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Chapter Text

"Here follows a part of the tale of Aragorn and Arwen..."
-Appendix A, LotR

"The full tale is stated to have been written by Barahir, grandson of the Steward Faramir, some time after the passing of the King."
-Prologue, LotR

Prologue

Resting his wrinkled hand on the window ledge, the old man looked out over the verdant landscape of Ithilien, his home and kingdom. Behind him on a table lay many blank pages, waiting to be filled with his compilation of many stories told by his parents and grandparents, recalled from distant memory, from vague corners of his mind that somehow retained the words spoken long ago as he fell asleep. Stories of a young man and an Elven woman pledging their love, of a dying mother, of a father driven mad by despair, of a young warrior who wanted to fight her way out of her cage. Stories of people who looked to their love for hope in a world full of darkness and war and death.

Elessar was now only a name etched onto monuments, and the Evenstar of the Elves had faded as the sun dawned ever brighter over the world of men. For that is what it had become -- the world of men. To them, even only a few years after her weary departure from Gondor, Arwen Evenstar was a legend, a being from a lost and mysterious world, whose ageless features were immortalized in paintings and sculptures throughout the City of the Kings. Faramir of Gondor and Ithilien was remembered in books and song for his wisdom and strength, an untouchable intellect who might as well have never existed at all. The White Lady of Rohan, too, had passed into legend, a great warrior and healer now quite removed from the reality. They remembered only her steely laugh on the fields of the Pelennor; the weeping woman on the terrace of Dunharrow was quite forgotten. They remembered the Shieldmaiden, but not the maiden.

His ancestors had all too soon passed on into the realm of beautiful myth. But to him, they were real people. The painted faces once had eyes that sparkled and mouths that smiled. The sculpted arms had held him, and the lost voices, impossible to preserve, had told stories of hope and despair, which had lulled him to sleep at bedtime for so many years, even as they thrilled him. And now their stories would be written for all those who would follow after him.

Barahir turned away from the window and let his eyes rest on the empty pages, even as his ancestors' eyes rested on him from their portraits.

Chapter 1

"Don't you ever grow tired, you restless boy?"

Barahir giggled and squirmed as his grandmother swept him up and leaned her forehead against his, the wisps of her light hair tickling his cheeks. He wrapped his arms around her neck and pressed his lips to hers, comforted by the feel of her arms holding him so closely.

She smiled at him warmly and leaned to set him in his bed, tucking his blankets tightly around every inch of him, just the way he liked. "Now I suppose you are wanting a story?" she said, kneeling by his bed and resting her chin on her arms.

He nodded at her eagerly. "Tell me about a battle," he said. "A great big battle."

"A great big battle?" she repeated. "How would you like to hear about your grandfather and his army of ghosts?"

Barahir's eyes widened, and his grandmother smiled. "Yes, yes! I want to hear about that!" he exclaimed.

"This was a long time ago, when we were still fighting Sauron," she began. "Your grandfather Aragorn needed a big army to help him win his war. He didn't have enough men, you see. And he knew about this secret army, that no one else could use except him."

"Why couldn't anyone else get the army?" he asked.

"Because it was an army just for him. If anyone else tried to get the army, that person would be killed. And so your grandfather took a lot of Rangers with him, and also Legolas and Gimli."

Barahir laughed. "He took Gimli?"

"Yes," she smiled. "And I wanted to go with him, so very badly."

"Why did you want to go? Weren't you scared of the ghosts?"

"I wanted to fight, but yes, I was scared of the ghosts. I didn't think I'd ever see your grandfather again, and it made me very sad. But the ghosts obeyed him, and they followed him all the way to Minas Tirith. I had gone there, and so had your great ancestor King Théoden, and your great-uncle Éomer."

"This was when you killed the Witch King!" Barahir exclaimed excitedly. "This was when you and Merry killed the Witch King!"

She laughed lightly. "Yes, that's right. And I missed the rest of the battle. Your great-uncle Éomer fought so bravely, and he was almost ready to give up. He thought I was dead, and he thought your grandfather Aragorn was dead. And then it got even worse! He saw some pirate ships sailing towards the city."

Barahir's mouth dropped open. "Pirates?"

"Yes, he thought they were pirates. But can you guess who it really was?"

"Was it Grandfather and his ghost army?"

"That's exactly who it was. And Uncle Éomer was so happy to see them! They fought very bravely, and they were very tired, but they won the battle."

"They couldn't have won it without you," said Barahir earnestly, reaching for her. "You killed the worst monster."

She laughed again and pulled him to her. "No one could have done it without anyone else. Remember that, Barahir. Everyone has to help, because no one can do it alone."

"Is it true that you loved Grandfather?" he asked into her shoulder.

"Of course I loved him," she replied, holding him closer. "I always will, you know that."

"No, I mean Grandfather Aragorn," he said. "Is it true that you loved him?"

She laid him down on his pillow again and stroked the hair back from his forehead. "I thought I did," she said. "But then I met Grandfather Faramir, and everything changed. He was the one I truly loved."

"How did you know?"

She smiled at him, still stroking his forehead with her fingertips. "How do you know that you love me?" she asked.

He furrowed his brow and thought for a moment, unable to think of anything. "I don't know," he said. "I just love you."

"Yes," she smiled. "You see?"

He smiled back at her. "You just did? You just loved him?"

"I just did," she nodded.

"And how did Mother and Father know that they loved each other?" he asked, sensing that she was about to leave and wanting to keep her there.

"That's another story!" she exclaimed, laughing. "Another story for another time. Good night, darling." She leaned over him and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Sweet dreams."

"Good night, Grandmother."

Barahir glanced to his left at a tall, elegant portrait of Éowyn, dressed in chain mail, her face cold and impassive, her hands resting on the hilt of a sword. He smiled and lifted his quill, writing, "Here follows the tale of Elboron and Gilraen."

Chapter Text

Éowyn twisted her hair up into a hasty knot on the nape of her neck and smoothed her hands down the front of her robe. A few strands of hair already began slipping from the hasty gathering, and she tucked them carelessly behind her ears. As she bowed her head slightly and lifted her dress to slip on her shoes, all of her hair fell loose and tumbled around her face. Éowyn made a small sound of frustration, and again reached behind to gather up her hair.

Her hands were stopped by two others, however, wonderfully familiar. "Patience," murmured a quiet voice, twisting her hair up neatly and securing it soundly. She felt a kiss on the joining of her neck and shoulder, and turned around smiling.

"Faramir," she said fondly, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him briefly. "I should hire you to do that every morning."

"I don't come cheaply," he replied, grinning as he pulled her closer.

Éowyn lifted an eyebrow. "You want me to ask you for the price, but I won't give you that satisfaction."

He laughed and kissed her again, then stepped back, holding her hands and stretching their arms out between them. "You look lovely. And our guests should be here any minute."

"Is Elboron ready to meet them?" she asked, accepting the arm he offered and following his lead out into the hall.

"I would suppose he is," Faramir replied. "I don't think he would want to miss a second that might be spent in Celebrian's company."

Éowyn smiled. Their son had been smitten with the elder daughter of Aragorn and Arwen ever since he and she were children.

"I heard that your project finally succeeded," Faramir said as they descended the stairs. "I was sure you could do it."

She flushed and looked down, pretending that she was simply being careful about the stairs. Even after all these years, Faramir's praise could make her almost burst with pleasure. And he was always generous with it, always sincerely proud about the things she did. In this case, he was referring to a blend of two herbs which had been frustrating her for years. She knew, somehow, that they could be blended in a way that would stop infection, but only yesterday had she finally determined how to do it. It was no less than an amazing discovery for healing, but somehow Faramir's appreciation made it seem even greater. "Yes," she said simply.

"Aragorn will be glad to hear of it, and carry the word back to the Houses of Healing."

Her cheeks warmed again. "They have far more advanced methods than I have discovered," she replied.

"They do not yet know this one." Faramir laid his hand over hers and smiled at her.

They had reached the outside steps, and they sat down together. This was something that had puzzled their servants and subjects for quite a long time -- this desire to be outside, sitting on hard steps, awaiting their guests. Any proper lord and lady would be inside, preserving their best looks and attire, wanting to appear at best advantage. But Faramir and Éowyn had long puzzled them in other things -- Faramir by spending hours reading and writing in his library, and Éowyn by spending most of her days bending over sick people and plants. No one understood them, but everyone respected them.

On this particular day, they did not have long to wait outside. A few minutes after they had sat down, Elboron came bounding out to meet them, dressed in his finest. He descended the steps and stood at the foot of them, arms folded. And very shortly after that, their guests appeared on the horizon. Faramir and Éowyn rose to their feet as the party drew nearer, then walked down the steps to join Elboron.

Éowyn saw Aragorn first; it had always been impossible not to see him first, as tall and imposing a presence as he possessed. He rode up ahead of his party and dismounted. If any man ever looked like a king, it was Aragorn. Without wasting a moment, he strode forward and grasped Faramir's hand. "Delighted to see you as always, my friend," he said. Then, turning to Éowyn, he bowed his head respectfully. "My Lady Éowyn."

