.|. Radical Dreamers .|.

Chapter 23

~

* * * * *

Arwen saw the world tilt, then the ceiling appeared in front of her eyes. Her half-lowered eyelids became like a blurred border around her vision.

There was no pain, no light, too little sound.

Poison, she suddenly knew.

She breathed, or rather felt her chest rise and fall, heard the sigh of the air sliding through her parted lips, her heart sounding like a slow drum in her ears.

It felt as though she was drifting off some lukewarm current, sinking slowly and languidly down into dark waters. Something moved about her – blurred forms like flames against the shadows, their voices a silvery babble in her ears. From somewhere far above water dribbled down on her face, warm on her cheek, salty on her mouth.

Hands came, smothered her hair back from her face; “Tinúviel!” someone called her, and “Beren”, she wanted to answer, “Beren, beloved mine, hear me, save me, please!” But even as she thought that she knew that it was no longer Beren the name of his love, like hers wasn’t Lúthien anymore. That life was past and done with. She was Arwen now, and he who she loved was:

“Boromir…”

She thought she heard someone sob in response to her call, but her hearing was dim, and the pump of her own blood covered any other sound. Then she was being lifted off and carried away. Her head lolled back, her lids closed, and she felt the frenzied beating of his heart next to her ear.

* * * * *

Outside water poured down in flashing sheets of silver, pounded on the ruins of the once-splendid Edoras, and it hiss sounded like the voice of a hidden fiend from the shadows.

Brown water rushed in dirty torrents on the ragged grounds, gurgling, foaming, ever rising. All colours had been washed away from the sky and mingled in a blurred opaque grey. The air was cold and light and stinging - it smelled like wilting flowers and drenched soil. Bolts exploded every now and then, like shivers of purple amidst the clouds, and their roar reached high into the sky, like the call of a hunting beast, or a spiralling prayer.

Another bolt of lightening ripped through the sky, and Aragorn surveyed his Companions in the flickering light.

Legolas had long left the circle of his arms, and stood now a few paces from him, his back to Aragorn - the pale, shimmering figure of a young boy holding the backs of his own arms.

The Hobbits, on the contrary, had sough comfort in each other’s presence, and were all huddled together against a ruined wall, Pippin’s shivering form held tightly by Merry, Frodo’s head against Sam’s shoulder.

Éowyn was distraught. She was laying on the floor with her head on Elladan’s lap, murmuring softly that she should have seen it coming, that she should have done something, help her, and that it was her fault if Arwen had been wounded so severely– hadn’t Shelob called the Elf “Morning Star” when she’d attacked?

Elladan could only caress her back gently, shedding silent tears of his own. His lips moved every now and then, but no words came out. He’d sunk in a world past reality. His sister, his beloved baby sister was on the verge of death, and he had done nothing to prevent it.

Elrohir stood behind them, tense, growling, with his forehead pressed to the cool stone. Blood tricked leisurely down his knuckles, for he’d been long punching the ruined wall he now stood against. And his thoughts were shockingly similar to his twin’s – Elves were not meant to experience wound and death, and yet Arwen was battling for her life, struggling for every breath, her body shivering, growing colder and colder, and looking as thought the next breath would be too much a task for it to accomplish.

And all he had been able to do was watch - powerless, useless, unable to do anything.

Gandalf stood farther from them upon the hill-top. With his head bowed and his shoulders slumped, weighting on his staff as thought he was about to collapse, he looked oldest than ever. Every now and then he shook his head, and murmured words escaped his lips. The little hope that had never died inside him– not when Shelob had attacked, nor when Arwen had slid to the floor, her chest speared- seemed to have gone out like a candle in the wind, leaving him without strength.

And Boromir - Boromir seemed dead himself. He would not move, nor talk. His eyes stared blindly before him as he cradled Arwen to him, her head against his arm, his fingers buried deep in the damp shimmering mass of her dark hair.

“Arwen…” he would whisper every so often. “My Tinúviel…”

Aragorn looked down at his hands, and his vision blurred with tears that wouldn’t fall.

Arwen, dear cousin mine, my friend… why? Why did it have to happen to you? My sweet sister, my dear evening star, mother and keeper and companion in my childish mischief…

He shook awake from his thought when, all of a sudden, the rain stopped.

For a moment all was quiet. All was dark.

And then, just a swiftly, the clouds opened far overhead and light like golden water spilled down on them from above. Gandalf’s head shot up, and his eyes gleamed like jewels as he cried:

“Thanks the Valar! The Eagles are coming! The Eagles are coming!”

