Summary: Mordor fell and Elessar was new-crowned, but even peace had its own dangers. Months after the coronation, the King and his Lord Steward faced their first test in the form of one Man’s greed.

Rated: PG-13

Categories: LOTR FPS Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir

Warnings: None

Challenges:

Series: None

Chapters: 3 Completed: Yes

Word count: 17609 Read: 1459

Published: 23 Aug 2012 Updated: 23 Aug 2012

The Uruk-hai’s grin was ugly and foul. The little ones were gone, carried away by orcs while Boromir had faltered from the two arrows buried in his chest.

Boromir knew that his end had come for him; he was only glad that it was in battle. He knew that he deserved no songs, no accolades, for he had lost his honour from the moment he had leapt at Frodo, craving for the Ring that hung on its silver chain on the hobbit’s neck. His lungs ached with each breath, but the Uruk-Hai was nocking its bow once more. Boromir looked his adversary in the eye, resigned to his fate. His honour was already lost.

Then came Aragorn, his sword swinging in the mid-morning sunshine, chipped and dull yet beautiful and deadly still. Boromir watched with fading sight as his Captain took down the Uruk-hai, shoving a sword into his chest then cutting off his head. He heard his own name being called, but it was faint, barely audible, drowned out by the gurgle he could hear in his own lungs, the blood he tasted at the back of his throat.

“Boromir!”

“They took the little ones,” said Boromir, gathering all of his strength to speak.

Aragorn hushed him, “Don’t speak.” His hands moved to the arrows, lightly touching against the wounds, and Boromir’s back arched at the pain, and blood bubbled at his lips as he tried to draw in more breath.

“It is too late now.”

“No,” Aragorn said, and his eyes were fierce and bright upon Boromir’s own. He lifted Boromir’s shoulder, and before another protest could form on the Steward’s Son’s lips, he was snapping the shafts until there were no feathers left. Then he pushed, and Boromir felt the arrowhead pierce through flesh and lung and bone until it came out on the other side, but he held back the scream. He had no right to make a sound from pain.

He only said: “I tried to take the Ring from Frodo,” and he condemned himself with those words.

“Quiet, quiet—worry not, Boromir. The Ring is out of our reach now,” Aragorn laid his hands on him, calluses on his skin, and Boromir breathed and felt their warmth sink inside him. It was more—much more—than he deserved.

“Forgive me, I have failed you all.”

“You fought bravely. You have kept your honour,” Aragorn said, and desperation strangled his voice.

“It is over,” he said, and he could already see it behind his eyelids, the great White Tower collapsing in flames as his world was drowned in the blood of Men. “The world of Men will fall, and all will come to darkness, and the city to ruin—”

“Boromir!” Aragorn pulled at his tunic, moved to his face to cup it until Boromir had no choice but to look at him. There was brightness in Aragorn’s eyes that hinted of tears, but it could not be—it could not, for Boromir was worth no such grief, not from a Man like Aragorn.

“I know not what strength is in my blood,” said Aragorn, his voice hoarse and his fingers shaking on Boromir’s chest, “but I swear to you that I will not let the White City fall, or our people to fail. I will not let you fail, Boromir. In turn, you must not fail me!”

“Our people,” he murmured, and he reached out and clasped Aragorn hard onto the shoulder, holding his gaze. It was an unspoken promise on both sides, and it warmed his heart greater than Aragorn’s hands on his skin. “Our people.”

He did not see Legolas and Gimli’s approach, but he heard Aragorn’s begging: for Legolas to find kingsfoil, for the dwarf to build a fire. He did not see Aragorn make the poultices, wet with Anduin’s waters, to be bound across his chest, on the wounds. He barely felt Gimli taking his hand, nearly crushing the bones with how hard he had grasped it, because they had already lost Gandalf, and the thought of losing another of their own was far too much to bear. He did not smell the poultices when they started to stink as badly as the orc corpses around them, having pulled out all of the poisons until Aragorn had to use a cloth to peel them off his skin. He did not see Aragorn’s eyes, vivid blue with desperation and darkened with guilt, as he pressed an ear to Boromir’s chest and felt him take a breath—but only one lung moved.

