Chapter Text
Arwen knew, with absolute certainty, that her pie had been perfect.
Not simply good. Not merely acceptable. Not even just delicious.
No—this was a work of art.
Golden, burnished crust, fluted with meticulous precision. The filling—rich, dark summer berries, their juices thickened just enough to cling to the tongue and hold shape for each slice, sweetened with honey and the faintest whisper of spice. Each ingredient had been chosen with care, each step performed with the grace and patience of an artist at her craft.
Even her father, Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, revered scholar, healer of near-unmatched skill, and a man notoriously difficult to impress, had declared her pies excellent.
And that was a man who had lived through ages of Elven history. A man who had stood before the great powers of the world and emerged unshaken. A man who had personally wielded the wisdom of millennia to heal the wounds of kings and warriors alike.
Yet even he, when presented with one of her perfect, perfect pies, had simply sat back, closed his eyes, and sighed.
Elrond Peredhel, master of lore, conquered by pie.
Arwen had been so certain of her success this afternoon that she had not even hesitated to leave her latest masterpiece cooling on the wide stone sill of the kitchen’s open window.
Minutes. She had turned her back for minutes.
And now—
She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, brow arched as she surveyed the clear violation before her.
A slice was missing.
Not neatly removed, not carefully portioned, not with the precision of a fellow baker who might respect the sanctity of such a creation.
No.
It had been hacked away.
A butcher’s crime, committed with reckless abandon, the crust torn rather than cut, the filling disturbed, juices staining the empty space where perfection had once been. And then, hands braced against the counter, she had leaned forward and squinted.
Crumbs.
There—on the sill.
A trail of them, even, leading away from the window. A few dark red smudges—berry filling, evidence of the crime—streaked upon the stone.
Arwen exhaled sharply through her nose. “Oh, someone is going to regret this.”
She stepped out of the kitchen, skirts whispering against the stone as she made her way toward the courtyard. The scent of warm berries had spread, and if there were any culprits to be found, she knew exactly where to begin.
Arwen had learned, through years of observation and careful study, that if one wished to uncover the truth about any mischief within the walls of Minas Tirith, there was only one place to begin.
The children.
A trio of small, berry-loving conspirators were known to lurk near the kitchens, drawn by the promise of warm bread, sugared buns, and the kind-hearted cooks who could never resist slipping an extra treat into their eager hands. They were quick-footed, quick-tongued, and utterly without shame when it came to the pursuit of stolen pastries. If anyone had seen or heard anything about her missing pie, it would be them.
She found them exactly where she expected—perched on the low steps of the courtyard fountain, swinging their legs idly as they gnawed on hunks of apple, their expressions as guileless as only the deeply guilty could manage. The eldest, a boy of perhaps ten, wiped his hands hastily on his already dirt-streaked tunic as she approached, while the youngest, a little girl with a missing front tooth, straightened at once, all wide eyes and perfect, practiced innocence.
“Good afternoon, my lady!” the eldest piped up, all too quickly.
Arwen arched a delicate brow, surveying them with the cool, discerning gaze of one who had been alive long enough to see through this nonsense. Their fingers were too clean. No crumbs. No smears of berry juice clinging to their lips. But still—she was not so easily fooled.
“I had a pie,” she said, her voice smooth as honey and twice as thick with suspicion, “cooling on the window sill. A perfect pie.” She let the words hang, watching for any flicker of guilt, any shifting glances. “And someone—someone—decided to help themselves to an impatient slice.”
Three sets of wide eyes blinked up at her.
A beat of silence.
Then the little girl gasped, clutching her apple to her chest as though it were her very heart. “Someone stole your pie?”
Arwen narrowed her eyes. “You sound very surprised.”
The eldest boy nodded solemnly. “We are surprised! We didn’t even smell a pie!” He held up his half-eaten apple as proof of their supposed innocence. “We’ve just been right here this whole time!”
“And if we had smelled it,” the little girl added, lifting her chin with great dignity, “we definitely would have stolen it.”
