Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dawn came swift and bright. The morning light scattered across the inside of Harper’s tent, and shone insistently against her eyelids. Consciousness came on slowly: first the sun, then the chill in the air, and then the rush of memory as the dreams fell off.

She opened her eyes, and squinted out the mesh side of her tent. The sky was blue and free of clouds, save a few wisps in the far distance. She closed her eyes again, and considered dozing for a while longer. But then she registered both her full bladder and dry mouth, so with a reluctant groan and a stretch, she started her day.

Harper puttered, slow and content, through her morning routine. She had been backpacking for several days, and it was doing her a world of good. She had started every single morning last week with a panic attack, but for the last three days she’d been gently stirred from her sleep by bird song and greeted by the sweet smell of wildflowers.

There were three days left before the end of her trip, and she intended to savor every moment. Until then, she would not think about managing the absolute disaster that was her life, nor would she obsess over how she could possibly pick up the pieces when she went back to it. No, today she was going to do some sketching in the sunshine, soak her feet in the stream, and pick flowers to press and dry later on.

After she lit a fire (which only took a solid three attempts: a new record!) and put her kettle on to boil for her instant coffee, she popped back into the tent to change. The air still held a bite, but the sun was strong and it was early. She put on her leggings and a dark, loose long sleeved shirt. She kept her boots off. She didn’t intend on going anywhere today.

Tomorrow, she planned to walk the last length of her trip before picking a spot to camp in for the next two nights, and then spend the last day walking back to the trailhead. It was by no means an intense excursion. She was still new to backpacking, and mostly looking for the relief of settling down and packing up and moving as she pleased. She had a final destination in mind, but if she didn’t make it there, it was no big deal.

She was just glad to be gone, if only for a little while. That was all that mattered.

Harper sipped her coffee, did some stretching, and then sat down with her sketchbook and breakfast in front of her fire, and lost herself for a while as the sun made its way across the sky.

Later, as the sun approached its zenith but before noon, she looked up suddenly from her sketchbook. Nothing in particular broke her focus, other than an odd tingling at the base of her spine. She scanned the horizon, expecting to see nothing remarkable, save maybe for a fox. There were no foxes, but there was a dark and vague figure approaching on her right. He was still a way off, and she couldn’t make out any of his features, but he was headed straight for her.

Harper groaned. If she was lucky, the other hiker would register her presence soon and change course to go around her camp. She wasn't interested in talking to anybody right now, but especially not an overly friendly backpacking-type.

On her first solo trip several months prior, some college kid had come across her camp while he was on his own hike, invited himself to sit down, and proceeded to recite his entire life story for like, two hours before Harper finally faked exhaustion and sent him away. She did not have that kind of tact or patience right now. If this guy tried to talk to her, she would just go back into her tent until he left.

Harper went back to her drawings and tried to find her groove again. But she was overly conscious of the man approaching, and kept second guessing her lines and having to erase and start again.

The part of her brain that watched too many crime shows warned her that the man was definitely on his way over to kill her and use her corpse to build a village of fleshy birdhouses, and she should grab her knife and hiss at him until he left. But she knew that wasn’t quite a reasonable response, so she compromised by grabbing her pepper spray from her jacket and tucking it under her leg. Her therapist -- Michelle -- would be proud.

When she could clearly hear his footsteps, she admitted defeat and put down her sketchbook. She looked back over at the man, trying to get a read on whether she was about to deal with annoying or crazy.

Harper rubbed her eyes. She rubbed them again. She considered the fact that she might be hallucinating.

Because. Well--

What the fuck?

The man was not Viggo Mortensen, because Viggo Mortensen was sixty-something now and unfortunately did not look like Aragorn in his everyday life. Also, she thought the chances of running into him in the Maine wilderness were fairly low, especially while he was wearing a twenty year old movie costume -- wig included. Not impossible, just very unlikely.

But gun to her head, she would have said Aragorn was walking toward her at a steady clip.

"Cool cosplay, dude," Harper said when the man was finally within hearing range.

Or, rather -- she tried to say that. Those were her intended words and meaning, and her brain assured her that was what had been communicated. But whatever came out of her mouth was not English. A sharp pain throbbed at the back of her skull, and a wave of nausea swiftly followed it.

"Pardon?" The man replied. Her head throbbed again and the nausea increased tenfold. Because he did not say 'pardon'. It sounded closer to sir-eigh. Logically, she should have interpreted it as an odd pronunciation of 'sorry', but her brain dismissed the evidence her ears gathered and insisted, quite firmly, that he had said, and meant to say, 'pardon.'

“I think I’m having a stroke,” Harper said. Not necessarily to the man, just to mark the occasion. Every word still sounded wrong. Her mouth seemed to be shaping the vibrations of her vocal cords into unfamiliar syllables without any input from whatever part of her brain was typically responsible for controlling the subconscious aspects of speech.

The man was looking at her strangely, but it was not the face of a man watching a woman spout the kind of nonsense that called for medical intervention. Harper might have lost control of her tongue, but it seemed to be doing a fine job on its own.

Which concerned her. A stroke was the easiest explanation for whatever the fuck was happening. But she was pretty sure that if she was having a stroke, she would be hearing familiar words and struggling to comprehend them, not the other way around. She forced herself to smile, patted her face to check for drooping, and found none. Her heart was racing and she was beginning to sweat profusely, but ignoring the out of body electric buzz of fear, she hadn't gone numb anywhere. She raised her arms above her head without issue, and had no issue keeping them there.

She probably wasn't having a stroke.

The man stood about ten feet away, watching her with a puzzled look on his face. His right hand rested on his belt, next to the hilt of his sword. She stared back at him.

A single rational thought triumphed over the chaos in her head: she was alone in the forest with a strange man who was carrying a giant weapon.

That wasn't good.

She grabbed her pepper spray and jumped to her feet. Her hands shook as she pointed the pepper spray at the man, and her knees threatened to buckle as she backed away.

“What the fuck is happening right now?” Harper asked. Yelled. Shrieked. Whatever.

Her words were wrong and her heart was pounding and she seemed to be losing her grip on reality, but that hardly mattered if some sword-wielding maniac in the middle of nowhere was about to brutally murder her and permanently erase her from reality. Maybe her mother had been right about the dangers of camping alone. Harper would be sure to tell her that, if she managed to escape this situation with her head still attached to her neck.

Pointing the pepper spray at him made the man reach for the grip of his sword, but he did not draw it, and let go a moment later. He put his hands up and took a step back. He shifted his weight to one side and hunched in on himself slightly, like he was trying to appear as nonthreatening as a freakishly tall man with a giant sword could.

“Lady, are you well?” He asked. His eyes swept over the campsite, lingering on her tent in particular, before he looked at her again.

“Stop fucking with me before I get my gun.” She didn’t have a gun. He didn’t know that. “Who are you, and what is happening?”

Maybe he had snuck into her camp at night and laced her camelbak? With what? She couldn’t think of a single drug that did … whatever this was. And to what end? Was she on a prank show?

Harper looked around. There were no camera crews. Panicked tears began to fall from her eyes. Worry came over the man’s face, and he took a hesitant step toward her, hands still held open and aloft.

“I am Strider,” he said. His voice was gentle, if a bit rough from disuse.

Harper laughed, thick and wet. “And I’m Beyoncé!” She wiped her tears away with her free hand. Her voice turned hard. “You better back the fuck off and tell me what you drugged me with. My dad is a sheriff and you won’t get away with this.”

Her dad was a middle manager for a corporate IT department.

And he was probably going to get away with this.

The man’s jaw dropped open in shock, and he stepped back again. “I promise you I mean you no harm, nor have I done any to you.” His accent was strange and shifting, unlike anything she had heard before. His words still sounded all wrong, even if she understood him perfectly. “I was surprised to see another traveling through the South Downs, and was curious as to what business you might have in these parts. But now that I am here, I am concerned that you may be ill. I have some skill in healing, if you would--”

“What? Are you gonna check to see if I have a fever and then tell me to drink some athelas tea?” Harper tried to sound mocking, but her voice quivered and rasped something desperate.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward like he was fighting the urge to smile. “Among a few other things, aye,” he said, voice gone a little wry. He retook the same tentative step toward her. “You are familiar with athelas?”

“Yeah, me and everybody who's gotten halfway through ‘The Fellowship’," Harper snapped. "Can you drop the fucking act now, please? I get it. You have a cool costume and freaked out an innocent woman for shits and giggles. That totally makes you a comedy genius and not an unlikeable freak of nature." He had the gall to look offended, and in any other situation, she might have laughed at his expression. "Are we done now? You can go home and put this on youtube, or whatever. I don't care. Just fucking-- go away."

He glanced down at his outfit, and the smile he was fighting broke free for a victorious moment. “A costume?” He was amused by the prospect. “Nay, Lady, these are simply my clothes. And I fear I do not know this youtube, or what I would put on it.”

When he said ‘youtube’, it sounded correct. Yoo-toob. Familiar syllables that formed foreign in his mouth. Belatedly, she realized it had sounded correct when she said it, too. But every other word he said was wrongright in the same way all the others she had heard or spoken that day had been.

Harper felt something click in the back of her brain. “I’m going to be sick,” she said. Then she fell to her knees and choked as her breakfast came back up with a vengance.

After a moment, the man came over and crouched beside her. He moved her braid over her shoulder and out of the splash zone. Then he sat back on his haunches and produced a waterskin from somewhere, and waited for her to stop retching.

Eventually, with her vision blurred and her nose dripping, Harper gave a final series of wet and sputtering coughs. Her stomach signaled that it was done, but she stayed on her hands and knees and stared at the ground. It was easier to stare at a pool of her own vomit than to look at the strange man next to her.

“Maybe I’m dead. I could be dead,” Harper said, mostly addressing the pool of vomit.

It was possible. Maybe a bear had attacked her in the middle of the night. She could have suffered from some kind of unexpected medical event in her sleep.

Or, what if she had been dead for a while? She had tripped down the stairs last week, right before everything went to shit. Maybe she hadn’t just bruised her shin, maybe she had cracked her head open and everything since then had been-- what? Hell? Harper wasn’t particularly religious, and while she joked about it sometimes, she didn’t actually think she was going to hell even if God was real.

But she had lost her job, had her car totaled, and received an eviction notice in a three day span. And now she was here, in the middle of nowhere, having some kind of Lord of the Rings themed confusion episode. None of that sounded like heaven.

Gently, the man touched her shoulder. She flinched, and he drew his hand away. “I am certain you are not dead,” he said.

She looked at him, and hated the pity in his eyes. “If I’m not having a stroke, and I’m not dead, then what? I just woke up in Middle-earth?” She laughed, clipped and clinical kinds of hysterical.

He frowned, and something in his gaze shifted. Pity morphed into skeptical curiosity. “Where else would you be?” He asked.

“Earth! Regular Earth! Real Earth.”

“Real Earth?”

“Yes, asshole. Real Earth." Harper glared at him, and sat down hard on the ground. "I am being so serious right now: if you’re fucking with me, I need you to own up immediately. Otherwise, I will be billing you for my trip to the psychward." Psychward sounded correct when she said it. "Because if you are about to try to convince me I’m in fantasyland, I’m going to lose it. I am not having a good month. I don’t have time for a total break from reality.”

He muttered ‘fantasyland’ under his breath, like he thought it was a strange word, even though it didn't sound correct. He passed her his waterskin before he shifted and put a small distance between them, then sat down properly, facing her. “I am unsure what you ask of me, or what exactly your meaning is. I would judge you unwell, but--” he paused. He studied her. His eyes were bright and grey. She didn’t like how keen his gaze felt. “I feel something strange is afoot, and I would help you if I can.”

Harper barked a laugh and scrubbed a hand over her face. “Strange. Yeah, that's one way to phrase it.”

She considered doing what she had wanted to do when she first saw him in the distance: turning tail and zipping herself into her tent until he left. But amidst the cocktail of fear and confusion and rage that was churning in her gut, there was a certain sense of foreboding. Though she could not have made sense of its origin or logic if she tried, the foreboding sense warned her that shutting herself up in her tent and ignoring him until he left would not make reality return to its rightful shape.

She really wanted to shut herself up in her tent and ignore him until he left.

But no. No, she would try to get answers from him, at the very least. This man probably wasn't the cause of whatever was happening to her. As a rule she did not believe in befriending strange, bedraggled men carrying weapons in the wilderness, but beggars couldn't be choosers. The grim fact of the matter was that she would rather have the help of a man who was possibly dangerous and-or insane, than have no help at all.

He made an open motion with his hands, bidding her to speak. “Start from the beginning, so I might have the best chance of understanding.” He looked over her clothes and gear with greater interest, searching out answers and seeming to find none. He looked as confused as she felt.

“The beginning? Right now is the beginning. I was having a nice morning on my vacation and then you showed up in your ranger costume and I stopped speaking English.” English sounded right when she said it, too.

“English?” He asked. He pronounced it as arn-glush, rather than eng-lesh, like he had never heard the word before, and her heart skipped a terrified beat.

“Yes! English!" Harper's voice sounded sharp and unforgiving to her own ears. She was distantly aware that she was being rude. She didn't care. "As in, England, as in a-dozen-stolen-languages-in-a-dysfunctional-trench coat.”

He frowned. “I have never heard of English or England.” He made an attempt, but didn't pronounce either word correctly. “Where on Arda is this land? Not on Middle-earth, certainly.”

She grabbed at her hair and suppressed the urge to scream. “Of course it’s not on Middle-earth. Middle-earth isn’t fucking real.”

"What do you mean?”

“What else could I possibly mean? It isn’t real. It's fictional, imaginary, insert a dozen other synonyms here. Tolkien made it up for Lord of the Rings.”

A shadow passed over his face. “Lord of the Rings?” He repeated, his voice gone hard and flat. He shifted minutely, and the set of his shoulders telegraphed a silent threat: if she gave him a reason to draw his sword, he was ready and willing to do so.

Harper buried her hand in her hands. "Oh what the fuck." Then she made herself look at him again, if only so she would see it coming when he tried to stab her. "Yes, The Lord of the Rings. It is a series of fantasy novels and films that everyone and their mothers have heard of.”

He made a disbelieving sound. She laughed.

“What? You don’t believe me?” She grabbed her backpack and dug in the front pocket, until she produced the softcover copy of the trilogy that she had brought with her. She opened it. And if she had anything left in her stomach, she would have puked again.

The script in the book was new and strange -- yet she could still read it with ease. But worse than that, almost all of it was blank. A few pages into the third chapter, the text just stopped.

She tossed the book to the side and began to sob again.

The man picked up the book and skimmed it while she sobbed. Then he took to examining the novel itself, feeling the texture of the paper and running a finger over the print, feeling for the indentations that ought to be left behind by pen strokes. He hummed an unsure note.

“Where did you come by this?” He asked, after politely waiting for the worst of the sobbing to subside.

“My friend’s bookshelf,” Harper said. She dried her face with the collar of her shirt. “I couldn’t find my copy, so I borrowed it the last time I was at her apartment.”

“Your copy?” He was skeptical.

“Yes! My copy! This is what I’m saying. The Lord of the Rings is a very popular book series. You can buy it at like, any book store.”

He skimmed the text again, and frowned as he got further in. “This is a dangerous thing to carry,” he told her, voice low and stern. “And--“ but whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a surprised inhale. She grabbed the book from him and watched in wonder as new words began to appear on the page.

“One summer’s evening an astonishing piece of news reached the Ivy Bush and Green Dragon…”

She dropped the book again. “Oh man, what the fuck.”

Was the book magic? Unlikely, unless Becca had secretly been a witch for the fifteen years they had known one another. And she doubted her friend had picked up a cursed object at Barnes and Noble.

“What is this book about, precisely?” The man asked.

She gave him a withering look. “You really can't guess? It’s about the War of The Ring.”

His face fell. “It’s to be war, then,” he said, grieved but not surprised, and nodded once, to himself. He picked up the book and handled it warily, like there was some possible evil in it. Then he closed it and set it down again. "What do you know of me?" He asked cautiously. His posture remained unchanged, but he held himself very still as he awaited her answer, tense uncertainty emanating from him in waves.

She laughed in his face. “What do you think, Estel?”

He scowled, unconvinced. “It is not impossible you would know that name. This is a strange object you have, but it seems more likely to me that you are a servant of the Enemy, even if you be unwitting or unwilling in your service.”

Harper rolled her eyes. Great. She had somehow ended up in Middle-earth, and now the future King of Men was going to kill her because he had decided she worked for Sauron. Though in all fairness, for him, that was a more logical conclusion to arrive at than the truth -- whatever that was.

But if at all possible, she wanted to make it to sunset without being stabbed, so she cleared her throat. "You're Strider, a ranger of the north and Chieftain of the Dúnedain. Your mother fled with you to Rivendell when you were very young, after your father was killed. There, Lord Elrond fostered you and called you Estel until he finally revealed your heritage to you when you turned twenty. He gave you the ring of Barahir -- and possibly Narsil, though I guess that depends on if I'm in the book or the film." She eyed his sword, but couldn't tell just by looking at the grip.

He stared at her in stunned silence. She took the opportunity to study him in return. He looked very much like the film version of Aragorn, but he was taller, like he was in the books, and the closer she examined his facial features the more she could spot small differences. If he had wandered onto set while they were making the films, she thought, it would have taken some time for people to notice the difference, but they would have noticed eventually.

“Do you believe me now?”

He didn’t answer. She watched uncertainty and irritation battle on his face.

“I can keep going," Harper said. "They don’t go into great detail about it, but you fought for a time in Gondor under the name Thorongil, many years ago. You’re like, almost ninety, even though you look closer to forty because of that good ol’ Numenorian blood. You’ve gone far south in an effort to battle the Enemy’s servants, and -- if I have my timelines correct based on the weird little disappearing trick my book is doing -- you’re going to head to Bree under orders from Gandalf relatively soon.” She did not elaborate on the task he would undertake once he arrived in Bree. She was still spooked by his reaction when she first mentioned the Ring.

He raised an eyebrow. “I am on my way to meet with Gandalf now, actually. I do not know what he wishes to discuss.”

A deep, existential fear wrapped its hand around her throat and squeezed. As the fear choked her, every single time travel and multiverse related piece of media she had ever consumed flashed through her mind. She hadn’t gotten around to reading fan fiction for Lord of the Rings, yet. But she knew her tropes, and it was easy to see where this might lead. Which was all well and good for irresponsible binge-reading at two in the morning, but when presented as reality, it definitely lost its luster.

Fuck. She was going to die.

Harper wanted to believe she was already dead, and the afterlife was-- what? Based on the most recent fantasy series one had seen? But she could feel her heart beating in her chest, and the air flowing in and out of her lungs with every breath she took. The sun was hot, and the back of her neck was sweating. She wiggled her fingers and toes, tensed her muscles. She felt very much alive.

But she had never been dead before, so who was she to say that this wasn’t what it felt like?

“Are you sure I’m not dead?” She asked him, her voice high and tight.

To her surprise, he laughed. It was a good sound: quiet and rumbling. “As certain as I can be.”

They fell into a heavy silence. He watched her while she spun herself dizzy on her racing thoughts.

If she was in Middle-earth, then how did she get there? She didn’t think it was hidden off of I-95 in rural Maine. Could she go back? How long had she been here? Was it the moment she walked out of sight of the trailhead parking lot, or had her hiking yesterday taken her through some Narnia-style mystical thicket of trees? The scenery was beautiful, but nothing had particularly screamed fae-magic at her.

Harper felt bile rising in her throat again. She swallowed it down. “Are you still up for making me some of that athelas tea, or?”

With a look of pity, he nodded and started to prepare it.

She turned her attention to the surrounding wilderness. Now that she thought about it, everything did look slightly different than it had when she set up camp here yesterday. Hadn’t there been a stream within her sight? None of the trees seemed to be quite the right type, and the mountain peaks that had dotted the horizon had slipped away.

Okay, so it had happened over night. What if she was just having a particularly lucid dream? She pinched the inside of her wrist as hard as she could, and swore at the sting of it.

He looked at her out of the corner of his eyes when she swore. Harper ignored him, and suddenly a fierce wave of irritation rolled over her. She wanted to see him try to behave like a normal person if he magically appeared in the middle of downtown Boston. He wouldn't be so quick to judge, then.

“How do I know you’re actually who you say you are?” She asked, rather acerbically. But when in doubt: lash out, as she always said. Michelle was still patiently working through this with her.

It was a baseless accusation. He was obviously Aragorn. But Harper needed some kind of confirmation. There was some comfort to be found in the fact that Aragorn was the first person she met after magically appearing in Middle-earth -- she trusted him, or at least the idea of him, and so far he hadn't given her any reason to think he was less trustworthy in the flesh. But she didn't want to accept that comfort until she knew it was real.

He did not look up at her as he stoked the fire, silently considering his answer. “I am unsure what would convince you,” he said at length. “You have already named much that I would have said to do so.”

That was fair, she had basically rattled off his life story. Harper thought about what else she could ask him while they waited for the water to boil. The answer came to her as he was dumping the athelas into her empty mug. It was embarrassingly obvious, but given the absolute mindfuck of this interaction, she decided to give herself some grace for not having thought of it sooner.

“Finish the verse and tell me your true name, and I'll believe you.” It was how the Hobbits decided to trust him in the book, and Arwen recited it in the films after convincing Elrond to reforge Narsil. So regardless of whatever iteration of the story she was in, he ought to know it. “All that is gold does not glitter...” Harper started.

He looked up at her then, eyes wide. He blinked a few times, and then cleared his throat.

“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost,
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.”

The final line lingered, for an unnatural extra beat, in the air between them. Impatient and weighty, silence rushed in after it. A shiver ran up her spine.

“I am Aragorn son of Arathorn," Aragorn said, then cast a wary glance at their surroundings. "But the eyes and ears of the Enemy are far reaching, so I would ask you not to call me that here."

She nodded. “I’m Harper."

Aragorn frowned. “Did you not say your name was Beyoncé?” He asked, entirely serious.

Harper burst out laughing just as the kettle went off.

Chapter Text

Awkward silence fell over the camp while Harper drank her tea. Athelas had a strong, earthy taste that surprised her. She’d never given the idea much thought, but she would have assumed it tasted like mint. Aragorn kept to himself as she sipped, humming under his breath while he watched the horizon. The lack of conversation allowed her space to think, which was a loathsome thing indeed. But she had to give Aragorn and his athelas some credit: while panic still threatened, she was managing to keep away from the whirling vortex of despair forming in the back of her brain.

More pressingly, in some ways, there was the matter of the Song. Harper was no stranger to peaceful contemplation of nature, or the cheer it gave to the heart. She had returned to her car after a day hike or stepped into her apartment after a walk around the block with a skip in her step and a smile on her face more times than she cared to count. Being outside made her happy, and the serenity of nature undisturbed infused her with a lightness of being she never managed to find elsewhere.

This was something else entirely. The trees, the rocks, the wind, were all singing -- a chorus that was inaudible and overwhelming at once.

Her grasp on Middle-earth cosmology was tenuous, but she knew enough. She had thought the Music of the Ainur was a devastatingly romantic world building touch by Tolkien, and admired it. Now -- as she took the last sip of her tea and grimaced when she swallowed the soggy leaves at the bottom, and the Song played all around her -- it ceased to be impressive world building and became something closer to Revelation.

How had she not noticed it immediately upon waking? How did any resident of Middle-earth get anything done? She could have happily laid herself down and listened to it play until she withered and her body joined with the Earth.

Aragorn coughed, rather loudly. She broke free of her private reverie, and looked over to find him staring at her with an expectant brow raised.

“Sorry,” Harper said. “Did you say something?”

“Would you like more tea, or have you drunk your fill?” Aragorn asked.

She considered the grassy taste coating the inside of her mouth, and shook her head. “No, I’m all set. Thanks, though.”

Aragorn nodded, and then launched them into a discussion about how she could have ended up on Middle-earth. He began with a barrage of odd questions: who is your father, where were you born, etc. She could only assume that he hoped her answers might help him poke holes in her story.

But that plan failed, so he changed tack. Being either unwilling or unable to understand how she had been transported to another world without any idea as to how she got there, he insisted she walk him through her camping trip step by step. Repeatedly. By the fifth go around, Harper began to lose her patience.

She sighed, and scrubbed a hand over her face. “And then, like I said, I set up my camp here, and went to bed. Then I woke up, had breakfast, and some freak with a sword showed up and started asking me weird questions in a language I shouldn’t speak.”

Despite himself, Aragorn grinned. “You speak as though I have not also spent this day in a manner far different than I expected to, or encountered one whom I would judge as strange.” He glanced over at her copy of the trilogy where it sat between them, but did not pick it up. “Are you certain there is nobody who may have done this to you? A Wizard? Or one of the Eldar? Though I have never heard of such magic being used by either, they remain the only sources I can think of.”

There was an unspoken ‘except the Enemy’ at the end of his sentence. That thought had occurred to her too, but she was happy to ignore it for the time being if he was.

She shook her head. He kept getting stuck on this. “No, that’s what I’m trying to say. There are no Wizards or Elves where I’m from. Magic isn’t real, there. It’s just-- people. Just the race of Men.”

He frowned, and thought on that a while. She supposed she should cut him some slack where this was concerned. It was no different than somebody showing up on her doorstep and insisting that dragons or fairies were real, and then acting like she was the crazy one for not believing them.

“Are you certain?” Aragorn asked at length. “Could they not dwell elsewhere, where you and your kin would not have encountered them?”

Ah. How could she begin to explain modern technology to him? Should she? If she managed to somehow bring about the industrialization of Middle-earth, there was a healthy chance that Tolkien would rise from his grave to beat the shit out of her. And she would deserve it.

“Things are … very different, in my world.” She considered her next words carefully. “We’ve filled in the corners of all our maps, so to speak. On land, at least. We’re still working on the ocean. But you'll be hard pressed to convince me that a fish-wizard zapped me into Middle-earth.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “I suppose I should not be so surprised by the idea. The Elves are leaving these shores.” Then a sad look passed over him, and he grew quiet and withdrew into his thoughts.

The sky was beginning to bleed pink and gold along the western horizon. Sunset remained an hour or so off, but night crept closer as the minutes passed. A brace of birds soared overhead, calling to one another as they went.

Aragorn cleared his throat. “I would bring you with me to meet with Gandalf, if you are willing. I can think of scant few others who would be well suited to help.” He was still skeptical of her story, but she appreciated that he had decided to pretend, at least, to take her at face value. She breathed a sigh of relief at the offer. It saved her from the awkwardness of inviting herself along.

“Him or Lord Elrond, I figure,” Harper said. “But yes. thank you. If you hadn’t offered I was honestly just going to attempt to follow you, so…”

Aragorn laughed, loud and sudden. It wasn’t an unkind sound, but he certainly was not laughing with her. She rolled her eyes.

“Laugh all you want. I have half of an idea of where you’re going, and I’m pretty sure the map is still in the book. I could have figured it out.” Probably. Maybe. Okay: it was a bald faced lie.

He shook his head and didn’t rise to the bait. “I would not leave you here alone. And even if Gandalf is without answers, I know he will be interested in your tale.” He glanced up at the sky. “There is no point in beginning the journey now. We should eat, and then I suggest you sleep. Some distance remains between here and where I intend to meet with Gandalf. If the day is fair, and you do not require overmuch rest, we ought to arrive tomorrow evening.”

Harper thanked her neuroses for making her an overpacker. She had plenty of food left, and was able to wave off his offer to cook for her. Her shoulders had cursed her for it repeatedly over the last few days, but now she felt vindicated. They spoke little over supper. He seemed content with silence, and while Harper was not, she had no idea how to make conversation with a person who had been fictional to her up until today -- and would have remained so, if there was any logic left in the world.

She stole glances at him between bites. He looked remarkably like Viggo had in the films. The bone structure and the hair were almost dead on. His nose was a bit different, more crooked, like it had been broken a time or two and never set the same. His eyes were a truer, lighter grey.

In short, he was devastatingly beautiful: Harper allowed herself to hold this thought for a single moment, and then banished it with great feeling. That way lay madness.

When she finished eating, she considered staying up to sit with him, and then quickly realized she didn’t want to. The dark privacy of her tent called her, and she wanted nothing more than to lie down and pretend not to exist for a while. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm her. The day had been an emotional roller-coaster, to say the least.

She cleaned up her supper, gathered her things, and stood. He looked at her. She coughed awkwardly.

“Well,” she said, “thanks for not killing me, or whatever. And for the tea. Goodnight.” What else was there to say? She turned and went to her tent. If he replied, she didn’t hear it.

Harper woke in the early morning to the sound of Aragorn softly calling her name from outside. She almost burst out laughing when she registered how well rested she felt. Ten years battling insomnia and fits of wakefulness, and as soon as she had a good reason to stay up worrying the whole night, she had drifted off as soon as her head hit the ground, and slept like a rock throughout the night.

She changed into her hiking clothes and freshened up, and then went outside to join him. She put on the kettle for coffee, and ate the last of the fresh breakfast sandwiches she had prepared for the trip. The kettle went off and she mixed her coffee. Aragorn watched her.

“Is that tea of some sort?” He asked.

“Kind of?” She replied. “It’s called coffee. But it comes from a kind of bean, rather than leaves. Same idea, though. Hot and bitter and wakes you up. It gives you more of a pep in your step than tea, though.”

“I’ve heard of something similar, though it’s not found in these parts; rather, in the far south.”

She nodded. That made sense. “Do you want to try some?” She hated giving away her dwindling supply of coffee knowing she wouldn’t be able to get any more, but the idea of giving Aragorn his first taste of it tickled her.

“Oh.” He gave her a small smile. “If you do not mind--” She shook her head and grabbed her spare mug, and poured him some. He sniffed it suspiciously when she handed it to him, and she couldn’t help but laugh. He didn’t deign her with a response, only sniffed it once more and then took a gulp. He raised his eyebrows as he swallowed, and said nothing. He peered into the mug once more, and then took another large sip. “That is a dangerous drink,” he declared.

Harper laughed. There was no reason to be surprised that one of the key members of the chainsmoker representation committee in Lord of the Rings liked coffee. “Truly,” she agreed, with a wistful sigh. She was going to miss it something fierce if she could never go back home. Her blood pressure, however, would be glad. Starting to wean herself off caffeine now seemed like a smart idea, so she let him finish the rest. If Aragorn was a bit more jazzed than he had been before, she didn’t comment on it.

They broke down her camp shortly after, and Harper let him carry her tent when he offered. It was sweet of him, and she suspected he felt bad that he had no real way to help her. If he wanted to assuage that guilt by carrying her unwieldy tent, she wasn't going to argue with him.

They walked in silence for some time. She busied herself with looking around as much as she could without losing her footing on uneven ground. Maybe it was the placebo effect, or the presence of the Song -- still audible now, but not as overwhelming now that she’d had some time to grow used to it. But everything felt more alive here. The trees and plants whispered to one another in a secret language just out of earshot, and the sky, which loomed large and bright and blue above them, went on and up and up so high it redefined forever. Animals darted in and out of the bushes, and the birds chirped amongst themselves on branches and sliced cleanly through the blue overhead with their wings. The air smelt sweet and fresh, the scent of the summer grasses drifting on the breeze.

They passed a large, gnarled oak with large roots that rolled out from its trunk like ocean waves. The branches curved and coiled at random up to great heights, and were adorned with bright green leaves that danced in the breeze. She didn’t realize how distracted she had become until Aragorn called her name. At some point, she had stopped walking and turned fully around to admire it. And judging by the distance between them, had been standing there for a few minutes at least. She hurried back toward him. Embarrassed, she muttered an apology and motioned for him to continue. He studied her for a moment, before nodding and doing just that.

Sometime before noon, Aragorn slowed his pace so he walked in step with her. “You have asked me less than I expected,” he said.

Harper shrugged. “What is there to ask?” If she wanted to, she could recite the next year of his life to him right now.

He hummed a considering note. “Fair enough,” he said. “I suppose I feel that if I were in your position, I would be searching for greater clarity.”

“I mean, the only real question I have is: how in the fuck did I end up here? And we’ve already established you don’t have an answer for me.”

Aragorn laughed, but said no more, and let the matter be.

Harper relinquished her pride a bit after noon, and asked if they could rest. They picked a shady spot and ate a lunch of dry rations. He eyed her trail-mix curiously, but didn't ask about it, which was a relief. She was far less willing to give up her M&M's.

Before long, they were on the road again. True to both book and film, Aragorn didn’t seem familiar with the concept of walking with somebody. He would wander ahead or linger behind at will -- ostensibly for vague ranger reasons, but Harper suspected that he didn't know how to make conversation with a woman who claimed she had popped into existence without meaning to. She didn't blame him, she was just as daunted by the prospect of talking to a man who was supposed to be fictional. But he never failed to return from his wanderings; or to steer her back onto the proper course, if she had strayed from it in his absence. He made no mention of it, but a private joke twinkled in his eyes each time. Find her own way to Sarn Ford, indeed.

They only rested once more, at Aragorn’s insistence, after the terrain became steep and uneven and Harper’s breathing audibly labored. The part of her that had not had enough caffeine wanted to snipe at him that they weren't all superhumans who smoked their lungs black but could still walk for hours without trouble. But he was too kind about it for her to truly get angry, so she only plopped herself down on a rock with a huff, and glowered into the distance until the feeling returned to her feet.

The sun was close to setting by the time Sarn Ford appeared in the distance. Scattered about ahead of them were dilapidated stone watchtowers and statues of various heights and states of decay. As they approached, the landscape changed from untended wilderness to carefully minded vegetation that spread out around them, lush and gleaming in the golden spring light.

The Brandywine bubbled to the east, and along the banks stood trees of sycamore and wildflower patches of milkweed and indigo. The switchgrass grew tall and rustled in the light breeze. They passed under a large statue, and Harper stared up at it. She did not know who exactly the statue represented, but from its height and mighty limestone crown and sword, she guessed that it was one of Aragorn’s ancestors.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a horse galloping in the distance. Aragorn gave a loud, two finger whistle, and before long the horse and rider appeared. Upon the horse sat a well armed man with dark hair and light eyes, wearing a grey cloak. The ranger glanced at her, and then cheerfully greeted Aragorn in Sindarin, and Aragorn responded in kind. They conversed for several minutes while Harper stood there, feeling increasingly awkward.

Finally, Aragorn gestured at her. “This is Harper.”

Harper considered the ranger. “You don’t happen to be called Halbarad, do you?” She asked. Both the ranger and Aragorn stared at her, dumbfounded. She shrugged. It was a lucky guess. She didn't remember Tolkien going into detail when he described Halbarad in the books, but it had seemed likely enough.

“I am,” Halbarad answered. He looked back at Aragorn, and spoke to him again in Sindarin, sounding perplexed. Harper barely suppressed a sigh. After a few more minutes of conversation, he switched back to Westron. “Mithrandir is waiting. He complained of your lateness, but I think he will understand."

“I waited for him in Bree for a week, once. I heard no apology from him at the time. He will not get one from me now,” Aragorn said, and the cheeky smile he gave Halbarad made him look like someone else entirely. He waved Harper along. “Come,” he said. “Let’s see what answers the Wizard has.”

They walked around a corner to find Gandalf sitting upon a rock, waiting. He looked up from his pipe at the sound of their approach, and the frown he wore quickly melted into a look of curiosity. He greeted Aragorn -- again, in Sindarin. That was already getting old. Would it have been so difficult for the magic that had traded her English for Westron to have thrown in a bit of the High Tongue, too?

Now and then, Gandalf peered at her from beneath his overgrown eyebrows as he spoke with Aragorn. He might as well have been Sir Ian Mckellan in the flesh. The voice, especially, was uncanny. Why that caught her off guard, she wasn’t sure, but something about it brought back yesterday's vertigo. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe through the feeling.

“Harper,” Gandalf said -- and wasn’t that a trip?

She opened her eyes to find him studying her. His eyes were bright and ancient, and if she tried to tune out the ever present Song, she could feel his power rolling off of him in gentle waves, like heavy clouds passing overhead on an otherwise sunny afternoon.

“Hi,” she said, all at once feeling ridiculously, inexplicably shy. He told her to sit, and only then did she realize that Aragorn had sat down beside him at some point, and left her standing there by herself. She sat cross legged on the ground.

“I understand you have a story for me,” Gandalf said.

She explained the last few days to him, in the same exacting detail she had given Aragorn yesterday. As she spoke, his gaze pried her open and poked at her tender spots, and she couldn’t help but wonder what he saw. His face betrayed little, but there was a kind twinkle in his eye that soothed her more exacting pangs of anxiety. When she began to speak of the disappearing text of the novel, he interrupted her.

“Might I see it?”

“Of course.”

She dug the book out of her pack and handed it to him. He turned it over in his wrinkled hands and muttered under his breath for a while. She felt the air around them warp and spin, and wondered what he was doing. Maybe her cursed object theory hadn’t been so far out of left field. Then again, maybe not; seemingly satisfied there was no clear and present danger in the book, Gandalf flipped it open and scanned the pages.

Harper snuck a look at Aragorn, but he was watching Gandalf intently. Gandalf seemed most interested in the oddly redacted foreword(s) -- and really, did such a large book need multiple? -- which she could not blame him for. She had flipped through the book that morning over breakfast, and had been surprised to see it also contained missing sections.

Gandalf muttered something under his breath in Sindarin. Aragorn nodded, but didn’t bother responding. At last, Gandalf set the book down. “Tell me what you know of it,” he said. She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a hand before she could. “Leading up to this point,” he clarified, and she was glad she didn’t need to try to explain the butterfly effect to a Wizard.

So Harper spoke of Bilbo and Thorin’s company, of Gollum and birthday presents, and of Smaug and the five armies and the aftermath. She reiterated what she knew of Aragorn, and danced around the fact that she was chatting with someone closer to angel than Wizard -- because when she thought about that for too long, the vertigo returned in full force.

“I guess the rest of my knowledge depends on timelines. The book is different than the film, so--”

“What is a film?” Aragorn asked, in a tone that suggested the question had been bothering him since she first mentioned the films, yesterday.

“Oh!” She said, laughing. "Sorry, I didn’t even think about that." She paused, and wondered how to explain. "So, imagine actors put on a play, but instead of needing to go to the theater to see it, and it being a bit different every time, you can watch one specific performance of the play whenever you feel like it.” It was a bit of a clunky explanation, but she didn’t have time to explain videography right now. Aragorn blinked at her like he still had questions, but nodded for her to continue, instead. “Anyhow, like I said, it depends on the timeline. Is Bilbo still in the Shire, or has he been gone for years at this point?”

“Bilbo has been in Rivendell for some time,” Gandalf said.

“Okay, so that’s following the book, at least.”

“And how far does your knowledge go?”

She grimaced. “What is it? The beginning of May? About a year and a half, I guess. Depending.”

Gandalf relit his pipe and puffed on it for a while, and returned his attention to the book. She traded a glance with Aragorn, who was unfazed by the sudden pause in the conversation. Gandalf perused the equally redacted appendices, and poured over the maps in the very back of the book. Then he shut the book, stood, and asked Aragorn to walk with him. “You will be safe here,” he said to Harper. “Eat something, I am sure you are hungry after your journey.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, her stomach growled. Harper let them leave without complaint. They were obviously going to talk about her in private, which probably should have made her feel uncomfortable, but it was better than having to listen to them have the same conversation, in Sindarin, right in front of her face.

Night cast its curtain over Sarn Ford, and while she ate she gazed up at the stars. It was a very strange feeling, she thought, to know instinctively that the stars were wrong, somehow. It posed another handful of questions she could not hope to answer. Where was she? The framing of the novels was of a lost history of Earth. But could she be so far in the past that even the stars were foreign to her? That seemed impossible. She didn't know what impossible meant, anymore.

Aragorn and Gandalf did not return by the time she finished eating, and Halbarad had made himself scarce, so she shuffled her pack under her head as a makeshift pillow, and lay on the ground. She closed her eyes and listened to the Song, marveling at the harmonies. All about her earth and animal sang in time unconsciously. And when she quieted her mind and focused only on her breathing, she felt that she was, in her own way, singing too.

She awoke to the smell of a dying fire and the sight of a lilac sky. Morning. She sat up quickly. Aragorn was asleep on the other side of the fire, and Gandalf was sitting on the same rock as yesterday, smoking and looking out into the east. As she stretched her body back to waking, her muscles gave her hell for what she had subjected them to yesterday.

After a quick jaunt over to the river, and a glance around to ensure there were no rangers lingering nearby, she relieved herself and freshened up, and then made her way back. She intended to sit next to Gandalf and ask some questions, but found herself lingering awkwardly off to the side instead, too nervous to approach him.

“Come here,” Gandalf said, when it became clear she wasn't going to do it on her own. She did, and sat down next to him. “Did you sleep well?” He asked.

“I did,” Harper said. “But I'm sorry if I made you wait around. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. You guys could have woken me up.”

He shook his head. “We only returned an hour ago. There was much to discuss.” His face was lined and pale in the dim morning light, and if she ignored the sense of power about him, it was easy to see how he could pass as a feeble wanderer when he felt so inclined. “I am sorry to say I have little in the way of answers for you.”

Harper waited for her heart sink, but she only felt a defeated sort of acceptance. She’d made a careful effort to not consider it, but in the back of her mind, being stuck here already felt like a foregone conclusion. That was just how these things went -- well, in stories at least. She doubted this had ever actually happened to anybody else.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m guessing Elrond wouldn't be much help either.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I will not speak for him.”

“It’s okay. I don’t think I had a lot of hope, anyhow.”

“Hope is often much closer than one expects,” Gandalf said gravely.

She looked over at Aragorn, and then back at Gandalf. “Was-- was that a pun?”

Gandalf huffed, but something mirthful danced behind his eyes. “Unintentional, I assure you.”

Harper laughed loudly. She was sitting next to Gandalf on a rock while he pretended he wasn’t making jokes about Aragorn’s Elvish name. This was the weirdest fucking vacation she had ever taken.

Before long, Aragorn rose, tended to the fire, started breakfast, and then disappeared into the distance to go talk to his rangers. By the time he returned, Harper was done with her meal and morning had stretched itself out over the sky in full. Gandalf and Aragorn took turns asking her seemingly disconnected questions -- about the authorship of the book, its popularity, the absence of magic back home, and her own history. Their prevailing theory, though they did not explain it to her outright, seemed to be that the supposed history of The Red Book of Westmarch held some truth. Harper wasn’t sure she agreed. It was easier to believe she had been plopped into a fictional dimension, than it was to accept that Arda and Earth were one in the same.

Around mid-morning, Gandalf announced his need to return to the Shire. “But before I go, there remains something we must discuss.”

“You want me to go to Bree with Aragorn in the fall?” Again: that was just how these things went.

A beat. “Yes.”

“Sure," Harper said, "I have nothing better to do, and if I can help at all, I would like to.” That was a hall of fame understatement. Her life was probably forfeit, and even if it wasn't, it was never going to be the same again. Against all odds, she was in her favorite story, and she sure as hell wasn't going to waste this chance to do something that mattered by voluntarily casting herself as Background Villager Number Seven.

“Good,” Gandalf said, and nodded to himself. “Very good. I will see you both then.”

“Um--” Harper started, and then stopped herself. Gandalf raised an eyebrow. “I don’t really know how much I should tell you, but if it involves you, would you want to know?”

What were the ethics of knowing the future? Did they apply to Wizards? What if she told him, and that somehow made it worse? Harper felt Aragorn’s eyes on her, but she focused on Gandalf.

Gandalf tilted his head and considered the question. “Tell me what you think is necessary,” he said eventually.

“Keep your guard up when you go to Isengard.” It was direct, but vague enough, and she trusted he would take her meaning.

It seemed he did. A weary look crossed over Gandalf’s face, but in his eyes, there remained something akin to hope. He was going to try to turn Saruman from his path regardless. She shouldn’t have expected any less. He thanked her, and traded some final words with Aragorn before departing. They watched his grey silhouette disappear over the hill, and were left alone again.

In the distance, a horse whinnied.

“Would you like to meet the rangers of Sarn Ford?” Aragorn asked.

Chapter Text

Across the Brandywine and through the treeline, there was a well hidden, semi-permanent ranger enclave. Aragorn gave Harper a perfunctory but strangely official tour -- like she was a visiting dignitary seeing his kingdom for the first time, rather than a transdimensional refugee whom he had been tasked with babysitting for the next few months.

Future kings had to get their practice where they could, she supposed.

After the tour, he introduced her to the two dozen or so rangers there. Most had the same look about them as Aragorn and Halbarad did, but a few had the bright blonde hair she associated with Rohan. Harper added their presence to her ever-growing list of questions. He rattled off their names and she promptly forgot them, which, if the amused glimmer in his eye was anything to go by, was far more obvious than she wanted it to be. The rangers all greeted her with open curiosity, but none asked the pressing question of ‘who the hell are you?’.

He passed her off to one of the female rangers, who reintroduced herself -- thank God -- as Hereth. She was a tall woman with a bow on her back, a sword at her waist, and a long, dark scar down the side of her neck. She was grim and formidable to look upon, but she greeted Harper with a cheerful smile, and showed her where she would bunk down for the time being.

Harper felt like she’d been unknowingly signed up for adult medieval summer camp. And the feeling did not dissipate as the day continued. Hereth and Halbarad discussed the longevity of her clothing while she stood awkwardly to the side, and they determined they would find her something more suitable in the coming days. With her cabin and camp uniform, so to speak, situated, she was passed back off to Aragorn.

“Have you any experience with fighting? Archery, swordcraft, or the like?” Aragorn asked. There was no judgment in his voice, only curiosity.

He made no mention of hand to hand, but she doubted he was interested in the six months she spent in karate lessons at the age of eleven.

“We did a short unit on archery in my junior year gym class,” Harper said. He stared at her blankly. “Nothing that counts, when it comes down to it,” she amended. Somewhere, she thought, her old gym teacher was feeling rather dejected and didn't know why.

Aragorn nodded and looked unsurprised. His following explanation was matter-of-fact, thorough, but in no way denigrating. Harper would be expected to pull her weight and do a fair share of the work of which she was able, and the rangers would support her in kind. The land this close to the Shire was relatively safe. But it remained safe because of the efforts of the rangers. She would need to learn to hold her own, and they would teach her as best they could. He spoke with a quiet, assured authority that said ‘captain’ and whispered ‘king’. She wondered if he knew, in an unconscious sort of way, that he was less than a year away from his crown.

Her first month among the rangers of Sarn Ford passed in the blink of an eye.

Primarily because Harper spent the first two weeks as sick as a dog. Unfamiliar, untreated water after a lifetime of filtered tap would do that to a woman. She was embarrassed, but nobody was overly surprised. Halbarad explained she ‘wasn’t from around here’ -- another hall of fame understatement -- and that earned her quick sympathy from the rest of the group.

The only silver lining was that Aragorn left her in the hands of the rangers after the first day, and didn’t return until she had almost regained her strength, and then left again just as quickly. There was adjusting to the more unfortunate realities of a new life in a pseudo-medieval world, and then there was puking your guts out (again) in front of a fictional crush. She would take her blessings where she could get them.

After she regained the ability to stomach solid food and spend more than an hour on her feet, the rangers tugged her into their whirlwind. The summer camp feeling returned in full force. Hereth showed her the basics of sword fighting in the mornings. After the noon meal, Harper would do her share of daily tasks -- gathering firewood, food prep, tending to the horses, and the like. During the late afternoon, another ranger by the name of Lagrion would help her with her archery. He had dark eyes and a quick wit, and after a week of training, declared her to be a ‘not completely hopeless student’, which she allowed herself to interpret as a compliment. Evenings varied; sometimes Halbarad took her to check and reset snares, other times she joined the bulk of the rangers who weren’t afield in their evening relaxation by the fire, which predominantly involved sharing wild stories or ribald songs.

At day's end, Harper would fall to her bedroll in an exhausted heap, and wake the next morning to Hereth’s good natured prodding. Her dreams were panicked and full of grief, but they faded into wisps of memory by the time she pulled on her boots for the day, and she found little reason to speak of them.

June rolled over the southern border of the Shire hot, brilliant, and humid. With it came Aragorn and a handful of other rangers. It was mid-morning when they arrived. Harper was taking a water break and poking at the spot on her calf where Hereth had hit her with the flat of her sword during training. She was trying to guess how nasty the bruise would be.

Hereth came up behind her, and got her attention with a friendly kick to the side. Harper looked up at her. “Captain’s back,” Hereth said simply.

Harper narrowed her eyes. A teasing smile tugged at the edge of Hereth’s lips, and she didn’t appreciate the insinuation. She blinked, and took another sip of water. “Cool,” she replied, and went back to poking the would-be bruise.

Hereth laughed at her and walked away. This was the problem with these rangers: they were too clever by half. Harper and Hereth had barely talked about Aragorn, so how she had Harper’s number like this was anybody’s guess. And none of the rangers, Hereth included, had the right to judge. They all looked at their captain with open adoration. Harper thought it was just a natural response Aragorn inspired in people.

But she bristled against the fact that she couldn’t defend her little crush properly. She avoided talking of her past or future, and nobody had tried to push that boundary. She did her work and got along well with the group, so there was no reason to pry. But when Hereth started teasing her about it, she couldn’t argue that it was (mostly) the remnants of a crush on a fictional character without inspiring a whole host of questions she did not feel comfortable answering.

Another problem, or perhaps, a facet of her chief problem: she was growing rather attached to Halbarad. Halbarad, who had less than a year to live, if Harper didn’t figure something out quickly. He wasn’t in the films, and if she recalled correctly, the book never detailed the exact manner of his death, only that it occurred. What was she supposed to do? Give him a pat on the back before Pelennor and ask him kindly to not die? Sage advice, that. Any attempt at planning only led to her agonizing over the possible consequences of meddling. What if she managed to save Halbarad's life, but at the cost of him becoming horribly maimed and living out the rest of his days in excruciating pain? Would that be a mercy?

That was how Aragorn found her: kneeling on the ground, with a thousand yard stare and the improperly awarded weight of doling out life or death resting on her shoulders.

“Hereth tells me you are making fast progress,” Aragorn said. Her mental vortex of dread dissipated, and she looked up at him. He was too close for comfort, and Harper’s hindbrain promptly registered where her face was level with his person. She stood, and beat back the filthy mental image their position inspired.

Harper tried to smile, but it felt more like a wince. “Good. That’s good. She’s a good teacher.” Her voice sounded high and a little strained, and he raised his eyebrows at her. She huffed in embarrassment. “Sorry, you caught me at a weird moment,” she said, and just he nodded and let it slide.

“She has gone to sort through the arrivals. It may take an hour or two. I would apologize for the interruption, but I suspect you may welcome it," Aragorn said, which was a very polite way of acknowledging that Harper was sweating from head to toe and streaked with dirt. Not that freshly traveled Aragorn was faring much better. “Come, there is somewhat I want to show you.” He turned on his heel and walked away before she had a chance to reply.

His legs were stupidly long, so it took her a moment to catch up with him. They walked for a short while in silence. She didn't want to stare at him, because that was just rude, but she couldn't quite stop herself from watching him out of the corner of her eye.

It had been a month, or thirty-seven days to be precise, since Harper had woken up in the South Downs. She had spent thirty-four of the last thirty-seven days at Sarn Ford, and Aragorn had been here for two of them. Looking at him now was giving her the oddest feeling in her chest, almost like she was trying not to laugh. Almost like she had heartburn. It pricked the underside of her sternum and every time she came close to deciding whether or not she liked the sensation, something about it changed.

"What’s with the new group of rangers?” Harper asked, when he inevitably caught her looking at him. It was a sincere question. She wouldn’t pretend the last month had made her an expert in the goings on of rangers, but having another half a dozen people at Sarn Ford was going to stretch their resources a bit thin.

“It’s June,” Aragorn answered. “Station rotation is seasonal.”

Harper just nodded in response. So far, she had abstained from asking specific questions about how the rangers operated, outside of the day-to-day. Aragorn had trusted her enough to bring her to Sarn Ford, and no matter how curious she was, she had no desire to damage that trust by asking questions she had no right to ask.

Aragorn led her back through the treeline, down toward the Brandywine. The newly arrived horses were grazing by the bank of the river, while Ordred, one of the blond rangers, divested them of their saddlebags.

Ordred nodded at Aragorn. “Captain,” he said in greeting, and then he smiled at Harper. “You still owe me half a copper for that fishing game.”

Harper rolled her eyes. “It’s called Go Fish, and I already told you I have absolutely no money, and you aren’t even supposed to bet on it.”

She’d learned two key lessons about rangers: first, they adore a card game, and second, no power on Arda Marred could prevent a ranger from betting on one.

“That hardly stopped you from taking Wald’s coin a round later.”

“True,” she said. “But then I turned right around and lost all of it, so it's a moot point. You’ll have better luck getting blood from a stone.”

Ordred muttered a friendly threat before hauling a set of the saddle bags back to the enclave. She watched him go with a smile on her face. The Rohirric rangers were her favorite, not that she would admit that to the rest. They made her laugh, and they were outsiders in their own way, which made her feel less like the odd woman out.

Harper turned around to find Aragorn staring at her, wearing a small, puzzled grin. A flush crept up her neck; she hoped she was still pink enough from training with Hereth that it wasn't obvious. “What?” She asked, when he continued to stare.

Aragorn shook his head. “My own misgivings. I worried how you would fare amongst strangers. I see now it was unnecessary.” He continued forward. She followed.

“If you’re looking for something to worry about, you should probably be concerned about the fact that all your rangers have gambling addictions. They make the sports-betting craze back home look tame in comparison,” she said, and it earned her a loud laugh.

Aragorn crouched down to rummage through his belongings, which were still resting by the riverbank. He had his back to her, so she let herself really look at him. Unfortunately, being visibly in need of a bath and a change of clothes diminished his appeal in real life as much as it had in the films -- meaning, of course, not in the slightest. His shoulders were unfairly broad, and if she wasn't rationing the final blank pages in her sketchbook, she could have easily filled several just trying to capture whatever it was that drew her eye to the curve of his spine and the bend of his neck. His hair was long enough to graze his shoulders, and she found herself sending a mental thanks to the ghost of Tolkien, or Eru Ilúvatar, or regular Earth God -- whoever was responsible for the men of Middle-earth being none too fond of haircuts. Aragorn stood, and she swept the thoughts away.

(Had she resolved, on the day they met, to not think about how attractive he was? Yes, she had. Had she meant it at the time? Yes, she had. Had she been lying to herself? Fucking obviously. Barring full frontal lobotomy and-or death, there was no way to stop it. But as long as she kept her mouth shut and her hands to herself, it was harmless. What she thought about in the privacy of her own mind was nobody else's business.)

Holding a long, thin cloth bundle, he walked back over and presented it to her with a small smile. She didn't reach for it immediately, just kept glancing between his strangely hopeful expression and the bundle in his hands with a stupid look on her face. He took another step toward her, and nodded down at the bundle the next time she met his gaze. "Here."

Harper looked back down, because his eyes were too much to handle sometimes, and took the bundle from him. It was heavy, and wrapped in coarse cloth and held together with twine. She untied the knot and pushed away the wrapping to reveal a longsword. It was sheathed in black, supple leather, and the cross-guard and pommel bore intricate, geometric engravings. Her breath caught in her throat, and her hand shook as she put it to the grip and unsheathed it. In the light of the sun, the blade glinted menacingly.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered.

“I am called by a fair few names,” Aragorn said in a wry voice, “but that is a new one.”

Harper laughed, loud and sudden. “That’s funnier than you think it is,” she told him, and didn’t bother to elaborate. “Fuck, did you really get me a sword?” She took a few steps away from him and the horses, and then gave it a swing.

“You have need of one, do you not? I came across it while away, and when Hereth said you were progressing well, I thought it was as good a time as any to give it to you.” His words picked up speed as he spoke, and his tone strayed from explanation and took an awkward turn toward justification.

Harper frowned. Did he think she didn't like it? “Stop," she said, before he could keep going. "I love it. This is, without a doubt, the coolest fucking gift I have ever received. Thank you.”

Aragorn didn't quite smile, but the odd nervous energy dissipated, and his jaw twitched in this funny, minute way that made it seem like he was trying not to look too pleased with himself. “Good, I am glad.”

With another glance behind her to ensure nobody was near, she swung it a few more times. She felt like an eight year old boy who had been gifted a glowing toy lightsaber for his birthday: absolute, otherworldly glee.

“Will you name it?” Aragorn asked.

She thought on it for a minute, then smiled softly. “Yeah. Jinx. I’ll call her Jinx.”

“Jinx?” Only his off center pronunciation made her realize she had touched upon another word without a direct translation. How odd. Sometimes it was easy to forget she was speaking a foreign language.

“It means-- well, it actually means something that brings bad luck. Like a minor curse or hex.” She gave the sword another swing. “But it was the name of my guitar back home. And I miss it.” She was self taught and dog-shit, and annoyed her neighbors with the noise. But it had been a quarantine hobby that persisted, and she loved her scrappy second hand Les Paul with all her heart.

“Then I am glad to have given you something that can remind you of home."

Aragorn and the rangers who were due to rotate out of Sarn Ford were gone within the week. Hereth and the Rohirric rangers remained, but Lagrion left, which was a shame. She’d grown fond of his not-quite-compliments. Halbarad made time when he could to observe her shooting and provide guidance, but otherwise her afternoons became a silent, fourway conversation between her bow, the target, her fears, and herself.

Time crept ever onwards, as was its habit, and she would not doom others to unfortunate death because she was too chickenshit to figure out how to save them. She spent hours in deep, convoluted arguments with herself. About what she needed to do and what she wanted to do; what was possible and what might ruin everything. If there was a time to have a functional copy of the book on hand, it was then. But the novel remained as blank as it had been upon her arrival, and provided little insight.

After working herself into a frenzy during target practice, she would wander off to the Brandywine, sit down by herself, and cry for a while. Her dreams had grown increasingly distressing following her brief conversation with Aragorn about Jinx. After having a nightmare about attending her own empty casket funeral where none of her family members could see or hear her, she accepted that she needed to give herself space to grieve. One could be transported to a different world and keep themself busy with learning not to die there, but eventually, the trauma of the mind-fuck needed to be addressed. Thus, her daily sob session was born.

The rangers had the tact to not mention it. Harper didn’t know what Halbarad knew of her, or what he told the rest, but they were clued in enough to understand she was very far from home. If she was going to trust a group of people to respect the complicated tangle of emotions that accompanied that, it would be the rangers. They did not betray that trust.

June faded away and July took its place. Aragorn didn’t return until the middle of the month. Harper was happy to see him. She would have been happier to see him if he hadn't returned during her daily sob session. And a particularly ugly one, at that. He crept up on her during the tail end of it, after the tears had stopped falling and she had curled herself into a ball, sat shaking and waiting for the adrenaline to work its way through her system. Small blessings, she supposed. When he called her name with some alarm, she thought bitterly she could do with a large blessing any day now.

“Hi,” she sniffed. “I’m okay.”

Aragorn approached her warily, looking about as if to find the source of her distress. “What happened?”

She dried her face on the hem of her shift and stood. “Nothing. Everything is fine. Don’t worry about it.” She wasn’t trying to brush off his concern, necessarily, but he had enough on his plate already, and she fucking hated crying in front of people.

Aragorn scowled. “That is clearly not the case,” he said, stern and impatient, scanning the treeline behind her.

“No, I mean everything is fine like, over there--” she gestured vaguely toward the enclave. “Fuck, you don’t gotta break out the Captain voice.” She let out a thick, humorless laugh.

His shoulders relaxed a measure, but the explanation didn’t erase his concern. “You still have not answered my question.” She laughed again at his unchanged tone, and he shook his head in exasperation.

Harper shrugged, and looked toward the Brandywine. Summer at the edge of the Shire was green and glorious. The river reflected the blue of the sky, and maybe fifty yards downstream there a fox was drinking its fill. The fox heard something Harper could not, raised its head, looked about skittishly, and then scampered away. She sighed, and looked back at Aragorn.

“Sometimes I just need to cry it out,” she admitted, and crossed her arms awkwardly in front of her chest. ”It helps me cope with, you know, everything."

Comprehension dawned on his face, soft and slightly abashed. “I apologize. I fear I have intruded on a private moment,” he said, and the return to the usual quiet rasp of his voice almost made her cry again.

“No, it’s fine. I understand the alarm,” Harper said, and rubbed at her eyes. “Anyhow--” she flashed him a forced, cheerful grin, “You’re back!”

Aragorn pushed his hair away from his face and fixed her in an unimpressed stare. “Indeed,” he said, and she smiled even wider just to annoy him, which didn't work but did make him laugh.

He didn't try to push the subject. She was more grateful for that than she knew how to say. They talked for a while on the edge of the Brandywine, and returned to the enclave in their own time.

In the days that followed, Aragorn spent much of his time at Harper’s side. It bothered her at first, when she assumed it was out of pity, but she soon realized she was glad for his company, and resolved not to let her pride get in the way of his attempts at friendship. He watched her training sessions with Hereth, and dueled her once on his own. He kicked her ass, obviously, but she got a few decent hits in, and of that she was proud.

Harper enjoyed watching him interact with his rangers. It brought out a well hidden, sociable side of his personality that she found fascinating. Hereth shot her teasing looks on occasion, but she ignored her as best she could. The teasing dwindled after she caught Hereth ogling Aragorn’s ass while he was chopping firewood. The idiom ‘those in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones’ was not, apparently, known in Middle-earth, and it spread amongst the rangers like wildfire. Neither Hereth nor Harper ever mentioned why it was first said.

The time she allotted for her crying sessions was superseded by meandering walks or hunting trips with Aragorn. Harper rarely caught anything, but she enjoyed listening to him explain the different aspects of woodcraft, and he would point out any useful or dangerous plants they came across. It was the most content she’d been since arriving in Middle-earth.

Until the warg.

The end of July was upon them, even though the last three days had felt more like early April. A cool wind had carried in drizzling rain clouds from the west, and the wind wasn't in any rush to carry them away again. Harper and Aragorn were mucking about a well trodden path, fresh off of target practice, and it had gone well enough that he thought she was ready to practice shooting at a target that actually had a chance to escape.

“Have you heard from Gandalf, at all?” Harper asked, pulling herself over the trunk of a fallen tree. His hood was up, but beneath it she could see a strand of hair clinging damply to his cheek. She had traded most of her hiking clothes for ranger gear the first week, but she still had her raincoat, even though a few of the female rangers had tried to buy it off of her when they saw it was literally waterproof. It was impractical for camouflage, being powder blue, but presently she was dry and warm beneath it.

“I have not,” Aragorn said. Then, he held a hand up to silence her.

Twenty feet ahead, a doe crept out of the brush. Aragorn gestured for her to draw her bow and made to do the same -- then the brush rustled again, and two fawns trotted out after their mother.

Harper shook her head furiously and made a pleading face. She could eat venison and not think too deeply about it. Hunger had a way of justifying itself like that. But she would not participate in a reenactment of Bambi. He gave her a withering look in return, but when she didn't relent, he sighed and left his bow where it was. The doe and her fawns disappeared, and the moment was lost.

“Your pity cannot abate starvation,” he told her.

“No,” she agreed. “But I’m not starving right now. You watch Bambi at a tender age and then try not to let your conscience take over like that.”

“Bambi?”

“Film about a deer whose mother is killed by a hunter. I’ll tell you about it later.” At the rate they were going, the journey from Rivendell to Moria would be filled with recitations of movie plots and little else. Romeo and Juliet, Pirates of the Caribbean, and, surprisingly, Shrek, were some of the stories he seemed excited to hear. Not all of her suggestions hit the mark. A few days prior, she had offered to tell him about The Silence of the Lambs. After a basic synopsis, he became disquieted and politely told her she could keep that one to herself. But now, he nodded. She would add it to the list, then.

“Don’t worry too much about Gandalf,” Harper said, picking back up the thread of their conversation. “I know it sounds odd, but the fact that you haven’t heard from him means things are progressing as they should.” A few weeks ago, she had decided to let Gandalf handle himself. He had friends in high places, so to speak, and trying to micromanage everyone would have been impractical and impossible, even if the book buried in her pack wasn't entirely useless.

Aragorn made a low noise that might have been discontent or disbelief. “And of this you are certain?”

She frowned. They avoided talking about the future as a general, unspoken rule, but he had yet to openly doubt what little knowledge she had shared. Her stomach churned. “I mean, yeah,” she said, and tried not to sound peevish. “As certain as I can be. I can’t promise omnipotence.”

He readjusted his hood. “It is unlike him to promise news and not deliver." His voice remained level, but it was threaded through with concern.

“I know,” she said, a little more gently. “But it’s expected. Or, I know to expect it, I guess. I can see why it would trouble you.”

Before she could ask if he had any questions she might be able to answer in an effort to make him feel better, he froze in his tracks, and she followed suit. He held another hand up, but it was unnecessary. The wood had grown silent. The hair on the back of her neck raised. The buzz and trill of insects abated. No distant crunch of groundcover could be heard. There was only the rhythmic patter of the rain, and her sound of her own breath. Above them, a flock of birds abandoned their tree, in a swift and silent wave, and flew south.

Aragorn drew his sword. Harper did the same.

Harper listened intently, maneuvering herself as silently as she could until she stood back to back with Aragorn. She winced when a stick cracked beneath her weight. Focus, she thought, and tried to tune out the low, constant hum of the Song. On her left, just out of sight, something moved. She whipped her head around and gasped.

Large, wraith thin, mangey and matted grey fur: a warg was lurking barely ten feet away. It held its head low to the ground and its haunches high, and its tail stuck out straight behind it like an arrow. It bared its teeth and growled deep.

Aragorn pushed her aside as it sprang.

Harper hit the ground hard. She kept her grip on her sword, but only just. She scrambled back up onto her feet. The warg let out a wounded noise, and put some distance between itself and Aragorn -- who had his back to a tree and was shaking his head like he’d knocked it against the trunk with some force. There was fresh wet blood on his sword.

The warg's front leg was limp and bleeding. It scrambled around in an unsteady circle and lunged at Harper.

Her mind went blank, and for a second she literally couldn't remember how to move her limbs. But then that second passed and time and memory and every other intangibility the mind imposes upon the body stopped mattering entirely. There was the sword in her hand, and the pounding of her heart, and the over-bright animal clarity of fight of flight.

She hoped Hereth’s teaching had been enough.

She swung her sword with all her might and it connected with-- something. She was not afforded a chance to see what. The warg crashed into her with its full weight and she hit the ground again. It growled at her, and she struggled uselessly under its bulk. She could hear the scratch of its hind legs against the dirt as it tried to lift itself up. Its forelegs were crumpled at odd angles between them. It snarled and arched its neck, tried to sink its teeth into her. Its breath was hot and fetid and made her gag. Her sword was still in her hand but she had no leverage; her arm was pinned.

Then came a dark blur and the sound of steel slicing through the air, and another cry from the warg. It jerked on top of her, and shifted enough that she could move her sword arm, but the angle was still off. Another glimpse of the swing of his sword. The warg let out a final, desperate keen, shuddered, and went limp. Hot blood dripped onto her chin.

Time returned, all strange and liquid. Her senses seemed to short circuit, only working one at a time. Aragorn grunted and cursed as he lifted the corpse of the warg off of her. The inside of her mouth tasted of dirt as she tried and failed to speak. His arm was heavy and warm around her shoulders as he led her away. The scent of blood followed them both. Halbarad’s eyes went wide and shocked when they returned.

By the time she had a handle on reality again, she was sitting in the enclave with a blanket on her shoulders, a steaming cup of tea in her hands, and Ordred attempting to examine her for injuries. She blinked.

“Where is he?”

Ordred sighed. “Good, you’re back with us.” He prodded at her neck. “Is your vision okay? Any ringing in your ears? Sore spots?”

She tried to duck out of reach. “I’m fine,” she said. “I didn’t hit my head--” the impact of her body hitting the ground as the warg crushed her beneath its weight replayed in her mind. Her heart rate kicked up a notch. “Not on anything hard, at least.” He ignored her and continued to feel for bumps. “Stop. Where is he?”

“The Captain is being examined by Wald,” Ordred said patiently. “As soon as you let me finish, you can go see him.” Harper submitted to the indignity of his poking and questioning until her patience ran thin and Ordred gave up. “Fine!” He gave her a stern look. “If anything starts hurting, you have to come tell me or somebody else. Are we agreed?”

“Yes.”

Aragorn, to her great relief, was no worse off than she was. He was giving Wald a similarly hard time when she found him. Wald wasn’t as easily swayed as Ordred, and ordered Harper to stand to the side. He made Aragorn sit and stay until he was satisfied that he’d suffered nothing worse than a nasty scrape on the neck from an errant branch and a minor bump to the head. After what felt like forever, Wald walked away, muttering to himself about the stubbornness of the Dunedain.

Aragorn looked at her properly then, and her knees buckled. Harper took a shaky seat beside him. He laid his hand on her forearm.

“You did well,” he said. She gasped, and all at once began to cry. Wrapping his arm around her, he provided a shoulder to lean on and soothing words until she tired herself out. “I mean it,” he said, when she grew quiet. “I have seen too many people face the terror of their first fight. You stood your ground, and lived to tell the tale. You should be proud.” He ran his hand over her hair, so gently she almost couldn't feel it. “I am proud of you.”

Despite the cool breeze, Harper began sweating profusely under her clothes. They were sitting far too close together, and she suddenly felt like she was suffocating. She extracted herself from his hold and put some distance between them. She stared at her boots for several moments before finding the courage to look at him.

“Thank you,” Harper said. “You saved my life.”

Aragorn didn’t smile, but his eyes were bright and soft. “And I would do it again.”

August arrived. Life at Sarn Ford went on. The rangers determined the warg that attacked them had either been separated from its pack, or the lone survivor of it, and only came so close to the enclave because it was starving and desperate. But the security of the Shire was not to be taken lightly or left to chance, and patrols increased in size and regularity.

Aragorn left on the tenth of the month. He would arrive back on the first of September, and then he and Harper would leave for Bree, together. He had some final business to see to, he said, and would not leave if it wasn’t of the utmost importance. Harper insisted she was fine, and he didn’t need to apologize for doing what he needed to do.

(She relived the moment of the warg pinning her to the ground every night in her dreams. It was, in some ways, a welcome distraction from the nightmares of home.)

Harper threw herself into her preparations. Every moment that was not spent sleeping, eating, or doing chores, she spent training and trying to form contingency plans and contingency plans for her contingency plans. The crying sessions became a thing of the past. If she survived the next six months, she could return to her grief. Now, it would only serve as a distraction that could prove deadly.

Hereth cornered her two days before Aragorn was slated to return. Harper was on her way back from target practice, and muttering to herself about Weathertop. Hereth ran up behind Harper, and when she registered the noise of her approach, Harper spun around and reached for her sword.

“Whoa!” Hereth cried, and threw her hands up. “It’s just me.”

Harper blinked. Flushed. “Fuck,” she said, and dropped her hand. “Sorry. I--”

Hereth gave her a sad smile. “No need. I understand quite well.” Harper’s eyes flicked to the scar on her neck. “Though it is strange to see this kind of change in you.” There was no pity in her voice, only empathy. “But don’t worry, you will stop trying to stab everybody who comes up behind you." A beat. "Eventually.”

Harper ran a hand through her hair and looked up at the sky. The days were beginning to grow shorter, and sunset was only a few hours away. She had a dozen things to do before then. She inhaled deeply and tried to center herself. “What’s up?” She asked.

Hereth shifted her weight, and became suddenly shy. “I had a question for you,” she said.

Harper waited.

Hereth sighed, and glanced around before taking a step closer. “It’s going to be big, is it not? Whatever you and the Captain are doing?” She whispered.

Oh. Harper bit her lip, unsure of how to answer. But the desire to talk about it won out. “Yeah,” she said, “it is.”

They ate dinner together and stayed up talking long through the night. Harper didn’t divulge much, but Hereth seemed to know not to ask questions with specific answers. When the moon rose and the rangers who weren’t afield drifted off to their beds, the conversation changed from serious to silly -- and in the middle of laughing so hard her ribs hurt, and so loudly one of the other rangers shushed them, Harper realized she had made a friend. She grew solemn and grabbed Hereth’s hand, and thanked her for her help and kindness with the utmost sincerity. Hereth squeezed her hand in answer.

Aragorn rode in with a new rotation of rangers at dawn on September first. His face was grim and he was well supplied. In the chaos of rotation change, they came together. Harper had been packed for a week. He spoke quietly with Halbarad as she said her goodbyes. When she finished and went back to him, he only raised an eyebrow in an unspoken question. Are you ready?

She nodded. As ready as I’ll ever be.

Harper looked back one final time as they crossed Sarn Ford. The first rays of September painted the Shire in soft morning light. She squared her shoulders and headed for Bree.

Chapter Text

The day was a fair one. White, wooly clouds drifted overhead on the southeastern wind, but the sun was not deterred, beaming early autumn heat down onto the borderlands between the Shire and the South Downs. Summer grasses bogged down with their own weight fluttered like a sluggish sea of golden green when the wind picked up.

Harper trailed behind Aragorn as they walked. He looked over his shoulder on occasion to confirm she remained in sight, and was heading in the right direction. If she was not otherwise occupied with taking in the scenery, she would catch his eye when he did so and grin at him. Aragorn found himself smiling back each time.