Boromir only knew that it took a great effort to not make a sound of complaint. His pride was rent, scattered in pieces at Frodo’s feet, and the only manner left to him to prove to himself that he was a man of valour. He did not say a single word, but he fought the poisons with everything he had. He fought, for he had made a promise to his uncrowned King. He would not fall; not here, not before he reached his White City and watched Aragorn crowned.

He knew naught after that, for his eyes failed him, and he slipped into a healing stupor.

Later, Legolas would tell him that Aragorn had taken his hand, kissing the knuckles torn by constant battles. Later, Gimli would swear that he saw Aragorn weep, and in his weeping shed the disguise of the Ranger of the North, for it was then that he swore to become a King worthy of the Steward’s Son who had fallen to Isildur’s Bane but had enough strength and honour to claw himself back out.

Later, Boromir would wake, asking for the little ones, and they would stumble, as swift-footed as they dared, towards Isengard. Boromir would not let himself rest, despite his injuries, and to aid his efforts Aragorn used every trick he had learned from Elrond Half-Elven, the greatest healer of Middle Earth.

Later, the Riders of Rohan would meet them, and …omer Horse-Lord would give Aragorn another new name—Wingfoot—for his speed. He would name his friend Boromir Half-Breath for his injuries and Boromir the Valiant for his efforts in trying to rescue two little Halflings.

***

There were children in Gondor who had never seen the skies cleared, always had they been covered by the grey and black of Mordor, the Shadows veiling even the sun. Yet King Elessar lived up to his mother's name of Estel, for with his reign came the sun that peeped out from the dark clouds to shine upon the city, and the heavens were so striking clear that there were no cloud to be seen. The winds blew gently through the gates, cooling the sun's heat, and many of the older folk swore that they had not seen such good weather in an age.

Boromor noticed none of it. He noted that his sword gleamed brighter than usual in the sun's light, but he simply shifted his wrist, turning the glare from his eyes, and pressed on. His feet danced against the grass of the inner gardens of the Steward's House, creating a breeze stronger than anything the far-off sea could bring. He brought the sword downwards, cutting down an imaginary enemy, turning with strong hips as he swung it with one arm, slicing through another’s torso. It was a beautiful, deadly dance, and the Lord Steward’s hair was a burnished gold, slicked against his skin from sweat. His chest heaved hard, fighting for breath, and eyes unknowing would not have noticed the brief trembling of his wrist.

His watcher knew him well, however. Aragorn stepped away from the wall where he had hidden himself as he watched Boromir’s silent battle, reaching forward and curling his fingers around his Steward’s wrist, holding it still. Their eyes met for a long moment before Boromir sighed quietly, lowering his sword and sliding it back to its sheath. On his neck the Evenstar, seated on its Elven-wrought chain alongside the green Ring of Barahir, glinted in the sunlight.

“Aye,” said Boromir, careful to not press a hand against the wounds that still ached so long after their closing. He flashed Aragorn a smile. “There is the Council to meet. You will see your first pensioners today, milord.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, “I have met enough of those in my days in Ecthelion’s court, Boromir. As I recall, they are not as fearsome as you make them out to be.”

“’Tis my grandfather’s attention they sought at the time, and they knew his stern ways. They know not yours, hence they will wish to take as much advantage as they could while you still looked for your feet in Gondor.” Boromir shook his head. “Be wary.”

Turning around, Aragorn took his hand. He raised it to his lips, brushing against the callused knuckles. “I have you by my side, my Steward,” murmured he. “I fear naught.”

Boromir shook his head, but he could not help the fond smile as he stepped closer to his sworn Captain, his crowned King. “Faramir will be of greater aid to you this morn, milord, for I have always fared badly with the Council.”