Arwen pressed her lips together, inhaling through her nose. “Comforting.”
The middle child, a freckled boy with twigs in his hair, leaned forward conspiratorially. “It’s not us, Lady Arwen, promise,” he whispered, as if shielding her from some great and terrible secret. “But you should ask Bergil.”
Arwen blinked. “Bergil?”
The boy nodded, lowering his voice even further, eyes darting around dramatically. “He’s always sneakin’ treats for the younger kids,” he murmured. “Says the soldiers have enough rations, so he makes sure the little ones get something good, too.”
Arwen tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. “A noble cause.”
The boy shrugged. “Yeah, but sometimes—” He leaned in even closer, voice barely above a breath. “Sometimes he takes first pick.”
Arwen exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. A thief with a conscience, then.
“Very well,” she said, shaking her head. “If you hear of anything else, you will tell me.”
The children nodded eagerly, far too pleased with themselves, and she turned on her heel, already moving on.
“Step two: Bergil, the Treat Collector”, she mumbled.
Bergil had a reputation. A good, well-meaning reputation, to be sure, but a reputation nonetheless. He had grown from a scrappy boy who ran errands for the Citadel guards into a young man who, despite his added years and responsibilities, had hardly changed in nature. He still moved with the sharp-eyed swiftness of someone who had spent their youth darting between soldiers' boots, still carried himself with the easy confidence of one who had charmed half the kitchens into slipping him an extra roll or two whenever he passed by, and—most importantly—he still had a knack for finding his way to food that did not, strictly speaking, belong to him.
And so it was Bergil whom Arwen sought next.
She found him near the main hall, deep in conversation with one of the stewards, his hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke, his dark eyes bright with enthusiasm. He was, as always, grinning—though that grin faltered ever so slightly when he caught sight of her approaching, the measured weight of her gaze fixed upon him like a hawk sighting its prey.
“My lady!” he greeted, ever affable, inclining his head with an ease that suggested he was hoping, praying, that he had not done whatever it was she was about to accuse him of.
“Bergil,” she returned smoothly, her arms folding over her chest as she regarded him with a critical eye. “Tell me—have you, by chance, been gathering… treats for the city’s children today?”
To his credit, Bergil had the good sense to hesitate before answering.
“Perhaps,” he admitted after a beat, shifting slightly beneath her scrutiny. “I sometimes take extra bread or fruit from the kitchens, but only what is freely given.”
Arwen lifted a brow, unmoved. “And would you happen to have taken a rather hastily cut slice of pie?”
At this, Bergil had the audacity to look deeply offended. His hand pressed to his chest in what was surely a performance honed over years of talking his way out of trouble. “My lady,” he said, aghast, “I would never commit such an injustice upon a pie.”
Arwen exhaled sharply through her nose, unimpressed. “Not even for the children?”
He sighed then, his shoulders dropping ever so slightly. “If I had, it would have been neatly done,” he said, as if this was meant to be comforting. “And also, I would have asked.”
She studied him for a long, considering moment, weighing the easy confidence in his voice, the sharp clarity of his eyes. He was telling the truth—or at least, he believed himself to be innocent, which was enough for her to very nearly dismiss him.
But just as she was about to nod and concede the point, something caught her eye.
A napkin.
Tucked hastily into his belt, partially crumpled, stained red.
Her eyes narrowed.
Bergil, sharp and observant as ever, followed her gaze and reacted at once, lifting the napkin with an easy, casual air that was just a little too rehearsed. “Oh, this?” he said, shaking it out. “It’s just from a pomegranate. One of the merchants gave me one for the little ones.”
Arwen’s lips parted, a sharp retort already forming on her tongue, only for her mind to catch up a moment later—the stains were not the deep, rich purple of her pie’s berries, but the unmistakable, brilliant crimson of pomegranate juice.
She exhaled sharply, tension slipping from her shoulders as she pinched the bridge of her nose. She had half a mind to scold him for giving her a moment’s hope of solving this foolish mystery, but instead, she simply waved a hand, dismissing him. “You are fortunate,” she said, shaking her head, though there was no true heat to her words.
