Come, ye thankful people, come, raise the song of harvest home;
All is safely gathered in, ere the winter storms begin.
God our Maker doth provide for our wants to be supplied;
Come to God’s own temple, come, raise the song of harvest home. – Henry Alford 1844
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

With very grateful thanks to Raksha who co- wrote this chapter with me.

It rained lightly during the night; Aragorn and Faramir slumbered peacefully, sheltered by the mighty oak. They slept through cockcrow and only awoke when the sun streamed through the branches causing their damp blankets to gently steam.

The two friends arose rather stiffly made their way to the centre of the village where the country folk were eating breakfast. “It promises to be a fine day for the celebrations,” said Tasariel greeting them warmly. “The air feels nice and fresh after the rain. I have your clothes ready for you.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” said Aragorn. “How fares Thoron?”

“Well enough, I believe,” said the village Healer. “I was not summoned during the night.”

“I had better rouse him ere I eat,” said Aragorn.

“How did you make him sleep so soundly?” Tasariel asked.

“It is another gift of my line,” Aragorn explained. ”I am able to send a patient into a healing sleep, but it is very difficult for any other to rouse them from it.”

“Well, I suggest we tend this young dragon ere he awakens,” the Healer suggested.

Thoron looked rather pale, but when Aragorn and Tasariel examined the sleeping boy, they found no trace of fever, his pulse was steady and the gash on his leg was clean and already starting to heal, somewhat to Tasariel’s astonishment. “Another gift of your line?” she queried when Gilrath’s back was turned.

Aragorn nodded. ”It gladdens my heart that Thoron will still be able to support his family. I was concerned for them. Your son will soon be well and should be able to leave his bed later," he told Gilrath. "He will need rest and good food for a while, but his leg should heal completely.” He lightly brushed Thoron’s eyelids with his fingertips, then retreated outside, leaving the cantankerous youth to Tasariel's and his mother’s care. Tasariel joined him a few minutes later.

“Thoron is clear-headed, hungry, and in a very bad temper!” the village Healer informed Aragorn. “Maybe I should not have told him that he can borrow the breeches you are wearing until his own are clean and mended!” Her eyes twinkled mischievously. “I will bring your clean garb and some washing water to your hut. Leave your linens for me to wash.”

Aragorn joined his Steward outside their hut. A few moments later Tasariel appeared with their clothes while her neighbour carried a jug of steaming water for them to wash in.

Faramir and Aragorn bathed, then thankfully changed into clean linens and their own tunics and breeches. It was blissful to have well-fitted clothes and breeches that did not threaten to fall down with every step they took!

Breakfast was a cheerful affair. The villagers boasted of the bounty of their yield over that of other villages. Long-married folk teased some of the youngest men and women about upcoming weddings. The children could not contain their own excitement over the imminent ceremony, devouring their food like ravenous puppies, occasionally earning parental displeasure when they tried to instigate battle with the wooden forks, and constantly jumping up and down from their benches to visit each other. . Harvest was the highlight of the rural year, when country folk allowed themselves to eat drink and be merry.

While the menfolk gathered in the last few remaining sheaves, the women and elder children decorated the barn where the grain would be stored throughout the coming months. Aragorn and Faramir helped hang decorations; hearts and circles woven from the corn and adorned with ribbons, on the high beams at Tasariel’s instructions.

The women and children argued loudly about who would be the king and queen.

“Would Thoron have been a likely candidate?” Aragorn enquired. “It seems that he works hard to support his family.”

Tasariel laughed. ”That young braggart! Not likely! We always choose someone who has proved as fertile as we hope the land will be.”

“I think Pelendur and Emerwen will be chosen,” said a woman. “Still, it is for the Elders to decide who will be honoured.”

The barn looked magnificent when the decorations were completed. Tasariel explained to the visitors that it would be left like that for the winter to honour Yavanna and fend off evil spirits.

The decorating continued outside. Even the trees nearest to the centre of the village were festooned with wild flowers, a colourful array of cornflowers, buttercups and daisies. It was a perfect day for the festival, sunny but not too hot.

At noon, a group of barefoot maidens garbed in somewhat well worn dresses of Yavanna's green led the villagers to the oak that had sheltered Aragorn and Faramir during the night. A makeshift platform had been constructed beneath it, set atop bales of hay, on which the village elders now stood. All the folk of the village, from infants to the oldest greybeard, wore their finest raiment, with sprigs of flowers pinned to their tunics at the throat or over the heart. Their freshly scrubbed faces were aglow with happy anticipation.