Cardolan in September made Aragorn feel twenty-five and foolish. That they walked from Sarn Ford to Bree did not help him evade the grasp of memory. If he closed his eyes and breathed in deep, he almost heard his first squadron humming Dunedain walking tunes as they journeyed to Bree for a supply run. If he turned his gaze to the east, a young and quiet remnant of his heart hoped to see Elladan and Elrohir riding over the horizon, with Orc blood on their blades and eager, fey grins on their faces.

Not for the first, he wondered how Elves withstood it. Even after all his years, he was still reckoned as a child by their counting. They shouldered the full length of their lives and carried it with them into forever with little complaint; he could barely withstand traversing a familiar path when the air smelt sweetly of his youth, without feeling like he was drowning in the tide of the past.

He banished such nostalgia with a shake of his head. If there was a time for it, it had long passed him by. Now there was a destination to reach, a quest to undertake, and long miles of ground to cover before he could begin. And, he thought, as he listened to the shift and shuffle of grass under foot grow louder behind him, there were questions he was desperate to answer.

“When we reach that outcropping,” Aragorn said, gesturing ahead, “we will stop to rest and eat.” Harper closed the last of the gap between them and came to walk on his right hand side.

“Sure thing,” she agreed, but did not look to where he pointed. Aragorn glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She stared eastward, with her dark brows furrowed so a crease formed between them, and a small frown pulled at the corners of her mouth.

“What troubles you?” He asked, before he could master the impulse.

She looked at him, surprised. “Nothing,” she said, with a shake of her head. “I was just wondering if we were going to pass where I woke up here.”

“Not quite,” he answered. “That part of the South Downs is half a day off of our path.” If the reason they made for Bree was any less pressing, he would have offered to take her there.

Harper sighed. “Probably for the best. Who knows, maybe if I went there again, I would get transported to Narnia or something.” She laughed at this private joke. “I don’t know if I could deal with talking-lion-Jesus.” Before he could settle on a question to ask, she turned to him -- her frown replaced by an unexpected grin. “Another story. I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

The sun lazed about its zenith when they reached the outcropping Aragorn had indicated. He situated them in the scant amount of shade available, pleased that they were hidden from view of the road. There was not yet a reason to stay off the road entirely, but he preferred to walk through the backcountry whenever possible, and had an unshakeable feeling there would soon be reason enough for such precaution.

Aragorn left Harper there to rest while he procured a brace of rabbits for their midday meal. When he returned, she had a small, steady fire burning and was running a whetstone over a knife he recognized as once belonging to Halbarad. He stopped in his tracks, the rabbits dangling awkward in his grip, and stared at her in surprise.

She turned her attention away from sharpening the knife and motioned for him to hand over the rabbits. He blinked a few times before he obeyed. She set to preparing them with ease; feet, tail, and head were gone in a flash, and she was beginning to skin the first one by the time Aragorn settled down and packed his pipe.

Harper said little as she worked. Aragorn took the opportunity to study her unabashedly. There was little trace in her of the strange, scared woman he had discovered in her peculiar camp. Why this was striking him so sharply now, he could not say. In truth, he first noticed somewhat about her had changed when he returned to Sarn Ford in June, and this pattern had continued with each subsequent return to her. Perhaps it was simply because they were away from Sarn Ford. Amongst his kin, her integration into their routines felt natural. But here, away from the managed chaos of the rangers, tracing back the path they had taken from the South Downs, it seemed as though her summer-worth of changing had happened while he was hunting the rabbits.

She noticed his staring when she finished seasoning and setting the meat over the fire. Her dark eyes met his for a moment before they flicked away. “What?” She asked, in a low voice.

Aragorn coughed on an exhale of smoke, and reemerged from his thoughts. “You have Halbarad’s knife,” he said. The rest of his observations, he kept to himself. She knew him, primarily, through her stories, and there was little reason to believe she would welcome a near stranger's overly-familiar comments about the changes in her.

Harper laughed in response, bright and airy. The sound made him smile around his pipe. “He lost it in a bet. I meant what I said about all your rangers having terrible gambling addictions.”

A flash of memory: Aragorn, not yet thirty and newly appointed Captain, losing his wages to a fresh huddle of rangers on their first rotation -- Halbarad amongst them, and taking the chief share of Aragorn's coin. “There is more truth in that than you know,” he said at length. His voice sounded faraway and fond to his own ears. “How did you come to win it?”

Harper told him the tale while they waited for the rabbits to finish cooking. She wove the threads of the story with a deft hand: an ongoing dispute between Halbarad and Lagrion which they attempted to force Harper to settle, because she ‘had no stake in it’; how Hereth admonished them both for trying to force her hand, leading to a good-natured argument wherein bets were placed, and ended in an ale soaked, late night archery contest. She laughed while she described Halbarad clambering up the branches of a tree, and how he returned with a broken arrow clutched in his hands and leaves in his hair, while Lagrion crowed his victory. She was, Aragorn thought, as she concluded her tale with Halbarad handing over his knife with all the grace of a petulant child, an excellent storyteller. The realization made her promises to tell him the myths of her land all the sweeter.

“I am glad you found no trouble among them,” he told her. Then he gave her a wry grin, unable to help himself as he said, “that you made no trouble, however, it seems I cannot say.”

“Hey!” Harper protested, though she was still cheerful to his eyes. “I made as much trouble as they gave me.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

The meat finished cooking and they ate quietly. Before long, they swept away any trace of their temporary camp as best they could and resumed their walking. Aragorn did not scout ahead, and instead asked her questions about her time at Sarn Ford. The decision felt reckless to the hypervigilant corner of his heart. But she had admitted the rangers were barely mentioned in her stories, and so rarely did he have an opportunity to hear of his kin from an outside perspective, being as sequestered as they were. He could not find the strength to refuse it.

Harper relayed disconnected, minute details of her summer with glee. She became fast friends with Hereth, which he had seen for himself during the weeks he spent at the enclave over the summer. She spoke of Halbarad with open fondness, though it was tinged with a sadness Aragorn could not quite place. The Rohirrim seemed to have taken her under their wings, and it made Aragorn all the more thankful for their presence there.

The wind picked up as the day progressed, and blew tendrils of dark curls that escaped her tightly woven twin braids behind her as they walked. When the wind changed directions, her hair mutinied and danced in front of her eyes and clung to her face -- which made her huff and brush it away over and over again. The sight, coupled with the pink of her cheeks from the heat, warmed something in Aragorn’s chest.

Another memory: a conversation with Halbarad, shortly before Aragorn departed with the rotation of rangers at the beginning of June. He had asked Halbarad how Harper was adjusting.

“She has much to learn, but no shortage of ability,” Halbarad answered. Then, in a careful, searching voice, he asked, “where does she come from? She seems to know much of our people, but little of how to live with them.”

Aragorn shrugged, and said, “I cannot say.”

Halbarad, well acquainted with when and how Aragorn withheld information, simply rolled his eyes. “Whether she comes from across the sea or down the Baranduin, I suppose it does not matter. She is eager to learn and gets along well with the rest.” He smiled then, playful and secretive. “Wald, in particular, has taken a shine to her.” Something like surprise must have played across Aragorn’s face, because Halbarad laughed at him. “Ah. Now I see,” he said in a low voice, and did not elaborate.

“See what?” Aragorn demanded, but Halbarad did not answer, and before long they were both pulled into a report from returned scouts.

“Earth to Strider,” Harper said, and pulled Aragorn back to the present. Then she laughed. “Or, Arda to Strider? I guess? Who knows.”

He shook his head to clear the memory and said, “I apologize, I was lost in thought. What did you say?” Elbereth, there were times he feared he was becoming an old man who dwelt primarily in his own mind. Or, perhaps, he was simply too used to traveling alone.

“Yeah, I could tell. I asked if we should refill our water at that stream.” She pointed to a small offshoot of the Baranduin that crept lazily along their path.

He considered the weight of his own waterskin, and the quickly darkening sky. “It would be wise to make camp there, I think. The light is receding.” She only nodded her agreement, but he did not miss the look of relief that flashed across her face. He upbraided himself silently. Ttoo used to traveling alone, indeed. He would do well to remember she was unaccustomed to rough travel, and it was unfair to expect her to keep to his regular pace.

That night, she awoke sometime after moonset, banished him to a few hours of sleep before dawn, and took over the watch. He dreamt of Halbarad climbing a tree that stood so high it reached the moon, and how his laughter drifted down to reach Aragorn where he stood, stuck to the ground.

On the third day of their journey, Harper asked, “how far away is Bree, anyhow?”

“You do not know?”

“Eh.” She waved her hand vaguely. “It’s not like distances and timelines are hyper-specific, at least in the text itself.”

Aragorn thought a moment before answering. They were not traveling along the Greenway proper, and therefore had not passed any markers, but he could give her a rough estimate. “There are some eighty or ninety miles between here and Bree, I would say.”

Harper frowned. “Can I get that converted to days, please?” She asked.

He smiled, though she walked a few paces behind and could not see it. “If the weather holds and we maintain our pace, we should reach Bree on the evening of the tenth.”

“Huh,” came her answer. Aragorn waited patiently for her to ask her next question. “So we’re going to arrive like two weeks before the Hobbits?”

“Are we?” He knew the answer. Last Aragorn spoke with Gandalf, he indicated that Frodo intended to leave Hobbiton on the twenty-second. She hummed an affirmative note in answer. “I thought it wise to get there well ahead of them. I assumed you agreed, given you did not object to our leaving on the first.”

“No,” Harper said. “It’s probably a good idea. I only asked because I realized I didn’t know the answer.”

“You do not do much long distance walking, back in your home, then?” Aragorn asked. How odd, it seemed to him, that she did not know how many miles they might walk in a day.

“Not really.”

He slowed his pace until they walked in step, and glanced at her. “Do you not travel, or is it that you prefer horseback?” He asked. That may have been why she took so well to the Rohirrim.

Harper did not meet his eyes, but rather cast her gaze down so she watched where they walked. “Neither,” she said. He waited, but she did not continue.

Aragorn chewed at the inside of his cheek. She was clearly reluctant to speak of her home, but he was curious, and had been since he first saw her unfamiliar camping equipment, and tasted that drink she gave him -- what was it called? Kafe? Carhef? He tried once more. “It must be very different than Middle-earth,” he prompted.

“Yes,” she said, her voice now soft, and sad. “It is.”

Aragorn cursed himself. Though he suspected Harper viewed him as little more than a half-baked idea given flesh, she did not treat him as such, and he ought to return the favor. He had questions aplenty, and she was at the center of most, but his curiosity gave him no right to reawaken grief he senselessly believed her to have put aside. If she wished to tell him of her home, she would do so in her own time. His impatience, which he erroneously thought he had long ago mastered, would have to manage until that time came. If that time came.

The sixth day of travel was scorchingly hot. The heat was made worse by the fact that any significant tree cover was long behind them. Their pace slowed to a crawl. Though Aragorn’s pride assured him that it was to accommodate Harper, the rest of him knew he would not be faring much better if he walked alone. They spent the noon hours crouched at the winding remnant of the Baranduin offshoot that ran through the valley, and drank as much water as they could stomach. By the time one could make the scarcest argument that evening had begun, they halted and set up camp.

Aragorn blessed the strange products of her world when she set up her small, portable tent. The smooth, false feeling fabric was brightly colored and too visible at a distance, and if it was not for the threat of heat exhaustion, he would have argued against using it. Instead, he thanked Iluvitar for the wonder of it as they lay side by side, in the shade the propped up flap provided. His head rested just inside the tent, and the fabric was cool against his neck and did not grow unpleasantly damp despite how he sweated on it.

Supper that night was of dry rations and gathered greens. When he suggested building a fire to cook, Harper had -- only half in jest -- threatened to kill him and go to Bree to escort the Hobbits herself. He saw the wisdom in her point rather quickly.

Darkness brought little relief. Aragorn cast aside his coat and jerkin and additional layers, and lounged only in his under tunic and trousers. Whatever feelings of discomfort his state of undress ought to have inspired, were waylaid by the fact that he was fully garbed compared to she. Harper took off the mismatched articles of clothing she received in Sarn Ford, and wore only a white, sleeveless shirt and a pair of tight, cropped leggings she dug out of her pack. The summer had tanned her skin, and made the freckles dusting the top of her shoulders stand out. He tore his eyes away when he realized he was staring.

The heat was getting to him.

“No offense,” Harper said, “because I’ve honestly been surprised by how little I’ve missed some parts of home. But I would commit unspeakable acts right now for a shitty box fan, let alone an air conditioner. This place sucks.”

Aragorn laughed at the legitimate scorn in her voice. “I rarely understand more than half of what you say,” he admitted.

“I know.” She rolled over onto her side to look at him. He had abandoned the space beside her after the sun had set, and now laid with his back on the cool grass. “Imagine a box you put in the window, and you can use it to control the temperature of your house.”

“And yet you say your people do not have magic?” But imagine it he did: an unassuming container situated in the south facing window of his room in Imladris. It would leak whorls of frost that crept along the corners of the room, smelling like Gandalf’s power did at times: seabreeze and antiseptic.

“Doesn’t it cease to become magic once you understand the whole of it?” She countered. “The line between that and technology is thin, sure, but I would say it rests pretty heavily on the wonder-factor.”

“It sounds wondrous to me,” Aragorn said. He closed his eyes and tried to will himself to feel the cool, phantom breeze he conjured in his mind. Any success he found was wiped away when the real, humid wind rattled through their camp. He opened his eyes again, and turned his head toward her.

“I suppose it would.” She shifted, and the thin supports of her tent wobbled precariously. “What do you guys even do to beat the heat?”

He laughed, and thought of the ruthless years he spent in Harad. “Suffer, mostly.” Then he thought of the less punishing summers of his youth. “Or bathe naked in streams and wait for dark.” Only after the words left his mouth did he realize how that sounded.

Before he could amend the statement, Harper said, “was that an option you kept from me? I suppose the stream here is pretty shallow, but it would have beat attempting to deepen it with our sweat like we did.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow at her, and firmly rejected the image that flashed in his mind. “A bit muddy, perhaps,” he said.

“You can keep your prudishness and sweat, if you want. If tomorrow is like this, I’m going to become the first person to successfully swim up a stream that’s barely two feet deep.”

His mind swiftly side-stepped his attempt to self-censor, and he imagined walking alongside the water, carrying her clothes in his arms, as she splashed up stream and tried to get his attention while he refused to look. A wave of heat rolled through him. The wind lacked the decency to blow at that moment and justify the feeling.

“That would be a sight,” he said. It was meant to sound lightly mocking, a jest about the idea of her scrambling through reeds and over stones. There was a teasing bent to it, certainly, but not in the way he intended.

She laughed, low and throaty and surprised. “You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”

Truly, the heat had fried his brain, because Aragorn said, “mostly, I am upset there is nobody to carry our things while I join you.” His own mind laughed at him -- refused to picture her swimming ahead of him, and only conjured the feeling of her eyes on his back as he swam through the cool water and she followed.

Harper blinked at him, her face barely visible in the moonlight. Before Aragorn could be certain if she was smiling, she turned her head away, up to the stars. A long moment passed. Aragorn counted the beats of his heart. Then, in a careful, even tone, she said, “these aren’t my stars, you know. Tell me about your constellations.”

So he did.

Two days away from Bree, Aragorn’s curiosity got the better of him. He saw how reluctant Harper was to tell Gandalf of what he might encounter in Isengard, and that she spoke so little of what was to come told him that apprehension remained. But his mind had been turning over possibilities as they walked in silence, and there was a certain bleak fear settling over the land that he could no longer ignore.

“Do the Hobbits fare well in their journey to Bree?” He asked. She grimaced, and did not answer him immediately. He turned his attention fully towards her, his anxiety deepening.

“They get there in one piece,” she said eventually.

He clicked his teeth together. “Is there something they encounter that could prevent them from getting there in one piece?”

“Well,” she hedged, “there’s the Barrow-wight.” She saw how his eyebrows raised, and added, “but that doesn’t happen in the film! And I don’t know what timeline we’re following, really, so it’s possible they won’t run into it.” Then she paused, and said, “Bilbo has been in Rivendell for years, though, that says book rather than film…”

Aragorn scrubbed a hand over his face. “You did not think to mention a Barrow-wight until now?” He hoped Gandalf had returned safely from Isengard, and chose to escort the Hobbits to Bree. Aragorn would haven been apprehensive to send his best men to fight one. Two Hobbits facing such a creature -- he did not want to imagine it.

“They end up fine!” She protested. “Tom Bombadil helps them out.”

Wasn’t that a surprise? “Truly?” He asked, and then realized he was allowing her to distract him. “Even so, the Ring--”

“The Ring doesn’t work on Bombadil. It’s weird, but it’s true.”

“He may be safe from the Ring, but that does not mean the Hobbits are safe from dallying in his wood for far longer than is wise,” he said. “Time is a fickle thing there.”

Harper cocked her head and looked at him for a moment. “Have you met him?”

“Once,” Aragorn answered. “It was a singular experience.”

She grinned. “When we’re done arguing about this, you should tell me about it. He’s fascinating.”

A laugh tore out of his throat. “Are we arguing?” He asked, perplexed.

“We aren’t not arguing.”

Aragorn supposed Harper had a point. “Why have you not spoken of this before? I could have--”

“What? Lurked outside Crickhollow and then escorted them personally to Bree?” Her tone made it clear what she thought of this plan.

He clenched his jaw. “I was considering it."

“You’d be more likely to scare them off and send them skittering into the wild,” she told him. “Plus, it’s an important part of their journey.”

“I could keep my distance and ensure their safety without interfering,” Aragorn insisted.

“Or you would also end up at the mercy of the Barrow-wight, and have to hope Bombadil saw fit to rescue you as well.” She sighed, undid one of her braids, and began to rebraid it immediately -- a nervous tic of hers he first noticed in Sarn Ford. “Look: the Hobbits need to deal with some danger on their own. In order to get through what’s to come, I think it’s vital that they face something unknown and terrifying without anybody holding their hands. It’s part of their--” she paused, and a blush bloomed on the tops of her cheeks. “It’s part of their character arcs, for lack of a better term.”

Ah. He coughed, and discarded the feelings that sentence tried to inspire. For what it was worth, Harper looked embarrassed to have worded it so. He sighed. “Do you truly believe it to be important?”

She nodded. “There’s plenty I’m ready and willing to change. But I think preventing this would only change things for the worse.”

Aragorn supposed that was a decent reason not to interfere. He was silent for some time as he considered his next words carefully. “I understand your desire to speak little of what may come to pass. The gift of foreknowledge is a double edged sword, and I will not press you for information you are unwilling to give.” He paused. “But I would ask you to remember that while you know of this world, I have lived long in it. And I will be more help than hindrance in circumventing trouble if you do not keep me so wholly in the dark.”

Harper stared at him -- her eyes flickered across his face, and then held his gaze for several long moments. “That’s fair,” she said. “I’m not going to give you the whole story outright. But I’ll try to let you know what’s going to happen as we come up on it, if it’s important.” She frowned. “Mostly, I’m waiting for Elrond’s opinion on the whole thing. If he thinks it’s fine to put it all out there, then I don’t have much of a problem with it. But I have a feeling he won’t think it’s wise.”

No, Aragorn silently agreed, Elrond would not think it wise.

“They really do end up alright,” Harper told him. “Bombadil swoops in to help, and they get to meet Goldberry to boot. If I didn’t think it was so important for them to do it alone, I would insist we go just so I could meet him.” Something wistful danced behind her eyes.

That convinced him she had the right of it. Her arrival had been jarring and incomprehensibly unpleasant -- here was a chance to act selfishly, and pursue some small source of delight. Yet she was willing to deny herself for the sake of others, and attempted to soothe his fears when he expressed them. To her, Aragorn was a half-real stranger in an even stranger land, one whom she had placed her trust in by going to Sarn Ford, and now followed willingly into untold danger. The least Aragorn could do was to repay the trust she gifted him in spades.

He sighed, and began to tell of his meeting with Tom Bombadil. If the way Harper grinned, far too pleased with herself for winning the non-argument, warmed his chest, Aragorn chose not to mark it.

A few hours away from the outskirts of Bree, Harper said the strangest thing.

“We’re close, aren’t we? I can’t quite put my finger on what’s changed, but the Song is different here.” Aragorn choked on the sip of water he was in the middle of taking. When he finished coughing, he looked at her askance. She registered his confusion, and said, “what? Am I wrong?”

“I am entirely unsure of your meaning,” Aragorn replied.

Her brow creased, and she mirrored his confusion. “The Song?” She asked. “The Music of the Ainur? I’m pretty sure that’s what it's called, though I never did get around to reading the Silmarillion.”

Aragorn choked again. He glared at his waterskin before reattaching it to his belt. “What of it?”

“What do you mean ‘what of it’?” She gestured broadly around them. “It’s-- there. Here. Whatever.”

Perhaps they ought to have examined her more carefully, a month prior, when she hit her head during the warg attack; was the injury only now catching up to her? “Do you mean to tell me you think you can hear it?”

Harper stopped walking. Her hands moved wildly for a moment before she placed them on her hips. “Are you--" she said sternly. "Stop. I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me. You really can’t hear that?”

“No,” Aragorn said firmly. “Can you?”

“Yes!” She cried. She glared at him, like he might start laughing and admit he was only poking fun at her.

“When did this start?” He asked. Despite himself, he strained his ears, like he might be able to pick up on it as well. He heard the wind, and his own breath, and the furtive movements of animals out of sight. There was the shift of her pack against her shoulder as she adjusted it, and the call of a flock of geese overhead, and the distant trickle of the Baranduin offshoot behind them. He could not hear, and had never heard, the Song.

“The day I arrived?” She said, “I didn’t notice it until I was done freaking out, but it’s been constant since. Quiet, maybe, but if I listen for it, I can hear it immediately.” She worried at her bottom lip with her teeth.

Aragorn considered the long conversation he had with Gandalf at Sarn Ford. He told Aragorn that Harper may prove to be useful in unlooked-for ways. He expected foreknowledge, yes, and perhaps even a touch of something magic, despite her insistence that she came from a wholly mundane world. He was not expecting this, and doubted Gandalf had either.

“I--” he searched for something helpful to say. She was looking at him anxiously -- fearfully -- as if she was awaiting an announcement that she was direly unwell, or posed a possible threat. “I will admit I cannot hear it, nor have I heard another speak of having heard it.” He rubbed a hand over his beard -- he needed to shave when they arrived in Bree. It was getting unruly again. “It could be related to the manner of your arrival, I suppose?” The supposition was a stab in the dark, but at least it calmed some of the worry on her face.

“I thought Elves could hear it?”

Aragorn shook his head. They could not; unless they had been keeping a rather large secret from him for his entire life. “They may communicate with flora and fauna, but that is different.”

“I thought this is just how it is here,” she admitted. “It made enough sense to me. Everything is … so much more alive, I guess.” Harper began to undo and re-braid her hair with automatic movements.

He wished, rather uselessly, she was more willing to speak of her home. Every small piece of information confounded him further. “How do you mean?” He asked, and hoped it would not upset her.

“It’s like, I don’t know, it’s like a veil has been lifted? Maybe not from over the world, but over my own eyes. At home, the Earth is just-- Earth. It’s a place that I, and everything else, happen to be. Here, I can tell it’s a living thing. It was disconcerting, at first,” she said. “But now I think it’s beautiful.”

It was a rare thing for Aragorn to be struck speechless, but it was also a rare thing for a woman to seemingly drop out of the sky into a world she claimed to know from a book, and say she desired to help save it from utter destruction. Perhaps, he thought, it was best to stop trying to find sense where there was none to be found.

“We can speak to Gandalf about it. Elrond, as well. They will want to know of this.” Her shoulders remained hunched around her ears. Aragorn closed the gap between them before he thought better of it, and laid a hand on a shoulder. She relaxed slowly. “I would not worry overmuch,” he assured her. “If anything, I would consider it a gift.” He meant it.

Harper stared up at him, her gaze searching. “Okay,” she whispered. Then she glanced at where his hand rested on her shoulder, up at him, and away again. She coughed.

Aragorn took his hand back and looked away, too.

“Well-- onwards to Bree, I suppose?” Harper offered.

“Aye,” he answered.

A handful of miles remained between Aragorn and Harper and Bree. He doubted they would speak much until they arrived. The knowledge that nobody else could hear the Song clearly weighed on her. Aragorn did not mind the silence. He had much to consider on his own.

One final memory: the young man he once was, wandering along the back paths of Imladris, singing to himself of Tinuviel. A sourceless, sweet and resounding chime that made him turn his head. A woman standing in a clearing amongst the trees, with dark hair and dark eyes, staring at him fondly.

Chapter Text

Barliman Butterbur refused to rent them a room with more than one bed.

“Busy season here at The Pony,” he said. “Dwarves down from the Blue Mountains, and-” if Harper did not know about Bill Ferny’s troublemaking friends, she would not have noticed how Butterbur’s red face paled slightly, “-a whole host of other travelers. It’s the only room I’ve got that I can rent for that long, I’m afraid.” Butterbur glared at Aragorn while he spoke, which would have been funnier if he was saying anything else.

Aragorn sighed, and said, “I can pay double, Butterbur,” and reached around his pack to pull out more coin.

Butterbur scoffed, and looked at Aragorn with even more disdain. “How they do things in other parts while you’re ranging, I don’t know. But here at The Pony, Strider, I’m not in the business of fleecing paying customers -- whether they be strange and foreign folk or not.” He cut his eyes toward Harper, and then back toward Aragorn. Nob called for Butterbur, and he pressed the key down on the bartop. “The only room I got,” he repeated, more sincere this time. “Take it or leave it.”

Nob called for Butterbur again. Harper looked at Aragorn, who appeared to be trying to dissolve Butterbur into red mist with his mind. Harper sighed and grabbed the key. “We’ll take it,” she said.

“There’s a sensible lass,” Butterbur said with a smile. “Maybe she’ll rub off on you,” he shot at Aragorn, and then he scooped up the coin they had already offered, and walked away, leaving them to process the rather unfortunate double meaning of his insult. Their eyes met for a single second, and then they both looked away. Harper studied the key - rather large, weighty, burnished bronze - for the sake of a distraction.

Aragorn mumbled something she didn’t quite catch, and then went in the direction of their room. Harper followed.

After closing the door behind her, she asked, “what in the world did you do to that man to make him dislike you so much?”

Aragorn set his pack down by the window, and did not turn to look at her when he said, “I have done nothing!”

“I really, really don’t believe you,” she replied. “C’mon, what was it? Did you break a bunch of his dishware by accident? Kill a man in the common room?” He unlatched his bedroll from his pack, and laid it out in front of the small stone hearth. He continued to not look at her, and said nothing. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll just ask him. Would you rather he be the one to tell me about how you insulted his father, or seduced his daughter, or something?”

Aragorn looked at her, finally. He was blushing.

“Oh my God!” Harper cried. It was supposed to be a joke. “Did you actually seduce his fucking daughter?” Her brain ran in circles trying to find a timeframe where that made sense, given his engagement to Arwen, and came up lacking.

He scrambled onto his feet and said, “no,” in a very firm tone. A sigh. “The short of it is that Butterbur does not take too kindly to any who are not Bree-folk.”

“And the long of it?”

Aragorn scowled at her. “Do you not know?” He challenged. Harper didn’t take the bait -- only gave him a withering, expectant look until he sighed once more. “He believes me to be little more than a troublemaker. A fair assessment, one could argue, given that I am often in Bree when there is trouble to be found here. That I endeavor to drive out the trouble matters little to him. The more insidious residents of Bree have deep pockets and long reaching arms -- Butterbur is wise to treat me with such disdain, for his own sake.”

Harper waited. When he said no more, she said, “you’re still avoiding something.” He mumbled something in response. “What was that?”

“Last I was here, he asked me to leave after Bill Ferny attempted to fight me in the common room, and I showed Ferny the error of that decision.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, which was still tinged pink from embarrassment. “I had to pay to replace the bar-stools that suffered for it.”

Harper plopped down on the bed and began to laugh so hard a few tears escaped out of the corners of her eyes. For his part, Aragorn busied himself with smoothing out the wrinkles in his bedroll and looking put out by her amusement. “The King of Men gets in bar fights! Christ, maybe the whole divine right of kings thing won’t bother me that much if I focus on that.” With a wide, teasing smile, she asked him, “did you win, at least?”

“Aye,” he answered simply. His easy confidence flirted with bravado, but did not cross the line into it. It was, Harper thought, rather devastating.

She shook her head and tried to school her features into something less overly fond. She grasped for something to change the topic of conversation, and zeroed in on his bedroll laid out in front of the fire. “What are you doing?” She asked, gesturing toward it.

“Preparing for bed?”

Harper rolled her eyes. “No, I mean, we haven’t even talked about who gets the bed.” It was, by a wide margin, the most ridiculous thing that had happened to Harper in Middle-earth thus far. One bed? Really?

“I am well accustomed to sleeping rough,” Aragorn said.

“I know you are, but I’d rather you catch up on some quality sleep before I follow you back out into life threatening danger in a few weeks.”

“I would not ask you to sleep on the floor while I rest comfortably,” he said. Harper shifted her weight, and the bed squeaked miserably beneath her. The corner of his mouth twitched with amusement. “Semi-comfortably, at least.”

She snorted. “You didn’t ask,” she pointed out. “It doesn’t need to be all or nothing. We can just take turns.”

His mouth pulled tight in an uncomfortable approximation of a smile. He sat back on his haunches and clasped his hands together, his elbows resting on his knees. The fire lit the right side of his face in a warm, orange light, and turned the streaks of grey in his hair to gold. He remained silent -- presumably as he considered whether to argue the point. Finally, he said, “we are both tired. You take the bed this evening. We will discuss the matter further tomorrow.”

“If you try to sleep on the floor again tomorrow, I’m just gonna sleep down there, too. I am excellent at being stubborn when I feel like it.”

“That is becoming more evident by the second.”

They settled in for the night shortly after. Over the low crackle of the fire, Harper listened to Aragorn’s breath slowly even out. He fell fully asleep not ten minutes after they extinguished the candles.

The mattress on the bed was thin, lumpy, and foreign-feeling after months of sleeping in the wild. Her mind was a jumble of anxiety soaked, disconnected thoughts. She was still reeling from the realization that it was not normal that she could hear the Song. The look Aragorn gave her when she explained it to him unsettled her. Some pitiable mix of concern and suspicion. How she managed to be the strange one in a world with Elves and evil rings was beyond her.

Gandalf had proved useless in her search for answers about how she arrived in Middle-earth, and despite Aragorn’s attempt at comfort earlier in the day, she doubted Elrond was going to be much help either.

She thought back to that first real conversation she and Aragorn had, and the unspoken suggestion that Sauron was responsible for her appearance in Middle-earth. She had been happy to ignore the possibility then, and though she wanted to continue to ignore it now, her anxiety would not let the idea go. She closed her eyes to the shifting shadows that ran across the ceiling of their room, and focused in on the near-silent music. The soft, lilting notes and gentle melody did not seem evil to her -- but, fuck, when did that mean anything?

Harper knew she would find no answers until confronted with the Ring. If she wanted to test the possibility that her arrival, and awareness of what she thought was the Song were of a sinister origin, she would have to wait until the physical manifestation of All Sinister Things came to find her.

How fun.

The next night, Aragorn did, in fact, try to forsake the bed for his bedroll. Harper stood in front of him for several minutes with her hands on her hips, and waited for him to acknowledge her. He pretended to be asleep. So she sighed, detached her sleeping bag from her pack, and spread it out in the empty space between the bed and the door. When she zipped herself into it, Aragorn sat up and stared at her. She sat up and stared back. Neither of them said anything. When he didn't move to get into the bed, she laid down and turned her back to him. She fell asleep fully believing he was going to let her sleep on the floor without taking the bed for himself. But when she woke in the morning, the sheets of the bed were tangled and pulled back. They continued to switch off after that.

Bree had its charms. The smell was not one of them. The town was made up of solid, stout stone houses, with the occasional tall, rickety wooden building scattered between. High up on the hill that rose above the town, set into the earth there were rounded windows and doors, and small well tended gardens around them, which belonged to the Hobbits of Bree. The Men lived at the base of the hill, packed in together, in a way that more closely approximated what Harper thought of as a town -- though it reminded her more of field trips to recreations of colonial settlements than anything else. But the town proper smelt exactly like the most foul subway station back home -- it brought tears to her eyes in more ways than one.

The first week they spent in Bree felt odd and disjointed. It was as if every time Harper orientated herself to a mode of living in Middle-earth, it soon came time to leave that daily rhythm behind. Traveling with Aragorn was different from living with the rangers in Sarn Ford, and staying at The Prancing Pony was like neither of these things.

It didn’t help that Aragorn made himself scarce more often than she would have liked. He had good -- if vague -- reasons, so she could not begrudge him. Wandering alone down the main road of Bree, she felt for the first time in Middle-earth lonesome and out of place. The rangers had made space for her easily and immediately, and most of the disconnect she felt at Sarn Ford had been of her own doing. And for all his quirks and peculiarities, traveling to Bree with Aragorn felt like a fast paced extension of the camping trip that started all of this.

But the Bree-folk were suspicious of outsiders, and rangers too. With her odd amalgamation of hiking clothes and second hand ranger gear, she stuck out like a doubly sore thumb among them. They were nothing but polite, thankfully, since Harper gave them no reason to be anything else. But it was awkward, standing outside this market stall trying to admire the flowers, and only being able to focus on the way the florist’s eyes burned holes into her head.

She had no money anyway, so when the staring became intolerable, Harper gave the florist a tight smile and walked away empty handed. It was mid-afternoon, and she was trying to decide whether to go back to The Pony, or walk around for a bit longer. She meandered back in the direction of the inn -- if she still felt like walking when she arrived there, she would just keep going.

Halfway between the market stalls and the inn, a man began walking next to her.

“G’afternoon, lady,” the man said. He had thick, dark brows that stuck out against the green-grey pallor of his skin, and a mean look about him -- which was only made worse by the slow, leering path his eyes traveled down and up the length of her before meeting her eyes. He could have been handsome, maybe, if he did not look like he spent so much time inside, and had less of a slimy aura.

Harper suppressed a sigh. Bill Ferny. “Hello,” she muttered, and then fixed her gaze ahead again. Maybe, just maybe, if she ignored him well enough, he would go away.

“I hope you don’t mind my saying, but I’m glad to see ol’ Longshanks has finally found himself a companion -- even if she be far too fair for his like.” Ferny had the voice of an obviously-villainous preacher in direct-to-television movie. Syrupy, cloying, and insincere.

She hummed noncommittally in response. “I’ll be sure to tell him you think so,” she said.

Ferny laughed. It was a flat, ugly sound. “Where is your ranger now? Surely he cannot be so foolish as to leave you lonesome amongst strangers on a day as fair as this?” His words prickled because there was some truth in them.

But, Harper reminded herself, Aragorn was far from being her ranger. “He’ll be along shortly,” she said. It wasn’t a lie -- he told her that morning he intended to return to The Pony just before supper.

“Ah,” Ferny said, “you must be on your way back to Butterbur’s place to pretty yourself up for his arrival.” Harper did not look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her. The sensation made her want a bath. “Unnecessary, if you ask me -- no doubt Stick-at-Naught will return with half a bush tangled in his hair.”

“I think you’ll find,” Harper said, her voice low and even, “that I did not ask you.” They were almost to The Pony now. She could only hope he wouldn’t try to follow her inside. She didn’t get the sense he would try to do anything to her -- no, invoking her discomfort was more than enough for him. Still, this conversation could not end soon enough.

“No! I’ll dare say you didn’t. Don’t mind me, lady. I just wanted to greet a visitor. And,” he added, producing something from behind his back, “provide you with a welcome gift. I saw you looking at them, and thought they might keep some of Strider’s smell at bay.” He extended a bouquet of wildflowers toward her, and smiled widely as he did so. There was no joy in the expression. It was little more than an animal baring of teeth.

They were outside of The Pony now, and halted outside the door. She grimaced, and accepted the bouquet. Ferny moved his hand just enough so he could drag his fingers across the back of her hand. Harper wished she could vomit on command. He would look far less smug if she was able to shoot an Exorcist-style pea soup stream directly into his face.

“Thank you,” she said, and then turned on her heel and walked inside, letting the door slam behind her. She could hear his unpleasant shout of laughter through the door.

Aragorn returned two hours later. He knocked once before he entered their room. He found Harper sitting on the bed, wringing lukewarm bath water out of her hair, and staring disdainfully at the crushed remnants of Ferny’s bouquet, where it was scattered over the small dresser situated in the corner of the room. He focused on the flowers immediately.

“What is this?” He asked, amused. He crossed the room in a few long strides, picked up the crumpled stem of a primrose, and twirled it between his forefinger and thumb.

“Bill Ferny introduced himself,” Harper said, and could not keep the venom out of her voice. The change that came over Aragorn was sudden and absolute. The tired, easy posture with which he entered the room fled, and was replaced by a taut fury that she had never seen in him before. A noise that wasn't quite a laugh burst out of her. “Easy there, cowboy!” She cried. “He was just generally unpleasant and gave me some flowers. I don’t think that calls for broken bar-stools, as much as I’d like to see it. I’m not trying to spend the next week and a half camping when we could be sleeping inside.”

He didn’t deflate, but he did blush at her admonishment. Not for the first time, Harper thought that a blush suited his coloring quite nicely. She shook the thought away when she realized he’d begun to rant in a low, fierce voice.

“--vile, pathetic, flotsamous excuse of flesh to mar Arda with his presence.” He spun around and began to retrace the path he’d paced to the other end of the room when she was distracted. The fire glinted off his eyes and he seemed to burn with a familiar, fervent anger. “I should have exorcized him from Bree when I had the chance.”

One day, when his blood wasn't alight with the frenzied indignation of Kings of Old, she would have to ask him what had started his feud with Ferny. He ceased his ranting, but continued to pace back and forth with his jaw clenched tight. Harper knew she really, really shouldn’t be flattered by this. Aragorn’s enmity with Ferny was long standing and had nothing to do with her. But -- who wouldn't feel a little pleased by such a show, even if that pleasure came from taking it far out of context? She laughed, because she didn’t know what else to do. “Tell me how you really feel,” she said, and reached for her hair bands to begin braiding her washed hair back into place.

Aragorn glared at her levity. She rolled her eyes. “What did you say to him?” He asked -- changing tack from fury to misdirected suspicion.

“Oh, I spent three hours with him recounting the events of the book from start to finish, in as much detail as I could manage,” she said dryly. Horror flickered across his face, and she only didn’t flip him off because her hands were busy with her braids, and she didn’t think he’d understand the gesture. “Christ, sometimes I think you think that I’m stupid.” That earned her a small look of repentance. “Let’s see -- I told him I would tell you that he thinks I’m too pretty to hang around you, that you would be returning shortly when he asked where you were, and that I didn’t ask his opinion when he told me I didn’t need to get ready for supper, since you’d be returning with ‘half a bush tangled in your hair’. Oh -- and I thanked him for the flowers before slamming the door to The Pony in his face.”

Half a dozen emotions fought for precedence on Aragorn’s face. Mild irritation and embarrassment tied, in the end. He ran a hand through his hair, and when he picked out a singular leaf, he scowled down at it. “Hardly half a bush,” he muttered, and sank down into the chair in front of the window. His anger bled away like someone had blown out a candle inside of him.

Harper shook her head in fond exasperation. He was a strange and ridiculous man. “I think it’s probably a good thing he made himself known. We should start preparing for their arrival -- and there’s some things I haven’t told you yet.” This caught his attention. They’d barely spoken of their intended task in Bree. Partially because Harper was still mulling over how she wanted to handle it, but primarily out of a desire for keeping as much secrecy as they could manage.

And speak she did. They spent that night, and many of the nights that followed, with their heads bent together in the warm glow of candle light in their room. They talked -- sometimes argued -- in low tones of what was to come. Harper had reservations about meddling too much in certain aspects of the story, and Aragorn had point and counterpoint at the ready while they worked through the particulars. They began to eke out something that resembled a plan as time passed. He continued to disappear during the day, but Harper no longer minded, as she had her own tasks to undertake.

In what felt like the blink of an eye, it was the evening of September 28th, and the Hobbits were due to arrive the next night. Autumn was upon them in full, and the evening was cool and rainy as they stood outside The Pony, watching the Bree-folk scurry on home toward thoughts of lit hearths and warm food.

“You have been quiet,” Aragorn observed.

She shrugged. “Think I’m just homesick,” she said. If she had her math right, in two days it would be the five month anniversary of her arrival in Middle-earth. She awoke that morning to the last wisps of a dream of home slipping quickly away from her waking mind. The dank, putrid smell of Bree did nothing to help banish the feeling. If she closed her eyes and conjured the screeching sound of an oncoming train, she could easily imagine herself back at home, waiting to finish the last leg of her commute.

Aragorn made a sound in acknowledgement, but didn’t otherwise reply. He got cagey whenever she spoke of home -- which, to be fair, she didn’t do often. Harper wondered if it made him uncomfortable to hear her talk about it. The topic made her sad, sure, but sometimes she wanted to complain about the lack of microwaves or indoor plumbing without being on the receiving end of disquieted pity.

She glanced over at him. He cut an intimidating figure in the purple shadowed dark. He wore his full ranger garb, complete with his sword on his hip. His hood was up and he leaned against the wall of the inn with his pipe in hand. But little in his body language spoke of ease. He had grown more tense every night since their arrival.

Two young ladies rushed by them. They were arm in arm and huddled together under one umbrella. They couldn’t have been older than seventeen, and Harper hoped they were headed home. The last dregs of dusk were fading fast. She spotted both of them chance a look up at Aragorn, and she smiled when they erupted into giggles together before they were more than a stone's throw away. Harper looked back at him, and noted there was a new rigidity in his posture. The strange grace with which he usually sprawled against any and every surface of his choosing became stiff and awkward. She snorted.

He met her eyes and glowered. She laughed outright.

“What? Almost ninety years under your belt and you still aren’t used to the tittering of teenage girls? I would think that would be a universal constant.”

If she had better eyesight, she would have been able to see him blush under the shadow of the hood.

Aragorn shifted against the wall and tried to regain some of the confidence of his earlier position. It was a lost cause. He sighed and stood up straight, away from the wall. He mumbled something.

“Come again?” Harper asked.

He puffed on his pipe before repeating himself. “I have had little reason since my youth to spend overmuch time amongst women,” he said.

Harper tried not to laugh. She really did. They spoke of his life almost as rarely as they did hers. She didn’t want to make him feel bad for opening up. But some things were beyond help. She coughed to smother the laugh that forced its way out. “No -- sorry. That makes sense,” she said. Aragorn glared at her, and she wondered if he would prefer outright laughter over awkward reassurances. “But like -- c’mon.”

He tilted his head to the side. “What?” He asked.

She motioned at him with her hand. “Well, you’re you.”

“Lady,” he said, light, teasing, “you make even less sense than usual.” He rarely called her that. Truthfully, it made her a little uncomfortable -- but only after the small thrill of it dissipated. She blamed that reaction on reading too many Regency romance novels.

Harper smiled, and shook her head. “It’s not like you’ve spent your whole life alone in the middle of nowhere. I’m pretty sure they have women in Gondor and Rohan.” And Rivendell, and certainly among the rangers -- though she thought he meant civilian women, to be specific.

“Aye, they do -- but in those realms they see little of battle, and if any did in my time there, they were not in my company.” His confusion seemed sincere. Did she really have to spell this out for him?

“Okay, but are you telling me you never stepped foot in a tavern all those years? Or walked down the street?” He may have been a man on a mission, but she doubted he’d behaved like a monk. Maybe she would have believed it, if they’d had this conversation when she first arrived in Middle-earth. But Halbarad’s wealth of stories had been the veritable soundtrack of her summer, and she’d seen how Aragorn got on with the rangers in person. He had a -- well tempered and self-aware -- impish streak in him, once you dug through the seventy four layers of grim faced austerity.

The light from inside The Pony revealed his furrowed brow when he turned to look at her, and she began to regret backing herself into this conversational corner. Harper made a concerted effort to not discuss anything related to romance. Not only for the obvious reasons -- but because she had no idea what the social norms surrounding those topics were here. She didn’t want to offend him, or make him uncomfortable.

Hopefully he would pretend to take her meaning and drop it.

“Of course I have,” he said, and patiently waited for her to clarify.

She sighed. “Then I refuse to believe that reaction is new to you.” She rubbed at her eyes so she had something to do with her hands. Her skin felt hot, and she knew she was blushing.

“What reaction?” Aragorn asked -- but his voice faltered the smallest bit, and she saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward. He was having her on! Bastard.

“The one to your various hideous deformities,” she replied cooly. “The hood stops people from screaming outright, but you can’t expect them not to laugh.” Irritation aside, she enjoyed it when he joked around. It happened less and less the closer they came to the arrival of the Hobbits. And if she was going to poke fun at him, it was only fair that he returned the favor.

He laughed and shook his head. “You sound like my brothers,” he said.

Ouch, she thought, and then reprimanded herself for that reaction. She ought to be glad he would compare her to anybody he was close with. “They sound smart,” she said, instead.

He hummed, and ashed his pipe on the ground. Harper frowned. Somebody needed to invent outdoor ashtrays here. “I think they would enjoy you. If they are in Rivendell when we arrive, I would have you meet them.”

“That would be nice,” Harper said, and pretended the invitation didn’t kick butterflies up in her stomach. It would be nice -- she knew little about Elrond’s sons, and she suspected the scripted-like nature of the next few weeks would make her feel off kilter. Something new would cut through that.

Aragorn tucked his pipe away and his easy grin faded as he looked up at the night sky, and then over to the gate in the distance. “You ought to head inside. If you are right, then it would be wise to be well rested for tomorrow.” He did not elaborate on what he meant. He didn’t need to. If the Hobbits arrived tomorrow, then so would the Nazgul. Harper was not too proud to admit that terrified her. “I want to see to some things, and then I will retire as well. You should lock the door -- I have the key.”

“Alright,” she said. “I’m gonna check up with Butterbur first, but that should only take a moment.” The plan they’d devised to preempt the interference of Bill Ferny and his suspicious friends was rather involved, and had too many moving parts for Harper’s tastes. But Aragorn was confident they could pull it off.

They parted ways. Harper lingered along the bar inside of The Prancing Pony until she managed to catch Butterbur’s eye. They spoke in hushed tones for a few minutes until Nob called for him again, and then she made for their room.

She readied herself for bed with automatic motions. Her head was stuffed full of a million different thoughts. Butterbur said one of the Nazgul had been through Bree earlier in the week -- though Aragorn and Harper had managed to miss it. The morning after it happened, however, Harper could have sworn there was a subtle, twanging disruption to the Song that lingered into the afternoon. When she mentioned this to Aragorn, he'd stared at her with open concern, and went quiet for several hours.

She worried about the Hobbits, and how they were faring. If she recalled correctly, they were either currently at the mercy of the Barrow-wight, or freshly freed from it by Bombadil. She would be far more comfortable once they were in her sight, and she could keep tabs on them properly. The enormity of the task they were about to undertake was not lost on her -- and she would die before she allowed it to be disrupted.

Harper settled into bed and tried to clear her mind. She managed to banish the Ring-related thoughts of despair, but at the cost of her brain dragging up the wild imaginings of her foolish little crush. Rivendell, she thought, could not come fast enough. There she would lay eyes on Arwen and her otherworldly beauty, and witness Aragorn’s dog-after-a-bone dedication to her. Then, she would finally be able to set these feelings aside.

If that tactic didn’t work, maybe she would try sticking her tongue down Boromir’s throat. It could serve as a way to distract him from the Ring, as well.

It was the proximity that was making her so pathetic. They had been in each other's pockets for a month, and other than maybe Hereth, he was the person she knew best in Middle-earth. Harper could hide away filthy thoughts about the lines of his back or how his hand wrapped around the grip of his sword if she wanted to, but she needed to stop convincing herself that there was something there.

If he’d flirted with her on that hot night during their journey to Bree, it was an accident that could be chalked up to heat exhaustion. His charming discomfort at switching off who slept in the bed was because she was now living in a world with completely different ideas about what was appropriate, and his fury at Bill Ferny giving her flowers was because he hated Bill Ferny -- not because he’d given the flowers to Harper.

More to the point -- Harper appreciated Aragorn’s friendship, and would need to rely on him in the coming weeks and months. He was smart, uber competent, funny (when he decided to be), an invaluable resource, and had offered her more kindness than he had any reason to. She shouldn't muck that up with the stubborn remnants of a crush on the half realized, fictional portrait of the man she had come to know.

Harper fell asleep like that -- promising herself that she would only focus on their friendship going forward. She was long into dreaming by the time Aragorn returned, blew out the candles, straightened her covers, and took to his own bedroll in front of the hearth.

Chapter Text

Harper wondered idly about the legality of committing a crime at the behest of a future king.

The Bree-folk recognized no allegiance to Gondor, and if she was caught now, she doubted their judicial system (whatever shape that took) would care that she was acting with the approval of the man who would someday reinstate the Kingdom of Arnor. Nor would they be likely to believe her claim.

But she hadn’t been caught yet -- and if all went to plan, she wouldn’t be. Not until she was far away from Bree.

Butterbur’s cellar was little more than a hole in the ground made of tightly packed dirt. Kegs and wine racks lined the far wall, and next to that was a collection of root vegetables and canned foods. In front of her were the squirming, bound forms of Bill Ferny and his suspicious friend -- both of whom were trying and failing to curse at her around their gags.

It happened like this: during their second planning session, Harper made mention of the letter Butterbur may or may not have forgotten to send on behalf of Gandalf, and Aragorn’s eyes lit up with possibility.

A careful, late night inquiry about the letter confirmed its existence in this timeline. The night after that, she and Aragorn cornered Butterbur, and suggested that Gandalf would be significantly more forgiving of his failure to send the letter if he did them a few favors now. If they hinted his cooperation would save him from being set on fire, or turned into a toad, or both -- well. Harper figured it was for the greater good.

Once they had Butterbur’s acquiescence, their plan began to take shape. They needed to remove Ferny and his friend from the board for the evening, and keep an eye on Goatleaf too. The less information the Nazgul could garner from the citizens of Bree, the better.

Ferny, according to Butterbur, often came to The Pony on Thursday and Friday nights. Once there, he would get rip-roaring drunk, and if he couldn’t find a skirt to lift or trouble to start, he would wander on home after last call.

Harper’s part was simple enough. She had the privilege of casting herself as Montresor, and Ferny and his friend played dual-Fortunatos beautifully. She had triple checked with Aragorn that no Middle-earth version of The Cask of Amontillado existed. It would be no good to lead them into a trap they would recognize immediately.

That evening, an hour or so after they arrived at The Pony, she smiled at Ferny and his friend, and asked if she could take a seat between them. She spent a handful of painful minutes chatting them up, and then invited them down into the cellar to try a vintage wine she’d found in Butterbur’s stores.

“Got bored of your ranger going a’ranging?” Ferny asked, in a voice thick with dark liquor, when she made her suggestion.

Harper flashed him a winning smile. “Something like that.” She cut her eyes over to his friend, and then back again. “Are you two up to entertaining me instead?”

Ferny’s friend slid his hand along the low back of the bar-stool she sat in. “We could skip the wine and go straight to the entertaining,” he offered.

Harper forced a giggle, and hoped they were both drunk enough to miss the false note in it. “How forward you are!” She said. She fluttered her eyelashes at Ferny. She suspected he called the shots between them. In a low voice, she said, “we’ve only got the one room. I really do want to try the wine, and the cellar would be more … convenient for the tasting.”

“You heard the lady,” Ferny said to his friend. Then he stood, and swept his hands out in a forward motion. “After you.”

She smiled at him once more, and then hopped off the bar-stool. She caught Butterbur’s eye as they disappeared into the backroom with the entrance to the cellar. He looked away quickly, and let them pass.

The wine and goblets were waiting for them on the shelf with the root vegetables. Harper instructed Ferny and his friend to sit down while she served them. She let them look at the wine bottle for a moment, and was pleased when they both made impressed noises when they saw the date: 1312, by Shire reckoning.

Of all the minute details of the plan, the doctored wine label was maybe what she was most proud of. And to think her father thought art school was a useless pursuit! The wine was the same wine Butterbur served all his guests, but a few hours with a brush and some ink had been enough to fool these two.

The key here was the brown powder that dusted the inside of two of the goblets. Aragorn disappeared a week ago with an idea, and returned that night with a handful of flowers that looked to Harper like valerian, though he insisted they had some unpronounceable Elvish name. They let the flowers and their roots dry for a couple of days, and ground them down into powder when they were ready.

Harper poured them each a glass, and was thankful the low light of the cellar hid the murky quality the powder gave to the wine.

They toasted -- “to foolhardy rangers,” Ferny said with an ugly smile. And then they drank. When Ferny and his friend both began to sway and slur after ten minutes of uncomfortably suggestive conversation, Harper wondered briefly if she’d used too much of the powder. But then Ferny made a half coherent comment about her tits, and she decided she didn’t care.

She let another few minutes pass until she was confident they wouldn’t be able to follow her out of the cellar. Then she stood, and walked back upstairs without comment. Ferny’s friend tried to voice a complaint as she left, but it came out as garbled nonsense.

Lagrion stood at guard at the top of the stairs in the back room, wearing a bored expression and holding an armful of rope. “Ready, then?” He asked.

“More than,” Harper answered.

Lagrion’s involvement had not been part of the plan. He’d arrived at the door to their room that morning while Harper and Aragorn were grinding the not-Valerian roots down with a mortar and pestle. With him came grim news. The Nazgul had driven off the rangers at Sarn Ford a week prior.

Harper’s heart dropped into her stomach when he said this. She frantically dug up her book from the very bottom of her pack, and flipped back to the appendices. True to his word, there it was:

September 22: The Black Riders reach Sarn Ford at evening; they drive off the guard of Rangers. Gandalf overtakes Shadowfax.

Lagrion looked at the book with open confusion, but Harper ignored him. She turned to Aragorn instead and said, “I am so, so fucking sorry.” She looked back down at the book. The words remained defiantly on the page. “I- I don’t know if I forgot about it, or if I never noticed it.” Then she asked Lagrion, “was anybody hurt?”

A horrible, too real image flashed through her mind: Hereth’s limp body, bloodied and broken, under the foot of the Witch-king as he wiped down his blade.

Lagrion glanced between her, the book, and his captain, before he said, “no, thankfully. Halbarad had heard rumor that they were on the move, and a scout caught wind of their approach. He chose to let them run us off for the time being. It was the safest decision. They sent word for me to find you, Captain, and let you know”

“Good work,” Aragorn said to Lagrion. Then, to Harper, he said, “you cannot be expected to remember every single detail. This may prove to our advantage. We know now of Gandalf’s movements,” he gestured to the book as he spoke, “and Lagrion can be of some help to us.”

Harper let herself be soothed by his words. Then they put their heads together with Lagrion to retool some of the details of the plan.

She was glad for it as she watched Lagrion bind Ferny and his friend. He was far better at tying knots than she was. When Lagrion finished binding them, he said, “I can handle it from here.” He looked at her oddly, but had not mentioned the book. That was for the best.

Harper took one last look at Bill Ferny and his friend, thanked Lagrion for his help, and then made her way back upstairs. This hiccup had turned out in their favor, but she could not count on that lucky streak to continue. God-willing, this would be the worst of her mistakes.

Night was closing in. Aragorn was in place along the gate outside Bree -- keeping an eye on Harry Goatleaf and waiting for the Hobbits. The precise time of their arrival was unknown, it could be at any point after dark.

Harper rejoined the common room and took a seat facing the door. Butterbur caught her eye every few minutes. His face was more red than usual, and there was a visible layer of sweat on his brow. She wondered if they were too harsh in their threats to him. But then again, much of what would happen if she didn’t interfere was his fault -- it evened out, if she squinted.

The hours ticked by slowly. She picked at the supper Nob brought her and tried to not stare too intently at the door. She’d dealt with Ferny and his friend, and Aragorn would handle Goatleaf -- but she did not know who among the guests at The Pony could be trusted. She glanced about the room on occasion, and let herself study the Men, Dwarves, and Hobbits in rotation. This kind of paranoid vigilance was unfamiliar to Harper, and she wondered how Aragorn lived like this. It was exhausting.

In the end, her careful watch on the door was unnecessary. She knew the Hobbits arrived in Bree before they ever stepped foot into The Pony. The Song warbled and warped in her ears -- battled against errant notes by changing the melody. It fought hard to retain mastery over itself, but by the time the door opened to reveal four Hobbits soaked to the bone with rain, the Song had dropped down into a minor key.

Harper laid her eyes on Frodo Baggins for the first time. She began to cry.

They were silent, inconspicuous tears that Harper only registered when she tasted the salt of them on her lips. She tried hard not to stare at the Hobbits while they attempted to flag down Butterbur to rent a room.

After the last few weeks in Bree, she was mostly used to the sight of Hobbits. It had been an adjustment, at first -- they looked different, in an intangible way, from how they appeared in the films. There was something decidedly Of Fairy to them that couldn’t be achieved through makeup and clever camera angles.

But it wasn’t the wonder of Fantasy that drew her eyes to the four Hobbits now. It wasn’t even seeing more characters out of her favorite story in the flesh. It was Frodo -- with his dark curls and bright eyes, and misplaced graveness on his rosy cheeked face. He was small, and sweet, and fair, and carried Evil Manifest in his little waistcoat pocket.

When she looked at him directly, the Song slowed and struggled against its changing.

The Hobbits succeeded in grabbing Butterbur’s attention, and Nob quickly escorted them to their room. As she watched them leave, she wondered if she would have registered the change in the Song so acutely if she didn’t know that Frodo carried the Ring.

Aragorn slipped into the inn a few minutes later. He was similarly soaking wet, and had a streak of dirt along his cheek that made Harper smile. He met her eye as he crossed the room. He barely inclined his head, but she could read the question there. Harper nodded -- all was going well so far.

He stood next to the table she was sitting at. They both watched Butterbur bustle about behind his bar. After a few minutes, when it seemed he had all but forgotten about giving Frodo Gandalf’s letter, Harper stood with a sigh.

“I’ll do it,” she mumbled to Aragorn.

She managed a handful of steps in Butterbur’s direction before he saw her, and damn near jumped out of his skin with the realization. Butterbur yelled for Bob, who came scrambling out of the kitchen at the summons. They traded a few words. Bob took Butterbur’s place behind the bar. Butterbur patted down his pockets with increasing panic until he located the letter in one of them, and then went off in the direction of the Hobbits’ room, with a glance back at Aragorn and Harper to make sure they followed.

They loitered a few feet away while Butterbur knocked twice on the door. A moment passed. Then it opened and a cheerful voice greeted him. Butterbur looked once more at Aragorn and Harper before slipping into the room and letting the Hobbit who opened it -- either Merry or Pippin, Harper couldn’t be sure -- close it behind him.

“Do you think we were maybe too harsh on him?” Harper asked quietly. She was beginning to worry he would have a stress induced heart attack by the end of the night.

“I think the time for fretting about that has passed,” Aragorn answered.

Aragorn had been, in a word, surprised by Harper’s initial plan. Kidnapping Ferny and his friend had not occurred to him, and when she suggested it, he stared at her for what felt like an age before he tactfully said they could table that suggestion for later. His shock came from an honest place. It was hardly in line with how Heroes^TM ought to operate. But sometimes twentieth century narrative problems called for twenty first century solutions.

When they were unable to come up with anything less violent but equally as effective, Aragorn came around to the idea. And drugging Ferny and his friend had been his suggestion, anyhow. Harper refused to accept all of the blame here.

The minutes passed in slow motion. Harper grew more anxious with every second. Aragorn hid his anxiety better, but his ramrod straight posture, firm grip on his sword, and constant glances behind them were telling.

“If you’re gonna convince them you’re a King of Men, you might want to wipe the dirt off of your face,” Harper said, when the silence became unbearable. Aragorn rubbed at the wrong cheek ineffectually. “No, here, let me--” she grabbed the cleanest corner of his cloak she could find, wrung a bit of rainwater onto his face, and wiped. There was still a vague dark splotch left behind, but it was better than before. “Do you really just go out there and roll around in the dirt?” She asked, dropping the cloak and taking a step back when she registered how in his space she was.

Aragorn let out a self-conscious huff. Before he could answer, the door finally opened again, and Butterbur peeked his head out. That was their cue.

Harper let out a relieved breath when she counted all four of the Hobbits in the room. Merry’s little accidental meeting with one of the Nazgul did not need to happen. Frodo and Sam sat on the bed closest to the door, with their heads bent together as they read and reread Gandalf’s letter. Like Aragorn and Gandalf, they had a remarkable resemblance to their movie counterparts -- but with small differences that became clearer the longer she looked. Sam was younger, and lacked some of the intensity his actor brought to the part. Frodo held himself with the self-assured nature of a man (Hobbit?) of fifty, even as he wrapped his head around the increasing complexity and danger of his task.

Merry lounged in the high back chair by the fire. Pippin was to his left, perched precariously on a stool in a manner that suggested bird more than Hobbit. The differences in those two were more obvious. Merry was fatter and had some grace befitting a gentlehobbit. Pippin’s full face suggested youth rather than simple weight, and he was full of zipping energy he struggled to contain during what was supposed to be a serious moment. Fittingly, he was the one to greet them.

“Hallo!” he said. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

Harper shut the door behind them, and let Aragorn take the lead. But Frodo beat him to it.

“Are you fellow Mr. Butterbur and Gandalf mentioned?” He asked.

“Who did they mention?” Aragorn asked. Harper had briefed him on the gist of the letter, and they’d instructed Butterbur on what to say to the Hobbits when he gave it to them. But it seemed he was determined to take his own approach to gaining their trust.

Frodo opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off. “That’s an awfully clever way to trick us into telling you what you want,” Sam said. “You ought to tell us how you’re called, first.” Frodo made a noise of discontent, and in a lower voice, Sam said to him, “forgive me, Mr. Frodo, but I think this is all rather queer. This landlord -- begging your pardon, Mr. Butterbur -- has been sitting on this letter for nigh four months, and only just remembered it now? And then he wants us to welcome some strangers in, to boot? It doesn’t sit right with me.”

Aragorn held up a hand. “Peace, Master Gamgee,” he said. Sam’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline at that. “I am called Strider, in these parts.” That placated Sam for the moment. It had been wise to have Butterbur give the Hobbits the letter. They would have been too suspicious of its origin otherwise.

“How do you know Gandalf?” Frodo asked. “When did you last see him? Do you know where he is, or what he is doing?”

Aragorn looked grave. “I met him many years ago, and have followed him into danger countless times since,” he said. “We last met on the first of May: at Sarn Ford down the Brandywine. He told me you would be starting for Rivendell in the last week of September. I have not heard from him since. This troubles me, for we should have had messages, even if he could not come himself. But I have gotten it on some authority that he should arrive in Bree tomorrow evening.”

“Who’s authority?” Frodo asked, and slid his eyes over to Harper.

It was her turn, then. She stepped away from the door she had been leaning on and into the light of the room. Merry and Pippin, from the way they jumped, had not noticed her at all. “My authority,” she answered.

Frodo glanced back down at the letter in his hands. Had Gandalf written about her in it? The thought hadn’t crossed her mind. How incredibly strange. “And your name?”

“Harper,” she answered. “I’ve known of Gandalf for a long time, but we’ve only recently become acquainted.” She would leave the whole, ‘you guys are fictional characters in a book’ thing for later. They could discuss that with the Hobbits come Rivendell, if at all.

Frodo nodded, and looked pleased with her answer. “How do you know that Gandalf will arrive tomorrow?”

Harper tried her hardest not to lie as she said, “I got word of his movements. He’s headed here on horseback now.”

Butterbur shifted impatiently in the corner, and drew all their eyes. He coughed, and said, “we should be getting the little masters to your room, don’t you think?”

Harper looked out the low windows of the Hobbit room, and at the black night beyond. The Song shuffled along its newly minor key, but there was now a discordant buzzing below the rest of the notes that drew her attention. The Nazgul would still come through Bree tonight. She looked at Aragorn, to find him already staring at her. “Probably a good idea,” she said. He nodded.

They explained, with as little information as they could, why they needed the Hobbits to move into Harper and Aragorn’s room. Both Merry and Sam had their reservations, but Frodo was willing to put his trust in these strange friends of Gandalf, and the rest followed his lead.

Bags and Hobbits both were moved. Their room, thankfully, was in a sequestered corner of the topmost floor of The Pony. None of the Hobbits were thrilled about being up so high, but once Nob brought along supper, they settled down. Butterbur took his leave to prepare the fake-out Hobbits in what should have been their beds, and left them to their food and private conversation.

When they finished eating, discussion began in earnest. Frodo wanted to know how much they knew of his task and intended destination, Sam wanted to know more about The Black Riders. Harper took a backseat and let Aragorn explain. The less they asked her, the better. Aragorn spoke in a low, eerie voice as he explained who the Nazgul were, where they came from, and what they wanted with the Ring. An approximation of the same vertigo that bothered her when she first came to Middle-earth struck Harper as she listened to him speak. It was like she’d been plopped down into the movie with a slightly scrambled script. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend to be falling asleep on her futon with a bowl of popcorn on her lap while The Fellowship played in the background. She was brought out of her thoughts by Frodo’s next question.

“The Black Riders have already come to Bree?” He asked.

“They have,” Aragorn answered. “We have done what we can to stop them from learning more, but they know already that you intended to come this way. Your position here is dangerous.”

“How much do they know?” asked Merry. “Will they attack the inn?”

Aragorn cut his eyes at Harper over the rim of his pint glass. “I do not know,” he answered slowly. “They had words with Harry at West-gate on Monday. I dealt with him this evening, and a few other evil men besides. No more news will reach their ears. But that will not stop them from sensing the Ring.”

Frodo did not look comforted by this.

“When did you last use it?” Harper asked.

Frodo thought for a moment. “I almost used it in the Barrow Downs, but then Bombadil came to find us. Before that, it was in Tom’s house.”

“Good,” Harper said, nodding to herself. “I am sure Gandalf has already told you so, but you can’t use it again. Whenever you put it on, it lets The Black Riders know your location. We will only be safe to wait for Gandalf if you don't use it while you are here.” She hoped she sounded more confident in that last part than she felt. Now that she was in the midst of it, the terror of this part of the story was eating at her. Their attempt to hide from the Nazgul felt hopeless, despite all their careful planning.

Then she looked away from Frodo, and back to Aragorn, whose gaze was bright, if solemn, and the music picked up its pace again and did not sound so mournful -- and it was here, Harper first began to understand the insidious nature of the Ring. What did Gandalf say that first night at Sarn Ford? ‘Hope is often much closer than one expects’. It was an unforgivable pun -- but, Harper thought, if she had any chance in surviving this, she would need to remember that. Because the Ring would do all it could to make her forget.

When Nob came to clear their plates, they all decided it was best to settle in for bed. The Hobbits fit in the bed together, so both Harper and Aragorn took the floor that night. Before the candles were extinguished, Sam sat up and gave Aragorn another suspicious look.

“You never told us your true name,” he said. “Gandalf’s letter said to wait for a Strider, but he warned us there were strange Men about. How do we know you are the real Strider? You might have done him in and took his clothes.” Pippin made a sound of complaint and shoved a pillow over his head, but Frodo nodded his approval.

Aragorn said, “you have a stout heart, but I am afraid my answer to you is this. If I had killed the real Strider, I could kill you. And I would have done it already without so much talk. If I was after the Ring, I could have it -- NOW!”

He stood up to his full height, and towered over the Hobbits. His eyes gleamed with that keen, commanding light Harper had only caught glimpses of. He threw back his cloak, and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. In the bed, the Hobbits lay still as death -- even Pippin, with his head still under the pillow. Sam stared open-mouthed at Aragorn.

“But I am the real Strider, fortunately,” he said. He looked down at the Hobbits, his face softened by a sudden smile. Harper’s breath caught in her throat. “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn; and if by life or death I can save you, I will.”

There, she thought, dwelt the Elessar. Before her, in the filthy form of a ranger, stood the King of Men, as he swore on his life to protect a handful of Halflings who would attempt to do the impossible. And in that moment, with some silent intuition, Harper knew he would be her doom. So be it, she thought, he was glorious.

Conversation she had already heard or read filtered between the rest of the group. She mumbled something to Aragorn about checking on Lagrion before she went to bed. She did not see the concerned look he gave her, because she could not meet his eye.

The air felt ten degrees cooler outside of the crowded room. Her thoughts were a heated tangle as she wandered downstairs. She slipped into the backroom without a word or look to Butterbur. After, even if somebody held a knife to her throat, she would not have been able to recall the conversation she had with Lagrion over the sleeping forms of Bill Ferny and his friend. It could have lasted a minute or an hour. He could have told her he was Eru Ilúvatar in the flesh, proved it too, and it would not have registered.

Nothing would change. Nothing could change. Aragorn was to be her friend and companion through what was to come. Harper would do all she could to ensure that he sat on the throne of Gondor by the end of it. That was what mattered. But she could no longer cling to her stubborn conviction that what fluttered about inside her heart was born only from words on a page or movement on a screen. Damn it all, but it was real.

The Nazgul came to Bree that night. Harper awoke a minute before their piercing shrieks sounded from outside. The Song buzzed and trembled and twanged, and her head filled with a feedback not unlike two microphones coming too close together. She groaned quietly from the pain it caused; Aragorn turned around in his seat at the window to look at her. He mouthed something at her -- but the room was dark, and her unnatural fluency in Westron did not cover lipreading.

The Hobbits remained asleep, though Frodo tossed and turned and clutched at the Ring--

Harper sprang up out of her sleeping bag and dove for Frodo, whose sleep clumsy hands were attempting to slip on the Ring. She grabbed his wrists and he awoke with a shout. Aragorn was at her side in a moment, and tried to quiet Frodo down. The rest of the Hobbits stirred at the commotion.

The Nazgul shrieked outside. This time they sounded angrier -- foiled again, and they knew it. They all stood still and silent for a long moment, until the next shriek sounded, farther away.

Harper dropped Frodo’s wrists when she realized she was still holding them. She meant to apologize, but her eyes followed the motion as he pulled his hands back. Then she saw it for the first time: the Ring was small, unassuming, and lay flat against Frodo’s chest on its chain.

Later, Harper would wonder if being able to see the Ring added to its power in some way. She had been around Frodo for hours at this point, and she knew he had it with him. The air around him was heavier than it was elsewhere in The Pony, and Song became more changeable when she looked directly at him. But now --

The Ring was in front of her, and she knew Evil in a way she never had before. Her breath quickened and her heart raced, and the familiar smell of The Pony grew thick and sour in her throat. Phantom scents filled her lungs - a luxuriously spiced vintage wine and woodsmoke from a roaring hearth fire, and underneath that, the stench of sulfur and rotten flesh. The last embers of the fire in the room caressed the curve of it, and reflected a foul glow of brilliant gold on Frodo’s shirt. All other noise fell away as she stood above him, and in that silence she could hear the Ring.

She expected it to whisper, and her stomach acid roiled when she realized she was wrong. It sang. A heady and catching tune that snaked about and ensnared the senses. It played off the drumbeat of her heart and warped a melody from the rushing of her blood. It was glorious and captivating and utterly discordant -- in direct opposition to the song that pulsed from all living things in Arda. The song of the Ring sought to overpower, to destroy -- it would suffer no competition, and would not stop until it drowned out all other noise.

She looked away, took a few stumbling steps back until she collided with Aragorn. For the first time, she missed the empty silence of home and the unchanging and mundane fabric of her world. Middle-Earth was too alive. Everything shifted and sang and clamored for her attention. She wanted to sit in the dark of her apartment, surrounded only by the electric hum of the television and the oil soaked grumble of her radiator. If this was magic, if this was Fantasy, it was too much for her. Give her the ceaseless din of traffic, a mundane life, and unremarkable death. Give her anything but this.

Aragorn placed an uncertain hand on her shoulder. Some awareness returned to Harper, and she crowded in even closer to him, and did not care that they were pressed back to front. Her heart hammered in her chest and all she wanted was something, anyone, between her and that thing. When even his solid presence was not enough, she slipped out of his grip, wobbled across the room and sat down with shaky legs on the other chair by the window.

Aragorn soothed the Hobbits back to sleep -- or Sam, Merry, and Pippin, at least. Frodo would take longer to rejoin them, if he did at all. Being half in shock, Harper didn’t notice Aragorn slip out of the room, but he returned a few minutes later with a large pint of ale and a loaf of bread. He took the seat opposite her, and offered them silently.

Harper ate and drank her fill, and jumped every single time she heard the Nazgul call, even as they rode away. Out of the window, no moon nor stars could be seen -- the night was dark and wet, but Harper thought they weren’t far away from dawn.

“This place is awful,” she whispered, when Frodo’s breathing finally evened out. Aragorn made a small sound in his throat. “I’m sorry, maybe that’s mean but -- fuck. Do you know what passes for ultimate evil in my world?”

“What?” He asked, the rasp of his voice barely audible.