Aragorn greeted Elboron warmly, then stepped back to the rest of the group from Minas Tirith, who had finally reached the steps. He helped Arwen to the ground, and then each of his daughters. Eldarion rode up behind them and joined his father. Éowyn lost herself in a flurry of greetings, smiles, and embraces.

The biggest smile, however, she reserved for Aragorn's younger daughter, Gilraen, named after his mother. Eldarion and Celebrian resembled their mother, both of them possessing that mysterious kind of Elvish delicacy mixed with a graceful strength. They spoke rarely, and always wore a kind of gravity in their handsome features. Gilraen was an image of Aragorn -- tall for a girl, with her father's grey eyes, and the dark hair that marked all of the children of Aragorn and Arwen. She moved purposefully, serious but with a ready smile. But apart from all this was the quality that most endeared her to Éowyn. Gilraen was a shieldmaiden. Éowyn loved all of Aragorn's children, but could not deny her special fondness for the one who so reminded her of herself. Unlike the former Shieldmaiden of Rohan, however, this girl was happy.

Éowyn watched as her own son exchanged his warmest greetings with Eldarion and Celebrian, his childhood friends. Gilraen, being so much younger than the three, had never really shared a place among them. Her son was like Faramir in many ways -- brave and honest and intelligent, always respectful to the women he knew. But she also saw in him her own stubbornness and impatience, his tendency to leap to action out of a desire to help, but never taking the time to question his prudence. If Faramir had evaluated their son, he might have added that Elboron also possessed many of Éowyn's positive qualities. What she called restlessness, Faramir might have called energy and strength.

Whatever the qualities of the four youths, Éowyn did know one thing: that her son would someday govern Ithilien with Aragorn's daughter at his side.

Chapter Text

"My Lady?" Aragorn watched as Éowyn turned to see who had spoken her name. She smiled at him, and for the first time, he noticed the fine lines beginning to appear around her mouth and eyes. He had grown so accustomed to seeing Arwen's youthful face, unaging, unchanging, that it seemed wrong, somehow, for Éowyn to age. It was a reminder of the years that had so quickly slipped by, one by one. Strangely, though, he found that he preferred this face, which subtly bore the story of a woman who was a warrior, a healer, a wife, and a mother.

"You seem tired," she said.

"I am, a little," he replied. "I would like to speak with you about something important, if you can spare a moment."

"Of course. What is it?"

"If you and Faramir are amenable to the idea, I wish to allow Gilraen a year in Ithilien. She is seventeen now, as you know, and she loves it here. I can think of no better teacher and guide for her. Arwen has consented to the idea, and I am hoping that you will as well."

Aragorn smiled a little as he watched Éowyn trying to contain the extent of her joy at the suggestion; he knew how much she loved his daughter. "What does Faramir say?" she asked.

"I wanted to ask you first," he told her, "as you would be her teacher."

"I?" Éowyn repeated. "I... I assumed you meant Faramir."

He smiled again. "No, Lady Éowyn, I meant you. I do not know of any better person, and I am sure Faramir would agree."

"You honor me too much," she said softly.

"That is not possible," he replied, just as quietly. Then, resuming his normal tone, he continued, "Will you consider it?"

She looked up and smiled. "I do not have to consider it. It would be an honor and a great pleasure to spend a year with your daughter. I shall go to Faramir directly and tell him the happy news."

"And I shall go to Gilraen, who will be more elated than any of us," he said, returning her smile.

Barahir rose from the table and stretched his tired limbs. He strode over to a portrait of his parents, staring up into their still faces. His father looked quiet and thoughtful, and his mother wore the traces of a smile, as if the artist had frequently found it necessary to request that she remain still. Fondly recalling his mother's energy and spirit, he guessed that this must have been the case.

Ever since he was a child, Barahir had sensed that his mother was Aragorn's favorite. Aragorn never showed any hints of favoritism, of course, but Barahir had always noticed something different in the King's gaze when he looked at his youngest child. Perhaps it was simply that Aragorn understood her, saw himself in her... saw Éowyn in her.

He looked again into his mother's young eyes, at the light in them, which the skilled artist had managed to capture. That light had dimmed when Éowyn died, faded still more when she lost her husband, and died almost completely when Aragorn died and Arwen left them. Gilraen had never understood or accepted why her mother went away, leaving her children alone with the double grief of losing both father and mother. Barahir suspected that his mother had never made peace with it.

Arwen knelt in front of her small daughter and smiled. "Look at you," she said, touching Gilraen's cheek. "You'll be a brave warrior, just like your father." She wanted to say, "Be careful," but judged from the fire in the little girl's eyes and the thin, determined set of her lips that such a word of caution was useless. She wasn't entirely sure that Aragorn was wise in beginning to train a nine-year-old child, but she also acknowledged to herself that she had never felt a desire to be a warrior.

As if reading her mother's thoughts, Gilraen asked, "Didn't you ever learn to fight, Mother?"

"Not with weapons," she replied.

"Didn't you ever want to join Father in all his great battles?"

"I wanted nothing more than to be with your father." Arwen smiled. "But just as much as you love your father, so I loved mine. My father was very sad about losing me forever, but at least he knew that I would be happy for a long time, and that much good would come of it. Just think how sad he would have been if I had gone into battle and died! Then he would have lost me forever, and no good would have come of it."

"Am I one of the good things?" Gilraen asked earnestly.

"You are one of the best things," Arwen assured her, guiding a strand of dark hair behind her daughter's ear.

"Will you always be with me, Mother? Will you still be here when I am old?"

"I do not age," Arwen replied. "You had better hurry along, your father will be waiting."

Gilraen's eyes lit up, as if she had just remembered the exciting day ahead of her. She smiled happily and put her arms around Arwen. "I love you, Mother," she said softly. Then she pulled away and ran from the room in search of Aragorn.

Arwen stared after her daughter and said, "Be careful" to the air.

Chapter Text

Gilraen lowered her sword and drew in a deep breath, swiping the back of her hand over her forehead. She looked at Éowyn and smiled tentatively, knowing that she had done well but desiring to hear it from the person she admired more than any other.

"Very well done," Éowyn praised her. "Work a little more on the way you position your right foot, as we discussed, but otherwise, quite well done! Your father taught you well."

"Thank you," she said breathlessly. She relaxed a little more and put her sword in its sheath. "Who taught you to fight, Éowyn?"

"Like you, I was fortunate enough to have men in my life who respected my desire to learn," Éowyn smiled. "I learned much from my uncle and my brother. My uncle taught me the basics I needed, but it was Éomer who forced me to put my skills to daily practice."

There was a twinkle in Éowyn's eyes, and Gilraen laughed. "Forced you?" she asked, tilting her head to the side and smiling curiously.

"Like any older brother, he teased me daily. And I always made certain that he paid for it dearly." Éowyn's face grew a little more serious. "We were always very close, Éomer and I. As we grew older, we taught each other and learned from each other. When I lay ill in the Houses of Healing so many years ago, I had the most horrible visions, a sort of ongoing nightmare. The worst visions were those of Éomer dying, and there were many. Then I remember coming back to consciousness, and the first thing I felt was his hand. I knew it was his hand. And the first thing I saw was his face. But I was foolish. Rather than being overjoyed and profoundly grateful that my brother lived -- that I myself had been spared -- I sank back into despair over a man I couldn't . . ."

Éowyn suddenly seemed to remember herself, and she looked away quickly. "What am I rambling on about?" she said with a small laugh. "Don't mind me."

"Was there someone you loved before Faramir?" Gilraen asked without thinking.

"Yes . . . no. I thought I loved someone."

"He must have been very saddened when he lost you," said Gilraen quietly. She couldn't imagine how any man could bear losing a young woman such as Éowyn must have been. A young woman with the strength and beauty and renown that she herself so longed to attain.

Éowyn looked up and met her eyes. "I don't think he minded so much," she said lightly. "Besides," she continued with more sincerity in her tone, "I met Faramir then, and I could never love anyone else."

"Do you ever wish you had a daughter?" Gilraen had no idea why she persisted in such serious, perhaps impertinent, conversation.

"Sometimes, yes."

Gilraen looked away. "I wish I were your daughter."

Éowyn took a few quick steps closer and embraced Gilraen warmly. "You don't mean that, Gilraen," she said softly. She pulled back a little and lifted Gilraen's chin with her finger.

Gilraen was angry at herself for the tears she felt on her face; what good did it do to impress this great warrior, only to cry before her like a child minutes later? She could never imagine Éowyn crying. Éowyn was strong. Impatiently, she swept her fingertips over her cheeks.

"You have your father's eyes," Éowyn murmured. "You remind me so much of him, in everything."

"There is nothing in this world that I love more than my father," she confessed.

"There," said Éowyn, touching Gilraen's cheek gently. "You cannot wish to be my daughter if you so love your father."

Gilraen bit her tongue, feeling that she shouldn't voice the terrible thought in her head. The wicked notion that she wished to have Aragorn as a father and Éowyn as a mother. That she wished to be the child of Aragorn and Éowyn. She felt rightly ashamed of it, traitorous as it was to both Faramir and her own mother. Yet she did wish it, quite against her own conscience.

"Who was the man you loved, Éowyn?" she asked quietly. "Did he ever marry?"