Aragorn reached out, his fingers curling around the joined jewels on Boromir’s neck. “Ah, but Boromir,” he said, as solemnly as he could, “‘tis not counsel I need from you, but your impatience, your scowl, your unquiet sigh, and all else you have given me, whether in Caradhas, Edoras or the Pelennor Fields itself, when you believed I was dallying making a decision of sense.”

“Ah,” said Boromir, as if suddenly knowing. His eyes sparkled, a green as deep as the sea his mother had once loved. “I am to be your amusement in Council?”

“Nay,” said Aragorn, kissing his fingers once more. “You are my Lord Steward and you shall be my advisor. We shall hurry, or else we will be late.”

Boromir took a step back, and gave him a deep bow, “Aye, milord.”

***

Above, shaded by a great lebethron, Lord Elrond of Imladris stepped back from the balcony looking over the gardens. He was frowning deeply, hands tight by his sides as he turned around, stepping past the threshold into the temporary quarters of his daughter, Arwen Undómiel.

The new Queen had papers strewn over her wooden desk, her silk sleeves folded back to expose pale, slender wrists as she looked through the accounts of the royal household. Many parts of the Citadel had fallen in disrepair during the periods of long war, and the King’s apartments needed to be refitted and, in many cases, rebuilt entirely from the old designs. It had been nearly a thousand years since a King had sat upon a throne; longer still had the King’s Chambers and the Queen’s Bower been abandoned. If Aragorn had Minas Tirith and Gondor as a whole to heal and rebuild, then Arwen had the Citadel to do the same.

At her father’s sigh, Arwen raised her head, eyes as blue as the night sky enquiring.

“He has dishonoured you,” her father bit out the words, slamming his hand against the table. His daughter immediately steadied the papers that threatened to fall off before she sighed quietly, placing her quill on its seat as she stood.

“Nay, father, he has not.”

Elrond almost trembled with anger, his eyes narrowing as he stared towards the direction the lovers had gone. “You have Chosen for him, my daughter, and yet he gives you only half of his heart. He gives your gift to a Man who holds his affections.”

“Adar,” said Arwen Undómiel, tipping her head up, looking Elrond in the eye, truly the same daughter who had once begged him to send Narsil to the Elven smiths to be reforged into Anduril, Flame of the West. “Boromir wears the Evenstar on his throat with my blessings.”

“Estel might be Elven-bred, but I should have known that the hearts of Men will always be fickle,” he turned around, and his face was twisted in anguish and worry for his daughter, who had drank from the same cup as Lúthien had, but who was still Elven enough to die of grief. “I should not have—”

“Adar,” Arwen interrupted him, reaching out with a hand to gently place upon his. “Adar, their love brings no grief to me.”

Elrond’s eyes widened, “You call that love?”

“Aye,” replied she. “’Tis a love that began in the forests of Parth Galen; Estel admits this tale freely.”

“’Tis been five hundred and nine years since Celebrian has sailed West,” Elrond murmured, turning to look out to the empty garden. “I have waited for her all these long years, and I know in Valinor, over the seas, she too waits for me, for our race love one and only one in our entire lives. Yet Aragorn has parted from you for but days, and has found another to warm his bed in that time.”

Arwen shook her head; she knew her father was not listening, but she had to try. She stepped around the desk, barefoot against the cold polished wood of the apartments, her silks trailing at her ankles. She took her father’s hands.

“Do you remember, Adar? I have long been helpless to urge Estel to take up his destiny and believe in the worth of the race of Men. He had feared so much the perceived weakness shared by Isildur and the Nine Kings. It was Boromir who showed him the valour and honour of Men, and led him to this crown and throne. I fault the son of Gondor nothing.”

Elrond turned, and his eyes were cold. His fingers curled around Arwen’s cheek, and he flinched at the mortality he could feel on the skin.

“You should, my daughter. Fault him, and fault Aragorn too, for he is as faithless as I feared all Men are, and he has betrayed you,” his hand dropped to his side. “If you do not, then I shall in your stead.”