“Somebody with too much power and too much money, who won’t help others in need. Selfish, greedy sons of bitches who thrive while the rest of us suffer for their pleasure and convenience.” She took a deep draw from her cup. “It’s all the same thing, sure. Greed, corruption, pride -- whatever. But it isn’t distilled down into a little trinket one can carry around their neck. That--” she motioned toward Frodo and the Ring around his neck, “is beyond anything I can name. What kind of fucking place is this, that it can exist?” She put her head in her hands. “I want to go home,” she whispered miserably.

Aragorn made a low, hurt noise, reached across the table, and grasped her wrist. Harper looked up at him. He slid his hand down from around her wrist to cup her hand in his. His palm was large and warm. “If I can see you back to your world, I will,” he murmured.

September 30th was the longest day of Harper’s life.

She apologized to Frodo in the morning, explaining that he had been trying to put the Ring on in his sleep while The Black Riders were near, and she needed to stop him. He not only believed her, but thanked her for it too. Harper was struck by the near palpable virtue of his heart. It was only because she was exhausted from the night before that she did not cry again.

The Nazgul had not raided The Pony in the night. Harper was proud of this -- but she would be prouder once Gandalf arrived and they were able to leave Bree at dawn the next day. Aragorn and Harper took turns going down to the cellar and checking on Lagrion and their captives. Aragorn allowed Ferny and his friend some bread and water in the morning -- while Lagrion held a knife to their throats so they would not scream. They were drugged again after that.

Harper hoped Butterbur wouldn’t be caught in the crossfire once they left Bree -- but they’d been fairly careful to not implicate him, or any of his employees. If all went well, before they disappeared, they would cut Ferny and his friend’s binds and scatter empty liquor bottles between them -- set them up to make it look nothing more like a secret bender in Butterbur's stores.

Between meals and naps -- God, did she appreciate how Hobbits lived -- Aragorn spoke quietly with the Hobbits, and she joined in every now and again. But for the most part, she was content to listen. It was like she’d slipped in between the paragraphs of the book, and found all the words Tolkien didn’t bother to commit to the page. It was lovely. It made her heart hurt.

Darkness made the group tense again. They tried to relax -- Merry and Pippin spearheaded this charge -- but nobody could keep their eyes from drifting to the window, or stop from straining their ears to listen for distant shrieks. Finally, late into the night, there was a single knock on the door.

Silence fell among them. Aragorn glanced once at Harper. She made ready to draw her sword. He did the same. Aragorn approached the door with swift, silent footsteps. He flung it open and stood between the person on the other side, and the Hobbits.

It was Gandalf. He was filthy, bedraggled and bruised. He smiled, and stepped into the room. He looked first at Harper, then Merry and Pippin, then Sam, and lastly, Frodo -- who looked back at Gandalf with open relief. Aragorn closed the door.

“Well,” Gandalf said, “this is a welcome sight.”

Chapter Text

Harper slept little that night. Gandalf arrived late, and his joyous, question filled reception by the Hobbits went on for some time. After the Hobbits fell into an exhausted heap on the bed, Aragorn and Gandalf sat by the fire together and talked in low tones until the birds began the first of their songs. She wasn’t much of an active participant in their conversation; she knew what unfolded at Isengard, and at times, after a covert glance in the direction of the bed, they slipped into Sindarin to prevent curious Hobbit ears from listening in. When she finally crawled into her sleeping bag, soft lilting mutters of Elvish soothed her to sleep.

Quiet laughter woke her. Frodo sat with Gandalf in the corner, two steaming mugs of tea between them. In the lazy light of early morning, Gandalf’s face appeared drawn and pale -- but even from across the room, Harper saw kind admiration twinkling in his eyes as he spoke with Frodo. She was very, very glad waiting for Gandalf paid off -- for all their sakes, but Frodo’s in particular.

Butterbur, flustered and face still creased with sleep, appeared at the door to the room not much later. The Nazgul never came into The Pony, but last night they’d scattered the actual ponies, and all other beasts of burden, into the wind. Aragorn, Frodo, Gandalf, and Merry busied themselves with discussion of practicalities while Butterbur rushed off to prepare them, as he said it, “a breakfast fit for kings,” as an act of repayment. When Harper shot Aragorn a look at this, he pretended to be unamused, but she saw the way the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Sam’s quiet dismay at losing his pony jogged Harper’s memory. How could she have forgotten? She needed only to ask an innocent seeming question to the already harried Butterbur, a hairpin, and a Took. She invited Sam along, and he agreed, though he was visibly confused by the invitation. Harper’s insistence she needed Pippin’s help surprised everybody but Pippin. They left with a promise to be back within the hour.

Bill Ferny’s house was large, dark, and in dire need of care. But he had only hedges, not a fence, and the day was early enough that none of the Bree-folk saw Harper and the Hobbits slip onto his property. In the back of the yard of hard, packed dirt stood a ramshackle stable. The roof was half rotten and inside, behind a mostly empty murky water trough, was Bill the Pony. He thin, ill-kept, and watched their approach with his large, sad eyes.

When Sam spotted him, he made a mournful noise and rushed to the pony at once. The only fine object in the yard was the large, shiny lock on the stable gate, but this didn’t stop Sam. He produced an apple out of seemingly nowhere, stood on his toes, and offered it to Bill, who chuffed once, and then accepted it. Pleased, Sam began to whisper quiet nothings to Bill in an attempt to earn his friendship -- unaware the apple had already done that job for him. After Bill’s last crunching, enthusiastic bite, a great look of tragedy passed over Sam’s face.

“How will we get him? It doesn’t look like anybody is home, and Strider said Ferny was an evil sort of Man, didn’t he? Would he sell to us?” He asked.

Harper bit the inside of her cheek -- she didn’t want to lie to him, but… “I read that Ferny was willing to sell before you four arrived and he tried to get mixed up in your business. I had a feeling I might need one. We’re just here to collect.” It was almost the truth. “It does seem that he isn’t around though, and we can’t wait, so we’ll have to do what we can.” Pippin snorted in disbelief, but Sam turned back to Bill and didn’t acknowledge it.

“What did you need me for, then?” Pippin asked her, with a sly smile on his face that suggested he already knew. Harper grinned back.

Pippin could pick locks, because of course he could. He made quick work of the one on the stable, and even opened the gate for her with a low, flourishing bow. Harper had the errant thought that if any permanent harm befell Pippin in the next six months, she would take the Ring and destroy Arda herself. Then Sam rushed past her and set to untying Bill. He gave them all a considering look, but seemed to decide wherever they meant to take him, it couldn’t be worse than here.

So Harper, Pippin and Sam returned to The Pony with a pony of their own. Bob and Nob took over temporary care of Bill while they rejoined their friends inside. “I found us a pony,” she announced as they stepped inside the crowded room. Frodo and Merry perked up at her words.

“Where?” Frodo asked. “Mr. Butterbur was sure you’d come back empty handed.”

Harper avoided the question. “He’s a bit underfed, but I think he’ll serve.”

Frodo blinked in confusion, but before he could press the question, Sam jumped in. “He sure will!” He said with a smile. “No doubt he’s a smart fellow. He was nervous at first, but I told him we’d be going soon so he’d best let Nob and Bob feed him up, and he trotted right into the stable.” Frodo smiled fondly at Sam, and let the subject drift back to provisions and paths while Sam, Pippin, and Harper ate their leftover shares of the breakfast Butterbur brought up. It might not have been quite fit for kings, but soon their cleared plates joined the dirtied stack the rest had made in their absence.

When it came time to leave, they filed out one by one. Harper and Aragorn went last, with Merry just in front. Aragorn returned their key to Butterbur, who waited outside the room. Butterbur whispered, rather loudly, “is that friend of yours planning on leaving? Or do I need to start charging him for a room? I won’t be giving him a discounted rate, even if he isn’t staying here properly.” He spoke of Lagrion, who’d been loitering in his cellar for the past three days.

Aragorn replied, in a more successful whisper, “I imagine he left before dawn.”

He nodded, and said, “as he should have.” Harper hoped Butterbur had been drinking enough water -- he’d been covered in a thin layer of nervous sweat for days. With a final skittish glance at Gandalf, he bade them all farewell as they left the inn. Gandalf ignored the innkeeper entirely. Harper thought she heard a loud sigh of relief as the door closed behind them.

While they waited for Sam to retrieve Bill, Aragorn gestured to the pony and, equally perplexed and amused, asked her, “was this necessary?”

Harper shrugged. “It’s canon,” she answered with a smile. Sam chattered to Bill as the Hobbits saddled him with supplies. “And it’s important to Sam.”

Aragorn glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and huffed a laugh under his breath. “You did not mention your propensity for crime when first we met.”

“Oh no,” she said, “this is new.” A shrug. Sam led Bill out of the stable and the group began to leave. “I expect a pardon if it catches up to me.” His laugh then was full throated and surprised. Harper smiled. No lawmen of Bree would chase her into the wild, and for now, despite the waiting danger, that was enough.

Before noon, after the town of Bree disappeared overhill behind them, Merry asked, “how far is Rivendell?”

“Some three weeks,” Aragorn said.

“Three weeks!” Merry cried in amazement. “We’ve only been gone from Hobbiton for a week, though it feels far longer than that.”

“A lot can happen in that time,” Frodo agreed -- and though he fixed his face to bravery as best he could, nervousness came through in his voice.

“Much can change in the span of a minute, and very little can happen over the course of a century. Our task is to focus on the moment for the moment, not to struggle against what may come to pass,” Gandalf told them.

Harper walked near the back of the group, with Sam and Bill in front of her, and Aragorn behind. The conversation continued on to lighter topics, but Harper couldn’t follow it’s pleasant path. Three weeks to Rivendell was roughly what she had guessed when she thought about it over the summer. Then, reason had suggested it was a manageable amount of time. Too often in her life had she blinked and found a whole season had disappeared -- what really was three weeks? It would be over before she knew it.

But here at the outset, every second between now and the border of Rivendell felt fraught and full of danger.

They were maybe a week away from Weathertop, and she still lacked a good solution to the problem that posed. It was too much to hope they would avoid the Nazgul entirely. This was a matter of considering where and how they would meet them, and what danger she might bring about by changing it all. A ruined watchtower might be a better place to be attacked than a wide open plain or a dark twisting wood -- but that didn't mean she felt good about going there. Of all she wished to change, first on the list was to prevent Frodo from being stabbed by the Witch-king. That wound would never heal, and she wanted Frodo to be able to find peace at the end of this.

She felt better for having Gandalf with them, but the mere thought of the long journey between Weathertop and Rivendell with an injured and fading Frodo made her sick to her stomach. What if by changing the date of when it happened, she had condemned him to death or worse -- undeath as a Ring-wraith?

They made camp in the evening. Harper helped prepare supper, and laughed to herself as she realized what would truly satisfy four Hobbits fed ten rangers at Sarn Ford. Sam settled down next to her by the fire after he finished tending to Bill. There was an awkward slouch to his shoulders, and he twisted his hands in a nervous fashion for long enough that Harper began to feel ill at ease.

“If it isn’t a bother,” Sam said at last, “I’d like to thank you for bringing the old pony along. It doesn’t much matter if you bought him properly or not. Thieving doesn’t sit right with me, but I count it less as thieving and more as liberating, when you consider the state of him.” He spoke quietly and never took his eyes away from the fire. Harper, shocked, stopped cutting the vegetables in front of her. Only when a small blush became visible on his cheeks did she think to respond.

“Thank you, Sam,” she said. Her heart warmed in her chest. “I know you’ll take good care of him. You have that way about you.”

“Me?” Sam asked incredulously, as if he hadn’t claimed the animal the moment he saw him. “He’s rightly your pony--”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “He really isn’t.” Sam laughed too, and settled a bit. “Besides, you’re already far better with him than I would be. It’s in his best interest.” That convinced him, and she was glad for it. Sam was on his way to Hell and had no real idea of it. He deserved a pony, at the very least.

In the way of October, the days were warm and the nights were cold, and on occasion a biting breeze would cut between the trees of the Chetwood and make them all pull their cloaks a bit tighter. They exited the wood on the third day and came again into open country. This relieved the Hobbits in particular, who were sick of climbing over stumps and felled trees, until Gandalf reminded them they would come upon the Midgewater Marshes soon. This was the first time Harper seriously considered turning around and abandoning the Quest. She really, really didn’t like bugs.

They camped one final night before crossing into the Marshes properly. The Hobbits had slowly left the confusion and terror of Bree and the Nazgul behind, and had become cheerier with each day that passed. On occasion, Gandalf would snark at them for it, and remind Merry in particular that they weren’t on a walkabout, but even his reprimanding couldn’t destroy the good mood entirely.

That night Sam made a delicious stew. It was certainly the best camp fare Harper ever had, and it was up there among regular food she’d eaten in her life as well. They were eating through their perishable stores first, and that meant days of hardtack and stale bread would be upon them soon enough. But she didn’t care much about that as she polished off her second helping.

Merry sat across the fire from her. He’d been digging through his pack with determination for a while now, and she was beginning to get curious about what he was looking for. Then he cheered with delight -- which prompted shushing from Gandalf -- and held something small and square up in his hand. Frodo, who’d been studying him as well, smiled widely.

“A few rounds of Cart and Pony is an excellent idea,” Frodo said to Merry. Sam and Pippin, when they heard this, rushed over and agreed at once. Glancing between them, Frodo asked Harper and Aragorn, “would either of you like to play?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Harper admitted. “But it’d be fun to learn.”

“Never heard of it!” Merry said. “We’ll fix that immediately. We cannot be expected to go traipsing about with Men who can’t manage a few rounds when the time calls for it.” He motioned her over impatiently. “And you, Strider?”

“It has been a fair few years since I have played, but I will join a round or two,” Aragorn said.

Gandalf rejected his invitation to join the game. “Somebody must maintain the watch when all else fall to distraction,” he said in a dry voice, but he smiled around his pipe while he said it. Aragorn muttered something in Sindarin at him that made Gandalf laugh and Frodo do a double take, and then blush.

Cart and Pony, Harper learned, was a Shire game that involved a set of pip cards, round stones, and rhyming. The suits of the cards were foreign to her (Bells, Ponies, Stars, and Acorns), and the stones were used in place of specialized bits that acted as some combination of dice and player pieces. The rhyming aspect confounded her completely. By the third round, Harper was dominating last place, and the Hobbits were baffled by her inability to pick up the rules.

“Don’t move your stones, yet. You have to counter Frodo’s rhyme,” Merry told her.

“Bells trump Ponies, not the other way around,” Sam reminded her.

“You got a seven, not a six. The big stone counts for two,” Pippin pointed out.

“Mess and tress don’t rhyme,” Frodo said, and his gentle, if confused, tone was just about her breaking point. She was this close to loudly proclaiming that she didn’t actually speak the language she was speaking, thank you very much, and if she tried too hard to pay attention to the words she was saying and hear their sounds, she would become sick to her stomach.

Aragorn sat opposite her in their little circle, and attempted to hide his face behind his hand of cards. It didn’t work, of course, because they were Hobbit sized cards and barely hid his nose and cheeks. ‘Behind’ the cards, he laughed silently at her. Harper considered picking up the big stone and chucking it at his face.

Two rounds later, Harper gave up completely. “This game clearly isn’t for me. I’m happy to watch, though,” she said, and returned her cards to the deck. And she was happy to watch. The Hobbits oscillated between vicious competition and casual play at will, and the longer the game went on, the ruder and more ridiculous their rhymes became. Aragorn was, irritatingly, excellent at the game, and though he didn’t join in much on the playful insults, he did at one point compare Gandalf to a large bird, and that got laughs from everybody -- except Gandalf, of course. As the night went on, and Aragorn began to win more rounds, the Hobbits teamed up against him -- though she didn’t understand how, because it wasn’t a team based game. Finally, all but Pippin gave up and conceded the win to Aragorn.

“One last round!” He demanded of Aragorn. Aragorn tried to suggest they pick up the game another night, but Pippin wasn’t so easily defeated. “We will make it worth something this time -- it’s not right that we have been playing for nothing.” Sam leaned over and informed Harper that Cart and Pony was usually played for half-pints of Ale. This confused her further. How could this be a bar game?

“And what would you suggest as a prize, Master Took?” Aragorn asked. Harper had been certain he’d refuse, but now that a prize was suggested, there was a curious gleam in his eye.

Pippin looked about frantically, until he settled on the pouch of pipe-weed at Aragorn’s feet. “When I win, you will give me your weed,” he said. Aragorn laughed loudly.

“And if I were to win?”

“Unlikely,” Pippin declared, “but if you manage to cheat a victory, I will give you my Old Toby.” Merry only didn’t tackle Pippin because Frodo pulled him down mid-pounce. Pippin tutted at Merry, and told him to have some faith.

“I accept,” Aragorn said, all reticence gone and a firm look of determination on his face. Harper laughed at him. He was just as bad as his rangers! He must have caught on to her line of thought, because he glared at her, but she kept laughing.

Just to spite him, Harper cheered for Pippin throughout. The rounds didn’t seem to have a set time, and this one dragged on and on -- until the rhymes they bandied back and forth took on a rather personal quality. Pippin almost won. His last rhyme played on Bilbo’s poem about Aragorn, “a bedraggled ranger from the shadows shall spring / wielding a short, dull, and broken thing” -- the double entendre sent Harper into hysterics. Aragorn paid her no mind, and won it all in the end with a lucky card draw that she was certain he cheated somehow.

With little grace and endless ridicule from the other Hobbits, Pippin handed over his pouch of Old Toby to Aragorn, who accepted it with a low, mocking bow. By then, the hour was late, and they were all ready for bed. But Sam, it seemed, had become overexcited while watching the game and complained he wouldn’t be able to sleep until it was time for breakfast again.

“I would tell you a tale,” Frodo said, “but my mind is full of the rhymes we said this evening, and I think if I tried I would become terribly confused mid-verse.”

“Ask Strider,” Pippin suggested -- miserably. He hadn’t been serious, but Frodo thought this was a great idea.

Harper was already wrapped up tight and trying to sleep, but she listened to the Hobbits harangue him for a story with a small smile on her face. After a few minutes, he finally gave up and said he would recite a handful of verses, if only to stop their chattering. Then he began to speak, and Harper’s eyes flew open; he sat on the ground a few feet away, looking out to the east. His voice was soft and steady as he chanted:

The leaves were long, the grass was green,
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,
And in the glade a light was seen
Of stars in shadow shimmering.
Tinu'viel was dancing there
To music of a pipe unseen,
And light of stars was in her hair,
And in her raiment glimmering.

Her heat beat in time to the meter and a great wave of feeling washed over her as he recited the story of Beren and Luthien. His voice was raspy and wistful and far, far away, and something in her chest ached for him -- not because of him, but on his behalf. The Hobbits were struck silent as he moved through the verses.

Again she fled, but swift he came.
Tinu'viel! Tinu'viel!
He called her by her Elvish name;
And there she halted listening.
One moment stood she, and a spell
His voice laid on her: Beren came,

Aragorn turned his head, and looked at her, and her breath left her in a quiet gasp as she stared back at him, her head propped up on her arms and her face far too open for her liking.

And doom fell on Tinu'viel
That in his arms lay glistening.

He looked away, continued, and soon finished:

Long was the way that fate them bore,
O’er stony mountains cold and grey,
Through halls of iron and darkling door,
And woods of nightshade morrowless.
The Sundering Seas between them lay,
And yet at last they met once more,
And long ago they passed away
In the forest singing sorrowless.

After the hush the poem created dissipated, one of the Hobbits asked for an explanation of the story. Harper rolled over in her sleeping bag and clenched her eyes shut, and tried to will her heart beat back to a normal speed. Sleep, blessedly, did not abandon her that night -- but her dreams were sorrowful and strange, running along through great forests and over tall mountains with a rope tied about her middle, and a sharp, tugging pain in her spine.

The Marshes were endless and miserable and unkind, and Harper hated it. Even worse, between Neekerbreeker bites and the buzzing of flies, she argued with Gandalf and Aragorn every step of the way. They were dead set on Weathertop, and she couldn’t figure out how to argue her point without loudly revealing too much in direct hearing range of the Hobbits.

“It’s too visible,” Harper said, for what felt like the twentieth time that day. A Neekerbreeker landed on her neck. She slapped at it, and was rewarded with disgusting goo on both her neck and hand.

“It is visible,” Gandalf agreed, frustratingly placid. “But that may serve us.”

“Amon Sûl is a far more defensible position than open country, and we have seen or heard little sign of our Enemy since Bree,” Aragorn said. The silent, searching look he gave her from underneath his hood added, was that not better than we would have fared before?.

He was right, of course, which irritated her further. There’d been no sign of the Nazgul since Bree, and this worried and delighted Harper in equal measure. “It’s dangerous,” she insisted, and cast a quick glance to Frodo -- who was pretending not to listen to them argue.

“This journey is dangerous by its very nature, and it is better if we are able to see that danger approach,” Gandalf replied. But he made sense of the sharp looks she continued to give him, and sighed. “Frodo,” he said. “Come here for a moment.” They slowed down while Frodo struggled through the water and unstable ground of the Marshes until he caught up with them. “The time has come to make a decision, and it is only right that it falls to you as the Ringbearer. Harper believes Weathertop is too visible a camping site for our purposes. She is not wrong about its visibility, but the other options available to us are similarly vulnerable. It is your choice.”

Frodo considered, and looked between them with his large, blue eyes as he did. Finally, after a series of questions from him, and a half-hearted attempt to communicate the danger without giving it all away by Harper, he said, “We should go to Weathertop, I think.” And so the decision was made. Frodo looked at her in apology afterwards, but she waved him off.

“It really should be your decision,” she said, and meant it. “I’m just worried.” She felt a growing empathy for Boromir, as well. Impenetrable as a steel wall, Gandalf and Aragorn were, when they set their minds to it.

As the day went on their walking order reshuffled itself until Harper and Aragorn were trailing along at the end again. He seemed to think she was frustrated with him. She was frustrated -- but it was hardly Aragorn’s fault that the Nazgul were tracking them.

“We need to talk about what we’re gonna do when we get there,” she said to him in a low voice, and slowed her pace purposefully.

“Between Gandalf and I--”

“No,” she cut him off. “I mean about Frodo.” Frodo was at the front of the group with Gandalf, and Merry and Pippin were on their heels. There was some distance between them and Sam, and he seemed preoccupied with leading Bill through the Marshes as best he could. Still, she whispered, “he’s going to try to put the Ring on. And it’s going to get him hurt -- badly. It’s not his fault, it’s hold gets stronger -- something about the Nazgul being nearby, I think. I don’t really get it. But it’s one thing we can count on. We’ll need to stop him.”

Aragorn thought about this for a while. At length, he said, “you make a salient point. However, Frodo must be involved in this conversation. It will do more harm than good to scheme behind his back.”

Harper frowned. “I don’t want to put more on him. He already has to deal with the Ring.”

Aragorn hummed. A Neekerbreeker landed on his face. He flicked it away, but it landed on top of his hood instead. “This is part of being a Ringbearer,” he said, and nothing else.

He had a point. “Yeah, okay.” That was going to be a doozy of a conversation.

Finally, they escaped the Marshes and rejoined solid, dry ground. They were still a day and a half out from Weathertop, but it had revealed itself in the far distance, and Aragorn could hardly take his eyes off of it. A small and stubborn part of her wanted to complain that he only argued for going to Weathertop because he wanted to see it. Couldn’t he have found an opportunity before a deadly trek across northern Eriador with the One Ring in tow? He’d certainly had the time. He was no spring chicken.

Irritated with him, Harper spent much of the day at the front of the group. She trudged through conversation with the Hobbits while she tried and failed to get Gandalf to answer some of her questions. She figured that on the night Gandalf arrived in Bree, Aragorn made mention of how she experienced the Song after she went to bed. In the spring, he’d been unable to answer her questions about how she arrived in Middle-earth, but he would be hard pressed to convince her he didn’t have some theories about why she could hear the Song. He was a Maia, for Christ’s sake. There was no way he didn’t know.

But Gandalf was slippery, and every time she thought she’d cornered him into something resembling a private conversation, he managed to get away. He’d point out something in the distance and get the attention of the Hobbits, or slow his pace until they were walking abreast with them, or call Aragorn up to the front, and then wander to the back to speak with Sam and retrieve something from Bill’s pack. It boiled Harper’s blood.

Worse, as evening fell and they made camp in the threatening shadow of Weathertop, she approached him where he sat on a rock smoking his pipe, much like he had the first time they met. She sat beside him, but he made no acknowledgement of her. “I need to ask you some things,” she said.

“Now is not the time,” was his answer, and rage crashed through her like a tidal wave. When, exactly, would be the fucking time? She had some supernatural radio tuned to the same station 24/7 in the back of her mind, and she couldn’t shut it off, and the one time she’d made mention of this, she’d been looked at like she was crazy.

Through clenched teeth, she said, “when will be, then?”

Gandalf puffed on his pipe. “I would first speak with Elrond, before advising you.”

“Are you kidding me?” She asked, and couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. Harper meant to launch into a rant, but Pippin popped up out of nowhere to tell them supper was ready, and Gandalf ashed his pipe and left her there without another word.

Supper was bland and lukewarm, and Harper couldn’t pay attention to anything but the resentment building up inside of her. Merry and Pippin chatted happily with Aragorn while they ate, and even coerced him into a stupid round of Cart and Pony. Gandalf sat with Sam and Frodo, and they laughed together as Gandalf recited a story about Bilbo in the years after his adventure.

She stopped eating, disgusted by the slop, and sat alone as she watched Frodo turn tired. Of course, Sam jumped up the moment Frodo even yawned, and insisted they all head to bed as soon as possible, because Frodo needed his rest, as if they weren’t all tired and hungry and sick of walking through the wild. As if they weren’t all in imminent danger. No, precious Frodo and his precious Ring needed to be coddled and protected by Samwise Gamgee, because he was a delicate fucking flower that needed his gardener to tend to him. Why was a Hobbit even carrying the Ring, anyway? By the end he would be insisting on piggyback rides up Mount Doom. He couldn’t handle it. There had to be a better choice. Anybody would be a better choice, really -- even Harper, and what if--

Harper stood, quick as anything, and sent her bowl clattering to the ground. A sour, droning sound rushed in her ears, and she couldn’t catch her breath. All of them stared at her. She turned around and walked away without another word.

She found a tree nearby and slid unsteadily down its length, curled herself into a ball, and began to shake. Her stomach churned and the back of her mouth tasted like bile. She wiped compulsively at her face, tried to dry the tears and snot there as she cried.

Sometime, a few minutes or an hour later, she couldn’t tell, Aragorn came to her. He stared down at her, but Harper only looked at his boots. She couldn’t make herself meet his eyes. Then, he crouched down into her line of sight. She closed her eyes. He sighed.

“Will you tell me?” He asked.

“It’s nothing,” she said, and he laughed -- at her, but she couldn’t fault him for it. It was ridiculous for her to suggest it was nothing. Leaves crunched as he shifted, and she felt him sit down next to her. He put his hand on her shoulder.

“It would do you good to talk about it,” Aragorn said.

She let out a small, pathetic sob. The last thing she wanted to talk about was this. But his hand was warm and steady, and the weight brought her some comfort, and there was only kindness in his voice. She dared to open her eyes. There was something troubled in his, and a deep crease between his brows. He nodded once, encouragingly, when he saw she was looking back at him.

“It’s the Ring,” she said, so low she could barely hear herself. “It was -- I’ve been in a mood all day. But it got worse and worse as time went on, and next thing I knew I was sitting there eating Sam’s cooking and thinking it was horrible, and thinking awful, awful thoughts about poor Frodo. I don’t--” she inhaled sharply, out of breath, “it was like I was the worst version of myself. And I had no control over it, but even if I did, I don’t know if I would have stopped.”

“You did stop,” he said, simple as anything. “You stood up and walked away.”

“But I still thought it! I still meant it!” Aragorn pulled his hand off his shoulder, and her heart dropped into her stomach, sure he was about to declare her a threat to Frodo and the Quest -- maybe announce his suspicion she was an agent of Sauron. But instead he considered her for a moment, and then wrapped a tentative arm around her shoulder, and tugged her in close. Harper froze, uncertain, but he shifted and relaxed against her, and she could only do the same.

“The real evil of the Ring is not in outright deceit, or pure falsehood. It focuses on the most fundamental parts of us, and distorts and drowns out all the rest. Then, when we can hear it alone, it twists who we are on its axis until we become unrecognizable, and we accept its conniving as both fact and reason,” Aragorn said to her, as she shed tears on his cloak.

“So I’m fundamentally a bitch?” She asked in a thick voice. He didn’t make a noise, but she felt a shudder of amusement run through him.

“Fundamentally, you are a stranger in a world that does not resemble your own. Even so, you have agreed to put yourself in danger to do what is right. You are limited by experience and fear and uncertainty, and it knows this, and will do all in Its power to use it against you.”

Harper sighed, wiped her face on his chest, and tried to ignore the way she could feel the steady thrum of his heart. Later, they would awkwardly disentangle from one another and make their way back to camp with a wide berth of distance between them. Nobody would ask where or why she had gone, and she would provide no answers. She would settle into sleep under the shadow of Weathertop, and her dreams would be red hot and terrifying. But that was later.

For now, she let him hold her, and whisper comforting words in her ear, until she stopped shaking.

Chapter Text

How did one ask the Hobbit who carried the Ring of Power if he was willing to be tied up? Nicely, of course.

Mid-day approached, and the view from Weathertop was breathtaking. Arnor spread out around Harper, swathed in the kaleidoscope of autumn and glowing under the sun. She felt the same as when she first went to Sarn Ford -- she wanted to abandon all other pressing matters and wander about, stroke the old stones of the ruins and make up stories about what unfolded here ages ago. But there was neither time for daydreaming nor exploration.

Frodo sat alone, under the cover of one of the outcroppings of rock on a lower level of the ruin. He smiled faintly at her approach, but when he registered Harper’s nervousness, the smile faded.

“Is all well?” He asked.

Harper wondered why she didn’t make Aragorn do this part. “I need to speak with you,” she said. He nodded, and made room for her to sit beside him, so she did. “I would rather you didn’t ask why, but I am fairly certain the Black Riders will find us here tonight.”

Frodo stared at her. He shifted further under cover of the rock, so the sun wouldn’t blind him so much. He looked exhausted. “If you’ll forgive it, I must ask why,” he said.

She nodded. That would have been too easy. “It’s a sixth sense, in a way. I can tell when they’re drawing nearer, and though I could be wrong, I think they will attempt to attack us tonight.” Harper lied to herself that she wasn’t lying to him.

“Is this why you were nervous about coming here?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I had a bad feeling, and it’s only gotten worse as we’ve gotten closer.”

Doubt and confusion danced across Frodo’s face, but in their wake they left something that resembled trust. He didn’t buy her story -- or at least believe it was the whole of it -- but she thought he might listen to her now. Good enough! When they came, hopefully whole and hale, to Rivendell, then she would tell him the full tale. He clutched at the hidden chain around his neck for a moment, frowned, and then took his hand away.

“Have you spoken with Gandalf and Strider?” He asked.

“I have. They’re aware of my fears, but they still think this is the safest place for us to be right now.” Harper looked out into the distance. They only had a handful of hours. They were coming upon the dark days of autumn. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way--”

“You think I’ll use the Ring,” Frodo cut her off. There was sadness there, but no anger.

“Not on purpose!” She cried. “It’s the Riders, I know. They interact with the Ring somehow, and make the call stronger. It’s hardly your fault. But it still puts you in danger. And I’d rather not do that.”

Frodo cracked a weary smile. “I appreciate that,” and he meant it sincerely.

“There was a good reason to come here, and it’s that we’ll know when they arrive. When that happens, I think the best way to prevent you from using the Ring is to restrain you somehow,” Harper said, and the last part came out in such a rush it may as well have been one long word.

Frodo frowned. “That prospect makes me rather nervous.”

“I get that. I was going to say we ought to tie you up, but now that I'm thinking about it, that would be more dangerous than anything else. You need to be able to get away if you can. I think our best bet would be to ask Sam to handle it.”

That relaxed him, slightly. “Won’t that put him in danger?” Frodo asked.

Harper grimaced, and thought of what Glorfindel said to him in the book. Frodo was the danger. “I mean -- we’re all in danger already. And with Gandalf and Strider here, Sam would better serve as defense, so to speak.” She hadn’t asked Sam for his opinion on this, but she knew if Frodo requested it, he would agree.

Frodo nodded slowly, and didn’t speak as he considered it. Harper gazed up, down, back towards Bree -- anywhere that wasn’t Frodo, and his small, sad face, and the evil thing that hid under his shirt and made the air dance and whisper and whistle through her ears. “I will ask Sam,” he said.

Harper let out a relieved exhale, but none of her anxiety faded. She didn’t know if this would work. Who was to say the Ring wouldn’t trick Sam into letting go? Frodo stood, but she tugged at the edge of his cloak before he could step away. He waited for her to speak.

“I really hope you understand I’m not doing this because I don’t think you’re trustworthy with the Ring. It’s the Ring I don’t trust, and fucking Black Riders. I don’t expect you to be impervious in the face of absolute evil, and neither does anybody else,” she said. If some of her guilt from the night before bled through her words and confused him, he didn’t let it show.

“Thank you,” he said. “This whole experience has been strange and nothing like I thought; but I am glad to have met you and Strider.”

Harper stood awkwardly to the side while Frodo asked Sam for his help. Sam nervously agreed, but when he asked for clarification and Harper vaguely explained her supposed sixth sense, he became more frightened. She left them there to figure out the details of it, and found Aragorn on the other side of the hill.

The sun rested high above them, and his dark leathers revealed their brown and green tones in the bright light. The wind picked up and flowed through his hair, and his cloak fluttered behind him. He was tense and silent, and when she came to stand by his side, he wore a grim look.

“Do you know the history of Amon Sûl?” He asked.

“Vaguely.”

“Elendil stood here once, and watched for Gil-galad’s coming out of the west. It would have a fair and formidable fortress then. It saddens me that I will never see it so.”

Harper frowned. “I think you could rebuild it, if you wanted to,” she told him. “After, of course. I don’t think we have time right now.”

Aragorn laughed, but it was a dry, mirthless thing. “You have spoken before of such a future,” he said, but did not continue. He sounded bitter and disbelieving, and it confounded her.

“Yes,” she said, insistently, “I have.”

They didn’t have time to get into the argument they were starting. Merry came sprinting over and told them that Gandalf thought he had spotted the Black Riders, and they needed to get to Frodo immediately.

Harper ran up the slanting, stony ruins with her heart in her throat. Now she could hear them coming -- and the closer she got to Frodo, the more twisted and sickening the Song became. Indeed, the Nazgul were near, and the Ring knew and shrieked its glee.

She arrived at the top after Aragorn, with Merry on her heels. Gandalf stood still and strong looking to the south, and held his staff in front of him. His power was fully unveiled and tangible. A pure and burning might wafted out from him in dizzying waves, and cleared the air around them from the Ring and Nazgul’s influence, for at least a moment. It was a welcome respite.

“Fire,” she said, turning to the Hobbits. “We need to start a fire.”

The bright noontime sun, and billowing smoke of their fire, at first obscured the Nazgul as they crept in around them. Harper whirled around in a frantic circle, counting in her head. Nine. All of the Nine were here. It was the middle of the day, and the Nine had come. This was all wrong.

Desperately, foolishly, she brandished both torch and sword. The Nazgul walked at a slow, steady pace, and formed a wide circle around them. Frodo and Sam were at the center of it, next to the fire, with Merry, Pippin, and herself surrounding them. Gandalf stood in front of her, and Aragorn was on the other side, in front of Merry and Pippin.

“Begone,” Gandalf cried, and his voice rolled and crackled like thunder. Behind her, the fire popped and flared; Harper felt the heat of it on her neck. “You will leave this place and crawl back to the miserable pits of Mordor!”

The Witch-king laughed, and the sound made her very bones tremble in fear. The sharp shick of swords being drawn reverberated in the circle around them. The Nine held their weapons in front of their faceless hoods, and stood as still as statues. No breath, no life emanated from them. They appeared as black holes cut into the cloth of the world.

“Step aside, old fool,” the Witch-king commanded, and his voice pricked and burned like a thousand hornet stings. “We will take the Ring, and the Halfling too.” All of the Nine took another step forward. The Witch-king drew his Morgul-knife.

To either side, Harper heard Merry and Pippin hit the ground in fear. Behind her, she could hear the sound of a struggle -- Sam was holding Frodo down. But she did not dare take her eyes off of the Witch-king, or the dark icy glint of his weapon. Her knees buckled and her palms were slick with sweat where she clasped her sword and torch, but she did not yet fall. She could barely hear when Gandalf next spoke over the high pitched wailing of the Ring and the Nazgul and the Song.

“Begone I tell you!” Gandalf commanded. “You will find no victory here, foul and wretched thing!” Then with a sweeping stab of his staff, the fire behind them roared again, and the flame of her torch grew as well.

The Nine hissed and halted, and though he had no face, the Witch-king looked to grow angrier. He growled like a beast from the pits of Hell, and lunged forward. Gandalf let out a great cry, and the fire of her torch rushed forward and licked the edges of the Witch-king’s robe, and set it ablaze. A piercing shriek sounded from him. The remaining Eight made to close in on them as the Witch-king fled into the distance, leaving a smoking trail in his wake.

“Now!” Ordered Gandalf, and Merry and Pippin regained some of their strength, and with mighty little cries, stood and charged forward toward the Nazgul, darted between their feet, and began to set their robes aflame. Harper did the same.

Harper tried to do the same. She sprung at the closest Nazgul, but it dodged her neatly and knocked her torch to the ground with its sword. She faltered and fell, and narrowly missed her face colliding with the still burning torch. Heart pounding in her chest, she scrambled to turn around, and found the Nazgul standing above her, with its sword pointing at her head.

Her own sword still in hand, she swiped at it, but it disarmed her in an easy move. This voice of this one was different -- worse, in its own way. Saccharine and sweeping, and dusty like the grave. “Farewell, trespasser,” it snarled, and stabbed.

Before the blade connected, it’s robes went up in flames. The sword fell from its grip and onto Harper, and though heavy and bruising, it did not cut her. The Nazgul shrieked and ran over her -- a horrible, unreal sensation, venom and ice water in the veins -- and down the side of the ruin. Where the Nazgul had been a moment before, now stood Merry. His chest heaved with great effort and his hands shook as he glanced around once to confirm the rest of the Nine were gone. He set the torch down on the ground, and then sat down hard next to it.

All thoughts of victory or relief were overshadowed by doubt and fear. It had seen her, Harper thought, why had it seen her?

They ran. They ran at great speed and under as much cover as they could manage. They did not break for lunch or supper. They only retrieved dry rations from Bill’s pack to eat while they moved, and they went on into the night. Dawn was a winking promise in the east when they finally stopped to rest.

The worst injury sustained at Weathertop was the bruise that was sure to form on her abdomen from the weight of the Nazgul’s sword. Frodo remained unharmed and unfading, and had once more escaped the clutches of the Nazgul.

But now, none of the Hobbits could continue on without a few hours of sleep, and she was equally exhausted.

They lit no fire. They could not afford the small comfort it might have brought. Nobody wanted to take the chance. The early October morning was crisp and bitter, and though she pulled on layer after layer before climbing into her sleeping bag, still she shook and shivered herself to sleep.

The days blurred together and the nights brought unyielding dread. During her watches, she would hear the far off cries of the Nazgul. Their location shifted inconsistently, and she had the terrible feeling they were being hemmed into the trap like fear-dumb wild animals. In the day, the Nazgul's cries could not be heard, but Aragorn or Gandalf would spot some sign of their movements and grow grave and silent, or enter into low arguments in Sindarin that none but Frodo understood -- and he made an obvious point of keeping himself out of it.

She barely spoke to anybody for days. Her only focus was putting one foot in front of the other. Her vision and thoughts took on a gauzy, dreamlike quality -- the light pouring in from the wrong direction. She was running on an adrenaline high that felt like it would never end, the eternal panic attack she had always feared. Terror and confusion blotted out all else. The food tasted of sand and the water turned to ash in her mouth. Where was she? Who was she? This could not be her life. This could not be real. A dream, or a nightmare, or malicious punishment -- here is a world you loved; it will hurt you in ways you never could have imagined.

Days after Weathertop, maybe a week -- time had last all meaning. She sat on top of her sleeping bag and stared absently at the dirt beneath her boots. The grass was dying. October was sucking the life from the ground. Brown, dry grass as far as the eye could see. She reached down to touch it. The ground was cold and her hand came away dirty.

Dirty. She was filthy. From head to toe. The only reason her hair had not matted together was because of the braids she redid each day -- but her head was the site of an oil slick. There was a constant, foul taste in her mouth that no amount of rubbing of leaves on her teeth could banish. She smelt of dirt and fear and sweat and dried blood -- what, exactly, was she supposed to be using for pads in Middle-earth? She hadn’t had her period in months. Some combination of stress and shock to be sure. But it had returned, and she was cutting up a shirt and trying to make due. Her muscles ached constantly. Dehydration pulsed in her head, migraine sharp. Every morning she woke up with jaw pain from clenching and grinding her teeth together in her sleep.

Hell. She was in Hell. There was no her anymore. Who had she been, anyhow? A woman between jobs with a freshly totaled car and an apartment with a mice problem. She had no job, no car, no apartment -- she was stranded with strangers in a world that wanted her dead and refused to play by the rules she expected.

“Harper,” Merry said. Merry was thinner than he had been at The Pony, and wore dark circles under his eyes that were not befitting of a Hobbit. He frowned. “Did you hear me?” He asked, and his voice was flat. Monotonous. “Supper is ready.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

Supper was a bowl of mushy, half rotten potatoes, wilting greens, and hard tack. Next to Merry, one bite went down. Then another. Then another. Merry began to cry. Merry began to cry? His face was screwed up tight and his shoulders shook with the effort of not letting any more noises escape him, but there were tears running clear down his dirty face, and leaving track marks in their wake.

“Are you okay?”

Merry nodded frantically, and took another bite. He struggled to swallow it. “‘M fine.”

The rest of the group was occupied. Frodo had joined Aragorn and Gandalf in their conversation for once. Sam tended to Bill. Pippin sat next to Sam and watched him.

“You aren’t fine. That’s okay.”

“No, it is not,” Merry insisted. “We came along to help Frodo, and I need to be fine.” He took another bite. This one went down a bit easier.

“No.” She put her supper down. “Frodo wouldn’t want you to pretend to be okay.”

“If I do not pretend,” Merry argued, “I will turn tail and run back to Buckland.”

“No you won’t. You didn’t take the chance when you encountered the Barrow-wight. Or in Bree. It would have been easier back there, but you didn’t.” She itched the back of her head.

Merry swallowed another bite. “What if I want to?” He asked, his voice small and quiet -- ashamed.

“Then you are a sensible sort of Hobbit with some manner of a self-preservation instinct.” She undid one of her braids. She combed her fingers through her hair. Frowned when they came away near-wet with oil. Began to braid it again.

“What about you?” Merry asked. He looked embarrassed by the question.

“What about me?” She tied off her first braid.

“Do you wish you could run?” Merry clarified.

She considered this. “I wish for a lot of things,” she said. “Primarily, I wish for a bath and thirty six hours on a feather mattress in a climate controlled room.” She began to undo her other braid. “But do I wish I could run? I think I wish there was nothing chasing us.”

Merry smiled. “Do you think Rivendell will have good food? I’ve heard talk of Elves only eating plants, though that seems unnatural to me.”

She grinned back at him, and the expression felt foreign on her face. God bless the priorities of Hobbits. “I think they will. I don’t know if they eat meat or not, but I trust the Elves to have figured out good cuisine -- they’ve had long enough to do so.”

Pippin called for Merry then -- something about having found a pouch of pipe-weed at the bottom of his pack. Merry looked at her, unsure if he ought to run off in the middle of a serious conversation like this, but she waved him on. Pippin lost his pipe back in the Chetwood. He needed Merry. Merry thanked her quietly, and then rushed across their little camp.

She picked her supper back up and ate what she could. She was hungry -- had been hungry for days -- but however unappetizing this meal had been when warm, it was far worse now that it was cold. She was choking down her second to last bite when Aragorn sat beside her. The conversation with Frodo and Gandalf must have ended. She hadn’t noticed.

“That was a good thing,” Aragorn said.

She tilted her head. “I don’t know what you mean,” she replied. She didn’t. She scooped up the last bite of food, but when she brought it to her mouth, she gagged. She put the spoon back in the bowl and gave up. She’d eaten enough.

“How you spoke with Merry,” Aragorn said. “He needed somebody to listen to him, and I do not think he would have had that conversation with the rest of the Hobbits. Neither would he have spoken so to Gandalf or myself.”

Oh. She shrugged. “I wasn’t gonna let him sit there and cry.” She rolled her shoulders. She’d had a deep, tugging ache in her shoulder blades for the last three days. “I know it’s harder for them. This is so outside the bounds of their experience. Somebody needs to tell them it’s okay to be kinda screwed up by it.” Aragorn only stared at her. She blinked, and then realized what she had said. She laughed, and barely recognized the sound. “Maybe you should have been the one to talk to Merry. It’s much more efficient to somehow trick the other person into making your point for you.”

“I have little reason to believe you would listen to me if I were the one to say it,” he said -- with some humor, but great feeling.

She blinked, and wondered how he didn’t know. He could tell her Smaug was back from the dead and she alone could stop him, and she’d at least give it a shot.

Harper smiled at him. “Shows what you know.”

The next day, Harper woke a few hours before dawn. It was time for her turn on the watch. She puttered through her sad excuse of a ‘morning’ routine, and tried to find some sense of personhood in the cold water she splashed on her face, or in the herby aftertaste of the leaves she scrubbed her teeth with. At least, it seemed, her period was done for now. Harper hoped that Elves menstruated. She wasn’t setting out on another quest without an extra bag stuffed full of pseudo-medieval menstrual products.

Aragorn sat alone, a stone's throw from their camp. He smoked his pipe and scanned the horizon at regular intervals, and in between, he stared at the stars. Harper came up behind him and tried to find what he saw in the sky. The stars no longer gave her that sick to her stomach, wrong feeling they had when she first arrived in Middle-earth -- but they remained novel and inscrutable. She thought, maybe, he was looking at one of the constellations he had pointed out to her on their journey to Bree. She couldn’t remember the name, but knew it looked like an eagle.

“You can head to bed,” she said. “I’ve got it from here.”

Aragorn puffed on his pipe, and then exhaled a small cloud of smoke. The breeze kicked up then, and carried it away. “No,” he said.

“What?”

He turned around to look at her, and his gaze took on a critical bent that made her uncomfortable. “You need more rest,” he said. “I can carry on until tomorrow evening.”

Confusion and small, petty irritation formed a foaming in her blood. “It’s my turn,” she argued. Her supposed foreknowledge had already become useless. The Nazgul had attacked in the middle of the day, and there were more of them than she expected. That was her greatest contributing factor on this trip. And if it wasn’t worth anything anymore, she would pull her weight in other ways.

Aragorn’s face, which was severe and carved from stone in the pale light of the moon, softened. “Peace,” he said. “I mean no offense. You are exhausted, and rightly so. It will do no great harm for you to rest a while longer. I would rather you take the time you need now, than come to regret pushing yourself later when you might most need the energy.”

The fight drained out of her with a yawn. If -- if -- events returned to their normal track, they would face the Nazgul once more in the coming days. And the bone deep fatigue she felt at the moment would hardly serve her then.

Harper sighed. “Okay,” she said. Aragorn nodded once, pleased, and turned back around. “Thank you,” she added, in a soft voice.

“It is not a thanking matter,” he replied as she walked away. She supposed he had a point. Practicalities were practicalities. Nothing personal about it.

Eleven days away from Weathertop, all signs of the Nazgul disappeared. None of them acknowledged this as a good thing. They were too afraid to jinx it and bring the Black Riders back down on them. But it left them a little room to breathe. Well, it left the rest of them room to breathe.

They had passed over the Last Bridge five days prior, and no Elf-stone token had been found. Harper worried about what that meant. The events that had unfolded so far -- minus the strange aberration of Weathertop -- resembled book canon. The absence of the Nazgul now made her think somewhere nearby, an Elf was driving away the Nazgul who hunted them. But why would they not have left a token?

Harper made no mention of this to Aragorn or Gandalf. She could not recall where or when the Elf would meet them, and though she was beginning to feel like it was taking far too long for them to be found, she would not raise a panic. It was less vital, anyhow, since Frodo was not fading. But she worried about their chances of facing the Nazgul at the Ford without help.

Then they came upon Bilbo’s trolls, and it ceased to matter. Here! It would happen nearby, and soon, she remembered, as she watched Aragorn tease Merry and Pippin for thinking the troll statues were real. When he said, “get up, old stone!” and smacked one with a stick, she fell into breathless laughter. It really wasn’t that funny, but she was half out of her head and stuck in a fantasy nightmare, and watching the future King of Men be a wiseass to a couple of Hobbits tickled her funny bone. Merry and Pippin scowled at her amusement. Aragorn looked rather pleased that his joke landed with somebody.

Another day passed before the Elves arrived, with bells on, in the literal sense. They were huddled in the bush on the side of the road, listening intently to the sound of approaching horses.

“That does not sound like the Black Riders’ horses!” Frodo said. And he was right.

Aragorn sprung up and out of the bush and rushed down the road. The Hobbits looked concerned, but Harper and Gandalf traded a look and followed him, and so the Hobbits did as well. They emerged from cover just in time to watch two white horses come round the bend. On them sat riders tall and fair, in cloaks that streamed behind them, and fluttered gracefully back to rights when the riders came to a stop.

On one horse sat an Elven man. He had long, golden hair, bright eyes, and an ageless face. His ears, long and pointed, peeked out from beneath the curtain of his hair. The other rider was an Elven woman. Her hair was as black as night and ran down her back like a length of obsidian silk. Her eyes were grey like the sea and from her very skin starlight seemed to emanate -- nighttime made flesh, in contrast to the daylight that poured out of every pore of her companion.

They both dismounted. “Ai na vedui Dúnadan! Mae govannen!” The Elf-lord called.

“Le ab-dollen! Thosdhir i thelir na mín!” The Elf-lady added.

Glorfindel and Arwen. Well, this was a surprise. They began to speak urgently with Aragorn. Harper marveled at the pure musicality of their voices. She had assumed that to be an artistic exaggeration. But no -- their voices rang, bright and clear, bells and trumpets. After a few minutes, Aragorn motioned them all forward.

“This is Glorfindel, who dwells in the house of Elrond,” he said. “And this is Arwen Undomiel, the daughter of Elrond and the Lady of Rivendell.”

“Hail, and well met at last!” Glorfindel greeted them. “We were sent from Rivendell to look for you. There is a great danger upon the road.”

“The Nine met us at Weathertop,” Gandalf said. “They have been in pursuit of us for over a week.”

“Five met us on the Bridge seven days ago, but they withdrew. We pursued them westward. Two others fled into the south when we came upon them. We have searched for your trail for nearly four days. We must move quickly. I fear we will find the Ford already held against us,” Arwen told them.

Despite their dark tidings, Harper struggled to do anything but marvel at their beauty. If she thought the Hobbits had something Of Fairy to them, then Elves had ridden from Elfhame itself. Which, she thought with manic amusement, they sort of had. Rivendell was The Last Homely House, wasn’t it?

The Elves plied them all with Miruvor and dried fruit, and then they were off. Harper tried to make sense of the timeline Arwen had provided. She had been right -- either the Elves were late, or they were. They should have met Glorfindel and Arwen yesterday, at least. Little was said as they moved. They kept to the side of the road, and walked as quickly as Hobbit legs and exhaustion would allow -- though the Miruvor helped some.

Harper tried and failed to stop herself from staring at Arwen and Aragorn. For once, little of the staring had to do with him. Arwen was truly, inhumanly beautiful in a way that boggled the mind. She moved with certain and silent grace, and when Harper was first pulled into conversation with Arwen, she found herself greeted by a wide, white smile.

“You are Harper, yes?” Arwen said to her. She tilted her head in a cat-like manner, and her hair shimmered and bounced when she did.

Harper blinked at her, and tried to remember how words worked, and if that was, in fact, her name. “I am,” she said finally. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“There is no time to do so now, but I will thank you properly for helping Estel and Mithrandir when we return to Imladris. Estel has told me a little, and I would hear more from you directly,” she said.

“Thank you,” Harper said, rather automatically. “Of course.”

Arwen smiled again, pleased, and floated back up to the front of the group, where Glorfindel led her horse for her momentarily. Christ. No wonder Aragorn was so gone on her. Harper tried to give them privacy. She lingered near the back of the group with Gandalf, and kept her eyes on the ground, or the Hobbits in front of her. Despite this, she caught snatches of low, pleasant conversation between them, interspersed with Arwen’s pealing laughter. She couldn’t hear what they said, but they were glad to be with one another again, that much was clear. And she was glad for them.

Hours later, after one short rest, Glorfindel silently called the group to a halt. In the distance, she saw where the Road emerged from underneath the endless canopy of trees, and back into open country. Beyond that waited the Ford of Rivendell. All paused and listened. Near silent in the distance, the echo of approaching horses could be heard. Glorfindel traded a look with Arwen. Then, in a flash like lightning, he scooped Frodo up, placed him on his horse, and cried, “The Enemy is upon us! Fly!” The white horse bounded forward. Frodo gave a loud cry and clung tightly to the reins. Harper’s breath caught in her throat as Frodo rode away at impossible speed. With a few words said to Glorfindel, Aragorn, and Gandalf in Elvish, Arwen mounted her horse and pursued him, sword drawn.

They chased after Frodo and Arwen as fast as they could. They came to the long flat mile between the end of the forest cover and the Ford, just as all of the Nine came barreling down the road behind them. They just barely dove out of the way in time to avoid being trampled.

In the distance, water rushed and roared.

It happened so quickly. The Riders rode to the Ford. Frodo paused and faltered. The river barreled forward.

“By Elbereth and Luthien the Fair,” Frodo cried, “you shall have neither the Ring nor me!”

And then the river came down on the Nazgul. And the river came down on Frodo.

Harper screamed.

Chapter Text

A list of things: three gold medals, tucked together at the bottom of a half packed moving box, dated 2009, 2010, and 2011 from regional highschool swim meets -- awarded for the 200-yard freestyle, 100-yard freestyle, and 200-yard freestyle relay respectively. Half a dozen borrowed articles of clothing, littering the ground in a straight line toward the Bruinen. A shout from behind, ignored. The icy shock of mountain water. Burning in the lungs. How muscles groan and stretch in a fight against the current. A hand grasped. A hand slipping away. The sun reflected through water drops on eyelashes. A deep inhale. A rebellious scream from the brain when the body forces itself back into rough, rushing danger. A hand found again. The weightlessness of a small body in water. A prayer. A toss. Trust in gravity to do the rest. Another wave. Strength and adrenaline depleting. The cold. The dark. The mineral taste of river water in the lungs. Fading. Fading. A single note, sweetly reverbating.

Arwen’s face.

Harper blinked the water out of her eyes. Arwen hovered above her, and blocked the sun from view. Water dripped from her hair, blacker than black now that it was soaked, and onto Harper’s face. She smiled when Harper took in a deep, shaky breath. Then, Harper’s body caught up with itself, and she turned over and hacked and gagged water out of her lungs.

Harper dreamt of Rivendell, once, a month before she appeared in Middle-earth. In the dream, she wandered through a library and picked books off of shelves at random. She didn’t know why, but she had the keen sense she wasn’t supposed to be in the library, and would get in trouble if she was caught. Every time she opened a book, it would shout and scream and try to announce that she was in there, sneaking about. It scared her half to death, but she continued to look through the books. If there was a purpose to her looking in her dream, it left her memory long before her ill-fated camping trip. She could only now remember an itchy curiosity. Before she woke up, an Elf she did not recognize opened the door to the library and told her supper was ready, and she left.

She thought of this dream as she rode into Rivendell on the back of Arwen’s horse. Harper had never ridden a horse, save but five minutes on the back of a pony when she was seven years old at a town fair. The dream distracted her, at least, as she clung awkwardly to Arwen’s middle and tried not to slip back into her suspicion that she was caught in a dream, or the afterlife, or something else impossible and otherworldly. Because -- what other words existed for Rivendell in the flesh?

The air smelt of beech and oak and mountain water. The valley held fast to the green of summer, and there were colorful smudges of wildflowers along the banks of the river. The flowers showed no sign of wilting, and did not care that the end of October was upon them. A warm, glowing twilight lingered there, and as they rode deeper into the valley, time thickened like cold molasses. The mountains stood as high walls, watchtower and guard in one. Oh, and the Song. Bells and strings and deep, deep bass. Voices on the wind. It almost drowned out the droning of the Ring.

Elvish medicine made Harper think of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein -- of Victor in university, determined to realize the dreams of long dead scholars and find the center point of scienceandmagic, manandgod. None of the poking and prodding and oddly scented concoctions and low, wordless humming she was subjected to made sense to her. It was all drawn from a well of knowledge beyond her understanding. Truth from belief, the methodical application of faith in service. We ask these things to heal you, and so you are healed. But she could make no complaint, because healed she was.

By moonrise, after the final sips of an earthy drink that warmed her stomach like good whiskey, an Elf whose name she did not catch declared her to be well, and said Lord Elrond would be in to see her shortly. Elves, it seemed, were not prone to exaggeration. Harper barely had time to feel nervous about meeting Elrond before he swept into the room.

Harper had gone through the boundary of twilight to Elfland, and sat now in the shadow of the pale-blue mountains -- she was far, far away from The Lands That We Know, and that was be proven best by the Elf Lord before her. Even in movement, Elrond had a remarkable stillness to him. About him was sure, but intangible, evidence of deep thought that ran like the Bruinen backward through millenia. His eyes were grey and shone with starlight. Tall, fair, and wise he looked. When he gave her a gentle smile, Harper thought of how Tolkien had described him -- as kind as summer.

She opened her mouth to speak. Elrond raised a hand to silence her. “Frodo is regaining his strength steadily, and will make a full recovery,” he said in his clear voice, “I thank you for your part in that.”

Frodo had woken up on the shore of the Ford, a minute or so after Harper was pulled from the water by Arwen. He had been pale and wan, and shivered relentlessly on the ride to Rivendell, even as swathed as he was in both Aragorn and Glorfindel’s cloaks.

Anxiety felt a foreign thing in Rivendell, but the small vestiges of fear -- which had clung stubbornly to her while she was sequestered in this room with no news of Frodo’s recovery -- dissipated. “Good,” she said. “That’s good news.” Harper had achieved the first of her goals: to get Frodo to Rivendell with no lasting damage. The relief was so great it bypassed her entirely.

Elrond sat straight-backed on the far end of her sickbed. The mattress barely shifted under his weight, and Harper wondered if that was due to the nature of Elves, or the quality of Elvish mattress making. “Gandalf has said you have a wealth of questions for me; I would ask you to wait a little longer for answers,” Elrond said. “Your journey here has been long and not without great difficulty. It would be wise to rest now, while you are able.”

Maybe if things had gone differently at the Ford, if Harper had not flirted briefly with a watery grave, she would have had the energy to fight with Elrond about this. But as it was, she didn’t have the energy, and didn’t care enough to try to find it. Elvish medicine banished the physical evidence of her misadventure, except for a few scrapes that needed more time to heal. But it had not yet rejuvenated her. She wanted to check in on the Hobbits, and then fall directly into whatever bed the Elves might give her. Gandalf would handle himself, and Harper had no desire to interrupt Aragorn and Arwen’s reunion. She said as much -- about the Hobbits and the bed -- to Elrond, and though his face remained placid, an approving twinkle came into his eye. He called for one of the Elves who had tended to her earlier.

“Maemáril, would you show Harper to the Hobbits?” Elrond asked, and the Elf agreed.

Maemáril eschewed warmth from the tips of her ears to the soles of her feet. Olive skin, burnished bronze hair, and a wine red garment that Harper couldn’t quite make sense of which fluttered behind her as they walked. If Glorfindel was the sun, and Arwen and Elrond were the stars, then she was the tail end of an August sunset as viewed from the beach. Did all Elves embody nature so?

“I can show you to your room when you are ready,” Maemáril said. She had a line of small gold hoops running down the length of one of her ears. They jingled like bells when she turned her head.

“You don’t have to do that,” Harper said awkwardly. This Elf definitely had better things to do than be her tour guide.

“I must check in on the Ringbearer,” she said, “and I will be heading that way after. It is only an offer -- you are free to go where you will.”

It occurred to Harper that she wasn’t confident she would even be able to find her back to the room they left only a minute ago. Rivendell was a maze of high ceilings, long hallways, and arched windows beyond count. “That would be nice, actually,” she admitted. “But don’t let me keep you.”

Her reunion with the Hobbits was a short one. Maemáril knocked twice on the door before she entered, and Harper followed. Frodo was half asleep in the large bed, but he sat up when Pippin shouted Harper’s name. Sam shushed Pippin angrily, and followed it with a worried look at Frodo. Pippin grabbed her hand and dragged her forward -- he had a strong grip for somebody so small!

“How are you?” She asked Frodo, once Sam arranged the pillows behind him so he could sit up easily. He looked better. Still on the pale side, though it was hard to tell with Frodo. But she thought he could do with a bit more pink in his cheeks.

“Better than I was,” Frodo answered. Maemáril, who had slipped into the corner to pour him a cup of the same earthy drink that Harper had been given, drifted into the Hobbit-fray to put the cup on his bedside table and then retreated to speak in quick, quiet tones with a beautiful blonde Elf in the corner. Frodo yawned, and then took a drink from the cup. His face screwed up unpleasantly when he swallowed. “Have the Elves given you this, too? It tastes of grass clippings.” Another swallow. “And goat’s milk.”

Harper laughed. “Burns like whiskey though, doesn’t it?” At this, Merry examined the cup curiously. Frodo saw, rolled his eyes good-naturedly, and clutched the cup tightly to his chest. “Drowning victims only,” she said to Merry.

An impish light kindled in Merry’s eye. But then, Pippin said, “even I think that’s a bit too far, Merry. I am sure the Elves have somewhat to drink.” He raised his voice, unnecessarily, and said to Maemáril and her healer friend in the corner, “you have drinks here, do you not?”

“Only a Took could press upon the hospitality of Rivendell,” Gandalf said, and Harper and the Hobbits turned around in surprise. He strode into the room with Aragorn on his heels. Pippin voiced his complaint that it was Merry’s fault, but it went unacknowledged as they shuffled to incorporate Gandalf into their little huddle around Frodo.

Aragorn joined as well, after he traded a few words with the Elves in the corner. When he did join, his eyes swept over Harper, searching for -- something. Whatever it was, he didn’t seem to find it. From the odd look on his face, she was unable to decide if that was a good thing or not. But then he smiled at her -- small and crooked and glad. She forgot her confusion, and could only smile back.

Gandalf asked after the health of Frodo and Harper, and was happy to hear they were both feeling better. Maemáril and her blonde healer friend wove seamlessly through the gaps between them all and brought Frodo another drink, lit candles, fluffed pillows, and -- to the amusement of all but Frodo -- made Frodo stick out his tongue and say ‘ahh’ while the blonde elf peered down his throat. Sam tried to look put out on Frodo’s behalf, but he seemed too in awe of the Elves to conjure any ire.

When Frodo’s eyes began to flutter shut despite his attempted participation in the conversation, Gandalf stood and shooed them all from the room. Before Harper could leave, Frodo grabbed sleepily at her sleeve.

“Thank you,” Frodo said, through another yawn.

“It’s truly the least I could do,” Harper said. She didn’t look at his chest, or the Ring she knew was hidden there. She didn’t need to. She could hear the counter rhythm even here. He carried that thing above his very heart. Harper could go for an unintended dip in the river if it meant he would be okay.

Maemáril took a moment to finish up in Frodo’s room. By the time they left, Frodo was fast asleep, and the rest of the burgeoning Fellowship was scattered to the winds. Harper was too tired to mind that Aragorn had left without saying a word directly to her. Now that she thought of it, he hadn’t spoken to her since the Ford. He’d said, “here,” his voice odd and tight, as he helped her up onto Arwen’s horse, and then stayed behind to walk with Sam, Merry, and Pippin while Harper and Frodo rode on ahead with the Elves.

“This is where you will be staying,” Maemáril said, pausing outside a tall door. Harper thanked her for her time, and watched her float away down the hall until she rounded a corner and disappeared from view. Then, with a bone-deep sigh, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Inside the room was a copper bathtub full of steaming water, a roaring fire, a bed large enough to get lost in, and an Elvish charcuterie spread. The Last Homely House in-fucking-deed, Harper thought.

Harper woke well after noon the next day. She still smelt like the ash and herb scented soap and lilac bathwater, but when an Elf came around shortly after and asked her if she would like somebody to draw her a bath, she quickly said yes. She had been too exhausted the night before to appropriately luxuriate in her first real bath in seven months. Harper spent the afternoon eating cold meats and cheeses in the tub, singing snatches of pop songs to herself, and pretending she was at a remote, luxury resort somewhere in the Pacific Northwest.

In the early evening, somebody knocked at her door. She had only recently dressed herself in one of the odd garments the Elves left for her. It was a dark green wrapping gown which was as smooth as silk, as snug as wool, and as weightless as air. The long sleeves and the neckline had a delicate lace trim that Harper thought must have taken literal years to make. She couldn’t decide if she felt like a princess, or a toddler playing dress up in her mother’s clothing.

“Come in,” she called. When an Elf was the one who answered, Harper realized some part of her had been hoping it would be Aragorn at the door. She chided herself for that, and tried to focus on what the Elf had to say.

Arwen wanted to speak with her, or at least, that’s what the Elf who came to her door had told her. Harper felt ridiculous as she meandered through the winding paths of Rivendell -- cowardly and mortal and far too sweaty. The air in Rivendell was warm, but not overly so -- not that it mattered. The sweat dripping down her spine had nothing to do with the weather. No, she was damp all over in the way which only accompanied panic attacks and sex.

After all, Harper was only on her way to have a quick, private conversation with a beautiful Elf princess, who was thousands of years old, engaged to the man she had an undeniable and unfortunate crush on, was going to forsake eternal life to be that man's literal Queen, and oh! Harper happened to owe her a life debt as well.

No pressure, or anything.

Worse was that, Arwen had been nothing but kind to her so far. If Arwen was cold, or untouchable, or just vaguely off-putting, then at least she could feel justified in her apprehension. But between their brief meeting, Arwen throwing herself into danger to pull her from the Bruinen, and riding with her to Rivendell, Harper had no reason to believe she was about to receive anything less than the warmest of welcomes. How unbearable.

After doubling back several times, and then finally admitting defeat and asking the next Elf she passed for directions, Harper came to the fork in the road she was told to look for, and then, a few yards down the path, a staircase. Upward she climbed the smooth stone steps. An open air terrace waited at the top. There, she forgot her fear for a moment -- overtaken by the beauty of Rivendell, spread out below the breathtaking vantage point.

Eventually, she tore her gaze away from the valley. Arwen stood behind her, watching her with a curious smile. Harper jumped back and stifled a yell. Damned Elves their ability to move without making any noise. She swore Arwen hadn’t been there when she reached the top. But then Arwen laughed, a clear, bright sound. Harper smiled back, and felt an embarrassed blush color her cheeks.

“Follow me,” Arwen said. Harper did as she was told.

Arwen led her into a sitting room of sorts. The space was sparsely furnished, but everything in it was of a fine make -- intricately carved dark wooden furniture and carefully chosen decorations. Eeach seat had plush cushions in a variety of jewel tones, and the air smelt different in here -- closer to the spice of incense, rather than the sweetness of flowers. Arwen sat on a long bench carved with images of the sea and ships, and patted the seat next to her.

Harper raised her eyebrows, unable to hide her surprise, but took the seat anyhow. She had yet to get a proper feel for Elves. The Hobbits were easy to understand, and not just because they were familiar. They provided a narrative touchstone -- their motives and lives and priorities made sense to her. She would have assumed Elves were not too fond of close contact with strangers, or at least with human strangers. But Arwen was engaged to Aragorn, and he was of an odd sort -- so maybe it made sense.

Then, Arwen reached for Harper’s hands and clasped them in hers. Harper became overly aware of how clammy her own palms felt. Arwen’s hands were slim and pale, and her fingers were cool, but not cold. She wore a single, delicate gold band on her right middle finger.

“I am glad to have the chance to speak with you privately,” Arwen said. Her eyes were wide and rimmed with thick, dark lashes. Her face was open and earnest as she asked, “how are you? Is there anything you might need?”

Harper blinked several times in rapid succession. She missed Hereth fiercely, all of a sudden. There weren’t enough women around by half. She cleared her throat and made a solid effort to stay the tears that threatened to spill. “Um-” she said, and cringed inwardly. She needed to get better at talking to Elves. They made her feel stupid. “Thank you? No, I’m fine. I’m good. Everything has been lovely.” It had been. Her arrival in Rivendell felt like falling into a fairytale, minus the waterlogged entrance. Not in the manner she had actually fallen into a fairytale a few months ago, but rather how she might have imagined it at age six -- ethereal and whimsical and so beautiful it almost hurt to look at.

“That is good to hear!” Arwen said with a smile, and released Harper’s hands. Harper surreptitiously wiped her palms on her lap. “I have been troubled by the more unfortunate aspects of your arrival, and I know even before that, you have had a long and strange journey. I would have you find as much comfort here as you can.”

“That’s very kind, thank you,” Harper said. It felt like an inadequate response, but she meant it.

“And Estel-” Arwen started, and Harper’s heart plummeted into her stomach. “He has been helpful, yes? From what little I have heard, I know he came upon you near the South Downs and that you had an odd story to tell. I know he can be-”

“No, no-” Harper cut her off. “It didn’t take him very long to decide I wasn’t a threat, and since then he’s been nothing but kind.” And kind of annoying, on occasion, but she didn’t know Arwen well, and wasn’t going to bad mouth her fiance.

But something telling must have crossed her face, because Arwen smiled at her and mischief glinted in her eyes. “He is a pain at times, is he not?” She laughed. “I must admit I am desperately curious to hear of your arrival, if you are willing to speak of it.”

Harper wanted to deny her, but found she couldn’t stomach it. She owed Arwen this at least, if not her very life, and she had asked with such honest interest she couldn’t help but indulge her. So she spoke: of her camping trip, and the quiet morning she had before everything changed, and how Aragorn arrived and made her think she was having a nervous breakdown of some kind. She skated around going into too much detail about the book, and focused more on meeting Gandalf for the first time, and the first shaky weeks of adjustment at Sarn Ford. To her surprise and delight, when she mentioned Hereth, Arwen grinned.

“Is she well?” Arwen asked.

“You know her?” Harper asked in return, astonished.

“I met her the once, a decade or so ago. She was a new recruit, and gave Estel constant trouble.” At this, she grinned wider.

Harper laughed, and to her own surprise, continued to talk of her summer at Sarn Ford. Arwen was an excellent listener, which made it all the easier. She gasped at the right parts, laughed when Harper tried to be funny, and nodded her way through the telling to show she was listening. She described in great detail the convoluted story of the bet between Halbarad and Lagrion, and how she and Hereth had been pulled into their nonsense.

Arwen nearly bent herself in half laughing, and then launched into a story of her own, involving Halbarad and Aragorn in their younger days. She was even a better storyteller than she was a listener. She painted a portrait of two off duty, cocksure youths raising hell when they’d gone back to The Angle for Midsummer. A festival worth of ale, a petty disagreement with another captain, and three rogue chickens later, they’d both needed to be pulled from atop an overturned canoe along a deep stretch of the Bruinen -- as naked as the days they were born, save for their boots.

“Their boots?” Harper cried.

“Estel refuses to discuss it. The few times I have had the privilege of speaking to Halbarad, he has insisted that is an exaggeration. But once, some years ago, after a fair amount of wine, he admitted to my brother Elrohir that it is true. I have never been able to find out the reason for their nakedness, or who the other captain was.”

It was, Harper learned, desperately easy to talk to Arwen. She asked about her training at Sarn Ford, and the mundane differences of life in Middle-earth, and whether or not Harper missed home. The last question gave her pause -- only because she couldn’t decide how to answer. Did she miss home? She missed safety. She missed the lack of evil Rings. She missed calling her mother on the telephone. But did she miss home?

“I apologize,” Arwen said, when Harper failed to answer. “I have overstepped.”

“You haven’t,” Harper assured her. “I just realized I don’t know how to answer that question.”

Arwen opened her mouth to say more, and then shut it again, indecisiveness clouding her eyes.

“What?” Harper prompted.

“Would you tell me more of your home?” She asked. “I will not press the matter if you do not wish to share any more than you have. But it sounds as if it must be very different from our own Arda, and I am fascinated by the idea of it.”

Harper smiled. She’d rarely had the chance to talk about home since she came to Middle-earth. It hadn’t been something she could discuss with the rangers, and Aragorn acted strangely every time she brought it up. Harper didn’t know if she missed home, but she did know she wanted to talk about it right now.