"He was very strong and brave. Very kind. I thought he was the answer to everything that was wrong in the world. As long as he was in it, Sauron could not defeat us. I thought it was love until I met Faramir, and he taught me what love really is."

"But this first man," Gilraen persisted. "Did he marry someone else then?"

"Yes, he married a beautiful person, quite the opposite of me. She was graceful and delicate, and he loved her with every part of his being. I later understood that everything he did was for her."

"He must be very happy then," she mused sadly, still wondering what man could give up Éowyn.

"Yes, I believe he is very happy indeed. He has wonderful children."

"Do you never regret him, Éowyn?"

"No, I don't," Éowyn replied, meeting Gilraen's eyes steadily. "It is impossible for me to regret him, when I love Faramir so completely."

"But I feel certain that he must regret losing you," she said. "He was foolish to marry someone like that other woman. Sometimes I . . . sometimes I wonder why my father loved my mother."

"Gilraen," said Éowyn quietly, "you shouldn't say such things."

"I know I shouldn't. I love my mother, really I do. But I can't help the way I feel sometimes."

"It is difficult to love people who are different. Your mother can never fully understand you, and you can never fully understand her. But she is your mother, and she loves you deeply, no matter how much you differ from her. Perhaps there is much you can learn from her."

Gilraen looked down, ashamed of what she felt, ashamed of what she had confessed to Éowyn.

"Gilraen," said Éowyn gently, lifting her chin again, "you are the image of your father. Whatever he found to admire in your mother, you can find there too." Gilraen said nothing, and after a few moments' silence, Éowyn continued, "I'm going to go inside for a little while. Shall I leave you here to practice?"

Gilraen nodded and withdrew her sword again, practicing half-heartedly as Éowyn left. Exhausted in both body and spirit, she was nearly ready to retire, when a voice said, "You look down too much."

She lifted her head sharply, searching for the voice, and found it quickly in Elboron, who was standing several paces away. "Spying?" she asked shortly, lowering her weapon.

"I prefer 'observing.'" His face was inscrutable. Elboron had kind features as his father did, but his face could also take on the cold impassiveness of his mother. Now Gilraen couldn't decide if he were amused or serious.

She knew very little about him, in fact. Eldarion and Celebrian had been friends with him since they were children, and he seemed more like them -- reserved and serious. Nor was it a secret that everyone expected him to marry Celebrian, so long had he appeared to adore her.

"I wasn't aware that you have any skill with a sword," she said frankly.

"And I'm not sure that you do, with the way you stare at your feet."

Gilraen frowned and opened her mouth to say something rude, but Elboron's quiet laugh stopped her. "What's so funny?" she asked warily.

"Come now," he said, approaching her and extending his hand, "I was only teasing. My mother often speaks to my father of your progress, and I wished to see for myself. I must say, however," he added mischievously, "that I am disappointed."

Gilraen smiled cautiously. "Give me another chance, on a day when I am not so tired."

Chapter Text

Faramir glanced up from his writing and looked over at his son. Elboron was curled up in a chair nearby, reading a small, well-worn book of stories. He could not, nor did he want to, subdue the great swell of pride that filled him every time he observed his son. The boy was truly the inheritor of his mother's Rohirric ancestry, Faramir mused with a smile. Certainly on the outside, he seemed like a pure Gondorian, not only because of his dark hair, but in his well-behaved and studious demeanor, and in his quiet bearing, which would be called nobility when he became a man. But Faramir knew that his son, beneath the calm exterior, possessed the spirit of Éowyn, her brother, and their ancestors.

"What are you reading?" he asked, laying down his quill.

The boy left his chair and climbed onto his father's lap, showing him the cover of the book by way of reply. Faramir smiled slightly. "The Battle of The Pelennor Fields," he read. "An exciting story. And it looks like you have read it often."

Elboron laid against Faramir's chest and opened the book to an illustration of a slender blond figure, dressed in a man's chain mail, brandishing her sword at a huge winged creature. Elboron pointed his childish hand at the figure and said, "Mother."

"Yes," Faramir said, wrapping an arm around his son and pulling him closer. He couldn't help but be fascinated by this artist's rendering of the woman he loved, the woman who continued to fascinate him daily in everything she did. The figure in the illustration had a youthful face, her long blond hair swirling around her in a gust of wind. She was much taller than Éowyn, with a less delicate build. She was the legendary Dernhelm, and she seemed quite different from the real woman. Behind the beast, near the ground, was a tiny figure with a head of curly hair, rising up with a small sword. Faramir smiled.

Elboron turned the page, and Faramir realized that the little boy was not reading the book this time, only looking at the pictures. The next drawing depicted a man who could only be Éomer, with his bold face and broad chest. Behind him was a great banner of Rohan, the white horse being carried in the same forceful wind that the artist created in his picture of Éowyn. This Éomer had his mouth open in a shout, his sword raised above his head.

It occurred suddenly to Faramir that this book showed nothing of the real people behind the legends. It did not show Éowyn crying, wishing for her own death. It did not show Éomer's face when he saw his sister, supposedly dead. Everything was glory and triumph -- where was the truth? He glanced over at the accompanying text, but there was no mention of despair or grief, only exciting adventures related in simple language.

It is a children's storybook, he reminded himself. But shouldn't children understand?

"Your uncle Éomer was very sad in that battle. He lost his own uncle, and he thought he lost your mother."

"I know that, Father," said Elboron. "Uncle Éomer told me." Just as Faramir was filled with relief and increased admiration for his brother-in-law, the boy continued. "He said that he thought he would lose the battle, and that everyone would die. He said it was a terrible day. But he looks very brave in this picture." The little boy was silent a moment, then added, "I'm glad they drew him that way. So many bad things happened, but he still looked brave and wanted to fight, didn't he?"

Both humbled and proud at the simple wisdom of his young son, Faramir held him closer. "Yes."

"Just like Mother," Elboron sighed. "I want to be like her."

Faramir smiled. "You are very much like her."

Elboron lifted his head from Faramir's chest and twisted his small body around to look at his father's face. "I want to be like you, too," he said. "Do you think I am like you?"

Faramir paused a moment, then touched his son's forehead. "Here, you are like me," he said softly. Then he touched the boy's chest. "Here, you are like your mother."

Elboron smiled happily. "I am both!" he exclaimed. "I'm glad." Then he rested back against Faramir's shoulder and continued turning through the book.

Barahir left his writing once more, massaging his weary hand and fingers. And again, he looked at the portrait of his parents, this time concentrating on his father. Behind the almost impossibly captured stillness of Gilraen, he stood with an air of nobility about him. In every aspect he was the picture of Faramir -- at least in every aspect that an artist could capture. Not even the most gifted artist could have depicted the restlessness beneath the outside calm. Nor did many people even know of it. Gilraen had soon discovered it, and because of it, found her way to love him.

Barahir stepped across the hallway to his library, searching among the lower shelves until he found the book he sought. He withdrew the small, worn blue book and flipped slowly through the pictures, the images taking him back to his childhood bed. His father sat beside him, reading to him and showing him the pictures. It wasn't until later -- much later, when he knew how to read and was mature enough to take pleasure in the things of his childhood -- that he read the book for himself and discovered that most of the story he had heard was not even contained in the pages.

For him, legend became history. The world around him moved the other way.

Chapter Text

Éowyn paused on her way to the library, noticing that Faramir was standing before a tall window in the hall, his back to her. She stepped up behind him and slipped an arm around him, turning him towards her and kissing him briefly.

He smiled at her and pulled her closer. "Leaving your work so early this afternoon?"

"I want to spend some time with you," she said, laying her hand on the side of his face and kissing him again. "Besides," she smiled, "I could ask you the same question. What were you looking at?"

Faramir turned his head wordlessly to the window, and Éowyn followed his gaze. Below them, on the terrace, Elboron and Gilraen were talking. Their son had his book closed, his finger marking his place, while Gilraen laughed, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.

Éowyn sighed and leaned her head against Faramir. "They seem to enjoy each other's company."

"If either of Aragorn's daughters marries our son, she will long outlive him."

At this unexpected gravity in his tone, Éowyn lifted her head again and met his gaze. "They are not like Arwen... they are not Elven."

Faramir took her hand and led her away from the window, and they walked hand-in-hand down the hall. "They aren't Elven, no. But Éowyn, they are the children of an Elf and a Numenorean. Aragorn's daughters have very long lives ahead of them. Don't you realize that we -- that even our son -- will die before Aragorn himself does?"

Éowyn felt an odd wave of coldness wash over her. She knew that her own lifespan was nothing compared to Aragorn's, but she had never considered the fact that Aragorn would also outlive her son. That if Elboron married Celebrian or Gilraen, he would die while they still had decades before them. She tried to imagine decades without Faramir, and could see only blackness and emptiness.

"I suppose I had never thought of it," she said in a small voice. In all her secret longing to see her son marry a daughter of Aragorn's, she had overlooked the harsh reality of it.

She looked at her husband, as if noticing for the first time the strands of gray that lightened his black hair with each passing year. She was all too aware of the faint lines on her own face. Before now, she had always regarded them as marks of living; now she felt as if she were dying, and Faramir with her.