A hush of expectation fell over the villagers as Borlach stepped foreword.

“People of Celonhaer,” he began. “Our village has suffered many hardships and losses this year, but today we can rejoice. Thanks to Yavanna's grace, rain has come in time to bless us with a bountiful harvest. As always, the village will crown a king and queen as chosen by the elders. This year’s queen was not an easy choice, as many of our women are strong of heart, fruitful and fair; but we have decided on a lass loved by you all, Vanreth daughter of Garathon!”

The people cheered loudly. Hareth was weeping tears of joy.

Aragorn and Faramir exchanged smiles. Vanreth’s devotion to her child and courageous insistence on seeing the dead spider had greatly impressed them. They were curious now to see who would be chosen as king.

“Maybe it will be Finrod?” whispered Faramir. ”He seems a decent young fellow.”

“I would guess Pelendur,” said Aragorn. “These people prize fruitfulness highly and the young man will soon become a father.”

Borlach raised his hand for silence. “The choice of a king was much easier,” he said. “Surely this man was sent to us in our hour of need by the Valar, though, alas we were slow to see his true worth! Without his good counsel, there would be three less of us here to celebrate this day, while without the valour of this man and his son, a foul monster would still threaten our people. Master Morrandir of Minas Tirith shall be the King of our Harvest!”

The villagers cheered and clapped. Faramir leapt to his feet in joy and embraced his friend. Aragorn sat stunned for a moment unable to take it in. Vanreth smilingly approached him, her hand outstretched. ”They are waiting to crown us,” she said.

“Go, Ada, the people await their King!” cried Faramir, embracing his lord in delight.

Aragorn and Vanreth made their way to the platform. There, Tasariel awaited him, holding out a circlet of golden stonecrop entwined with ivy. Aragorn bent his head, allowing the healer to place the summer crown upon it. Tears pricked his eyes, as he rose and looked out upon the cheering faces. This meant far more to him than these people would ever know. They had chosen him as their King! This time it was not the heir of Elendil who had been chosen by right of birth, but Aragorn the man!

“Let the King and Queen perform the planting ceremony,” Borlach announced as Tasariel crowned Hareth with a circlet of the bell-shaped mallos blossoms, also golden, and leaves of clover.

At a gesture from the headman, two children, a boy and a girl, brought forth the two large corn dollies.

“The King will now bless the corn,” said Tasariel.

Aragorn could not resist a smile. He had often been asked to perform a similar office both as Chieftain and King. “ Gracious Yavanna, Queen of the Earth, Giver of Fruits,” he intoned. “We, thy children beseech thy blessing upon thy bounty. May the clouds yield forth rain and the earth bring forth fruit that they children may want not. We praise thy blessed name!”

The villagers looked rather surprised at such eloquence and chapped and cheered loudly.

The little girl reverently took a corn dolly to the barn, while the boy handed the other to Aragorn and Vanreth. The Harvest King and Queen carried it between them in solemn procession to the nearest field. Tasariel and Borlach led the way.

Faramir remembered a Westron hymn to Yavanna he had learned in his youth and started to sing. Many of the people knew the tune and joined in.

A deep and recently dug hole, surrounded by bunches of flowers, gouged the earth. It looked suspiciously like a grave. “Now is come time for the King and Queen to make the sacrifice on behalf of the people,” said Borlach in a slow, steady voice that carried across the crowd. Tasariel pulled a sharp knife out of a fine leather scabbard at her belt.

Faramir, who stood just behind Aragorn, looked alarmed. His hand went to his sword. “They cannot mean to kill you!” he whispered in horror.

Aragorn shook his head. ”Peace, son of my heart,” he whispered. “They have a similar custom in the North. It has its roots in an older, darker tradition, but I have never been any the worst for it!”

“They never made sacrifices at Dol Amroth!” Faramir protested. ”We scattered a handful of grain and that was all!”

Two other children, a boy and a girl on the edge between childhood and youth, came to take the corn dolly from Aragorn and Vanreth and held it in front of them. The young woman was already calmly baring her arm. Aragorn did likewise. Faramir stood quietly in a warrior's stance, legs slightly bent, hand gripping his sword-hilt, poised to defend his lord.