Bergil, the rogue that he was, grinned. “But if I had taken the pie, my lady,” he said, voice warm with amusement as he sketched a half-bow, “I would have thanked you first.”
Arwen huffed, rolling her eyes as she turned on her heel and strode away.
She strode back toward the kitchens, her mind carefully sifting through the dwindling list of potential culprits. The children had been ruled out, their wide-eyed innocence and utter inability to lie with any degree of success clearing them of any wrongdoing. Bergil, despite his long-standing talent for acquiring unclaimed foodstuffs, had not only provided a reasonable alibi but had also seemed genuinely affronted by the idea that he would ever mistreat a pie. And the cooks—well, the cooks would sooner throw themselves into the Anduin than so much as think of pilfering a dish meant for the Queen of Gondor.
Which left…
Arwen’s steps slowed as she approached the window where, merely an hour before, her glorious creation had been left to cool. The scent of baked fruit still lingered in the air, mingling with the crispness of late afternoon, but her sharp eyes caught something amiss.
There, pressed unmistakably into the thin layer of dust that had settled on the stones beneath the sill, was the print of a boot. A large boot.
A very large boot.
And beside it, caught in the rough mortar of the wall, was something even more damning. A single strand of long, dark hair.
Arwen’s lips parted, first in disbelief, then in dawning realization. Her hands found her hips as she exhaled sharply through her nose.
“Oh no, you did not.”
For a long moment, she simply stared at the evidence, as though sheer force of will might change what was before her. As though she could will the culprit into being someone—anyone—other than the man she now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, to be responsible.
But no. The truth was written there, plain as day, in boot leather and dark strands.
Aragorn.
Her husband had stolen a slice of her pie.
There was a certain audacity in it. A certain galling boldness in the idea that the King of Gondor—veteran ranger, battle-hardened warrior, leader of men—had felt the need to sneak into his own kitchen, filch a carefully crafted dessert, and then flee the scene like some common thief in the night.
And worse—worse than all of it—was the fact that she knew he would have done it without the slightest shame. That he would have cut himself a comically large slice, likely eaten it with his hands, and thought absolutely nothing of the crime.
Arwen closed her eyes for a brief, steadying breath.
No.
No, she had not spent hours selecting the finest berries, carefully sweetening them so that their natural tartness would shine through, folding the dough with perfect precision to ensure the flakiest crust imaginable, just so her husband could abscond with it like some careless traveler plundering a roadside tavern.
Oh, no.
No, this would not stand.
And so, with the single-minded focus of a hunter tracking the most elusive of prey, she turned sharply on her heel and began her pursuit.
Her steps echoed down the stone corridors of the Citadel, swift and purposeful, the rustle of her skirts punctuated by the occasional clipped breath of exasperation. Aragorn, for all his talents, was predictable when it came to such things. If he had taken the pie, he would have gone somewhere comfortable, somewhere quiet, somewhere he could eat his ill-gotten spoils in peace.
It was almost too easy.
And so, when she reached the stables and found him, her hands were already on her hips, her gaze already alight with the sheer incredulity of it all.
Aragorn stood near the paddock, speaking with the stable hands, all easy smiles and warm conversation. The scent of hay and leather filled the air, mingling with the crisp breeze that carried the distant fragrance of late-summer berries—a scene of perfect, peaceful normalcy. He seemed the picture of a king who had no worries in the world, who had never been privy to the troubles of a common thief.
He had no pie in his hands, no plate, no napkin, and no visible evidence of his deeds.
But still, Arwen couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
She lingered at the edge of the stables, arms crossed, watching him with a gaze that could pierce steel. There was something in the way Aragorn stood, something too easy, too casual. His broad shoulders were relaxed, his easy laughter with the stable hands a touch too natural, a little too innocent. The stable hands were chuckling at something he had said, their faces open with warmth, and Aragorn grinned back at them, looking every bit the wise, rugged, utterly guiltless king. But Arwen knew better.