With that, the Lord of Rivendell left the chambers of Gondor’s Queen, his daughter looking after him with frustration and no little hint of worry and despair.

***

Gimli was scowling up a storm into his ale, looking a rather ferocious sight in the corner of the tavern. Yet Legolas knew his Elf-friend well by now, and worried not for his reception, taking a seat next to the dwarf. He sipped at his own ale, careful to not make a face at the taste lest he insulted the barkeep, while he waited for Gimli to begin.

It did not take a very long time.

“Elf,” began Gimli, his voice so low it was almost drowned in his beard and the cheerful noise of the tavern. “I have a question for you, because even though you’re a silly Elf with too long legs, you know Men better than I do.”

Legolas ignored the insults, tipping his head to the side in question. He already suspected what Gimli might say, but their journey together long accustomed him to waiting for the dwarf to speak at a time of his own choosing.

“The walls need to be rebuilt, and I was talking to the smiths—Men they might be, but they do know their craft well—when a few of the guards started talking. Men never think to look down.” He shook his head irritably, “But what they said…”

He scowled into his ale again.

“Aye,” replied Legolas, his own voice low. “I know your next words, Gimli, for I have heard them as well. They said that Elessar King won his throne through seduction alone; that the Lord Steward is naught but an enchanted cripple; that they are both unfit to rule.” He paused, “Though I believed I heard it on the Pelennor, amongst soldiers who were picking arrows from the corpses to be reused.”

“And these are the same Men who followed Aragorn willingly towards the Black Gates! Now that the Enemy is defeated, they gossip worse than careless dwarves.” Gimli slammed his empty tankard onto the table. Luckily, there were enough boisterous guests doing the same, so he attracted no attention.

Legolas shook his head. In that moment, he was acutely aware of his youth; of the long time he spent in Mirkwood as a warrior, knowing and seeing little of the world outside his father’s lands. “I know not the answer to their actions, Gimli, but I need not my eyes to tell that there is trouble in the future.”

“Aye,” stated Gimli. He wiped ale from his beard with one stout hand. “’Tis a good thing that we have delayed our return back to the Mountains and Mirkwood, then.”

“We have?”

The dwarf snorted, “If you want to return home, do so on your own. I’m staying in Minas Tirith until this business is done. Besides, there is masonry to look at and walls to rebuild—I want to know what skills these Men have.”

Legolas wisely kept his silence, and did not mention the crease between Gimli’s brows, caused by his worry for their friends.

***

“There is one other matter, my King.”

Elessar, already tired from a lovely morning wasted shut between stones with the Council, looked up. He made sure not to frown at the man who spoke, unable to think of his name; he was not one whom he knew during his time as Thorongil, though his features stirred a memory. Boromir, seated at his right as due his position of Steward, came to his rescue.

“Speak your piece, Councilman Pelendur.”

Pelendur bowed, keeping his eyes low as his spoke. “’tis but a small matter, milords. I have but a small matter to report—it seemed the soldiers and the common folk grow uneasy. They know you not, and, it is said, that ‘twas the Lord Steward's heart that was won rather than his reason, and ‘twas how you won the throne.”

There was a sharp intake of breath throughout the Council. Elessar made to raise a hand for silence, but Imrahil, who had known him since his days as his own Captain within the Ithilien Rangers, spoke.

“You are forgiven for your words, milord,” the title sounded as an insult on Imrahil’s tongue as his grey eyes flashed, “for I did not recall seeing your face at the Black Gates where Elessar King had led the armies to face the Enemy. You were absent when the Lord Steward cut off the Enemy's own Mouth with but a single swing of his sword. Be wary of your words.”

“Forget not too that it is our King and Lord Steward who won the heart of Rohan at Helm's Deep,” Faramir spoke, his soft voice carrying throughout the Council from his position at Aragorn’s left. “Three hundred Men and a small Elven army against ten thousand Orcs. It was for that victory that Rohan came to our aid at Pelennor. Without their aid, I believe more have died and the Army of the Dimholt Road would have come too late.”