Tasariel raised the knife and with it made a very small cut in Aragorn’s forearm and then did the same to Vanreth. She raised their arms so that a drop of blood from each fell upon the corn dolly. ”The sacrifice is made! The land will bear fruit!” Tasariel cried.

The two youngsters reverently laid the corn dolly in the earth, while Tasariel bandaged the King and Queen’s arms.

“Long ago they would sacrifice a man and a maiden, or so Elrond told me,” Aragorn explained to Faramir. ”Now a few drops of blood suffice in remote country areas where the custom continues.”

All the villagers helped to cover the corn dolly with the rich dark soil. The people then returned to the village in a cheerful mood.

“The King and Queen of the harvest will now lead the dancing,” Borlach declared. A young man produced a reed pipe and played a merry tune.

Aragorn looked rather hesitantly at his “queen.” He only had one true Queen. As he thought of her, he was seized with a sudden longing that he had not felt in months. He hastily collected himself and turned his attention back to lady he must dance with now. He supposed Arwen would understand that that this was merely a custom of Lossarnach. After all, Aragorn had danced with Lothiriel, and Arwen with Éomer, at the wedding of the Lord of the Mark. And Vanreth's husband Finrod seemed to have no objection, the man was smiling as he held his young son in his arms. The little boy was fascinated by his mother’s crown of flowers and followed her with his eyes.

Aragorn faced the Harvest Queen with a small fire, bordered by stones, between them; a part of the festivities in both North and South. They bowed heads slightly, to show respect without loosening their crowns,. Then King and Queen clasped hands and trod the ancient measures of the Harvest Fire Dance, faster and faster to the quickening pipe notes, until they finished with a high leap over the fire. Aragorn and Vanreth stood apart, her left hand lightly holding his wrist, their other hands held high as if to entreat the sky. The villagers whistled and roared their approval.

Aragorn returned the somewhat flushed young woman to her husband. He was about to sit down when Tasariel approached him a gleam in her eye. “The Village Healer has the right to claim a dance with the King!” she said.

“It is my honour, Mistress,” replied Aragorn. They owed much to the lady and he felt it would be churlish to refuse her. He clasped Tasariel's weathered hand and joined the others in a slower version of the Harvest Fire Dance, dancing in a huge ring with the fire in its centre. Only the Harvest King and Queen were allowed to leap the fire, which would be extinguished before the night ended.

Faramir meanwhile danced with one of Thoron’s sisters, a girl of some fourteen years. The women had their pick, for after so many years of warfare, the fairer sex greatly outnumbered the menfolk. Many women either danced with one another or sat and watched. Faramir noticed the speculative glances given him and Aragorn by some of the widows and maidens. He was careful to treat each one as if she was his Aunt Ivriniel, who was a spirited and graceful dancer.

The music then changed to lighter, jollier rhythms. Groups of men and women formed lines and circles, thus ensuring no one was omitted, and began to step in and out with quick, merry kicks between linked hands. Despite weeks of exhausting labour in the fields, the villagers danced joyfully and seemed never to tire. Faramir noted that even the youngest of children, toddlers barely able to walk, merrily circled about in time to the music, their steps guided by older sisters and brothers. The older children danced with each other, save for a few of the twelve-year-olds, who were brought to dance with their adult kinfolk. Of all the young men, Thoron alone did not dance. The youth sat still, his injured leg propped up on a footstool. Borlach's eldest granddaughter, a lass of about eighteen summers, attended Thoron, bringing him wine with a soft smile. For once, Thoron looked content, and was seen to smile back at the pretty maiden more than once.

The dancing continued until sunset, circle and line dances yielding to the Flower land Reel that had been a favourite in Lossarnach since before Ecthelion's Stewardship. Tasariel insisted on a dance with Faramir, while Hareth danced with Aragorn. Then the men and older boys, bearing beribboned staffs, began the whirling turns of the Bucks' Dance.

The women and children left the men dancing, while they slipped away to bring out the food which they had taken turns to prepare since the morning. They laid it on the tables, keeping a watchful eye open to keep insects away.

Soon, three trestle tables were laden with platters and bowls. Faramir's mouth watered as he surveyed the fare: warm loaves of crusty bread, giant cheeses, mushrooms simmered in wine, carrot pudding dotted with dates and currants, and one of his own favourite dishes - "Dragon Eggs", eggs stuffed with cheese, raisins and herbs. And that was just the start! The women had also laid out river trout cooked in butter and parsley, rabbit in broth, chicken roasted with apples and chestnuts, and a stuffed roasted pig!