So Harper talked of Boston, with its bitter winters and green, green summers. She talked of her mother, and her grandmother, and her attempts at college. Of concerts, and cars, and childhood weeks by the beach. And Arwen talked in turn, of the far flung corners of Middle-earth she had been to, and the wonderful people she had met in those places. She talked of her favorite books, and the worst play she had ever seen. Of her youth with her brothers, Lothlorien, countless nights spent under a sky full of stars, and the dreams she had sometimes of the sea.

Somehow, by the end, they had both cried at least once, and had laughed themselves silly despite the tears. Harper’s face stung from smiling so much, and some of the despair that had hung heavy on her shoulders for seven months had grown wings and flown away. God - maybe she would refuse to go on the Quest if asked, and just hang around Rivendell and endeavor to become Arwen’s best friend. She could follow her to Gondor after the war was won, and give Aragorn a hard time if he ever even looked at Arwen wrong. If things played out really well, maybe she could figure out how to be their weird, transdimensional refugee third. Did they have polyamory in Middle-Earth? She doubted the spirit of Tolkien would be okay with that -- but hey, he was dead and she was stuck in his creation. It wouldn’t hurt to try.

Arwen tilted her head, and then looked out toward the balcony. “Ah,” she said, “it seems my brother has come to steal you away from me. I will seek you out again, later. I need to hear more of these electric guitars -- you have sorely piqued my curiosity.”

Harper raised an eyebrow, and looked out at the balcony. Nobody had ascended the step yet, but she didn’t know why one of the twins would come to see her. Aragorn intended to introduce her to them, but if she remembered correctly, they should only just be arriving in Rivendell, and had better things to do than immediately meet the oddity of the week.

But then Aragorn came into view, and no Elf followed behind - and Harper became very, very confused. “Brother?” She asked. Her voice cracked when she spoke. She didn’t care.

Arwen nodded at her, the corner of her mouth curved upwards in a question. “Yes,” she said. “Estel was raised-”

“In Rivendell, yes. But-- well.” How was she supposed to tactfully ask this? If they called one another brother and sister she was decidedly no longer interested in being their third. “To my understanding,” she hedged, “you two only met after he was grown.”

Arwen frowned. “No. I’ve known Estel since he came with Gilraen when he was a small child.” Her face grew fond with memory. “I used to corral him back to his lessons with my father, after the twins stole him away to go horseback riding. His tantrums were the stuff of legends.”

“Oh,” Harper said, and nothing else.

Aragorn walked into the room, and though his face betrayed little, she knew he had heard their exchange. Arwen’s gaze flicked away from Harper and toward Aragorn, and she smiled at him. “You have come at a wonderful time. I was just telling Harper of how you used to bother the whole of Imladris with your crying whenever my father made you quit your sport and attend your lessons instead.”

Aragorn rolled his eyes at Arwen, and the manner in which he did struck Harper as particularly brother-ish. “Did you tell her of the time when you silenced the Hall of Fire with your yelling, after you found Malfinion holding hands with Tonhel?”

“You were not even a glimmer in Amlaith’s eye when that happened,” Arwen huffed.

“That does not mean I do not enjoy the telling.” He turned to Harper. “I will ask Elrohir to do his impersonation of her, for you. It never fails to make me laugh.”

This was weird. This was incredibly weird and all wrong. Now that Arwen said it, Harper couldn’t unsee it. They poked fun at one another exactly as siblings do. Only as siblings do. She could picture it clearly in her mind's eye - a young Aragorn running into Arwen’s quarters just to make a mess of her things and then running away, or Arwen laughing at Aragorn after he got a particularly tragic haircut sometime in his teens, and Elrond’s tired face when all four of his children came together to goad him into something he did not want to do.

She stood. They both looked at her, concerned, and she had no idea what to say. She cleared her throat, and turned her attention back to Arwen. “I know I should just wait until Lord Elrond wants to speak with me, but I think I need to talk to him, like, now.”

Arwen frowned. “Is something the matter?”

“Yes.”

Arwen stood. “Estel, take her to my father, please. If he tries to turn you away, tell him I sent her.” She grabbed Harper’s hand, briefly, and gave it a light squeeze. “Please come find me when you have the time. I would love to continue to speak with you.”

Harper gave a half-hearted smile, and agreed. She wanted to continue her conversation with Arwen as well -- but only after she got some answers. The day had taken a sharp turn, and she wasn’t sure how to regain her bearings.

Aragorn motioned for her to follow, and she did, with a final glance back at Arwen. The Evenstar still rested bright and glittering on her breast -- but that was as it was supposed to be. Arwen didn’t give Aragorn the necklace until the Fellowship left, right?

Harper walked down the stairs with Aragorn at her back, and her mind raced all the while. What had Aragorn said to her about Arwen? Had they spoken of her at all? She couldn’t remember her ever coming up. She cursed herself for avoiding the topic so well -- she wouldn’t have been caught completely off her guard if she had just pushed a little.

Harper wished she could believe they were having her on -- making fun of her for her crush, or testing the knowledge she claimed to have. But there was no false note in how Arwen spoke of him, and their interaction back there reminded her sharply of how she spoke with her own brother.

“Would you tell me, if I asked?” Aragorn cut through her thoughts as they walked quickly toward Elrond’s quarters.

“Later,” she said. She would -- but she needed answers first. “It’s complicated.”

“It has to do with Arwen?” His voice was level, but tense.

“In a way.” How did you tell somebody he was supposed to be in love with a woman he considered his sister? “It has more to do with you, actually.”

“Is she safe?”

Harper was rushing ahead of him, pure anxiety fueling her steps and making up for the difference in the length of their strides. She stopped, turned around, and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile. “Yes. She’s safe.”

His shoulders relaxed, and he nodded once. He didn’t ask about himself. “Whatever it may be, Elrond should be able to help.”

They arrived outside the door to Elrond’s rooms. Aragorn knocked twice, and Elrond called for them to enter.

Elrond stood from his desk when they walked inside. He smiled fondly at Aragorn, and when he spotted the look of utter confusion on Harper’s face, he frowned. Before he could speak, there was another knock on the door, but this person did not wait for an answer. The beautiful blonde Elf who had helped examine Frodo stepped inside. She smiled at Elrond and Aragorn, and gave a polite nod of acknowledgment to Harper. Then she crossed the room, and placed a gentle kiss on Elrond’s cheek.

“This is Celebrían,” Elrond said to Harper, “my wife, and the Lady of Rivendell.”

Chapter Text

“This is Celebrían,” Elrond said to Harper, “my wife, and the Lady of Rivendell.”

Harper blinked. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she said. Then, she turned back toward Aragorn. She couldn’t say what expression she made in that moment, but when their eyes met, shock flashed across his face before he rearranged his features back into something more passive. That told her enough. “Would you find Gandalf and send him here, please?” She asked him.

Aragorn frowned at the unspoken dismissal. “Aye,” he said simply. He nodded in farewell to Elrond and Celebrían, shot a final, perturbed look at Harper, and left.

When the door closed behind him, Elrond invited her to sit in a high backed leather chair next to an enormous natural stone fireplace. Harper thought she must have looked pale and clammy, if the wary way Elrond watched her was anything to go by -- like the healer part of him was calmly waiting for her to pass out. Celebrían poured each of them a drink, and then joined Elrond where he sat across from her on a couch.

Several long moments passed in silence. Harper drank from the cup she was given. It was some kind of spiced wine. She took another sip, and found the courage to look at Celebrían closely. She looked like dawn in the depth of winter, the pale sunrise unwisely witnessed in the quicksilver days between Christmas and New Years, when responsibility and timekeeping seem a distant and foolish thing. Beautiful and not for keeping. But her eyes were the evergreen of pine trees and forests undisturbed, and she smiled -- guileless and proud -- as Harper studied her.

The Elves did not seem overly perturbed by her strange, shaking and silent panic, but even the patience of immortals was not limitless, and at last Elrond spoke. “What has caused you such alarm?”

This was going to be even worse than the conversation she would have to have with Aragorn. “I assume Gandalf has told you what he knows,” Harper said.

Elrond nodded. “Not all, as we have not had much time to speak, and I would like to hear your story in your own words.”

“Sure,” Harper said, and for the second time that night, told her tale. She fought to maintain focus as she spoke. She could see Arwen’s reactions in both of her parents, and it distracted her -- Elrond had the same easy and open manner as he listened, and Celebrían nodded along to show her engagement. As she was describing her encounter with the warg, Gandalf joined them. He poured himself a drink, and took a seat in the empty chair next to Harper. She continued her story, skimming through her journey to Bree with Aragorn, and faltering when it came time to describe their conversation about her ability to hear the Song.

“Whatever it may be,” Celebrían said, “you may speak freely here.”

“Thank you,” Harper said. “Well, when we were a few hours outside Bree, I said something like ‘I know we’re close to Bree, because the Song is different here.’ And Aragorn became very confused, which in turn confused me. It took a minute to clear up the confusion, but then I explained I had been able to hear the Song since I arrived, and had assumed that it was normal here. Then he told me that he had never heard of anyone being able to hear the Song, and thought you might have some insight.”

A delicate pause. “You believe you can hear The Music of the Ainur?” Elrond asked. She didn’t like the clear disbelief in his voice, or the way Celebrían had stilled next to him.

“Ah, now I see,” Gandalf said, before she could respond. Harper looked at him. “This is what you wished to discuss on our journey here.”

She nodded -- slow and confused. “Didn’t you know?” She asked. “I thought Aragron would have mentioned it.”

“He did not,” Gandalf replied. “Though you will have to ask him why yourself.”

Harper intended to. The two of them had talked through the night when Gandalf arrived at The Prancing Pony. A quarter of what was said had been in a language she didn’t know, and the conversation continued after she went to bed. And Aragorn had been the one to suggest they ask Gandalf about it. She assumed it had come up at some point. But his failure to do so explained Gandalf’s unwillingness to talk to her on the way here. It also explained the Ring’s quickness to piggyback on that (imagined) slight. Resentment flourished in misunderstanding.

“I don’t know what it could be if it isn’t the Song,” Harper said to Elrond.

“Can you describe it?” Celebrían asked.

“I can try.” The metaphors she would have reached for would be lost on her current audience -- the low buzz of a radio in the back of her brain, an unlocatable browser tab autoplaying a video -- so she focused on the Song itself. She felt small and silly as she tried to do justice to the mute, devastating flood of music that permeated every inch of Middle-earth. How it was constant and natural and far beyond her understanding.

Another silence, more thoughtful this time. “And you say the Ring interferes with it?” Gandalf asked.

“I don’t know if interfere is the right word. It has its own music, and distorts, or maybe mocks, the Song. And the Nazgul … amplify the distortion? I don’t really know how to describe it.” She swallowed hard as she remembered the piercing trill of the Ring and the Nazgul combined on Weathertop.

“I agree with what Estel suggested,” Celebrían said. “It may have something to do with how you arrived in Middle-earth, or more precisely, that you are not of Arda.”

“I do not believe we can say with confidence that she is not,” Gandalf said.

“How do you mean?” Elrond asked.

“Did you explain the history of your book?” Gandalf asked Harper. She hadn’t. She’d forgotten about his theory regarding Tolkien’s frame narrative. Harper still didn’t put much stock in it, but she explained anyhow -- about the supposed history of The Red Book of Westmarch, and Tolkien’s desire to construct an alternate mythology for her world.

“Do you have this book still?” Elrond looked both doubtful and intrigued.

“I do,” Harper said. "But it’s back in my room right now. I didn’t think to bring it.”

“I would like to see it myself, when you have a moment," Elrond said.

Harper suppressed a sigh, and agreed. They were going in circles. She might as well have been back in Sarn Ford, with Gandalf muttering magic under his breath to check if the book was some kind of cursed object.

“You have not said what brought you here this evening,” Celebrían noted. “Unless you simply tired of waiting.”

Harper’s heart lurched. She’d almost forgotten. “You’re right,” she said. “I told you how this world, and all of you--” her eyes flicked to Celebrían, “--are characters in it? The thing is, recently I’ve learned that some parts of the story don’t seem to be lining up with the actual truth of the situation.”

Gandalf made an interested noise. “Such as?”

Harper flushed. Fuck, this was so awkward. “For one thing, Aragorn and Arwen.” Elrond snapped out of his musing and fixed his gaze back on her. She dropped her eyes to the floor. As efficiently and as quickly as she could, she ran them through the love story, which she finished with a rushed, “and bytheendofthebooktheygetmarried.”

“Pardon?” Elrond exclaimed, but it was nearly drowned out by the shout of laughter that came from Celebrían. Gandalf, all of a sudden, seemed very interested in his goblet of spiced wine.

Through peals of laughter, Celebrían asked, “have you told them of this, yet?”

Harper shook her head emphatically. “No,” she said. She snuck a glance at Elrond. His face was taking on a rather fascinating red-purple color. “This is what made me come here. I was talking to Arwen when it came up, and I realized something is very wrong and needed to talk to you. And then--” she cut herself off with an audible clack of her teeth. This caught Elrond’s attention.

“And then?” He prompted.

“Um.” Harper downed the rest of her wine. “That’s the other thing.” She gathered her courage and looked at Celebrían. "You’re here, and you shouldn’t be.”

“Oh?” Celebrían replied, evenly.

“I don’t remember the timeline, exactly, but in the book, a couple hundred years ago, you would have been captured and attacked by Orcs,” Harper said. Elrond stared at her with shock and dismay. “You would have done all you could to heal her, and succeeded, physically,” she said to Elrond. “But after a year or so, you would have taken the ship to Valinor, unable to move past it.”

“Elbereth,” Celebrían muttered, and shuddered as she swore.

Elrond stood, and began to pace in front of the fireplace. Offhandedly, Harper thought it was impressive that he maintained a measure of stately grace as he did so.

“Are there other differences?” Gandalf asked her, after they spared a moment to watch Elrond’s silent pacing.

“None that I’m not responsible for.” She walked them through the basic changes she had made so far, mostly for Elrond and Celebrían’s sake. Then, she said, “this isn’t so much a change, except that I shouldn’t be here at all, but on Weathertop, one of the Nazgul saw me. Spoke to me -- tried to stab me, and called me ‘trespasser’.” Had she mentioned this to anyone in the days between Weathertop and Rivendell? She couldn’t remember -- they had turned into a surreal blur in her mind.

Elrond stopped pacing. He looked at Gandalf. “The confrontation at Amon Sûl--”

“--happened at noontime, yes,” Gandalf finished. Elrond and Gandalf stared at one another for a moment. “What do you know of the Nazgul?” Gandalf asked Harper at length.

“Enough to know that shouldn’t have happened. They can’t see in the middle of the day, right?”

“They do not see as you do at all,” Gandalf replied, and Harper noted the verbiage, and how it made her stomach roll. His wandering-man guise made it so easy to forget he was more akin to something like an angel than a human. “They perceive inverse reflections of the Seen world, because they are not truly part of it. Only the power of the noon sun can blind them completely. They are wraiths, and cannot comprehend the realm of the living. The Ring draws them because it is of he who has made them cursed undead, and they are bound to it. If Frodo had used it at Weathertop, they would have seen him, because its power would have connected him to the Unseen.” Gandalf’s voice was grave and low.

Harper’s heart pounded in her chest. “So why--”

“I truly do not know,” Gandalf said. He looked long and hard at her. There was no comforting twinkle in his eye now, only a searching gleam that made her shift in her seat. “It very well may be connected to what allows you to hear the Song.”

“If she did not pass through fully,” Celebrían said, “that could explain her lingering presence in the Unseen.”

“What does that mean?” Harper asked. Her mind raced with possibility. Was she going to fade into the wraith-world? Was Sauron actually responsible for her presence here, somehow?

“It means we have more questions than answers at our disposal,” Elrond said. He was not pleased by this.

“Oh good, so nothing new,” Harper remarked in a dry voice, unable to help herself.

Elrond’s mouth twitched up into a smile at her snark, and it softened his face. “Maybe so,” he allowed. “But the questions give us a reasonable idea on where to start.”

And so commenced hours of long, winding debate between Elrond, Celebrían, and Gandalf -- with the occasional interjection from Harper. Each of them had their own pet theories, but none rang true to her, though she could not say exactly why.

Gandalf continued to argue for the veracity of The Red Book of Westmarch.

“You say yourself that Middle-earth mirrors your own world in many ways, in flora and fauna and the race of Men, and the rest of the races are spoken of in myth. You are able to speak the language, and the ways of life here are familiar, if antiquated. The simplest suggestion is often the most logical.”

“I just don’t understand how I spontaneously invented time travel without knowing it,” Harper said. “Like, people much smarter than me have tried. I’m an art school dropout, not an engineer. It’s not like I was trying, it just happened. Also, I don’t know why I can speak Westron. If I think about it too long, I get sick to my stomach. You guys certainly aren’t speaking the Queen’s English. The author was big into linguistics, but I can’t imagine he somehow perfectly reverse engineered a long dead language.”

Elrond, at some point in the conversation, moved past his initial doubts, and now suggested she was selected for some kind of vague task.

“If the way our time has unfolded does not reflect the story you know, I would think you sent to put to rights what may go wrong in the months to come.” He smiled, then, and looked at Celebrían with such devotion it hurt Harper’s teeth. “Though there are some things I am glad did not come to pass, it does not mean that what is to come will reflect the story you know, or that the changes will be of the same merciful sort.”

Harper grimaced -- she would sooner accept her accidental invention of time travel than the mantle of chosen one. Magic rings and would-be-kings were already enough to deal with, she wouldn’t play protagonist here. Unintended side character was good enough for her. “Of all the people from my world, I can’t think of a single reason I would be picked for that. I got into the series like, three months before I showed up here. My knowledge is less than thorough.” Harper laughed to herself, and pictured Stephen Colbert gleefully trucking along with the Fellowship. He’d probably have the same crush on Aragorn.

Unfortunately, this admission led to what could only be described as a pop-quiz on the history of Middle-earth. Harper was pretty sure she failed it miserably. She would have read The Silmarillion, or realistically, the Wikipedia page for it, if she had known there was literally going to be a test on it. Elrond maintained his theory, though he was troubled by the idea that she might be responsible for the fate of Middle-earth when she struggled with the distinction between Aman and Valinor.

After the pop-quiz finished, Celebrían presented her case, and her theory troubled Harper most of all.

“We should not ignore your ability to hear The Music of the Ainur, nor the Nazgul’s ability to perceive you. Though you say your world is without magic, I think it most likely that some force, be it benign or malignant, drew you here. It may not have fully succeeded, and left you caught between the Seen and Unseen, like a shark tangled in a fishing net.”

“So you think it’s likely the forces of darkness are going to turn up and expect me to help them out?” Harper asked. That would be the cherry on top of the shit sundae of her life.

Celebrían frowned. “I believe you to have no ill intentions,” she clarified. “I only think it naive to discount the possibility that we are fortunate you have no great love for evil.” She looked at Elrond, who did not seem bothered by his wife’s critique of his theory.

After another few rounds of debate, Elrond asked, “have you any lingering questions I might be able to answer?” By the tight look on his ageless face, Harper thought he was bothered by his inability to provide concrete answers to her more pressing questions. He reminded her sharply of Aragorn then, back in the South Downs, and how he had carried her tent for her so he could feel he had done something to help. Like foster-father like foster-son, she supposed.

“Yeah,” she said. “What can I tell everybody else? I can’t imagine it’s wise to go around announcing that I know the future.”

Elrond remained quiet for a few minutes as he thought about this. Eventually, he said, “I think it is a matter of personal judgment. I would not encourage you to be too free with what you know, but your knowledge has proven useful already, and you would be remiss to keep it to yourself in its entirety.”

Harper didn’t laugh out loud, but it was a close thing. What was it that Frodo said to that Elf in the book, when he and Sam were leaving the Shire? If you ask an elf a question, they will answer yes and no at the same time. By the flash of amusement in Elrond’s eyes, he caught on to her general line of thought.

“You have wielded your knowledge sensibly thus far,” he said. “I trust you will continue to do so.”

That brought her little comfort.

Harper returned to her bed shortly before dawn. As she climbed under the covers, she thought she would give up on her search for answers entirely, if it meant she would not be subjected to more hours of circular arguments, and endless questions about the history of a world that wasn't hers. And when she awoke the next afternoon, she was of the same mind.

But something else occupied her thoughts: she had little hope of going home. Elrond had delivered this news to her with poise and sympathy, and at the time, Harper had been too worn out to give it much thought. But now, underneath the pile of soft blankets on her bed, she let herself dwell on it:

“There is one other matter we must discuss,” Elrond had said, after the conversation dwindled and the three theories had been debated ad infinitum.

“What?” Harper asked through a yawn.

“Your departure from Middle-earth.” Elrond's star-grey eyes sparkled sadly down at her. “If we were able to discover the exact means of your arrival here, it is possible that we might be able to reverse the process and return you hence.” That he doubted this would ever happen was clear by his tone. “As it stands, without that knowledge, it would prove far too dangerous to try. I am afraid that I cannot offer you a way back to your world.”

“Thank you anyhow,” she said. What else could she have done? Argue with him?

Back in bed, tears fell from Harper’s eyes as she recalled the conversation. They were of a passive sort -- excess sorrow leaking out of the nearest channel. Some part of her, without her knowledge, had been holding onto hope that Elrond would have a solution. Now that dream had been dashed against the rocks like ships in the night, and in this sweetly scented guest room, she stared down the barrel of a life in Middle-earth.

She didn’t know how she felt about it, and that bothered her most of all. Yesterday, Arwen asked her if she missed home, and she was unable to answer the question. What kind of daughter or sister or friend did that make her? Harper had slipped out of the bounds of her reality without truly saying goodbye. Her last phone call to her parents had lasted five minutes, and it had been half-shouted down a staticy phone line inside a gas station where the music blared from the speakers. Had she even said I love you? She thought she had, she hoped she had -- but she couldn’t remember.

Harper tried to compose herself. There was nothing she could do about it now. This grief would have to be added to the pile to process in the spring, after the battle was won. (And if it was not won, thought the more pessimistic part of her, well -- she would have bigger problems than her feelings.) She focused on the facts: she had gotten Frodo to Rivendell as safely as possible, and that was a major victory. The Council of Elrond was swiftly approaching, and that would begin the next stage of her plan. Before then, she had to talk to Aragorn about the changes in the timeline, and consider how to reveal her backstory to the Hobbits.

These facts carried her through the process of getting ready for the day. Another gown had been left for her sometime in the night -- this one was a dusty blue, had split skirts that gathered at the ankle, and made her feel like she was trying too hard for a renaissance festival.

First on her list: her discussion with Aragorn, and he proved easy to find. Harper ran into Maemáril down the hall from her room, and asked if she had seen him. She directed Harper to the wing where Elrond’s family stayed.

On one of the innumerable terraces, Aragorn was reclining lazily on a bench. His eyes were closed, and the afternoon sun bathed him in its light. He was without his sword, and Harper realized this was one of the first times she had seen him unarmed -- or at least, without his sword. It gentled his presence some, made him look less a warrior and more a man. He opened his eyes when she came to the top of the terrace, and smiled at her. It was a small thing, but it made Harper’s heart skip a beat.

“Hi,” Harper said. She motioned to the bench across from him. “Do you mind if I sit? I was hoping to talk to you.”

Instead of nodding, or saying yes, Aragorn kicked his feet off of the bench and made room for her beside him. “You have come at a good time,” he said, and motioned for her to sit with a sweep of his arm. “Elladan and Elrohir have returned unlooked for from the wild, and I would like to speak with them. But they are deep in discussion with Elrond, and will be for some time yet.”

Harper paused for a moment, surprised by the invitation when there was a perfectly empty seat across from him. But she was too caught up in the awkwardness of the conversation they were about to have to question it. She sat, and noted the faint warmth his legs had left behind on the bench. “Oh,” she said, and scrambled to do some mental math. “Does that mean the Welcome Feast is going to be tonight?”

Aragorn chuckled. “They are making preparations now, I believe. I was asked to tell you of it, though I cannot say why Gandalf or I thought you would not know.”

She smiled. A cardinal landed on the tree nearest to the terrace. “That’s me, she-who-knows-stuff,” she said, and heard the irony in her own voice. Harper looked away from the bird. Aragorn watched her with a curious expression. “That’s kind of what I want to talk to you about, actually.”

Aragorn shifted to learn back against the arm of the bench, so he could face her directly. "You desire to discuss your conversation with Elrond and Celebrían?”

She didn’t miss the note of surprise in his voice. She felt a small stab of guilt for sending him away last night. “I do,” Harper said. “I’m sorry that I all but told you to fuck off last night. It was a conversation I needed to have alone, so I could wrap my head around it.”

He rubbed a hand over his beard and looked embarrassed. He had cleaned up his scruff since coming to Rivendell. Harper wondered if it was strange she kind of preferred the wild man look on him. It was compelling. “Nay,” he said. “You’ve much to deal with, and every right to go about it as you wish.”

Harper gave him an appreciative smile. “Still, we decided in Bree that I would tell you what I could. I still intend to do that, I was just caught off guard and needed more information first.” She sighed, and looked back to the branch to find that the cardinal had been joined by a blue jay. “I guess I’ll just get it over with.” Aragorn raised an eyebrow and waited. “Do you remember how I told you that you’re sort of the secondary main character in the story?”

“I do,” he said, with an uncomfortable frown she couldn’t help but find endearing.

“Your arc, for lack of a better term, is about you stepping into kingship. It differs between the books and films,” she cracked a smile, “partially because they need to make you more likable for modern audiences in the films.” Aragorn barked a laugh, and a subtle blush bloomed high on his cheeks. “But your motivation in both is similar.”

“What is my motivation?” He asked, in a low, rather serious voice. The way he looked at her then troubled her -- like he was asking for himself.

“It’s Arwen.”

A beat. “How so?” Aragorn’s brows knit together.

“That’s what confused me last night. When I was talking to Arwen, she called you her brother, and mentioned that she had watched you grow up. That’s not how it is in the story,” she explained. His eyes clouded over with confusion, and she had to look at his forehead to be able to continue. “In the story, you don’t meet her until you are twenty and have just learned your true identity. She had spent that time in Lothlorien, and you didn’t even know she existed until then. It’s kind of a whole thing -- it mirrors Beren and Luthien, and you leave for like thirty years shortly after. But basically, you fall in love with her, and when you meet again in Lothlorien a few decades later, she returns your feelings and the two of you get engaged. By the end of the story, you two get married.”

Harper watched a series of emotions play across Aragorn’s face. Befuddlement became disbelief became discomfort, and by the time he spoke again he looked as if he had swallowed a lemon whole. “When you tell Arwen,” he said, “she will laugh so loudly that Elrond will receive noise complaints from Mirkwood.”

Harper laughed. “You can imagine my surprise when she called you her brother.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I see now why you were as white as snow when I arrived. That would be a shock.” He shook his head as if to banish some image from his mind. “This is what made you need to speak with Elrond?”

“Well, yes. It’s different, and that worried me. Mostly everything so far has been either from the book or the film, or some combination of the two, except for what I’ve changed on purpose. But then we arrived at his study, and Celebrían entered.” Aragorn cocked his head and waited for her to continue. “She’s supposed to be in Valinor.”

“Why would she have sailed?” He almost sounded like he didn’t believe her, and she couldn’t blame him. She explained what happened to Celebrían in the books, and he muttered a minced oath when she finished.

“So you can see it kind of snowballed. I just needed answers.”

“Did you find them?” He asked.

Harper let out a bitter laugh. “Not really. I’m not surprised, honestly. It kind of seems like I have the walking mystery label branded onto me.” This made Aragorn laugh oddly, like she was missing some part of the joke. “But they tried their best, and that’s all I could ask. Elrond did say he doesn't think I'll be able to go home.” Her voice caught as she spoke -- something about saying it out loud made it more real.

Aragorn placed his hand on her knee. His face was solemn -- but never pitying. That warmed her heart. She ignored how the heat from his hand seeped through her borrowed gown. “I am sorry,” he said.

She smiled at him, even though she knew it was a sad look she wore. “Thank you.”

They sat in silence for several minutes, and watched the wind dance through the trees. The birds had flown off some time during their conversation. From below, the bustling noise of feast preparation floated up toward them on the breeze, and Aragorn smelt of herbs and pipe-smoke.

“Can I ask you something?” Harper said.

“Of course.” His hand remained on her knee, still and solid and reassuring. She didn’t look down at it.

“Why didn’t you tell Gandalf about the Song?” She asked. “I figured you mentioned it when we were still in Bree.”

He took a minute to answer her. “I did not feel it was my place to make mention of it,” he said at last. “You have had so little control over your circumstances these last few months. I would not take away what agency you have by speaking on your behalf, unless the circumstances were dire.”

“That is very kind,” she said. “Thank you.” She took a moment to wonder at the reality of him -- he had a streak of compassion so strong it could blind.

Aragorn smiled, and took his hand away from her knee to scratch at his beard again. “I think I hear Elladan and Elrohir approaching,” he said. “But tonight, after the feast, would you tell me some of what is to come?” He didn’t look at her while he asked -- he seemed unsure of the answer.

Harper thought of what Elrond had said to her. “Of course.” If it was to be a matter of personal judgment, she would struggle with not telling Aragorn anything he asked.

Chapter Text

The Elves of Rivendell were too gracious by half, and it was fast on its way to becoming a problem. More specifically, after she left Aragorn to his discussion with the sons of Elrond, Harper was quickly intercepted by Arwen.

“Lady Harper, could I borrow a moment of your time?” Harper turned around. Arwen came around one of the endless corners of Rivendell -- she did not hurry, exactly, that description lacked the necessary grace, but she walked at speed and with steady purpose to close the gap between them.

Harper failed to smother her surprised laughter. “You really don’t have to call me ‘lady’,” she said. “I would actually prefer it if you didn’t.” It flustered her the few times Aragorn had done so. But when it came from anybody else, the incorrect title sounded ill-fitting and strange.

“Harper, then,” Arwen conceded with a smile. “Could I steal you away? It will be brief.” There was a sly glint in her eyes that intrigued Harper.

“Lead the way.”

Later, Harper would come to understand two things. The first: what an immortal Elf and a mortal woman consider to be ‘a moment’ differ greatly. The second: Arwen never had the intention of stealing Harper away for only a moment.

It began innocently enough. Arwen asked about her conversation with Elrond the night before. Harper vaguely explained what she had assumed about Arwen’s relationship with Aragorn based on her knowledge, and Arwen laughed so loudly a distant shout of complaint came from down the hall. Then, Arwen corralled Harper into her rooms, lightly pressing her for more information about modern musical instruments and sewing machines. Harper enjoyed Arwen’s company, and it was no hard thing to get lost in discussion with her. After that, all it took was a few blithe comments about what Arwen intended to wear that night to the feast, and a request for Harper’s opinion.

When the second hour came and went, Harper began to wonder if Elves weren’t allowed to play with dolls as children -- it would explain her current predicament.

“I really can’t let you do this,” Harper complained.

“Stand up straight,” Arwen said, ignoring Harper’s fretting.

Harper sighed and elongated her spine. If she strained her eyes, she saw the top of Arwen’s dark head where she was kneeling at her feet. The garment Harper wore shifted as Arwen fussed with the hem. When Arwen offered to let her try on a few of her ‘woefully unused’ gowns, as she put it, Harper thought they were going to have a brief moment of girlish enjoyment and then be done with it. By the second donning of the sixth gown, and the call to one of Arwen’s maids for her sewing supplies, she realized that was a naive assumption.

“Really,” Harper tried again, “it’s one thing to let me try it on, but you can’t possibly alter it just so I can wear it once.” The gleam that shone in Arwen’s eyes when she first tried this gown on had been downright dangerous, and when she had put it on again at Arwen’s behest, the gleam transformed into a cunning flame.

“I may do what I will with what I call my own,” Arwen argued back. “I am making no permanent alterations. We are enough of a height that I can use a few simple tricks to draw up the hem without much work.”

“That’s not the point.” Arwen moved behind her and out of her field of vision entirely. “It’s already too much that I’ve been given what I was wearing. I would be fine in my own clothes.” Where were her clothes? The night she arrived they’d been taken by Maemáril and given to another Elf to be laundered, and she hadn’t seen them since.

Arwen clicked her tongue. “It is a feast, and you are a guest. You should be dressed as such.” She pulled a final time at the hem of the gown. Satisfied, she stood and came around to stand in front of Harper again. “I would hardly have you in traveler’s clothes when it is in my power to see you more finely adorned.”

“But--” Harper cut herself off when she saw again the look in Arwen’s eye. This was a losing game.

“Come,” Arwen grabbed her hand and helped her off the raised platform on which she was standing. She led her into a smaller side room. It held a large silver mirror, framed with dark wood and carved to resemble flowers on the vine. Arwen moved to let Harper see.

With her breath caught in her throat, Harper stepped forward. The gown was gorgeous on the hanger, and her top down view while wearing it revealed that it was more beautiful up close. But in a proper, head on view, it left her speechless. The midnight blue velvet of the outer layer of the gown shimmered in the lamplight, and the silver-grey silk underskirt, peaking playfully out where the overskirt split at the waist, was nearly sheer and looked woven from starlight. It wasn’t too heavy, despite the glut of material that no doubt went into the making of it, and Harper watched the bell sleeve unfold as she raised a hand to see her reflection mirror the motion.

Harper took another step forward, and then one more. She peered at her reflection curiously. It had been almost six months since she last looked in a mirror. Somehow, she seemed to have forgotten her own face. She drew her knuckles along her cheek, and then repeated the motion with the fabric of the sleeve, just to indulge in the smoothness of the velvet and silk. Her hair was longer, and her bangs had grown out enough to be tucked behind her ears. She was tanner than she usually was, and tired looking, She ran her finger over the light wisp of a scar, left behind by a scratch she received while trying to maneuver through the trees at night with Halbarad, and the overgrown hairs of her brow.

Hot tears welled up in her eyes. It was her. The same old face, dark hair and dark eyes -- the face that looked back at her under the flickering light of the bathroom in her apartment, that had been photographed for drivers licenses and school ID cards, that did not strongly resemble her mother or father, but fit right in with her brothers who in turn each looked like one of their parents. And now here she stood, in a resplendent gown in the dressing room of an Elf, after six long and hard months of toil and trouble and threats beyond her ken.

Harper turned, and tears fell as she blinked. In a choked voice, she asked, “are you absolutely certain?”

Arwen smiled, sad and lovely at once. “I am certain,” she said. “Now let’s see to your hair.”

Arwen shooed her away after another hour of pampering, and the occasional scolding when Harper complained of too much kindness. She had to get ready herself, Arwen said, and Harper would be able to occupy herself for another hour or so until the feast began.

Confused about how she had been tricked so thoroughly, and still reeling from her final look in the mirror after Arwen finished with her hair, Harper wandered toward where she thought the Hobbits were staying. The sun was sinking into the west, and the birds of Rivendell chattered away as she walked beneath the trees. An Elf passed by on occasion. Most of them gave a polite nod and continued on without a word. But then Maemáril approached her, and when she saw how Harper was made up, she smiled broadly.

“The Lady Undómiel had her way with you, I see,” she noted.

“And then some,” Harper agreed. When she moved her head, the strings of pearls that dripped from her ears brushed her neck.

“Master Gamgee was looking for you,” Maemáril told her. She pointed in the direction she had come from. “He is waiting in the first courtyard.”

Harper furrowed her brow, still stinging slightly from Arwen’s ruthless plucking. “Is he?” She asked. It was a surprise, but a nice one. “Thank you, I’ll go find him.” She left Maemáril behind with a pleasant goodbye, and a silent reminder to herself to ask her where her own clothes were, the next time Harper saw her. Playing dress up was fun, especially under the discerning eye of Arwen, but she was beginning to miss wearing pants.

Sam was sitting on a bench under a flowering tree. He didn’t hear Harper approach, too caught up in craning his neck to get a good look at the light pink blossoms.

“You were looking for me?” Harper asked.

He jumped in surprise, and when he caught sight of her, his jaw dropped. “You could well be an Elf!” He cried. “If it weren’t for the lack of the ears, that is.” He was smartly dressed as well. His clothes had been washed, his overcoat replaced entirely, and somebody had repaired the frayed edge of his waistcoat which he’d worried to threads on their journey from Bree. “But it wasn’t me that was looking for you, rather it was Mr. Strider. He asked me to bring you ‘round when I found you.”

Harper arched a brow. Had he finished his conversation with the twins so quickly? She wasn’t expecting him to make an appearance until the end of the feast, at least. “Did he say what he wanted?” Maybe something had come up during his discussion that made him anxious to talk about what was going to happen next.

“Not as such,” Sam answered, but he was having trouble meeting her eyes. “He only said to come as quick as you could.”

That made Harper nervous. “Lead the way,” she said, for the second time that evening.

She followed Sam through the courtyard and down several hallways. He moved quickly and quietly, and answered her attempts at conversation with one word answers. His nervousness fed into Harper’s. Surely, if it was of such great importance, Aragorn would have found her himself? But she had spent the last several hours sequestered away playing dress up with his sister. He could have not thought to look there. At last, Sam stopped outside a door that Harper thought was close to her own room, and said, “in here.”

Aragorn wasn’t in there. Frodo, Merry, and Pippin were, and Sam joined them in their semi-circle once he shut the door behind Harper and himself. She cast her eyes about the room, and tried to find whatever it was that had demanded her presence. “Is everything okay?” She asked. Frodo looked well enough. He was pale, and the discordant hum of the Ring made itself known as she approached the Hobbits, but there was no obvious, immediate calamity to be found.

“And who is this?” Pippin asked in a teasing voice. “We were waiting for the lady would-be-ranger who came with us. Have you seen her? Tall, kind of filthy, followed about by a man called Strider?”

Harper laughed, even though she was the butt of the joke, and still confused. “I came under siege of the generosity of Lady Arwen, and this was the result.” She shifted her weight, too-warm and suddenly uncomfortable. It was a bit much, wasn’t it? The Hobbits were all dressed for a fine dinner, but in comparison she felt ridiculous.

“Leave her be, Pip. She will match the Elves nicely," Merry said. Harper smiled again at the kindness in his voice, but her smile faded when Merry added, in a grave tone that sounded out of place coming from him, “sit for a moment, would you?”

Feeling like she’d been caught out after curfew, she sat on an empty stool, careful not to wrinkle her skirts. She looked around the room again, like Aragorn might be hiding somewhere in plain sight. “What’s going on?”

“There is something we would like to ask you about,” Frodo said. “We have been talking of the days between Bree and now, and found that we were all quite confused about certain things.”

Harper tensed her limbs to suppress the urge to squirm. “I’m sure Gandalf would be able to answer your questions better than I can,” she deflected.

“I think not,” Merry said. “And if he had answers, I do not think he would share them with us Hobbits, until you gave him leave to.”

“But as it is,” Pippin continued, “we have grown tired of waiting for answers, and decided to ask you for ourselves.”

“Well, what do you want to ask me, then?” Merry and Pippin were paying her keen attention. Frodo watched her with patience and trepidation in equal measure, and Sam stared down at his feet and looked like he wished to be elsewhere.

“How did you come to Middle-earth?” Frodo asked. Harper balked. He smiled at her expression. “You cannot be from here,” he reasoned. “So, we would like to know how you arrived.”

“Why can’t I be from Middle-earth?” Harper challenged.

“I have heard you say as much -- twice,” Merry told her, in a rather smug voice. Harper demanded to know when. "The first time was the night we arrived at The Prancing Pony, and the second time was as we departed Bree, after Gandalf arrived.”

She raked through her memories in an effort to recall what he was talking about. He must have heard her conversation with Aragorn about the Ring. “Were you pretending to sleep, you rascal?” She asked, and Merry’s wide grin was answer enough. She came up short trying to identify another instance. “I don’t know what the second time you’re talking about is.”

“You and Strider spoke with the landlord, and then with one another, while Sam was packing up ol’ Bill. The conversation with Mister Butterbur was of a queer sort, and I didn’t rightly understand what you were talking about. As we were leaving Bree, you and Strider started to bicker about the issuance of pardons, and you said to him that, ‘in your world, kings could pardon who they pleased’, and Strider made an odd sound I have to assume was a laugh -- though I did not know him capable of it, as grim as he is -- and asked why you thought his giving of a pardon to you would please him.”

Oh. She’d forgotten about that conversation. It was after she told him that she wasn’t one to commit crime on the regular back home. It was a one off bit of banter, and hadn’t been noteworthy other than the smile it earned her from Aragorn.

“Remind me to never underestimate the hearing of Hobbits again,” Harper said, more to herself than the group. “Here I thought that Elves were the ones I had to worry about.”

“Merry was not the only one to notice something,” Frodo said. “There was the conversation we had on Weathertop. If you had magic of a kind, Gandalf would have said -- or you would have used it after the Black Riders came.” He shuddered as he remembered the dreadful creeping of the Nazgul.

Harper shook her head. She felt a pang of sympathy for Gandalf. Hobbits. “Has anything else given me away so terribly?” She asked.

“The theft of Bill,” Sam said, finally joining the conversation.

“That was less than subtle,” Pippin said, in a haughty voice. “You were well to choose me to come along, and knew Sam would take a shine to the poor old pony. But you had only just met us, and so it stands to question how you could know such things.”

She laughed -- how could she not? Pippin-fucking-Took was lecturing her about subtlety. “So you huddled together and hatched a plot to lure me here to confront me?” Frodo blushed, but nodded. Sam was the color of a tomato, and looking at his feet again. “Did you enjoy being one of the conspirators this time, Frodo?” She asked, before she could stop herself.

Frodo raised his eyebrows. “Again!” He cried. “How could you know that? Unless one of these lads mentioned their plotting to you, which I do not think they did.” The other Hobbits shook their heads. Frodo settled a bit, and with a sly smile, said, “but yes, I did enjoy it.”

“Good,” Harper said, with the utmost sincerity. “Let me hear your theories then. I’ll tell you what I can after.”

The Hobbits took turns explaining their personal theories, and argued amongst themselves when one raised a point the others did not agree with. Pippin thought she was a witch of some sort -- “a good witch, of course, because why else would you be helping us?” His theory had the least support, because none of them had seen her do any magic. Sam had to be heckled to present his theory, and he stuttered through his suggestion that Harper was “the daughter of Tom Bombadil and Lady Goldberry. Though we haven’t heard you singing, I heard talk between you and Mister Strider of a song.” Pippin found fault with this, because he didn’t think rivers and forests could have children. Frodo thought she’d been gifted with Foresight, and “asked to help when we have gotten ourselves into a pinch.” He disagreed with himself, then, and reasoned that she was neither Elf nor of Westernesse, and wouldn’t be able to know the future. Merry thought she had come from another world entirely, because “everybody from the Westfarthing to Harad has heard of Cart and Pony, even if they have different names for it. How you know the rest, I could not say. Lucky guesses -- or maybe Pippin is right about the magic, and we just have missed it.”

Harper stared at Merry. “You’re sharp as a tack, you know that, right?” He beamed proudly. “Frodo and you are the closest.” Pippin deflated at this news, and Sam looked glad not to be singled out. She went to run a hand through her hair, but remembered the exacting effort Arwen took to arrange it, and settled for pulling nervously at her sleeves instead. “I’ll tell you what I can.”

Her carefully chosen explanation of the story of the Lord of the Rings, and her sudden appearance in Middle-earth, was met with an endless barrage of questions. She struggled to answer most of them, even though the Hobbits took it on good faith that there was a lot she could not tell them -- or they did, at least, after she fibbed and said Elrond told her to not divulge too much. Harper couldn’t fault them for their curiosity. The mysticism of Middle-earth was mundane to them, and the idea that they were characters in a story boggled the mind out of wonder and confusion both. At length, they shifted the conversation to questions about her own world, and when Harper was in the middle of an explanation of refrigerators, Gandalf arrived.

“I hoped to find you here,” Gandalf said when he saw her. He studied the group for a silent moment. “It is time to pause your haranguing,” he said to the Hobbits. “Your mouths will be too occupied with food and drink in a moment.” At that, there came the sound of the ringing of many bells. It was time for the feast.

Pippin hopped out of his seat. “Hurray!” He cried. “I need something to eat after all that tiresome interrogating.”

Gandalf arched a single overgrown eyebrow. “Woe to any who fall prey to your idea of interrogation, Peregrin Took.”

“Woe indeed,” Harper snarked. Pippin gave her an affronted look, but the rest of the Hobbits laughed. She stood. “I’m hungry too, let’s go.” Not of the sort to argue with the suggestion of a meal, the rest followed suit. Frodo walked beside her as they left. “Whose idea was it to lure me here?” She asked him. “You guys could have just asked outright.”

Frodo smiled. “Pippin was the one to suggest subterfuge. He insisted that witches are not likely to give up their secrets unless forced into it,” he explained with a shrug. Then his smile became of a fey sort. “It was Sam who said we ought to tell you Strider was looking for you.” Harper’s jaw dropped. Frodo laughed once more, and then hurried to catch up to the other Hobbits and Gandalf -- and left her trailing behind, gobsmacked.

The hall of Elrond’s house was large and beautiful, and filled to bursting with folk and food. Mercifully, Harper was allowed to sit with Sam, Merry, and Pippin, while Frodo was whisked away to sit at the high table as a guest of honor. She tried to watch Frodo’s conversation with Glóin as she ate, but the food was so rich and delicious she struggled to let her eyes stray from her plate. Gimli did not sit at the high table with his father. She thought she saw him across the hall, sitting at the table that flanked the other end of the high table, but there were a handful of Dwarves sitting there, all with their backs to her, and she wasn’t sure which he was. If Legolas was there, he was lost amongst the crowd of Elves, and she did not recognize him.

Supper came to an end, and filled to the brim with food and wine, Harper followed the crowd to the Hall of Fire. The warm glow of the great central hearth cast a hazy blanket over Harper’s senses. She lost the Hobbits sometime after rising from the table, so she settled against the wall and watched the hall fill. Golden light shimmered in the hair of the Elvish minstrels, who took up their instruments -- some familiar, and some strange -- and began to play sweet music. The music continued ever on, even as Elves took turns to sing or recite poetry for their guests. Harper understood almost none of it, but their voices were bright and lovely, and the words followed a rhythm that played upon the beating of her heart. It all intermingled flawlessly with the distant hum of the Song. Even if the Elves could not hear the Song themselves, Harper thought, they lived and breathed in time with it.

Low mutterings of conversation caught her attention then, and she turned to see Aragorn and an Elf walking along the length of the wall toward her. Aragorn had put away his ranger garb and was now clad in the finery of the Elves. The outfit was similar to what he wore in Rivendell in the film, but the coloring was different -- more blue-green than grey, and the silver accents reflected the golden light of the hearth, as did the strands of grey in his hair. The garments were made from the same velvet and silk as her dress, and the patterns of his cote had been painstakingly stitched. It was well tailored, and he cut an otherworldly silhouette in the outfit. He looked good.

Good. Another candidate for understatement of the century. She blamed the wine for it, but she could hardly breathe looking straight at him.

She felt a stab of pity for Boromir in the coming days. Like this, Aragorn looked the part of an Elf-Lord, minus the ears. She, too, would be annoyed if she had spent her whole life fighting for the safety of her city, and then was told the pretty boy in the fancy outfit who liked to hang out in Elf-ville was going be King, actually. The part of her that wasn’t busy trying to stop her salivating noted that she would need to remind Aragorn to be nice -- or at least normal -- in his first interactions with Boromir. Fault for the animosity between them was a shared burden. She would do what she could to prevent it from festering.

Now a stone’s toss away, Aragorn looked away from his Elven friend and made eye contact with Harper. His mouth hung open as he blinked rapidly in baffled recognition, and the half formed syllable of his next word trailed off into the air as he failed to continue it. His friend spoke a quiet, wry sounding word to him, and that snapped Aragorn out of his confusion. With a nod of his head, he motioned his friend toward Harper.

“This is the Lady Harper,” Aragorn said -- in Westron now, blessedly -- to his friend. A small thrill raced hotly through her gut, and she hoped the dim light of the hall was enough to hide her blush. She either needed to get used to him addressing her as such, or figure out a way to tell him to stop calling her that without showing her hand. “Harper,” he said, and she thanked her stars for the reprieve, “this is Legolas Thranduillion, Prince of Mirkwood.”

Harper smiled widely -- perhaps too widely, but she would blame the wine for that too -- as she took in Legolas. She knew now that she hadn’t seen him in the feast hall. Like the rest of the Elves, he both closely resembled and defied his film counterpart. He had the same strong jaw and dark brow of Orlando Bloom, and a delicate beauty that worked with, rather than against, the strength of his features. But his eyes were dark, not blue, and in his silver-green raiment, he glowed like the noontime sun through a canopy of trees in a forest alive with full June glory.

She nodded her head in greeting, and in imitation of Glorfindel, said, “hail and well met.” It was the right thing to say, as it earned a wide smile from Aragorn, and a pleased twinkle in the eyes of Legolas.

“Mae govannen,” Legolas replied. “Aragorn has told me a little of your meeting. It was compassionate to accompany the Ringbearer as you did.” His tone was kind, if formal, and his voice plucked and rang like lyres at Midsummer.

At this, Harper cut a glance at Aragorn. He was already staring at her, and confusion danced over his face when she arched her brow. It took him a moment, but understanding dawned, and he answered her inquiry with a small shake of his head. He hadn’t said anything too revealing, then. Before she could speak again, their attention was drawn away over her shoulder. Harper turned to see Arwen heading their way.

“Hanar-nín, Thranduillion,” she greeted the men. Then she twined her arm with Harper’s amiably. “How fare you?” She asked her. “Was the feast to your liking?”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to eat again,” she admitted. “It was fantastic.”

“Good!” Arwen said. “But do not let the Hobbits hear you say so. It would scandalize them, I think.” She turned her gaze to Harper’s hair, and after a moment of critical inspection, smiled. “I am glad to see my handiwork has held up thus far.” Aragorn made an indiscernible noise at this, but Arwen didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, she extracted her arm from Harper’s, offered it to Legolas, and said, “walk with me, Prince of Mirkwood. I would hear tidings from your people before the Council tomorrow.” Harper caught a flash of something like surprise in Legolas’s eyes before he obeyed. He bade Aragorn and Harper goodbye, took Arwen’s arm, and together they departed.

They watched the Elves walk away for a moment before turning to one another again. Or, Harper turned to Aragorn. For his part, he now seemed overly-invested in the weaving of the tapestry on the wall behind them. The sudden awkwardness gave Harper pause.

“You were right,” she heard herself say, before she made a conscious decision to speak.

This caught Aragorn’s attention, and he looked at her again. “Regarding?”

“I told Arwen why I needed to talk to her father yesterday. No word has come from Mirkwood, yet, but she laughed so loudly somebody yelled at her from down the hall.” Aragorn gave a shout of surprised laughter, which caused the nearest Elf to turn and glare at them. Blushing, Harper pointed a finger at Aragorn -- unwilling to take the blame. The Elf cracked a small smile, shook his head at them both, and turned his attention back toward the Elf reciting poetry at the center of the room.

Aragorn saw her pointing finger and laughed again, more quietly this time. “This does not surprise me,” he said, both about Arwen’s reaction and Harper’s laying of blame. A pause. “I see she sank her claws into you.” He gestured at her gown.

“It was more subtle than that,” Harper said ruefully. “One moment we were talking about my home, and the next she was calling for her maid to bring her sewing supplies and ordering me to stand up straight. I would call her cleverness sinister if it wasn’t so good-natured.”

“You may thank Lady Galadriel for that.” Harper snorted in amusement. Then, in an inversion of Arwen and Legolas a few moments before, he offered Harper his arm. "Would you walk with me?” He asked. Harper frowned in surprise, and in a lower voice Aragorn hastily added, “I would begin the discussion we spoke of earlier -- away from keen ears.”

She hesitated a moment, and then took his arm. “Lead the way,” she said, for the third time that evening. Their shoulders pressed together as they walked, and Harper was glad she had not had any more of the wine. If she had, she might have made a comment about how warm he was, or reached her other hand out to stroke the lovely fabric of his cote. Instead, she remained silent as he led her out of the Hall of Fire, and into the fresh night air.

They did not wander far. He steered them toward a nearby courtyard. In the center of it was a bubbling stone fountain. The crescent moon reflected in the water, and they walked around it, under the unseasonably flowering branches of the trees lining the clearing. They continued their circling of the fountain as they spoke. Aragorn neither suggested they sit, nor did he take his arm back and put some distance between them. Harper hardly had the mental space to oscillate between glee and bewilderment at this -- she was too focused on faithfully relaying information as well as she could remember it.

His questions surprised her, though they shouldn't have. They were that of a tactician, and not a man facing down danger and death. He wanted to know what manner of enemies they would face, how long they would journey for, what hurts he ought to account for healing. She didn’t tell him everything -- the Balrog, for one, could go longer without mention. He knew she was holding back, but let those truths lie with a wordless, trusting acknowledgement that dizzied her. They talked through weapons, the weather, provisions, and would-be allies. At the last, the discussion turned toward the upcoming council.

“It will be nine of you,” she told him. “Gandalf, the Hobbits, Legolas, Gimli, yourself, and-- somebody else who is set to arrive tomorrow.”

He did not question the unnamed addition. Rather, he said, “ten. It will be ten. Lord Elrond will ask you to go.”

Harper’s heart stuttered. She had considered this -- assumed it, even, But to hear it spoken as an obvious fact from Aragorn surprised her. “Do you think so?” She asked. “I assumed I would have to fight for it.” She didn’t mention that the more cowardly part of her had considered not volunteering at all. What place did she have on the Quest, in the Fellowship?

“If you explain your knowledge, I cannot see why any would spurn your assistance.” Harper kept her face turned forward, but Aragorn looked at her while he spoke. A warm gust of his breath tickled the patch of skin below her ear.

“We’ll see.” A pause. “I told the Hobbits today.” She amended, “no, that makes it sound like it was my choice. They sent Sam to lure me into Frodo’s room, and then confronted me with their gathered evidence.”

Harper felt Aragorn shake with silent laughter. “What did you say?”

“I told them a bit -- about the story, and how I don’t know how I ended up here. Ultimately, they were more interested in modern cooking techniques than they were in hearing their possible futures.”

This didn’t surprise him, but it did amuse him. “How did they come to find you suspect?” He asked. A breeze drifted through the courtyard. The warmth of the Hall of Fire had faded, and Harper shivered. With a light tug on her arm, Aragorn pulled her in closer. He put off heat like a radiator, and touching now from shoulder to hip, the chill was swiftly banished, even as they slowed their pace.

She swallowed hard. “Merry overheard us talking a couple of times, it seems, and told the others. I knew after I spoke to Frodo at Weathertop that I would have to tell them, but I didn’t expect them to hatch a plot to force me to confess.” She shook her head at herself. Laid low by the cleverness of Hobbits.

It was a shared train of thought. “It never does well to underestimate Hobbits,” he said. Again, his breath warmed her neck. She felt a blush redden her ears. It only deepened when Aragorn caressed a lazy thumb over the thin skin on the top of her hand. “What did they think?” He asked.

It took her a moment to pull together an answer. “They all had their own theories. Pippin thought I was a witch -- that was my favorite,” she said.

In the distance, a nightingale began to sing.

Aragorn, with his voice pitched low -- unnecessarily low, they were completely alone -- said, “I wonder at how Master Took arrived at that conclusion. Even in my own confusion, ‘witch’ I would not have named you.”

Her wine-soaked bravery reared its head, and finally Harper looked at Aragorn. “And what would you have named me?” She was grateful for his absurd height, then. If he was any shorter, or she any taller, their faces would have been mere inches away from one another. As it was, the close look at the hint of wine staining his mouth red sent a jolt of heat through her. He’d had his own private feast with the twins, it seemed.

His grey eyes reflected the starlight, and behind them twinkled a boundless wonder. He bent his head a fraction of an inch closer, and his dark hair untucked itself from behind his far ear with the movement, and curtained out the rest of Rivendell. Consternation, or perhaps uncertainty, flashed across his face before he answered. “Wisp, mayhap. Or mundane imagining.” He laughed quietly. “You took me quite by surprise. I did not expect to find you there.” Then he flickered his gaze down to her mouth and quickly up again, and all possible responses fled Harper’s brain.

“No,” she replied at length. It was more breath than word. They’d stopped walking. When had they stopped walking? “No, neither did I.” Blood roared in her ears. The nightingale continued to sing. From the very fabric of creation, the Song poured like a chorus of violins.

“I must ask a question of you,” Aragorn whispered. His fingers grazed the inside of her wrist.

Harper inhaled sharply at the low rasp of his voice, and the sparks left in the wake of his touch. He smelt like pipe-smoke and wine and tree-sap. “Ask it.” It was a command more than anything else. He made to obey.

Then, in the distance, there was a bright peal of laughter that sounded like Arwen. They both jumped at the sound, their arms coming untangled. They glanced at one another and each took a step back -- Harper’s knee buckled with the motion. Her heart raced in her chest.

Aragorn cleared his throat, and looked up at the stars. An agonizingly long moment passed. “Who is the member of the company you did not name?” He asked.

Grateful he wasn’t looking at her, Harper squeezed her eyes shut for a moment to find her center. They were here to talk about the Quest. She opened them to find him still gazing at the stars. She lost herself in the sharp shadow of his jaw for a moment. She chided herself -- the Quest.

“We should talk about that,” she said. Her wrist still tingled where he’d touched it. She clenched her hand in an effort to banish the lingering sensation. “It’s kind of complicated.” She shook her head, more to clear her still muddled thoughts than anything else. “Or, not complicated, but delicate, I suppose.”

When Aragorn looked at her again, there was a veil of austerity over his eyes. He motioned to a bench on the other side of the fountain. “We should sit.” They crossed the courtyard with what felt like an ocean of distance between them. When they sat, they left room for Jesus and then some. Harper laughed at that. He waited for her to explain, but she brushed his confusion off. He wouldn’t get it anyhow.

“When were you last in Gondor?” She asked. He answered, and then Harper told him of the impending arrival of Boromir son of Denethor, and the fate that would await him if she did not intervene. It was a difficult conversation -- worse, in some ways, than telling him how he was supposed to be in love with his foster-sister. There was blame to lay here, though she tried to go about it lightly and with judiciousness. After all, so much of it was the fault of the Ring.

Aragorn took it as well as he could -- that was to say, rather poorly. Harper watched guilt for something that had yet to happen weigh down his shoulders in real time, and how he tuned out her carefully chosen words and insistence that Boromir’s would-be death was not his fault. Solemnly, he said, “I will make every effort to welcome him. Kingship or no, it would be unbecoming of me to act in a way that isolates him so.”

Kingship or no? What?

Before Harper could protest, Aragorn stood. “I thank you for this,” he said. “It has given me much to think about. Come, Lord Elrond will dismiss the guests soon, and I would not have you miss it.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

Harper scrambled after him, and almost fell flat on her face when she forgot to lift her skirts. She caught up with him at the door to the Hall of Fire. He held the door open for her. She glanced inside. They were between performers. Even the musicians had stopped for the moment. She wanted to force him to talk about what he’d just said, but they were well within earshot of the hall, and there was nothing to distract listening ears. She shot him a dark look, well aware she’d been outplayed, and stalked inside.

She intended to find her place along the wall again, and brood there for a bit. In her walking, she almost bowled over Frodo and an unfamiliar Hobbit -- Bilbo! Bilbo looked up at her sudden intrusion. “You must be the lady my nephew has told me of,” he said. Then, looking behind her, “ah! And there you are at last, Dúnadan!”

“Strider!” Frodo said. “You seem to have a lot of names.”

Harper took a step back and let the conversation play out. Bilbo was about to ask Aragorn for his opinion on his poem. That was probably a good thing. It would prevent her from whisper-shouting at him for clarity in the corner of the room. When Aragorn agreed to give it a listen, Harper expected them to head off without another word. Instead, Bilbo gave her a sly look, and asked, “could I steal your lord away from you for a few moments, lady?”

Harper stared at the Hobbit askance, and muttered something that might have been “go ahead,” or possibly, “please do.” Either way, Bilbo took it as permission, said farewell to Frodo, and walked away. Harper kept her gaze on the floor. After a moment, she heard Aragorn’s near silent retreat in the same direction. Frodo was staring at her with a wide smile on his face. She couldn’t bring herself to find displeasure in his merriment. He needed all he could get of happiness while he had the chance. But that didn’t stop her from rolling her eyes at him.

“I’m heading to bed,” she told him. “Tell Bilbo I was sorry to miss his recitation. I’ll listen to it another time.”

Frodo’s smile slipped away. He stared at her for a considering moment. “I will,” he said, soberly. “Sleep well.”

“You too, Frodo.”

Harper slipped out of the Hall of Fire. It took some wandering to find her room again, but she managed it quicker than she had the night before. She stripped carefully out of her borrowed gown, folded it, and set it aside to be given back to Arwen. She pulled on the sleeping clothes that had been set out for her, and climbed into the bed.

Her head spun as she tried to will herself to sleep. This, she could not blame on the wine. Outside, a nightingale continued to sing.

Chapter Text

Nigh on fifty years ago, Thorongil returned to Edoras with his steed beneath him and the thrill of victory thrumming in his blood. The battle had been unlooked for and hard fought. As newly made Undermarshal, Thorongil took four of his éored out into the northern fields of the Wold for three weeks of training. Unbeknownst to him, servants of the Enemy had strayed farther west than they were wont to do in those days, and came down out of the Brown Lands with the thought to spill blood.

It was a clever scout who alerted Thorongil to the approaching horde of Orcs. More like a man of the Dúnedain than Rohan he seemed, for what should have been a simple ride around the perimeter of their camp before joining the day's exercises, became two hours of hard riding and sharp eyed tracking once the scout caught wind of the Enemy. He returned to Thorongil saddle-sore and breathless -- but with a full report of the approaching force.

The report was what ensured their victory. The éoreds mustered and laid a trap for the horde on the Field of Celebrandt between the fording points of the Anduin and Limlight. Only the scant few Orcs who fled the battlefield escaped with their lives. Six men of Rohan died that day, and three later succumbed to their injuries upon return to Edoras.

(Even now, if he so chose, he could still recite their names, the wound that felled them, and their next of kin.)

The selfsame scout who made the report rode on ahead to deliver word of their victory and early return to Thengel King, and he bore with him a letter from his Undermarshal describing in exacting detail how he had served Rohan and his King. Scout became Second Lieutenant that day, and years later, upon the departure of Thorongil from Rohan, he took the place of Undermarshal.

Thorongil and his men returned to great fanfare in the city of Edoras. Thengel King opened Meduseld to all, and the feast that followed rivaled only the High Days of Jól and Lithe. Being as it was the sunscorched days of August, they supped on the light and sweet fares of summer, and chased the lingering taste of copper and fear from their tongues with a pale, sugared liquor made of grain and apples. It did not burn the throat, but it stoked a fire in the gut.

Rosy fingered dawn gentled Thorongil to waking the day after the feast. The endless skies of the Mark, lit up with the promise of a new day, were not a welcome sight, for his head pounded in time with the chirping of the birds, bile teased the base of his esophagus when he dared to move, and straw and dirt were tangled in his hair. There too was a peculiar soreness, almost a stinging, at the spot where shoulder met neck, which he was unable to puzzle out the cause of while he took stock of his body.

The explanation came quickly enough. On his right, there was a muffled sound of slow and unhappy waking. Unwisely, he snapped his neck to the side to find the source. He had to clench his eyes shut and breath deep for long moments before he mastered the desire to heave after such an exertion, but it mattered little, for he had his answer. Dark hair spread like a halo over the yellow hay, and there was the tease of a creamy shoulder where her shift had slipped down overnight. Barred from him in her sleep, were eyes darker than the Orc blood that whetted his sword days before. In the smoky hall of Meduseld, she’d smelt, inexplicably, of elanor, and had fed him candied dates from her long fingers before they snuck away together. Her name was --. Her name was...

Sefa! Her name was Sefa. Thorongil shook with laughter when he remembered, and then swiftly regretted the movement. Sefa, daughter of Sefi. He did not know the man, so he could not speak to his temperament, but tranquil did not describe his daughter -- if the bite mark stinging its way to a bruise at the base of his neck had anything to say about it.

When Sefa roused herself and saw Thorongil was already awake, she flashed him a coy smile that eased into sweetness when he reached up to pluck a stray bit of straw from her hair. She laid a kiss on his brow in parting, and left him there in the hay to return to the house she shared with her sister. She married the next summer -- Halig became her husband, a man in one of Thorongil’s éoreds. Later, Thorongil would learn they had met that same night. Halig was kind, and moved south with Sefa to tend to a cot of land along the border of Gondor, after she produced a babe.

Thorongil never spoke to her again, save a passing, polite word at the wedding. She was a fond, if hazy, memory.

Aragorn had not thought of Sefa, or their tumble in the hay, or the drink-sick dawn that followed, in decades. But flashes of that far-flung morning greeted him as he woke. Still fogged over with sleep, he wondered at what could have inspired his dreaming mind to conjure thoughts of her. But then his full faculties returned, and the answer was obvious.

Aragorn’s room in Imladris was bare save for the necessities. The only exception to this was the trunk tucked beneath his bed, which held childhood trinkets, mementos of sentiment, and the scarce letters he had received from his mother over the years. The trunk was not in its usual spot. This he learned by cracking his big toe against the pine siding when he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He stared at the offending object for a moment, surprised, until he remembered dragging it out after he retired to his room the night before.

He’d failed to neaten up the strewn about contents before he fell into bed, and this bothered him. A result of being in Imladris, mayhap. The years melted away when he returned to the valley of his youth, and oft he was glad for it. But a man of his age had no reason to rise and shuffle to set his possessions to rights, due to a misguided fear that Elrond would appear at his door and fix him with a disappointed stare for not keeping his quarters more orderly. Of the last he returned to the trunk was a single hand-length of hemp rope that was frayed along the ends.

He held it up against the grey, early light of dawn blooming in his east-facing window. He twirled it once, and then let his fingers close around it. It had become smooth with time and wear, and no longer scratched his skin as it had over sixty years ago. No, now his hands were the rough and abrading thing. A dark, bitter urge to toss it irreverently into the trunk, slam the lid, and kick the box back beneath his bed rose in him, but he mastered it. He did as he ought to, and tucked it and the trunk away with care.

His mouth was dry and had the lingering, sour taste of wine, and his toe throbbed unhappily. Aragorn felt a dark cloud upon his thoughts, and he had little hope it would fade during the coming day.

Elrohir found him shortly after cock’s crow. A good distance from the rooms occupied by Elrond’s family was a flat yard of moss and dirt. It was outfitted with training dummies and targets, and was only a short walk from their private armory. It was at the age of ten, when he was still Estel, that Aragorn was first allowed to run himself ragged here, locked in pretend battle with the wood-and-straw forces of the Enemy.

“‘Tis an early morning even for you,” Elrohir called to him.

Aragorn did not reply. He dragged his foot back for counterbalance, relaxed his shoulders, and swung his arms around to land a brutal and exacting strike on the neck of the training dummy. The steel of his sword sang as it sliced cleanly through the air, and the moment of impact announced itself with a loud crack. The wooden neck splintered, wobbled, and then fell to the ground unceremoniously. Aragorn wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Has your hearing withered so in your dotage?”

Aragorn sheathed his sword and turned around. Elrohir had crossed onto the training yard properly, and was waiting for a response with his hands clasped behind his back and a put-upon grim expression.

“You have--” Aragorn paused to run the math in his head, “three-and-thirty times my years. If I am in my dotage, how do you still draw breath?” The words were meant to tease, but they came out with an unintended bite.

“Do not let the jealousy of the Second Born taint so fair a morning,” Elrohir scolded -- but a smile cracked through his stern mask, and ruined the effect. “But I say again, ‘tis early, and the night was long. What trouble has brought you here?”

Aragorn drew up the hem of his shirt to better wipe away the sweat of his head and neck. The movement hid his face from his brother for a moment, and that served to his advantage. “I know not,” he answered, and went to retrieve the cast off head of his slain, imagined foe.

Elrohir caught his arm before he could move. Serious in voice now, he said, “have we come to lying to one another? The last time you spoke falsely to me, you were thirteen and had shattered a token Ada received in Gil-Galad’s service.” Aragorn kept his eyes cast to the ground. The moss was in the stasis of winter -- evergreen like the valley, but it would not grow until spring. “What could cause a recurrence of the behavior now?”

“I’ve shattered no more heirlooms of your house, if that is your chief concern,” Aragorn said, and again failed to pitch his tone correctly. Another result of returning to Imladris -- the vagaries of youthful moods at times possessed him. He drew his arm away from his brother with a sigh, and turned to face him properly. “I apologize.”

Elrohir shook his head. “Unneeded.” He brought his hand to Aragorn’s arm again, more lightly this time. He steered him in the direction of the seating that lined the training yard. “I have water,” he said, producing a waterskin from his belt. “Drink, and speak.”

Aragorn cast himself onto the hard bench. The wood was dark and damp with dew. Its fresh coolness soothed the exertion of the morning. He drank deeply from the waterskin. “Drinking and speaking are the cause of the trouble,” he told Elrohir, with little humor.

With an arched brow that made him look terribly like Elrond, he said, “oh?”

“Look less like your father before I speak to you of this, if you would.”

Elrohir laughed. “I beg pardon for my face.”

“Granted,” Aragorn said, and a small measure of amusement forced its way onto his expression.

An old game, that was. Borne from his twentieth summer, after he had learned the truth of his heritage. His brothers begged pardon from ‘the King of Gondor’ for every small and insignificant slight. Their teasing had smarted until Arwen suggested he refuse them their imagined pardons, and turn the game on its head. It worked too well, and before his departure at the end of the summer, Elrohir and Elladan had both gone down on their knees, and with great humor, begged for clemency and their lives from the merciless tyrant of the south.

Elrohir drew him out of his reverie with a simply spoken, “tell me of the trouble.”

“I dreamt of a woman from Rohan as I wandered back to waking. It has been decades since I thought of her, and nearly half a century since our meeting.” He chose his words with care. Even by the time he came to be Thorongil, Aragorn had learned to hold fast to the reins of his tongue. What need was there to speak, if one did not mean what one said? But it was difficult, looking into the open concern of his brother’s face, not to let words and memory and worries pour out unexamined.

He paused for too long, and Elrohir took the silence as an invitation to comment. “Half a century? Tell me you do not pine for her still!”

Aragorn shook his head. “No,” he said. “Let me speak.”

“Speak then, and do not stare at me while your mind rides the rapids of your memory.”

“I thought of her when I awoke, and first the memory gave me pause. I did not know what brought it about. But the cause was clear when I gave it a moment’s thought. My pride would say I took too much of the wine last night, but as you were doing the pouring, I cannot in good conscience make such a claim.” He took another drink of water.

His conference with Elladan and Elrohir had been nearly all business. A member of Elrond’s house brought along food and wine to the meeting chamber, but he had been eager for news, and paid the spread little mind. Only before he left to join the rest of the guests in the Hall of Fire had they taken a moment to toast to their unlooked-for reunion. Legolas in turn had plied him with a cup or two, glad to meet again after time apart. But that indulgence did not begin to challenge that which led to the memory that harried him now.

“Our dalliance was brief and on the tail end of revelry,” he continued. “Little more than the impulsive tumbling of youth. But the memory is a good one -- the result of fine feasting under the stars after a hard fought victory. Last night was similar enough, and it was that which summoned the thought of her.”

A curious expression fell across Elrohir’s face then. Aragorn watched him sift through the residents of Imladris, and try to discern who amongst them Aragorn might have had such an encounter with. He came up short, as expected. Nearly all the Elves of Elrond’s house still saw Aragorn as the precocious child he had once been. “Who--” he started, and then brightened. “Your foundling-lady!” He declared, pleased with himself. Confusion returned then. “Why would such enjoyment trouble you?”

“You misunderstand me,” Aragorn said. “Nothing of the sort occurred, but I was, mayhap, too free as we spoke. “

“Did she protest?”

He blinked. In the brief respite, he remembered -- the flutter of her eyelashes when he leaned in close to speak, her gaze wandering down to his mouth, the boneless way she melted into him when he tugged her in to ease the chill, and the low scrape of her voice as she asked what he would have named her. “Nay,” he said, and drained the waterskin dry. “She made no protest.”

Elrohir sighed. “There will come a day, I hope, where you do not tangle yourself so tightly in knots over nothing more than the worries of your mind. If nothing happened, and she made no protestations besides, then what is the trouble?”

“I indulged the impulse, even though I knew it was foolish,” Aragorn said, with a sudden fierceness. “She has no family here, no idea how she arrived and no hope of returning home, even though she wishes to.” He closed his eyes and saw the troubled, broken look on her face that night in Bree, when she decried Middle-earth and all its cruelty. “She has put herself in the path of incomprehensible danger to help the people of Middle-earth, though she swore no oath nor owes no obligation to do it.” He deflated then, and the ferocity of his tone gave way to weariness. “And I paid her in kind by whispering to her under the stars in hopes to woo her like she was a feast-willing woman of no import.” There was another sin he was guilty of here, but it was not one he would speak of to Elrohir. Only Arwen knew, though she scarcely believed him.

His impassioned rant earned him a shake of the head from Elrohir. “There are times I think we let Arwen have an undue influence on you in your youth,” he said. “If Elladan heard this, he would pick you up and throw you at your lady.” He grinned, fey bordering on feral. “You are lucky I am the more sensible twin.”