She had known him for too long. Too well.
And it didn’t take long for her to realize that the king, for all his efforts to appear unaffected, was hiding something.
She stepped forward, moving with the kind of grace only an elf could possess, her voice smooth as velvet but laced with an unmistakable edge. “My lord," she called, her tone carrying just enough to make him turn.
Aragorn looked up, his smile widening. “My lady," he greeted, his voice warm, his eyes lighting up as he took in the sight of her. “You are a welcome sight indeed."
Arwen tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a knowing smile. “That is kind of you to say," she mused, stepping closer, letting her gaze linger on him, sweeping over him with slow, deliberate intensity. “Especially considering I find myself in need of assistance."
Aragorn raised an eyebrow, the glint of humor dancing in his eyes. “Oh? Assistance with what, my love?"
“Oh, nothing too serious," she sighed dramatically, her voice dripping with playful exaggeration. “Just a most heinous crime, a crime against me, personally. A crime against justice itself."
The stable hands exchanged glances, their expressions torn between amusement and confusion, the tension hanging in the air like a sword suspended above them. Aragorn, for his part, held his expression carefully neutral, but Arwen could see through it—the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes brightened with too much amusement. He was playing a game. And she was going to win.
“A crime?" Aragorn echoed, feigning a touch of confusion. “Stolen goods, perhaps?"
“Yes," Arwen nodded, stepping closer, her voice dropping just a touch, laced with a silken challenge. “A slice was stolen from the pie I left to cool on the kitchen window."
Aragorn made a show of frowning, his eyebrows knitting together in exaggerated concern. “Stolen?" he repeated, but the word sounded more like a well-rehearsed line than a true question.
“Yes, stolen," Arwen said, letting the word linger in the air. She didn’t break her gaze from his, watching him carefully. His face did not change, not in the slightest, except for the faintest, most imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. His smile, that damnable, too-sweet smile, tugged at the edges of his lips.
She narrowed her eyes slightly.
“Of course," she continued, stepping closer again, her voice softer now, almost contemplative, as if considering a particularly delicate matter. “I have been investigating."
“Investigating?" Aragorn repeated, his voice betraying a flicker of amusement, as though he already knew exactly where this was headed and was determined to play along. “What did you find, my lady?"
Arwen tilted her head slightly, her lips curling into a sly smile. "A footprint."
“A footprint?" Aragorn repeated, now genuinely intrigued. “How unfortunate for the thief."
“Oh, yes," Arwen murmured, her tone thick with sarcasm. “Especially as it was a rather large footprint. A man’s, certainly."
Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “That does narrow things down," he conceded, nodding gravely, though there was something in his eyes—a mischievous spark that made it impossible to take his words seriously.
Arwen stepped in close now, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of his tunic. Aragorn didn’t flinch, didn’t move. He held himself still, his posture relaxed, his eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and admiration.
He knew.
She knew.
And yet neither of them was willing to break the game.
“You know," she murmured, her voice dropping to a velvet-soft whisper, “there are other ways to catch a thief."
Aragorn’s lips twitched with the barest of smiles, his voice low and teasing. “Oh, indeed?" he said, his hand gently brushing against her arm as he leaned in, his words light but laced with undeniable mischief. “And what might those be, my lady?"
Arwen stepped even closer, so close now that her breath mingled with his. “I think you know exactly what I mean," she murmured, her fingers grazing his jawline as she smiled up at him. “But it would seem," she added, leaning in further, her voice now thick with both challenge and affection, “the pie was quite good, wasn't it?"
Aragorn’s lips curled into a sly smile, his voice dropping even lower as he leaned in just a touch closer. “I bet it was," he said, his tone a perfect mix of playful and knowing. He let his hand rest ever so slightly on her arm, the contact warm and sure. “I’ve always had a feeling you were a master of such things."
Arwen frowned, her brow furrowing with a challenge, a glint of mischief dancing in her eyes as she pulled back ever so slightly, her gaze sharp. “How would you know?" she asked, her voice playful but edged with curiosity, as though daring him to walk this line further.