Elessar made to thank them for their words, but Boromir placed a hand upon the table and stood. All eyes were on him in an instant, “King Elessar led the Oathbreakers, carrying Anduril, Narsil Reforged. Only Isildur’s heir is capable of doing either. Do not forget: ‘twas not my words, much less my heart or reason, that led the winged crown to be placed on Elessar King’s brow, but the laws of Gondor themselves.”

“Of course, milord. I only report the careless mutterings I have heard,” murmured Palendur, bowing lowly. When he straightened, his eyes found Aragorn’s unerringly, holding the gaze with a daring that went above his station as Guardian of Coin. “The White Tree blooms. The people have no other need for proof.”

Elessar held the gaze until Pelendur looked away.

“If the matter is settled?” he said, standing up from behind the desk as he cast his gaze from one Councillor to another. None spoke, and he nodded.

“I shall be making an inspection of the rebuilding of the walls before the scheduled inspection of the troops. Good morn, Councillors.”

The Council bowed as one, and Elessar exited the room, Boromir at his heels. Imrahil swept towards them almost immediately, and Aragorn—Elessar no longer, King carriage shed the moment he had dismissed the Council—turned a startled look at him. Imrahil met his gaze for a mere moment before he turned quickly, heading towards the Tower of Ecthelion. Aragorn, knowing that he had something of import to say, followed him.

The guards had barely closed the doors of the empty Tower behind them before Imrahil turned around, bowing immediately to Aragorn.

“My apologies, milord. I misspoke during the Council, jumping to your defence thus.”

“Nay, do not apologise,” said Aragorn, reaching out to urge his old comrade to rise. “’Twas a pleasure to learn that I deserve such praise.”

Imrahil shook his head, “I fear our audience would not take it as such.”

“Pelendur was not a man familiar to me, though I know the name. It is an old one of great repute.” Aragorn paused, and continued softly, “Pelendur, Kinstrife Avoider, Breaker of the Line.”

“You might not know him, but Thorongil might have known his father,” Boromir spoke for the first time since they had entered the Tower. He paced back and forth, looking from his uncle to his King then back. “The Guardian of the Coin is a hereditary post, and his father was named Aranphir.”

“Aye, I remember him, though I have met him but twice,” Aragorn frowned. “There is little to remind me of the Man, but the name is a memorable one. Aranphir, the fading away of the King; the fall of the line of Kings. This line has given its sons arrogant names.”

“’Tis not merely the names that are arrogant,” Imrahil snorted, though his tone was grave still. “In the times since the Watchful Peace, the Steward oft was preoccupied with the army and the defence of our walls, leaving the matters of trades and taxes to other Councilmen. The Guardian of the Coin wielded an especial great power across the land, for it was through his efforts that the coffers were filled with enough gold for the army’s upkeep.”

Boromir shook his head, and took up the tale. “My father had always kept a close eye on the taxes, but in recent years… The Shadows grew nearer and stronger, and his attentions were drawn away by the palantir.”

“If he has so much power,” said Aragorn, “then why has he not made his voice heard louder before this Council?”

“’Tis his way,” Boromir sighed quietly. “I rare remember his voice being raised in my father’s Council; he prefers speaking to my Father or the other Councillors in private.”

“I like him not,” Imrahil clenched his fists. “He plans for your ill, milord, and now he knows—”

“Wherefore do you apologise, Prince of Dol Amroth?”

Imrahil looked from his King to the Lord Steward before he heaved a quiet sigh. “I have known you since your days as Thorongil, my lord King, and I believe that the Man I saw then is the same now. I know you too, Boromir, ever since your birth. Pelendur might have overstepped his bounds, but ‘tis as clear as the Evenstar on your throat that what he says is true: the love you hold for each other extends more than the love between comrades.”