“If I had a piece of gold for every time you or your brother said that to me, I could buy the Kingdom of Gondor outright.”

“And you would make us princes of your kingdom in thanks,” Elrohir snapped back. “Listen to me, Estel: what harm can come from following the yearning of your heart -- nay, even your loins, if it be in truth such a base thing? I worry we’ve made you too like the Eldar. You are a Man, and there is no fault in behaving as such, no matter what small disapproval it may spark in Ada or Amil. Tell me plainly: do you believe such overtures are unwelcome?”

A beat. “I do not think them right on my part.”

“Plainly, I said, Estel,” and Elrohir looked so like Elrond again that the child in Aragorn responded at once.

“No.” The word was ripped from his throat like the shameful admission he did not know the answer to a question asked of him in his schooling. Elrohir smiled, pleased, and Aragorn was looking at his brother once more. “That is an uncanny thing you do,” he muttered.

“So you have said before. Once more, plainly, tell me, if they be not unwelcome, do you think they are welcome?” Elrohir asked, and for a brief moment Aragorn hated him for making the distinction.

“I could not say,” he responded, and he truly couldn’t. Since springtime, he had caught her in the occasional curious glance. They had traded heated words in Cardolan, and she had teased him mercilessly on the main street of Bree. The spell that had overtaken them both the night before had been obvious in its desire. Elrohir asked a question that should have had a simple answer. But there was uncertainty -- insecurity, an irritating, bitter-truthed voice in his mind offered -- that gave him pause when it came to making sense of Harper.

Harper could not know the quiet affection that colored her voice when she spoke of his fictional counterpart -- or any of her fiction at all. If she did, she would certainly make an effort to stopper it. But it was plain to see, and it worried him. Not only for his own ignoble reasons, but for the state of her heart. She was troubled already by the ruthless and chaotic truth of Middle-earth, and though she clung to the joy her tales had inspired in her in more familiar climes, stories could not ward the soul against blood and battle and death.

Her heart might persevere, for she had a peculiar strength of spirit that left him breathless. If Eru Ilúvatar had any mercy, it would.

Yet mercy was not the hand that cradled Aragorn, nor any of his blood. He was a fine enough looking man, this he knew. Better for it when he was not freshly returned from long stretches of time amongst beasts and fields and little else. He was skilled in word and deed, and he strove to do right whenever he could. Those were good qualities to have, in both life and love.

But here was the rub: some months had passed and they had grown closer, and he hoped she might, at the least, consider him a friend. Even as a friend, could he be the man she read of in her world? He did not think it was possible. What an ugly thing to consider -- even while doling out terror and pain, Middle-earth could live up to her expectations, while he fell short.

There would be no one else to blame for his failings, either. Aragorn, wanted, at times, to seize her book from her and summon his other-self hence, and demand to know how he had done it. Harper saw in him a man who might reunite the kingdoms, while his brothers had come last night with tidings of disease and hunger from the Angle. How could he claim kingship of anything when he was failing as a simple chieftain?

If Harper desired him, she desired this other, better version of himself -- and she was right to. Maybe it was cowardice that enticed to think as much, but did that not prove his reasoning? He could strive to be this other-self, pretend fiercely and hope it stuck. But in the end, it would only be pretending, and she deserved the truth, not a shadow of it. Not a man who refused to tell her everything.

“One would think,” Elrohir remarked, “I would learn someday how not to launch you into the catastrophic morbidity of your mind with a few simple words.”

“It does not matter if it is welcome or not,” Aragorn said, ignoring Elrohir’s rueful musing.

“Wherefore?”

“What time is there to strive for it? How can I weigh my own heart over the battle against the Enemy? You are right. I am only a Man. And what lays before my feet might yet claim my life. There is no sense in casting my eyes up to great heights when the strings of fate have hemmed me neatly into a death in service. I will perish as my father and all our fathers before us -- slowly, and with little glory.”

Elrohir frowned, great worry creasing the smooth plains of his ageless face. “Estel!” He cried. “Do not speak of such things.” This was not the affected sternness of a shared father, but the heartache of an older brother. He stared silently at Aragorn for a moment, until he came to understand. “You must spend less time with the Ringbearer. The Enemy has cast his Shadow over you.”

Aragorn looked away, shamed and furious at once.

He reached out, and grabbed Aragorn’s hand tightly with his own, and drew his gaze back with it. “Listen to me closely, and do not forget: your heart is all that separates you from the Enemy. He is the right hand of wretchedness and despair, and he will prevail once he drives out all thought for love and peace and fellowship. It is not our duty, not your duty, to trudge through an unhappy life only to fall on the sword of another at the end of it. If blood could wash away his influence, there would not be a trace of him left upon Arda. It is our hearts to which we have the greatest obligation, for they are what allow us to see through his treachery, and if we are careful in their keeping, oppose it.”

Elrohir’s words swept away the great cloud of darkness that had hemmed in around Aragorn. He took in a gasping breath, thrown off kilter by the sudden absence of weight on his soul. Was this what Harper had spoken of, on the way to Amon Sul? He’d heard the sly whisperings of the Ring before now, but not this. Shaken, he reached for the discarded waterskin and wrung a few final droplets from it.

“I did not--” Aragorn cringed as he recalled his words through the black haze that had settled in around him. Slowly, and with little glory. His words dishonored the memory of his father, and the dedicated companionship of his brothers. Elrohir had watched Arathorn die. Elladan had too. “I am sorry,” he managed. Elrohir squeezed his shoulder.

“Unneeded,” he repeated. He allowed Aragorn a moment to catch his breath. “Tell me now, from your heart, and not the stinking cloud of the Enemy: what say you regarding this lady?”

There was no debate to be had. “Aye,” he said. “My heart says aye. Though I have my misgivings.”

“Of her?”

“Nay.” Another easy answer. More difficult then, “of myself. She is bright, and young, and could do better than a battered ranger who cannot own his own name.”

He knew now why the memory of Rohan had come to him -- Thorongil would fare far, far better than he in this situation. He had come to Rohan not yet a man of thirty. Young, foolhardy, and still enchanted by a daydream of glory. Thorongil did not have old scars that ached when it rained, and had not yet suffered under the cruel torture-knife of the Enemy. Nor did he balk and sweat when a beautiful woman dressed for a feast smiled at him.

The lonely years and countless leagues had made Aragorn strange -- a stranger, even to himself. In truth, it had been Thorongil more than he who tugged Harper close the night before, and she had relished it. Estel, too, though he was young for her, would have a measure of courtliness she would find charming. (Aragorn saw how she blushed when he called her ‘Lady’ -- it was not decency that stopped him from doing it all the time, but fear that it might lose some of its effect.)

“Does she not know your name?” Elrohir asked.

“She knows it.” She knew all of them, listed them rote upon their meeting in the South Downs -- and had only asked him to give the truest of them in exchange for her trust.

“She knows your story, too?”

Aragorn had told the tale -- briefly, but in full -- to his brothers last night. “You know that she does,” he said.

“But it seems suddenly that you do not. She knows your name, she knows your history, and she has seen you rolling in the dirt of Eriador as you tend to do. Yet here you are, smothering a spark with your self-doubt and indecision. You have the better part of a century under your tattered belt, but right now I feel as if you had more sense when you were ten, and thought you could coax Manwë’s Eagles down from Mount Taniquetil across the sea.”

Elrohir was rapidly losing his patience. Aragorn could not fault him -- Elladan would have smacked him upside the head with his own sword ten minutes prior. Arwen, when he would doubtless repeat this conversation with her in the coming days, was likely to laugh at him all the way through it. Elrohir was, truly, the best sibling to talk of this with.

Elrohir sighed. “There is still something you have not said. Out with it, so we may find you somewhat to eat and get you a bath before the bells ring for the Council.”

Startled, Aragorn stared at him in bafflement for a moment before he understood. “How am I supposed to best a man on a page?” The words were bitter as they left his mouth, but he felt immediately lighter for speaking them. The idea had troubled him since Bree.

Running a hand through his hair, Elrohir muttered, “Elbereth.” Then he laughed. “Is this what troubles you so? Estel, you are the only person I have met who could covet attention paid to himself. She not only came fully formed from the sky with tidings of victory, but was forewarned to all your oddities, and still endeared to you? And you have taken issue with this? Any other Man, Elf, Dwarf, Hobbit, or even foul Orc would sing at the sheer luck of it. But you are upset because you do not feel you have earned it.” An exasperated shake of the head. “Do you know what I say to that?”

“What?”

“Earn it, then. If you do not, another will.”

Aragorn huffed a laugh. “As if it is so simple!” He had to say it, though he took the point.

“Nothing in life is simple,” Elrohir allowed. “But it cannot stop us from living.” He stood. “Come. There are only a few hours until Ada expects us. We will break our fast and you can tell me more of your lady. It was clear to me that it pained you to keep your description of her brief, last night.”

Aragorn followed Elrohir away from the training ground. He was not unburdened, but the load felt lighter for having shared it. Briefly, he felt a stirring of regret that he had promised Harper to introduce her to Elrohir and Elladan. Elrohir would enjoy teasing him far too much once he did. But he had earned it, Aragorn supposed.

Earn it. A near impossible task. Or so it felt to Aragorn in that moment. But he thought then of Thorongil, and how he might think to rise to the challenge of it -- or even Estel, gobsmacked and taken aback by beauty unlooked for but found regardless. How true that surprise rang, even down the long line of years -- the wisp returned whenever he thought least to look for it.

He needed to talk to Arwen.

Chapter Text

Trouble at The Council of Elrond began the moment Harper arrived. That being -- she was the first to arrive.

That there was any trouble -- besides the obvious -- at The Council surprised her. Admittedly, this was the point where she began to doze during the first film if she started watching it too late. But still, she knew what would happen by heart. Upon waking, her biggest fear had been that the day would drone on intolerably long. She had hoped Bilbo would be there to demand a lunch break like he did in the book.

Her crucial mistake: she’d forgotten her own unbelonging.

Harper arrived at the empty courtyard, saw two dozen or so empty chairs arranged in a neat circle around a central podium, and felt a flare of feeling long forgotten: the stress of choosing a seat at school lunch when all your friends were absent. Where should she sit?

At the feast, the wine had been rich and lovely, and she had indulged during supper and after. But she had not overindulged to the point of all encompassing, fanciful imagination. She knew there was something in the air between her and Aragorn in that courtyard. The twitching remains of the butterflies in her stomach proved it. His warmth, his closeness, the way he leaned down and whispered in her ear -- she shuddered to remember it. But then the spell broke, and they argued -- no, they spoke, and then she tried to argue, and he walked away to find the nearest Hobbit shaped distraction.

What terms were they about to greet each other on? She didn’t know. That irritated her. That Aragorn -- who had from the beginning been a source of comfort in the face of uncertainty -- had become an uncertainty in his own right irritated her even more.

She used to be better at this, at processing her own emotions and understanding the emotions of others. Every time she thought she was one step closer to having a firm grip on her friendship with Aragorn, something crumbled beneath her feet and sent her scrambling for more solid ground. Harper wished the Fellowship had somehow appeared in her world, instead. What the modern-earth equivalent to The Cracks of Doom might be, she did not know, but she would have had an easier time navigating the social aspects of her misadventure if it had all happened in reverse.

The ugly truth: Harper was operating on a low, constant level of dissociation, and had been for months. There were moments when it really bothered her. Like when Merry told a particularly funny joke and she only felt a distant pang of amusement, or when Aragorn gave her that small, private smile of his and it barely brushed the curtain of her heart.

The dissociation was a sensible, unconscious act of self-preservation against being wholly unmoored from reality, and so far she’d been pretty good about allowing her some grace for her distance. But now, standing awkwardly in the center of the courtyard, she found that the metaphorical well she drew her self-given grace from had finally run dry.

This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. Harper focused on what she knew. Elrond and his family would sit at the top of the circle. Gandalf and the Hobbits would come next. Then the Elves, then the Dwarves, and then Boromir. Aragorn would sit on the side of Elrond’s family not occupied by the Hobbits and Gandalf. Her options were few: to sit next to the Ring for hours on end, be caught between the enmity of the Elves and Dwarves, or operate as an unfortunate buffer between Boromir and Aragorn.

She didn’t like it, but the answer was obvious. The seat between Aragorn and Boromir was the only one she would be able to tolerate, even if she wouldn’t tolerate it well. Buffer it was. Any resulting awkwardness between her and Aragorn after last night was a bridge she would burn when she crossed it.

Shortly after Harper took her seat, Elrond arrived, and with him came Celebrían, Arwen, and two tall, dark haired Elves who were identical to the point of making her feel cross-eyed. Elrond and Celebrían nodded politely at her, Arwen smiled, and the twins gave her silent, appraising looks. They all sat, and then Aragorn followed.

Aragorn failed to take a seat, and Harper did not look at him. She let her eyes roam over the courtyard instead. Arwen whispered a few words to one of the twins. The spacing between the chairs was precise and exacting. A pair of doves sat on the branch of a nearby tree, cooing. All these things she studied with determined focus and she failed to properly register any of them; Aragorn hovered behind the seat meant for him, and his presence made every hair on the back of her neck rise.

Oh, but damn Aragorn and the effect he had on her, Harper thought. Not just the butterflies and the blushing but this -- the way he brought her back into her body completely for brief and baffling moments. She wasn’t used to it anymore. It was easier to miss being present in the world than it was to practice rejoining it.

Aragorn sat down. Harper turned to face him automatically, and then immediately wished she hadn’t. Aragorn spotted her movement and turned too. He nodded at her once, and afterwards the shadow of a frown flickered across his face. The silence between them was as noticeable as a staircase in an open field, and he looked to be debating whether or not to climb it.

Harper made the choice for him.

“Good morning,” she said, and tried to direct it to the group rather than him alone. Her volume was right for it, but her eyes were glued to his, and so she ended up feeling like she’d shouted in his face more than anything else. Aragorn flinched, either from the volume or the suddenness of the greeting. Harper considered returning to the Ford and letting the Bruinen finish the job.

A moment of silent discomfort the likes of which she had not felt since she was fourteen.

“Good morning,” he greeted her in kind, but at a more appropriate volume, and then said nothing else. Harper turned away and debated taking her chances sitting next to the Ring.

The other attendees began to arrive. First the Dwarves, Gimli and Glóin among them, and on their heels a gaggle of Elves -- but with enough room left between the two groups that nobody could claim they had arrived together. Heaven-fucking-forbid, Harper thought. Bilbo arrived after Legolas and the miscellaneous Elves, and greeted the whole group with a cheerful hello before climbing onto the seat on the other side of Elrond’s family.

A few minutes passed. The courtyard was not silent. There were the birds, and the bubbling waters of the river, and small snatches of conversation traded between in-groups, none of which Harper belonged to. Aragorn’s awkward silence became a relief -- if she wasn’t the only one not talking, it was less weird. Or perhaps they were being weird together-but-separately, which was just as fine.

They were waiting on a few stragglers -- Gandalf and Frodo among them. When she heard twin sets of footsteps approaching from behind, Harper turned around in her seat. She intended to smile at them, glad to see familiar faces that she knew herself to be on speaking terms with. But it was not Frodo and Gandalf who came around the corner.

Boromir, son of Denethor, Captain of the White Tower, heir apparent to the Stewardship of Gondor, arrived at The Council of Elrond. He was tall and lordly, though rough around the edges after months of hard travel and misfortune. Maybe Harper would have spared a moment to consider how of all of the people she had met so far, he walked the line between book and film in appearance the most. Or, maybe she would have sympathized with his barely hidden exhaustion and nerves. But there was time for none of that, and there wouldn’t be for hours or days to come. Because next to him walked Faramir, son of Denethor, Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien.

Harper turned back around so quickly something in her neck twinged in protest. The movement, or perhaps the sudden rigidity of her spine, caught Aragorn’s attention. He rapped a knuckle against her knee in a bid for explanation, and then quickly drew his hand away. But she couldn’t even spare him a glance, let alone explain.

Boromir and Faramir entered the circle. Faramir surveyed the available seats for a moment -- his eyes drawn to Bilbo, no doubt entranced by his first sight of a Hobbit. If Boromir shared his wonder, it did not telegraph in his choices, because he spared only a passing glance to the spots beside Bilbo before he sat down next to Harper. Faramir took the seat on his other side.

Boromir glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, nodded, and offered a gruff, “lady,” in greeting, the tail end of which turned into a yawn he muffled with his palm. His jaw clenched with something like embarrassment.

She blinked stupidly at him, and heard herself say, “my lord,” back. It took all of her willpower not to crane her neck around him and stare at his brother with open shock on her face.

Gandalf and Frodo arrived less than a minute later, and The Council of Elrond began.

There were introductions -- she was named as “Lady Harper, come to us out of Eriador,” which she thought was an awful stretch of the truth. She could not mind the almost-lie of her origin, because it made Aragorn huff a near-silent laugh. She peeked over at him, and he caught her eye. He gave a minute shake of his head, and his mouth twitched in amusement. She rolled her eyes good-naturedly at him. And just like that, the uncertainty fled. There was still a discussion -- many discussions -- to be had between them, but they were okay for now. That provided more relief that she could express.

The tales told during The Council were long. Those that she had not heard before, she did not care about, because they would be of little use to her. Those that she had heard before -- well. She had heard them before. In days and weeks and years to come, Harper would only remember a handful of key points about The Council of Elrond. This, it seemed, was how it was meant to be. Tolkien himself began the scene with a note that not all that was discussed during The Council was laid down on his pages.

If asked why she remembered so little of the day, Harper would willingly point the finger to Faramir’s unexpected appearance. During The Council, she struggled to appear like she was paying the smallest bit of attention. The civil debates and less-than-civil arguments and winding stories barely registered. She was preoccupied with only this: what in the world was Faramir doing here, and what mystery and disaster did that forebode?

Noon crept up on them all, and the inevitable happened. Frodo volunteered to take the Ring to Mordor. His voice was small, but strong, and Harper’s heart shattered. And in that moment, her commitment to the Quest was renewed. It struck her, deep through the stomach, all the way back to the base of her spine, how remarkable the bravery of Hobbits truly was. Frodo was going to save the world, and he claimed his task -- which none but him and his uncle had volunteered for -- while standing knock-kneed in the center of a circle of The Great and Powerful of Middle-earth.

When The Council broke, Aragorn tugged at the edge of her cloak before Harper could rise and follow the rest to lunch. She paused, and fiddled with her bootlaces until they were left alone in the courtyard. Bilbo was the last to leave, and he graced them with a mischievous smile before he followed Frodo and Gandalf away. Harper rolled her eyes at Bilbo, and then caught Aragorn glowering at his retreating figure. He met her eye, and they both laughed -- breathless and uncomfortable.

Silence fell between them. Irritation flashed across Aragorn’s face, and disappeared as quickly as it came when he set his jaw. “I owe you an apology for last night,” he said at last.

“Oh?”

He nodded. “I let my own doubts get the better of me, and treated you poorly for it. I am loth to blame my failings on any but myself, but I cannot deny the nearness of the Ring has troubled me as of late. Though I have only recently come to see it.” He shook his head to banish some private thought. “You trusted me with what you know, and I failed to repay you for that trust. I am sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Harper said, instantly and with great feeling. He had annoyed -- and alarmed -- her after their conversation about Boromir. But had she ever even thought about how the Ring might be affecting him? It was too easy to focus only on how it made Harper’s stomach roll and heave with its sweetsick song. Aragorn might not hear the music, but the Ring still spoke to him. She’d done him an equally severe disservice by overlooking that fact.

Aragorn didn’t seem to know what to do with her easy forgiveness, and cast his eyes downward. He did not reply.

Harper made a small, hurt noise and laid her hand over his. “Hey -- no, look at me.” He did. There was a blush on his cheeks that may have been from shame, or the sun, or a combination of the two. “That thing is fucking evil. You were the one who told me that it twists our most fundamental qualities until we can’t recognize ourselves. There is nothing wrong with being afraid of causing harm, or nervous about taking on big responsibilities. Those are good things.”

“I must strive to be above such manipulation.” The words sounded like they were ripped from his throat.

Frustration sparked in Harper’s chest. She took her hand away and ran it through her hair. The courtyard was empty now, and the podium no longer held the Ring or the sword that had cut it from Sauron’s hand. She looked back to Aragorn, and leveled him with a serious look that made him blink in surprise.

“Do you want the truth?” She asked, and her voice had a hard edge to it that she couldn’t help. A beat. Then he nodded. “Good. If we’re gonna talk about what I do and do not know, then we should start with this: you are not above the power of the Ring. None of us are. That’s the whole point. You can drive yourself mad with ancestral guilt trying to be better than Isildur, or you can accept this. Nobody is asking you to best the Ring, only to endure it. And this is what enduring it looks like. Apologies after the fact, considering your own behavior, and holding each other accountable. Anything else is a losing game.”

A dozen different emotions fought for dominance on Aragorn’s face. His eyes flashed, and Harper thought she was about to be treated to the indignation of Kings of Old. Instead, he took a deep, calming breath, and turned sheepish. He scrubbed a hand over his beard. “Though I do not like it, you are correct,” he admitted. “But my apology stands.”

“And so does my forgiveness.”

Aragorn laughed -- a bright, startled sound. “In Bree, when you called yourself stubborn, I was a fool to not consider the full truth of those words.”

Harper blushed. “Hey, I warned you.”

“Aye, you did.” They smiled at one another. Then Aragorn turned serious again. “This is not the place for such a discussion, but from your reactions today, am I right to assume somewhat has changed again?”

“It has.”

“I think Elrond will want to hear of it, as will Gandalf. I plan to dine with my siblings this evening, but after, would you come and speak with me?” His uncertainty was the same as it had been the day before when he asked her the same question. Harper wanted to laugh at him. Did he think a single, half-argument would prevent her from telling him whatever he asked? He really must have no idea.

“Of course. I’ll find you when I’m done talking to Elrond.” She’d almost forgotten about Faramir while they’d been talking, and the reality of it hit her anew. She grimaced. “There’s a lot we need to talk about.”

“That is what I feared. But come, you were close to cheering when Bilbo suggested lunch. The morning was long, and you must be hungry.” Aragorn stood, and offered her his hand so he could help her up. Harper took it, after the briefest of hesitations. Her gaze lingered on the scar that ran from where thumb met forefinger, and then up the length of his sleeve.

Lunch was quick and simple, but delicious. After asking Elrond if she could talk to him later on, Harper spent the rest of the afternoon alone, wandering through Rivendell. It was a beautiful day, and when she decided to walk she had hoped to find some peace along the shaded backpaths, but it eluded her. Her thoughts turned to Boromir and Faramir no matter how she tried to redirect them.

Harper had too many questions, and she was terrified she wouldn’t be able to answer any of them in time. Who guarded Gondor now that both her Captains were gone? In a few months time would they come to find the White City overrun with Orcs and stained with the blood of its people? Could Denethor manage without both of his sons, and more importantly, could Gondor? If she managed to get them both killed --

Come dusk, an Elf found her and told her that Elrond was ready to speak with her. Harper stopped by her room to retrieve her copy of the trilogy, and then made her way to his study.

In a rare stroke of convenience, Gandalf was already there. He and Elrond sat in the chairs in front of the fireplace, with mugs of tea in hand and endless maps scattered between them. For the most part, the visit was short and of little note. She handed off the book, told Elrond he could keep it for as long as he liked as long as he gave it back to her at some point. It felt foolish to admit, since it retained very little practical use, but it had become an object of comfort for Harper. It reminded her that she had been somewhere, been someone else, before all this -- that there was a time when this was nothing more than a story she admired.

“I will be sure to return it as soon as I can,” Elrond promised her. The sad slope of his mouth hinted that he knew Harper was attached to it. He was so well meaning Harper couldn’t find fault with his pity. “But I ask for a moment of your time before you depart,” he added, when she turned to leave.

“Oh, yeah -- sure.” Harper looked around. There wasn’t really anywhere to sit. There were a lot of maps. Many of them were old and delicate looking, and she cringed at the thought of damaging them by trying to clear a space to sit. She would just stand.

“You seemed surprised by the arrival of the sons of Denethor,” Elrond stated plainly.

Ah. So Aragorn hadn’t been the only one to notice. Harper hoped that Boromir and Faramir hadn’t registered her reaction, at least. “I was surprised by one of them, to be more specific,” she said. “Faramir shouldn’t be here. He should be back in Minas Tirith. Or maybe Ithilien. I’m not sure.”

He considered this. “Naught else changed from your story?” Elrond asked.

“Not that I noticed?” If she’d known there was going to be a quiz, she would have paid more attention. Two incidents did not a pattern make, but Harper thought she should just assume from now on there would be a reading (living?) comprehension check whenever she went to see Elrond. Then, she pictured Aragorn-as-Estel, schoolboy aged and sweating under Elrond’s impassive gaze as he struggled to remember the name of the fifth King of Numenor. She bit her lip to stop from grinning at the thought.

Elrond and Gandalf didn’t see the fondness on Harper’s face. Instead, they exchanged a long, silent look that she couldn’t decode. Gandalf, with tea in hand and a blanket across his lap, and his staff nowhere in sight, looked more like an old wanderer than he had in weeks. Even in the warm light of the room he looked pale, and there were dark circles under his usually-bright eyes.

Oh. “Frodo is supposed to do it,” Harper assured them. “He has to. He’s the only one.” Elrond just nodded, but Gandalf closed his eyes to hide the sorrow that welled up in him. “I’m sorry,” Harper added lamely. She almost told him he survives -- almost. But everything had changed so much already. What if Frodo didn’t survive, and she had been the one to give Gandalf false hope? She wouldn’t be able to stand it.

“There is the matter of the company who will go with him,” Elrond said. “Should Faramir be asked to accompany the Ringbearer?” The Council had concluded as it had in the books, namely, with no ‘my sword, my bow, my axe’, which Harper was honest enough to admit disappointed her. It would be a few weeks until the Fellowship was named in full.

She had considered this at length on her walk. “I think he has to,” she answered. “If you tried to send him home, Boromir wouldn’t take it well, and it would make things worse in the long run. And the same goes for if you asked Boromir to return to Gondor instead. If they’re both here, they’re both going.”

Elrond nodded. He glanced at Gandalf. Another inscrutable look. Gandalf nodded once. “And what would you say if you were asked to accompany Frodo?” Elrond asked. His eyes were starbright and searching.

This was the million dollar question, and Harper knew she had no lifelines. “I think I have to,” she said. She tried and failed to keep the fear out of her voice. “No. I know I have to. I would never be able to forgive myself if I didn’t.” She laughed. “Plus, what else do I have going on around here? Might as well,” she added, in a weak, sarcastic attempt at levity. It didn’t land. Somewhere, her therapist was feeling disappointed in her for falling back on old coping skills.

“You would be welcome here,” Elrond said gravely, “for as long as you desired to stay. You have put much at risk to come this far. The debt owed to you is greater than is in my power to repay.”

Harper’s attempt at keeping her face neutral failed, and her chin wobbled pathetically. “Thank you,” she said thickly. “Really, I appreciate that. But I’m serious. I have to go. I might not know how I got here, or who’s responsible -- but I know I have to do this.”

“You would prove a worthy addition,” Gandalf said, with the utmost sincerity. It warmed Harper’s heart. She smiled at him in thanks, and ignored how hot tears welled up in her eyes.

“It will be the Ringbearer's decision, in the end,” Elrond said. “Though I think he would be glad to have you among those who go with him. But there is still much to discuss. I will ask you more about your willingness in the coming days,” Elrond said. It was a dismissal -- his eyes began to wander back to the map spread across his knees.

Harper turned to leave, and then paused. “Oh,” she said. “I wanted to talk with Aragorn about The Council, but he said he was going to have supper with the twins and Arwen tonight, and I don’t actually know where they--”

Elrond cut her off with a small smile. “If you take that door,” he motioned to the far side of the room where an exit to a balcony was, “and follow the stairs down, you will find them easily enough.”

“Thank you,” Harper said again.

“Tell Estel I still expect to see him in the morning,” Elrond added, in a wry voice that made Harper blush. Harper promised she would, and all but ran out of the room.

She followed the staircase down and it brought her to a central yard that was surrounded by the family’s suites. The door to Arwen’s balcony was open and a curtain fluttered inwards with the wind. It was dark, but the moon and stars were out in full force, and there were lamps lit along the path to guide the way. Harper heard a pair of voices in the near distance, and followed their sounds.

Coming around a corner, Harper spotted Aragorn and Arwen around the same time she drew close enough to make out individual words. They spoke quickly and in Sindarin, and Arwen sounded tense as she said, “allu-ni garant alsavin pethlin, sennui Harper-”

Harper froze. Stopping short, she tripped, and swore as she tried to find her balance. She’d stumbled onto a conversation about herself, and it was already too late to leave without being seen. The sounds she’d made had carried. Arwen stopped speaking. She and Aragorn turned around to look over at her.

“Uh--” Harper said. “I can go, if you guys--”

“Nonsense,” Arwen said. “Come here. I have kept Estel for too long already. I knew he intended to meet with you.” Aragorn, for his part, turned back around at once, and from the subtle movement of his head, seemed to be whispering quietly to Arwen.

Harper did as she was told. They were sitting on a bench near one of the lamps, and the light of the flame illuminated the far sides of their faces. Arwen waited patiently as Harper approached. Harper shifted her weight restlessly. “I really can go if you guys need time. It’s late and I don’t mind waiting until tomorrow.” She tried to catch Aragorn’s eye while she spoke, but he refused to look directly at her, and instead focused on the hem of her shirtsleeve.

“I think not,” Arwen said. She looked to the stars for a moment and hummed in thought while she did. Aragorn bent his shoulders and took to studying his hands where they were clasped in his lap. Arwen swept herself up and then, with a gentle hand, guided Aragorn’s chin up and over to look her in the eye. “I have said to you all I mean to say to you on this subject. This is not a discussion you were meant to have with me.” The grim finality in her voice surprised Harper. She’d yet to see Arwen be anything but perfectly pleasant. Then it was her turn to withstand Arwen's gaze. “I will give you your privacy,” she said, and gave Harper a sad, nervous smile. “Come find me in the morning if you feel the need.”

“Arwen--” Aragorn protested, but she didn’t even acknowledge him. She turned and left. Harper swallowed against a hard lump forming in her throat. Of all the times for her to accidentally interrupt them, did it have to be when they were obviously talking about her? Harper and Aragorn watched Arwen drift across the yard and disappear inside. It was a long time before either of them broke the silence.

“Will you sit?” Aragorn asked eventually. He still wouldn’t look at her. His shoulders were hunched up near his ears and he was coiled tight with an uneasy energy Harper had never seen in him before. It did little to comfort her.

“Yeah. Sure.” Harper hesitated. There was plenty of space on the bench. She didn’t want to sit directly next to him -- he looked about ready to vibrate out of his own skin, and she didn’t want to crowd him. But it felt insulting to cram herself against the opposite end of the bench. He was nervous, and she wanted to listen to what he had to say -- and letting a small canyon form between them didn’t feel like the best way to communicate that. Finally, she lost patience with her own hemming and hawing and sat firmly down in the middle of the available space.

Aragorn turned his attention to the wood grain of the bench. “I intended to ask you about The Council today,” he said. “Not only what caused you alarm, but what you thought of how it proceeded.”

“It wasn’t eight minutes long, I’ll tell you that much,” Harper said, thinking of how the morning had dragged on. Aragorn made a confused sound in response. “In the movie the scene gets cut down extensively. It’s less than ten minutes, start to finish.”

“Truly?” He asked.

“Yeah. It’s-- well. It’s an important scene, obviously, but nobody is going to sit through literal hours of dialogue, especially when so little of it has to do with the actual plot. Even the book abbreviates a bit, and it’s hard to say that about any other part of it.” Harper thought of all the overlong essays she’d submitted when she was still in school, and considered that there was a certain cosmic irony in getting trapped in the story of a man with a tendency to get lost in his own descriptions.

Aragorn thought about this for a moment, and then said, “and Frodo-”

“Did his part down to the letter, I’m sorry to say.” She shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll ever wrap my head around how he can do it. It’s so…” She trailed off. It had been painful to play witness to his internal battle before he volunteered to take the Ring.

“He is stout of heart,” Aragorn agreed.

“More than. It’s-- utter selflessness. It floors me every time I think about it.” Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. “But, uh, anyway,” she continued, wiping at her eyes. “It was interesting. Kind of strange, at times. I wanted to jump in and finish people’s sentences.”

“You know it by heart?” The tension in Aragorn’s shoulders had relaxed by a measure. He was fiddling with his ring now, and still not looking at her -- but he seemed more comfortable than he had been.

Harper huffed a self conscious sort of laugh. “Not quite. It’s usually the part in the film where I start to fall asleep, but it’s quotable, let's say.” She wasn’t going to try to teach him about memes right now.

“Is it odd?” Aragorn asked. “To be trapped in a tale you know well?” He took his ring off, and gently rolled it between the pads of his middle finger and thumb.

She took a minute to think. “Yes and no. I think it helps that reality is different from the story I know, and that I still have living to do between the quote unquote scenes. But it can be disorienting. I don’t like that sometimes I know what somebody is going to say before they even think to say it.”

Finally, Aragorn looked at her. So gently, he asked, “is there anything I might do that could help?”

“You do help,” Harper said at once. “Already, always -- just by being here, you help.” It was too honest and too vulnerable and Harper regretted the words at once. But she wouldn’t take them back. They were true. Even when he confused, or irritated, or just plain bored her -- and there had been moments! The man could talk about plant lore for a long time if the urge took him -- his simple presence held her down firmly in her new reality. Her regret melted away when she saw the soft smile that lit up Aragorn’s face. Predictable, maybe -- who was he but a man who wanted to help? Even so, it pleased her all the same.

“That is a good thing to hear,” he said. His brow was relaxed for once and his tender smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. Harper felt the butterflies in her stomach reanimate and begin to flutter. Her hand twitched where it rested on her knee. She wanted to reach for him, wanted to see if he would reach back.

“Aragorn--”

“I have a question for you,” he talked right over her.

Harper willed her heart to slow its racing. Again, they were here to talk about their very deadly quest, not to let Harper experiment with pushing their boundaries. “About Faramir, yes.” She expected him to launch into his questions immediately.

“In a way, yes. But he is not what I must begin with.” He stopped rolling his ring between his fingers and put it back on. He straightened, and a serious air descended around him. Aragorn took a deep breath and stared hard at her. It reminded Harper of how he had stared at her back in the South Downs, when she first mentioned the Ring. Sharp and measured and deadly underneath.

He remained silent as he tried to find the correct words for whatever it was he needed to ask her. As the seconds ticked by, Harper struggled to sit still. Her knee began to bounce relentlessly of its own accord. When that failed to soothe her, her hands drifted to her hair and she began to tightly braid one of the locks behind her ear.

When her fidgeting distracted Aragorn from his thinking, he sighed. At last, he asked, “if I asked you to tell me all that you know, what might you say?” She began to reply but he spoke right over her again. “Wait a moment and think on your answer. I do mean all that you know, from first to last.”

“If you asked right now?”

“Aye, right now.”

Confusion and trepidation swirled together in her stomach and soaked her insides in acid. “Are you asking if I would, or are you asking me to?” She needed the distinction.

“If you would,” he clarified.

Somehow, that was worse. Harper wanted to say yes -- Harper wanted to want to say yes. She was willing to tell him anything he asked because she knew there were things he would not ask. She trusted him not to ask. But it felt like a betrayal to look him in the eyes and confirm that there were secrets she was determined to keep.

This was Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur Elendil’s son and heir to the throne of Gondor and Arnor. Who was she to withhold any information he asked for? More importantly, this was Aragorn, her travel companion, partner in literal crime, and one of her few friends in Middle-earth. He gave of himself tirelessly and without complaint. Couldn’t she give him everything in return?

But Elrond had told her to trust her judgment in this. She closed her eyes and thought about it, and found an unwavering no where she looked for her answer. Her heart warned her against being as free with Aragorn as she wished she could be -- and she would not ignore that, no matter how much she wanted to.

“No,” Harper answered him, and hated the smallness of her voice. “I would say no,” she repeated, stronger this time. She opened her eyes. His were closed as well, and fluttered open a moment later. She braced herself to see -- something, irritation or dislike or contempt -- in them. But it was nowhere to be found.

Aragorn considered her with an admiration that Harper felt was misplaced. “That is what I hoped to hear,” he said.

“Then why--” A cloud drifted overhead. The bright light of the moon dimmed for a brief moment. The cloud floated away. “I’m confused,” Harper admitted.

The grin he gave her was wry, almost bashful. “That is reasonable,” Aragorn said. “'Tis a selfish response, on my part. Your answer gives me more leeway than I would readily allow myself.”

“In what?”

He twisted in his seat in order to face her directly. “I meant to ask you somewhat last night, but the moment was lost,” he said. She flushed. Last night, for a brief second, she’d honestly believed he had been about to kiss her. Looking back, it seemed less than likely, but the way he brought it back up made the butterflies in her stomach swarm like wasps forced out of their nest.

“I thought,” she started, but her voice was rough. She cleared her throat. “I thought you’d wanted to ask me about Boromir.” That’s where he had directed the conversation afterwards.

Aragorn gave her a dry laugh. “It was not my intention. Or, it was not my only intention. The same can be said for now.” He seemed reluctant to actually put his question to words.

“You’re kind of making me nervous,” Harper said, only half kidding. “C’mon -- what is it?”

He steeled himself and held her gaze. “I know you.”

She laughed. “That’s not a question,” she pointed out, hopelessly lost.

Aragorn let out a frustrated sort of huff. “I suppose it is not. Rather, I ask, when, in your mind, did first we meet?”

Harper blinked at him. Her palms began to sweat. “In April. Aragorn, what’s going on?”

“That is not how I remember it,” he said vaguely. His nervousness had returned, but this time there was an over-layer of sheer determination.

This was not--. Harper thought they were going to have a long conversation about how Faramir might change the dynamic of the Fellowship, or that Aragorn might tactfully acknowledge her feelings for him and state that while he was flattered, it wouldn’t work for any number of one hundred and thirteen reasons. “You’re freaking me out,” she said. “What are you talking about? We met in April, remember? I was camping and then you showed up, and I thought you were a strange maniac with a sword before I realized I had dimension hopped or whatever, and you actually were a familiar maniac with a sword.” The joke didn’t even register with him.

“Nay.” He reached out and grabbed her hand, his eyes followed the movement. Harper didn’t look down -- she felt unanchored and terrified. Not even a moment of hand holding could placate her right now. Aragorn found her eyes again and said, “I first saw you long before this spring”

“What?”

He tightened his grip on her hand, hard, too hard, but the creeping pain was welcome. It grounded her. “Seven-and-sixty years ago was the first time I saw you. It was a moment -- only a moment, and then you disappeared like smoke on the wind. When I came upon you in the South Downs, I thought the same would happen again. Only after we spoke at length did I accept, with immense surprise, that you were going to remain.”

“No, sorry -- what?” Fight or flight and her body said flight. Harper struggled to free her hand from his grip. When he realized her intention, he let go at once. Her hand ached. She stood and backed away from the bench. “Are you okay?” She sounded scared. She was scared. “Do I need to get somebody? Arwen or Elrond? Gandalf?” Was he having a stroke? Some kind of episode? Could she blame the Ring, somehow?

Distress flashed behind his eyes before conviction settled in his pinched brow. He put his hands up in an assuaging gesture. “I am well,” he said. “Arwen has heard this before. She was the first, and only, I told of it when it happened. It is what we were discussing when you arrived here.” There was a strain in his voice, but he kept his tone steady and nonthreatening.

Harper laughed again -- hysterical, this time. “Is this a joke?” She asked. “Are you guys hazing me?”

“Hazing?” Aragorn repeated.

Harper’s hands shook by her sides. She clenched them into fists to stop it. Hir-zang was how he said it. It was a sudden, unwelcome reminder of how wrong this whole situation was. How wrong her life was. She wasn’t even speaking English. This was a horrible mirror-image of their first meeting. (A horrible mirror-image of her first meeting with him, the part of her brain that was fully dissociated helpfully corrected.) Fuck off, Harper mentally replied, and then realized she was fighting with abstracted pieces of her own consciousness.

“I promise you I do not say this in jest,” Aragron assured her, when she didn’t explain the meaning of the word. Harper began to full body shake like she was buck-naked in a blizzard. He half-reached a hand out to her, and then thought better of it. Instead, he stood, put a wide berth of space between him and the bench, and motioned to it. “Please sit,” he said, concerned.

Her knees buckled beneath her and she saw the wisdom in his request. She sat down again and wrapped her arms around herself. What was happening? Was this even happening? She’d been staving off a full-tilt breakdown for months. Maybe Faramir had been the straw that broke the camel’s back, and it had just taken a few hours for her brain to finally call it quits. She was clenching her jaw so tightly she was surprised her teeth hadn’t cracked, but she could barely feel it. Harper was numb all over, fully outside of herself.

Aragorn began to pace. “I understand you may be unable to take me at my word. I will ask Arwen to come speak with you. I wished to be the one to tell you this, but if--”

“Shut up,” Harper heard herself say, flat but fierce. “Shut up and tell me plainly. I can’t do the purple-prose, polite, talking around the real meaning thing right now. What. Are. You. Saying?” Because he could not be saying what she thought he was saying.

He froze in place. His jaw dropped open in shock when she glared at him. “I was twenty,” he said, slowly, with all the gentle disquiet of one herding a feral cat. “I had just learned my true name. I went on a walk in Imladris and saw you in the wood. You smiled at me, said, ‘hello, Estel,’ and then disappeared without a trace.”

A beat. The full meaning of his words rushed over her like the Bruinen. She definitely understood what he was saying. She wished she didn’t.

“You aren’t lying?” She asked.

“I would not lie to you.”

“This isn’t your idea of a joke?”

“You have seen my idea of a joke.”

“You haven’t gone crazy? I haven’t?”

“We both retain our sanity for now, to my knowledge.” To his credit, he didn’t sound fully sure.

“Okay,” she said. She stood. “I have to go to bed.” Harper walked away. She made it twenty feet before Aragorn made an exasperated noise and started after her. She turned around. He reached her a second later. He looked baffled. “Don’t,” she said. “I need to-- not. Alone. Away from you. Just don’t.” Her breath hitched. “Please?” She added, pathetically.

Distraught, Aragorn nodded.

Harper passed back through Elrond’s study to get back to her room. If he or Gandalf acknowledged her, she didn’t hear it. She didn’t even look in their direction. She let her feet carry her back to where she needed to be. She reached her room, stripped out of her clothes automatically, and climbed into her bed.

That night, her dreams had her running over mountain tops and traversing endless seas.

Chapter Text

Dawn eased itself through the windows of Harper’s room. The morning light played against her eyelids until she came fully to waking. She remembered. And then, she was furious. The numbness had faded overnight, and as she replayed her conversation with Aragorn in her head, rage overwhelmed her. She was consumed, by a bone-deep and staggering ferocity the likes of which she had never felt. She didn’t know what to do with it, or with herself.

Harper was tempted to stay where she was -- alone in her room, safe under a mountain of soft blankets, baking in this newly sprouted contempt. An Elf would come by with food for her eventually if she did. She suspected she could get away with hiding in here for about three days until an overly concerned Hobbit came to find her. She wanted to do that more than anything -- she wanted to hide, and didn’t care how much of a coward that made her.

But there was no time to hide. The clock had started to tick in earnest, and she had two months minus a day until the Fellowship would leave Rivendell. She was out of practice with both her bow and sword, had to learn how to ride a horse, needed to get to know Legolas, Gimli, Boromir and Faramir, begin work on getting Boromir and Faramir to accept Aragorn’s kingship, and figure out how exactly she might utilize Faramir’s place in the Fellowship going forward. Little of that could be achieved lying down.

She would have to be furious and terrified while she was productive. There was no other choice. She got out of bed.

Somebody knocked on her door after she finished dressing. “Who is it?” She called.

“Your favorite Hobbit,” Pippin’s voice called back.

Harper grinned, crossed the room, and opened the door. She faked a deep frown when she saw him. “You’re not Sam!”

Pippin gasped, mock affronted. “We need to work on your opinions of Hobbits,” he scolded her. “Luckily, I know just the way to do it. We are taking breakfast on the terrace. Come along, then.”

Her stomach growled. An hour or so amongst the Hobbits seemed like an excellent idea until she remembered the regrettable reality of the Ring. It didn’t seem wise to go hang around Frodo while she had a concoction of fury and confusion simmering on her backburner. The Ring would have a field day.

“Who is?” She asked carefully.

“Merry and myself, of course. Frodo and Samwise have gone to talk to Bilbo and frolic amongst the Elves. They already ate.”

“Oh! Okay. Sure,” she agreed. She let Pippin lead the way.

Merry was waiting for them on the terrace with a full spread of breakfast in front of him. Unfortunately, along with Merry and breakfast, Aragorn was also waiting there. He and Merry were playing some sort of card game -- it didn’t look to be Cart and Pony, since Harper couldn’t see a set of playing stones anywhere, and the constant trading of cards between the two of them was unfamiliar to her.

“You found her!” Merry cried, when he heard their approach. “I did some finding of my own. Strider was wandering down the hall and I tempted him into joining us with a round of Six-and-Seven.”

Aragorn smiled at her hesitantly. It was only the presence of the Hobbits that prevented Harper from going over there and dumping one of the trays of food on his head. She looked away from him and smiled at Merry instead.

If she wasn’t going to hide in bed all day, neither would she stop herself from seeing the Hobbits just because he was there. She might be so angry at Aragorn that she was surprised she hadn’t exploded, but Pippin had asked her to come, and she had.

They sat down. Breakfast was fresh bread, half a dozen different fruits, finely seared sausages and tea. It was delicious. Harper focused on eating and didn’t say much, only let the pleasant chatter of Hobbit conversation wash over her. She didn’t say a word to Aragorn.

“So’re you going to tell us what happen’d at your secret meeting?” Pippin asked through a mouthful of bread. Merry swatted at his head lazily, and told him to keep his mouth shut while he ate.

Harper laughed. “I know you two listened to the whole thing. It’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention, Pippin.” Pippin’s ears turned red with embarrassment.

“Oh, that is a fun trick,” Merry said. “But he has a point, I’m afraid. Hobbit hearing might be sharp, but you all kept your heads too level for our liking. A bit more shouting would have helped. There were times when we could barely hear anything at all.”

“You ought to find yourselves a better hiding place, next time,” Aragorn suggested with a laugh.

Harper glared at him over her tea. Then, turning to Merry, she said, “you’ll be told soon enough. Have you asked Frodo?”

“He wouldn’t share anything important,” Pippin said miserably. “He said he didn’t feel like talking about it. We tried to persuade him otherwise, but Sam wouldn’t have it.”

The conversation went on, and Harper returned her focus to eating. When she had almost finished her tea, Merry asked her, “in your story, what are we like?”

Harper considered her answer. “The same, mostly. In general, everybody tends toward being a bit truer to books than the films, but you two are pretty evenly split.”

“Do we look the same?” Pippin asked.

She laughed. “You do, for the most part. We don’t have Hobbits where I’m from, so there’s something a little bit different about you that I don’t quite know how to explain.”

“If you don’t have Hobbits, who plays us?” Merry asked.

“It’s Men. They just use makeup and special effects to make them look like Hobbits.”

Pippin snorted derisively. “Men as Hobbits! Isn’t that a ridiculous thing.” He shook his head, shamed by the sheer idea. “Are we giant like you folk, then?”

“No, not quite. They use a couple of tricks to make you look the appropriate height. It’s actually pretty cool.” She laughed then. “Except for when it’s a little awkward. Sometimes it doesn’t look quite right.” Every once in a while, the fact that the movies were made at the very beginning of the century really jumped out in the CGI. She found no fault with it, though -- it charmed her.

“What about the rest?” Pippin asked.

“Hm?” Harper responded, distracted by thoughts of the face masks of the Hobbits they put on the body doubles during certain scenes.

“Well, Strider, for instance,” Pippin said. “Does he look the same?”

Harper’s heart skipped a beat. Pippin’s tone was perfectly innocent -- and that was what was suspicious about it. She let her eyes drift over to Aragorn. He was watching her apprehensively. She lifted an eyebrow and studied him for a moment.

“The dirt is a bit more noticeable in real life,” she said coolly. Merry and Pippin laughed. Aragorn cast his eyes down at his plate.

Good, Harper thought viciously.

A few minutes later, she finished the last of her tea, stood, and announced her departure. Merry and Pippin had started their second course, and waved her off. She thought she’d gotten off scot-free, but then she heard the scrape of the bench and footsteps behind her. She sighed.

“Harper,” he said.

“Yes?” She asked as neutrally as she could.

Aragorn exhaled sharply through his nose. “I wanted to say I am s--”

“If you try to apologize,” Harper said blandly, “I will rip your tongue out and feed it to The Mouth of Sauron.” She’d tried to keep her voice down, but it wasn’t enough. There was a conspicuous pause in the clattering of utensils behind them. Aragorn flinched. She turned on her heel and walked away. This time, he didn’t try to follow.

She returned to her room to retrieve her weapons. Now clothed, fed, and armed, Harper found Maemáril and asked if there was some kind of training area she could use. There was, and Maemáril told her how to get there.

Oh, it felt good to work her body to the point of exhaustion, and then past it. Her insides were a tangled mess that she didn’t know how to begin to unknot. But she didn’t need to understand how she felt in order to use it. Bewilderment, meet bow. Foolishness, meet arrow. Shock, meet target. Rage, meet sword. Harper worked until every inch of her body ached and she could barely lift her sword a moment longer. Her shirt clung to her back and sweat pooled between her skin and the leather of her leggings.

She collapsed into a wrung out heap on the ground, drank from her waterskin, and got lost in thought. She missed Hereth. Working through the drills she taught Harper had brought up her memory, and it smarted. For maybe the first time, Harper regretted the loss of telecommunication. Sure, she wasn’t being slowly driven insane by constant notifications and the pressure to reply to messages instantly anymore, but it sucked not being able to talk to a friend just because they were far away. Harper needed that right now -- a friend. Hereth would have some kind of -- admittedly, cheeky -- advice for her, she was certain of it. But what exactly it might be, Harper didn’t know.

Long after her sweat had dried uncomfortably on her skin, and she had drained her waterskin, Boromir came to the training yard. He was alone, wore chainmail underneath a simple blue tunic, and carried his sword and shield. It took him a moment to spot Harper. When he did, he stopped short and gave a small bow. It was an awkward thing, given the way he had his shield strapped to his arm and sword already drawn.

“Lady,” he said.

Harper stood, and every single one of her muscles groaned with the effort. She grimaced -- both from the pain and the title. “Just Harper, please.” She sheathed her sword. “It’s Lord Boromir, correct?” It felt like the right thing to say.

He gave her a friendly grin. His eyes tracked the way she slung her bow over her back. “You may simply call me Boromir, if you insist upon the same.”

“Boromir, then.” She nodded. Good. “I was just about to leave. Yard is all yours.” Harper knew she ought to stay for a while, get the most basic of introductions done. But she desperately needed a hot bath, and despite her workout, she was still bubbling over with rage and didn’t want to accidentally unleash it on him.

“A moment of your time, please?” Boromir asked. “I will be brief.”

Harper sighed internally. “Sure thing. How can I help?”

Boromir looked puzzled for a moment, but then banished the look. “Are you a ranger?” He asked her.

Oh. “No,” she answered. “I’m not.” Harper delivered this information in a flat tone of voice that she hoped would inspire no further questions.

Boromir took it differently. “Forgive the assumption,” he said quickly. “Your gear is of that kind of make, and at The Council you seemed to accompany A--” he cut himself off. Indecision and indignance battled it out on his face. “--the Ranger of the North,” he finished lamely.

“There's nothing to forgive,” Harper said, feeling bad she’d made him think he had insulted her somehow. “It was an easy assumption to make. It’s just not true.” She didn’t acknowledge the way he had referred to Aragorn. She was in no mood to defend him, especially after this morning.

“But you come from Eriador?” He asked. The puzzled look had returned.

“I came here from Eriador,” she corrected him.

Boromir nodded. “Aye, that is more logical. You’ve neither the look nor the accent for it. But what land do you hail from?”

Harper blinked, surprised. He’d cut right down to brass tacks. She’d have to remember not to underestimate him -- for good or ill. “Far away,” she answered honestly. “I’ll tell you more about it another time. Right now I need a bath, a meal, and a nap.”

That only intrigued him further, but he nodded. “As would I,” he said, with some humor, and gestured with his shield arm to her general disheveledness. “Rest well, then. I look forward to our next meeting.” He gave another small bow, this one equally as awkward.

Harper smiled. “Me too. Enjoy yourself,” she said, and left.

She mused on her brief conversation with Boromir while she headed back to her room. Harper thought her best hope of minimizing the Ring’s influence over him was simply by being his friend. That had been a decent enough start. But she needed to decide how, and to what extent, she would tell the rest of the Fellowship about her knowledge. Gandalf would need to back her up so she didn’t seem crazy, but she didn’t see why she couldn’t tell them the exact circumstances of her arrival. It would do no good to try to build trust with Boromir while keeping something so huge from him. The irony of the statement hit her a second after she thought it, and her rage returned in full force.

Sam was idling outside the entrance to the wing she and the Hobbits were staying in. Harper smiled at him, and hoped he would let her go with nothing but a greeting. Her stomach was growling and she needed that bath.

“Harper!” He cried, and jumped up from where he had been bent among the wildflowers.

“Hi Sam,” she said, and kept walking. But the universe, it seemed, had no intention of letting her relax just yet.

“Frodo was looking for you,” Sam told her, hurrying after her. “He’s a question or two about that Council yesterday, and thought you might be able to answer them for him, seeing as you’ve heard it all before.”

Harper only didn’t groan because she didn’t want to upset Sam. “I was just going to wash up. I can go see him after. Is he in his room?”

Sam tugged at the repaired edge of his waistcoat, and became overly interested in the cobblestones under his feet. “No, he’s just around the corner, as it were. He was hoping to talk to you sooner rather than later.”

Harper stared suspiciously at Sam. “Sam,” she said. He made a small noise in response, but kept his eyes on the ground. “Sam, could you look at me please?”

He did. He was flushed and nervous.

“Is Frodo actually over there waiting for me?” She asked as calmly as she could. “Or is it somebody else?”

Sam wrung his hands together. “Well you see--”

“Is it Aragorn?” She asked.

“It is. Begging your pardon, he only asked me--”

“I’m not mad at you, Sam. Can you go get him for me? And then give us some privacy, please?” She asked. Sam nodded furiously and bounded away. Harper had counted to one hundred in her head by the time Aragorn came around the corner with Sam nowhere to be seen. He didn’t look as shamed as Sam had, but there was a bashful stoop to his shoulders. She stared at him hard for a moment. “Follow me,” she told him, and walked away.

When she came to her room, she held the door open for him. Aragorn stared at her, utterly confused, but nodded his thanks and stepped inside. Harper closed it behind herself, and then locked it. She said nothing as she divested herself of her weapons. Her bath would have to wait. Instead, she went over to the pitcher and bowl in the corner, took a washcloth, and wiped her face and neck down. When she finished, she turned back around.

Aragorn was waiting in the threshold of the room, fidgeting with the edge of his tunic. Harper closed the distance between them in four long strides, coming in close enough that if she reached her arm straight out she could touch his chest. He startled, alarmed by how quickly she approached him, but didn’t move away.

“What is wrong with you?” She hissed. The fury that had been simmering in the back of her mind all day boiled over. For the first time in her life, she was actually seeing red. Her anger flared out of her without effort, blissfully simple to understand, and far more satisfying than the mixture of hurt and bewilderment that had been clogging up her chest all day.

Aragorn’s eyebrows escaped up into his hairline. “Lady--” he said.

“Don’t you try that shit with me,” she said. “I want to know: what is wrong with you? Do you have fantasy medieval lead-poisoning? Did you fall off a horse and hit your head as a child? What brain damage is responsible for this? Tell me so I can judge you accordingly.”

Indignation sparked behind Aragorn’s eyes, but he smothered the flame before it caught. “I would ask you to let me explain in full,” he said. His voice was so even, so careful. It only made Harper angrier.

“And I would ask that you fucking respect me when I tell you I don’t want to see you, instead of wandering around near my room in the morning and then asking Sam to trick me into talking with you. That’s pathetic, Aragorn. Leave the Hobbits out of this.” Her voice rose and her chest heaved. Somebody was definitely going to overhear their conversation. She found she didn’t care that much.

“You were troubled when we parted last night, and disquieted upon the morn. I only wanted--”

“I don’t care about what you want!” Harper cried. “It is actually the very last thing in the world that I care about right now. Do you understand that?”

“It’s becoming clear,” he said dryly.

Harper actually bared her teeth at him. She felt like she was spinning out of control. “What did you think was going to happen last night? I was going to magically remember popping into existence in Middle-earth seventy years ago to say hello? Or that I was going to be all interested and intrigued by the idea of it? I genuinely cannot imagine where your head was at. It’s been six months, Aragorn. Six. Months. Why in the world did you keep this from me?” Tears blurred her vision. Harper blinked and let them fall.

“I asked you last night whether you would tell me all that you know. I knew what your answer would be. I do not think I was remiss to allow myself to operate within those same terms,” he said. The words were obstinate, but his tone remained level and detached.

“Oh, now I understand,” Harper laughed. “You think this is tit for tat. I won’t tell you the play-by-play of the next six months, so you held this hostage in return.” She clenched her fists by her sides as a violent urge washed over her. She ought to move away, try to calm down at least a little bit. But she refused to step down, step back. It would feel too much like admitting defeat.

Aragorn huffed. “You misunderstand me on purpose,” he accused. “I am only drawing a parallel. I hold no ill-feeling toward you for that choice.”

“Guess that’s where we’re different.” She took another step closer. The unruly front strands of his hair had fallen into his face, and though he retained the same half-foot of height on her as he always did, the red haze in her field of vision made Harper feel like she could crush him beneath her boot. He took a step back, and a petty, vicious victory glowed in her chest.

“But there is no parallel, and I’ll tell you why,” she said. “You, Aragorn son of Arathorn,” never had she spoken his name with such contempt, in this life or her last, “can trace your history back on this blighted Middle-earth through thousands of years. You know where you come from and what you are meant for. Any indecision you feel is the product of your own cowardice and nothing else.”

The hurt on his face was so delicious she wanted to eat it with a spoon. She took another step forward. She wouldn’t let him back away from the truth of it. She lowered her voice to a whisper, and let her cold fury color her words.

“I am trapped in a storybook that was written decades before I was born. I don’t know how I got here. I have no chance of leaving. I am stuck in the fantastical past with no answers, no family, and nothing more than some knowledge that seems to not actually mean anything, since nothing has the decency to stay as it was written. I am living a fucking nightmare. And you know that. You’ve known that since the beginning. You held my hair while I puked during a nervous breakdown. And you still said nothing.”

“What would you have had me say?” Aragorn demanded in a low voice. He sounded completely lost. He stepped in closer too. There was barely a foot remaining between them. “You were a wisp that haunted my steps throughout the whole of my manhood. I daren’t say so to any, save my sister. And sister in all but blood she may be to me, but she could not give unto me what I sought -- simple belief. Ere I came upon you in Eriador, I thought you nothing more than the deranged imaginings of a man grown too isolated from kith and kin who knew himself to be fated for a lowly defeat and shallow grave.”

Harper flinched as if struck.

“But hither you came,” Aragorn continued. “Nigh seventy years later you appeared for staying at last and you brought with you tidings of victory and kingship.” He shook his head, took in a deep breath to drain away his mounting despair. “My reticence to tell you the truth began as a stratagem in vigilance’s name. What better trap might the Enemy lay for me, than one which took your shape? It was Gandalf who convinced me it was not so.”

Harper felt a measure of pity mix in with her boiling rage, and it only angered her further. She hated him like this -- miserable and confused and hurt. It wasn’t fair, it made her look like the bad guy. She wanted him angrier, wanted him to feel how she felt.

“And after?” Harper asked. “I don’t care that it took you two days to decide I wasn’t sent to lure you into a trap. I care that it’s been a lot longer than two days, and you only told me because Arwen guilted you into it.”

“She did not guilt--”

“Cut the bullshit,” she spat. He was refusing to rise to the bait. She doubled down. “You couldn’t make yourself own up to your mistake, and you needed your big sister to force you into it.”

“That is unworthy of you,” he said. “I know I have erred. I only ask you to be fair in your judgment of my misdeeds.” He donned a pinched and exhausted look that had no place in the warm, restful glow of Rivendell. But underneath that look was that perverse and powerful brightness kindling behind his eyes. She almost had him.

“Fair! Nothing here is fair! You have a lot of gall to demand fairness from me.” Fairness had fled the last night she zipped herself into her tent in the Maine back-country.

“I demand nothing,” Aragorn said, slow and precise. His jaw twitched and he exhaled deeply from his nose. “I do not even ask for your forgiveness, but rather for your understanding.”

“You’ll be hard fucking pressed to find it. If you were so interested in my understanding maybe you should have taken five minutes to tell me about the huge and important secret you were keeping from me, instead of wallowing for months in your own masturbatory, excruciating world-on-your-shoulders guilt that you cannot accept comes from no one but yourself. God, you don’t even--”

“Lady! Enough!” He barked, and something sang in Harper’s chest. Yes! Here was his anger, bonfire bright and just what she needed. “It is your turn to speak plainly. I will waste no more time quibbling about timelines and tolerating your barrage of insults. Now I do make a demand of you -- tell me what bothers you in truth.”

“I trusted you,” Harper ground out, and let every ounce of the betrayal she felt pour into it. “I’ve trusted no one more than I’ve trusted you. You’re--” a pause, a gasp for air, “I thought you were my friend. Did you even-- fuck, I mean, do you even care? I don’t know why I’m here and I can’t go home and I’m fucking scared, all the time. And you didn’t even tell me. You could have, and you didn’t.”

Aragorn’s face crumpled. It was horrible to see. He gripped her tightly by her upper arms and something about that contact broke Harper fully. The passive tears that had been spilling now and then from her eyes turned into burning, wracking sobs. Aragorn made a wounded noise, and pulled her in for a bone crushing hug. Harper stiffened at first, but then found all the fight had drained out of her. She went boneless and let herself ruin his tunic with tears and snot.

“You may do to me as you wish after the fact, but you must let me apologize,” he said. “I did not think for a moment you would see my failure to mention this in such a light, or I would have told you the minute I trusted that I could. I thought time would make it easier for the both of us. That it would allow me to consider how best to approach it, and that you might come to trust me enough to believe what I said.” Harper let out a pathetic sob at that. “But I waited much too long, and broke the trust I sought to build.” She felt him shake his head. “I am sorry.”

Harper said nothing, and cried until she couldn’t anymore. Aragorn stroked her hair and tried to get her to match his breath. A long time passed with them in that position. Finally, ashamed and feeling like she was suffocating against his chest, Harper pulled her head away. She looked up at him and they were -- so close. Christ. His eyes were red rimmed and glassy, and there was a doleful, wretched set to his jaw.

“Can you, I need to--” She tried to pull back and he let go immediately, and took a few steps away for good measure. She inhaled deeply once, and then again. She pointed to the bed. “Sit,” she told him.

He blinked at her, and then did as he was told. If it was any other time, Harper would have laughed at how he eyed the bed like it might bite him before he sat awkwardly down on it. She sat down next to him, and he stiffened, and this time she did laugh -- though it was rough and ridiculous sounding given all the crying she’d just done.

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” she said. “It’s just a bed.” She thought it was a miracle he’d survived rooming with her in Bree without disintegrating into repressed ash.

He blushed and rubbed at his beard.

“Tell me what you thought when you found me in the South Downs.”

“I did not know what to think,” Aragorn said. “It had been-- some time, and at first I was sure my eyes were deceiving me. By the time I realized that I saw truly, I became otherwise occupied with convincing you that you were alive and in Middle-earth. When we journeyed to Sarn Ford the next day, I waited the whole time for you to slip away. It was only once Gandalf, and Halbarad too, spoke with you, that I knew you were wholly there.”

Harper considered this. Something about his phrasing pricked at her mind, and she thought of what he’d said the night before. “That time in Rivendell wasn’t the only time you saw me, was it?” She asked.

A pause. “No, it was not.”

She let that sit between them for a moment. “You aren’t going to tell me about the others.” This she stated as a simple fact.

Aragorn took her hand. It was not as he had done so the night before -- his touch was gentle, pleading. “If you asked me to, I would,” he said.

And wasn’t that just exactly it? She would never ask. She had her own secrets. He could keep the ones he needed to, too. “Okay,” she said, and laid her head against his shoulder. “Tell me about the first time, then.”

He laid his head atop hers. “It was a few days after I began my twentieth year. On my birthday, Elladan and Elrohir took me into the wild on a hunt to celebrate, and on that hunt we slew a pack of Orcs coming through the Trollshaws. Upon our return to Imladris, Elrond summoned me to him and at last spoke my true name. He returned into my keeping Narsil and the Ring of Barahir, though he withheld The Sceptre of Annuminas. The next day, at the noon-hour, I went walking, for I had much to think about. I was still so young, and the world seemed to have opened up around me. I knew at last of my father, and saw myself on the cusp of a very grand adventure -- the kind I had waited my whole life for.”

“You weren’t angry? Afraid?” She asked.

“No. In my youth I had learned of the preservation of the line of Elendil, and how important Elrond believed it to be. If my identity had been different, if the keeping of the secret any less important, I would have been. But Elrond had prepared me well, without my knowing, to accept his reasons for keeping me in the dark.”

“Clever,” she remarked. She felt Aragorn shake with silent mirth against her.

“During my wandering, I began to sing to myself.”

Harper interrupted him with a snort. “Let me guess, The Lay of Leithian?”

“How could you know that?” Aragorn asked, perplexed.

Harper debated with herself about what to say. “In the book, that’s exactly how you meet Arwen for the first time.” It was a simple and straightforward enough answer. But there was an implication to it. Acknowledging it, even in a roundabout way, made her heart skip a beat.

“Ah.” A pause. The Ring of Barahir glinted on his finger. “Some things are doomed to repeat, so it seems. For I was singing of Beren stumbling upon Luthien in the forest of Neldoreth. Then, on the air, came a single, sweet note in response to my singing. It surprised me. I believed myself to be alone. Then, I saw a woman -- no mother or maiden of Elvenesse, but a woman of the race of Men -- peering at me through the leaves.”

Something about his phrasing made her smile. “Had you never seen a human woman before?” She asked.

“Other than my own mother? No, I had not. Up until that point, my sojourns out of Imladris had been few, and never into settlements of Men.” He let out a shy little laugh. “And there was no mistaking you for my mother.”

Oh. “I can’t say I’m not glad to hear that,” she admitted. That settled down around them for a moment. The silence was obvious, thoughtful, but not awkward.

Aragorn continued on. “I stopped, stock-still and shocked. Ere I could greet you, or ask how you came to Imladris, you smiled at me. “Hello, Estel,” you said. Your accent was new and unfamiliar to me, and I was astonished you might know my name. Before I had the chance to blink, the sweet chime came again, and you disappeared. I was bewildered and dismayed, and ran about trying to find you. But there was no trace to be found. I returned that evening and Arwen found me. She saw that I was disoriented, and asked me why. When I told her, she was concerned that the revelation of my birth had brought a spell of confusion down on me. After some time, I convinced her it was no such thing -- though I fear she has never quite believed me about it, even now.”

Harper could picture it all so clearly in her head. It almost might have been a memory, if she wasn’t imagining herself in Aragorn’s place instead. “It must have been difficult, that Arwen didn’t believe you.”

“It bothered me for a time,” Aragorn admitted. “At last, I decided it mattered little whether she believed me or not. I knew what I had seen.”

“And you know it was me?” He spoke with such conviction, such clear and aching memory, but -- she didn’t remember it, that was for sure.

“As surely as I know my own name.”

“I don’t--” she paused, swallowed. “I wish I could say I remember, or know what it was. But I got nothing.”

Aragorn tangled their fingers together. “I expected nothing else. How you reacted in the South Downs prepared me for that.”

Harper laughed. “God, that must have been so confusing. You finally got me to stay in one place for more than five seconds and I started freaking out and talking about novels.” She paused. “Wait -- do I really have a weird accent?”

He laughed so loudly the sound reverberated against her scalp and his jaw smacked against her skull. They both made a wounded noise, and pulled away. Aragorn grinned at her as he said, “I never said as much.”

“No, but the implication was there.” She was grinning too.

He shrugged. “It is different from what I have heard in my travels.” His eyes were glittering, teasing.

“It’s hardly my fault! You should hear the way you say some of my words. I don’t think you’ve gotten any of them right.” Truthfully, she found it endearing.

“Then you will have to teach me the way of it,” Aragorn said.

“Sure, as soon as you teach me Elvish,” Harper countered. Mostly, she was kidding.

He looked at her in surprise. “Do you have an interest?”

“I mean, yeah? It seems kind of useful. A lot of people here speak it.” Learning Sindarin would, at least, lessen the amount of time she spent standing to the side while people had conversations she couldn’t understand.

Aragorn’s surprise softened into delight. “I will teach you, then. I have not the mastery over it that the Elves possess, but I can offer a helping hand.”

“You do know that I know when you’re doing the whole false modesty thing, right? Isn’t it your first language?”

“Second,” he corrected, “but only just.”

Harper shook her head at him. He was so contrary when he wanted to be. “Whatever. It’s a deal then.” He nodded at this, pleased.

A moment of pleasant silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said, out of the blue, without even meaning to speak. Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “I was way meaner than I needed to be.”

He frowned. “Nay, you said little more than the truth. But I will accept your apology all the same, if it pleases you.”

“Uh, no.” It was Harper’s turn to frown. “I definitely said some untrue things, on purpose, to make you angrier. That wasn’t cool of me. I was trying to piss you off.”

“Such as?” He asked. He seemed genuinely unsure.

Harper cringed. “Well there was the whole part about you being a coward, and being responsible for your own guilt, and--”

Aragorn sighed, and tucked his wayward front strands of hair behind his ears. “Harper…” he trailed off, paused for a moment. “I do not refute--”

“Well you should!” She sprung off the bed, crouched down in front of him to meet his eyes, which were now cast to the floor. “First of all,” she said, grabbing his hands for good measure, “you shouldn’t let anybody talk to you like that. But second of all, it simply isn't true. You are brave beyond belief, and the guilt and fear you carry don't come from you alone.”

Aragorn stared down at her. He bit the inside of his cheek. He tugged on her hands once, in a bid for her to stand. She did, but she didn’t let go of his hands. “You must understand,” he said after a few aching, quiet moments. “I am no longer that young man who walked through Imladris, singing, newly gifted with his destiny. I carry the full weight of my years, harsh as they have been, and do not hold fast to any fantasy that I am the man of might your story may have led you to believe.”

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She hated jumping right back into arguing, but this felt far too important to let sit for another day. “No,” she agreed. “You are not a character in a story.” She squeezed his hands so she had something to do with her own. “You are a man, plain and simple. Do you think I don’t know this? You live and breathe and talk too much about plants and become fiercely competitive during Hobbit games. You’re stubborn and so irritatingly calm during arguments that I’m pretty sure you do it on purpose, just to piss the other person off. God, if you were actually exactly like you were in the story I wouldn’t--”

She cut herself off with a cough, realized what she’d almost said. “I would find you intolerable.” She laughed thickly, embarrassed. “It’s a blessing that there's a man underneath the warrior-king.”

“I am not yet a king, nor do I know if I will ever be,” Aragorn said, so quietly, like the confession pained him. Harper winced at his words, and it pained him further. He looked up at her, looked fully lost. Roughly, desperate to understand, he said, “Wherefore do you regard me with grief and pity when I state plainly what is true? No king am I.”

Harper pulled her hands free, stepped in to stand between his spread knees, and cupped his jaw in her open palms. He cast his eyes downward and she tipped his head up to make him look at her again.

“But you will be,” she whispered fiercely. “I’m the one who knows the future, remember? Even if I throw the whole story away, I still know this to be true.” She stroked a thumb over his cheekbone, watched how his eyelashes fluttered. “But I'll tell you a secret. You could turn your back on the throne and it would change nothing about you, or your worth, or the goodness of your heart. You--” fuck, was she really going to say this? “Aragorn, you have made me feel safer, and happier, and more at home than any other person in Middle-earth. I am so, so thankful to know you. Kingship only matters if it matters to you. If you want it, if you choose it, then it is yours and no other could deserve it like you do. But even if you threw your name aside and returned to breed horses in Rohan as Thorongil, you would still be what you are: a good man.”

Aragorn sniffed. Tears fell in silent rivulets down his cheek. Harper wiped them away. He wrapped his hand around her wrist, pulled her hand away from his cheek, and placed a solemn kiss on her palm. It burned Harper from the inside out.

Chapter Text

Aragorn had changed since Legolas saw him last. Carved upon his face were new lines and marks of care that were not there a decade past. Such was always his way -- and perhaps the way of all mortals, though Legolas never found much reason to investigate this assumption further.