Aragorn took his seat at the head of one table with Vanreth at his side. Faramir was also given a place of honour together with Tasariel and Borlach. Tasariel insisted on heaping Faramir's plate with additional portions and encouraging him to eat, much to the amusement of her sons and daughter-in-law. Such kindness was welcome, though barely needed. Aragorn and Faramir ate until they thought they could eat no more; and quenched their thirst with the famed palegolden wine of Lossarnach. They loosened their belts as the tables were cleared. The women then brought seed cakes, pears soaked in wine and honey, and apple fritters fried in batter and cinnamon.

The company ate and drank and told tales until the full moon was high in the sky. From his days as Chieftain, Aragorn knew what was expected of him and glad he had kept a clear enough head to fulfil his duties. He rose to his feet. ”Gracious Yavanna, your bounty has blessed us abundantly tonight,” he said in a loud clear tone. “May Anor and Isil smile on our labours throughout our planting and reaping. May the land and her people be forever fruitful! May we sleep well tonight under Isil’s protection!”

The villagers clapped and cheered. Faramir heard one old woman say “How lordly Master Morrandir is, he is the best King we have had in many a year!” Tears welled up in Faramir's eyes even as he beamed with joy Little did these country-folk know how truly they spoke! He could only hope his reactions would be attributed to the wine.

Aragorn and Vanreth rose from the table to signal the end of the feast. The villagers slowly began to disperse.

“We thank you for your hospitality, ”said Aragorn to the Village Elders. ”You have made us most welcome.”

“The coming of you and your son has been a blessing,” said Borlach gravely. "Without your foresight and aid, Vanreth and her babe would have been buried untimely and suffered horrible deaths. And the evil thing that struck them would still live, to kill more of our livestock and our people!"

“And it is not every night I can dance with the King!” said Tasariel, still with a twinkle in her eye.

Aragorn and Faramir made their way to their favoured spot under the oak tree and spread out their bedrolls. Faramir was slow to settle and tossed restlessly.

“Whatever ails you? It is time to sleep!" Aragorn enquired rather tetchily.

“My stomach aches,” Faramir confessed, rubbing his stomach ruefully. ”I cannot get comfortable.”

“Little wonder given the amount you ate!” Aragorn replied. ”It seems Mistress Tasariel made good her word in feeding you up! Come here, then, and I will try to ease you.” He held his hands a few inches above Faramir's stomach.

Faramir, who simply expected Aragorn to use a gentle Elven healing touch, gave a cry of surprise at the amount of heat emanating from Aragorn’s hands. The pain in his belly swiftly subsided.

“What is the matter?” asked Aragorn.

“I have never known your healing power so strong!” Faramir exclaimed.

“I was again crowned King today,” said Aragorn thoughtfully. "I intend to preserve some of the flowers from my crown." He yawned loudly and settled under his blanket.

Soon, a gentle wind seemed to kiss the trees good night, leaving a hooting owl as the only creature to cry out under the heavens. King and Steward slept peacefully side by side, their sleeping forms illuminated by Isil’s gentle rays.

TBC

CO-AUTHOR'S NOTES: I was inspired in my conception of the villagers' circle dance by the descriptions in Wikipedia dot com, of the "horo", a Bulgarian dance with many patterns of diverse steps that can be danced in a circle or a curving line of people. I envisioned the Harvest Fire Dance as sort of a cross between a sword dance and parts of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring ballet (only without the human sacrifice at the end!).

The Flower land Reel is a dance of my own imagination; inspired by Tolkien's mentions of the flowers of Lossarnach. It is based loosely on the Virginia Reel, and much too complicated to describe in any detail. I'm not sure exactly what the Bucks' Dance is, except that men do it, is noisy and necessitates strength and skill, has some fertility implications, and probably involves twirling and thwacking of staffs.

The villagers' harvest feast menu is inspired, once again, by the descriptions and recipes at gode cookery dot com, a wonderful website for medieval and renaissance food.

Any errors or misconceptions about the dancing and country cuisine are of Raksha the Demon's devising, please don't blame Linda.

A/N. A very big thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter. I am continuing to revise and rewrite “Shadow and Thought” on this site and would be interested to hear if you feel it has improved any.I have posted a new story “No Hope for Myself.” And there is a a new fun quiz about my stories on my LJ, which I invite you to try.