Aragorn looked up, and what he saw was beyond the realm of possibility.

I’m dreaming, he thought. I must be, but he knew he wasn’t.

There came, drifting downwards on the gentlest zephyr, Gwaihir the Wind Lord, and behind him came in a line, shining gold and brown in the pale light, the swiftest and mightiest of all the Eagles.

Aragorn shook when he saw them land soundlessly before him. He could not find it in himself to move, so amazed ad grateful he was. Then Gandalf threw his arms up and cried:

“Quick, you fools! Quick! There may be hope still for Arwen! The Eagles will bear us to Gondor, for powers higher than any of us asked them to. Come, come, have no fear! But be quick!” Even as he said so he mounted on Gwaihir’s broad back.

“Quick!” he said again, and his voice might have been ominous and scary had it not be so soft, so concerned.

Boromir, awakening at last from his daze, lifted Arwen up onto Landroval’s back and mounted after her to steady his unconscious love. Melendor the swift landed before Elladan and Éowyn, and they went immediately on him, Elladan leaping up first and gathering Éowyn in his arms. Gollum was grasped none too gently by the Eagle’s left claw.

Elrohir approached the last Eagle, then stopped, watching Aragorn with a question in his eyes.

But Aragorn could not move. Not yet.

He looked at Legolas, a pale and fragile ghost in the dark, and felt the Elf’s misery surging like waves from him. Legolas’s shoulders shook as though he was sobbing, but no sound came from him until, “It’s all my fault…” he whispered. “All mine.”

And Aragorn hurt too much to deny it, even as he knew it was not true.

It was no one’s fault.

How could such an horrid incident be blamed on anyone? That was fate, bad luck, tragedy – call it as you must, it was not Legolas’s fault.

Yet he could not say the words.

It seemed blasphemous, monstrous, to speak while witnessing and feeling so much pain.

Legolas turned to him at last, and such vision of sheer beauty robbed Aragorn of his breath.

How old was he, Aragorn wondered. For Legolas looked indescribably innocent at that moment, and incredibly young. He seemed fragile like a glass statue, and shone just as much under the waxen sunlight.

There were no words to describe his beauty in that moment of cruel pain.

He was dazzling.

Was it wrong to think so?

Yet he was.

He was.

His eyes brimmed, iridescent pools of blue in which all the light gathered; his lips were pale rose and trembling; his saturated hair hung to his face and neck, shining like a shower of gold. And when his voice came it was soft and almost ethereal, and gave a resonance of divine pain to his words.

“We can’t call off our engagements, Aragorn.” Pain radiated from him like a silent call, breaking Aragorn’s heart to pieces. Never had the Man seen such pain, heard such guilt.

“They are no games. We’ve been chosen - who cares if we’re being handed away like mindless toys for politics? We can struggle and kick and cry like children, but it’s decided. It’s our fate. We cannot walk away from our duties, even if it’s for love. We’ve tried to run away from destiny, but it has found us, like a stalker hidden in the shadows. If we had not lingered in Lórien, Arwen might…” he shook his head.

“But it does not matter now. Our road is laid right before us. We cannot falter now, nor can we turn back away. We must marry those who have been chosen for us. We must do it for Middle Earth. Even thought we may never meet again, we must. I…I don’t want anything like this to happen ever again.” He climbed up behind Gandalf on Gwaihir’s back. “Goodbye, my love,” he whispered.

Aragorn nodded dumbly, and let Elladan guide him onto Melendor’s back.

“Forever, meleth,” he whispered back, shaking like a wind-wracked tree. Overwhelmed, far beyond shame and vanity, he hid his face against Elrohir’s back and cried like a child.

And he did not have to raise his eyes to know that Legolas was crying just like he was.

* * * * *

They took off swiftly and sped away towards Gondor. Valleys, woods, rivers, luscious landscapes and visions of ruin sped past under them in a blur, until before them appeared the Minas Tirith, gleaming against the sky like a spike of pearl.

Boromir felt tears rising in his eyes, and lowly he began to hum the soft, sweet lullaby Arwen used to sing to him. He sang, his voice unsteady and rasp, cradling her closer, burying his face in her sweet-smelling hair and crying silent tears into it.

Arwen heard it, and sighed.

Her last thought was a silent thank you to Boromir for having kept his promise, then she saw and heard no more.

Boromir gave a distressed cry, and frantically called her name as he shook her.

