Gondor, Minas Tirith
May 17, 3019
“Her Royal Majesty the Queen of Gondor and Arnor!” the master of ceremonies announced and immediately vanished into thin air, like he hadn’t been there at all. Palace servants everywhere seem to have a sixth sense in addition to formal training. Aragorn had nerves of steel (a necessity in his former profession) and concealed the true feelings that the expression ‘Her Majesty the Queen’ aroused in him perfectly well. Nevertheless, somehow the rascal seemed to feel that every time those words were uttered His Royal Majesty Elessar Elfstone had a fleeting desire to either turn the speaker over to the Secret Guard (the Valar spare us), or simply unsheathe the
Gods, how beautiful she was! No human language has words to describe her beauty, while Elves need no words. Actually, it was not her beauty as such, but her absolute star-like unattainability that was the leash which was used to guide him all these years, ever since he first got to the Enchanted Forest and met – by pure coincidence, of course – Arwen Undomiel, the Evenstar of Imladris, the daughter of Ruler Elrond himself. No one can find out now why the Elves picked him rather than any of the other innumerable Dunedain princes (strictly speaking, almost every Dunadan thinks himself a prince, tracing his lineage if not from Isildur, then for sure at least from Earendur). Be that as it may, the Firstborn chose well: Aragorn performed his task with excellence.
Now he was looking at her with a feeling he had never had before: desperation. Any further struggle is useless; how long can he chase a mirage? Yes, time to sum up, and there’s no reason to lie to oneself. So: an obscure chief of northern rangers had won the greatest of all wars in the history of Middle Earth, ascended the throne of the Reunited Kingdom, and became the first among Western sovereigns – but none of that had brought him an inch closer to possessing this woman.
“What else do you want from me, Arwen?” He knew he was saying the wrong thing in the wrong way, but could do nothing about it. “I crushed Mordor and laid the crown of Gondor and Arnor at your feet; if that’s not enough, I will spread our borders beyond the Rune Sea and the mountains of Vendotenia. I will conquer Harad and the other countries of the Far East and make you Queen of the world – just give the word!”
“Don’t you want all that yourself?” “Not any more. Now I want only you… You know, it seems to me that I was closer to you back then, in Rivendell…”
“Please understand,” her face once again assumed an expression of weary compassion, like a teacher who has to explain a grammar rule to a dim student for the tenth time, “I may not belong to any man; don’t torture yourself for nothing. Recall the story of Prince Valacar and Princess Vidumavi; your own chronicles say: ‘For the high men of Gondor already looked askance at the Northmen among them; and it was a thing unheard of before that the heir to the crown, or any son of the King, should wed one of lesser and alien race.’ No wonder it sparked a civil war. Whereas compared with the nobility of my heritage there’s no difference even between Isildur and some black chieftain from Far Harad. But even that is not much compared to the real obstacle – our age difference. To me, you’re not even a boy, but a baby. Would you take a three-year-old to wife, even if she looked like an adult?”
“So that’s how it is…”
“Of course, and you’re even behaving like a spoiled child. Bored with the royal power in just a few days, you now want a new toy – Arwen, the Evenstar of Imladris! Think about it – you want to trade even love for a handful of candy: the crowns of Men’s kingdoms. After all those years of dealing with Elves, have you not understood that none of us wants power as such? Believe me, I see no difference between the crown of Gondor and this cup – both are just gem-studded pieces of silver.”
“Yes, looks like I’m just a baby. And you’ve tricked me, back then in Lorien, just like a baby.”
“You have tricked yourself,” she objected calmly. “Please remember how it happened.”
In a moment a silvery fog covered the walls of the palace hall, blurry silhouettes of Lorien
“This was the precise statement, Aragorn son of Arathorn. It’s the honest truth: only the king of Gondor and Arnor can become the husband of an Elvish princess, but did anybody promise that he will actually become one?”
Aragorn smiled crookedly. “You’re right, as always. A baby such as myself could never think of such a thing – the Ruler of Rivendell trying to weasel out of his words! Well, he can find a loophole very well, better than any Umbar shyster.”
“You were paid for your work in honest coin – the Re-forged Sword and the throne of the Reunited Kingdom.”
“Yes, the throne I don’t control!” She frowned a little. “Don’t demean yourself. You knew from the very beginning that you’d get an Elvish advisor once you ascended the throne.”
“You mean a regent.”
“Again you exaggerate. Besides, we met you halfway: Lorien sent you not just anyone, but myself as the advisor, so that to your subjects it looks like a regular dynastic marriage. You, on the other hand, have imagined who knows what and now desire to add the daughter of the Ruler of Elves to your collection of sluts!”
“You know that this is not so.” There was nothing but weary submission in his voice now. “Back in Lorien, when you accepted Barahir’s ring from me…”
“Oh, that. Do you wish to remind me of the story of Beren and Luthien? Understand already that this is a legend, and a human legend, at that – an Elf can only laugh at it.”
“Thank you for the explanation. To put it bluntly, you consider love between an Elf and a Man to be bestiality, right?”
“Let’s end this stupid conversation. You have rightly mentioned the need to adhere to one’s agreements. Don’t you think that a second ‘accident’ befalling a man from my entourage in as many weeks is a bit much?”
“Oh, so that’s what you wanted to discuss.”
“Precisely, my dear. If you have imagined that Lorien is incapable of protecting the people working for it, we will teach your Secret Guard a lesson they’ll remember forever – if there’s anyone left to remember.”
Resurgent anger helped him come back to his senses, like the stink of smelling salts helps a man out of a swoon; the hex dispelled, and the Dunadan was becoming himself again – a white polar wolf facing a pack of jackals. “Allow me to remind you,