Aragorn had a mere nine years when Legolas met him. It was the first time Legolas encountered a mortal child up close -- then, the loping inelegance of youth in Men intrigued him. Gangly in some places and padded with the fat of babes in others, Estel -- as he still was called -- was shy and precocious in equal measure. Legolas arrived in Imladris to a warm welcome from Elrond’s family, and the sight of a child trying to hide behind his mother and giving no thought to the fact that he was already almost equal to her in height. When his mother left to tend to other things, Estel stayed behind, and lingered behind Arwen instead.

That first night, Estel absorbed the conversation between Legolas and the children of Elrond with wide grey eyes and a fawnish stillness -- as if he was trying to fade into the background, lest he be remembered and sent away. Eventually, Elladan pulled Estel into the conversation -- mentioning that he’d been gifted his very first bow only a month before. Legolas asked to see it, and Estel budded and blossomed under the attention. Within two days, he was demanding Legolas tell him stories of battle and teach him the curse words his brothers would not.

Seven-and-ten years later, they met again. By this time, he left had Imladris to dwell amongst the Dunedain as ranger and fledging chieftain. The keen eyed child had molted twice over to reveal a strong-willed and dogged young Man. The Dunedain called him Aragorn, but the ironclad beetle-shell named Manhood softened to mothwings when Legolas called him Estel. In those days he wielded his new name and title like well-polished blades in need of balancing. Gone, it first seemed, was the mirthful wildling that Legolas met. But at dusk when his duties were done, they took to the Big House of the chieftain -- with its thatched roof and shuttered windows that looked nothing like Imladris -- and Legolas drank and sang and laughed with Aragorn and his closest kin until Anor made her daily demands upon the dawn.

They crossed paths and toasted to each other's health many more times over the years. At every meeting, what new layers had grown over Aragorn’s familiar heart in the years between surprised Legolas. Most shocking was the most recent time. Aragorn passed through Mirkwood to speak with Thranduil. He arrived battered and bitter and old seeming -- though he was still young enough in the accounting of Men with the blood of Numenor. Aragorn stayed not a moment longer than was necessary, and never smiled once -- even when Legolas teased him for asking to touch his hair the first time they met. When he departed Mirkwood, he left behind a sense of unease, for Legolas saw that there went a man who seemed ready, if not quite yet willing, to go to his grave.

All this, and more besides, made it a boon to sit and watch Aragorn with Harper. On the archery range, as Imladris shuddered under the last rattling gasps of October that rushed through the valley, they performed a strange dance to a music only they could hear. The steps were simple and few: Aragorn prompted Harper with a word in Sindarin. Harper repeated the word and its meaning, and in turn offered Aragorn a word of her own -- of a strange, guttural sort of language Legolas had never heard. Aragorn would say the word back. Then Harper took an arrow from her quiver, drew her bow, aimed, and loosed the arrow down the range. And the dance began again.

Harper struggled with the rhythm of Sindarin and did not understand the inflections. Aragorn inserted too many vowels into her words and smashed the syllables together. Legolas thought he was doing her language a service, but he did not share this thought. Aragorn only corrected her more grievous mispronunciations, and he did so gently, patiently. Harper teased and prodded and laughed at his mistakes. But Aragorn -- who Legolas had long known to be fierce in his desire to learn everything, and to learn it quickly and to the point of perfection -- only smiled and tried again.

It was not the wisest approach to target practice. Harper’s arrows kept straying left, though Legolas could see by her grip on the bow she ought to do better than that. She grew frustrated with herself, and Aragorn took the chance to turn their game on its head.

Another arrow loosed and lodged along the left hand half of the target. “Fuck, c’mon,” Harper muttered.

“Haitha, tolo a nin,” Aragorn said.

Harper paused in the middle of reaching for another arrow. “Wait, what?”

Aragorn smiled at her -- bright and younger than Legolas had seen him look in many years. “Fuck, c’mon,” he repeated.

Harper rolled her eyes at Aragorn, but her delight was poorly hidden, if indeed she was trying to hide it. “Fuck, c’mon.”

“Fuck, c’mon,” Aragorn said. It sounded more like fæck, cur’mun. Legolas mouthed the words to himself -- unsure of how he might have said it.

“Close,” Harper said. She repeated herself. “You’ve got too many vowels again.” Aragorn furrowed his brow and tried again. He was closer, this time. Fæck, c’mun, instead. “Better.” They stared at one another until their smiles turned foolish and shy. Then they resumed the steps of their dance.

Arwen was unusually tight-lipped about Aragorn and Harper. During the feast, Legolas heard Aragorn’s heart rate increase when he spotted Harper lingering against the wall in the Hall of Fire, and he smelt the rush of pheromones and blood within him. Aragorn paused in the middle of relaying the information Elladan and Elrohir brought with them out of the wild, and Legolas had needed to prompt him out of his stunned silence. After Arwen stole Legolas away to leave Aragorn and Harper in peace, all she would say was that Harper, to Aragorn, was a friend newly made and long-looked for.

The phrasing plucked at the strings of his mind, but Legolas thought he understood her meaning better now after watching them together. Better still, when he realized they had forgotten his presence entirely. Harper’s stance with the bow was off, and had been the whole morning. Legolas did not feel it was his place to comment on it. Finally, Aragorn stepped in to correct it. What could have been a quick verbal instruction or a tap to the hips ended with Aragorn pressed against her back, one hand laid flat against her upper rib cage and the other wrapped around her extended forearm. Even after the correction was made, they lingered in that position for far longer than necessary, while Aragorn whispered low words of advice in her ear.

A breeze blew through the archery range and carried with it the daytime chatter of sparrows and the scent of winter blossoms under the sun. It urged a seedling sense of mischief in Legolas’s chest to sprouting. “There are few who would prove capable of striking their target true with so little room to move about,” Legolas called to Aragorn. “If that is the place you have chosen to stand, perhaps hand-to-hand combat would serve as a better lesson.”

Aragorn and Harper jumped apart with a shout. Legolas did not muffle his laughter; his amusement only grew when Aragorn tried to cow him with a menacing glare. Harper, for her part, blushed deep like a rose, but seemed unwilling to be shamed. She tilted her head to the side and said, “Legolas, can I ask you a question?”

“You may,” Legolas said.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“I have thirteen brothers.” He wondered when the topic of conversation had turned -- the celerity of mortals in their whims of speech had long struck him as odd.

Harper glanced at Aragorn. “Are you the youngest?” She asked.

“I am.”

His answer kindled the impish light in Harper’s eyes to blazing. “Interesting,” she said, and then shared a long look with Aragorn that dissolved into breathless laughter. Whatever the joke was, it was lost on Legolas. He wondered if it was a common jest amongst mortals, or a private delight shared only between them. The latter seemed more likely, for Harper was not of the Dunedain, nor was she from any realm of mortals Legolas knew. Arwen and Aragorn both failed to mention her origins, and Lord Elrond named her as coming from Eriador. To Legolas, Harper smelt of parchment and ozone, and drifted too lightly through Middle-earth to belong to it. The trees whispered and wondered when she walked past -- unsure of what to make of her. It was an interesting mystery, one that Legolas trusted to be resolved in time.

He hoped, too, it would explain the strange moment he shared with Harper during The Council of Elrond. When the subject turned to Gollum, Legolas learned how deeply the Elves of Mirkwood erred in letting him escape. His heart bent under gale-force winds of worry as he listened to Aragorn speak, and resolved to deliver his news when Aragorn finished answering the question Boromir posed. But then, ere he shifted or opened his mouth, Harper fixed him in her expectant gaze -- waiting, it seemed, to hear words she already knew he meant to say. It had startled Legolas -- he faltered, and needed to speak over Boromir before the topic changed once again.

Harper and Aragorn began their dance anew. Legolas smiled, and returned to spectating. It was good to see Aragorn laugh.

--

No such offer had been extended by Lord Elrond or the Hobbit who bore the Ring, but Gimli resolved after The Council of Elrond to accompany Frodo Baggins along whatever path he might take into the depths of Mordor, and to wield his axe in Frodo’s defense, so that the Free People might finally see The Ring of Power destroyed.

Gimli was no stranger to long and hard travel -- though his pains and labors did not begin to match those of his father -- and he knew how to appreciate a good place to rest your bones after a rough journey. But while Rivendell was fair to the eye and granted lightness to the heart, he struggled to find true rest here. It was too airy, too open, too meandering with its innumerable, listless days. He yearned for dark hearth of home and the solid truth of stone beneath his boots. But he could not succumb to such melancholy. There was a long and arduous task ahead; it would do no good to lose heart ere they began. Thus he committed himself to the task of preparing for the journey to Mordor -- not only through pouring over maps with his father and training with his axe, but by getting to know the other likely members of the company.

Aragorn son of Arathorn was unknown to Gimli before he came to Rivendell; Gimli at once saw him to be a Man stout of heart and smart with his blade. Destined, they said at The Council, to be a King of Men. This, Gimli thought, was good and true. Aragorn carried himself with solemnity and sternness, but nothing of his sure, understated might suggested meanness. Rather, it was the opposite -- beneath the yoke of duty affixed firmly to his spirit, there was a kind feyness (for Gimli was loth to describe him as Elvish, though that may have been closer to the truth) that Gimli knew he would grow to admire.

Ah, well, he might grow to admire it, if he ever found himself in the position to carry on a private conversation with the Man for more than five minutes.

Gimli grew to favor the Hall of Fire during his time in Rivendell. The ceilings were high and the structure wooden, but there was a warm, cavernous quality to the Hall that Gimli appreciated. He fell into a routine of resting there after he supped; he did not stray from his routine this particular early November night. He brought with him two apples and a flagon of ale to enjoy after his evening meal. He ate the first apple, and that satisfied him enough, so he left the second beside him for later snacking, or to return to Rivendell’s -- admittedly generous -- kitchens.

Aragorn and Harper arrived not much later. Aragorn, on occasion, joined Gimli in the Hall of Fire, and every time, Harper accompanied him. It was no different tonight. They greeted him and pulled up chairs across from Gimli, and then Aragorn drew him into a conversation about how Dwarven caravans had stopped coming down from the Blue Mountains. The lack of trade, he learned, was making hardship for Aragorn’s people in the Angle. It was a serious conversation, one that Harper sat through quietly and watched with a thoughtful expression upon her face.

Gimli did not know what to make of Harper. She was kind, polite in her own way, and when Gimli spoke she listened with rapt attention and an odd warmth he might call fondness if they knew one another better. He could make no complaints against her, truly, and would not want to -- but a Dwarf, however hearty he may be, could only take so much. Though not all the blame could be laid at her feet.

After Aragorn explained how the Dunedain were making do without the lost trade outlet, he asked Gimli if he intended to eat the second, forgotten apple. “Nay,” Gimli said, “it is yours, if you would have it.”

Aragorn gifted him a rare, warm smile. “My thanks,” he said, with a bowed head, and then plucked the apple from the arm of Gimli’s chair.

“I cannot give you the answer you seek,” Gimli said of the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains. “Communication from Thorin’s hall has been less these past years. But wargs and other fell beasts have harried them upon the road for some time now. If they have stopped their coming all together, it sings true to me that the Shadow has driven them deep into the mountains.”

It was ill news indeed. Gimli had lived now in Erebor for the better part of a century, but he was born in Thorin’s hall and dwelt there in his growing days. He remembered well how he delighted in watching the caravans leave as a young lad, filled to bursting as they were with fine jewelry and armors and weapons for trading. The main hall took up a great traveling song when they departed, and continued their singing until the caravan disappeared out of sight.

Any deep sadness Gimli might have felt in that moment was banished at first by perplexity, and then a strange, flustered sort of embarrassment. He watched Aragorn take a crunching bite from the apple as he spoke. But instead of taking another, he glanced at Harper and offered the fruit to her without a word. Harper blinked at Aragorn for a moment, then accepted the offering. She studied the apple, looked to Aragorn, and dug her teeth into the sweet flesh of the fruit in the same spot Aragorn had bitten down on -- and never broke eye contact. Aragorn grew pink in the face, and accepted the fruit back when it was offered to him. He took another bite, this one next to the first, licked the juice from his lips and gave it back to Harper -- who again sunk her teeth into the bite Aragorn had just taken.

This was not the first intimate moment between the pair Gimli was forced to play witness to, and he was beginning to fear it would not be the last. Three nights prior they all sat together just like this, and not an hour passed before Aragorn insisted on massaging Harper’s sword-sore hands. After he finished, Harper bullied him into letting her return the favor. Gimli, in an unusual moment of cowardice, fled the hall when Harper noted Aragorn’s shoulders were a mess of knots, and told him he ought to let her take care of those, too. It was a shame -- Gimli was enjoying the tale Harper told of a Dwarf called Varric and his many strange adventures.

It seemed Gimli would need to admit defeat this night as well. He tried to steer the moment back onto a less private path, but when he offered to ask his father if he knew anything about the caravans of the Blue Mountains, Aragorn only stared at him blankly for a moment before he nodded and took another bite of the apple. Gimli excused himself shortly after, and left with very little bitterness. Love, Gimli had always thought, was a sweet, but foreign thing. Friend and comrade and cousin had stumbled into its net over the years, and he had never begrudged them it, even if he failed to understand it.

Perhaps it was a frustrating and uncomfortable spot to continue to find himself in, but Gimli knew there were worse appetites for a king to have than for his lady and a fresh piece of fruit.

--

Strider, Sam thought, would be a good king. He had more patience than any Man ought to, and that was a good sort of trait for a king to have, wasn’t it? Not that Sam knew much about kings, other than the stories he’d heard from Bilbo over the years. But it stood to reason that if you were in charge of a whole bunch of folks, it would do you and everybody else some good if you knew how to be patient.

Sam was only in charge of bushes and flowers and trees, who weren’t in the habit of talking back, or doing much at all except for growing, and even he needed to be patient sometimes. Like the summer before last, when the honeysuckle outside Bag-End’s east windows got mildewy. Sam needed to mulch the soil for a second time that season, and paid extra attention to them until autumn. But the honeysuckles recovered, and bloomed mighty fine again the next spring.

After dinner, the Hobbits gathered on the terrace to talk a while before it came time for supper. The magic of the Elves gentled the cold hand of November, and the bright stars twinkled down on them while they talked. Frodo was looking better than he had since they left the Shire, so the Hobbits were all in high spirits -- and the night was only improved when Gandalf, Strider, and Harper joined them there.

Sam liked Harper. She looked after Frodo, asked Sam about Bill on occasion, and treated Merry and Pippin seriously, despite their mischief -- which even Gandalf could fail to do. It hurt his head to think about her being from another world, so Sam tried not to think about it. But there were times, like now, he couldn’t much ignore it.

“So we’re all in agreement?” Harper asked, after a lengthy and important sort of conversation during which Sam found his thoughts drifting to his supper. “When Elrond announces who will go with Frodo, I’ll gather you all together and tell them what happened to me from the beginning, so we’re all on the same page.”

“Do you want us to act surprised?” Pippin asked. Strider said there was no need for it. Sam had seen Pippin act surprised in the past, so he thought this was a good decision. Pippin did not agree with Strider, but Harper did, and asked Pippin not to make a show of it. Impatient and put-out, Pippin asked, “when will it happen?”

“A couple weeks, I think,” Harper said. Pippin sighed dejectedly.

Sam reminded himself that Pippin was still a tween, and he had been just as impatient at his age. Around the anniversary of Bilbo’s leaving of the Shire, ten years on, Frodo took to going on long solitary walks and shutting himself up in Bag End for days at a time. Sam did his best to coax Frodo out, to mixed results. Finally, after Frodo stayed inside for a week straight leading up to his birthday, Sam went knocking on Bag End’s door like he intended to crack it under his fist. Frodo answered, looking gloomy and pale, and Sam grabbed Frodo by the arm and said they were going to The Green Dragon, and he’d hear no complaint about it. Frodo was shocked, but came along, and cheered significantly by the end of the night. Of course, by then, Sam had come to his senses and realized how he’d acted, and hadn’t been able to look Frodo in the eyes for nearly a month out of embarrassment.

An Elf brought out supper and saved them all the effort of going and getting it themselves, much to Sam’s delight. It was a lovely meal, like all the meals at Rivendell were, and they talked and ate and drank to their heart’s content. Perhaps there was too much of the last -- by the end of the meal, Pippin’s glum impatience vanished and was replaced by a queer gleam in his eye that spelt trouble. Frodo noticed it too. He elbowed Sam lightly, cut his eyes over to Pippin, and shook his head once. So Sam and Frodo took turns jumping into the conversation every time Pippin opened his mouth to speak, to great success.

But the ale was good and Sam was getting sleepy, and eventually, he missed his cue.

“Have you and Strider made up, then?” Pippin asked Harper -- who was, when he asked, trading quiet whispers and long looks with Strider. She seemed shocked to be brought back into the conversation, which by that point Sam and Frodo were dominating in their efforts to shut Pippin up.

“Hm?” Harper hummed in response. She took a mouthful of the wine.

“Have you made up?” Pippin repeated.

Harper swallowed, and began to pick apart the roll on her plate. “What do you mean?” She asked, laughing. Strider stared hard at Pippin from under his dark brow, but Pippin either did not notice or did not care. Probably the second one, Sam thought.

“Two weeks ago, when you had breakfast with Merry and myself -- you got mad every time he spoke, or so much as looked at you,” Pippin clarified. Sam, embarrassed he’d let Pippin start talking, started to play with his own scraps of food. He’d bet half an acre of the Shire’s best soil that this happened the same day Strider pulled Sam aside and asked, in an odd, quiet voice, if Sam would do him a favor and get Harper to come around the corner, but not to mention it was Strider waiting for her.

“We weren’t fighting,” Harper said after a long pause.

“I’m certainly not in the habit of threatening to rip out a fellow’s tongue and feed it to the Mouth of Sauron -- whatever that may be -- when I am on friendly sort of terms with somebody,” Merry chimed in. He looked, to Sam, wholly uninterested in Pippin’s half-baked mischief-making, but more than willing to throw a little grease on the fire for his own entertainment.

“No,” Strider said, “I would imagine you and Master Took are more often on the receiving end of such promises.” He said this with a roguish grin that belied the flash of irritation in his eyes. Merry and Pippin voiced their complaints, but Strider only shook his head and grinned again, genuine this time. They were a tough group to put up with, Sam thought, but Strider and Harper both handled them well.

Sam looked at Frodo to see him shaking with silent laughter. They shared a smile. When he looked back across the table, Harper was smiling at Strider and settling back against her chair. Strider, Sam realized, had his arm slung across the back of her chair casually, and that it’d been there for some time.

Gandalf grew tired of their chatter and went to bed right before Merry pulled out his deck of cards and asked if they wanted to play a round of Six-and-Seven. Nobody, not even Pippin, was thrilled by the prospect, but somehow Merry bullied them all into it. Harper was better at this game than she was at Cart and Pony -- but that wasn’t saying much. After a couple of hands, she pulled herself into fourth place, ahead of Pippin and Sam, who was feeling too sleepy to keep up with the game.

If he’d had less of the ale, or wasn’t quite so tired, Sam might have made sense of the way Strider shook his head at Harper in mock reprove every now and then, or the smug smiles she offered him in return. As it was, Frodo had to point out what he’d noticed the next day -- that Strider kept pausing the game to distract the Hobbits with a tale or a song, and whenever they resumed, Harper’s luck in the game had suddenly improved a little more.

--

After a month in the house of Lord Elrond, Faramir at last felt he had truly recovered from the grueling journey to Rivendell. His broken arm was healed, and his appetite -- which withered to nothing after a month of hardtack, thin hares, and scavenged greens -- returned in full force with some slow, careful encouragement and fascinating Elvish food. The recovery of his health gave Faramir the ability to properly appreciate the beauty of Rivendell, and the time to muse on the thought that it was made all the more beautiful by the fact that he had never dared to dream he might see it with his own eyes.

His reunion with Mithrandir was unlooked for and joyous. Since their arrival, Faramir had spent a fair few hours with him, ever eager to take his counsel or, when the mood struck him, ask for stories like he had as a child. Today, however, not the time for stories from the height of Numenor or from the far shores of Valinor. Instead, they sat quietly in the large, bright feast hall and talked of kingship.

That they spoke of the return of kings made Faramir feel as if he had fallen into a story -- the sort Boromir and he made up together in the earlier days of their youth. It was not that he did not welcome the King’s return, but --

“I fear Gondor will suffer for such a change now, dangling over the cliff-edge of war and ruin as we are,” Faramir explained.

Mithrandir puffed on his pipe. He blew out a smoke ring. They watched it drift up toward the high ceiling. “Will Gondor suffer, or will the Stewardship suffer?” Mithrandir asked.

Faramir flushed red. “You know I care little--”

“I do,” Mithrandir interrupted, “which is why I am surprised to hear you speak so.”

Faramir sighed. He and Boromir, perhaps unwisely, had yet to talk about this at length. He knew his brother; it was not something he was ready to talk about yet. “Do you even know the man?” Faramir asked. He had traded very few words with Aragorn since The Council of Elrond. He saw little of him at all, in truth, save for when he spotted him wandering through the wood with his lady.

“I have known Aragorn since your mother was a small child,” Mithrandir said. “He served in Gondor under your grandfather.”

This was news to Faramir. “Did he truly? Why did he not make himself known?” Ecthelion died the year after Faramir was born. All he knew of the man he had learned in whispers from Mithrandir, or the elders in Gondor’s court who were willing to risk his father’s wrath. In the end, the relationship between his grandfather and father was poor, and that told Faramir enough.

“I cannot say. Perhaps he felt there was more he needed to accomplish before declaring himself. Perhaps, too, there were unfriendly whispers in the city against the coming of the King.” Mithrandir said nothing of the sort, but the way he arched his eyebrow suggested where those unfriendly whispers may have come from.

“Do you know his claim to be true?” It seemed unlikely -- nay, impossible -- that the line of Isildur had carried on through the centuries with Gondor none the wiser.

“I do.”

“But do you know--”

“Enough,” Mithrandir said, tiredly. At the same time, the large door to the hall opened and Aragorn and his lady stepped inside, speaking quietly with one another. “I am not a messenger, nor am I your tutor any longer, Faramir.” Mithrandir gestured to the approaching pair. “If you have questions, you may ask them yourself.” With that, and a friendly, passing word to Aragorn and Harper, Mithrandir left.

Faramir considered leaving too. A familiar voice in his head remarked that his cowardice was typical, but still disappointing. Unhappily, he remained seated. If the man was to be his king, he ought to have stood and bowed in greeting -- but he held no title yet, and Faramir secretly feared if he did stand, he would lose his resolve and flee.

On her approach, Harper eyed him with the same careful curiosity she had on the day of The Council. Boromir told him that he’d spoken a few words with her, and found her to be amiable, if a bit odd. The wide smile she greeted him with made Faramir agree with his assessment. “How are you, Lord Faramir?” She asked.

“I am well, lady. How fare you both this evening?” This question he addressed to Aragorn. The man had yet to even look at Faramir properly -- he was only watching Harper with an affectionate grin.

“Well,” Aragorn answered, though it seemed a great effort for him to look away from Harper. When he managed it, he regarded Faramir with an apprehensive sobriety. “Have we interrupted?” He asked.

“Nay,” Faramir said. “Mithrandir comes and goes as he pleases.” This earned him a laugh from them both. Faramir calmed at the twin sounds.

“Would you mind if we joined you?” Harper asked, motioning to the bench where Mithrandir had been sitting.

“If it pleases you,” he answered. Harper moved first, and tugged at Aragorn’s sleeve when he did not immediately follow. He looked rather like Faramir felt -- vaguely queasy and half-compelled to make a break for it. A silence echoed loudly in the room after they took their seats.

It was Harper who broke it. “How was the journey from Gondor?” She asked. It was not the polite inquiry of one who hoped to hear that it was, ‘fine, thank you,’ and continue on to more agreeable subjects. She glanced down at his newly un-slingbound arm with a worried set to her jaw.

Faramir surprised himself by answering honestly. “Unpleasant at best,” he answered. “I fear the wrath of Eorlingas when they learn what has become of their horses.”

“Gandalf stole one of the Mearas, and lost it too. You can’t be at the top of their list for revenge,” Harper told him.

Faramir gaped at her. “Pardon?”

Among the threads of her deftly woven story, Faramir forgot his concerns about the man across from him, and abandoned all worries of succession and court politics to another day. Aragorn laughed through his lady’s tale, and offered a few of his own from his days amongst the Rohirrim. When Faramir mustered the courage to tell of his ill-fated visit to Meduseld in his erstwhile teens, and the trouble Boromir and he got into there, Aragorn listened intently and responded with great humor. The conversation was quick witted and pleasant, and carried on until the light streaming through the high windows of the hall faded entirely, and left the trio sitting there in lamplight, debating which of the desserts the Elves served was best.

Faramir thought it was the creme and raspberry filled pastries. Harper said it was the red colored cake topped with a sweet frosting which Faramir had never seen before coming to Rivendell. With a faraway look in his eye, Aragorn said, “I fear you are both wrong. It was an airy sweet roll topped with honey and powdered sugar. Once, when I was a boy, I gorged myself to the point of sickness. The Elf who made them has long sailed west. They only grace the lips of those in Valinor now.”

Faramir cocked his head. “When you were a boy?” He asked.

“Aye,” Aragorn answered. “I was raised in Rivendell.”

“Wherefore?” Faramir asked, before he could think to stay the question.

Aragorn was not bothered by the personal nature of the inquiry. “My father was slain by Orcs when I had but two years. My mother took me to the house of Elrond. She knew shelter for my kin could be found here.”

“I apologize,” Faramir said. “I should not have-”

“There is no need,” Aragorn said, quite seriously. “I would have you ask whatever you may need to know of me.” His palms rested flat on the table and he met Faramir’s eyes with an earnest, hopeful expression.

It shocked Faramir. “Truly?” He asked. Aragorn nodded. Faramir feared, for just a moment, that Gondor’s court would eat the man alive. In his childish whimsy, perhaps, Faramir had pictured a king to be honest and open and kind. But he was too long lived to expect that any longer. That Aragorn would welcome any challenge to his story or his claim -- and do so with grace -- left Faramir speechless, and entirely uncertain of how to proceed.

Harper rested her hand lightly on Aragorn’s shoulder. The movement caught his eye and he looked at her. She paid him no attention -- only gazed at Aragorn with some mix of pride and wonder. For the first time in his life, Faramir spared a passing thought to what a Queen of Gondor might be like. He stared at her in quiet confusion for long enough that she finally glanced at him with an arched brow and a small smile -- a silent encouragement to continue.

Faramir needed to talk to Boromir. “Another time, perhaps,” he said. “The hour is late and I have taken too much of your time.”

“When you are ready, then,” Aragorn said.

“It was nice to speak with you,” Harper said.

Faramir replied in kind. He stood. He bowed before he left.

---

“What day is it?” Harper asked.

November’s grey shadow had briefly fled, and the day was warm and bright. Aragorn and Harper were making the most of it. There was a stream Aragorn favored as a boy, that ran along the northern border and, eventually, up into the Coldfells. It split in twain along an open, grassy bank, and it was there that they sunned themselves with a small picnic of fresh bread, aged meats, and hard cheese. Harper insisted on bringing along a bottle of a fizzing, pink wine. It tasted exactly like a hard candy from her home, she said.

The wine, mayhap, was beginning to go to Aragorn’s head. He needed to think for a moment before he could answer. “Friday,” he said eventually.

“No, the date, I mean.”

“Oh.” Another moment. “The twenty-fourth.” Harper made a small, sad sound. Aragorn lifted his head from where it rested on the makeshift pillow of his bundled cloak to look at her. “What is it?”

“Tomorrow is my birthday,” Harper answered. She was lying next to him, and kept her eyes closed against the glare of the sun.

Aragorn sat up quickly. “It is?”

This, for some reason, made Harper smile. “Yeah,” she said. “I kind of forgot. Time here is so--” she made a vague, wiggling gesture with her hand in lieu of explaining further. She opened her eyes, and squinted at him through the sun to see if he understood.

“How--” Aragorn started, and then cut himself off abruptly.

It did not escape Harper’s notice. She sat up too. She cocked her head at him and stared -- in that sharp, impish way of hers. She smiled again, all teeth now, and said, “you want to know how badly you’re robbing the cradle, then?” She was an insufferable woman, he thought. When he said nothing, she only smiled wider. “Guess.”

“I should have left you in the South Downs,” Aragorn said. It earned him a sudden shout of laughter. He struggled not to share in her amusement.

In truth, it could not be avoided, however hard they tried. He kissed her palm on the day that they argued, after she tried to soothe his fears about the throne. It had been an unconscious gesture of thanks, at the time, but the past few weeks had made clear to them both what it really was: nothing less than a declaration of intent.

They were chaste, if familiar, and said nothing aloud. Aragorn found they did not need to. He burned like pale yellow mead and pipe smoke in her presence -- warmed through and throughout by the mere thought of her. Warmer still he was made by the revelation he had the same effect on her. They spent little time apart, but when they did reunite come morning or after his long meetings with Gandalf and Elrond, every inch of her brightened. It was a heady and wondrous thing.

But there was a long and uncertain road ahead of them, and Aragorn knew they were both apprehensive to complicate it with words or actions that might endanger their quest. But, at times, he thought of it -- this nebulous after, where he might be free to pursue what his heart whispered to him on the edge of sleep.

Aragorn sighed, tried to break through the warm, buzzing haze of the wine, and considered what he might say. There was no good answer, and she knew it. He glared at her. “I will not play this game,” he announced at length, and laid back down.

To his horror (to his delight) she crawled over and placed her hands on either side of his shoulders, and hovered above him. Her hair hung down around them, and the sun shined through it, dark chestnut burning gold.

“It’s my birthday,” Harper said. “Humor me.”

“It is not your birthday yet,” he answered. She pouted playfully and Aragorn could not look away from her lips. He shut his eyes to lessen the temptation to lean up and nip at her bottom lip. “Thirty-five,” he ground out, with some hope.

“Close,” she teased, low, tempting. Her breath was a warm puff of air against Aragorn’s face. “C’mon, try again.”

“Thirty-seven?”

Her answering laugh was mocking. It was a sweet, ache-making sort of sound. He drew upon some inner source of will and opened his eyes. They met hers immediately -- sparkling and sly and, mayhap, a little glazed. “I had the right of it when I said we should not bring the wine,” he said, when his breath returned to him.

Harper shifted her weight to one arm and carded a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, I think I disagree.” Aragorn was only a man, and could not stop himself from leaning into the touch. She bit her lip, tugged at his hair once -- ever so lightly -- and then pulled away. The sensation crackled and shot sparks down his every limb. It took several deep, calming breaths before Aragorn trusted himself sit up again without acting rashly. When he did, she was flushed and worrying a strand of her hair around her finger. “Thirty-one,” she finally told him.

Aragorn considered this. “I see,” he said eventually, bereft of any other answer.

Harper rolled her eyes at him. “If you were normal, you’d barely be forty,” she said, suddenly irritated.

“If I was normal?” There was a laugh hidden in there Aragorn could not fully suppress.

“Normal people don’t live until they’re t--” Harper slapped a hand over her mouth. They stared at one another -- her in horror, him in amusement. Slowly, she pulled her hand away. “Maybe the wine was a bad idea,” she mumbled to herself.

Perhaps it was the way she quietly upbraided herself, or the rosy flush to her cheeks, or how shocked she seemed at her mistake -- but, compulsively, Aragorn reached out, seized her wrist, and tugged her hand in so he could lay another kiss upon her palm. He lingered there for a moment, and looked at her up the long line of her arm. He quirked an eyebrow at her, and smiled against her palm before he dropped her hand.

Harper pitched herself forward and then stopped short, pausing awkwardly on her knees in front of him. They stared at one another. Aragorn felt his heart drum a battle-song beneath his breast. Chaste in action, he amended his previous thought, but surely not in intent. She almost kissed him. He would have let her.

Harper let out an awkward laugh just to fill the silence that fell between them. She sat back down on the ground. Still smiling, still rosy-cheeked, she mock-glared at him. “You’re horrible,” she announced.

“You do not mean that,” Aragorn said, simply, smugly.

“No,” Harper agreed, “I really don’t.”

--

“Mithrandir says--”

“I care little for what Mithrandir has to say,” Boromir interjected.

Faramir glared at him. “I came here to speak with my brother, not my father,” he said, coldly. It tugged at Boromir’s heartstrings and vibrated through his chest as dual-toned shame.

“Faramir,” he sighed. “It is not for us to decide.”

“By that you mean it is for Father to decide, and it is that line of reasoning that I find fault with. He bears the Ring of Barahir and the Sword-that-was-Broken. You saw this as well as I.”

Boromir scratched at his beard. “I am not contesting the legitimacy of his claim,” he said at length. He recognized Narsil the moment Aragorn drew the sword during The Council. Beyond that, he bore the likeness of the statues of Kings that he had spent his life gazing upon in the White Tower. There was no doubt in Boromir’s heart that he was of Isildur’s blood.

“Then what?” Faramir asked, softly.

“Is now the time?”

“I said the same to Mithrandir. But now I say this: what time do we have left?”

This conversation stayed with Boromir for many days. They reached no conclusion at the end of it, but that had always been the nature of their -- rare -- disagreements. A silent acceptance and amicable stalemate that could drag on for years at a time, until a definite answer finally provided itself. But Boromir was not content to wait for years to find their answer. No matter that they disagreed, Faramir was right in one thing -- they were running out of time.

Minas Tirith, when last he saw her disappear over the horizon, gleamed white and proud in the ever growing shadow of Mordor. But long months had passed, and he’d heard little in the way of news of how his city fared. The recapture of Osgiliath by the Enemy had been a hard blow, and he and Faramir were lucky to escape with their lives -- there were few that did. What were occasional skirmishes and raids on outposts by night in Boromir’s youth had, in the past years, grown to open war -- one the people of Gondor fought, alone, on the very edge of the Shadow.

He feared -- had feared, since the moment they left -- that they were wrong to disobey their father in this. But Father denied Faramir his petition to go to Rivendell, and ordered Boromir to go in his stead. When Faramir made his intention to follow known, whatever the cost might be to him, Boromir was unable to argue with him. The dream had been Faramir’s all along -- he only claimed to have had it in order to force their father’s hand. It was not he who was called to Rivendell, and he was neither willing nor able to deny Faramir his summons.

They traveled long and hard to the home of Lord Elrond, and throughout the journey Boromir soothed his private worries with promises that they would find answers here. Instead, they found Isildur’s heir and a Halfling bearing a beautiful, evil thing.

Boromir’s dreams began to take on deeper meaning -- they were not filled with riddles of prophecy like his brother’s, but there was this: a vision of Gondor restored, continuing on into eternity, nestled sweetly in the bosom of peace and plenty.

In his darker, waking moments, Boromir felt betrayed by Faramir’s willingness to bend the knee to this Ranger-King. Who was he to claim lordship over Gondor when he had lounged about with Elves while Boromir’s people bled and fought and died for their right to live freely? He said as much to Faramir -- who informed him that Aragorn served in Gondor, for years, under the rule of their grandfather, and it was then that many things clicked into place. This revelation, more than anything else, forced Boromir to find Aragorn and speak with him.

Aragorn proved to be a hard man to pin down. He asked Mithrandir, and the Hobbits, and even one of the sons of Elrond, but none knew where he might be. Boromir considered this, and decided to change his tactic. He returned to the Hobbits and asked if they knew where Harper was -- this, they could answer, and it led him to the man he meant to find.

Harper was resting on the sidelines of the training yard. She was pink in the face and covered in mud and sweat -- it had rained fiercely the night before, and even the evergreen grass of Rivendell had not held up under the deluge. Her sword rested beside her and she was watching Aragorn run through his paces with the training dummies. When the grey afternoon light hit the edge of Aragorn’s blade and reflected back a pale red, Boromir stopped in his tracks, unable and unwilling to believe what he saw.

“Hi Boromir!” Harper called to him.

He nodded in her direction. Aragorn stopped taking swings at the dummy in front of him and turned to face Boromir, the tip of his sword pointed to the ground. Boromir took another step forward. “Is that--” he asked, then coughed. His voice was rough and raw.

Aragorn bowed his head. He turned the sword over in his hand, considering. “The Sword-that-was-Broken has been reforged. The shards of Narsil are now Andúril, the Flame of the West.” Then he looked at Boromir, a keen light burning in his eyes, flipped the blade around, and offered it to him, hilt first.

His hands shook as he took the sword from Aragorn. He did not grab it by the grip -- rather, he balanced it by blade and crossguard across his hands, and stared down at it in wonder. Andúril was deceptively simple in her beauty. Cirith ran down the fuller of the blade, and between the runes were the Seven Stars, book-ended by the sun and moon by the point and rainguard. There was weight to the sword, but it was by no means bulky or inelegant. When Boromir moved it out of his shadow, the blade glowed red in the light.

Breathless, he extended it back to Aragorn. It was a marvel to behold, but, “this is not mine,” he said simply.

Aragorn stared at him for a long moment before he accepted the blade back, taking it by the grip. He sheathed it. He glanced over his shoulder to where Harper was sitting, and then nodded his head in her direction. “Come, sit with me and speak.”

Before Boromir had time to even properly settle into his seat, he asked, with some intensity, “you knew my grandfather?”

Aragorn looked only mildly surprised by this. “Aye, I did. He was a good Steward, and an even better man.”

Denethor spoke little of Ecthelion. What he had to say was less than favorable. “You know my father, too.” This was not posed as a question, though both boggled the mind. The blood of Numenor must run thickly in Aragorn indeed, he thought, for he looked no older than Boromir himself.

“Not well, I would say, but we were acquainted, that is true,” was Aragorn’s careful answer.

Boromir replied with a humorless laugh.

Adrift in a sea of doubt, Boromir asked his questions of Aragorn. His answers brought Boromir no closer to the shore, but gave him more control over the boat, so to speak. For the first and only time, Boromir considered not accompanying the Ringbearer and instead leaving at once. It was Faramir’s dream, and Faramir alone had been called to this quest. Boromir would serve better elsewhere -- namely, in Minas Tirith, asking his father why he had let the King slip through his fingers and left the throne empty for another forty years. It was a brutal betrayal of all he held dear. Boromir knew his father was a man who appreciated power -- but never had he believed him one who would forswear his oath as Steward and live comfortably, knowingly, in dereliction of duty. Boromir clung, foolishly, to a masthead of hope. There had to be another explanation.

What that other explanation might be, Boromir did not know and Aragorn did not offer. He refused, with the utmost tact, to lay any blame on Denethor for his leaving of Gondor -- insisted, instead, it was his own choice. This, in a way, made everything worse.

He clasped Aragorn’s arm, tightly. “Come with me to Minas Tirith,” he said. “Return to the White City.” Boromir’s stomach turned over at the way Aragorn paled, and glanced at Harper out of the corner of his eye.

“I plan to,” Aragorn said at length. “But the Ringbearer’s task must be completed first.”

“Is there no other who can see it done?” Must it be done at all? He did not add.

“None I would trust,” Aragorn said. “You fear how the Shadow presses against the doorstep of Gondor; this will unmake the Shadow fully. They are means to the same end, Boromir. There is no other way to see the Enemy destroyed.” There was a peculiar pleading note in his words that Boromir did not know what to make of.

His words rang true, but -- what hope did the Halfling have? This, too, he did not say.

--

Gandalf was content to sit and smoke his pipe in the corner of the crowded room. Ten thousand years ago, perhaps, Olórin would have struggled to cede control to Harper -- and by extension, Aragorn -- but Gandalf was tired, and knew from the restless shifting of the lining of his spirit that his time upon Middle-earth would soon come to a close. Crutch he could not be, to any of them, any longer. It was the girl’s task -- let her go about it as she would.

Harper held the floor well enough. Every member of the newly named Fellowship had been ushered into Frodo’s room. They were piled in on top of one another, and stared at Harper with various faces of confusion and disbelief -- save for the Hobbits and Aragorn, who nodded at her supportively on occasion.

Denethor’s eldest struggled the most with the revelation Harper delivered to them, and his youngest was full of questions and doubt. Gandalf eyed Boromir through puffs of pipe-smoke. His heart warned him against his presence on the Quest, but Harper refused to hear of it. She’d closed up her heart and mind -- unknowingly and unintentionally -- when she spoke in vague terms of her story, and it concerned him more than if she came right out and said what would befall the boy.

She intended to meddle, and meddle deeply -- to stick her hands in Vairë’s weaving and make the picture anew. Hope and despair she offered as equally measured libations -- Gandalf feared what would become of the cup she poured from. Her intentions were good, but that meant little against the threat of the Shadow, and no matter how he asked, no answers had been delivered to Gandalf from on high.

This was the path he was chosen for -- to walk the long, dark road with little light to guide them, but to guide them still. They were upon the very beginning of the end. He hoped, as Frodo voiced his support of Harper against Faramir’s concerns, that her knowledge might provide a beacon for them all.

--

“It’s kind of inhumane to make us leave on Christmas,” Harper griped. The dawn was a fresh new thing, and all members of the Fellowship were gathered in the first courtyard of Rivendell. “Happy holidays! Now get the fuck out of my house. Try not to die!” She said, in her best -- that was, a failingly mediocre -- impression of Elrond.

Aragorn snorted. His eyes were still blurry with sleep, and he wore dark circles beneath them. They had stayed up too late together the night before, but neither of them were willing to cut short the last of their time together in relative peace and safety. “Christmas?” He asked. Kres-must.

“Yule, basically, but not.”

“Ah.” He yawned. He rubbed at his eyes, ran his hands through his hair. “How do you feel?” He asked quietly.

“Terrified,” she answered honestly. Her honesty was rewarded with Aragorn winding an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in close. Harper sighed, and laid her head on his shoulder.

Three months ago, they had been waiting in Bree for the Hobbits to arrive and laying the finishing touches on their plan to incapacitate Bill Ferny. In another three months the Ring would be destroyed -- God, or Eru Iluvatar, or Tolkien, or Whoever, willing. Her time in Rivendell had passed by in the blink of an eye. Did she do enough? She could have spent more time befriending Boromir, or finding out the exact source of the differences in the timeline, or preparing the Hobbits for what was to come. Yes, she’d done her best, but she did not think her best measured up.

This, among many other things, she had whispered to Aragorn when they talked late into the night. It had brought an awkward sort of silence down around them, the kind Harper thought they were past. If she feared she had let herself be distracted, the question that followed was: what distracted her? And the answer had his arm wrapped around her shoulders and his chin resting on top of her head.

Christ -- who could blame her? It’d all come crashing to a head a week after they arrived, and everything after had been so easy. They were always on the same page, and when they weren’t, one or the other was perfectly willing to flip through the book to find where they ought to be. Harper still obsessively wondered when and how he might have seen her in his past, but Aragorn wondered just as much about what waited for him in the immediate future. He helped her cheat at card games to get revenge on too-curious Hobbits, took her on a starlit picnic on her birthday, shared fruit and touch and language with her -- she hadn’t realized how lonely she was until the wall between them came down. It was a delight to find him on the other side of it -- even when he kicked her ass in practice duels and then pretended, with an infuriating arch of his eyebrow, that he’d gone easy on her.

There was nothing for it. She’d made her choices, would make them again, given the chance -- and now she had to live with them. Harper could only hope nobody would die for them.

Chapter Text

Far in the east, dawn crept over the mountain peaks.

The biting cold of the last days of December raged and ravaged Harper as she walked, but that distant sliver of pale light was a welcome sight. Rivendell, with its mystical and mild winter, lay long days behind, during which the Fellowship moved through the wilderlands under the cover of darkness, lit no fires, and took little rest. A misty grey chill hung over the world. The winds howled over desolate browngreen plains that stretched for as far as the eye could see, and beyond. At night, the swirling heavens twinkled through the thin cloud cover as the waxing moon shone down to guide their steps. And as always, as ever, all of creation Sang. All of creation Sang, and underneath, the sickmaking disharmony of the Ring molded into its melody and faded into a shadowed, unyielding dirge. It tainted everything.

Gandalf made the call for the Fellowship to end their last march of the night and head deeper into the brush to eat and bed down. Harper stumbled forward on stiff legs and took up her camp chores automatically. She had little left in her to spare for thought. It was Sam's night to cook, which was always a delight, but even he could only do so much with mostly dry rations and no fire. Once served and sat, Harper watched her companions as she picked at her food.

In the gathering dim morning light, Frodo looked thin and wan. He stared blankly down at his meal, didn't even attempt to eat until Sam noticed and encouraged him on with some put-upon cheer. When he spoke, Frodo flinched, ever so slightly, drawn too quickly out of whatever boiling and sulfur scented corner of Mordor his mind had wandered off to. He forced a smile for Sam's sake and began to eat.

Merry and Pippin sat next to Frodo. They ate with determination, at least, if not their usual enthusiasm. Pippin finished first. He stared balefully down at his empty bowl. Merry noticed, pity and guilt flooding his face. Harper struggled to swallow against the thickness building in her throat. Feigning fullness, Merry silently offered the rest of his food to Pippin. He perked up at first, but then paused, staring hard at Merry, searching his face. With a shake of his head, Pippin refused the offer. Merry tried for nonchalance, but failed to conceal his relief at Pippin's rejection. He scarfed down the last of his food, and then took to miserably staring down at his empty bowl, too.

Tears welled in Harper's eyes. She looked away -- a last ditch effort to preserve her remaining dignity and not break out in exhausted, sympathetic tears on behalf of the Hobbits. She spotted Boromir staring at Merry and Pippin too, a terribly sad look straining his face. He nudged Faramir, who followed his brother's gaze. Wordlessly, Faramir passed off his remaining food.

Boromir stood and crossed the haphazard circle of the Fellowship with his and Faramir's leftovers in hand.

Merry and Pippin glanced between Boromir's face and the food in his hands with curiosity. In her periphery, Harper registered the attention of the rest of the Fellowship drifting in their direction. Boromir's ears went red under the scrutiny, but his expression remained neutral, careless.

"Have you any interest in this?" Boromir asked. "It will go to waste otherwise." He phrased it as a matter of practicality, almost an annoyance -- if the Hobbits refused the food, he would be saddled with the trying task of finding some other to eat it, or disposing of it safely himself.

The no-frills grace and subtlety of it shocked Harper, until she remembered Boromir was of nobility and had spent his whole life at court. When Merry and Pippin quickly and clearly registered the unspoken meaning of the thing, she was shocked again. But it made just as much sense -- the Hobbits didn't have court, no, but those two were as close to aristocrats as the Shire had. Evidently, the language translated well enough.

Merry straightened his spine and bored look fell on him. He extended his hand expectantly. "Give it here, then," he said. Boromir handed the food over with a nod of thanks. Merry returned it. Without another word, Boromir turned and walked back to Faramir.

The exchanged warmed her heart, if not her damp and aching bones.

When reliable dusk next returned, the Fellowship broke their fast and began to pack up their things. Then -- a shout, a tumble, a tussle. Harper jumped up, reaching for her sword, until she saw the cause of the commotion. Merry and Pippin: fighting. It proved a short fight. By the time Harper registered what was happening, Boromir and Faramir had waded into the fray and pulled the Hobbits off of one another. Merry and Pippin were both pink in the face and seething. The intensity of it alarmed her. She considered going over, but still half asleep and curious to see how Boromir and Faramir would handle it, she crouched down and pretended to be interested in reordering things in her pack as she watched the scene play out.

"What is the trouble?" Faramir asked, with the calm resignation of one too used to breaking up fights between men worn and weary for their homes.

"He tried to stab me!" Pippin cried, struggling against Faramir's hold.

"Liar!" Merry shot back. "He went rifling through my things and almost stabbed himself on my sword."

Boromir and Faramir shared a look over their heads. With a firm grip on Merry, Boromir looked down at him and asked, "have you spied some threat we have not? Hobbit eyes must be sharp indeed, if you have seen clearer than ranger and Wizard and Elf."

Merry blinked up at him, perplexed enough that he forgot his rage for a moment. "No, I have not," he said.

"If not to ready yourself for approaching danger, why, then, was your blade out of its scabbard?" He sounded disappointed, exasperated, which Harper thought was far worse than anger. By the dreadful look on Merry's face, he felt the same.

"Well?" Pippin drawled, pleased to see his cousin chastised. "What do you have to say to that, Merry?"

With a squeeze to his shoulders, Faramir lightly pivoted Pippin around and pointed to another blade, cast recklessly off into the brush, lying half out of its scabbard. In a low voice, he asked, "is that Merry's blade?"

Pippin stiffened and paled. "It is not," he answered, curtly and at length.

Boromir and Faramir glanced at one another again, then, on wordless agreement, released their respective Hobbits.

Gandalf chose that moment to speak. "If you are quite done causing a racket, we must move. We are losing moonlight."

Before the Hobbits dispersed to lick their wounds and fall in line, Boromir caught their attention. "It does no good to have you carrying weapons you cannot use or keep safely. When our path turns to lands where we may walk under the sun, at least, I would show you the basics of swordplay, if you are willing."

Merry and Pippin cast a glance at one another and then both agreed. Boromir looked pleased.

The disagreement stayed with Harper throughout the night. She'd known Merry and Pippin for months now. While they bickered and sniped playfully and at will, she'd never seen them truly angry with one another. It disturbed her. Only during the day's last short rest did she consider that it might be the fault of the Ring.

But silver linings lurk everywhere, and so it began that during the night, or in the few hours they had for rest between marches or before sleep, Boromir talked Merry and Pippin through the basics of safety and swordplay. Harper eavesdropped on these lessons with increasing regularity. Her training with Hereth over the summer had been of the hands-on, practical sort, and few of the terms or formal strategies that Boromir imparted to Merry and Pippin were familiar to her.

Four nights after the scuffle, the Fellowship camped down at dawn. The heavy mists still hung in the hair, but the rains were beginning to recede, and the winds losing some of their intensity. The timeline wasn't clear, but Harper thought they were only a few sleeps away from coming into Hollin. As she ate, she sat with her back to Merry, Pippin, and Boromir, straining her ears to catch their conversation.

Aragorn approached with a grim look on his face, fresh from another argument with Gandalf about their path. Harper, again, debated with herself on whether or not she should intervene. The closer the Fellowship came to Hollin, the less content to agree-to-disagree Aragorn and Gandalf were. By his look now, Harper thought this disagreement had been of an ugly sort. And by the unusually heated nature of their disagreements lately, Harper thought the Ring was to blame. Again.

She didn't have a chance to comment. Aragorn took in her posture, cut his eyes to Boromir and the Hobbits behind her, looked back at her -- and laughed. A tired sound that was becoming far too rare as the days passed, and precious enough Harper wouldn't diminish her chances of hearing it again soon by prodding still tender wounds.

"You could simply join them," Aragorn suggested.

Leave it to Aragorn to cut right down to the heart of things. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said, and took a bite of her food. It earned her an unimpressed look.

A wave of irritation -- mostly genuine, with a little spice added to it by the Ring, as far as Harper could tell, rolled over her. It was the inward-facing kind of irritation. She'd pressured Aragorn into trying to make peace with Boromir from the get-go. Pending future disaster, she still thought that was the correct decision. But she felt like a hypocrite. She forced Aragorn's hand on the matter, but refused to build a bridge between herself and the same man?

The problem: Boromir had reacted … in his own way to the revelation of her origin. Privately, Harper thought his anger and disbelief came more from being presented with the idea that his whole life -- and all the pain and danger he had shouldered throughout it -- was nothing more than a fairytale somewhere else. She didn't blame him. Since then, their burgeoning friendship had stalled and stagnated, and they'd both been doing their best to avoid one another.

In the back of her mind, a voice that sounded distinctly like Hereth remarked, in a dry sort of way, that avoiding Boromir like the plague just because Harper disliked feeling awkward was definitely a great way to save his life.

Harper shoved her empty dish at Aragorn and scrambled to her feet before she lost her nerve. He watched her rise with a proud -- and a little self-satisfied -- set to his jaw that she wanted to kiss off of his face. She banished the thought. Now was not the time.

Boromir, seeing Harper approach, paused in the middle of his current explanation. She stared down at three sets of curious eyes, gathered herself, and motioned to the empty space between Pippin and Boromir.

"Can I join you?" She asked, face hot. "I've got a bit more experience than these two, but I should probably learn more." It took a monumental effort to get the words out. Harper wondered if it was due to the Ring or her own personal failings. Probably both.

Pippin scooted over immediately to make room for her. He and Merry looked to Boromir, waiting. Boromir held her gaze, studying her -- his face remained passive but surprise was shining clear back at her through his eyes. Harper didn't know what he found on her face, but after a few tense moments, he let a small smile show through.

"If it pleases you," Boromir said. "I am happy to teach what I know."

Relief rushed through her. Harper grinned and took her place in the circle.

The Fellowship came down out of the wilderlands into Hollin. The transition was marked by a sudden change. One moment they were marching ever onward through the eternal curtain of grey mist that had blanketed them since they left Rivendell. Then, atop the hill they climbed, they crossed through an invisible boundary, walking, at last, down into an open, craggy green country that knew life and light unveiled by clouds. In the far east, where the sun began to rise, Harper even spotted a small patch of blue, clear sky. She could have cried.

With dawn on them, they stopped to camp, all in better spirits. Speaking of where they had been and where they were headed, Gandalf said, "we cannot look too far ahead. Let us be glad that the first stage is safely over. I think we will rest here, not only today but tonight as well."

Reality pierced through the relief in Harper's mind, and she realized she needed to be the bearer of bad news. "Uh-" Harper started, and cringed when the whole Fellowship turned to look at her. "There will be spies. Crebain, working for Saruman." Next to her, understanding dawned on Aragorn's face. He'd kept silent about it, unable to puzzle out the source, but something had been making him restless for hours. "I think we can either risk a fire, or stay here until tomorrow -- but not both."

Merry groaned. "Is it too late to disinvite her from the Fellowship?" He asked nobody in particular.

"If you bring a woman who knows the future with you, it is well to pay attention to her," Gandalf said. He turned his attention to Frodo. "Which will it be?" He asked him.

Frodo, who looked dangerously tired, took less than a second to consider. "I think we ought to rest here until tomorrow," he said.

So they did. The silence over Hollin was deafening and they did their best not to disturb it. Still, it did them all a world of good to spend a few wakeful hours in the daylight, even if they relegated their camp to a copse of trees. The sun streamed down through the bare branches and the shadows crosshatched the ground below.

The Hobbits went to nap in the sunlight after they ate. Aragorn and Gandalf took up their usual argument opposite the Hobbits in the small camp -- bickering quietly over their pipes. Boromir watched them go at it for a while, tempted to go over and throw his suggestion in again, but chose instead to nap, too. Harper had no desire to listen to any more of Gandalf and Aragorn's pointless arguing, so she settled herself down in a small patch of sunlight near Faramir and Legolas, who were talking of Mirkwood.

"Six hundred miles? Truly?" Faramir asked. "I have spent long weeks and months In the wild, but I struggle to imagine such an immense forest."

Legolas made a contemplative noise that, if it had come from anybody else, might have been called wistful. "The Shadow reaches deep into the forest, and much of it is lost to us now. I have few memories of my home before the corruption began."

Faramir, with a great and shared sadness in his voice, said, "I understand. The fires of Mordor have burned hot at our borders for my whole life. Now there are very few, if any, in Minas Tirith who can recall the White City before the Enemy declared himself openly." He frowned and scratched his scruff. "Is it mere rumor that you are beset by great spiders and other foul beasts?" He asked. Harper couldn't decide if he sounded perturbed or excited by the idea.

Legolas laughed -- lyre and lute in the winter sun. "Nay, that is no rumor. They keep to the southern reaches, and we have learned to deal with them as is fit." His eyes twinkled as he added, "little travel happens during their mating season, even in the safer parts of the wood. I know of no Elf who has come upon a mother guarding her eggs and survived for the telling."

Faramir shuddered. "I will remember to be thankful for Orcs when I return home," he said, and meant it. Suddenly, he turned his attention to Gimli, who sat a few feet away, oiling the handle of his axe. "Master Dwarf! Come and tell me of your Erebor. I am waiting for you to make good on the promise you made me in Rivendell."

Gimli looked up, surprised. He glanced between Faramir and Legolas, then shook his head. "Another time," he said.

"Surely there must be some terrible plight that remained after the defeat of Smaug? I do not doubt you killed many a foe in the reclaiming of the kingdom," Faramir encouraged him.

Gimli puffed up a bit. "Indeed I did!" He declared, but then remembered his reluctance and shook his head again. "But you may wait a little longer to hear of it. This needs doing while we rest," he said with a shake of his axe.

"Pah," Legolas said derisively. "Leave him to his weapon, I will tell you of the Battle of the Five Armies. The tale is better heard from one who was there."

Gimli jumped to his feet. "I think not!" He cried, far too loudly. The Hobbits tossed about in their sleep, and Boromir jerked awake. Gimli apologized, and repeated himself more quietly, "I think not, Elf. If any of our company is to tell of Erebor, it shall be me, and there are better stories than that of her reclamation." He set aside his axe and joined Faramir and Legolas.

Harper lingered in that place between asleep and awake and listened to them take turns telling stories of their homes. Gimli told of the rebuilding of the great hall of Erebor, and spoke with deep love of every stone he laid down in that place. Legolas countered him with an expedition he undertook into the deepest reaches of Mirkwood in his youth, and the still clear offshoot of the Enchanted River he found. Trying for peace, Faramir walked them through the winding streets of Minas Tirith, and his voice turned soft and fond as he spoke of the first winter he saw snow paint the Court of the Fountain white and calm, and how the dead White Tree seemed only to be sleeping.

"Harper," Legolas said, and it was her turn to jerk awake.

"Wha'?" She asked, sitting up.

"Join us and tell us of your home." In the way of princelings and Elves, it was a demand disguised as a request.

Feeling self-conscious, Harper tried to brush him off. "I haven't killed giant spiders or rebuilt mountain kingdoms destroyed by dragons," she said. "I don't think it'd be very interesting to any of you."

"It would interest me, at the least," Faramir said. "I would know how Men may live in your lands." His eyes were wide and earnest and Harper caved.

Though she grumbled her way over to their little group, Harper quickly felt delighted by their reactions as she talked of home.

On population: Legolas, aghast, "six hundred and fifty thousand people in one city?"

"Closer to eight hundred thousand during college terms."

On travel: Gimli, his jaw dropped open, "you have the means to fly?"

"The machines do the flying to be fair, we just wait in long lines and pay too much money to get in them."

On the internet: Faramir, eyes glittering, "and this allows you to find any information you desire?"

"If somebody has put it online, sure. People mostly just use it to argue with one another, though." That earned a laugh from everybody.

The January sun retired early and those among the Fellowship who weren't already sleeping were happy to retire with it. When only a splash of light remained in the west, Harper wandered over to where Aragorn sat by himself, smoking and staring up through the trees. He had the first watch that night, and though Harper knew she wouldn't be able to stay awake with him through it, she wanted to sit with him before sleep took her.

He smiled at her when she sat beside him. It didn't reach his eyes. Before she could make mention of his unending argument with Gandalf, he asked, "were you making sport of them?"

It took her a moment to catch his meaning. "What? Oh -- about home? No, you know that was all true." Harper watched his shoulders slump and creeping disquiet shutter the openness of his face. He avoided her eyes, tapped the ash out of his pipe and then began to fiddle with his ring instead. She swung her knees around to face him properly. "What's the m--" she began to ask, but the moment was lost.

A quieter quiet overcame the silence of the land and Aragorn froze. Harper caught on quickly. Then, the distant galeforce flap of many wings. Aragorn pushed Harper flat on her back and they stared up through the trees, still as death. A mass of birds swept overhead, black against the fading sky and so numerous that they blocked out the remaining light. The birds made no noise as they flew on in the direction the Fellowship had originally intended to make camp in. Shoulder to shoulder, they lay there waiting for any sign of the Crebain's return. Her heart raced in her chest, shivering slightly with fear. After a long time, when no sign came and Aragorn gave the all clear, he went to wake Gandalf and tell him what happened.

The mountain, once pale blue and distant, revealed it's jagged tip and blood-brown stone as they approached. To Caradhras they had come. Stopping at the base, the Fellowship rested and recuperated and pretended not to listen to Aragorn and Gandalf begin their endless argument anew. Gandalf -- quite rightly -- did not want to attempt the pass in January while being watched by the Enemy. Aragorn -- just as rightly -- despised all their other options too much to try anything else first. The Fellowship -- most right of all -- were deathly tired of hearing them bicker about it.

Boromir urged them to gather firewood, and Harper stressed how right he was. While they gathered and bundled what they could find, white shimmering snowflakes began to drift down from the darkening sky.

"This is what I feared," Gandalf said. "What do you say now, Aragorn?"

"That I feared it too," he replied. "But less than other things." Harper wondered if he would tell her what he saw in Moria if she were to ask. She so rarely saw him genuinely frightened, but whenever Gandalf pressed him to consider that path, darkness veiled his eyes.

Gandalf gestured broadly down the mountain. "Time remains to turn back."

"And turn our path to where?"

"The Gap of Rohan," Boromir offered, and Harper fought off the urge to groan. She had to give him credit for still trying -- but she thought he'd have lost steam by now, having been shot down so many times.

Sharply -- unfairly -- Aragorn said, "I do not trust that way, not since Gandalf's news of Saruman. Who knows now which side the Rohirrim serve?"

His voice small, almost inaudible, Frodo asked, "would Harper not know?" She whipped around to stare at him. He met her gaze with a bright sort of confidence that made her want to pitch herself down the mountain and away from this conversation as quickly as she could.

Faramir made a noise in his throat. "Frodo is right," he said. "Does your story tell of Rohan? Would you know to whom they owe their allegiance?"

Harper cursed silently and looked down and then up the mountain again, measuring her terror and the distance either way. Had it come to this? She knew that they could not best Caradhras -- but what hurry was she in to urge them along quicker to Gandalf's fall? Moreover, every time she turned around something about the timeline changed. What if they did make it over the pass? What then? Gandalf needed to fall, didn't he? The Fellowship needed to break in his absence, and Frodo and Sam needed to head off alone. If she messed that up, there was no telling what might happen.

"Harper?" Aragorn prompted, softly, when she failed to answer.

Unable to meet his eyes, Harper looked down at the snow slowly gathering on the ground. "It's complicated. Rohan isn't loyal to Saruman but there's kind of … a curse … thing … going on."

"A curse?" Legolas asked.

"I don't really know if that's the right word. Theoden has this advisor--" Boromir spat Grima's name like an unspeakably foul word. She looked at him. "Yeah. Grima. He is working for Saruman, and is doing something to Theoden to make him susceptible to Saruman's influence."

"I told you," Boromir said to Faramir. "We never should have left him--"

"And what we could have done?" Faramir interrupted. Harper got the feeling she had launched them into a pre-existing disagreement she knew nothing about. "How would that have looked? The sons of Denethor come to oust the lawspeaker of Rohan?"

"He is as much lawspeaker as I am Yavanna made flesh."

"He is a loathsome snake, yes, but he is still a member of the King's court, and their lawspeaker. We would have caused an international incident and been absent for the fallout."

"Better an international incident than to give him leave to sink his poisonous claws into the King."

"So says you," Faramir spat, angrier than she had seen him before. "It would be I who shouldered the blame in Father's eyes." He cringed as soon as the words left his mouth, as if shocked to have heard himself say them.

Here was the answer to a question Harper had not thought to ask: what did the Ring whisper to Faramir? At times, especially when the shame of the Ring was lying heavy on her, Harper was tempted to suggest they all sit in a circle and share their Ring thoughts. It might make navigating the whole 'carrying a semi-sentient evil object around' thing easier, at least from a teamwork standpoint.

"Enough!" Gandalf bellowed. With the embarrassment of chastised schoolboys, Boromir and Faramir bowed their heads and muttered apologies. To Harper, he asked, "should Wormtongue be our focus?"

She shook her head. "No, not right now. He'll get dealt with." Hopefully.

"Then we shall leave it to later and let the matter lie. Do you think it unwise to try for the Gap of Rohan?"

Harper's heart thumped and rumbled in her chest as she struggled to maintain eye contact with Gandalf. Shame infused her blood. Could she really send him to his death? Could she send him to his death and look any of the Fellowship in the eye afterwards? Or shoulder the blame they would lay on her?

In the inaudible near-distance of her hindbrain: a cloying melody scraped along the undersides of her veins.

Maybe they could try for the Gap -- they could circumvent Moria entirely, deal with Theoden early, and get a head's start on Helm's Deep. Why was she trying to keep so tightly to a timeline that was filled with death and darkness and other unfortunate things that the Fellowship would blame her for? Boromir was right -- this was the most sensible way. They'd miss Lothlorien but what did that matter, except for maybe Galadriel's gifts. She'd be sparing Aragorn the pain of stepping into the lead before he was ready, too, and wasn't that a nice thing to do? Would it really hurt anything to push off his stepping into his role as K--

Harper stole a look at Aragorn and sense struck her like lightning. "Ring moment!" She shouted. They all looked at her askance, save Frodo, who took a step away.

"Pardon?" Gandalf asked.

"Fucking -- Ring moment. It's fucking with my head." Jesus, it was. It was all she could hear beyond the blood rushing in her ears. She turned away, closed her eyes, tried to find the threads of the Song not so tainted by the Ring. It took a minute. When she finally gathered herself enough to face the Fellowship, she did so fully shaken by the speed with which the Ring had gripped her. It hadn't happened so suddenly before.

The Fellowship stared at her with varying mixtures of pity, wariness, and sympathy. The sympathy, she noted, came most heavily from Frodo and Boromir.

She tried again. "No. We can't take the Gap of Rohan. It's a bad idea all around, and will mangle things up too much." The Ring warbled unhappily as she spoke. A flash of something, quickly tamped down, shone in Boromir's eyes.

"What do you say of our path now?" Aragorn asked -- so gently it made her heart hurt.

It was cowardly, and maybe she would come to regret it, but, "I'm not the Ringbearer," she said. "I can't dictate this."

Frodo sighed, but he did not look surprised to have the choice forced on him. With eyes on him, he looked between Aragorn and Gandalf with a thoughtful crease beneath his brows. He, too, must have seen the fear that came into Aragorn's eyes when he spoke of Moria, because he said, "I would have us try the mountain before we consider other paths." The other Hobbits must have seen the fear in Aragorn, too, because relief rippled through them at the decision.

Weariness fell on Gandalf, but that was that -- the Ringbearer had spoken.

As all people changed by an experience do, in years to come, the Fellowship would recollect the Quest on late, long nights when they were lucky enough to gather together and reminisce. And of all the horrors they faced, nameless and named, Harper would speak the least of the climb of Caradhras, and excuse herself from the table when others do. Cold, colder than cold, her body frozen and forgotten and left behind in the snow. Only her spirit, weary and wounded and wavering, wandered on, warmth as much of a distant dream as texting and truck stops and Trader Joes. A fell voice on the air, cutting deep and freezing in her bones, and how the Ring screeched and whistled in return -- here they are, here they are, bury their miserable little bodies in the snow and send me home to my Master.

Aragorn carried her back down. Faramir and Boromir took two Hobbits a piece. And though Harper tried to insist she could make it down herself, before long she found herself bundled in Aragorn's arms, shivering and half lucid. Later, a thimbleful of miruvor, like cherry cordial and Red Bull, and she came to. There was a fire lit, and she scrambled toward it animal-like, instinct overcoming all else. Sharp relief and something like shame crowded onto Aragorn's face as he watched her get as close to the fire as she could without singeing herself.

Food. Restless rest. They resumed their retreat. The sun high above the Fellowship set the snow to blinding. Frodo tumbled, head over heels, down a slippery patch of snow drift. Aragorn caught him, picked him up, helped him shake the snow from his dark curls. Once oriented, Frodo grabbed at his unadorned neck.

With silent terror, Harper watched Boromir stumble forward, reach down, and scoop up the Ring where it lay singing and glittering gold.

Everybody froze.

"Boromir…" Aragorn said. His hand hovered above his sword, twitching.

"'Tis a strange fate we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing." Boromir swallowed thickly. "Such a little thing…"

Aragorn, again, "Boromir -- give the Ring to Frodo."

But it didn't work. Boromir twirled the Ring on its chain, the light off it refracting in his eyes, a gradient of green to gangrenous gold. A sinister tune twinkled up and out of it.

Faramir struggled over the slippery patch, came to stand next to his brother. He laid a hand on Boromir's shoulder. "Boromir." Still nothing. Faramir, panic stricken, looked from Frodo, to Aragorn, to Gandalf, to Harper. "Brother -- put it down." Boromir gripped the chain tighter.

Aragorn gripped his sword.

Faramir tightened his grip on Boromir's shoulder, bent down and grabbed a handful of snow, and shoved it in Boromir's face. "Do not let it speak to you!"

An unhappy whine from the Ring. The moment broken.

Boromir sputtered and recoiled, dropped the chain back into the snow. Faramir pushed him further away. Frodo hurried upwards, grabbed the Ring, and retreated to Aragorn -- who was still gripping his sword.

Boromir wiped the snow from his eyes, his beard, shook his head several times before he was able to regain his senses entirely. Heartbreaking shame and fear in his stooped posture, his downcast eyes, his quiet apology. "Forgive me," he muttered, and took another step away from Frodo for good measure.

They moved on with little fanfare, but the walking order rearranged itself. Boromir relegated himself to the back of the line, and all the Hobbits crowded the front, keeping as close to Aragorn as they could. Faramir, hurt, afraid -- of his brother, for his brother, who could say -- walked next to Legolas and Gimli instead. Aragorn shot her a look over his shoulder, but Harper waved him off and joined Boromir at the back.

Two minutes of silence, then, "I have no use for pity," Boromir grumbled.

"Good," Harper said. "I'm not currently dispensing it at the moment."

"Then join your beloved and the rest at the front of the line."

"No."

"No?" Boromir repeated, caught between confusion and irritation.

Harper shrugged. "No," she said. "I'll walk where I like, it's a free country. Or -- maybe that saying doesn't carry here. Are we even in a country right now?"

He considered this with more seriousness than it was due. "These lands could be minded by either Elves or Dwarves, though neither keep any formal presence in the high wastes of the mountain range."

"Eurgh. I'm not getting involved in land disputes between Elves and Dwarves," Harper said, shuddering. She got enough of that storied animosity from Legolas and Gimli's bickering.

"As is wise," Boromir said dryly, a small smile hidden at the corner of his mouth. Then he remembered he was supposed to be miserable. More dour, he added, "have I proven such good company that you will chance the contagion of my weakness?"

A sharp pang in her heart. Harper frowned. "Listen to me, Boromir," she said. "you're no weaker than the rest of us." He laughed, a dark, humorless sound. "No, I'm serious." She stopped walking, forced him to turn around and face her. "Do you understand how the Ring works?"

"It sinks its foul claws into easy prey and--"

"Nope! Wrong!" Harper bowled right over him. "It doesn't deceive from the start, or work from someplace that you won't connect with. It takes what is truest about you and warps it, wipes out all hope and love so it can take their place and weave its lies. The Ring doesn't whisper to you because you are weak, Boromir. It's because you're all fucking heart."

Boromir blinked, surprised. "Wh--"

She poked him once in the chest to drive her point home. "All. Heart. You want to save your city, protect your brother, help your people -- bring peace and plenty to a place you love. Is that true?"

Begrudgingly, "aye."

"The Ring knows that. It sees the absolute depth of your care, and knows there isn't a deeper pool of passion or purpose to pull from among the Fellowship. It doesn't target you because you're weak. It's because you've got the most to lose."

Boromir shook his head, disbelieving.

If he wanted examples, Harper would give them to him. "He wants it, but Aragorn is terrified of kingship, and could run back to the rangers just as easily. The Hobbits are still reeling from being pulled out of the Shire and into the wider, terrifying world, and right now they all still believe deep down that they can go home and have it be as it was when this ends. The time of the Elves is coming to an end and the Dwarves think they can retreat into the mountains. I'm not from this planet and Gandalf is an Angel-Priest-Wizard-Thing. You might as well have a huge target on your back. It's not your fault."

"And Faramir?" Boromir asked through gritted teeth.

"Faramir isn't supposed to be here." She laughed at the look of shock on his face. "I have no idea why he is. He should be in Ithilien -- but based on what just happened, I'm calling it a good thing. And the Ring is working on him, in its own way. Did you see his face after he said that thing about your father? That wasn't him, that was the Ring." The rest of the Fellowship were getting further away than was wise. Harper started walking again and Boromir followed. "It's not just you. Don’t let it convince you that it is."

Boromir said nothing for a long time. They hurried and fell back in line with the group. Then, quietly, he said, "thank you."

Harper looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. His death flashed in her mind. "Don't thank me yet."

Chapter Text

"I'm glad the wind has decided to leave us alone for a little while," Merry idly mused. "I was beginning to fear I would be blown off the mountain and carried away to parts unknown."

"That would be a rotten end," Pippin said. "But not as rotten as enduring the tongue-lashing your mother would dish out when we told her what became of you."

"We?"

"I'd make Frodo come with me, of course," Pippin replied. "He is also your cousin, and on this quest as well. Why should I deliver the news alone?"

Merry scoffed. "You only hope that Frodo's being there might lessen her wrath. She has always had a soft spot where he is concerned."