Faramir was quiet for some time, then said, "But they would have many years of happiness. That's all anyone has, isn't it? That's the bargain. Besides, if they loved each other half as much as I love you..." He stopped walking and turned to her. "I love you, Éowyn."

She stepped into his arms and relaxed against him. It was that simple, really, to escape despair when it tried to take her over. She had discovered this peace many years ago when they stood together in the Houses of Healing. Faramir was the one who made her realize, and helped her remember, that Death Unescapable did not have to be Darkness Unescapable.

His mother had gone on living, Barahir reflected. She lost her dearest friend. She spent long years without her husband. She lost the father she adored. Her own mother had left her in despair to die alone. But she went on living, balancing her grief and loneliness with the happiness and warmth of her children and grandchildren. With each passing year, her mother's decision to leave and die became more and more understandable, but she never resented it any less. And she would not do the same.

Gilraen was the one who had told him the tale of Aragorn and Arwen, which she herself had heard many times from her parents, and which formed the prologue and epilogue of Barahir's own story. He stared down at the manuscript on the table, remembering well the day five years ago, when his mother returned from Gondor with the end of the tale. He was an old man, Gilraen even older and more frail. Her father had died, and she wanted to finish her story at last.

She told him how she had rushed back to the White City, had sat beside Aragorn with her mother, Eldarion, and Celebrian. She told him of all the things she wanted to say to her father, how she loved him. She told him that only Arwen spoke, and that her mother's last words to her father were a plead to stay, a bitter lament at her decision to accept mortality. Aragorn had a farewell for Eldarion, long speeches of comfort for his grieving wife. But before she could tell him what she wanted to say, before he could speak to her, he was gone.

Barahir remembered the look on his mother's face when she told him that her father had no last words to spare for her. He remembered the coldness of her gray eyes when she told him that her mother had bid them farewell and left forever. Then he remembered holding her as she wept. He had only done that once before, when his father died long ago.

"Would you before your time leave your people?" he said quietly to himself, drawing concentric circles with his quill.

"What time is my lesson today, Father?" Gilraen asked, pushing away her plate of half-eaten food. "What are you teaching me today?"

Aragorn smiled at her. "I am not giving you a lesson today."

The little girl sank back into her chair, looking dejected. "There, there," Arwen murmured, patting her hand. "You'll have more time for your lesson in history."

Gilraen sank down still further, and Aragorn tried not to laugh, though he couldn't refrain from smiling. "I am not giving you a lesson today," he repeated. "...Though someone else is. A special visitor is here to see me for a short time, and he agreed to take on your lesson for the day."

At this, she leapt up and ran to him. "Who is it, Father? Who is it?"

"But the only person here is..." Arwen began.

"Where is my pupil?" came a loud, deep voice from the opposite end of the room. Every head turned to see Éomer standing in the doorway of the dining room, arrayed in full armor, a large spear in his hand. Aragorn finally allowed himself to laugh.

Gilraen's eyes widened and a smile spread over her face. "King Éomer!" she exclaimed.

Chapter Text

Éomer grinned broadly and lifted Gilraen into his arms. She threw her arms around his neck and laughed. "What are you going to teach me?" she asked eagerly. "I already know how to ride."

Éomer glanced at Aragorn and winked. "Of course you know how to ride, with that man for a father. No, I'm going to teach you something quite different." Seeing that the little girl had no desire for more breakfast, he cast a nod at Aragorn and Arwen, mentioned that Lothíriel and Elfwine would be joining them soon, then carried Gilraen out of the dining room and closed the door. "First thing," he said, setting her down, "you must think like a warrior. And to think like a warrior, you must carry yourself like a warrior. But not just like a rough warrior, like your father or myself. A lady warrior, with just as much grace as skill. Can you think of how Lady Éowyn walks?"

Gilraen paused a moment, staring up at him, her small brow furrowed. Then she nodded slowly, held her chin high, and took several paces ahead of him. "Was that right?" she asked, turning around.

"All but the last part," Éomer smiled. "You must be confident. I suppose you're ready to know what I'm going to show you." Trying not to laugh at the way her eyes widened and her mouth gaped, Éomer held up the spear and pointed it directly at her chest. "Are you able?" he challenged.

Gilraen leapt onto her horse, spear in hand, and turned the animal to charge at a target she had set up many yards away. Digging in her heels, she urged the horse forward, pointing her spear and concentrating on the target. When she was still some distance away, however, she saw something shoot past her and slam soundly into the target. Gilraen quickly raised her spear and reined in the horse, staring ahead at the long, heavy spear that had landed in the very center.

Both impressed and annoyed, she turned the horse around, looking around her for the person who had thrown the spear. The only person she saw was Elboron, sitting back against a tree nearby, book in hand.

Gilraen jumped to the ground and walked over to him, lifting the helm from her head. "Did you see who did that?" she asked.

"Hmmm?" he replied, laying his book open against the grass and looking up at her.

"Did you see who threw that spear?" she repeated. "For aside from the fact that he has interrupted my practice, he has a level of skill about which I could only dream."

"Quite a compliment, coming from you," he said. "Thank you." Then he took up his book again and calmly turned a page.

"What -- what do you mean by thanking me? Do you mean to say that youdid that?"

A smile tipped one corner of his mouth, but he kept his eyes focused on his book. "Wouldn't you expect the son of Faramir and Éowyn to know how to do that?" he asked, still not looking at her.

"I..." She trailed off, not knowing quite what to say. "I don't know," she finished lamely. "I thought you were only interested in your books."

At this, he lowered the volume again and met her eyes. "What would make you think that?"

"You just seem to spend most of your time reading," she shrugged.

Again, Elboron smiled in that maddening way. Keeping his eyes on her face, he held up the book he had been reading, and smiled more broadly as she read the title: The Use of Spears in Rohirric Culture.

Not waiting for her to respond, as she clearly had no response, he said, "My mother taught me how to use a spear, and I had a few lessons from my uncle as well, when he visited." He paused, then added, "It wasrather a good shot, wasn't it?"

"Éomer taught me as well," she said with a smile. She glanced back at the target, then turned again to him. "And he would be proud to have seen that shot."

Barahir set down his quill. He had been thirty years old when Éomer died. The news had been unexpected and crushing, most of all to Éowyn. There had been no chance to say goodbye, for Éomer had gone out of life in the same way he lived it - rashly, not wasting a second. One night, he was there, an old man with a still-loud voice and ready wit, who spent his afternoons riding, telling tales with Merry and Pippin, and practicing with weapons that he would never again have to use. And one morning, he was gone.

Barahir remembered watching the color drain completely from Éowyn's face; he had seen people become pale, but never so dramatically. Her face was white, but she said nothing. She simply rose quietly from the table and left the room. Later, passing by the library, Barahir saw her on the floor, with his grandfather holding her in his arms.

Éomer was the one person who had always been with Éowyn. Though she had lived for decades in Ithilien, far away from her brother, the world must have seemed strange to her when he was missing from it. And surely it must have been upsetting to lose him without a chance to tell him what he had meant to her. Éomer, however, had always been the sort who didn't need to hear such things. He knew.

Barahir picked up his father's little blue storybook, which he had taken to his study with him, and turned to the illustration of Éomer riding fiercely into battle. This is how Éomer would always be remembered, and in his case, at least, legend and history were one.

Chapter Text

As Éowyn wound a bandage on the arm of a little boy, she heard the door open and glanced up to see Elboron striding in. It was evident that he had just been practicing his swordplay, as the blade hung from his belt, and his face was still flushed from the exercise. Without speaking, he stopped beside her and handed her the fastening for the boy's bandage, and she smiled at him. She was accustomed to the way he sometimes fell silent -- not annoyed or moody or aloof -- just quiet. Faramir was the same way.

"Did you practice with your father?" she asked. Elboron shook his head. Éowyn smiled down at the little boy, whose arm was now set, and said, "There you are! And soon you'll be as good as new."

"Thank you," said the boy's mother, rising from her seat against the wall and taking her son in her arms. "I hope this will teach him to be more careful."

"Yes," said Éowyn, smiling again at the boy. "Continue to be brave, but be careful."

He grinned at Éowyn over his mother's shoulder as he was carried from the room. Éowyn waved at him, then laughed softly as the door closed behind mother and son. "He reminded me of you," she told Elboron, clearing the space she had used. She passed by him on her way to a shelf and touched his arm. "Do you remember when you cut yourself on your father's sword?"

Elboron smiled and nodded, gathering the remainder of the items on the table and storing them for her. When he wasn't studying with Faramir or practicing, he often joined her in the afternoons, helping her or watching her. Éowyn knew that her work fascinated him, though he didn't want to be a healer himself. On this day, however, she was finished with her work, and they walked together from the room.

"Did you have a good practice then, even though you were alone?" she asked as she locked the door.

"I practiced with Gilraen," he replied.

"Then you lost," she said good-humoredly, looking up at him with the beginnings of a smile on her face.

Elboron grinned, but did not look at her. "Yes, I lost."

Éowyn laughed. She couldn't deny that the growing friendship between Elboron and Gilraen pleased her, but she also couldn't help wondering about her son's apparent attraction to Celebrian, which she had always assumed to be love. "Have you heard from Eldarion or Celebrian?" she asked lightly.

"No, I haven't," he said. "But I do know that they're at Edoras. Elfwine wrote to me."