I hope my friends in the USA are enjoying their holiday. - Linda

A Daniel come to judgement

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

A Daniel come to judgment! Yea, a Daniel!
O wise young judge, how I do honour thee! - The Merchant of Venice. Act 4.scene 1. Shakespeare.

With thanks to Deandra

Aragorn picked at his food morosely. He had little appetite for the delicious fare that the cooks had carefully prepared.

What is wrong, Estel?” Arwen enquired. “I have scarcely seen you all day and now you hardly say a word.”

“I am sorry, vanimelda,” said Aragorn. “My duties as King lie heavily upon me today.”

“Tell me what troubles your heart,” Arwen pleaded, once the servants had cleared away the plates. She poured two glasses of wine from the carafe on the table and handed one to her husband. The Queen moved over to the couch and beckoned her husband to sit beside her.

“You do not want to hear of the evil in Men’s hearts,” said Aragorn, tenderly caressing her cheek. “Alas, dark deeds did not end when Sauron was defeated!”

“You should not seek to protect me, Estel,” Arwen said firmly. “I have lived many years and seen all too many evils. Could any deeds be darker than the ordeal my mother endured? I was there when my brothers brought her home. I saw what the Orcs had done to her. I am your wife, sworn to share your joys and sorrows and help you to bear your troubles.” Tenderly she patted his hand.

Taking a deep breath, Aragorn told her the story of Ostopher and Melian. “How can I kill him, a good and honourable man?” he concluded. “Yet, the law says I must punish him as he refuses to speak in his defence.”

“In the North, a man has the right to avenge the honour of his kinswoman or betrothed,” Arwen said thoughtfully. “The poor girl, that she should be thus abused!”

“We are in Gondor, though, with its rigid laws and customs,” Aragorn replied. ”I believe young Ostopher acted rightly to avenge his lady’s honour, but the law sees him as a cold blooded killer whom I must punish.”

“You have the prerogative to exercise mercy,” Arwen reminded him.

“The mob would mostly likely tear Ostopher limb from limb if he walked free,” Aragorn said grimly. “A poor mercy that would be!”

“There are other ways to show clemency,” Arwen said. ”Did you not say the lad was a carpenter?”

“He is indeed, and according to Faramir, a good one.”

“We have great need of skilled craftsmen to rebuild Annuminas,” said Arwen. ”Why not exile him there? His sweetheart could go with him if she chooses. They could start their lives afresh in the North.”

“That is an excellent idea,oh wisest of Peredhil!” Aragorn exclaimed, embracing her warmly. ”The people of Gondor might even think that exile to the North was a crueller fate than death! As for Ostopher, I think he might be happy in Arnor.” The King looked pleadingly at his wife. ”I know I have neglected you today, dearest, but would it grieve you if I went to tell Ostopher that he will not be executed? He is confined here, within the Citadel.”

“Go with my blessing,” said Arwen. ”The boy will sleep better with the knowledge. I assume too, as you have become his Healer, you will wish to see how he is.”

“I shall not be gone long,” said Aragorn. Pausing only to place a tender kiss upon her lips and collect his healing supplies, he hastened to the detention chamber.

000

Looking far from happy at obeying his lord’s command to enter alone, the Guard opened the door of the detention chamber, then closed it as soon as the King had entered.

Aragorn quietly approached the bed where Ostopher lay sleeping. The young man was now clad in an ill fitting nightshirt. Ostopher was obviously exhausted not to have awakened when the King entered the room. Aragorn stood for a moment studying him. Ostopher’s face was tear stained, suggesting that once alone, he had wept again, either for his own plight, or that of his lady. In contrast to his appearance earlier that day, he now looked clean, and smelled strongly of soap.

Despite being propped up on several pillows, Ostopher’s breathing was rather laboured, suggesting his injuries were troubling him. Aragorn decided to awaken him.

“My lord!” Ostopher sat up with a start.

“Easy now,” said Aragorn. ”How do you fare?”

“Well enough, my lord,” the young carpenter replied, not very convincingly.

“Have you been treated well?” the King enquired.

“Yes, my lord. I was brought water to bathe in and food to eat. This bed is the most comfortable I have ever slept in.” Ostopher hesitated, then swallowed hard. “When I returned from bathing, this was all I had been left to wear. Do I have to go to my execution, dressed only in this? A man came to measure me, for my shroud, I think!”