Aragorn’s gaze immediately turned, watching as Boromir inhaled sharply, his lips parting to speak—

“Nay, do not fear,” Imrahil held up a hand. “I judge you not.”

Boromir’s eyes burned, and he turned his gaze to his King. “’Tis but one solution—”

“Nay,” Aragorn stopped him before he could continue; before he could say the words that would damage what they have between them. “What manner will my reign be if I allow the fear of one Man to dictate my actions? Pelendur claims to speak for the soldiers and the people—let us test his claim.”

“If his claim be true?” Boromir asked, his voice low and quiet.

“At Council you said that my worth was proven in my heritage, but I will prove that false. I am King, and ‘tis my rule itself that I will prove my world. There is no doubt that my reign s bettered with my loyal Steward by my side rather than without.” He reached out and, wary of Imrahil’s eyes, clasped Boromir tightly on the shoulder.

“I will not let you go.”

***

Edoras was stripped, and on Aragorn’s neck the Evenstar no longer hung. It had dropped where he knew not when the warg had carried him off the cliff.

Arwen had came to him in his forced sleep, pressing a cool kiss on his lips that had him opening his eyes. He was not surprised—she had walked beside him throughout this Quest, giving him encouragement in his dreams, urging him on when he thought his feet too weary to take another step. Yet he was surprised at the next spectre that appeared—Boromir, standing tall and hale, his breath whole with his hand reaching for Aragorn’s. On his neck hung the Evenstar. Aragorn took that hand, feeling leather around his fingers, and pulled himself up.

When he woke, his hand was clasped tight around Brego’s reins, and his friend was nosing his face. Aragorn forced himself to his feet and climbed onto the noble steed, and rode towards Helm’s Deep. He remembered Boromir; remembered kneeling next to him. In Amon Hen it was Boromir who insisted that they carry on immediately, despite his injuries, for they had to find the little ones. He could barely breathe, but Aragorn and Legolas both could not persuade him to take an arm, and he glowered when Aragorn tried to slow.

In his remembrance, Aragorn found the strength to stay on the horse and ride through the gates of the fortress with his back straight and head held high, no matter the aches and pains he felt. They were nothing compared to the wounds that Boromir still carried, and if Gondor’s Steward could find the strength, so could her King.

In Helm’s Deep he had found Boromir, standing tall amongst the desperate Men of Rohan, and there was a spill of silver on his neck. No words were needed between them. Aragorn wrapped his arms around Boromir’s shoulder, feeling the Steward’s Heir relief against his own neck, and he would have trembled if not for the eyes upon them.

Aragorn slipped his hand around Boromir's neck, letting the fingers curl against the hair at the nape of his neck. He was too familiar with his touches, but his exhaustion gave excuse, and he unclasped the Evenstar from Boromir's neck. Holding the chain in his hands, he left it open before slipping the Ring of Barahir from his own fingers and dropping it down the chain. The green stone shone dull next to the light of Eärendil that the Evenstar captured, but Aragorn cared naught. He only caught Boromir's eyes, holding the chain with its double-burden up into the sunlight that shone through the thin shutters of Helm's Deep.

Then he reached forward and clasped the chain around Boromir's neck once more.

"There is a battle coming," said Aragorn, and his voice was soft and hoarse, river-roughened. His hand slipped down to press against Boromir's chest, covering the ring and the Evenstar both, right above his heart. It beat beneath his hand, strong and fast.

"Will you keep this safe?"

There was a struggle in Boromir’s eyes, between hurt, betrayal, and honour for he knew that Aragorn had given him both a boon and a cage. He closed his hand around Aragorn’s, and when he next breathed it was deep, so deep that the air seemed to spill over his lips to gust over Aragorn’s skin.

"With the strength of my back and my dying breath," he said, his voice clear and sharp, ringing in the halls of the Deep. He bowed his head low.

Aragorn leaned in closer, and when he next spoke it was in a whisper, too quiet for any but they to hear, “The defenders need a Captain, Son of Gondor.” He took a tremulous breath, and caught green eyes with his own.