“Arwen! Arwen!” But she did not answer, did not move, did not react at all – her head lolled to and fro as he shook her, no breath slid through her parted lips. Boromir gasped, and was suddenly aware that it was not his the voice calling her name louder and louder – his voice had all but forsaken him.

He looked up and saw Éowyn trashing within Elladan’s arms, screaming, shrieking, her voice growing ever louder as she called for Arwen to wake up. He saw Elladan steady her, hold her as though she was a little child. He saw the Elf’s arms go around her, his hand guide her stricken face to his shoulder, and her voice died out in a whisper.

“It’s my fault, all my fault. No one else’s. She did so to protect me. Me.”

At this Legolas gave too a wailing cry. His hands went up to his face.

But already the Eagles were landing in the garden where the withered White Tree of Gondor was, and Denethor came running towards them from the Palace, his white hair streaming behind him.

“Call the Healers, and be quick!” Gandalf shouted as he dismounted, and for the first time in his life the Steward of Gondor yielded wordlessly to his will, and send a passing servant to rouse those inside the House of Healing.

Denethor, Gandalf, Aragorn, Boromir and Elrohir, with Gollum trotting on all fours behind them, went to find help for Arwen. However Elladan stayed with Éowyn, seeing as she could not even held herself up, and along with Legolas they followed Faramir –who’d been called back from the borders to attend to his King’s coronation and wedding- to the chamber readied for the Aûrel.

Éowyn, still shivering and with tears streaming down her cheeks, let Elladan arrange her on the bed, let him hold her as she cried more, let him whisper shooting nonsense in her ears as he caressed her head gently.

It’s not your fault. I love you no matter what. No matter what, said a silent voice in her head.

Sighing her thanks Éowyn closed her eyes and let sleep carry her into the blissful darkness.

* * * * *

When she awoke, the first thought that came to her mind was:

“Forgive me. Blame me, if someone you must blame. It was my doing.”

Then she became aware of the shivers wracking her body, the soft feeling of the linen sheets against her skin, the softness of the cushions under her head, the sweet smell of soap that surrounded her. Sweat cooled on her neck and arms, and the thirst in her was like a living thing that demanded attention.

She tried to stand up and gasped at the pain within her chest. It shot through her like molten mithril, rushed down her limbs, but the pain was a good thing for her: it was a reminder that shook her awake from her haze.

She blinked and looking about. Her vision was blurred and her head spun, as thought a fever run in her, but she knew it was not so.

High arched windows opened before her, and beyond stretched a vision of green fields sprinkled with little white flowers like pale stars. The sky gleamed. The wind was like velvet on her cheeks as it raised her long hair off her shoulders. She leaned her face into it, eyes closed, and sighed.

Never something so simple had looked and felt so blessed, and it moved her almost to tears.

She opened her eyes again, and just beside her on a beautifully carved wooden table stood a bottle of clear water. Sunlight shone on it, and the glass refracted billions of little hues at her, like fragments of rainbow.

She stared at it for a long time, and then grasped it savagely, ignoring the pain in her chest when it came, only welcoming the fresh, sweet water as it poured down her throat.

The bottle was almost empty when she put it back on the nightstand, and her trembling hands would have knocked it down hadn’t someone caught it for her.

She blinked, and looked down at the creature that stood with his legs in a crouch beside her bed.

“All the water she drank, yes, yes, good girl, drink water she must. Whitebeard says it’s good for her, so Smeagol brought her a bottle, yes!” Gollum said, grinning goofily up at her.

He was wearing a blue coat, black leggings and a white shirt. His crumpled hair was tied back in a ribbon, and under the sunlight his bare feet looked remarkably similar to those of the Hobbits.

“Gollum?” She blinked when he reached up to ruffle her hair affectionately – the same gesture she’d bestowed upon him inside Shelob’s lair.

“No, no, Precious! The name’s Smeagol now! Smeagol!” She giggled when he began to run circles on the tiled floor, shouting and barking like and overjoyed puppy. The noisier he got the higher she laughed -  and the more she laughed, the more agitated he became.

His screeches of joy rose and rose, shrill and howling-like, until the door of the bedroom was slammed open so hard it almost flew off its hinges, and Boromir appeared in the doorframe –  sweaty and panting and with his eyes wild with worry.

“What’s happening here? It’s Arwen? Is she all right? Is she--” But Boromir could go no further. His eyes had fallen on the vision giggling softly on the snowy sheets with her eyes sparkling, and he was suddenly breathless.