Aragorn smiled at him. ”You were simply being measured for some suitable clothing. Prisoners are not hung wearing their night attire! Not that such details, need to be of any concern to you; you shall not go to the gallows, but rather to the North, where I have decided to exile you for the rest of your days. Your sweetheart is; of course, free to accompany you, if she so chooses. Dame Ioreth examined her and she confirms your story.”

Ostopher’s grey eyes lit up. He slid from the bed and knelt on the stone floor at Aragorn’s feet and clasping the King’s hands, kissed them fervently. “My lord, how can I ever thank you sufficiently for such mercy!” he exclaimed.

“I doubt you will feel much cause for gratitude during a long northern winter!” Aragorn replied dryly, raising him to his feet. ”However, I think you should prosper in Arnor. Your skills will be much in demand there, and you and Mistress Melian can start afresh away from wagging tongues and past sorrows. You must stay here for your own safety until you are able to travel. Everything will be provided for your needs. If you wish, you may walk in the gardens each day under escort and Mistress Melian may visit you. Now get back in bed, you need to rest.”

For a moment Ostopher looked at the King, completely overwhelmed with joy, before obediently doing as he was bidden. ”I can never thank you sufficiently!” he repeated. “Would it be allowed for me to have my carpenter’s tool’s brought here?” he asked after a moment’s thought. “I fear lest my skills have become rusty after so long without taking up hammer and chisel. Melian kept them safe for me after I was arrested.”

“I believe that can be arranged,” said Aragorn.

“Thank you, sire,” Ostopher suddenly coughed and his body contorted with pain.

Aragorn poured him some water from a jug on the bedside table and handed it to him. The King watched while the young man drank, and then offered, “I can ease your hurts further if you wish, but I would need you to reach out with your mind to accept the healing I offer, as one receives a gift.”

Ostopher hesitated for only a moment before saying. ”I would be grateful for your help, lord,” he said quietly. “What must I do?”

“Just slip your nightshirt off your shoulders so that I can see your hurts, then lie down. You will feel heat from my hands. Try to reach out towards me with your spirit.”

Ostopher obeyed and bared his bruises again, albeit still with a certain degree of reticence, though he showed none of his earlier terror. He closed his eyes and was aware of the King standing beside the bed, gently feeling his cracked rib. Suddenly, he felt a warmth flooding through every fibre of his bruised body. Startled he opened his eyes, and to his amazement saw the bruises grow less angry in appearance, even as he watched. The King seemed to grow weary looking as the power flowed from his hands.

“You will heal quickly now,” said Aragorn a few moments later. “It is time to rest and concentrate on regaining your strength. I am postponing your return before the court until you feel better and have something to wear. I bid you a restful night.” With that, he smiled kindly at Ostopher, then left the chamber.

Aragorn had intended to rejoin his wife as quickly as possible, but when he passed the door leading to Faramir’s apartments he decided that if he and Faramir were to work together in the harmony and friendship that he desired, he ought to tell his Steward what fate he had determined for Ostopher.

A servant led him to Faramir’s study. Although it was well past suppertime, the weary looking Steward was seated at his desk studying a scroll. He jumped to his feet when the King entered.

“There is no need to rise,” said Aragorn. “I came to tell you that I have found a way to show clemency to young Ostopher. I mean to exile him to the North for the rest of his days. The case seemed to be similar to that of Beregond.”

Faramir’s tired eyes lit up. ”Your justice combined with mercy does you great credit, my lord,” he said. “You have round a most reasonable solution to difficult circumstances, which gladdens my heart.”

“You look tired, Faramir,” said Aragorn. “Do not work too hard. Remember, I should like you to dine with the Queen and I one night.”

“You will wish to be alone with your bride, sire,” Faramir replied, looking

uncomfortable. “I would not intrude.”

“Happiness is to be shared,” said Aragorn. “I might rule here rather than you, but I would not have you feel excluded. I value your counsel highly. Today, your insights have been of great value in deciding this difficult case.”

“Thank you, sire.” Faramir coloured slightly.

“Goodnight then,” said Aragorn patting Faramir on the shoulder and wondering how long it would take before the Steward would be at ease with his new lord.