"How lovely," Éowyn replied, a little absently.

They walked on in silence, and then Eldarion spoke in a quiet voice, "Mother, does it..."

He paused, and Éowyn stopped, looking up at him. "Is something wrong?" she asked gently, laying her hand on his arm.

"I was just wondering," he went on slowly, as if choosing his words carefully, "if it ever bothers you that... do you ever think about Father living for so many years without you?"

Éowyn's stomach knotted. "Sometimes," she admitted. She left it at that, not only because she didn't want to go into the subject further, but also because she felt that her simple reply had been enough for him. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. Both of them knew how obvious it was that something else was on his mind, but he said nothing more.

"Grandmother, did you ever have any adventures?"

Arwen smiled down at the little boy playing at her feet, holding out her arms for him to climb into her lap. She lifted him up and held him close. "What kinds of adventures, Barahir?" she asked.

He covered her hands with his, playing with her fingers. "Did you go to exciting places and fight in wars?"

"I have never fought in a war," she replied, "but I have been to many exciting places."

He looked up at her eagerly. "What places?"

Arwen smiled, trying to think where to begin. How could she tell of thousands of years to this small mortal with only a few years to his credit? She had never been good at telling stories, she knew. Aragorn and the others knew how to tell them, to turn them into stories. But it was difficult for her to think in these terms; the events of her life weren't so much stories as long-ago incidents among thousands of other incidents.

"I have been to a place," she said slowly, "where a beautiful Queen had a mirror that could look into the future."

His eyes widened. "Was she a good Queen, like you?"

"Yes, she was a good Queen. Her name was Galadriel."

"Gadarliel?"

"Galadriel," she repeated. "She was your great-great-grandmother."

He smiled. "My great-great-grandmother had a magical mirror?"

"Yes, and she was very magical herself. And very beautiful."

"Like you?"

Arwen laughed softly. "She was called the Lady of Light."

"What kinds of magic could she do?" Barahir asked, leaning back against her.

"She could tell what people were thinking," Arwen replied. "And she could talk to them in their thoughts. And she had a beautiful ring called Nenya, which gave her a lot of power."

"Was she the Queen of this country?"

"No," said Arwen, trying to keep her voice steady. "Galadriel was the Queen of a far-away country, where no one now lives. It was a beautiful place. It was where I met your grandfather."

"Grandfather looks like an old man, and you look young," said the boy. "Why is that?"

Turning her thoughts from the happy memories of Cerin Amroth, Arwen was forced by her grandson to think of the bitterness that always shadowed her joy. "I will never look old," she told him.

He wrapped his hand around one of her fingers. "You will still look young even when I am an old man?"

"Yes. Your great-great-grandmother was thousands and thousands of years old, and she was the most beautiful person in Middle-earth."

"If she was always young, where is she now?"

"She left Middle-earth, and she will live forever with her people." As she said the words, Arwen thought, as she often did, of herself in Valinor with her grandmother, with her father and brothers. With her mother.

"I wish she had stayed," Barahir sighed. "I want to meet her." They were both quiet for a few minutes, Arwen deep in thought, assuming the boy had fallen asleep. Then he said, "Tell me about your mother."

Arwen closed her eyes. Could the child read her mind somehow, and know which questions were most difficult? "My mother was Galadriel's daughter," she told him. "She was called Celebrian, like your aunt. She had to leave Middle-earth a long time ago because she was very hurt and very sad."

She felt his small body settling more heavily against her. "Are you going to leave someday, Grandmother? So you can see your grandmother and your mother again?"

"I can never see them again," she said quietly. Then, holding him closer, she added, "I can never see them again, because I chose to see you instead."

Chapter Text

Gilraen always enjoyed her studies with Faramir, which took place two or three times a week. Though she preferred learning about weaponry and healing techniques with Éowyn, she looked forward to being with Faramir. He was kind and soft-spoken, to be sure, but he also made her laugh and humbled her with his wisdom. She admired Éowyn more than any other person she knew, and besides her own beloved father, Faramir was the only man she could imagine being worthy of her mentor.

Today she was just finishing a lesson in the history of Gondolin, when Faramir suddenly said, "Gilraen, what do you know about the Rangers of Ithilien?"

Taken aback, she furrowed her brow and thought a moment. "I know that they are among the most skilled warriors in the land, much like the Dunedain of the North. Why do you ask?"

Faramir gave her a small smile. "I ask because the Captain of the Rangers has asked that you join them, when your studies here are complete."

Gilraen found herself lost for words. She couldn't imagine that the Captain himself would ask for her, and she had no idea what her parents would think if she didn't return to Gondor when her year was over. That was the thought she finally managed to voice, stumbling, "But my... my parents...?"

"I have written to your father," Faramir said calmly, "and he bade me tell you that it is entirely your decision. You are of age, and if you wish to remain here, you are more than welcome. Naturally, Éowyn and I would be delighted if you chose to stay with us."

It was simply too much to take in. The prospect of staying in Ithilien -- the prospect of joining the Rangers of the South! She felt that she hardly deserved such an honor. "How does the Captain know me?" she asked in a small voice.

"He has heard much of your progress from Éowyn and myself, and he considers you a worthy addition to his company. You don't have to decide now, of course, but --"

"I have decided already!" she exclaimed, half-laughing. "I wish to stay here!"

"Are you certain, Gilraen? You still have many more months in Ithilien to think this over. In that time, you may discover that your place is in Gondor."

Becoming serious again, Gilraen met his gaze. "Please, my lord, I know that my place is here, in Ithilien. This is where I belong."

Faramir smiled at her. "Very well. The Captain has been here in the city for some weeks of rest, but shortly he will be returning to the border lands. I have spoken to Éowyn about this, and we have agreed that should you desire it, you will go with him for a month. During that time, you may reach a wiser decision about what is right for you."

Quite without thinking, Gilraen leapt from her seat and threw her arms around Faramir. She felt him laughing against her, but she didn't care. Pulling back from him, she quickly swept her fingers under her eyes to wipe her tears. "Thank you," she said earnestly. "Where is Éowyn? I must thank her as well! And where is the Captain?"

"You will see him this evening at dinner," said Faramir. "And I believe Éowyn is waiting just outside the door."

Gilraen could barely contain herself that evening at dinner, fidgeting with her hands under the table, barely touching her food. Éowyn encouraged her to eat, but she simply couldn't force herself to do it. To her left, Elboron laughed softly, and she turned on him.

"Are you laughing at me, sir?"

"Yes," he smiled. "But I understand your feelings. It must be very exciting for you."

"It is," she confessed, softening. "I only wish I could join them tomorrow. Not for a month, but for always!"

"But then you couldn't finish your studies here."

"I don't care about any of that now. I don't care about history when I could be out fighting on the border lands!" She didn't expect him to understand -- this man who did nothing but sit in his parents' library and read. What could he know of her desire to go out and do something worth remembering?

Elboron smiled and moved some food around on his plate. "You cannot expect to fight with honor if you don't know what you are fighting for."

"You sound like your father," she told him, not unkindly.

"Thank you."

He was on the verge of speaking again when Faramir stood and asked for the room's attention. "Tonight," he began, "we have gathered to honor the Rangers of Ithilien, who will be leaving us again soon. I have asked the Captain to prepare a few remarks, and if you will continue to honor us with your attention, he will speak to you now."

Gilraen looked around, waiting to see who this man might be, the most skilled and respected warrior in Ithilien.

Barahir looked up and smiled at the portrait of his parents. Elboron had led the Rangers of Ithilien for nearly twenty years, and his mother had been among their number for five, leaving only to bear and raise him.

Chapter Text

The hours until she departed with Elboron and the Rangers felt like decades to Gilraen. She longed to go out with them, fight, and prove her worth. She longed for the adventure of it. And indeed, the first few days after they set out were wonderful. The Rangers of Ithilien welcomed her warmly and treated her with respect, especially after they saw some of her skill with a sword.

On the fifth day, however, she went out with them to find many targets set up, and Rangers slinging quivers over their backs. Someone handed her a bow, and she took it blankly, wondering with bitter shame how she could have forgotten that this was a staple weapon of the Rangers. Her father had never cared for archery, nor had Éowyn ever taught her.

Elboron, apparently noticing her discomposure, approached her and asked in a low voice, "Are you not an archer, Gilraen?"

She felt her cheeks burning, but she made no reply. Was she not humiliated enough? Why must he draw even more attention to her? Already the men were murmuring among themselves, probably deciding that this woman should not be with them.

Elboron reached out for the bow, which she wordlessly handed to him, then he walked away with it. She realized with dismay that her days with these men were over already. Just as she opened her mouth to protest, to ask for a chance to learn, she noticed that Elboron had set down her bow and was lifting his great spear from the ground.

He approached her again, handed her the weapon, and announced loudly, "Lady Gilraen will use this time to practice with the spear instead, so that tomorrow morning she will be ready to train you all. For now, carry on as you were." He waved his hand, and the men turned their attention back to their archery as if nothing had happened.

Gilraen stared at Elboron, not knowing exactly what to say. Rather than criticizing her weakness with one weapon, he had emphasized her strength with another. "Why did you do that?" she asked finally. "Why did you not send me back to your parents, as I deserved?"