There in front of him was Arwen, alive and well and lovely as she’d ever be. Golden sunlight shone on her from the open windows, making her skin glint. Her cheeks were suffused with a lovely shade of pink, and her hair streaming down the soft cushions was like a dark glittering river.

He struggled to move, to say something, but the relief was just too great. Then he saw her open her arms at him, calling his name softly - and it was such a childlike gesture that he felt his heart swell.

Before she knew it she was in his arms again, her face nestled against his chest, his hands in her hair, her arms about his neck.

She was crying now, but she did not realize it.

While unconscious she’d had a dream… the long, heartrending dream of the life of an Elf named Lúthien. In those dreams, she loved one Man. Beren was his name, and ‘Tinúviel’, ‘my Tinúviel’, were the names he had for her. They were in love, and they were happy, and that did not change even in the moment when dead did part them.

Yet it was not a dream.

It was a memory.

The memory of her soul.

“Beren…” She moved away to look at him, uncertainty clear in her eyes.

Did he too remember who they’d been one lifetime before? Had he too understood that they were the reincarnations of those legendary lovers? Could he too feel their never-ending love, a love that had surpassed death, surround them?

“Welcome back my love,” answered he, kissing her hair softly, her brow, her closed eyelids, the tip of her nose and, finally, her lips.

“Welcome back on Middle Earth, Lúthien. My Arwen.”

“Oh, Boromir…” she cried, throwing her arms about him once more.

* * * * *

Later that day, the whole Fellowship gathered in her rooms for an emergency meeting, mostly because Arwen should not go walking around yet.

The four Hobbits had knelt in a circle all around her bed like children, with their elbows digging in the mattress and their chin in their hands. Lascaran was lying in a similar position among Pippin’s unruly curls, while Boromir sat in a chair next to Arwen, just close enough to hold her hand.

Éowyn, Elladan and Elrohir stood upright at the foot of the bed, their faces pale and their eyes still glittering with tears. Gandalf sat in a winged chair by the window with his beloved pipe in his mouth.

At first they were all so overjoyed to see her up and well that they could do little else but cry, whisper her name over and over in awe and touch her skin carefully, almost as if needing to know she want not just a figment of their aggrieved minds.

Then, after a good couple of hours of doing nothing but Eskimo kissing with Beren/Boromir, being pampered, squeezed like a teddy-bear, and repeating over and over that she was well and that it was no one’s fault if she’d been wounded, Arwen asked in one single breath all those questions her Companions had dreaded to hear and really didn’t want to answer:

“What was it that you wanted to tell me? What are Legolas and Aragorn doing? How come they’re not here? Are things going well with them, now that they know they’re to marry each other?”

The others traded glances for several minutes.

Some cleared their throats, some others shifted their weight uneasily, and most averted her gaze.

It is a major understatement to say that Arwen immediately regretted asking.

Suddenly she became aware of ominous little rainclouds rising from Gandalf’s pipe and gathering around him in a ring. Sparkles of lighting could be seen now and then among the dark fumes. At one point a drift of rain came from one of those miniature clouds, the shiny droplets gathering in a happy puddle on the floor.

Arwen reclined back against her cushions then, and brought a hand to her head.

“Suddenly I don’t want to know,” she sighed. “But I need to, do I not? What is it?” Then she stood upright, so abruptly that the pain in her chest burst into sudden life, and through her teeth she asked, fearing the answer:

“They haven’t… called off the marriage. Have they?”

“Welllllllllll… no,” Boromir said reluctantly, when he saw no one else would speak. Arwen was just about to relax back against the cushions when he added: “But…” Her body went painfully tense once more. A chorus of pain rose in her throbbing head.

“But…?”

“There are some… issues,” provided Merry lamely. Without his book he looked suddenly taller, his chest broader, and Arwen noticed for the first time that he towered over the other Hobbits of a whole bunch of inches. One of her eyebrows quirked at his reply.

“Such as?”

“Uhm…”

A minute of silence passed. Then, “I don’t believe it,” Arwen croaked out in horror. “Are you telling me… no, it cannot be… they haven’t… they do not know it’s *each other* that they’re marrying? They’re *still* clueless?”

“Among other things, yes, that’s what we were trying to say.” said Gandalf, waving his pipe left and right. “Of course everyone knows by now that the Aurêl is the blonde male Elf that they glimpsed on the Eagle’s back, and that their future King is the bearded Man that came on another Eagle. But they don’t have the slightest clue about each other’s identity.”

Arwen silently thanked the Valar for Boromir’s never-ending provision of athelas as she brought a hand up to her forehead.