"An excellent point, and another reason to bring him along," Pippin said. In a stage whisper, he continued, "I suspect he reminds her of the collie your family had when I was still a faunt, the one with the big blue eyes. She likely thinks of that dog every time she looks at him, and that is why she cannot bear to treat him harshly."

"Wren! Now she was an excellent dog. My mother used to let her into the Hall on cold nights, and Ol' Scattergold got testy every time. 'We only live in the largest smial in all the Shire,' she would say, 'take yourself elsewhere if the poor thing bothers you so.'" Merry laughed. "I've never thought of it, but I believe you are onto something here."

"Wren came to you as an abandoned runt, did she not? One can see why your mother feels as she does," Pippin joked, grinning from ear to ear.

Frodo wasn't walking with Merry and Pippin, but he was still well within earshot. Without looking over his shoulder, he said, "compare me to a dog much longer, dear cousin, and I shan't help you butter up Aunt Esmerelda ever again." Barely concealing his amusement, he added, "that goes for you as well, Meriadoc."

Merry and Pippin began bandying words with Frodo, making a show of asking for forgiveness as he feigned cool antipathy. Frodo wasn't looking their way, so Merry and Pippin were free to share an accomplished smile between themselves, pleased to have drawn Frodo out of the heavy silence he'd been keeping as the Fellowship descended into the valley beneath the Misty Mountains.

Fondness for the Hobbits punched Harper in the gut as she watched the scene play out. The Ring grew heavier and more difficult to bear with each passing day. Frodo wasn't the same Hobbit she met in Bree; already he was more solemn, more haunted than a Hobbit had any right to be. It broke Harper's heart; her feelings paled in comparison to the deep, quiet grief of the other Hobbits. He was their friend and cousin, and they knew him long before the Ring ever sunk its claws into him.

And yet, they refused to succumb to the grief -- fighting like hell, in their own ways, to prevent the Ring from consuming Frodo entirely. They lit up like miniature suns when they succeeded. If a small, genuine smile from Frodo was like a breath of fresh air for the whole Fellowship, then listening to him smother giggles as he teased his cousins was like stepping from a smoke filled room and out onto the open sea.

She wanted nothing more than to continue listening to them; her attention insisted on turning inwards, instead. Something about their conversation was nagging at her.

Harper thought it over, but nothing stood out. The Hobbits were just indulging in Shire talk -- charming, but irrelevant to her, and the Quest. But she was suddenly certain she was missing something.

Slowing her pace, she let the Hobbits stroll on ahead. Maybe a little space -- and a little quiet -- would make figuring it out easier. It wasn't her intention, but this meant that before long she was once again in step with Boromir, who was still bringing up the rear.

The Fellowship had continued on after Boromir took-and-then-returned the Ring. An hour later, when they reached the lowest slopes of Caradhras, Aragorn went to scout ahead. After his departure, the Hobbits stopped crowding the front of the line and reclaimed their spots in the middle of the group, and Boromir fell even further back. This meant Harper had been acting as an unwilling buffer between the Hobbits and Boromir for the better part of an hour.

Harper took one look at him, decided that he was far too sullen and contemplative for his own good, and reasoned she could kill two birds with one stone by using him as a sounding board.

"I'm missing something," Harper said.

"One of the others may have grabbed it by mistake when we broke our last camp," Boromir replied absently. He was looking out into the valley, but his eyes were distant like he was caught in a memory.

"What?" Harper asked. "No -- I'm not missing like, an object. I mean I'm forgetting something."

Boromir gave an embarrassed cough. "I see," he said, shaking his head in an attempt to rejoin the present moment. "Do you know what you might have forgotten?"

"No, that's the problem. I think it was something Merry said that brought the feeling on, but I can't figure out what. They were talking about his childhood dog and his mother. I'm sure they're lovely, but they hardly matter to the Quest."

"Do you believe it is a pressing issue?" He asked.

That was a good question. She reassessed the vague and squirming feeling in the back of her skull with this in mind. The answer was definite.

"Yeah," she said. "I think it's something bad. Dangerous."

Boromir cracked a small smile. "Danger? How unlikely." It was good to hear the dry humor in his voice.

Harper laughed. "Right? Especially when we've been safe as houses for so long."

Boromir's silence was clearer, more purposeful than his wallowing had been, as he considered what to say. Harper couldn't make out their words from this distance, but the Hobbits were still chattering on as they walked. It was early afternoon. The light was beginning to shift -- the over-sharp edges of noontime in winter were dulling, turning gauzy and thin as the sun readied itself to set in a few hours. Aragorn was still scouting ahead, a dark figure moving swiftly in the distance -- but, squinting, she saw that he wasn't alone. Faramir had joined him at some point. Harper smiled, glad for it.

When Boromir spoke again, he asked, "I take it you know where we will go next?"

And really, if it came down to it, Harper was going to kill Lurtz with her bare hands to stop Boromir from dying. Because he voiced the question with care, making it immediately obvious that he wasn't asking her to tell him where they were going next, before anyone else knew. Harper nodded her answer, grateful that he freed her from making the distinction or acknowledging that she was able to divulge that information at all.

"And you know where we have been. Ought there be something in between?"

Like a shoddy film projector flickering against a faded bedsheet, this part of the first film played in Harper's mind. Left Rivendell? Check. Crebain? Check. Caradhras? Check. Boromir's temptation? Check. A whole lot of walking in between? Check. Moria was next; they hadn't made that decision yet, but it was coming. With her head full of sweeping landscape shots and film score, she remained without an answer. Then, Harper shifted her pack against her back and knocked spines with her copy of the trilogy.

"Fuck." Fuck. "The wind, Merry was talking about the wind -- what's the line? 'How the wind howls!'"

Boromir glanced around incredulously. "The wind has died down--"

"Not the point," she cut him off. "C'mon, we need to get everybody else."

--

Aragorn squinted. Overhead, a great number of birds were flying away south, squawking as they went. Dense clouds hung low in the sky, veiling the birds from his sight. He was uncertain if the noise came from a late migrating flock, or if the crebain were spying once more. By their fortune as of late, he wagered it was the crebain.

But it mattered little. This was the only path of retreat. At least Caradhras, sawtoothed and proud in its victory, remained behind them. The air in the valley was warm and still, if littered with disquieting birdcall, and the white cloud cover made no threat of rain.

When the squawking faded into the distance, Aragorn glanced over his shoulder to confirm the Fellowship was still following him at a steady clip. The sloping sides of the upper reaches of the valley made it more difficult to judge, but they looked to be two or three furlongs away. Satisfied, Aragorn continued on.

Small thickets of trees and gently rounded hills dotted the landscape. Other than the overcast sky, enemies were offered scant few places to hide. There was no real need for scouting in this place, not at midday and with so many companions. Still, Aragorn ranged ahead in their flight from Caradhras. His determination to reach the Redhorn Gate led them up the mountain and to the very edge of disaster; it was his duty to lead them back down into safety again.

As he walked, his thoughts were not of duty.

The moment looped, over and over again, in his mind:

Boromir took the Ring. It dangled, lovely and golden, in his grasp for a minute which lasted the length of an age. For that age-long minute, Boromir was changed. He shifted, imperceptibly and totally, for all to witness -- in how his skin stretched over his skull all the way down to the very rhythm of his heart. Boromir's off-time pulse echoed out over the empty white slopes of Caradhras, and in the snow-blinding noontime glare, in the shadow of the Ring, in terrible glory did he burn under the power.

In all his long years, Aragorn had never seen anything like it. The sight of him stole his breath and curdled his blood. When he reached for his sword, his hand was trembling.

Then, that, the longest minute, ticked over into the next. Faramir shattered the spell with a handful of snow shoved in his brother's face. Boromir dropped the Ring. Aragorn let go of his sword. The Fellowship moved on. Harper remained at the back of the line with Boromir and his shame.

The Elves knew many ways to calm an overactive mind. Elrond, when Aragorn had but seven years and was greatly upset over something long lost to memory, taught him how to alter his breath to clear his head. But after eighty years of practice and success, the technique was finally failing him. He knew other ways to achieve the same end -- different breathing patterns, reciting verse, counting tricks.

Each of them he tried. Nothing worked. So he kept walking.

Muscles aching, eyes burning, his body begged him to rest or slow his pace for a moment. He pushed himself harder. A misstep, a stumble, a rolled ankle. Pain licked up his calf. The pain did not clear his head, but it was present and pressing and provided a focus. He was willing to work with that.

What was it Boromir had said on the mountain? (Boromir, ensnared by the Ring and utterly silent.) When heads are at a loss bodies must serve, as we say in my country. (Boromir, towering over Frodo with a mean glint his eye.) Aragorn remembered saying the same to a soldier under his command, when he was serving in Gondor as Thorongil. (Boromir, seeing Gondor's salvation in the very thing that would destroy it utterly.)

One mile passed by. And another. His aches deepened and his mind remained muddled. Aragorn pressed on.

A while later, along the loneliest edge of Hollin, Aragorn was joined in his ranging by Faramir.

The Rangers of Ithilien were well established by the time Thorongil came to Gondor, but he heard little and saw even less of them while he was there. He was then, and had so remained, fairly curious about the rangers. North or south, it seemed the remaining Dunedain were destined to roam the wilds -- he thought there was a strange kind of humor in it.

Aragorn had not asked Faramir about his rangers. Faramir, heedless of the unasked questions, answered them anyhow. He moved over the land just as any of Ranger of the North would -- in silence, at great speed, and without leaving a trace. It was a prickling on the back of his neck, when Faramir was a few hundred feet away, that altered Aragorn to his presence. He neither slowed his pace nor quickened it, allowing Faramir to close the gap between them in his own time.

“The mountain is glad to see us gone,” Faramir said, coming up on his left. “It did little to hinder our retreat.”

“Aye,” Aragorn said simply. There were now small slivers of sky visible between growing gaps in the clouds. If the birds returned, and they were not too cunning in their flight path, he would be able to discover their shape and purpose. He strained his ears, but heard no coming flock.

"You were right, I think, to have us attempt the mountain pass," Faramir said.

Aragorn stopped searching the clouds. He stared at Faramir, startled by the assessment. Faramir met Aragorn’s gaze evenly and waited for a response. What, he wondered, was Faramir's purpose in this?

"It was a foolish risk," Aragorn said, uninterested in saving face by pretending otherwise.

“Perhaps,” Faramir allowed. “But are we not all fools on a fool’s errand? Our options are limited, and it’s wise to exhaust the best of them first.”

"The best!" Aragorn echoed. He laughed, and there was a bitter edge to it. "And you choose to describe it so, after our defeat? That bodes ill, indeed."

"Aye," Faramir agreed, lightly. "It does."

They walked on, together, in silence. Aragorn, unjustly, wondered if Faramir had come to take the measure of the man who nearly drew a sword on his brother two hours prior. For as Boromir was proud as Denethor was proud, Faramir was clever as Denethor was clever. Memory urged Aragorn towards mistrust.

Yet Harper intended to save Boromir if possible, and saw no harm in Faramir's presence in the Fellowship. They are not their father, she had said in Imladris, insisting Aragorn could find good friends and steadfast allies in them both. So, with some effort, Aragorn attempted to set aside suspicions belonging to the past.

If Faramir purposed to discover whether Aragorn had meant to brandish his sword against Boromir, it was not cause for complaint. Aragorn did not make empty and idle threats. His hand went to his sword because he had been making ready to draw his sword. But he was only making ready, for he would not take arms against a companion unless the need was dire. Need, this time, had not proved dire. Aragorn would say so readily if asked.

Perhaps Faramir's thoughts were treading a different path. He began stealing backwards glances at the Fellowship. With each look he grew more troubled, until his face was drawn tight with distress. Aragorn looked back for himself, once, unsure if Faramir sensed some approaching threat. But there was nothing to be seen, other than the meandering figures of their companions following in their steps. He puzzled over it as he walked.

Faramir broke the silence the second after Aragorn realized the answer.

"It is as if it knows when I least desire to think of it, and chooses that moment to make itself known," Faramir said, and did not elaborate.

Elaboration was unnecessary. Aragorn bit at the inside of his cheek, hesitating. Wisdom and her emissaries often counseled against discussing such dark matters openly. Even in the safety of Imladris, lengthy discussion of the Ring and its Master had seemed a precarious thing, and they were no longer in Imladris.

He had not yet made up his mind to reply when he suddenly found himself saying, "it waits until I have almost forgotten it. Save for at night--"

"The dreams?"

Aragorn shook his head. "No, not dreams, rather, a wordless voice that visits itself upon me as I reach for sleep." The voice came each night as he drifted off, buzzing like hordes of winged insects swarming beneath his skull. It spoke with no words as Aragorn knew words to be, but the voice spoke all the same.

A private thing: it was a voice Aragorn knew.

The Ring had delved deep into his mind, and in its digging it found a tattered scrap of memory from the earliest days of his youth -- nothing more than a faded impression of light and color and sound. It was not something Aragorn ever recalled before encountering the Ring, but he knew, through some pained but pure longing of his heart, that the memory was true. Now, after long weeks of searching his own mind, if he bent all his thought upon it, Aragorn remembered this: toddling through somewhere wide and bright and green, and how he laughed and ran when his father called his name from far away.

Arathorn was the guise the Ring took. Aragorn had no other memories of his father.

Faramir made a sound that suggested he preferred dreams over unintelligible whispering. Their confessions stretched and settled between them. It was a full silence, but not uncomfortable.

“It pains me that this is all you know of him,” Faramir said. Thinking as he was on the memory of his father, Aragorn did not immediately take Faramir's meaning. It became clear when Faramir continued. “He is changed, and has been since we came to Rivendell. If I would ask anything of you, it would be to not judge this as the full measure of him.”

He neither knew nor intended it, but Faramir rightly shamed Aragorn with his words.

"I would not," he said, frowning when he heard the lie for what it was. He sighed and scratched at his beard. "It is true that I do not trust any of our number with the Ring; we cannot trust to remain as ourselves in its presence. Your concern speaks to his character as well as your own."

“Thank you,” Faramir said.

In Imladris, Harper asked him to extend his friendship to Boromir, even if Boromir rebuked him. She said he needed hope, and then dissolved into laughter, far too amused by her own pun. Aragorn had agreed to try. It was the right thing to do.

Now that he had seen the greed in Boromir's eyes when he spied the Ring, Aragorn wondered what his friendship was worth when Boromir still believed that the Ring, and the Ring alone, was capable of driving the Shadow out of Gondor. He wondered if Boromir did not want to see reason. He wondered if Harper had her heart set on the impossible.

Faramir looked back at the Fellowship once more. Whatever he saw did not lighten the look on his face, but neither did it add to his grief. “Your lady--” he started, shook his head, began again, “Harper. What her stories spoke of him, I know not, but she keeps a watchful eye trained in his direction. That she deems it necessary worries me, I will not pretend otherwise, but-- I am heartened by her efforts, all the same.”

“She would not see him come to harm," he said. She would not see a single member of the Fellowship come to harm if it was within her power to stop it. He admired her endlessly for it. It frightened him so sharply he felt it in his teeth.

"'Tis true, then?" He asked. "She is from another world?"

The question was one of benign disbelief. In all fairness, it was a difficult thing to accept. Harper had haunted Aragorn's steps for nearly seventy years before she appeared with no memory of it, and even to him the idea seemed strange.

"That is a matter of some debate," he said. "Gandalf believes her to be from the far future. Lord Elrond believes she is from another world, as she says. Legolas believes the same."

"Legolas? Wherefore?"

A few weeks after The Council of Elrond, Legolas asked Aragorn about the means of Harper's arrival. Aragorn pointed out that he had already recounted their meeting on the South Downs. Unimpressed, Legolas clarified -- the means of her arrival on Middle-earth. In hopes of keeping her confidence, Aragorn spoke vaguely, neither confirming nor denying anything, but that was answer enough for Legolas.

"Something to do with her scent, and what the trees had to say."

Faramir laughed and shook his head. "I confess that I am not quite used to the ways of Elves."

Aragorn grinned. "I fear it is the work of decades, not months."

Faramir admitted that made sense. Then, more soberly, asked, "and what do you believe?"

That Faramir asked the question outright surprised him. He chose his words with care. "She is unique. I have not seen her like elsewhere, in all my years and wanderings."

Faramir laughed. "Fine words fit for the lady, but one does not need to ask to see that you care for her. The question stands. Do you believe her to be from another world?"

Aragorn regarded Faramir with amusement. "Aye," he said, "I do."

As if that settled the matter, Faramir nodded. "Whether she comes from the future or a far-flung world, she speaks of wonders that would certainly make our journey easier. Caradhras would not have bested us if we rode a -- how did she call them? ki-luft? -- up the mountain."

"That is true," Aragorn said, bereft of any other answer and making an effort not to frown. He did not know what Faramir spoke of -- and though he disliked it, he was too proud to ask. Harper was not of Arda, that Aragorn knew. But he knew next to nothing of the world whence she came.

--

Time ran out.

Harper forced the moment to its crisis without meaning to, when she tugged Boromir along and called down the line for the Fellowship to stop walking. She paced a roundabout, anxious path while Legolas went to retrieve Aragorn and Faramir. The terrain in the valley was rocky and uneven; she distracted herself from the Fellowship's silent curiosity by watching her footing as she paced.

When Legolas arrived with the Men in tow, the Fellowship gathered in a misshapen circle to listen to what Harper wanted to say. Belatedly, she realized that Boromir was lingering just behind her, out of the circle proper. With a gentle nudge to Merry so he did the same, she moved aside to clear room for Boromir. Merry, to his credit, shuffled back without complaint. Harper stared at Boromir expectantly until he took his place.

Feeling particularly stupid for forgetting this, Harper explained in halting words that they should stop to camp sooner rather than later, in hopes of stealing a little rest while they were able, because it was likely they would be attacked by wolves in the middle of the night.

"Wolves?" Sam squeaked. Next to him, though he said nothing, all the color drained from Pippin's face.

"Maybe?" She said. Her uncertainty didn't make either of the Hobbits feel better. "It happens in the book but not the film. It could go either way." She did not point out that they probably weren't lucky enough to avoid this particular disaster.

Quietly, more withdrawn now that they were among the Fellowship, but still trying to help, Boromir asked, "which have we held to?" He offered her a reprieve earlier so she didn't fault him for this; his question was about far more than the chances of a wolf attack.

It sounded too much like an apology when Harper answered, "both?" To the rest of the Fellowship, she explained, "it's complicated. But we've followed the books enough that I can't confidently say the wolves won't come."

Faramir, glancing first between her and Boromir, and then out into the valley, said, "it would be wise to decide our next course of action before we seek a spot to make camp in."

Aragorn was standing on the other side of the circle watching Gandalf. He pinched the bridge of nose and clenched his eyes shut for a handful of seconds. Then, Aragorn cleared his throat, and said to Gandalf, "Faramir has the right of it. We know now that the mountain is closed to us. We must decide whither we go."

Turning toward Aragorn, Gandalf raised a skeptical, overgrown eyebrow. "There are few choices remaining," he said.

Aragorn responded with a sweeping gesture and a grim look, inviting Gandalf to make the suggestion -- refusing, it seemed, to make it himself. They considered one another, silently rehashing weeks of arguments with a single look. Aragorn clenched his jaw. Gandalf simply sighed.

No one spoke. No one moved. A cold wind blew down from the mountain. And time ran out.

"We must make for the Mines of Moria."

Only Gimli did not succumb to the fear that rippled through the Fellowship. Undaunted, he lifted his chin while the rest of them shivered at the name. He was burning with steadfast pride, lit from within and utterly fixed on seeing the halls of his kin, no matter what might wait there.

Harper remembered how Gimli cried, in the film, when the Fellowship discovered Balin's tomb. With complete selfishness, she hoped, in reality, he would mourn as he did in the book -- a silent, stoic grief. That, she could bear.

The conversation continued as it was meant to. The Fellowship asked their questions and voiced their concerns. Harper alone remained silent, and didn't listen to a word that was spoken.

She wasn't having a panic attack -- but the strange haze that ensnared her senses was not unlike the beginning of a panic attack: a light ringing in the ears, the bright onset of tunnel vision, a sharp, sudden awareness of the heart.

The Nazgul that almost killed her on Weathertop called her trespasser. It spoke the truth, she had never argued that -- she was an outsider, plain and simple. But here, finally, she understood what that truth meant.

This wasn't her story. She was little more than a cruel voyeur, forced to witness the reality of her repeated imaginings finally come to pass. She was trapped on the one way track of a narrative unleashed. The page was going to turn, the next chapter would begin: there was no going back. She couldn't even warn them of what came next.

Christ, but how was she supposed to bear it, and bear it alone? For a brief and beautiful moment Harper considered playing the coward -- turning around, walking away, and hoping she made it back to Rivendell relatively unscathed. She'd never forgive herself, but what did that matter?

But then, in her periphery, a Hobbit sized shift of weight and a shake of dark curls. Frodo. He gave her the ghost of a reassuring smile when she caught his eye. Shame bubbled in her blood even as she up sent a silent thanks -- to whoever bothered to listen these days -- for Frodo Baggins. Frodo, who walked with her through snow and fear and night, wearing evil around his neck, and so rarely making the pain of it known. Frodo was burdened. Harper was not, and especially not by this.

The moment passed. The haze, as quickly as it had gripped her, let her go. Sweet and slow and somber, the Song triumphed over the ringing in her ears. Harper remained where she was. If she was in Middle-earth for a reason, she didn't know what that reason was. She didn't need to. What she did know: that some events needed to remain as they were written, and everything else was fair game. No, foreknowledge was not her burden. It was the only real weapon she had.

Around her, the Fellowship decided upon what was decided already: to Moria they would go. A fear-laden silence followed, lingering for a long moment. Gandalf broke it.

"And so we return to the original question posed: shall we stop now, or continue on?"

"How far is Moria?" Boromir asked.

“There is a door south-west of Caradhras, some fifteen miles as the crow flies, and maybe twenty as the wolf runs,” Gandalf answered.

Boromir considered this. “Then let us rest now, and prepare to move at first light, if we can. The wolf that one hears is worse than the Orc that one fears.”

“True!” Aragorn said to Boromir. He looked out into the valley, scanning the horizon. “But where the warg howls, there also the Orc prowls.”

Harper blinked. Stared. Acknowledged to herself that they were mere hours away from a wolf attack and en route to an endless pit where a demon dwelt, and that this was hardly the time for humor. And then she laughed so loudly it echoed.

Gandalf shushed her, and Boromir and Aragorn looked at her in confusion.

"Sorry," she sputtered, still laughing. "But what was that?"

Boromir shook his head, feigning irritation at her outburst. She grinned at him in return. He, and most of the Fellowship, being uninterested in her poorly timed and incomprehensible amusement, went to search for a place to camp.

With a shrug at Aragorn, who had not joined the others, Harper moved on, too.

"I'm serious," she said, when Aragorn fell in step beside her. "Were you guys just indulging in spontaneous rhymes, or is that a saying I don't know?"

"You are very odd," Aragorn said, by way of casual observation, as if he were making a passing comment about the shape of a cloud.

"That's a non answer."

"You may say so," he said evenly. "It has served as the answer to many of my questions over these past months."

"Ass," she muttered, lightly knocking her shoulder against his arm. He rewarded her teasing with a warm, quiet laugh. Encouraged, she said, "you're a shit Middle-earth ambassador, you know. You laugh at me when I don't understand the card games and you refuse to explain the rhymes. For all I know, that's an extremely common nursery rhyme."

"A nursery rhyme about Orcs and wolves?" He asked the question as if it were a ridiculous concept.

Harper shrugged. "Do you not have weird, morbid children's rhymes? Off the top of my head, I can think of one about a man -- or maybe an egg, it's not clear -- falling off a wall and shattering into pieces, another about a famous bridge collapsing, and one about plague."

Aragorn's eyebrows shot up. "A plague?" He asked. And then, processing the rest of what she just said, continued, "forego the plague: how could it not be clear if the subject of the rhyme was a man or an egg?"

"Well, the actual rhyme doesn't really suggest he's an egg, but that's usually how it's illustrated in books. And it's less disgusting to imagine a sentient egg cracking into pieces than a person, I guess." Now that she'd said it, Harper wasn't sure that was true. "The real mystery is why they give the horses a chance to try and put him back together again."

He stared at her as if she had pronounced the exact date and time of the destruction of the Ring in fluent Orcish. "What manner of world do you come from?" He asked, utterly perplexed and almost to himself.

"It has its charms."

Aragorn shook his head and laughed softly. The sound of it was off, almost feigned, but he spoke again before Harper had the chance to consider it further. "Come," he said, "we are falling behind the others." He wasn't wrong. Together, they quickened their pace and joined back up with rest.

The Fellowship had been traveling together for long enough now that they fell into an easy routine once they decided where to camp. After assigning shifts for sleeping and keeping watch, they set to work, doing their best to reup supplies from the winterbare offerings of the valley and preparing for a long, and likely perilous, night.

Harper kept silent and to herself while unloading Bill of his burdens and gathering firewood with Frodo. In contrast to the sharp malice that pulsed in heavy waves from the core of Caradhras, there was a lightness to the air down in the valley. A momentary pause. The calm before the storm. She was glad to see the others relax a measure, but she couldn't find comfort here.

The spot they chose to camp in was exactly as Harper remembered it from the book. Where the valley first began to crest up toward the mountains, with snow barely dusting the ground, there was a hill. Broken boulders ran in a wide ring around the flattened top of the hill, and it was canopied by the tangled branches of old gnarled trees. When the wolves attacked, Gandalf would set the trees ablaze to drive them away.

Any hope she had of avoiding the wolves vanished after she made the connection.

When her work was done, she settled down against one of the boulders, facing the fire. That was the silver-lining to the wolf attack. They were going to need fire to fight off the wolves, and after a little discussion, decided to indulge in a single night of warmth and hot supper before heading to Moria.

Sunset was a few hours away. It was Harper's night off from taking a watch, so she was free to fall asleep whenever she pleased. Every time she blinked she caught a glimpse of the snarling face of the warg that attacked her in Sarn Ford. Rest was not going to come easy, if at all. Not seeing the point in trying-and-failing to sleep just yet, Harper did something she had not done for quite some time: she took out her copy of The Lord of the Rings.

It was, as it had been since her arrival, fairly useless. While most of it remained blank or strangely redacted, some of the chapters had filled in, ending with their climb down Caradhras. Harper didn't read any of it too closely -- seeing her own name on the pages made her queasy. But her intention wasn't to read it, anyhow.

She had forgotten about the wolves. If Merry's off-hand comment about the wind hadn't unintentionally jogged her memory, they might have found themselves in deep shit and it would have been all Harper's fault. That could not be allowed to happen again. So she sat, turning the book over in her hands like an object of focus, and tried to recall the plots of both the books and films in as much detail as possible.

Moria was hanging over the Fellowship like a guillotine blade. It took concerted effort to think past it. Gandalf needed to fall. There was no other choice. Besides, it ended well enough. Other things required her attention. Harper glanced between the members of the Fellowship, in varying states of work and rest, and tried to piece together the parts they played between now and the destruction of the Ring. She lingered for a long time on Merry and Pippin, and then on Boromir and Faramir.

Aragorn was watching her think; she felt the curious weight of his gaze. Later, if he asked, she would explain what she was doing, but for now she ignored him.

After an hour or so of thinking, and cursing Tolkien in her head a few dozen times, she shut the book, returned it to her pack, and stood up. Then she walked across camp to speak with Gandalf.

Chapter Text

Time was ill-kept and misshapen in Middle-earth, at least by Harper's reckoning.

If she attempted to explain this to any mortal member of the Fellowship, they might nod along, feigning interest to mask their concern and confusion, and ask a few polite questions in response -- but they would not understand what she meant. Even Gandalf and Legolas, unbound by mortality, were unlikely to empathize. Time, to Legolas, was as inconsequential as a summer breeze against a mountain side, and Gandalf was borne up from and belonged to a realm entirely beyond it.

Nobody would understand, not for lack of care or effort, but out of sheer inability; the spacetime-current had rushed her downriver and spat her out into an unfamiliar and uncaring sea. Harper struggled to make sense of it, and she was the one it had happened to.

If her companions failed to grasp how she felt, then the cold, linear lines of mathematics and reasoning didn't stand a chance. Basic addition and logic insisted upon the facts: she had woken up on the South Downs at the end of April and it was currently mid-January. That amounted to eight and a half months, a little more than three seasons, the better part of a year.

No, that couldn't be right.

It felt like two weeks, at most. Or perhaps several lifetimes. Forever and a half-second at the same time. The hydropower-engine of the days stuttered and raced, constant in its inconstancy; morning dripped and rolled; evening pooled and lingered; afternoon sped by with such speed that, on occasion, she suspected it no longer existed as she used to know it.

Worst of all, she was growing accustomed to the wrongness.

Harper was talking quietly with Gandalf when the flash-fiction of midday hit the breaks. Hard stop, crumple, slacken and yield, their conversation came to a close after evening had taken hold. By her account, they had spoken for hours, but the sun didn't care for her accounting. It was still hovering above the horizon, dallying in the syrupy time-clog of early evening. She barely flinched at the incongruity.

It was just as well. They'd discussed what needed to be discussed without interruption, and finished just in time. The silence between her and Gandalf didn't have a chance to settle before it was interrupted by Sam ringing the proverbial dinner bell.

After the Fellowship was served and seated around the fire, Frodo asked Gandalf about the road they were going to take the Moria. Harper, and most everybody else, half-listened to his answer, more focused on their first hot meal in weeks than Gandalf's lengthy descriptions of the geographical features of the Misty Mountains. By the time she was almost finished with her stew, Gandalf was talking about the large stair leading up to the West-Gate, and it was then that she interrupted.

"There's a river near the gate, right? Or a waterfall?"

Gandalf nodded. "There is a spring not far from the Doors of Durin, and from it the Sirannon, as the Elves call it, or the Gate-stream in common speech, flows through the valley and down over the Stair Falls. After many miles it joins with the Glanduin, which flows into the Greyflood and then out to sea."

"Okay, so--" she paused, parsing through the geography lesson. "The Gate-stream, then, has been dammed. You're not going to find it where you expect it to be."

Gandalf arched an eyebrow and waited for her to continue. She had avoided the topic of Moria entirely during their earlier discussion. Her guilt, then and now, was obvious to him -- she wondered what he made of it.

"It now forms a lake in front of the West-Gate. That isn't a problem by itself, we'll still be able to access the doors."

Gimli looked up from his supper. "You know where the doors are?"

"Only vaguely," she answered. "Shouldn't be too hard to find them, though. They're marked with, uh-- what's it called? It's a type of mithril? Or it's made from mithril, I guess?"

"Ithildin," Gandalf said. "It is unlikely that we will have the good fortune to reach the gate before sunset, but that will not matter. Ithildin can only be seen under the light of the moon or the stars."

"Standing outside the doors in the moonlight will not do us much good. There will be the issue of the password once we find them," Gimli said.

"Password?" Merry asked.

"Aye," said Gimli. "Dwarven locks are sturdier than others. Those we make in Erebor are nigh uncrackable, though there is no need for cracking if one has a key. But when Moria was built, we knew how to build locks that were not opened by keys."

"In the days of Durin, the doors were not secret, as many Dwarf-doors now are. They usually stood open, but if they were shut, any who knew the opening word could speak it and enter," Gandalf said. "This is in our favor, of course. We would have little chance at breaking a more traditional lock."

"If it is in our favor, then what is the issue of the password?" Boromir asked. "Do you not know the password, Gimli?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "The word is lost to us."

Boromir furrowed his brow. "But you do know the password?"

"I do not," Gandalf said.

Boromir looked between Gandalf and Gimli, confusion and exasperation battling on his face. A few feet away, Pippin was lost in thought, still trying to understand how a door could be locked by anything other than a key. It was disconcerting, yet charming, when what Harper knew to be canon refit itself to reality, but this wasn't the time to let it play out for her entertainment. There was a point she needed to make.

"Mellon. The password is mellon, like the Elvish word for friend." She grinned at Gimli's surprise. "The password wasn't going to be a problem, either. It's written above the door. We need to focus on the lake."

"But you said we will be able to access the doors," Frodo said.

"Will we have to swim?" Sam asked, glancing toward his pack as if to gauge whether or not it would buoy him across the water.

"No!" Harper said sharply. The Fellowship stared at her, taken aback, but even embarrassment didn't dull her intensity. "No swimming. No wading. No touching the water at all, if we can help it."

"I'm not keen to go for a dip in this weather, especially so high in the mountains," said Pippin, "but why not?"

Harper was surrounded on all sides by people that, a year ago, she considered to be purely of Fantasy. Not just fictional characters, but beings whose very existence was impossible. Even the Men weren't quite human in the way she was familiar with -- too Numenorean by several degrees to belong anywhere on Earth. And she, herself, was an unwilling transplant in an alternate realm where she was able to hear the very universe Sing.

But still, she felt ridiculous as she said, in a quiet voice, "there's a monster in the lake."

Silence. Then, vague and confused laughter from Gimli, Boromir, Faramir, and the Hobbits. The others were watching her curiously.

Haltingly, as if he thought he'd misheard, Faramir asked, "a monster?"

"Yes, a monster," she sighed. This was humiliating. "It's like a giant squid, almost." The Fellowship was silent, uncomprehending, and only then did she realize the word squid had come out in English. "No, none of would know what a squid is, that makes sense. Like a fish, but not, and it has tentacles. But this thing isn't fish sized, or even man sized -- it's gigantic. And if we disturb the water, it's going to attack us. It might attack us anyhow, I don't know."

"I have seen many creatures in my life, and heard tale of many more, but never one like you describe, fish-sized or no," said Legolas, more contemplative than doubtful.

"Squids only live in the ocean."

"Ah," he said, seemingly satisfied.

"But we are leagues from the sea," Faramir pointed out. "The Gate-stream must be freshwater."

"Yeah, but it's not actually a squid, it's just like a squid." She didn't know how else to explain it. "I can explain eldritch horror to you guys later, if you give me time to figure out how, but the point is that it's a terrifying monster that doesn't make sense. It's not explained on purpose."

Merry quietly muttered eldritch to himself, trying to make sense of the word.

"Are you certain this is not an exaggeration? Or an old wives tale?" Boromir asked.

"Yes, I'm certain."

"How does it attack?" Aragorn asked.

"It grabs Frodo with one of its tentacles and tries to drag him into the water. Then, after everybody charges the water and hacks at the tentacles until he's free, it chases us into Moria and collapses the entrance so we're barred inside."

Quietly, Frodo said, "I do not think we should disturb the water, then."

"Is this creature Durin's Bane?" Legolas asked.

Gimli scoffed. "Durin's Bane was no water dwelling beast."

"There are other foul and ancient things within the deep places of the world," Gandalf said. "Perhaps it escaped, or was driven out, when the stream was dammed and the valley flooded."

"I mean no offense," Boromir broke in, "but to my ears, this sounds akin to the fairy stories told by parents in Gondor, when they wish to scare their ill-mannered children into better behavior."

"Like The Rat-catcher of Rohan," Faramir said.

"You guys have the Pied Piper?" Harper asked before she could stop herself. "No, never mind--"

At almost the same time, Sam asked, "now wait a minute, you don't mean Pan-Down-the-Brandywine, do you, Mr. Faramir?"

"I believe we have a similar story," said Legolas. "In Mirkwood, he is called i-erai linneithen."

Distant childhood dread knocked at Harper's heart even as she tried to ignore it. Was the Pied Piper some kind of creepy, universal constant? This was, easily, the most unsettling thing she had learned since she arrived in Middle-earth. But she could give herself nightmares about it later.

"We can share overlapping folktales another time," she said, but honestly hoped they would all forget this and never bring it up again. "Boromir, I get what you're saying, but this--" she gestured vaguely around the circle, "--used to be a fairytale to me. A year ago, if somebody tried to convince me that Elves or Dwarves or Hobbits were real, I would have thought they were either joking or insane." She looked at her non-human companions and shrugged. "No offense."

"None taken!" Merry said. Legolas and Gimli echoed the sentiment.

"There is some difference between ancient history and pure legend, is there not?" Boromir asked.

Harper blinked at him. Weren't they past this? "Sure there is," she agreed, "but I'm pretty sure Middle-earth isn't the history of my world, no matter what the book says." Gandalf was the only one, as far as she knew, who really believed The Red Book of Westmarch theory. Had they talked about it at some point? "Anyhow, that's not the point. You didn't know what a Hobbit was before Rivendell, and now you're traveling with four of them. And maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think you'd ever met an Elf or a Dwarf, either. Unknown and impossible aren't the same."

Boromir conceded the point with a polite nod, remaining silent and unconvinced. Faramir considered his brother thoughtfully -- there was something in his gaze that made Harper wonder if this was a topic the two of them had discussed at length.

Lapsing into silence, the Fellowship finished their supper and mulled over what had been said. It was odd to have a fire going after so long without. The backs of Harper's knees were sweating, but she wasn't willing to move away. Scraping the last spoonful of stew from her bowl, she tried to focus on the food and nothing else. Sam had done a wonderful job -- how he managed to turn the pale wild vegetables he gathered and the thin hares Legolas caught into something this delicious, she'd never understand.

Maybe, if things turned out alright in the end, Harper would ask him for cooking lessons before he went back to the Shire and she -- well, did whatever she was going to do after the Ring was destroyed. That was an unexplored well of dread that she did not want to sound at the moment.

"I know we have made up our minds already," said Pippin, breaking the silence and setting down his empty bowl. "But should we consider un-making them? There must be a more pleasant way, or at least one that doesn't have a monster guarding the entrance." Hugging his knees against his chest, he addressed the question to the empty space beside Gandalf, like he was unable to ask it directly.

"More pleasant?" Gandalf repeated, in that gruff, irritated tone he reserved for Pippin.

Frowning, Harper interrupted the incoming rant. "We need to go through Moria, Pippin. It really is our only option."

Pippin was far from encouraged, but he nodded. Harper was sending Gandalf to his death in the morning, and it was for that reason alone she didn't look at him as if to say, see, he'll listen if you just explain.

"Is it?" Frodo asked Gandalf. "Earlier, you said to Strider that there were 'few choices remaining'. Does that mean there is another way, but that it is less desirable than this one?"

Next to him, Sam mumbled, "can't see how that could be."

"Perhaps it is guarded by two monsters," said Merry.

"Or three," Legolas suggested, eyes sparkling. Aragorn shot Legolas a look that would have cowed lesser men. Legolas held his gaze, unmoved and unapologetic.

Aragorn scrubbed a hand over his jaw to hide his grin. Then, he said, "Gandalf has counseled that we take this route since our Fellowship was first formed. It is the most direct path. If I had not urged us to try the Redhorn Pass first, we might have already emerged from Moria."

The Hobbits were satisfied by this, but they weren't the only ones rethinking the choice.

Shaking his head, Boromir quietly said, "we have heard ill-tidings this evening, even if I am not certain how true they will prove to be." His eyes cut over to Harper, and there was an apology in them.

She shrugged. Sea-monsters nowhere near the sea was a hard pill to swallow. She wasn't going to argue the point further, but she didn't fault him for doubting.

"It has been said that we cannot try for the Gap of Rohan," Boromir continued, growing firmer with each word, "and so I say that we should cross the Isen and make for Lebennin, by way of Langstrand, and come to--" he cut himself off with a cough, "and come to the south, after passing through regions near to the sea."

Harper suppressed a sigh. And come to Gondor, was what he really meant.

"We do not have the time that journey would require," said Gandalf wearily -- as if Boromir was a child determined to touch a lit stove despite his warnings. "We might spend a year on that road while the danger grows with each passing day. The south offers no refuge to us."

Through grit teeth, Boromir said, "the name of Moria is near as black as the Dark Land, and that is without talk of fish-creatures lurking in pools. Danger is certain if we go to Moria, but we do not know if that is the case on other roads. If the coast is not viable, then we are fools to not try for the Gap of Rohan, even if Saruman is in league with the Enemy."

Gandalf did not have a chance to reply.

"Danger is certain on every road," said Aragorn brusquely. "The arm of the Shadow was far reaching ere we gathered together in Imladris, and it is ever lengthening. It would be foolish to walk into a trap after being counseled against it -- by one who has seen Saruman's treachery with his own eyes, and by another who knows more of our journey than the rest."

Boromir faced Aragorn, shoulders squared; in the light of the fire, his eyes were hard and flinty. "I passed through the Gap on my journey hither, and saw no sign of Orc pits or weapons making. Those lands are empty, as they always are, save for the wandering shepherds of Rohan. They are friendly to Men of my country, and would take no issue with the other members of the company." He gestured vaguely at the Hobbits, but not at Legolas and Gimli. "Moreover, the night is deepening, but we have seen no sign of wolves, though we were counseled that they 'might attack' -- by one who readily admits her stories do not match reality."

Faramir, sitting up straight and readying himself to speak, looked unhappily at Boromir. He didn't seem to disagree, necessarily, but obviously thought there were better ways to go about it. What he might have said then, Harper never knew.

"Enough," interjected Gandalf. "We have already decided upon our course. It will do no good to change it now."

Boromir let out a noise of frustration. "Are those not the words of a captain sailing towards the rocks, heedless of the warnings of a lighthouse?" He argued. "I am not the only one who doubts our path." Glancing around the Fellowship, his eyes fell on the Hobbits -- on Frodo. "Are we to ignore the Ringbearer's concerns?"

The Hobbits stiffened. Pippin, head bowed, curled in on himself and hoped nobody would remember he was the one who instigated this argument. Merry became quite busy pulling tufts of dead grass out of the ground. Frodo, after sharing a long look with Sam, spoke -- but he addressed Gandalf and Aragorn, rather than Boromir.

"We chose to go this way after the mountain was impassable. If this ... monster prevents us from entering Moria, or we cannot find our way through, then we should discuss taking another road. But we will not get anywhere by starting and stopping repeatedly."

"There," Aragorn said, staring hard at Boromir, "Frodo has spoken. Is that enough to satisfy you, or shall we vote for a second time?"

Harper nearly groaned aloud. He was not helping.

When his dark and expectant look at Faramir failed to earn his brother's vocal support, Boromir tossed down his bowl in defeat. It landed with a dull thud against the frozen ground. "When we are attacked by the fish-creature," he said, "I will remember to inform it that we voted on this path."

Silence fell once more, and this time they were all without the distraction of their supper. Aragorn, taking out his pipe and packing the bowl, avoided Harper's attempts to catch his eye. They needed to talk. Privately. Hoping to speed along the dispersal of the Fellowship back to their bedrolls, Harper stood. She picked up her own bowl, and then made her way around the circle, collecting everybody's dishes.

When she reached the Hobbits, Merry, handing over his bowl, asked, "what is leldrencht?"

Harper laughed, rudely breaking the tense atmosphere, but shook her head. "Ask me again later," she said. "I have to figure out how to explain it, first." If nobody understood her description of squids, she wasn't sure that she could successfully explain abstract concepts like cosmic horror.

By the time she finished washing the dishes and setting them aside to dry, the Fellowship had splintered into smaller groups.

Gandalf was sitting on the near edge of the gnarled trees with Legolas, talking quietly. Faramir and Boromir were both in their bedrolls, silent and unmoving, but too tense to be anything but awake. The Hobbits were laid down together, dozing in a puppy-pile. (Hobbit-pile? They slept bundled together more often than not, but she didn't know enough about Hobbits to be sure if this was typical Hobbit behavior, or if it was just something her Hobbits did to ward off the general fear that followed them everywhere on this quest. It felt rude to ask.) Gimli was sitting on one of the boulders, adjacent to Gandalf and Legolas, staring out into the night. Aragorn was alone, on the far side of camp, doing much of the same.

Harper joined Aragorn, but stood in front of him, instead of taking a seat at his side like she normally would. He barely glanced up from his pipe, which he was turning over in his hands. He looked, Harper realized, like shit. His eyes were bloodshot in the corners and weighed down by dark circles underneath. It stopped her short. Had he rested properly -- or at all -- since the climb down Caradhras?

"We need to talk," she said -- it was a gentle request, rather than the demand she had originally intended to make.

"Later, perhaps," he said, plucking a small twig off the ground, which he then used to scrape the bowl of his pipe clean.

Harper waited a beat. When he didn't elaborate, she asked, "why not now?"

"I am on watch."

"Gimli is on watch." It was Gimli's turn until sunset, after which Merry and Pippin were going to take over. Earlier, when they divvied up the shifts, Aragorn had picked the pre-dawn watch. She didn't think they had traded, because Gimli was still sitting on the large boulder on the other side of camp, axe in hand, eyeing the valley -- and looking distinctly on watch.

Addressing the question to his pipe, Aragorn asked, "is it not wise to set a double watch?" The twig in his hand snapped on a particularly hard scrape around the rim of the pipe. He tossed the broken twig to the side as if it had offended him personally.

"Does Gimli know you're sharing his watch?"

Finally, Aragorn looked at her properly -- so he could scowl at her, but she counted it as a win, anyhow.

"Can you just give me five minutes, please?" She asked. "You can go back to stealing Gimli's watch after, I promise."

"I am not--" he cut himself off with a sigh. Aragorn stood, brushing the ash off his hands. "As you wish."

Harper led him downhill, missing the fire as soon as they stepped away. The wind had yet to return, but the air remained crisp and bitter despite its absence. It was getting late. Pale, warm light haloed the edges of the breaking clouds. Above them, what scant blue remained in the sky was weak and faded.

At the bottom of the westward facing side of the hill, a thicket of yew trees was growing. The closely knit trees provided some cover against any beast of ill intent roaming the valley. A little distance from the Fellowship afforded them the illusion of privacy.

Aragorn leaned rigidly against one of the sturdier looking trunks, putting some space between them, and waiting for Harper to speak. There was the sense of a dream haunting the thicket. Long lingering evening was giving way to dense night. The sun, dipping low but not fully extinguished, bled through the gaps between the trees. Light and shadow superimposed the silhouettes of splitting branches over Aragorn's face. Here, the Song was a quick and rustling thing.

"Okay," Harper said, "talk to me."

His eyebrows knit together. Beneath them, his eyes caught the light and it made them look strange, devoid of color entirely. "You asked to speak with me?"

"Actually, I said we need to talk." She was well aware that she was splitting hairs and completely unashamed of it. "And in order for us to do that, you need to tell me what's going on in your head. I can guess, but I'd rather hear you say it."

He clenched and relaxed his jaw several times. Harper wondered if he was going to pretend that nothing had happened.

But then, with a sigh, Aragorn asked, "what do you think of our path? You alone remained silent during our discussion this afternoon, speaking no word for or against it."

Harper didn't realize he, or anybody else, had noticed. That was the thing about not belonging in the Fellowship: sometimes, if she stepped back and said nothing, they carried on as if she wasn't there at all.

"I don't want to go to Moria any more than you do," she said slowly. Aragorn let out a quiet, strangled laugh that she didn't acknowledge. "But, I do agree that this is the path we need to take."

"Did you know that Caradhras was impassable?"

Ah. Again, she wished Elrond had been more direct in his advice regarding what she should and should not share with others. Having tried and failed already, they were miles away from the mountain now. Was there any harm in admitting the truth?

"Yeah," she said. "I knew."

"Why did--" Aragorn began, and then trailed off. "I would not have insisted on that road if you had warned me against it," he said, in lieu of whatever he had been about to ask her.

"I know that," she said. "That's not why I kept it to myself. Look -- it's impassable in the story. I didn't expect it to be any different for us. But, I also didn't expect Celebrian to be on this side of the sea, or Faramir to be part of the Fellowship."

Neither had she expected Aragorn and Arwen to consider themselves siblings, or anticipated learning that she'd somehow been appearing as a mirage to Aragorn for most of his life. But these she left unspoken.

"I decided," she continued, "that it was worth the attempt. I need to know what else is wrong. Caradhras stopped us, like it was supposed to, so now I know that hasn't changed."

"And if it had?" Aragorn asked.

"I probably would have made us turn around anyhow." What was the best way to explain this? Aragorn was too clever. If she talked around the subject of Moria too much, he was sure to notice -- and unlike Gandalf, there was a chance he would press her on it. "I'm trying to keep us on schedule. What happens, in the end, depends heavily on good timing. And I can't exactly consult the appendices to make sure we're on track, so I don't want to mess around with the dates too much."

Understanding flashed in his eyes and then faded into something like respect. "I cannot say that I would take a different approach. Is this what you were thinking about earlier, when you were sitting with your book?"

"The timing? Yeah, partially. I forgot about the wolves," Harper confessed, "I only remembered after Merry accidentally jogged my memory. The timelines of the books and films are similar, but not identical, and that's a problem. I remember the films better, but they aren't as exacting. And the ... threads of the book, I guess, are tangled together and not as easy to recall. I've only read the books once, and I didn't even read them -- I listened to them while I was working. I brought the damn thing camping so I could actually read it."

"Listened to the book?" The question came out in a curiosity-filled rush.

Harper grinned. "You remember how I explained films, right? Like one performance of a play you can watch repeatedly?" Aragorn nodded. "There's something called an audiobook; it's like if I read you a story, and then you could re-listen to me telling you that story whenever you wanted."

"I see," Aragorn said. Though he looked like he had more questions about audiobooks, he asked, "why, then, did you not challenge Boromir when he petitioned to change our course?"

"Other than the fact that I couldn't get a word in edgewise?"

He coughed, embarrassed. "Other than that, aye."

Harper shrugged. "He doesn't need to think it's a good idea. He's never going to think it's a good idea. Why waste time trying?"

Convincing Boromir that they couldn't go to Gondor, while the Ring remained nearby, was about as likely as convincing Gandalf to ask the Eagles to fly them all to Mordor.

The sun finally dipped below the horizon. Some pale light remained, but it was darkling, and getting more difficult to make out Aragorn's expression at this distance. Even so, it was clear he was holding himself back from speaking. Harper had hoped he would be the one to bring it up; that didn't seem like it was going to happen.

"We already talked about this, but I think it's worth repeating." She stole a glance back through the trees, towards their camp. It was doubtful anybody but Legolas could hear them at this distance. Still, she lowered her voice. "I told you what happens, and I told you why I think it happens. Ultimately, the Ring is to blame, but it's not like I can reason with the Ring. Or, I guess I could try, but Frodo might get freaked out if I started arguing with his necklace."

Despite himself, Aragorn laughed. "Aye, he would react poorly to the attempt," he said. "And I do not think you would appreciate being bested in an argument by a piece of jewelry."

"You aren't wrong," she said. "So, since I can't argue with the Ring, I have to try to mitigate the damage in other ways. My hope has been that having his brother here will help. Based on what happened today, I think it will, but I can't rely on that alone."

Tilting his head back, Aragorn looked through the branches, up at the sky. He watched the emerging stars for a long moment. When he finally looked back at her, his expression was grim. This conversation hadn't gone well the first time they had it in Rivendell. The likelihood that it was going to go any better now was diminishing. But she couldn't let the ball of anxiety sitting like a stone in her stomach stop her. Harper took a step forward.

"This afternoon," she said -- quietly, gently, "the Hobbits were practically clinging to your legs after Frodo got the Ring back. And tonight, they got real quiet after you two started arguing."

"Do you blame them?" Aragorn asked.

"No, I'm not that much of a hypocrite. They admire you, and you make them feel safe." At that, Aragorn's expression softened. "No matter what the rest of us do, they are going to pick up on what's happening to him. They'll feel as they will about it, but they're also going to look to you, and Gandalf, for help in deciding how to react. And nothing that happened today is going to do us any favors in the long run."

Aragorn ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely torn. "I do not wish to give them a false sense of security regarding this matter. It could prove equally disastrous."

"I know," Harper said. "But there is a middle ground between pretending everything is fine and safe, and being outwardly antagonistic. All I'm asking for is that middle ground."

Bristling, he asked, "is it antagonistic to identify the flaws in his reasoning?"

Harper almost laughed. At least his indignation was easier to argue with than his earnest concern for the Hobbits. "No, it isn't. But it was antagonistic to very pointedly refer to Frodo by name after he called him the Ringbearer; and to ask if we needed to vote again; and to make that comment about foolishly walking into a trap."

"Perhaps." He didn't sound like he meant it. Aragorn leaned forward, taking his weight off the tree and crossing his arms. "Yet, I do not think it was without cause. I only spoke so after he challenged Gandalf's wisdom and your foreknowledge."

How was this her life? She was after-the-fact refereeing an argument between the Captain of the White Tower and the future King of Gondor, and the best defense Aragorn had for himself was 'he started it'? Maybe her mother had been right -- she should have stayed out of the woods and gone back to school to become an English teacher.

Exasperated, she asked, "is this really the standard you want me to hold you to? If I don't do anything, he'll be so tempted by the Ring that he will try to take it by force, and then die shortly after. That's why he's acting like this, and why I'm giving him a pass. Don't you want me to expect better of you? Don't you expect more of yourself?"

Aragorn had nothing to say to that. He uncrossed his arms, letting them hang awkwardly by his sides. Staring down at the ground, he looked properly shamed. But it had been a long day, and Harper really wasn't looking forward to Moria, and she could be sitting in front of the fire right now, if she didn't need to do this instead. The kicked, mangy, stray-puppy look wasn't going to work on her this time.

"Because really," she said, increasingly annoyed, "in that case, there's no point in the rest of us trying to resist the Ring. We might as well all have a go at Frodo now, and then each other, too. It'll be you or Gandalf who ends up with it, in the end. So, honestly, why don't you just kill me here so I won't have to watch, and then go back up to camp by yourself and get things started. If I can make a request: will you kill me with Anduril? It'd be pretty cool to be able to say I was murdered in cold blood by the Sword Reforged."

"Harper--" Aragorn sounded utterly exhausted. "You do not need to continue. I take your meaning well enough."

That took the wind out of her sails. She didn't actually want to argue, especially not now. "But?" She prompted -- and this time, she heard the exhaustion in her own voice.

"I know what it is you wish to do. But I am-- concerned, in the wake of what happened, about the efficacy of any such attempt; I am equally concerned about what might happen in the aftermath. This afternoon was a very close call. Even his brother recognizes that. He, too, is worried for him."

There was the answer to a question she hadn't thought to ask. Of course Aragorn and Faramir had talked, earlier, when they were walking ahead of the Fellowship. But she hadn't wondered what, exactly, they had talked about. In retrospect, it was fairly obvious that it was about Boromir.

"I mean, of course he's worried. He definitely should be. And I'm not saying today wasn't terrifying," Harper said. It was like the Ring had done away with Boromir entirely, leaving some crude, piecemeal imitation in his place.

"I have never seen such a thing in all my life," Aragorn confessed.

She made an unhappy noise. Aragorn was shaken, in a way she had never seen on him before, by Boromir's temptation. If time refused to flow at a normal pace, why didn't it have the decency to allow her to be in several places at once? Harper knew that she was right to prioritize talking to Boromir after it had happened. But, unintentionally, Aragorn had suffered for it.

"No," she agreed. "No, I'm not surprised. It was ... different, worse, in person. But I knew it was going to happen, or that it could happen. And he gave it back eventually." It had taken longer than it was supposed to.

"He dropped it, accidentally, after his brother intervened," Aragorn corrected.

"I--" there was no arguing that. "Okay, yes, you're right. But I don't think it would have ended with him taking it, even if his brother hadn't jumped in."

"You think, but it is clear that you do not know." Aragorn took a step towards her. His eyes were back to normal, now that the strange light had faded. And his voice was gentle, and sad, as he asked, "what will you do if you cannot succeed?"

"Regret it for the rest of my life." Her answer was immediate, more intense than she intended but completely true. "Are you going to tell me that I shouldn't try?"

Aragorn was silent for a moment, staring at her as if he had never seen her before in his life. "No," he said at last, "I admire your determination."

"Thank you."

"And yet, I worry that you underestimate what you are up against."

"Are you joking?" Harper knew he wasn't. "I know that I can't comprehend the cosmic level of darkness the Ring commands, and I'm far from immune to it, but I cannot underestimate it. I spend all day, everyday, staring at each member of the Fellowship, wondering if their breathing is a little off, or if they're being quieter than usual, and if so, is it because of the Ring? I worry about it constantly."

Constantly. It was almost as instinctual as breathing, these days. Even when she wasn't consciously thinking about it, she was still thinking about it. Sometimes, she wondered if the worrying would drive her crazy before the Ring managed to. Other times, she wondered if this was how the Ring was driving her crazy.

"But even if we pretend that I don't know what's going to happen, and the exact price that needs to be paid: I've been listening to that thing sing for months. It literally leaks evil."

"It sings?" Aragorn asked.

"Yeah?"

"When did this begin?" He looked over her shoulder, back towards camp, like he was debating dragging her over to Gandalf.

"What do you mean by 'begin'?" She asked, utterly confused. "I've been able to hear it since the Hobbits arrived at The Pony. Frodo has been with us since then, so it hasn't stopped. I assume it's distance based, like the Nazgul."

"The Nazgul sing?" Aragorn asked. If they were having any other conversation, Harper would have laughed at his expression.

"What? No. They sort of distort the Song when they're close, and make a feedback loop with the Ring. It's different." It was hardly an adequate explanation, but she still didn't know how to best explain it. "We've been over this."

"No, we have not."

"Yes, we have," she said, but then realized she wasn't sure. "Haven't we?" They must have talked about this at some point. Right?

Aragorn made a noise too bitter to be a laugh. "You do not overshare."

"Oh that's rich, coming from you," Harper shot back. "Maybe I told you seventy years ago and you've just forgotten about it." His face fell, and Harper regretted her words immediately.

"Must I apologize again?" Aragorn asked -- somber, unsure. He would, if she needed him to.

"Fuck. No. I'm sorry. That was unfair, and I didn't mean it." It was growing colder in the thicket, as the light retreated. Harper stepped in closer, hoping to steal some of the heat he put off like a furnace. "I really haven't told you about this?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I know the Ring affects you, as it affects us all. But we have not discussed it at length since our journey to Imladris, and rarely, in any capacity, since."

"I think I do this a lot." She was embarrassed to admit it, but he deserved an explanation. "You can read me well enough that I assume you know what's going on in my head." Aragorn didn't quite smile, but a tender look stole over his face. "Anyhow, yes, it sings. You know how Melkor fucked with the Music of the Ainur? And Sauron was his apprentice, or whatever?"

"I am aware," he said, amused by her irreverence.

Harper shrugged a shoulder, unashamed. "If I had to guess, I'd say I can hear the Ring singing because of that. I can hear the Song, and by extension I can hear the Ring messing with it. The Song is constant; I've learned to tune it out, a little bit, so I have room to think. But it's always there. In the presence of the Ring, the Song becomes strained, in a way, like it needs to work harder to continue on."

Tilting his head to the side, Aragorn said, "I did not realize it was constant. I remember that you said it was beautiful, the first time you mentioned the Song, but that seems bothersome at best."

"The Song isn't, not on its own. It changes when it struggles against the Ring, but it's still beautiful. Sad, sometimes, but breathtaking and ... absolute?" She shook her head. She wasn't doing it justice. "I don't know how to describe it. It's like if the essence of every single thing -- from blade of grass to king -- all sang at the same time."

"I suspect Elrond was slightly envious of your ability to hear it, though he would never admit it."

"That's funny. He didn't seem to believe me when I told him." That tracked with her understanding of Elves. "But the Ring, it makes its own music. I can only hear that when it's trying to get at me, or when I can see it. It's-- you know how the Ring is: terrible and terribly beautiful.

"Aye." Aragorn's face tightened, ashamed.

Touched by his admission, Harper laid a hand on his arm. "The way it sings is similar. The melody isn't unpleasant, necessarily, but it is wrong. Hollow. It makes a mockery of the Song."

"I hear it whisper," he confessed, so quietly she almost didn't hear him.

"I expected it to whisper. That's why I was so startled when I saw it in Bree. I didn't think it would sing. When it's really working on me, it drowns out the rest of the Song." She swallowed hard, moved on, unwilling to dwell on it. "What does it whisper?" Harper asked, hoping she wasn't overstepping.

"I do not know," he said. "It is muddled and imprecise, and comes to me on the verge of sleep."

Understanding struck Harper like lightning. "That's why you've been taking extra watch shifts."

Looking distinctly caught out, Aragorn said, "aye. It is best to deny it the opportunity."

"No. I can follow the logic, but you need to rest. Sleep deprivation is crazy-making on its own. You'll just weaken your resolve."

"Lack of sleep has not bested me before," he said, a little self-righteously, but his heart wasn't in it.

"You mean the last time you escorted evil-made-manifest halfway across a continent?" Harper rolled her eyes. "Do you remember when you wouldn't let me take a watch a few days after Weathertop?"

"I remember."

"You said I shouldn't push myself when I didn't need to, in case something happened later that required my energy. That applies to you, too -- more than it's ever applied to me. Exhaustion won't help you protect Frodo. But it might help the Ring."

Unwilling to argue against his own advice, but unhappy to be on the receiving end of it, Aragorn said, "you are correct."

"Someday I'll get you to say that without sounding so miserable about it."

"I admire your determination," he repeated once more -- sly, lightly teasing.

Harper laughed. The valley was quiet. Something small was skittering through the fallen leaves, on the far end of the thicket. If their companions were talking to one another, their voices didn't carry downhill. Above them, the stars were beginning to come out. It was almost fully dark. The sky had faded to an inky blue. They needed to head back soon. Not only for safety's sake; her next chance to be near fire was going to come with a side of Balrog. Harper wanted to luxuriate in less perilous warmth while she had the chance. But they weren't done here, as much as she wished they were.

Where before she had been simply resting her hand on Aragorn's arm, she now tightened her grip -- holding on to him, instead, as if that might give her the strength she needed. Tears pricked behind her eyes, hot and threatening to spill. Harper gathered herself as best she could.

"I don't know if I'm going to be able to save him."

Aragorn exhaled sharply. A terrible sadness broke open on his face.

"I'm terrified that I'll fail. Or that I'll succeed, and it will have unforeseen consequences and ruin everything in the end." Her voice cracked, just a little, but she continued. "But nothing is exactly as it should be, and I already managed to stop the Nazgul from stabbing Frodo. I know I can't fix everything. People are going to get hurt, and there will be loss before the end."

He wrapped his hand around her wrist, gently tugging until she let go of his overcoat. Then he held her hand between both of his: warm, calloused, real.

"That is the nature of war," Aragorn told her. "No being on Arda Marred can change it."

"I know that you're right. A lot of it is unpreventable, even necessary. But not all of it -- and that's my part." Her ability to change things was all that she had. She was going to cling to it like a life raft until she sank or reached the shore.

Aragorn found her other hand in the dark, gathering them together and holding both against his chest. Harper stared at him, pinned by his gaze -- too keen, too sharp, devastating.

"You have shown remarkable resilience since your arrival in Middle-earth. I feared, when I first left you at Sarn Ford, that you would succumb to despair; it is no easy thing to be sundered from your land and kin," Aragorn said, with the ghost of a smile on his face. "Yet you persevered, and have knowingly and willingly put yourself in harm's way to help a people you owe no obligation to. If you returned to Imladris now, doing nothing until the Ring is destroyed or all is lost, you will still have done more than any person has the right to ask of you. This is not your burden to bear alone."

"But I still have to try," Harper said. "It won't be easy or convenient, it might not even be possible, but that doesn't matter. Even if it kills me, I have to try. It's the only way I'll be able to live with myself."

Aragorn took one final step, closing the gap between them entirely. Pressed together, nearly toe to chest, he reached up to cradle her face in his hands. His brow laid a shadow over his eyes, but the rising moonlight was clever, catching the edge of his irises in its rays. He was suddenly otherworldly, gleaming like he had swallowed the stars.

"Harper, I have not said this enough: I do not think any of us understand how lucky we are to have you in the Fellowship. In the face of fear and foes you have carried on, brimming over with compassion and mercy, as if you were brought up at the right hands of Estë and Nienna both. You are a wonder to behold, and it is a gift to know you."

Harper gaped at him. She swallowed nervously, and it sounded overloud to her own ears. He was so intense when he got like this, so captivating and impossible. It left her scatterbrained and breathless.

"I will not lie and say I do not have my doubts. But I doubted my mind and memory in the years between visits from a strange wisp-woman, and yet here you stand. In Imladris, I told you that I will do what I can to assist you. I still hold to that, and I apologize that I fell short of it today."

She didn't know what to say to that, except, "thank you. And thank you for sticking up for me earlier, I appreciate it, even if it didn't help convince him."

"You are welcome," Aragorn said. He paused, searching her face. His palms were very warm against her cheeks. "In truth, my support and belief are the very least of what you are owed -- what you deserve. And, I hope, someday soon, when time allows, to give you far more than that."

Oh, Harper thought.

Then, Aragorn placed a gentle, lingering kiss on her forehead.

Her hands went to his shoulders of their own accord. His lips were dry and warm as they brushed over her brow. His thumbs mirrored the gesture, just barely skimming over her cheekbones; then, pulling back, one hand dropped and wrapped lightly around the back of her neck, and the other tilted her chin up to look at him.

Aragorn smiled; even obscured by the night, he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Harper said weakly. Both of them knew it wasn't what she meant. Promise me anything, and I'll promise you the same in return, was more like it, but the words were clogging up her throat and refused to come out right.

"I intend to keep more than promises, if I am given the chance," Aragorn promised, deadly serious.

"Christ," Harper muttered. She needed to get them out of here before she pushed him up against a tree and endeavored to find out exactly how strict Middle-earth was about chastity. "You're so--" she laughed, and it was a little unhinged. "We've been here for way longer than five minutes. We should probably get back."

The moonlight caught his eyes again. They were glittering -- he looked far, far too pleased with himself for making her flustered. She intended to get him back for it eventually.

"Aye," he agreed, taking hold of her hand again before he stepped away.

They weren't even out of the thicket before Harper's brain-to-mouth filter, overloaded with endorphins as it was, gave out.

"I'm starting to notice a pattern," she said.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. First, there was our argument in Rivendell, and now this. The next time that we argue, am I going to get a real kiss?"

Aragorn gave a considering hum. "That seems a long time to wait," he said, squeezing her hand, "we do not argue very often."

With all the faux-anger she could muster, but smiling from ear for ear, she said, "I don't agree."

Aragorn barked a laugh. Before she knew it, he was pulling her back in to press another kiss to the top of her head. Then, as quickly as it had happened, he had her at arms length once more -- still holding her hand.

"Satisfied, then?"

He was, Harper decided, far too dangerous when he got all sure of himself like this. She ought to lock him up somewhere, with a large bed and room service, and keep watch. It would be a sacrifice, but one she was willing to make for the greater good. She was selfless like that.

Certain she had stars in her eyes, but unwilling to let him get the last word, she said, "sure, for now."

Shaking his head and grinning like a fool, he pulled her forward. "It will have to do. It is dark, and the others will be wondering where we went."

--

Sleep proved elusive.

Aragorn waded through the shallow end of his dreams. It was a poor imitation of the way that Elves slept, resting his body more so than his mind. Typically, he relied on this tactic when he was alone in the wild and suspected an attack. He was out of practice, for there had been little need for it on this journey while traveling with so many companions.

The current watch belonged to Legolas, who Aragorn trusted to stand between him and the whole host of Mordor -- at least for the time it took Aragorn to wake and ready his own weapon. He did not fear that an enemy would slip past Legolas's keen sight. He feared what waited for him on the other side of sleep.

Next to him, as the hours of the night slipped away, Harper cycled through fitful sleep, if it could even be called that. There was a trick his brothers had used on him in his youth, one that could settle an overtired mind struggling to find sleep, that might have helped. Aragorn wished he knew the way of it.

Upon their return to camp, sharp-eyed and sweet, she had insisted he forfeit his watch so he could rest -- threatening to drag Legolas into the fray if he objected. Legolas, sitting nearby, overheard and agreed before Aragorn had the chance to speak. It did not feel right, overburdening Legolas for his own benefit, but neither of them would hear it.

Then, still holding his hand, Harper had commanded him to get his bedroll and lay it next to her own -- 'so I can make sure you actually try to sleep', or so she said. He was shocked, but not so foolish that he turned her down. It was, in truth, something he had wished to do since they departed Imladris. But Harper always slept a little apart from the rest of the Fellowship, and he had been unwilling to invade what little privacy she took for her own.

But not even the balm of her presence could help him sleep this night.

Boromir took up the watch from Legolas. Night lay heavy and still over the land. Gandalf, when his time came, rose and sent Boromir back to his bedroll. The wind, and nothing else, howled.

Harper jerked awake an hour into Gandalf's watch.

"Is it--" she hissed, and then fell silent -- realizing whatever woke her was only the product of a dream.

Aragorn hummed a low note in hope of soothing her. "We are safe. Dawn is a few hours away. Sleep."

"You sleep," Harper mumbled, groggy and petulant.

He thought of the morning after he found her on the South Downs, when she had emerged from her tent still soft and blurry with sleep. What a strange and enchanting sight that had been -- to see her look so real for the first time. But the memory offered little comfort.

"Try as I might..." he said, hoping he did not sound as grim as he felt.

Harper, stretching inside her bedroll, looked at him.

"No wolves? Nothing?" She asked, sounding more alert.

Aragorn shook his head. "The valley is quiet, but in rest, not fear. There has been no sign of them."

"That's ... not right," she said, frowning. "We should have been able to hear them hours ago, and they probably should have attacked by now, too."

"You said it was not guaranteed," he pointed out.

"This is the spot where they attack the Fellowship, in the book," she insisted. Then, cringing a little, she admitted, "and I mostly said that because I didn't want to freak out Sam and Pippin, I hoped easing them into it would help."

"And yet, even that seems unnecessary now. Are you surprised to find this, too, has changed?"

"I'm not surprised by another change, no, but this is too easy, too lucky. I don't trust it."

Amused, he shook his head. "You summered for too long amongst my kin. I am watching you speak, but ‘tis Halbarad’s words I hear." And Halbarad would be proud of it, were he with them.

Grinning, Harper rolled over onto her side to look at him properly. They were laid down a ways from the fire, but it was still going strong. In the light, she looked like sunrise come early to greet him.

"Hardly," she said. "If I was Halbarad, I'd have scouts posted in a ring around camp, facing cardinal and intercardinal directions, and would have devised a series of convoluted signals for them to communicate their findings with."

Aragorn barely muffled the laugh that she shocked out of him. "You did spend too long with them," he accused. "If the day of our departure had been any later, I might have returned to Sarn Ford to find you were no longer there, and that Halbarad had sent you back to the Angle for harvest work, along with the rest of the new rangers."

She smiled, but it was a shy thing. "I'd like to see the Angle, actually. I don't really know anything about it."

How did she do that? She surprised him constantly, and never in the way he expected. Warmth flooded his chest at the thought; he let himself imagine it now, as it would be, rather than retreating into memory. Harper, in the garden his mother kept in the last years of her life, carrying a basket of summer fruit; Harper, beside him at the high table as the hearth fire roared and his kin chattered over the evening meal; Harper, there, amongst his people, more radiant than she had any right to be and ever within reach.

When he trusted himself to speak, Aragorn said, "I will bring you there, someday, if you so desire it. There are few of us left; our settlements are scattered and isolated. I fear this war will only diminish us further. My brothers brought ill news from the Angle when they came to Imladris. Yet, it is dear to me, and I hope against hope somewhat will survive that I can show you."

"There's always hope," Harper said, with a thread of humor running through her voice -- she enjoyed jesting about his Elvish name far too much. But it was clear she meant what she said. "I'm starting to think that's the point."

"Of?" He asked. Her story, perhaps. There was a scrap of comfort to be found in that. If he was to be part of a story, that was a fine message for the story to have.

"Life," she answered, then, "the universe. Everything." She laughed. "Sorry. That's a quote from a story. I'd tell you it, but I don't remember it well enough to do it justice."

He raised an eyebrow. "As if you do not make things up in your stories when the mood strikes you."

"Is this about Shrek again?" She asked indignantly. "Donkey really does marry Dragon, and then they have babies. I did not make that up."

"How would that work?" Of all the preposterous stories she had told him, it made the least sense. He revisited it often.

"Well," she drawled, wearing an impish grin, "when a Dragon and a Donkey love each other very much..."

Aragorn choked. "Lady."

Harper laughed, pleased with herself, and inched ever so closer to him. Laying her head on her hands, she said, "we do need to work on your ability to suspend disbelief, or your imagination, or something. This is what's wrong with a world lacking in fiction. You don't know how to just go along with a story."

"Perhaps you know how to go along with a story too well," he countered.

"Fiction isn't a gateway drug to literally falling into another world," she said, rolling her eyes. "I am serious, though. We need hope. Without it ... what's the use? Might as well get it over with and pitch ourselves off a cliff, if there's none left. It'd be better than the alternative."

Dark towers and foul works, the blight of the Enemy spreading from the Sea of Rhûn to the Grey Havens, every beast and plant and person alive subjected the cruel hand of Sauron. The alternative, as she put it, reared up in his mind, escaping the cage Aragorn hemmed his fears into.

"But hope isn't a finite thing," Harper said. "You can't run out of it. You can stop looking for it, or believing in it, but it's still there -- it's still real. We just have to hold on to it, and if we lose it, go searching for it again."