Elboron regarded her quietly, then said, "You are not here because I -- or any of these men -- want to test your worth. You are here to learn."

"But I cannot be part of this company of Rangers if I know nothing of archery," she protested. The last thing she wanted was for him to think that she wanted to be treated differently from the others, simply because she was a princess of Gondor.

"No, you cannot. That is why I will meet you here tonight, while the others are sleeping." He paused, then added, "Everyone has something to learn and something to teach. Be ready to demonstrate your skill with the spear tomorrow morning."

Gilraen smiled in spite of everything. "And when shall I sleep?"

"After you learn," he replied, "and before you teach."

Her smile widened. "Thank you, Captain." It wasn't until he had left her to her practice that she realized how selfish her question had been; thanks to her, he would have no sleep either.

True to his word, Elboron met her late that evening, carrying two bows and a quiver of arrows. He spent a few minutes showing her the most basic elements of stance, holding the bow, and fitting her arrows to the string. Her first few attempts to hit even the outer edges of the target failed miserably, and she didn't want to imagine what he thought of her.

"I can't do this," she sighed, dropping the bow to her side.

"If you really believe that, I can arrange for you to ride back in the morning."

His response had the intended effect. Gilraen lifted her chin and the bow simultaneously, aimed another arrow, and watched in frustration as it landed several yards past the target. She felt like a child again, though with her father she had never felt this need to prove herself. He was always proud of her, always supportive of her desire to be a warrior. Now, however, a Ranger captain watched her every move, no doubt deciding that he had overestimated her.

She started slightly when she felt Elboron step up behind her, fit an arrow to the bow, and draw back the string, his hands over both of hers. "Can you not see," he said, his voice quiet next to her ear, "how similar the arrow is to a spear? And yet unlike a spear, you don't have to do all the work. You don't have to throw it or charge at your adversary. You miss the target, Gilraen, because you are trying to do the work. Look down to the point of the arrow, as you would your spear, release it, and let it do everything for you. To be an archer, you must depend on the weapon, not your own strength."

Gilraen listened to his words, but only comprehended about half of them. She didn't know why it unsettled her to have him so near, or why she felt so disappointed when he stopped speaking. His hand still on hers, he drew back the string a little further, paused a moment, then released the arrow. Gilraen blinked as it shot past her and landed in the center of the target. Elboron stepped back, and Gilraen forced herself to concentrate again as he handed her another arrow. "Let the weapon do everything for you," he said.

After closing her eyes for a moment to collect her thoughts, Gilraen stared down the length of the arrow until it blurred, leaving only the target in focus. If aiming is the only part I play in using this weapon, I should do it right.She shot the arrow and watched, holding her breath, as it soared directly into the target, just a little to the right of center.

"I did it!" she exclaimed, dropping the bow without a second thought, turning, and throwing her arms around Elboron. Then Gilraen realized with a horrible jolt that this was not her father, not her friend Éomer or her mentor Éowyn, but the Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien. How could she have been so stupid... so completely childish?

She was about to step back, but to her surprise, Elboron returned her embrace. Gilraen relaxed against him, surprised that this should feel so comfortable and right, when the thought of it seemed exactly the opposite. She pulled back slightly and raised her head to meet his eyes.

"I-I'm sorry..." she stumbled. "I was just excited... I wasn't thinking." She gave a small laugh. "I must seem very silly to you." As she spoke, she expected him to release her and step back at any moment, but he didn't. She stilled once more. "My lord?"

It felt like an age before she realized that he was going to kiss her, though it could only have been a few seconds. His lips met hers lightly and briefly, and then it was over; but that small space of time was enough to make everything else in the world different, and certainly enough to make her wish he'd do it again.

To her disappointment, however, Elboron finally did take a step back from her, running a hand through his hair. "Forgive me," he said.

She felt the color rising in her cheeks. "I would forgive you," she replied, "if I were accustomed to forgiving people for doing good things."

His eyes met hers for a moment, and then he looked away again. "I shouldn't have done it."

Gilraen suddenly realized that perhaps he hadn't liked it as much as she had. Perhaps he considered it a mistake because she had disappointed him. "Did--did you not like it?" she asked in a small voice.

Again, his eyes were on hers. "I did like it," he told her steadily. "But I shouldn't have done it."

"I'm glad you did it," she protested, not even wanting to know how red her cheeks were, and grateful to the darkness for masking them somewhat.

He approached her again, but didn't touch her. "Gilraen, we can't do this," he said quietly. "Surely you understand why. You are the daughter of a king, and I am a captain of men who would not need much time to jump to conclusions about why I invited you to join us. If they saw us just once as we were a moment ago, it wouldn't matter how much I told them of your skill and bravery. Can you not see that for both of our sakes, this must not happen again?"

"If my presence here is on such shaky ground, and if it means that we cannot do what makes us happy, then I shouldn't be here. I shall return to your parents, and your men will have to suffer without their silly princess who can't fire an arrow."

She turned on her heel and took a step to leave him, but then she felt his hand on her arm, stopping her. Elboron stepped around her and laid his hands on her upper arms. "Gilraen, I don't want you to leave," he said quietly. "You would regret it, whether you admit it or not."

She said nothing, looking up at him with a mind full of humiliation and confusion. "I feel like a fool," she said finally. "An incapable child."

"You are neither," Elboron said. Then, to her complete delight, he kissed her again, just as softly as before, but lingering a little longer. "Stay your month and think of me only as your Captain. And I will regard you only as a shieldmaiden of Gondor, and as a fellow Ranger. After we return, we may decide what is best."

His counsel was reasonable, and she simply nodded. Then, smiling a little, she said, "But then I'll still have to learn archery."

The corner of his mouth tipped up. "A respectable shieldmaiden should know that anyway." After kissing her once more, as if it had to last him a long time, he moved away from her again and picked up her bow from the ground. "If you hit the target, we will call this lesson completed and go to sleep."

With the incentive of lying down and resting with her thoughts all to herself, Gilraen took the bow confidently, placed an arrow, and hit the target.

Barahir curled up under his blankets and looked up at his father, who leaned over him, tucking the blankets around him. "Is my birthday over now, Father?" he asked.

His father smiled. "It will be your birthday for another three hours. But I'm afraid that you'll sleep right through it."

"No, I won't!" Barahir protested. "I'll lie awake and make sure that I don't miss any of it."

Elboron laughed. "The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner you can wake up and play with your new bow."

At this thought, Barahir grinned broadly. "Are you and Mother going to teach me how to use it?"

"Of course! But I should tell you..." And with this, his father leaned in close and said in a low voice, "Pay more attention to what your mother says. She's much better at it than I am." Barahir smiled at that, then squirmed as his father kissed his forehead. "Good night, Son."

Chapter Text

Gilraen felt herself slipping into consciousness, and she opened her eyes slowly, blinking them often as they protested against the light. Then she remembered the night before and allowed her eyes to drift shut again as a smile slipped across her face. She imagined herself back with Elboron, with him standing behind her, speaking quietly into her ear, showing her how to hold a bow.

On one hand, she wanted to hurry out to the field with her spear, ready to face the other Rangers confidently... ready and eager to see Elboron again. On the other, she didn't know if she could face him without flushing or losing her composure. And how could she lose her composure when she had to prove herself to the other men? Sighing, she sat up stiffly and stretched her arms high over her head. She stood up with a yawn and dressed herself, then reached for her spear and strode from her small tent.

The sun had not yet risen, and shone with a soft pink glow from behind the trees. The grass, still wet with dew, brushed her boots and left small streaks and patterns on them. She knew that her hair, though pulled up, would curl in the warm, early morning humidity. No one else was out yet, and she smiled, grateful for the time to herself.

She set up one of the rough targets from the day before, positioned herself, and threw the spear easily into the center. This had been second nature to her for many years, and she repeated to herself that there was no reason to be nervous about looking like a fool.

"A fine shot," said a voice behind her, and she turned around, surprised.

"Thank you," she replied to the man. He looked much older than the other Rangers, and for the last several days, Gilraen had been quite curious to know who he was. She smiled and approached him, offering her hand. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I am Gilraen of Gondor."

"I know you, Princess Gilraen, and it is an honor," he said warmly. Instead of shaking her offered hand as a comrade, he bowed and kissed it. "I lived once in Gondor myself, though I have served Lord Faramir these many years. My name is Beregond."

Her eyes widened as recognition dawned on her. "You were the one who saved Faramir's life," she breathed. "My father told me the story so many times, I know it as well as my name. It is an honor, sir."

"The honor is mine, my lady." He studied her for a moment, then continued, "The Captain was right in asking you to join us. I hope you will decide to stay, as I have."

She flushed, both at the mention of Elboron and at the older man's praise. "I hope I am worthy, sir."

He laid a gentle hand on her arm and smiled at her. "Princess, I have bound myself to serving Lord Faramir, Lady Éowyn, and their son. There are no better judges of skill and character than they, and all three of them praise you. I have no doubt that you are worthy." He paused, smiled a little more, and continued, "Whether or not you are an archer."

Gilraen lifted her chin. "I will be an archer soon enough."

"I do not doubt it," Beregond laughed. "Elboron is a good teacher."