Boromir’s eyes burned with determination impeded. “I wish to follow you, my brother,” he whispered, “my Captain, my King.”

“You will,” said Aragorn. “You will, to the gates of Gondor, where the silver trumpets will announce your return. Yet now I will have you safe now, or you will falter away from her gates.” He took a deep breath, “If you admit me to be your King, then these are my orders.”

Boromir did not speak. He only bowed once more and turned away, his new burdens shining under the dim lights of Helm’s Deep.

***

“Elessar.”

Night fell slowly in the summer, but the skies were dark and full of stars when Aragorn heard Elrond’s voice calling him. He concealed a sigh—the Council and the inspection of the troops and the walls of Minas Tirith had taken much of him—and turned around to face his foster father, who lingered at doors leading towards the Steward’s quarters.

“Lord Elrond,” he greeted with a bow, puzzling over the frown on Elrond’s face and the name he had used. Even after he had given Aragorn his true name back, Elrond oft called him Estel still. The formality was unsettling.

“This morn I witnessed something I wish to speak to you about,” said Elrond, switching suddenly to Sindarin.

Aragorn nodded, pushing open the great wooden doors. Without a word, he led Elrond to one of the smaller rooms that led off from the great Hall, used by Denethor, Ecthelion and their fathers and fathers’ fathers to receive visitors that did not need the main Councilroom. The moment he had closed the door behind him, Elrond spoke, still in the language of the Elves.

“Throughout your childhood I have told you about the frailties and fickle nature of Men, for I had hoped that an awareness of your heritage will allow you to avoid the mistakes of Isildur’s line. But I see that those words have been wasted.”

Aragorn deliberately did not reach for his sword. “I know not what you speak of, milord.”

“You have dishonoured my daughter, Elessar,” Elrond’s grey eyes flashed. “The Evenstar hangs on the throat of another, and your affections are divided.”

“There is no dishonour done,” Aragorn bit out, his hand clenching around the knob of the door behind him to control his temper. “I love Arwen still, as fiercely as I had when she had first crossed my sight in Rivendell. She knows of my love for Boromir, and it is by her permission and grace that we continue to love.”

Elrond took a step forward, his voice lowering. “Aye, she has told me so. Yet I find it hard to believe that you love her same, Elessar, when you head for the Steward’s rooms tonight instead of your Queen’s.”

There was naught that Aragorn could say to contest this. He heaved a sigh, “Boromir needs healing still.”

“I am the healer who taught you your craft,” Elrond arched an eyebrow. “If his wounds still pain him, why did you not come to me? That is but an excuse, Elessar King, and I am disappointed that you judge it even worth speaking aloud.”

“I will not apologise for my love for him, father,” said Aragorn quietly. “Boromir is a Man who is worth my love and so much more, and I am honoured beyond words that he sees me worthy of his affections as well. Arwen has accepted it, and ‘tis her permission and only hers that I seek.”

“You presume to tell me my place?” hissed Elrond.

Aragorn did not raise his voice, no matter how much he might wish to. He only drew himself up further, meeting Elrond’s grey eyes with his own, “You named me Elessar King in your speech, Lord Elrond, and no King bows easily to demands, especially in matters that strengthen his kingdom rather than harm it.”

There was a long silent moment as Elrond looked deeply into his eyes, and though Aragorn knew naught of what he looked for, it seemed that he had found it, for Elrond only sighed deeply, taking a step back.

“’Tis clear that both Arwen Undomiel and Elessar Telcontar hold the Man in high esteem, though I cannot see how he is worth such a thing,” he said, and raised a hand to still Aragorn’s protests. “I will rest my case for now, but take heed, Aragorn, my eyes will be on you.”

The King sighed, turning around and looking at the wood of the door. When he spoke again, it was in Westron-tongue, “Your eyes, milord, and the eyes of many others here.”

“’Tis the lot of one who serves through their rule,” replied Elrond in the same language. “You know the weight of the crown on your brow.”