“Oh, my… Hold on a second. Other things, I believe you said?”

“Yes.”

“What other things?” Gandalf shrugged. Arwen shuddered.

She’s learned that to see him shrug meant troubles.

Big, capitalized, underlined and written in bright red letters, kind of troubles.

Gandalf only shrugged when he was about to tell you something had gone catastrophically wrong, and still he wanted to pretend it wasn’t a big deal.

‘Pretend’ being the keyword, here.

“Oh, well. You know… things. They don’t talk to each other anymore, to start with.” A stab of pain in her head.

“…what?”

“And they vowed to never see each other again too, now that I think about it. In fact they’ve never left their respective chambers since our arrival. We couldn’t drag them out even to drink or eat.”

Stab.

“Not to mention they’re behaving as though they don’t know each other and have never been in love.”

Stab.

“Mostly because they think that their love is a bad thing--”

Stab.

“—and that it was because of it if you’ve gotten wounded.”

STAB.

Her mind reeled. Arwen suddenly regretted that Elves seldom fainted: a good faint was just what she needed right now.

“…excuse me?”

Gandalf shrugged again (much to her horror), and waving his pipe in circles he said:

“They think that it’s their fault if you almost died. We’ve been much delayed due to their inability to keep their hands off each other. If it wasn’t for this delay we would have never reached Lothlòrien so late, or taken the underground route. And if we’d never taken it, you would have never been hurt either.”

The Wizard took a pause to puff some other little clouds from his pipe –they were shaped like spiders this time, and crawled happily all about his head in a circle.

“All of this is true, off course. But we can’t really blame them. It wouldn’t be right. What happened was just an accident, a series of terrible, terrible, coincidences. Call it destiny if you will – and destiny can’t be blamed on anyone, be they mortal or immortal. Even the Valar have no power over it.”

Arwen nodded her head meekly.

“I’d never think to blame them. How could I? As you said, it was no one’s fault. Yet it was my choice, and if someone you must blame, then blame *me*. I knew what was about to happen, and made my choice without asking any of you.”

Boromir squeezed her hand softly, and she smiled gratefully up at him. Her eyes were still sad, though, and troubled. When her voice came, it was low and trembling.

“I thought sacrificing myself in order to save other was the right thing to do… but now I see it was egoistic of me to do so. I chose to die myself rather than see those I love hurting; but my actions only brought sadness to you all.”

Éowyn went to her, and kneeling to the side of her bed she took her other hand and patted it in a comforting fashion.

“Arwen… to sacrifice yourself for others is a noble thing… the kind of thing only heroes do,” she began, kissing the Elf’s brow in they way Elven siblings always did. “Next time just remember that death is only the very last resort, and that confiding in your friends can always open up other ways for you to take.”

Elladan watched them embrace, the two women he loved the most, and sighed.

One was pale, tall and willowy and dark of hair, like the embodiment of night. The other was aflame with life, and her hair was a shower of gold that made her look like the embodiment of day.

Pure beauty embracing pure beauty.

His breath was immediately stolen.

With sadness he realized they’d never live eternally, those two splendid creatures, not even the one that was born immortal.

One would die of age, the other out of love for a mortal Man.

And he wondered if he too would follow them in the realm beyond, out of love for a mortal Woman.

“It may have been wrong of you, or just the noblest thing you could do. Either way, it is a past thing, and all that matters is that we’re here, together,” said he wistfully. Arwen sighed.

“Then why can’t they see it?”

An ominous silence befell the Company.

“We know it’s not their fault. But as much as we tried, they won’t believe it,” Gandalf revealed after a moment, and his voice was soft, almost soothingly, like that of a grandfather telling fairytales to children in bed.

“‘If only I was stronger, if only I had not acted upon my feelings, reminding that my duty lay with someone else! Then nothing of this would have occurred!’ This is what they answer us whenever we tell them they’re blameless.”

“Oh,” Arwen croaked out feebly. Éowyn gently helped her to rest back against her cushions.

“Yes, ‘oh’.” The Wizard nodded. “Anyway, it’s a luck you recovered so fast. Aragorn and Legolas’s wedding takes place tomorrow. Do you think you’ll be able attend to it?”

Blink.

“…could you run that by me again?”

He could not have said what she thought he had, could he?

“I said, do you think you can attend to it?”

“No, I mean, the part before that.”

“They’ve decided not to call off their engagements anymore. The wedding ceremony takes place tomorrow.” His tone was the same he’d use with a dumb child.