Gilraen looked away and pretended to adjust her tunic. "Yes," she said vaguely.

"He has a very high opinion of you, my lady, if you will permit my boldness in saying so. A very high opinion indeed." He paused a moment, waiting until she met his gaze again. "I don't know if you were aware of this, but no woman has ever been among our ranks, Princess. The young captain took a great risk in suggesting it, and an even greater risk in having you join us this month. And before I worry you," he added kindly, "you have done everything to justify his faith in you."

Lowering her eyes again, she said quietly, "I didn't know that I was the first. No wonder he..." She trailed off, remembering Elboron's grave concern about what the other men might think if they knew of their captain's interest in her. He had taken a chance on her, and she had complained about his caution like a petty child.

"There he is now," said Beregond cheerfully, motioning to Elboron's tent, from which the young man was just emerging. Elboron noticed them and joined them, and Gilraen noticed, with a slight pang of disappointment, that he avoided her eyes.

"Good morning," he said, his voice a little sleepy.

Beregond smiled. "Good morning, Captain. I was just introducing myself to Lady Gilraen, but I have duties to attend to now, before the others awaken."

"It has been a pleasure," Gilraen told him, offering her hand to him once more. He kissed it again, bowed slightly to Elboron, and strode away.

Gilraen and Elboron watched him leave, both paying rapt attention, as if determined to attach some vital significance to the event which would cover their awkward silence. Gilraen's stomach fluttered, but she had no idea what to say. Instead, she allowed her eyes to wander from Beregond's retreating figure to Elboron's profile. The sun had risen a little more, and now cast a soft, warm light on both of them. His hair was still a little askew from sleep, he had a quiver slung loosely over his back, and he held a spear in his hand.

At last, Beregond disappeared into one of the tents, and Elboron turned to her, meeting her gaze. Gilraen flushed, and for a moment she feared that what had happened last night was wrong... that he would tell her so in just a moment.

To her surprise, however, he smiled and said, "As accurate as ever."

"What?" she asked, furrowing her brow in confusion.

Elboron nodded his head towards the target, where her spear still jutted from the center.

Gilraen relaxed a little and finally allowed herself to laugh. "I won't be as accurate when all those men are watching me," she said lightly, hoping he couldn't see how nervous she actually was.

They stood in silence for a few moments, now both watching the target as they had watched Beregond. "Gilraen..." Elboron began.

She looked at him, realizing that this was what she had dreaded. "I know," she sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have..."

"No," he said quickly, "you mistake me. I wanted to tell you that what happened last night... I wanted to make sure you know that when your month with us is over..." He paused, running a hand through his hair and throwing it even more askew. "Gilraen, when our circumstances change, I want to spend time with you."

She didn't even want to know how scarlet her face must be, but she forced herself to keep her eyes on his. "I want that, too."

Elboron smiled, but took a few steps back from her and said in the voice he often used with his men, "Carry on with your practice, then." He glanced quickly again at the target and added, "Not that you need it."

"Thank you, Captain," she said, bowing her head slightly.

Barahir looked up at his mother, watching her face intently as she told him the story of the man who saved his grandfather's life. "Why did my great-grandfather want to kill him?" he asked.

"He thought everyone was going to die anyway," Gilraen replied. "He wanted his son to die with him, in peace, so he wouldn't be tortured by evil people."

"But he died by himself."

"Yes," said Gilraen quietly, "he died by himself. And my father healed Faramir and Éowyn."

Barahir smiled. "And that's why we have Father."

"Yes," Gilraen laughed.

"I want to meet Beregond. Does he live here still?"

Gilraen's face darkened, and she looked down. "No, he died a few years ago. A few years before you were born." Then she continued, her voice barely audible, "And that's also why we have Father."

"What do you mean, Mother?" he asked, sitting up. "What happened?"

"Don't worry, darling." She guided him back down and arranged his blankets around him again. "You need to sleep."

"But I'm not tired."

"Not tired?" came a voice from the doorway.

Barahir and Gilraen both smiled at Elboron as he entered the room. "Not tired," Barahir repeated, giggling, as Elboron leaned over him and tickled him.

"Do you know what happens to little boys who aren't tired?"

"What?" he asked, squirming.

"They are given all the work in the kingdom, so that the people who doget tired can rest." Elboron stood and looked down at him, eyebrows raised. "What do you think, love?" he asked, turning to Gilraen. "Is Barahir old enough to do the job where the men climb trees with heavy bricks on their backs?"

"Yes, I think he could do it," Gilraen mused. "I know some of them are verytired, and would love to give the job to someone else."

"No!" Barahir protested. "I'm tired, very tired!"

His father grinned, leaned over him again, and ruffled his hair. Barahir curled onto his side and watched as his father slipped an arm around his mother's waist and kissed her. She put her arms around Elboron's neck and looked down at Barahir. "Good night, darling," she smiled.

"Good night," he said. Then he added just as she was closing his door, "I want to hear the rest of the story tomorrow."

Chapter Text

Gilraen slid her sword into its sheath and reached for her quiver, still in disbelief that she was beginning her last full day with the Rangers. The past weeks had been wonderful, to be sure, if not quite as exciting and dangerous as she'd expected. She had anticipated fighting -- going to sleep at night with memories of a day full of adventure and risk. Instead, it had been almost like the training she'd done all her life with her father, Éomer, and Faramir. The only difference, in fact, was that here she had been lonely.

The Rangers treated her with the utmost respect and kindness, but she had no friends. Elboron could have been good company, but since the night of her first archery lesson, he had carefully avoided her and had spoken to her only when necessary. She knew why he stayed away, but it didn't help her feel better. Only the older man Beregond had made efforts to talk to her, but his time was limited. In all her excitement about joining the Rangers, Gilraen never thought that she'd look forward to the end of the month. She never imagined that she would prefer Faramir's quiet tutoring to practicing with the sword, spear, and bow; but neither had she imagined the solitude.

She secured the quiver and set out to join the others, but stopped short when she saw Elboron and Beregond running towards her. "Gilraen," Elboron called, still running, "stay here."

"What is it?" she asked anxiously when they reached her. Neither was even looking at her, but glancing off sharply in many directions around them. "Elbor--"

"Stay here," he repeated. "There are orcs nearby. They ambushed one of the men and killed him."

Orcs! Her heart thrilled at the idea of facing the creatures she'd heard so much about in legends and stories. Now she would finally have a chance to kill one of her own. "Don't fear for me," she said eagerly. "I am ready to fight with you!"

Elboron's eyes locked on hers at last. "Absolutely not," he said firmly.

"What!" she protested. "Why not?" Behind Elboron, Beregond took a few steps back and continued looking around, though he seemed uncomfortable.

"I don't have time to argue with you. I must go immediately to join the others. They've formed a circle around the center of camp, so you will be safe."

"Why can't I fight?" she snapped furiously. "Why am I any different from the others?"

Elboron frowned. "First, you are not a Ranger. Second, you are the daughter of King Elessar, whom I have sworn to protect. Third..." He paused, then continued in a more hardened voice, "if you werethe same as the others, you would not have dared to speak to me in the way you just did. Now stay here."

She lifted her chin. "And what is to stop me from joining the others?"

"If your senses of duty and right don't stop you," he said coldly, "Beregond will." He turned and laid a hand on the older man's shoulder. "I am sorry, Beregond, but would you do me the favor of staying here to guard the princess?"

Gilraen felt the full force of the intentional sting, but kept her back straight and her chin high.

Beregond's face was impassive. "Of course, Captain. Be careful."

"Thank you," Elboron replied, his voice possessed once again of its usual warmth. He seemed ready to run towards the others, but instead turned once more to Gilraen. He met her eyes, glanced off in the distance, then met her eyes again. For a moment, she thought he was changing his mind, but he finally said quietly, "Try to understand." Then he turned and left them at a fast run.

Gilraen looked after him angrily, then turned to Beregond. "If I weren't so fond of you," she said bitterly, "I would go after him."

"And if I weren't so fond of you, I would let you," he replied.

She was about to retort, but thought better of it and looked at the ground instead.

Beregond took a few steps nearer to her. "I know you are frustrated, my lady. It cannot be easy to train all your life, then have to stay behind at your first chance to put your skills to good use." He paused. "But can you not understand why he told you to stay? I told you before of the great risk he took in allowing you to join us for the past weeks. Can you imagine if he returned tomorrow and had to inform his parents -- and your parents, who will also surely be there to congratulate you -- that he failed to protect the daughter of the King? For all your skill and bravery, my lady, you are not yet a Ranger, and it is Captain Elboron's duty to keep you safe. If anything were to happen to you, think of the scorn and shame that would meet him."

Gilraen's eyes once again found her feet, and she could feel her face burning with shame. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I'm just tired of being protected when I know I can fight. Please forgive me for being so childish."

He surprised her by raising her chin with his finger. "There was a young lady very much like you, and she killed the Witch King of Angmar." Gilraen smiled at him. "As for being protected," he continued, "you will be protected by others even when you are a Ranger. We all protect each other; even the captain is protected." He returned her smile. "That is my duty. I protect Elboron's life, just as I protected his father's."

"Go to him, then," she said quietly. "He needs you."

