or he might not. I cannot be certain. However, I know that neither guards nor dungeon would have been of any help for this poor fellow. He fought in the war, Faramir. He fought for my cause and that made him what he is today…” His voice catches for a moment, and he takes a calming breath, before he continues, “I wish I knew how to heal this ailment of the soul, but even Elrond has only rudimentary understanding of the processes behind it.”

“You did what you could for him. You even touched him in healing, did you not? Perhaps it will be enough to ease his madness.”

Aragorn bows his head and softly says, “I hope so for his sake, and for that of his daughter. You did well yourself, though. I thank you for taking care of the men; your help was essential to me.”

Not unexpectedly, Faramir retreats at this praise, “I did only as my liege commanded.”

Biting back another sigh, Aragorn comments no further. Once more, now is neither the time nor the place. In silence, both men drink their second beer, while they allow their nerves to settle. Aragorn knows he will follow up on how Brendan is doing. But for this night he puts the episode behind him, knowing that he did all that could have been done for the moment.

After another hour Aragorn murmurs, “We have to leave, Faramir, or Arwen will send Gajandir after us.”

“The Queen knows you are here?” There is open astonishment in Faramir’s voice.

“Of course she does,” says Aragorn in mock indignation, to only a moment later admit, with a twinkle in his eyes, “Well, she knows this time, at least.”

Faramir chuckles, and then he turns slightly red and murmurs, “I have yet to decide what I shall tell Eowyn.”

Both men laugh while they leave the Smouldering Dragon. But they speak not on their way back into the citadel. For stealth is needed. They intend to enter as secretly as they left. But also Faramir seems deep in thought, and Aragorn is loath to disrupt his considerations.

Once inside the garden, Faramir, almost hesitantly with a nervous glance to his liege, heads towards the prow and Aragorn, who remembers the last time they were standing there just hours before, follows him with hope in his heart. Perhaps now they can find the words to bridge their different views. He is a patient man though, and he waits for Faramir to speak first.

And finally, quietly, Faramir says, “At night the city looks almost as it has before. The destruction is covered by the mantle of darkness, and the lights of the candles and fires have not changed. I have been blind. I saw only the destroyed buildings, the broken walls, the suffering men, women and children. But you look deeper, and you see the hearts of the people. They are what counts.”

“I know you love Minas Tirith very dearly, Faramir. It must be hard for you, to be witness to the demolishing of your beloved city. But it will be back to its former beauty, to its former glory. The people of Gondor will make sure of it. We will make sure of it.”

Faramir haltingly smiles and slightly nods his head. Aragorn moves nearer to him and puts his hand on Faramir’s shoulder. A moment longer he hesitates. Faramir is not the only one who might have erred in judgement. Aragorn takes a deep breath.

“When I was in Minas Tirith as Thorongil, I was mostly out with the troops, and only for hours at a time up here with your grandfather and the nobles. The dynamics of a city are still strange to me. It is as you say: I try to see into everyone’s heart. To soldiers like Brendan I can rely, there I know what needs to be done. But I feel that I can not understand men like Calderond as well as I perhaps should.”

“Master Calderond? You handled him well, my Lord King.”

But Faramir is not meeting his eyes, and saddened, Aragorn lets his hand fall to his side again. For a moment he fights with himself, but he knows: if what he wishes for shall ever come true he cannot stay silent now.

“Faramir,” he quietly says, “I ask for your aid, not for your praise.”  

That earns him a surprised stare, but Faramir takes his time before he speaks again. “Your terms were well received by everyone, even by Calderond, after he had time to calm down and think it through. But you have to understand that his obvious display of wealth is not for his own sake only. It is tradition. You can like it or not, and as king you have the power to change it, given time, but for now the guild masters are expected to wear the raiment as they did.”

Aragorn sighs. It is as he feared, he has insulted the guild master and the people he stands for with his hasty comment. But it eases his heart to hear that Calderond supports his decision nevertheless.

“At the meeting next week, I will make amends for my unmerited words,” says Aragorn with a curt nod. And then he murmurs, “Thank you, Faramir.”

“And I thank you, Aragorn, for taking me with you this evening.”

Aragorn feels relief surge through him. Smiling at his steward, his friend, he marvels at the feeling of deepened understanding between them. They stand a while longer and watch the city slowly go to sleep until Gajandir finds them, and they depart, chuckling, to meet their wives.

~~~~~

“I have caused you worry again, my love…”

“Hush, do not fret. I saw you and Faramir on the prow and knew you were safe.”

“Truly? But why then have you sent Gajandir?”

“Because I wanted to spend some time alone with my beloved husband, and I am sure Eowyn longs for Faramir also.”

With a mock growl that makes Arwen giggle, Aragorn lungs for his wife and she playfully tries to escape him. When he finally catches her and they lovingly look at each other, Arwen asks, serious for a moment, “Is all well between you and Faramir?”

Smiling, Aragorn answers, not at all surprised by his wife’s insightful question, “Yes, all is well. I feel blessed that he is here with me in Minas Tirith.” And after kissing Arwen, he murmurs in her ear, “But the greatest gift is that you are at my side and in my life, my love.”

“And you in mine, Estel.” His smile blossoms even more when he hears these words, and with a heart full of gratitude and joy, he leans down to kiss his beloved, before he settles next to her and tells her everything that happened during the last days.