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Arwen blinked, sure by far that there MUST be something wrong with her ears. She looked up at Boromir, her eyes questioning and wide. “They forswore their love, they think it wrong, AND they will be married tomorrow? What is it that I am missing, here?” Boromir rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes closed.

“As you said before, they do NOT know yet WHO they’re to marry. Legolas chose to deny his heart, and will now marry Prince Estel for duty. Likewise, Aragorn hopes that marrying the Aurêl instead that the one he loves will tame his guilt, somehow.”

“For all the stars in the sky…!” she gaped at him. Her jaw dropped and for several minutes her mouth opened and closed like a fish’s.

“I don’t really understand why you’re all fretting this much,” Pippin piped up after some time of worried silence. “They don’t know who they’re marrying, that’s true. But when tomorrow they’ll finally leave those blasted chambers of theirs, they’ll see it with their own eyes! Everything will be well and we will all live happily ever after. End of the tale.”

His voice grew uncertain as he asked, looking about: “…right?”

“Oh, I don’t know!” cried out Arwen. She bit her bottom lip. “Pippin, you know that this marriage is very important for the whole Middle Earth, don’t you?”

“Is it really?” he asked, and watched Arwen nod slowly her head.

“It’s very nearly our last hope to win the millenary battle against Evil,” she said softly.

“I…I don’t think I… understand. Really, I… how could a marriage…?” stuttered Pippin. This time it was Gandalf who answered him.

The Wizard had his back to the window, and he was but a shadowy outline with gleaming eyes and a crown of light around his head.

“There was at time, decades ago, when Men, Elves, Dwarves and even Ents joined together in a most powerful army. The Last Alliance, it was called. And most people think such alliance still exist – but that’s not so. At one point in time dark feelings began to grow in the hearts of the Free People - mistrust… enmity… jealousy… rage… anger… contempt… hate… The wisest think it was the enemy’s doing, even if no one knows for sure. Either way, those dark feelings kept growing until it reached a breaking point.

“Dwarves refused to even talk to Elves.

“Ents were most likely to wound Men who dared enter their woods.

“The army split like fragile grass into four groupings of battlers.

“And the war we were so like to win, we almost lost it.”

Pippin’s eye grew round, and his mouth was in the shape of a perfect O.

“Then there’s no real army at the borders protecting us?”

“Not really, no,” answered Gandalf.

“For centuries each race has fought on its own, not trusting the others, not helping the others, and not caring about the others’ words, or fates. Yet, in very recent times, Dwarves warriors chose to serve the Captains of Men, while Ents swore to follow only the Elves’ lead. Two stronger army were so formed, but it’s not enough. It never was. Elves and Men must unite, too,” said Arwen, and again she shook her head sadly.

“Why must they fight one another? Why can’t they see? The sun above us Elves is the same as that which shines over Dwarves! The wind blowing the leafy limbs of the Ents is the same that which cools the sweat off the brow of Men! Middle Earth is a precious treasure passed down to us from our ancestors, and we should fight side by side to protect it.”

The room grew quiet.

“And only the marriage between Aragorn and Legolas could reunite all races together under the same flag? Is that what you’re saying?” asked Pippin. He stood now with his chin in his closed hand, his eyes downcast and his brow furrowed thoughtfully.

“Exactly.” said Gandalf with a solemn voice. “Another Alliance of all Races must be formed, if we want a chance to win against the Shadow. And an alliance, or better, a marriage between the heir of Gondor and the heir of Mirkwood, is the first step in that direction.”

“I see…” Pippin nodded. He let out a long breath through his upper lip. “But then, there’s no need to worry, is there? They’re marrying each other tomorrow in the morn!”

“Yes, but… they’ve lied to each other’s Pippin,” whispered Arwen. “And their love made them suffer so much they forsook it. What will happen if tomorrow, upon knowing each other’s identities, they’ll choose not to marry? What if they believe the pain will not be worth it? Or worst – what if they do marry, out of duty, not trusting nor wanting to love one another? Then the rift between Elves and Men would grow even wider, and there would be no hope anymore for Middle Earth.”

Her voice echoed in the still bedroom, bouncing against the high ceiling.

None spoke nor moved for the longest moment, then Pippin leaped to his feet, and with his clear, ringing voice he said:

“I think Aragorn and Legolas really love each other. Tomorrow they *will* marry, and it will be out of love, and not of duty. We mustn’t worry. After all, love conquers everything, does it not?”

“So they say, Pippin,” sighed Gandalf from the winged chair. “So they say.”