Beregond looked at her for a few seconds. "I can only do that if you promise to stay here, as he asked."

"You have my word, sir."

Gilraen kept her word, pacing the small clearing in frustration, her hand ready on the hilt of her sword should any orcs make their way past Elboron's men. As it turned out, however, she had little more than an hour to wait before the Rangers began to appear in a haphazard circle, closing in towards her. Among them was Elboron, who appeared to have injured his leg, and walked with the support of one of the men.

He and a few men disappeared inside his tent, and Gilraen resorted once again to pacing. One by one, the men left his tent only five minutes later. Taking a calming breath, she approached it and stopped just outside. "Captain?" she said quietly, suddenly realizing that he was probably resting.

"Come in, Gilraen," he replied.

She slipped in and found him lying on a pile of blankets, though he sat up, wincing, as she entered. "Should I come back another time?" she asked quickly.

"No, no, please," he said. "I need to talk to you."

She felt sick, and was grateful when he motioned for her to sit down. She sank to the hard ground across from him and kept her eyes lowered. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

"I would have let you fight if I could. I hope you know that. But I didn't ask you to stay so that you could apologize. I just wanted to thank you for deciding to stay behind, so that Beregond could rejoin me." He was quiet for a moment and motioned to his leg. "He saved my life."

Gilraen's eyes widened. "What happened?"

"I was attacked and wounded, quite simply. And Beregond--" He seemed to have a catch in his throat, and paused to clear it. "Beregond moved in to save me."

Gilraen smiled. "He told me it is his duty to protect you."

Elboron met her eyes, and she noticed how tired he looked. "Gilraen, he's dead."

She opened her mouth, but could make no sound. Every part of her seemed numb, except for a dull pain in her chest.

"He risked his life for my father," Elboron continued, "and gave it up for me. It doesn't seem... right, does it?" He lowered his face into one of his hands, and Gilraen sat in silence. "I am a captain, I shouldn't... I should be accustomed... I've known him all my life..."

Gilraen closed the few feet of distance between them and wrapped her arms around him, holding him as he leaned his forehead on her shoulder and wept quietly. If this had been any other day -- if this had been tomorrow, the day of their happy return -- she would have thrilled at the idea of holding him finally. She closed her eyes and thought of Beregond, trying to settle in her mind this horrible sensation of feeling guilty about doing the right thing. If she hadn't come to her senses and let Beregond go, Elboron would have died. And yet... couldn't there have been another way?

He gradually became still and quiet, and Gilraen wondered if he had fallen asleep. But eventually, he lifted his head and looked at her, touching her cheek with his fingertips.

"Elboron," she said softly, "you need to rest."

"This is rest," he replied, kissing her briefly.

Again, she thought of how different it should be, this kiss she had anticipated for weeks, and had imagined romantically in Éowyn's garden, or in Faramir's library. This wasn't at all romantic, but it felt more substantial somehow.

She moved back a little. "Please lie down and sleep. We have a long journey this evening and tomorrow."

He did as she told him without a word of protest, though he winced again at the movement of his leg. Without taking the time for a second thought, Gilraen reached over and began undoing the hastily wrapped bandage.

"What are you doing?" he asked vaguely.

"'The hands of the King are the hands of a healer,'" she recited. "And the king taught his daughter well. Now go to sleep."

Though his curiosity at her dealings with his wound seemed to win over his exhaustion for a few minutes, Elboron was soon sound asleep. Gilraen made quick work of cleaning and bandaging his leg, then slipped out of the tent.

Several yards away, a few Rangers stood, and they turned to her with unreadable expressions. Gilraen flushed and opened her mouth to assure them of her honorable reasons for being there, when one of them spoke first.

"My lady, the captain... how is he?"

"He is well and sleeping," she replied, relieved.

They bowed to her and walked away together, apparently having gathered the simple assurance they wanted. Gilraen returned to her tent, went in, and finally shed her own tears for Beregond.

Chapter Text

Gilraen sighed and drew her knees up to her chest, leaning her head down on them and closing her eyes. She loved Éowyn's garden, and tonight it provided just the solitude and peaceful quiet she longed for after a long, difficult day. Their return to the city had been very different from what she expected. In her daydreams, she had imagined them returning in the highest of spirits, and herself rushing into the arms of her proud parents. But with Beregond's death weighing heavily on them all, and the prospect of announcing this unhappy news to the people, their return was solemn and quiet. The people of the city had been ready to meet them with excited faces, to be sure, but that happiness had lasted only a few minutes.

Aragorn and Arwen had been standing beside Faramir and Éowyn, and for a moment, Gilraen had allowed herself to swell with happiness at the looks of pride on their faces. But then her eyes had shifted to a man standing near Faramir -- Bergil, who was searching the crowd of Rangers for his father.

Elboron stepped forward and bowed to his parents, then embraced them both. He turned towards Bergil, and Gilraen bit her lip as he drew the man aside, away from the crowd. Faramir seemed deeply affected; Gilraen had watched as he touched Éowyn's cheek briefly, then turned and walked inside alone. Beregond had been one of his dearest friends.

Her parents and Celebrian had spent the day with her, and in most respects, it had been a lovely time. Now, however, she was weary and discouraged. She didn't feel like a warrior, much less like a Ranger. She felt like a silly girl who had made a nuisance of herself, and even her father's words of pride had failed to cheer her. And nothing made her feel sillier than the pang of jealousy that pricked her heart when she saw Elboron and Celebrian walking in the garden earlier.

She had seen practically nothing of Elboron since the day before, when she'd left him alone in his tent. She thought it quite likely that he wanted nothing more to do with her.

"Gilraen?"

She did not lift her head, but opened her eyes to see her mother approaching her. Arwen sat down beside her, the light material of her dress floating around her. Gilraen had always admired her mother's grace - a quality she knew she would never possess.

"You look tired," said Arwen softly, tracing her fingers lightly along Gilraen's hairline. Gilraen didn't reply, but moved her head slightly in a kind of nod. "I am grateful that you are here with us, safe. And your father is so very proud." Arwen smiled fondly.

"I am no warrior," Gilraen sighed. "Before this month, everything was clear, but now I don't know what I am anymore."

"Why do you say that? From all I have heard, you are a great warrior, in the tradition of your father's people."

"I have no desire to fight."

Arwen was silent for a long time, then said slowly, "Your mind has always known that warriors die, but yesterday your heart learned it too." She paused again. "Sometimes we can know things... know that we are going to die, that we are going to suffer, and yet we are still caught unaware."

"I cannot be a warrior. I can continue to study, but my knowledge is useless."

"That would be a great waste."

Both Gilraen and Arwen looked up, startled to find that they weren't alone. Elboron stood in the shadows, and he still wore the same weary, troubled expression that had haunted his features since the day before.

"Forgive me," he said, approaching them. "I have not been intruding. I heard only the princess' claim that she cannot be a warrior. And begging your pardon, but I must disagree."

Arwen rose, and Elboron bowed to her. "Do not apologize," she said. "Perhaps the word of a fellow warrior would ease my daughter's mind in a way that a mother cannot."

Gilraen hardly noticed when her mother left them, nor did she feel uncomfortable at the silence that stretched thinly between Elboron and herself.

And then she heard Elboron's voice. "My grandfather despaired when he lost someone in battle. And it almost drove him to kill his own son."

"But Beregond was there," Gilraen said softly.

She straightened and tensed a little when he sat down beside her. "I hope your mother is right," he mused. "I hope my words can ease your mind where hers cannot. Will you continue to fight if a Captain thinks you should?"

"No," she replied, her voice barely audible.

He turned her face towards his. "But you are a Ranger. You cannot shirk your duty."

"I am no Ranger," she said shakily, finding it increasingly hard to concentrate when his eyes were so intent upon hers. "I'm a princess who played at it for a month."

His hand was still on her face, and she suddenly became more conscious of his thumb on her cheek, his fingers light on her neck. "You area Ranger," he said. "The men decided on it today."

Her eyes widened. "They did? But... but I cannot fire an arrow, and after what I did yesterday..." She paused, realizing that there was something she hadn't yet said. "I'm sorry, Elboron."

"You have no idea how badly I wanted to let you fight. You reminded me of my mother."

She smiled. "Really?"

"Yes... you were very stubborn."

They both laughed, and then his face grew serious again. "Will you join us?"

"If you want me," she replied, looking away.

"I do want you."

Gilraen moved her eyes back to meet his, and found them on her lips. "Elboron," she whispered. "Do you mean..."

"Yes," he said, and she had no idea what her question was, nor what exactly he had answered, because he kissed her, and she found herself unable to think.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer to her, marveling at the way his feelings could pour into her, as if their connection was more than physical. She felt his grief for Beregond, and his weariness at the day's events. She wondered if he, in turn, could feel the depth of her insecurity.

"What about us?" she asked, pulling away from him a little, though her lips still brushed his. "If I join the Rangers, what about us?"

"My men respect you," he replied, "and they trust me. We can spend time together without betraying their respect and trust." Elboron smiled. "If my parents could kiss on the battlements before all of Minas Tirith, I am sure it would do no harm if I embraced you during archery practice."

"It might do a great deal of harm if I were holding an arrow at the time," she grinned, pulling him to her again.