0000

Several days later Ostopher was again taken to court and sentenced to a lifetime of exile in the North for escaping from prison and killing Maglor. At the same time, he was formally exonerated of the attack on Findegil. Ostopher was forbidden on pain of death to ever enter Gondor again without the express permission of the King. Some of the people were outraged that he had escaped death for killing a Citadel Guard, while others were convinced that leaving Gondor was a far worse fate than the hangman’s noose! Aragorn took no chances and the young man was kept closely guarded.

Ioreth went to visit Melian again when her father was in his shop, both to tell her of Ostopher’s fate, and to see if the young woman was starting to heal in mind and body. The elderly Healer found her patient somewhat wearied by women’s courses, which did at least fully reassure the young woman that she could not be carrying Maglor’s child. The bruises on Melian’s body were fading. Her soul would, alas, take far longer to heal.

000

One day, early in August, Ostopher, flanked by two Guards, was taking his daily walk in the garden when a young woman approached him hesitantly. She looked pale, thin and drawn, but to Ostopher’s was the fairest lady that walked the earth. “Melian!” he cried.

“You may withdraw to give them some privacy,” Aragorn ordered the Guards. Together with his Queen; he had contrived to be present at this meeting. The Guards retreated, as did the King and Queen, to some distance away.

Ostopher and Melian approached each other rather tentatively. She hung her head and froze when he approached her. With a loving reverence Ostopher kissed her tenderly on the brow. A moment later, he was holding her in a loving embrace, as tenderly as one might hold a child.

“I think she will eventually heal with his help, though it may take a long time,” said Aragorn.

“Maybe I can help the poor girl with some of the Elven arts to soothe and cleanse mind and body that my father taught me?” said Arwen. “I have heard mortals are usually more resilient than the Eldar to such an ordeal as Melian has endured, but mortal woman do, I think, still suffer a great deal.”

“At least they have one another,” said Aragorn as the young couple approached them. ”I believe he will show her the patience and kindness that she needs to heal.”

“My lord, my lady, Melian still wishes to become my wife!” Ostopher said joyously. ”Her father has consented, though he refuses her a dowry, but we will somehow manage. I can work hard. Her two youngest sisters are coming north with us as there is no one else to care for them and they will keep her company while I am working.”

“I would be happy to join you both in wedlock,” said Aragorn.

Ostopher beamed, while Melian simply curtsied shyly.

0000

Three weeks later, at first light on the day they were due to depart, Aragorn joined Ostopher and Melian in wedlock beneath the White Tree. At such an early hour, there were no passers by. Only those who wished to witness the simple ceremony were clustered around the sapling. Melian’s sisters were all present, though not her father. The only other guests were Arwen, Faramir and Ioreth. Melian wore a simple, but exquisite blue gown, a gift from the Queen, who had befriended her.

“We shall forever be grateful to you for your kindness, sire,” Ostopher told Aragorn after the ceremony was concluded.

“I am glad that I trusted my heart and decided to find out the truth about you,” said Aragorn regarding the young couple fondly. In truth, he would quite miss Ostopher, having had many talks with the young carpenter during his confinement in the Citadel and from him had learned a good deal about the ordinary people of Minas Tirith, knowledge that would help him rule them wisely.

“May we write to you?” Ostopher asked rather shyly.

“The Queen and I would like that very much,” said Aragorn.

“There is something in my room I have made as a gift, which I hope you will accept, sire,” Ostopher continued. “I hope you will like it.”

“I am certain I shall,” Aragorn said tactfully, expecting something like a wooden practise sword of which he already had far too many. Now farewell, and go with my blessing!” He stooped and kissed Ostopher on the brow, while Arwen kissed Melian.

“May Elbereth light your journey!” said Arwen.

0000

Aragorn was kept occupied with royal duties throughout the rest of the day. As usual, he shifted uncomfortably on Denethor’s hideous chair. He was still working late that afternoon on plans for rebuilding the City, when a servant knocked on the door. “The Guard from the detention chamber found this with a note for you, my lord,” the man said.

“Let him enter!” said Aragorn.

The Guard entered carrying a chair. He put it down beside the King’s desk, bowed and left.

Aragorn studied the item of furniture. It was beautifully made of polished wood, the arms adorned with carvings of the White Tree. Pushing Denethor’s chair aside, he sat down in the new one. It was very comfortable, obviously the work of a master craftsman.

Aragorn sighed contentedly. Deciding the work could wait a little longer; he went in search of his Queen to show her his new treasure. As for Denethor’s chair, unless Faramir wanted it, it would make good firewood for the coming winter.

The End