“Aye,” answered Aragorn. “I do.”

***

Beregond frowned.

“I dislike this. ‘Tis a blow to our own honour to listen at the door to our King’s private conversation like a group of spies.” He sighed, “Besides, they speak in a language we do not understand.”

The Guardian of Stones snorted, “It is not right that our King speaks the Elven language better than that of his own people.”

“He speaks Westron well enough,” replied the Guardian of Fields mildly.

Pelendur, Guardian of Coin, waved a hand before he led them outside before Gondor’s King and the Lord of Imladris could discover the group of men listening to their conversation. Beregond looked at the guards who had allowed this breach of propriety to happen, committing their names to memory.

The former Captain of the Guard did not know why he was invited along, but he suspected that it had much to do with his loyalty to Lord Faramir, the second of Denethor’s sons, his loss of status, and what Pelendur had planned. He followed the three Councilmen outside towards the gardens that bordered the Steward’s quarters, dismissing the men standing before he took a seat on one of the white benches, made of the same marble as the rest of the city.

“Our King is Elven-grown, that much is clear, but it seems that even the Elf-lord himself is unhappy with his behaviour,” murmured Pelendur, keeping his voice low. “Know you why that is so?”

The Guardian of the Stones shook his head, “Lord Pelendur, I have not the time to dawdle here. The battle at the fields of Pelennor had cost our walls dearly, and I have to visit the stonemasons today to discuss what has to be done. You know the answer to these questions of yours; tell them to us.”

Pelendur, instead of looking insulted at being ordered so, only nodded, “For your sake, Lord Baragil, I will hasten my speech thus. Elessar King has an Elven wife and an Elven father, growing up in the North away from Gondor. Though he seems to know the customs of Gondor well, he is still a stranger whom few of us know.”

He hesitated.

“Get on with it!”

“’Tis merely a suspicion, but I believe the Elf-lord’s quarrel with our King has to do with his rumoured affections for our Lord Steward, which runs far stronger than any Man should have for his comrade-in-arms. If that is true, he dishonours his wife, and leads the Lord Steward down an unclean road. I cannot but feel uneasy at having him as King.”

“You speak of treason, Guardian of Coin,” said the Guardian of Field, his mild voice turning to steel. “The White Tree blooms. That should be proof enough of Kingship, no matter whom he shares his bed with, if the rumours are even true.”

Pelendur shook his head, “Calm, Councillor Maldor; I speak only of my suspicions. Do you remember our history, of the great Man whose name I bear? Pelendur, Breaker of the Line of Kings, chose Eärnil over Arvedui despite Arvedui’s Numeronean blood and claim to the throne, and he is lauded for his choice. I do not seek the same fame, only the same suspicions—that a Man with the blood to be King might not be the right King for us.”

Beregond spoke for the first time since they were seated, “Who do you have in mind, sire?”

“The Lord Faramir,” pronounced Pelendur, quiet but firm. “He is truly a great hero, full of valour as he attempted to win back doomed Osgiliath from the Shadow. I believe ‘tis the Valar that had saved him from the pyre that our late Steward had lit; that is a greater sign than the blooming of the White Tree. That,” he lowered his voice, “and he is betrothed to the White Lady of Rohan. He has already turned away from any possible uncleanliness.”

“You are named after the Kinstrife Avoider, Lord Pelendur,” said Beregond, his teeth gritted and hands clenched as he stood, “Yet now you propose to set brother against brother, Prince against King. ‘Tis treason you speak: give me a reason, sire, to not call the Tower Guard upon your head.”

Pelendur only looked up to look at Beregond. When he spoke, his voice was calm, “Only this, former Captain: Your objection lies not in the words I spoke against Elessar King, but in my choice of replacement.” He stood and Beregond, speechless, could only take a step back to allow him to pass.

“Consider my words, sires. The fate of Gondor lies in your hands.”

With those parting words, Pelendur left the garden.