Aragorn chuckled softly, his smile widening, the gleam in his eyes unmistakable. “I know you're a good baker," he said smoothly, his words deliberate, as though he’d given them much thought. “I’ve seen the care you put into your cooking—the way you handle everything with such precision, such grace. No one else could make a pie like you, my lady." He stepped in, his voice softening with affection as he continued, “It’s in the details, the way you bring everything together... even the smallest things are perfect when they come from you."
Arwen’s eyes narrowed even further, but a flush of warmth crept into her cheeks at his words. She could see through the layers of sweetness, but something in his gaze made her heartbeat quicken, and she couldn't help but feel a little taken by the way he looked at her. She was almost certain he knew exactly what he was doing.
And before Aragorn could even muster a reaction, Arwen closed the space between them and kissed him. It was swift—just enough for their lips to meet, the kiss tender but charged.
But then, just as quickly as it had begun, Arwen pulled back, her mind suddenly flooding with a very distinct sensation. There it was. The faint, unmistakable taste of summer berries—exactly like the ones she had so carefully layered into the pie.
Her eyes sparked with realization, her lips curving upward into a knowing smile. She leaned back just enough to give him one more look, her expression sharp and mischievous, dangerously bright with triumph.
Aragorn, standing before her now with that infuriatingly innocent face of his, seemed completely unfazed, though the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his amusement. He seemed about to say something, but before he could, Arwen’s voice cut through the air, smooth and commanding.
“You," she said, her voice a sweet yet deadly accusation.
Aragorn’s hands spread in mock confusion, his brow furrowing just enough to look surprised. “Me?" he asked, his tone the very picture of feigned innocence.
Arwen’s brow arched imperiously, the question hanging between them like a dagger. “You taste of my pie," she declared, her words crisp and final, punctuating the air like a challenge.
The stable hands behind Aragorn, who had been struggling to contain their own amusement, finally erupted in quiet chuckles, their laughter barely concealed.
Aragorn, ever the diplomat, sighed dramatically, placing a hand over his heart as if deeply wounded by the accusation. “Meleth nîn," he said, utterly serious but with a glint in his eyes. “I am a wounded man. I needed—"
Arwen held up a hand, cutting him off before he could weave his typical charming excuses. “Oh, do not even attempt the ‘wounded man’ excuse," she snapped, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips despite the mock frustration in her voice. “You stole my pie and lied to my face." She was half annoyed, half delighted by the entire ridiculousness of it all.
With mock solemnity, Aragorn placed a hand over his chest, the very picture of sincerity. “I never lied," he said with an exaggerated sigh. “I merely... failed to incriminate myself." He grinned at her, the playful glint in his eyes making it clear he was perfectly aware of his wrongdoing.
“Shameless," she muttered, shaking her head but with a smile she couldn’t quite suppress, despite her best effort to stay irritated.
Leaning down just slightly, Aragorn lowered his voice to something conspiratorial, still grinning. “If it helps," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, “it was delicious."
Arwen huffed, folding her arms across her chest and stepping back with all the grace of a queen who’d just caught her subject in the most harmless of crimes. “I am going to enjoy making you suffer for this," she said, her tone low but laced with the promise of playful retribution.
Aragorn, ever the good sport, grinned wider, utterly unfazed by the threat. “Will this suffering involve more pie?" he asked, the question both teasing and hopeful, his grin daring her to prove him wrong.
Arwen smirked, her lips curling into an expression of both affection and righteous victory. “No," she said with a finality that could not be challenged, “you, my love, are on pie probation."
The groan that escaped Aragorn’s lips was pure melodrama, and this time, the stable hands openly laughed, clearly enjoying the playful exchange between their king and queen.
Arwen, now victorious, turned on her heel, her smile radiant, her posture one of unshakable triumph. She had won, and there was no better way to leave him lamenting his mistakes than with that final note of command. Leaving Aragorn to contemplate his pie-related sins, she walked away, every step radiating the satisfaction of a queen who had captured her prey.