It appeared once more -- the bright and blinding and invisible light which had beamed out of Harper in the thicket; when she dared Aragorn to tell her that she should not try to save Boromir, even though she knew the odds were stacked against her; when she declared, with tears in her eyes, that she would strive against the Shadow even if it was to be the death of her. She was a marvel, and more unwavering than Aragorn knew how to make sense of. Unmoored and without answers, Harper was willing to stand against a darkness she should not -- did not -- have to fight.

"Aye," he said, for if he said aught else, he would find himself making declarations and promises to her for the second time that evening.

They settled into a comfortable silence. The minutes ticked by, piling up into one hour, and then two. Harper dozed, but did not submit fully to sleep. Legolas took up the pre-dawn watch from Gandalf. The moon began to sink, the stars fading.

Aragorn wished to dwell on anything but what waited on the other side of the sunrise. It was a useless wish.

In the pits of summer, six years ago, Aragorn passed the Dimrill Gate. In his darker and more solitary moments, he still wondered if he had ever walked back out.

Harper would be irritated, at the least, if he dismissed Legolas from the watch and took it up himself. It was doubtful that Legolas would allow him to do such a thing. But it was maddening to lie there, awake and alert, with nothing to occupy him as he waited for morning to creep up on them.

Her breathing stuttered, deepened -- with a jerk, Harper woke fully once more. She sighed, rolling over to look at him, but he did not return her gaze. A considering silence as she watched him stare up at the sky.

"Are you okay?" Harper asked. "You've gone all tense."

"Do not waste your worry," he said, disliking the unhappy noise it earned him.

"Don't tell me what to do," she said, lightly and completely serious.

"Stubborn woman." A fond, and repentant, accusation.

"As we've established," she said. It sounded like forgiveness. "Are you okay?" She repeated, sitting up and peering closer at him, giving him no choice but to meet her eye. She frowned. "You haven't slept at all, have you? Not that I'm not enjoying this, but I was hoping you would actually sleep, instead of just lying down next to me."

After Moria, Aragorn returned to Imladris for a brief time. He had not known where else to go. Arwen set Celebrian on him when he refused to speak -- of it, or much else; a clever plan, but it had failed. For the sake of compromise, and to soothe his family, he allowed Elrond to order him to a week of bedrest.

"Morning comes," Aragorn said. The sky was lightening by the smallest degrees. In a few hours, light would blossom in the east.

"Yes, it does," Harper agreed. She searched his face, a question writ upon her brow. She stayed it, for the moment, giving him space to answer it on his own terms.

Unsure of what to do with the grace she gave him, he said, "we know the path we must take."

"Yes, we do." Harper, laying back down, tugged at his shoulder until he rolled over to face her. Eyes wide with concern, she waited for him to continue.

After another fruitless attempt to locate Gollum, Aragorn and Gandalf stopped in Lothlorien to rest before parting ways. It was there they heard rumor that a pair of scouts had chased a creature of a similar description westward to the Dimrill Dale at the beginning of spring. It was Aragorn who had thought they ought to pursue the lead. Gandalf was called to other business, and urged Aragorn to wait until they could go together. But Aragorn could not be swayed, so determined was he to end the hunt once and for all, and in the end he went to the Dimrill Dale, and then into Moria, alone.

"There is no other choice," he said, unwilling, for a myriad of reasons, to voice it as the question it longed to be.

Grimly, Harper said, "we don't get to choose."

"That is not quite the same."

"No," she allowed. "Maybe not. But it's true. We have to go there."

Aragorn walked into the slick maw of Moria willingly. Even now, he was unsure how long he had lingered there, where neither sun nor moon held any power. It was black, and silent, as he feared death might be. For days he heard nothing but the sounds of his own breathing and the beating of his own heart. And he learned, at last, how a doe feels when she hears the hunter's arrow slicing through the air. Evil lived in Moria. It reduced Aragorn to skittering prey without ever lifting a finger.

Fear, wresting control of his tongue, insisted he had no choice but to ask, "why?"

Harper tensed. "Aragorn..." she said, and there was a warning in her voice.

For long months (and longer years) Aragorn had respected Harper's censure against asking questions. She told him what he needed to know when she believed it was time for him to know it. It proved frustrating on occasion, yes, but she had good reason to be circumspect in how she dispensed her knowledge. And yet--

"I am not arguing for another path," he said, "I wish to know why it must be this one."

She swore under her breath. On his side as he was, he blocked the firelight from reaching her, and in the fading moonlight her skin was ashen and death pale. Shadow veiled half of her face, but he could see her eyes -- as lost and desperate as he felt. "I need you to listen to me," she said. "This is the very last place I want to go. I have been dreading it for months. But I can't stop it."

"And if I could stop it?" This was not unlike when she let slip that the Hobbits encountered a Barrow-wight on their journey to Bree. She had the right of it then, but it was not Barrow-wights that hunted Aragorn in his dreams. "You fear what will we find there. Tell me, at the very least, so we can prepare." Tell me, he thought, so I might finally know.

"You don't understand," Harper said. "I can't let you try to stop it, and if I tell you, you will try."

"I swear--" Harper clapped her hand over his mouth and stopped the oath before he took it.

"Don't fucking do that," she hissed. "I know how serious oaths are here." She inhaled, a shaky, tear-filled thing. Guilt howled in his gut like her absent wolves. She gave him no time to apologize. "Do you trust me?" She asked.

Her hand was still covering his mouth. His only options were to shake or nod his head. The simplicity of this choice was a sacred thing. Aragorn nodded. He trusted her.

"Then trust me. I don't want to keep this a secret, but this is too important to mess around with. It needs to happen exactly as it does in the story. Things will go badly if it doesn't." She let out a bitter breath of laughter. "And I know that, because the Ring keeps trying to tell me otherwise."

Needing his words again, he tapped two fingers against her wrist. She took her hand away. Wiping an errant tear from her cheek, Aragorn said, "I apologize." It was all there was to say.

"It's okay. I know it's scary." Harper looked closely at him then, and he knew, somehow, that she was about to ask him about his time in Moria.

There might come a day, when more time and distance stood between Aragorn and Moria, that he would tell her. Now, the memory pressed too close; if he confessed, he feared the present moment would shatter, and he would wake, in the impenetrable dark, to discover his suspicions were correct and he had never escaped its clutches at all.

Something of his terror must have shown on his face, because she let the question remain unasked. Instead, she closed what little space there was between them and laid her head on his chest. "Try to sleep," she said. "This is a terrible conversation to have in the middle of the night."

Wrapping an arm around her waist, he nodded, and said nothing else while the night lasted.

Perhaps exhaustion won out, or his terror was no match for the gentle thud of her heartbeat against his ribcage; by the time the moon finished setting and Earendil was heralding the dawn in the east, Aragorn was fast asleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

An airy calm hung over the dell, where tree and hill obscured the Misty Mountains from view. The plant life was greener on this side of the mountains, or maybe it was just evergreen; both the shrubs and the trees retained their leaves. Sunlight fell on the sloped earth, playing a lazy chase-game with the shadows cast by the fluttering leaves. Harper sat alone by the stream running through the center of the hollow, shallow but swift, and nosier than expected.

A single cloud floated far overhead, white and wispy and dwarfed by the blue expanse of the sky. It was beautiful out, one of those midwinter days where spring flirted and feigned a nearness that made one look for fresh buds on the branches -- despite knowing full well that the season remained many cruel weeks away.

This was a temporary respite. Frodo and Sam's injuries needed tending to before continuing the march to Lothlorien. Exhaustion had finally hit them, wiping out their ability to ignore the pain. Aragorn was preparing athelas with the help of Merry, Pippin, and Gimli -- who were on water and fire duty, respectively. While Aragorn was waiting for the water to boil, he tossed the occasional sideways glance in her direction, checking to see if she would join them.

Harper basked in the sun and stayed where she was. She wasn't ignoring him. Really, she wasn't. Neither was she ignoring the rest of the Fellowship. She just-- needed a moment alone, needed a chance to collect herself in private before returning to the road. The last few days were catching up to her -- hard.

Adrenaline was an incomparable drug, distilling instinct from fear; the body remembered its animal self, and the mind sharpened to apex-predator clarity. The heart-metronome marked beat by beating second, sight-reading survival as it went. Beset by wargs outside the Dimrill Gate, Harper had surrendered once more to the timeless electrochemical thrill of it, and the world had tilted until there was only her, her enemy, and her sword's steel-edged exultation in tender flesh pierced and rent.

But along the road the threat of mortal danger had faded, and mile by mile, the high rolled back in careful waves. Here, in tenuous safety, her mutinous adrenal glands threw up the white flag. The final wave receded. Here was the crash -- a hangover, unfortunately, as incomparable as the high.

Surely, some inner biological mechanism had been moonlighting as an auto-insurance adjuster without her knowledge. Her body issued a detailed invoice of the damage, the aftermath of the crash boiled down to bullet points: legs stiff, arms too heavy to lift, shoulders a mess of knots; a pulsing pain in her head which blurred the borders between migraine and brain damage. The cut on her arm was beginning to radiate infected warmth. An Orc's auto-obituary was writing itself on her boot-bruised stomach. Sedan vs. semi-truck, and Moria had driven away on all eighteen wheels, unscathed.

Harper deliberately acknowledged every ache and pain, and then shoved down the thought of them. Best case scenario, the border of Lothlorien was four hours away; realistically, closer to six. Sunset was in three hours, give or take, and moonrise would come on the wrong side of midnight. The Galadhrim would find them tonight, sometime after dark. In roughly two days, they would reach Caras Galadhon.

Every mile was going to hurt, but her only choice was to power through. Rest and recuperation were waiting at the end -- that fact would have to be enough to keep her going; it was going to be a long, weary march through the dark -- done with enemies in hot pursuit. She hoped the Orcs would stick to the script, failing to catch up to the Fellowship until they were safe in the trees. She hoped beyond hope the wargs would do the same.

She knew their absence before Moria had been suspicious -- a convenient stroke of luck on a journey where nothing was ever lucky or convenient. What she didn't know: was the change by chance or by design? Was there any difference between the two? Did it even matter?

Those were questions for later, tomorrow, next week. She needed to relax; to stop turning herself in circles; to steel herself for the final leg of this horrendous day. She hadn't been the meditating type, back home -- it bored her to the point of pain. But boredom was a heavenly prospect, these days.

With a deep breath and a force of will, she focused on the sound of the stream in her ears, the warmth of the sun on her face, and the gentle bite of the breeze against her skin. Harper anchored herself in these real and present and pleasant things; and with purpose, she did not think.

(Of the Watcher in the Water's rows of razor sharp teeth; of the undulating mass of Orcs flooding into the smoke filled hall; of the Balrog wielding fire-wrought whip and sword; of the dark blood spilt by and staining her own hands; of Gandalf's hunched and wizened body being dragged off the bridge.)

(Of the Fellowship's pitiless eyes in the bright afternoon light, false accusations backed by nothing but the truth.)

Well, shit -- apparently, she wasn't the meditating type in Middle-earth, either.

Sighing, Harper opened her eyes and blinked away the lingering mental images.

Aragorn had moved on from treating Sam's injury. Coaxing Frodo into letting him examine his chest, Aragorn inadvertently revealed the mithril corslet hidden beneath Frodo's shirt. Glittering in the sun, the corslet's tiny concentric rings chimed together as Aragorn pulled it over Frodo's head.

"Look, my friends!" Aragorn called. "Here's a pretty hobbit-skin to wrap an elven-princeling in! If it were known that Hobbits had such hides, all the hunters of Middle-earth would be riding to the Shire."

Laughter, from the others, as they crowded in and cooed over the armor. Even from a distance, there was something otherworldly about the corslet. Metal was not meant to move like water, but mithril did. It looked flimsy, decorative, pretty -- and had shattered that spearhead like bad glass.

One small, shiny miracle among many.

Loneliness rammed into Harper, bullet-train quick. She tried to focus on the sound of the stream instead of their voices, watched the light reflecting on the water instead of on the mithril. Her pulse picked up; senses scrambling desperately around the dell, she sought anything, any inch of her surroundings untouched by Fantasy.

It was useless. Wonder stained the whole world.

When was she going to adjust to it? Every day brought a deluge of impossibilities for good or for ill, and she was no closer to taking it in stride than the day she arrived. Whiplash lurked around every corner, threatening to steal her breath or smother it in turn. Forget adjusting, Harper doubted she was going to survive.

She was not made for the unbreakable, rapid-fire cycle of beauty and terror and beauty again. Apathy and dejection were the constants she had prepared for, in every future she dreamed and dreaded throughout her life. A dead woman shuffling along with her fellow working-dead, trying to scrape some small joy out of the pointless laboring decades -- until the bomb dropped or the Earth wiped them all out.

Harper never planned for this -- one dazzling second followed by the next, days that were vibrant to the point of violence. All of it unending. There was no promised grey-fading of her spirit to usher her, discontent and unfulfilled, to old age or the end of days.

Middle-earth was beautiful and cruel and real, in a way Earth never was. There was only one choice here, which was no choice at all: a life lived in full, rubbed raw by the turning of the world and flayed open for all to see, every nerve exposed: to the free air under an intact ozone layer, to mortal danger, and to some miraculous singing thing beneath and above and through every part of it.

How did the others do it? This world was relentless. Fear beat her into a bruise in the shape of a woman, and wonder prodded at the marks all over until she sweetly stung. Every lovely and deformed facet of reality demanded equal attention. The glittering mithril corslet and the murderous Orc it had bested. The Doors of Durin illuminated by starlight and the eldritch monster that destroyed them. The Song permeating every membrane of reality and the Ring mocking it note by note.

It was too much, and all there was. The life she knew was a world away. Take it or take it -- there was no escape.

"Harper?"

Startled, she looked up. Her mouth was dry and her stiff back was screaming in protest of her slumped posture. How long had she been sitting there, staring into space? She shook her head, like all she needed was a backdraft through her ears to air out the miserable smoke clouding her skull.

"Are we leaving?" Harper asked.

Aragorn shook his head. "Not yet. We will take some time to eat and rest before continuing."

"Oh. Okay." Food sounded-- terrible, actually. Physically, she was hungry, but the idea of chewing and swallowing anything made her want to gag. "Let me know when you're all ready," she said, gaze wandering back to the stream. She would sit and stare until it was time to go, then she would walk and stare until it was time to sleep; tomorrow had to come eventually.

Didn't it?

Ignoring the dismissal, Aragorn stepped over the stream and sat down next to her. He spread his healing supplies out in front of them, and pointed at her blood soaked arm. "Let me see," he said.

"It's fine," she said, not even looking at it.

"No," Aragorn said, "it is not." Then he reached over and took her arm, laying it down across his lap. Harper's arm put up the resistance of a disassembled mannequin. The sudden warmth of his legs against her blood-crusted skin was the only sign her arm had any feeling left at all.

Her shirt sleeve, once white and now stained browning red, crackled audibly as Aragorn pushed it up to her bicep, disturbing the dried blood. She hissed, arm twitching at newly formed scabs fused to the fabric being ripped from her skin. The cut was long, from outer elbow down to a inch above the inside of her wrist, but not jagged -- almost scalpel neat. Blood was welling up from it again, pooling for a few seconds on the flat of her forearm before dripping down the sides and into his lap.

"It's going to stain," Harper warned him.

"I will survive. The pants will not, but a few drops of your blood is not what pushed them past point of ruin." Aragorn bent forward to get a better look at the cut, turning her arm this way and that. Thumbs on either side, he pried the edges of the wound a little further apart -- staring into it as blood oozed out.

"Fuck! That hurts." Harper could definitely feel her arm now -- she tried to take it back but his grip was firm, and she didn't have the energy to struggle against it.

When Aragorn stopped ripping her wound open, he said, "I apologize. I needed to be sure it was not poisoned. You and Sam were very lucky. Orcs often use such tactics. Perhaps they were ill-prepared for our arrival." He sat up straight again. "However, it has the beginnings of an infection. I will bathe it first, and then apply stitches. After it is bandaged, we may eat."

Harper found her strength and ripped her arm away from him, tucking it beneath her other arm and cloak, and cradling it protectively against her chest. "You will do no such thing." Now, she spotted the small pouch he stored his thread and suturing needle in among the healing supplies, and realized this had been his plan all long.

An exhausted sigh. "Harper." Aragorn outstretched his hand, expectant palm facing the sky, waiting for her to give in. "Please allow me to--"

"No!" She said, tilting sideways out of reach. "No fucking needles. You are not making me get stitches on today of all days. The cut is not that deep, and it'd already stopped bleeding before you reopened it. You can wash and bandage it, or fuck off."

Her breath was coming fast. The dell was beginning to swim and shrink down to tunnel vision. If he kept insisting, how wrong would it be to run and grab one of the Hobbits to use as a sentient shield? She didn't know how taboo hostage taking was among the Free People, but she was willing to find out.

Pity softened Aragorn's expression. He drew his hand back, telegraphing his movements so she didn't lunge away. "I apologize. You never mentioned a fear of needles. I would not have surprised you with it, had I known."

"It's fine." Some of the defensiveness dropped out of her posture.

"May I take another look?" He asked hopefully.

"No!" She clutched her arm tighter. She wouldn't be lucky enough to get it back a second time. "What am I, stupid? You haven't said you won't do the stitches, yet."

Her eyes darted over to the Hobbits. Who was the best choice for a meat shield? Pippin was probably a biter, and Merry had sharp elbows and quick feet; the psychological toll of taking either Sam or Frodo as a hostage would be momentous and evenly split, but Frodo seemed less likely to put up a fight.

Aragorn closed his eyes and tilted his head back, breathing deeply. She was being annoying. He was trying to steal her arm and repeatedly stab a needle through her skin. Turnabout was fair play. He rolled his shoulders, exhaled, and met her gaze again.

"I will not close your open and infected wound to prevent it from festering further, if that is what you wish," he said. She nodded. He rolled his eyes. "That being said, if it cannot stay closed on its own, I will insist you allow me to do it. If I am to lead us for a while, I cannot have you succumbing to infection within the first week."

"So I'm free to keel over after next week?" He just glared at her. "Fine. Whatever. But it's going to stay closed -- as long as you don't rip it open again." With a final nervous glance at the suture pouch, she reluctantly gave him back her arm.

"Do you have a fear of bandages I should know about, before I begin?" He asked, voice dry as the desert.

"Fuck you." Harper said, with feeling.

"I--" He heaved a sigh. "That was unfair of me, and did nothing to ease your distress. I apologize."

"It's fine." It was fine. Being accused of murdering Gandalf was fine. The whole fucking day had been fucking fine. "Just-- whatever."

Aragorn frowned. He searched her face, trying to get her to meet his eyes but she looked resolutely at the sky until he stopped. "I will be quick," he said softly. "Then you may eat and rest."

Harper nodded, and said nothing.

Aragorn worked in silence for a while. He cleaned the blood from her skin with gentle, deliberate strokes of the damp rag; the athelas infused water was bathtub hot, relaxing her muscles and sinking in deep to wash away the infection. When the surrounding area was perfectly clean, he packed a paste of athelas leaves over the cut, and draped a fresh damp rag overtop to keep it in place. He let that soak, turning her arm around to wash away all other traces of Moria in the meantime, from her half-bare bicep down to her fingertips.

While scrubbing the soot from beneath her fingernails, Aragorn quietly said, "I wish to apologize for what occurred in the Dimrill Dale."

Harper, who had been staring at the stream with unfocused eyes and enjoying the rhythm of his scrubbing, snapped to attention and looked sharply at him. "I don't want to talk about it." There was an unintended note of finality to the statement. "Right now, I mean. Please. It's--"

"Do not say 'fine'."

She sighed. "It's over, then. We should talk, but I don't have it in me right now. It's over and done with, so it can wait for later."

Aragorn studied her anxiously. She gave him a pleading look when he seemed on the verge of insisting. He left go of her hand to caress her face, fingers cradling her jaw and thumb stroking back and forth over the highpoint of her cheek bone. His eyes were red and too bright, close to tears -- the only time she'd seen him cry was back in Rivendell, after their argument. The sight, or the memory, or some combination of both, broke her.

"I don't want to be mad at you," she whispered.

"Yet you have every right to be," he replied.

"Yeah. But I don't want to. Exercise the right, I mean." She leaned her head into his touch, laying her hand over his to keep him there. His hand flexed pleasantly beneath her own. "I'm not trying to put you off. We need to talk about it, and we will. But not now, alright? I need--" she fell silent, unsure of how she meant to end that sentence.

He waited, warm hand holding her heavy head up, for her to continue. After a while, he lightly tapped his thumb twice against her cheekbone, and asked, "what do you need, Lady?"

Harper smiled, a watery, crooked thing. "That. You." The tenderness that passed over his face at her confession was too much.

"You have me." Aragorn was worn and weary; and he was shining, all of sudden, with the strength of his conviction as he said it.

"Christ. You're so---. That's exactly what I mean." There was nowhere to hide, not here, not from him. She had no choice but to let the truth of it roll over her. "I don't feel ... right, or good, or like myself at all. But you help; walking and talking with you helped on the way here, and this is helping now. I'm sick to death of being miserable, let's do something else for a while, ease off the gloom."

He tilted his head, considering. "I am not certain I can pretend this afternoon did not happen."

"No, that's not what I'm saying." She wasn't capable of pretending, either. "Not pretending it didn't happen; deciding not to let it matter more than anything else. It happened. We'll deal with it. Later."

"And until later comes?"

"You can take a break from radiating misery, and I'll try to get rid of the black cloud following me around," she said. "And we'll both stop waiting for the other shoe to drop."

He stroked his thumb over her cheek thoughtfully, looking like he was trying to convince himself it wouldn't drop eventually.

"Listen. Do you trust me?" She was actually asking, needed to know his answer had not changed.

"Aye."

"Good. I trust you, too. And I trust you aren't going to turn around in two hours and decide I was lying about what happened. So please trust me when I say I forgive you, and we'll talk about the rest of it later," she gave him a wry smile, "and taking a break from self-flagellation in the meantime is a good idea -- for both of us."

"Perhaps you have the right of it," he said, tilting her chin up to get a better look at her face. "This is what you need, then? It will help?"

She nodded. "But don't force yourself if you aren't up for it."

"No, I only want to be sure that you are," he said.

"I am." She was.

A moment. Harper watched the cogs turning in Aragorn's head. A crease formed between his eyebrows as doubt fought to win him over; there might as well have been an audible click when he overcame it.

"As you wish," he said; a promise; a sigh of relief; something else, too.

Harper choked out a strange little laugh. "You do that on purpose."

"Do what?" He asked, the very picture of innocence. He gave a final tap to her cheek, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and pulled his hand away. She let him, but mourned the loss of contact.

"You know what," she said. "You were sitting ten feet away when I told the Hobbits the story of The Princess Bride a couple weeks ago. I know you were listening. And that's not the first time you've said it since then."

Aragorn shook his head casually, busying himself with tending to her injury once more. "The Hobbits have heard many of your stories, and we are often in close quarters. I cannot say that I recall every one."

"You're so full of shit."

He peeled back the now mostly-dry rags to check her cut. The edges had faded from an angry red to a lighter shade of pink. "This needs more time. Let me see to it, and then I will fetch us some food," he said. "You may tell me the story while we eat, if you are so determined to be certain I have heard it."

Harper rolled her eyes, but nodded. He just wanted to hear it again.

For half an hour, maybe, they did just that. The athelas worked its way into her body, clearing out the last traces of infection. She forced down some food, to her stomach's great relief. And he sat with her, eating and nodding along, as she told him the story. He complained about the way she glossed over the swordfights, as if she even had the vocabulary to describe them to his satisfaction; paid rapt, wide-eyed attention to Inigo's revenge on the Six Fingered Man; and looked gratified, if a little disappointed, when Buttercup and Westley left Prince Humperdinck alive, and unharmed, in the honeymoon suite as they made their escape.

Mental backdraft, force of habit, miracle after stinking miracle; she talked her way through somebody else's woes, submerging herself in fantasy amidst the Fantasy, and felt clearer with every scene she relayed. Oh, she thought, caught somewhere in the Fire Swamp, when he gasped as Buttercup was swallowed by the quicksand, how did he know?

He had asked what she needed, and the answer was as simple and convoluted as could be: a different story to get lost in; and him, just there, listening.

The story ended, like all stories do. The heroes rode off to happily ever after and Aragorn, deciding the athelas had done its job, set to bandaging her cut.

“Were you wounded elsewhere?” Aragorn asked, as he was wrapping up her arm. He was still a little unhappy she refused to consider stitches, but hadn't brought it back up.

“There’s also—“ Harper cut herself off.

There was also the horrific bruise blooming down the entire length her stomach. She had no shame about receiving the injury, that wasn’t it — the Orc responsible was dead in Moria and she was alive outside of it, after all. But the necessary mechanics of treating it, at once coalescing in her head, stopped her short.

A cough. “Also a headache. But I didn’t hit my head, so it’s fine — adrenaline hangover and dehydration, probably.”

Aragorn looked up at her, muscle memory directing his steady hands without visual input. He searched her face, frowning, and tied the bandage off with a final loop and tug.

“A headache. What else?” He asked, not at all fooled. The afternoon sun melted through the trees and reflected alongside the stubborn glint in his eyes.

Even though it seemed like a lost cause, Harper wasn’t going down without a fight. He relented on the stitches, so why not this?

“Nothing noteworthy. Thanks for doing this,” she said, with a shake of her bandaged arm as she tried to move away.

But he was quicker than that.

Gently, Aragorn caught her wrist and pulled it back into his lap. “It needn’t be noteworthy to tell me of it.”

The issue with trying to beat Aragorn in a staring contest was both obvious and unavoidable: she liked looking at him too much. Even streaked with various shades of filth, her eyes were greedy and impatient to roam freely across his face. To her credit, Harper held her own for half a minute, maybe — but Aragorn fought dirty; a tilt of the head, the slightest frown, that tendon in his cheek pulled taut in displeasure. Her concentration broke, and she was sweeping her eyes over the darkest patch of untamed stubble hiding beneath the jut of his chin.

Harper sighed. Today just wasn’t her day. “One of the Orcs got in a couple good kicks to my stomach,” she admitted, meeting his eyes again.

Satisfied, Aragorn nodded, and said, “I will take a look to make sure it is only surface damage. The athelas will help, as well.” He did release her wrist then, reaching to grab a clean(er) rag and the bowl of infused water.

“Uh—“

Hearing the hesitation there, he turned back to her and raised an eyebrow. Harper snuck a glimpse at the rest of the Fellowship. They were all otherwise preoccupied — eating or resting while they had the chance.

“Can’t it wait?” She asked.

“We do not know when we will have another chance to stop safely,” he said.

“You don’t. It’s couple hours or two days, depending on your definition of safe.”

“Both too long to wait if you have broken a rib or ruptured something vital,” he said, neatly sidestepping her attempt at a rebuttal.

“I haven’t done either,” Harper argued, “it’s just bruising. It doesn’t hurt that bad." Mostly, slightly, kind of the truth. "And if I ruptured something I'm pretty sure I'd already be dead.”

“Be that as it may, I will feel better after I check. It will not take long,” he assured her, softly persistent.

He wasn’t going to budge unless she made herself clear.

But what was she supposed to do — outright say she didn’t want to get her tits out in front of the Fellowship? Frodo had needed to get half naked to have his own, similar injury looked at.

Nobody talked about it, because for the most part it wasn’t worth talking about. But she was the lone woman journeying through the wilderness with ten nine men, and that created ample opportunity for discomfort. However, they had all been raised in a pseudo-medieval society, and were good men besides, so they gave her whatever privacy they could. Which was sweet, if a bit unnecessary. Harper wasn’t exactly shy, and trusted them all with her life, let alone her modesty.

She just didn't want to scandalize them — again. Three days after leaving Rivendell, Faramir had accidentally picked the same strip of brush as her for a bathroom break. He barely saw anything, maybe half a glimpse of upper thigh as she was pulling up her pants, but ran away like she was Sauron come to claim the Ring. Then, after she had returned to camp, he apologized in front of the rest of the Fellowship and avoided her for the next three days.

Harper wasn't looking for a repeat of that; but it seemed unavoidable with Aragorn insisting on examining the bruises here, in this open dell.

“I’m not really trying to put on a free show,” Harper admitted quietly.

Aragorn blinked. Blinked again. The healer part of him that had been superseding the rest retreated slightly, and he realized what she was saying. He blushed.

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“We—“ he took in their surroundings, “around the bend, perhaps?” He pointed north, where the bank cut in sharply and obscured their line of sight.

Damn, he wasn't going to budge at all, was he?

“Fine,” she grumbled, “let’s get it over with.”

Harper trudged around the bend while Aragorn went to tell the others to give them some privacy.

Pacing while she waited for him to join her, she realized she might have made a mistake. This was going to be— intimate. In a way it wouldn’t have been with the Fellowship twenty feet away, resolutely looking anywhere but at Harper having her ribs checked by Aragorn. Her heart galloped in her chest as she considered the situation. She tried to ignore it, but her pulse began thrumming in her fingers and toes in retaliation.

Just as she was beginning to really sweat over it, he arrived; bowl in one hand, rags in the other, and a wearing an expression so incredibly blank it bypassed neutrality and crossed over into pain. He came to a standstill half a dozen feet away, strangely intent on studying the tree line to the west.

“Well. How do you want me?” Harper asked. She cringed as soon as the words left her mouth; what a way to phrase it.

Aragorn pointed to a flat stretch of ground in the cleft of the dell, a few yards in; he, somehow, became even more devoid of emotion. Almost meditative. It was rather impressive. Harper wondered if Elrond had taught him how to do that, or if he learned while treating wounds in the field.

"Lie down there," he told her in a firm, no nonsense sort of way -- not a tone of voice he typically used with her, but oddly familiar all the same.

Harper remained where she was, trying to remember why she recognized it. When reality reflected the book or the films, her perception tended to change: color-grading twisted the natural light, and sound crackled through speakers in absentia. But digital recollection wasn't creeping into her senses. The voice he was using itched at the back of her brain like an acquaintance's forgotten name. This was from a real memory.

A moment later, she made the connection and grinned; awkwardness fading in delight's favor.

"Breaking out the Captain voice, huh? Didn't realize I got formally recruited over the summer."

Briefly, his mask fell away; the corner of his mouth twitched, a smile threatening to break through, and amusement danced behind his eyes. He shook his head. "Perhaps you were while I was away. Halbarad is quick to extend the offer when he sets his sights on an outside recruit, and he has eccentric standards."

"Eccentric? Wow." She glared at him; it was meant to be a heated look, certainly, but it was heated by something other than feigned outrage. "I didn't get the welcome packet. How do I lodge a complaint against leadership?"

"With me. And wages are docked for insubordination." He let a real smile creep to the surface; she hadn't seen him smile since they entered Moria. The sight warmed her all the way through. "Step to it," he said, with a wave of his rag-filled hand.

Inappropriately giddy, and expectedly stubborn, she stayed put. "Are we doing roleplay now?" She asked, laughing -- possibly at herself. Exhaustion made it difficult to tell. Her inner-censor was fried and somewhere in the middle of meal-and-story time, she had left despair behind for delirium.

"Will you reconsider allowing me to give you stitches, if I say yes?" He asked, like his response truly hinged on her own.

"No."

"Then my answer is the same."

"Fair enough," she said, and got moving.

There was a sizeable gap between the trees on the western side of the cleft; the mid-afternoon stole through it to warm the frozen ground, unhindered by shadows. It had been many years since a river ran through the dell, and while grass grew along the slopes, it had yet to reclaim the river bed proper. Snowfall was seemingly less common to the east of the mountains, because the dirt beneath her boots was bone dry. Harper kicked aside a couple of the larger rocks littering the flat stretch, her amusement dissipating as anxiety trickled back in -- Aragorn, expressionless once again, followed her over at a leisurely, irritating pace.

Encouraged by the flirting, the more indecent part of Harper was up on its hind legs taking great, and decidedly unhelpful, interest in the proceedings. Maybe, if she pretended she wasn't a little thrilled to whip her shirt off and lay down in the sun while Aragorn ran his hands all over her, it would just ... go away?

Maybe. But probably not.

When she considered the fact that Faramir had struggled to look her in the eyes after seeing a little bit of thigh, her situation with Aragorn started to make more sense. Despite their shared interest and intent, months later she was still in the batter's box, staring longingly at first base. When she was in possession of her inhibitions, she was fine with that. But she had made sure they climbed up Caradhras for a reason -- information kept chaos in check.

Modesty standards in Middle-earth were a bit of a mystery. An educated guess was possible -- some mixture of vaguely-medieval customs on Earth and the fantastical-product of Tolkien's own Catholic, Victorian-born English repression. But how was she supposed to know what constituted a misstep? Men's customs differed from Elves, and from Dwarves, and in all likelihood from Hobbits, too -- though she would walk back into Moria before talking to any of the Hobbits about their sexual habits.

The Men were the only people who could give her an answer. Asking Faramir was out of the question. Boromir might react a little better, if she phrased it right, but he wouldn't respond the way she needed: without palpable discomfort and in detail. That meant her final option was her only real option.

Welcome to Middle-earth, Occam's razor. Harper could ask Aragorn about his cultural and personal boundaries; or continue stumbling forward while blind, and hope she didn't step on a land-mine in the process.

Finally, Aragorn caught up to her. He stood at a respectful distance. Harper kicked away the rock she was rolling under her boot. His eyes were sharp and solely on her; covered in someone else's blood and too focused to care, he looked like a paramedic answering one last call at the end of a very rough day.

Harper tugged at the side of her shirt, and asked, "I assume I need to take this off?"

"Aye."

"Okay. I’m wearing a bra. It stops around here," she pointed half an inch below where her cleavage rested, "do you want me to keep that on, or--"

Aragorn frowned like he hadn't considered that, which wasn't a great start. "Where did the kicks land?" He asked.

His eyes were on her chest but slightly out of focus, as if looking, quite literally, inside her. Harper didn't know her skeleton was capable of feeling shy; it was a novel sensation.

"I don't remember, to be honest. I was more focused on-- uh. On killing it," she said, miming a stabbing motion. The mangled skull of the Orc in question flashed through her head. She flinched, horrified with herself, and aborted the gesture halfway through, bruises protesting the sudden movement.

Aragorn nodded slowly, refraining from commenting on her reaction. “There is no use in cataloging your own injuries in the moment if you do not live long enough to seek treatment,” he said. “Where does it hurt?"

She gestured from sternum to lower stomach. "Here?"

"Take off the top layer and lie down," Aragorn told her. "We will see the extent of the bruising before making a decision."

She grabbed the hem of her shirt, but stopped short of pulling it over her head.

"You are okay with this, right? It’s a little much after the day we’ve had. And I can always get it checked out in Lothlorien, if it still hurts when we get there.”

He furrowed his brow. "With the bruising?" He asked. “I have seen far worse in my time, on equally difficult days.”

Harper faltered, thrown off by his apparent confusion. "I’m starting to think being in Middle-earth is some kind of immersion-based, coercive therapy practice. My therapist must have known you’re the only real match for my avoidant behavior patterns,” she said, wry but not bitter. “I mean: are you uncomfortable with seeing me shirtless? I appreciate you wanting to help, but I’d rather not make it weird.”

The mask fell away again; he blushed, letting out a tight laugh as he took her meaning.

“Uncomfortable is not the word I would use, no,” Aragorn said. He smiled — small, a little shy, a little ridiculous.

Harper snorted. “Don’t know why I asked.” Chagrin threatened to wipe the smile off his face, so she said, “I’m not giving you shit, just happy we’re on the same page. We usually are, but I didn’t want to get my tits out without double checking first.” A shrug. “Faramir still avoids looking below shoulder height whenever he’s in my general vicinity. I want to avoid that with you.”

“He has spent years in Ithilien, and is not a healer. I was fortunate in my upbringing in Imladris, and am more accustomed to having women amongst my comrades.” He wasn’t insulting the Dunedain of the South, but clearly this was a point of pride for him.

“Are Elves are big on non-sexual nudity? Or was I not invited to some kind of naked team-bonding exercise in Sarn Ford?” She asked. “Either way, you think I would’ve noticed something was amiss.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, Harper took off her shirt. Goosebumps rose up the length of her arms, but the sun took away the worst of the chill. She stood up straight, resisting the tiny, annoying urge to hunch in on herself.

Aragorn’s eyes dropped to her torso. Like a poorly executed water-color painting, splotches of angry red covered her skin, already deepening to blue-black where the kicks had overlapped. Beginning with a faint welt on the swell of her right breast, the bruises ran down diagonally, with the worst of the damage centered above her navel, and a nasty black spot on her left hip bone at the end. There were a few places where she could almost make out the tread of the Orc’s boot, if she squinted.

“Lie down,” Aragorn said, all business save the lingering pink in his face. Harper did. The ground was solid but warm enough against her back. Something hard dug into her shoulder blade, announcing she had missed one of the rocks while clearing the area. He knelt on her right side, knees brushing her arm and frowning at the damage. “When did this happen?” He asked.

“Balin’s tomb,” she said. “An Orc made for Sam while he had his back turned. I knocked it to the ground, but it put up a fight.”

“That much is clear,” he muttered. He looked away from the bruises and into her eyes.

It had the makings of a frustrating dream: Harper, laid out and on her way to naked, and Aragorn, taking her in and talking of battle.

She half-remembered reading something once, about the way a body reacts to a near-death experience. Out of immediate danger, fed and watered, instinct had a new priority and was insisting upon it. At least there was a reason her libido was making a stronger case than it had in weeks, but she still felt ridiculous, incorrigible and a little ashamed.

And Aragorn was not helping. There was his sharp healer's gaze, and displeasure at the extent of the bruising; and beneath both, small and suppressed but unmistakable, a glimmer of desire. Her breath caught.

“This may hurt,” he warned.

She braced herself. “Ah. Do your worst.”

It was Aragorn, so of course he didn’t. Thorough, competent, careful; he prodded and pressed the hills and valleys of her injuries, not shying away from his work when he wrung pained noises from her, but never lingering beyond necessity. His palms were warm, skin rough and calloused. How had she never noticed how fucking huge his hands were? With his thumbs joined in the center of her stomach, sweeping a line from sternum to navel, his hands spanned around her rib cage, fingers brushing along the outer edges of her back.

He returned several times to an ugly spot along the crest of her ribs, pressing down at various angles and cataloguing her reactions.

“How does this feel?” Aragorn asked.

“Bad.”

He clicked his tongue at her. “Other than that. Do you feel the pain anywhere else -- perhaps in your shoulder? Is it deeper than surface level?” He pressed down again.

“No. It hurts the same as the rest of it does,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Another press, watching her face.

“Fucking— ow! Yes, I’m sure.” She swatted lightly at his arm. “Stop, before you burst whatever you’re checking to see is in one piece.”

“Hm.” Aragorn’s eyes followed the trail of bruises. "If the pain changes, or becomes worse, you must tell me.”

“Deal.”

Examination complete, he rested his hands on his thighs — palms down, fingers slightly splayed. They covered a good deal of the muscle there. The indecent part of her brain, having made note of the way his hands spanned around her waist, began trying to work out how much larger his thighs were than her own; detail was the better part of imagination, and secretive imagination was the better part of valor, or however the saying went.

Harper snapped out of it when he went back to glaring suspiciously at the bruise he was fixating on. She laughed — at him — a quiet, warm sound that got his attention.

“What’s your verdict, Doctor?” She asked, full soap opera starlet, breathy and despondent. “Is it terminal?”

Aragorn shifted his glare to her face; it wasn’t very effective — his eyes were bright with mirth, and visibly relieved.

“You will have to wait a moment. I did not know you changed your stance on the stitches, so I need to fetch my supplies,” he said.

Harper rolled her eyes. “Spoilsport.”

He nodded, unrepentant. “It appears to be no more serious than you thought. Your ribs are not broken. Though I believe this one,” he traced a finger along the curve of her bottom left rib, “may be bruised. I do not like the look of this,” brushing his thumb over the spot he was fixated on, “but your liver has not ruptured. Stay out of range of Orc boots, and you will have a full recovery.”

“That’s the plan.” If her voice was a little high because he was rubbing soothing circles over the suspiciously located bruise, it was nobody’s business but her own.

“Good.” A self-satisfied twitch of his jaw.

Harper was filled with the urge to sit up and bite the sharp hinge of it, right over a tempting grey patch in his beard. She tore her eyes away and inhaled slowly; only exhaling when he took his hand away — caught between disappointment and relief.

Aragorn grabbed the bowl of athelas infused water, set it down beside him, and untucked one of the rags from his belt. He stared at the rag — clean was not the word most people would use for it, but in his battle-stained hand it may as well have been lily-white linen, freshly bleached and pressed.

“Above your ribs, the bruising is lighter than the rest, but hardly minimal. The athelas will speed the healing process, but I do not think you will suffer overmuch if you wish to leave it be,” he told her. “However, it will soon be dark and the night will be cold. Your undergarment is likely to get damp during the process, and body heat will not dry it before nightfall.”

Harper looked down at her chest. Straddling the line between a sport-bra and a bralette that was supposed to look sporty, it had a thick band but thin straps, and cut in to accommodate v-necks. Already old when she packed it for her camping trip, the poor thing had been thoroughly abused over the last nine months. Every week she cycled it out for her other, nearly identical bra, which was in slightly worse shape. It kept her a little warmer at night, and taking it off to sleep was a pain, anyway.

It hadn’t been in such rough shape during the summer, so she never thought to ask any of the women at Sarn Ford what they used to keep everything in place. Her need had become apparent by the time she arrived in Rivendell, but her hopes were crushed when Arwen gently explained Elves didn’t wear bras. She was shit out of luck until they went to Rohan, where hopefully Eowyn could hook her up with the most painless, unrestrictive support garment the fantastical-past had to offer.

“I’ll just take it off,” Harper decided, watching Aragorn for any sign of discomfort.

“You are sure?” He asked. His ears were a little pink, but that could have been from the wind or the sun. Mostly, he looked preoccupied with her potential discomfort.

“Aren’t I supposed to be the one fussing over your virtue?” She asked, sitting up.

Aragorn blinked rapidly at her, processing what she said. He barked a laugh. “My virtue?” He asked. “Lady, I am eighty-seven y—“

“Oh, shut up,” Harper cut him off, cheeks heating. “You know what I meant.” She looked away, embarrassed to have said it outright.

He said— something.

She glanced back at him, but the words failed to register. She blinked, confused, and rubbed at her eyes; strangely, she thought of a video she saw once, years ago. A visually-impaired infant receiving her first pair of glasses, and the open wonder on her little face as she saw the world properly for the first time.

Zoom out, zoom in, change the angle and try again -- no, not quite. This was no digital recollection of a flatscreen voyeur. The dissolution of fiction had nothing to do with it, and immediacy ruled out the very concept of memory, personal or otherwise imagined.

What was in front of her, magnetized by some transparent lens placed by invisible hands, became abundantly clear -- didn't she see? and wasn't it beautiful? It was all here, here already, waiting to greet you. Hello. Hello. Hello.

Suddenly: trumpets and bass on the breeze, wood and wind and strings in the blood. The Song beamed up from the center of the world and the Song rushed out of every pore in her skin.

Harper looked at Aragorn; time wrapped a noose around her neck and pulled. The past dissolved and the future retreated. Only the present remained — choking, reverent; alive and trembling with it. Death had failed to find them, and she was here, in the dell, in the waiting beautiful world, with him:

In his eyes, the sea; grey and sparkling, when the sun breaks through cracks in the overcast mid-winter to kiss the waves, silver puddles rolling. The late afternoon light painted him in hazy yellow-gold. Specks of black blood dotted his temple, soot ran down the column of his neck. He was pink-cheeked and beaming — delighted, teasing, looking back at her like she was the only person for miles; like she was the only person who mattered; like she alone turned the circles of the world.

A thought: ringing like a shot through her skull.

The noose went slack.

Reality resumed its rightful shape, identical and wholly changed.

Harper looked up at the sky, through the trees, anywhere but his stupidly kissable face, rattling at the bars of the batter’s box she was trapped in.

“Holy shit,” she whispered. Her heart was going a mile a minute. Sweat was gathering on the back of her neck. He was live-wire outrageous; an uncovered electrical socket, and she wanted to pour out her silverware drawer and start playing.

Aragorn laid his hand on her bare shoulder. “I meant only to tease,” he said, somehow assuming fault for something other than the tidal wave of want she was drowning in.

“I’m not upset,” she said, not trusting herself to look back at him. A brace of birds flew southward. The blue sky was paling at the edges.

“Oh.” Pleased, if confused. His thumb rubbed idle circles in the hollow of her shoulder.

That was too much. “You should— not do that.” Her voice was rough.

He broke contact, but just barely. She could sense his hand hovering just above her skin. “Look at me?”

Powerless, Harper did, angling her upper body to face him directly. She nearly flinched. His eyes were sharp, heated and dark. Her blood turned over and rushed south.

“Why not?” Aragorn asked, and placed his hand back down on her shoulder. The idea of touch more than anything; light-weight and more than enough to keep the planet spinning.

She laughed at the absurdity of it all. “What’s the point of you being three times my age if I have to be the adult?” She croaked.

He laughed, too -- it was a low, unfamiliar thing she immediately wanted to hear again. "Why not?" He repeated.

"Because we've taken too long already, and I have to get topless in a minute but somehow behave, while my hormones are doing that post near-death experience thing and really going for it. Which would all be fine, except it's been nine fucking months and you still haven't kissed me." The truth came out in a rush. Then she smiled, and it felt a little feral. "So you shouldn't do that. For the sake of your eighty-seven year old virtue. And my sanity."

Aragorn swore, but he didn't move his hand.

"Exactly." She was immensely satisfied that she'd made him curse.

"We-- hm." He took his hand back, then, flexing it. He bundled both hands together on his lap and cycled through several deep breaths. "I have not wished to distract us from our quest. Had I been more forward in Imladris, I fear I would have let other responsibilities fall by the wayside. But perhaps avoiding distraction has become a source of distraction in its own right."

"Yeah. I think you're onto something," she said, barely hearing herself.

She couldn't stop staring at him. His brows were pulled together like he was trying to force himself to be serious, but his cheeks were pink and his jaw was working anxiously; his eyes kept dancing from hers, to her mouth, and then lower down, where with a flash of panic they leapt back up to her eyes again. She let him stay stuck in that loop for a while, until he started looking distressed enough for her to put him out of his misery.

"Aragorn," Harper said. He blinked, shook his head, and met her gaze. "There you are." She smiled at him, wide and goofy, and he returned it.

"They are not the same, but this seems like another conversation better suited for later?" Aragorn asked. He glanced up at the sky. "The afternoon is waning, and there is a sizeable distance between here and the border of Lothlorien."

"Later," Harper agreed. Impatient disappointment rolled through her, and she very deliberately ignored it. This was not the time, and they both knew it.

But Aragorn still looked torn. His upper body tensed, simmering with coiled movement, and he searched her eyes before springing forward; huge hands warming her face, grey eyes half-lidded and determined, he kissed her forehead; her temple; her cheek; and her forehead again, all in quick succession, before pulling away as swiftly as he descended. A dazed second passed before Harper registered what had happened.

Harper swallowed hard, and stared at him. He had the unmitigated gall to look pleased with himself. Words clogged up in her throat. Everything she wanted to say was, decidedly, not in the best interest of getting them back on track. Then again, talking had been enough to finally get them here, but-- no. She beat the indecent part of her brain back with a stick.

"Later," Harper said, and this time it was a threat.

"Later." Aragorn grinned, a challenge and a promise.

"Asshole," she muttered. "Okay. I'm going to take my bra off. We're going to be very boring and quick about it. And then we are going to regroup with the others and leave."

"As you wish," he said, amused by his own cleverness.

Harper took off her bra in retaliation.

She laughed at the spasm on his face, eyes dropping down with open interest before he remembered himself and forced them up again; he clenched his jaw and his brows twitched as he willed them not to rise. She laid back down, too smug to focus on the heat pooling in her hips.

"Hey. You know what will help keep this boring and quick?" She didn't wait for his answer. "Do you remember this summer, when you got real quiet after I gave you a brief synopsis of The Silence of the Lambs? You don't really seem like the there's-inherent-eroticism-in-horror type, so--"

"Lady," he said, dunking a rag in the bowl of water. "Be quiet." There was that voice again.

"I don't remember agreeing to the stitches," she said. "Captain."

Aragorn dropped the rag in the bowl with a splash and groaned -- half in irritation, but that wasn't the half she was interested in.

"You are a menace," he accused.

"Sure am," she chirped. "C'mon, I want to get my shirt on before somebody comes to check on us."

In the end, Harper got her shirt on a full minute before Legolas came around the bend to see what was taking them so long. The Fellowship was packed up and ready to leave soon after.

Chapter Text

Beneath the golden edge of Lothlorien, there was the Song, playing sweetly on through the fabric of everything, singing the day to a gentle close. There was the Ring, too, plucking saccharine notes of birdsong satire around Frodo's neck.

And nothing else, until there was something else.

A whisper of wind through the mallorn leaves, giving the Fellowship breezy welcome. And on the wind: a voice of many voices. Choral multitudes, in perfect harmony, singing a song born with the stars. Age old power drifted out from the heart of Lothlorien, lamenting wondrous memories of a time lost to time, lost.

Harper heard it, and the Ring heard it too; Frodo stepped beneath the golden leaves, and the Ring hissed, whined, and fizzled in complaint. Nenya, the Ring of Adamant, muffled the endless mockery of the One Ring with a deft, forceful hand. A shiver ran down her back. The unspace the Ring sang in was suddenly, blissfully quiet -- a radio turned down to nothing more than static mumbled pops.

The relief lasted for nearly two full minutes. Legolas cried his delight and regret -- to see Lothlorien, but only in winter. Aragorn dared to hope the power of the Galadhrim would keep them safe for the night. Gimli questioned if any Elves still dwelt in the forest. Aragorn assured him that they did, deep within.

And Boromir refused to enter. "Is there no other way?" He asked, standing stubbornly outside the tree line.

"What fairer road could you desire?" Aragorn questioned.

"A plain road, for one," Faramir said.

"Even if it led through a hedge of swords," Boromir agreed. "We have heard perilous tales of this land in Gondor."

Aragorn scoffed. "And what peril lies in wait in the Golden Wood, which Men of Gondor are taught to fear?"

"Death, or its like. Few who enter are said to escape, and those who escape do not escape unscathed," Faramir said.

"Then lore wanes in Gondor," Aragorn said. "Say not unscathed, but perhaps unchanged, and you will be closer to the truth."

Boromir bristled, and Faramir opened his mouth to argue back. But Harper had heard enough.

"Listen," Harper said sharply. Their eyes all went to her at once. She did not flinch, but it was a near thing. "Being less cryptic would probably help," she said to Aragorn. To Boromir and Faramir, she said, "this is the only way. Gandalf is going to come here first, after he comes back. Galadriel and Celeborn rule Lothlorien, and they know we're coming, or that we might. Elrond sent a message at some point. And Galadriel is on the White Council, and maybe started it? I can't remember. Either way, this is the best possible place for us to recover."

The Fellowship fell quiet. The mallorn leaves rustled above them. They all looked away from her, and away from one another. Farther in, a pair of squirrels chased one another up a tree. Gimli sneezed.

"Pardon me," Gimli said, embarrassed. He searched his pockets, looking for a handkerchief. Sam, after a few seconds of Gimli failing to find one, gave him his spare. "Thank you," Gimli said.

"It's no bother," said Sam. Gimli blew his nose -- loudly. "Keep it," Sam told him, "if the Elves don't have another, I'll make do with the one I've got."

Back to the matter at hand. Boromir was wearing a pained look, making and breaking eye contact with Harper every other second. There was a challenge in his shoulders, but he was putting enormous effort into wrestling it down. Faramir watched his brother struggle, frowning, and then faced Harper.

The Song hummed a red sunset. Lothlorien announced the first blooming star of the evening on white piano keys. The Ring managed a single screech before it was forced back into near-silence.

"Lothlorien is safe?" Faramir asked.

"As houses," she answered, matter-of-factly.

"My people may not come to this wood in these dark days, but I know Lothlorien will never harbor servants of the enemy, or those who pity them," Legolas added. "Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn will offer us safety and comfort, as is our need."

Boromir, with an overloud exhale, forced his shoulders into a nominally more relaxed posture; they were no longer raised nearly to his ears, at least. Aragorn was watching the proceedings impatiently, throwing looks back the way they came. Night was falling fast, and they all knew the Orcs were on their way.

"Safety for whom?" Faramir asked, still facing her. "All of us, or only some? We were equally threatened in Moria, but in the end only one of us did not pass through unscathed, as it were."

An exceptionally silent moment. Even the trees held still. The cold air iced over her lungs. Not again, Harper thought. Then—

"Faramir!" cried Boromir.

"Now wait a second," Pippin said.

Legolas closed his eyes and muttered something in Sindarin. Gimli dropped Sam's spare handkerchief in surprise, and Sam watched it flutter to the ground. Merry and Frodo traded a nervous glance. Aragorn was at her side in the blink of an eye, vibrating with barely suppressed emotion.

"Stop!" Harper called, before it could get any more out of hand.

Some taut string of delicious anger thrummed in her chest. Harper stared Faramir down and imagined it: loosing every ounce of her rage on him; giving in to the betrayed child throwing a tantrum in her head; announcing exactly what he would be damning his brother to, if they skipped Lothlorien and the chance it offered her to put a stop to it. And damn every consequence -- the indulgent resulting shock of held-breath quiet would be so, so, so worth it.

Sunset hum; piano star bloom; high and low and high and low, the screeching glee shook off the silence and pleaded its case.

It would be worth it. In the moment, and beyond it, for a week or so at least, and a week or so at most. Harper held onto the imagined satisfaction until it lost its luster, and the imagined aftermath insisted she reckon with it, too.

"Faramir," Harper intoned, low and serious, voice threaded with an authority she did not recognize in herself. "Did I ever even imply that Moria was safe? The first thing I shared about it was that there was a monster beyond comprehension waiting to kill us at the gate. Whatever else you think I did, I never promised safety there."

"And here?" Faramir challenged. The dwindling light drained the color from his face. He was pale and smeared with blood and grime, like a man who had just clawed his way out of the grave. There was fear -- an unnatural amount -- in his eyes, when he glanced up at the trees.

An ugly, many tendrilled thing took root in her gut. As was becoming habit, she set her anger aside for later. They needed to get over the border, and anger was not going to sway Faramir.

"I promise we are safe in Lothlorien," Harper said slowly, giving weight to every word. "This is the last time we'll be safe for any significant stretch. Take it. I need it, you need it, we all do."

"And the rumors we have heard in Gondor?" Boromir asked. And he was asking, actually looking for an explanation, something to lessen the tension and his brother's nerves.

Harper shrugged. "I really don't know. Maybe people tried to cross the border when they weren't wanted? Or had worse intentions than they were ready to admit, once they made it back home? Your guess is as good as mine. I just know we'll be safe here."

Boromir and Faramir looked at one another, arguing silently. At her side, Aragorn was shifting his weight restlessly, readying himself to jump in. Harper nudged him with her elbow. He stopped moving, but didn't relax. The Hobbits were crowded together on Lothlorien's side of the border, waiting for them to make up their minds. Legolas first, and Gimli next, joined them there. Finally, Faramir relented.

"Lead on, then," Faramir said. "But the rumors of peril could not be baseless."

"Yet only the evil ought to heed rumors meant to keep evil at bay," Aragorn said. "Follow me."

There was no chatter among the Fellowship as they made their way into Lothlorien. Red sunset reached through the trees. Darkness was falling over the east and swiftly bleeding across the sky. Somewhere back in Moria, the great stone pillars dreamt envious dreams of the mallorn trees; they were massive, and taller than any living thing Harper had ever seen. The trees blocked any backwards glance, crowding in and erasing the open plain they left behind. By the time they were a mile over the border, Lothlorien stretched dense and endless in every direction. Harper could not have found her way out if she tried.

Then, the sound of a stream. Nimrodel met them. Dark water rushed swiftly down east, hurrying to greet the Silverlode. The banks of the stream were steep, but where they came upon the Nimrodel, the water was shallow and barely lapped the sides.

Coming to the edge of the bank, Legolas did not hesitate. He climbed eagerly down into the stream. At the bottom, he looked back up at the Fellowship -- surprised to see they had not followed.

"This is Nimrodel!" Legolas said. "I will lead. The water is not so deep, and it is said to soothe the weary."

Harper half-listened to him chatter on about the Nimrodel while taking off her boots. The Hobbits, unhampered by footwear and excited to bathe their feet, were already scrambling down the side towards Legolas, asking him questions. Boots off, she rolled up her pant legs for good measure.

Aragorn was with Gimli a few feet away, talking quietly as they began to descend into the river. Faramir was on the far side of them, removing his boots. Boromir was--?

Behind her, Boromir asked, "Harper?"

She jumped and spun around. "Shit, you scared me," she said.

Boromir apologized and stepped back. He was carrying his boots and wearing a strange expression. Cold anxiety nipped at her fingers as they considered one another. He didn't look like he was about to start shouting at her, and he had just convinced Faramir to listen about Lothlorien. But Boromir was difficult to predict sometimes. Why he was seeking her out was anyone's guess.

"What's up?" Harper asked warily, after she ran out of patience waiting for him to speak.

Boromir nodded at the Nimrodel. "The tales I have heard of this wood are many, but most are vague. But one is told more oft than the rest, and the danger it warns of is clear. It is said a river runs here that will steal a man's memories if he bathes in it. You made no mention of it at the border, and have not protested crossing, but--" he trailed off, awkward and gruff.

"Oh!"

His pinched expression suddenly made sense. Boromir was nervous. Probably because he thought there was a good chance she was going to tell him to fuck off and leave her alone; but some of the fear in his voice belonged to the stream, too.

"Perhaps it was a foolish question," he said, after a few seconds of her studying his face.

"No! You just caught me off guard. The Nimrodel is safe. It's supposed to be soothing, like Legolas said, but not mind-wipe levels of soothing. You'll be fine." A half-remembered scrap of a story floated through her head. "Actually, I think that story confuses the Nimrodel with a river in Mirkwood. You'd have to ask Legolas, or maybe Frodo -- I'm pretty sure his uncle encountered it on his adventure, but I haven't read it in a long time."

"I see," Boromir said, quietly relieved that this river, at least, wasn't capable of stealing his memories. He twitched, like he meant to walk away but his feet weren't listening. Then he stole a glance over her shoulder, gauging the distance of their companions. Quietly, he asked, "and the Lady of the Wood, this Galadriel, she is known to you?"

Harper nodded, but motioned for him to follow her down the bank before she answered. They didn't have time to stand there and talk. After adjusting his pack, he did just that.

"You remember Celebrian, Elrond's wife, from Rivendell?" He nodded. "She's Galadriel's daughter. So Galadriel is basically Aragorn's foster grandmother. He's been here before, but I don't know how long it's been," she explained, with a look in Aragorn's direction.

Brow furrowed, he followed her gaze. "Why did he not say so?" He asked.

Harper shrugged. "I can’t say I know," she said, because it was simpler than explaining what she suspected the truth to be. Boromir got under Aragorn's skin as easily as Aragorn got under his. And when Aragorn had to contend with both brothers, he got vague and defensive. She couldn't exactly blame him, no matter how unhelpful it was.

Boromir made a vague sound of acknowledgement. He cast a skeptical look at the trees. "And these Elves live somewhere in this wood? It is-- unlike Rivendell, at the very least."

"We're only at the edge. There's a whole city deeper in. It's supposed to be very beautiful," Harper said. If they were on less fraught terms, she might have laughed and called him a city-boy. His disbelief was almost refreshing. Journeying through huge swathes of land, unmarred by anything she would call civilization, was still baffling to her, too.

Boromir heaved a disgruntled sigh. "Is lore waning so greatly in Gondor?" He asked -- mostly to himself. "Even disregarding the misidentified river, I have never heard a happy word spoken of this wood, let alone rumors of a hidden city. Tell me, how have we come to this? You must know."

Harper was quiet for a moment, minding her footing on a slick stretch of the bank. There was a hint of command in his voice that she didn't like, especially in the wake of this afternoon. But he was asking -- genuinely -- for her opinion, for the second time in less than an hour. That counted for something. Or it could, if she let it.

"I'm not a walking encyclopedia, Boromir," Harper said, buying herself time while she considered how to answer his question.

A beat. "Pardon?"

"What?" She asked. "Oh. Yeah, that's just straight Latin, isn't it? Didn't think it through. A book that explains a bunch of different things. Like a dictionary for general knowledge."

"I see."

"Anyhow. I don't have a good answer for you. I could guess, but not well. You know Gondor better than I do," Harper said.

"Perhaps," Boromir whispered -- barely audible above the rushing stream, and likely not meant to be heard at all.

Harper lost her balance in a mud patch, right foot sliding forward all of a sudden. She tipped backwards but caught herself, a twisted backbend with her hand sinking into the mud. Pain shot up her bandaged arm. She cursed under her breath, wiped her hand off on her cloak, and stood up slowly.

Boromir was looking at her, boots in one hand and the other half outstretched, like he wasn't sure if he should offer his help. He looked a little amused, and very aware he didn't have the right to laugh. It was the face of an acquaintance on the verge of friendship, still minding lines of propriety that would be crossed with time. She wasn’t sure what she thought of him looking at her like that.

"What is--" going on with you? Harper didn't finish the question. She kept moving, and watched him out of the corner of her eye as he moved, too.

Night had fallen, but Lothlorien didn't mind. Thin white light hung in the air, like the stars were shining down on the wood with purpose. Boromir's expression was solemn, turned inward, but not preoccupied by shadow. On his neck, the scrape from the collapsing of the West-gate was scabbed over and on its way to healing. He moved stiffly, weary after their long day, but surely, trusting his legs to carry him forward.

In a dusty bottom drawer of her mind, something was rattling forcefully. Harper heard it. But the drawer was lost beneath the colossal mess of everything else, and this wasn't the time to dive inside. She let it rattle.

"Will you?" Boromir asked.

"Guess?" Harper paused. Thought about it. "Why should I?" Because really, why should she?

Boromir was silent.

It was satisfying. Until it wasn't.

Harper reached the bottom of the bank. Nimrodel swept darkly by. She frowned at it.

Boromir deserved nothing more than her basic respect, and whatever attempt at being cordial she was ready and able to make. Boromir was being psychically attacked by the Ring. Boromir was going to die. Horribly. Soon. Unless she did something.

This-- felt like something, being handed to her on a silver platter. An attempt at trust. Boromir was trying, inexpertly, to build a bridge. Harper had city-planning power to shut construction down and demolish it. It was heady and tangible, sitting right in her chest; heartburn, and power, and heartburn again -- one in the same.

Boromir halted, same as her, at the very edge of the water. Legolas and the Hobbits were already on the other side of the stream. Aragorn and Gimli, with Faramir behind them, were standing in the middle, letting Nimrodel rush over their feet.

"I meant it," Harper said. "Give me a reason. Why should I?"

Boromir watched the stream go by. "Why trouble yourself by asking?" He turned to her. The light made him pale and highlighted the sharp angles of his face, like a living statue. "It it clear to us both that any answer I might give is insufficient. You have no duty to-- placate me, like one tossing scraps from the fire to satiate the wolves."

"No, I don't," Harper agreed. "But you asked anyhow. And I want to know why." She needed to know why.

Lothlorien tapped out a tune on river rock and tree bark. The Song bubbled along with the stream. The Ring lay silent on the opposite bank, noiseless gold tucked against Frodo's chest.

"There is something you have not said," Boromir answered. "It is in your eyes, now and then. At first I may have named it pity, but the longer we journey together, the more compelled I am to name it fear. Of me? For me? I cannot decide. But it is there, and when you excuse what others will not, it becomes most prominent. I hoped that was true even now, but if the disservice I did you today has brought me to the end of your lenience, I cannot say I am surprised."

Harper gawked at him, her mind reeling. Was she that obvious? How long had he known? What did he really know, rather than suspect? He was looking for answers, he was asking -- so he didn't know everything, could not know the truth, yet. She could still keep the upper hand, if she wanted it.

Something like stomach acid burned in her esophagus. Her hand twitched. Black blood poured in a tidal wave from the memory of an Orc's neck. The Ring was silent. Her heart was beating very fast.

"So you're appealing to my good nature?" Harper asked. She laughed, quiet, shaky, false. "That's one way to do it, I guess."

"As I said, any answer that is mine to give is insufficient," Boromir said. "I will leave you be."

"Stop. I wasn't saying no."

Boromir waited cautiously for her to continue.

"Do you want my honest guess? Even though it's not pretty?" She asked.

"Aye, if you are willing," he said.

Harper shoved every history, government, and sociology class she ever took, along with her knowledge of the trilogy and a heaping dash of conjecture, into a proverbial blender. She pressed start, held, and then poured out the result.

"Okay. You're scared. Gondor is. You've been at war for the better part of a century. Truth falls by the wayside, and stories change to fit the times. I mean, how many of your people travel to Rohan in their lives, let alone this far north? Not very many, I'd guess."

"No," Boromir agreed. "I am farther traveled than most; ere setting out for Rivendell, I had never journeyed beyond the Westfold."

"Exactly. People can't know what they aren't told, or don't see for themselves. What's the best way to keep a kid from striking out to see Elven wonders, so they won't be killed by Orcs on the way?" She asked. "Tell them there aren't Elven wonders, so they don't leave. And to tell yourself they don't exist, so you don't feel bad for keeping them."

A wide, awful sadness filled Boromir's face. Harper forced herself to not to look away.

"It's easier to invent reasons to be content. The average person lives a very small life, and spends most of it wishing something wonderful would happen. Deciding wonder doesn't exist is painful and depressing, but it's worse to know it does exist -- just out of reach. So you get rumors of death and fear and dangerous outsiders, because all that's available to you is death and fear and danger. Admitting there's something more is too much to handle. If it's out there, but you can't have it, how are you supposed to cope with that?"

Boromir said nothing as he turned her words over in his head. She motioned him forward, realizing they were falling behind the rest. They stepped into the Nimrodel.

The water was cold and swift, rising to mid-calf at the deepest point. A dense layer of river rocks were packed into the silt, hard and slippery beneath her feet. Three weeks of endless travel had rubbed her feet raw, but the water gentled every blistering ache. Something inside Harper shivered and sighed as clean relief washed through her. A mother's cool caress of a child's fevered brow. Comfort the heart needed and couldn't speak. Nimrodel eased the strain and sent her on her way.

Boromir looked dazed when they reached the other side. Harper suspected she did too. Quietly, they dried their feet and put their boots back on. As the Fellowship set out again, they brought up the back of the line together. After a few minutes of walking, the conversation continued.

"So we tell our children and our children's children comforting lies in order to ease the sting of-- everything?" Boromir asked, with unmistakable disgust.

But Harper laughed. "What else? You get truthier than that, and you're veering into journalism." Confusion flickered in his eyes at the word. "Really? Uh, reporting? It's essentially collecting and relaying the news to the public on a widescale basis. There's no printing press here, so it's not quite relevant."

He let it go, pressing the main point instead. "Are we not seeding the ground for inevitable defeat? Why fight, if there is nothing to fight for beyond our continued, meager survival? Comfort may poison the well as quickly as despair."

Harper stared at him in shock. Boromir sounded-- well, like himself, or what Harper imagined he sounded like before encountering the Ring: righteous and determined. She checked to make sure Frodo hadn't disappeared while she wasn't looking; but no, he was in the middle of the line, talking with Merry and Sam.

"I don't disagree," she said, after a lengthy pause. "I think that's the reason, I'm not saying it's justified. And again, it's a guess. I could be dead wrong. Maybe there some sort of secret disinformation campaign happening in Gondor that I know nothing about."

"No," Boromir said. "You speak of the truth, if not the whole truth."

"Yeah. Maybe."

Silence, for a while.

The Fellowship found a place to rest and eat before embarking on the final stretch. Aragorn shot Harper a look when she didn't join him, but she shook her head. Faramir sat with Gimli, near the Hobbits. Legolas and Aragorn set a watch on the path that had brought them there, in case the Orcs were following it as well.

Boromir crammed down his food with quick, mechanical bites. As he ate, his thoughts were spinning so wildly Harper was surprised there wasn't smoke pouring from his ears. She ate more slowly, but she was almost finished with her food by the time he spoke again.

"I was afraid," Boromir said.

Harper swallowed and took a sip of water. "Of?"

"You." He had the grace to look ashamed.

There was only one direction this could be headed in. If she shut Boromir down now, he might never open up again. Carefully, she capped her waterskin and put it down.

"Why?" She asked, against her better judgement.

"I journeyed to Rivendell seeking the answer to a riddle. I found, instead, Isildur's Bane and Isildur's heir. And with both, a woman who claimed to know the future. Not through sorcery, or prophecy, or aught else I know how to make sense of; no, you claimed to be from another world, and that the very existence of our own was the product of a children's tale, one you awoke within without meaning to."

"It's not really for kids," she muttered, but he ignored her.

"And yet the wise were gathered there, and they believed you. If Lord Elrond or Gandalf questioned your story, it did not reach my ears. And, despite myself, I came to believe you, too. That is, I wished to believe you. You offered your assistance to our quest, knowledge we could not find elsewhere. It seemed-- a boon, too great to ignore."

Harper didn't know what to make of the glint in his eye at the word boon. Was that what he had thought of her, or still thought? An accessory, a backup to the Ring? Break Glass on Transdimensional Refugee In Case of Failure to Get The Ring.

"You are not forthcoming with your knowledge, for reasons of your own. That has given me pause, at times, and I have wondered if you are feigning the extent of what you know. But in Hollin, when you spoke a word of warning again the Wormtongue of Theoden’s court, I realized it was not so. I took great comfort in it," he said.

"You really don't like Grima, do you?" she asked.

"More than there is time enough to convey," Boromir agreed.

"Another time? It'll be good to know," Harper said.

"Aye," he said.

Legolas had gathered the others to him, and was about to sing the tale of Nimrodel. Harper gave him a sad, lingering glance. She had been looking forward to hearing it. Maybe he would sing it again, in Lothlorien. Boromir was pressing on, and she could only listen to his confession.

"My sense, and my heart, warned me against Moria. But our company would not hear it, in part because you spoke in its favor. So we went to Moria. There we found ruin, and filth, and the terror of the ancient days. Just as escape seemed possible, our leader was struck down in front of us. And in the aftermath, there was grief on your face -- but there was no surprise. His death was no aberration, it was what you expected."

Harper drew an unsteady breath. "Yes, it was," she said, shuddering against the deja vu. She looked up at the night sky, and she looked out into Lothlorien's trees. She was in a dark wood, and not in the sunny Dimrill Dale. The memory, though it tried, did not swallow her whole.

"And so," Boromir said, and his voice was soft and nothing like that afternoon. "I was afraid. Had we been tricked? Were you a servant of the Enemy? Every explanation I could devise was worse than the last. But I have seen you treat our company kindly, and I have received that kindness, too. 'Tis one thing to feel the pull of the Ring, but to be told it is no mark of weakness? That its sway is some twisted product of my hope, my heart, and I am not alone in it, besides?" Boromir shook his head, and then hung it, unable to meet her eye any longer.

Harper was shaking. If she tried to speak, her words would be dry scrapes of fear. It was too late to stop him, he was on a roll now; she should have made an announcement, she thought, told them all she needed a business week before discussing this.

"So I demanded an answer. I thought, I prayed, you would deny it; there must have been something I did not see. But you did not deny it, or even attempt to. It was plainly the truth, though it terrified you to admit it. Your fear dealt a heavy blow, for it seemed a clear sign of guilt -- guilt, and likely treachery. All hope seemed lost. What else could come next, other than ruin?"

"Boromir," Harper wheezed.

Boromir looked up. He grimaced. Whatever he saw on her face made his jaw snap shut.

"Boromir," Harper said again, this time a little stronger. Something plucked that taut string of anger inside of her; she shook with it, shook against it, was trembling with the force of every horrible second since sunrise. "Of course I was afraid. You were pointing your god damn sword at me."

"I was--" Boromir's eyes grew wide. "I beg your pardon? My sword was--" his eyes grew wider still as he remembered, "I had been holding it; wielding it, in our defense. The threat had only just fled. I would have been a fool to sheath it. It was in my hand, but surely I did not turn the blade on you. I would not have done so, even if the very worst of my fears were proven to be true."

"That's not how it looked from the ground, where a screaming man was holding it less than a foot away from my head," she snapped. "What did you tell Merry? Don't point your sword at anyone you aren't willing to maim or kill? Well, it seemed pretty fucking pointed at me. I drew the most obvious conclusion, based on that."

Silence. Boromir rummaged through his memory for something less damning than the truth. He came up short.

"Morgoth's bal--" he cut the curse off with a cough. "Harper," he said, but nothing else. Horror mangled his expression into a creased, slack-jawed blank stare.

"Say it, then," Harper said in a clipped tone, distantly aware she was being cruel. "Am I wrong? Were you pointing it at me?"

"You are correct," Boromir said quietly, three words crammed full of regret; enough to reach the sea floor, and then the surface again. "I apologize, though it means little, but I know not what else to say. I cannot begin to make sense of what came over me. I know better; I have taught better, and doled out demerits to soldiers for less."

"Yeah. Well. There's the thing you didn't see, I guess." Her supper was sitting heavy in her stomach. If this went on much longer, she was going to puke.

Boromir stared at his hands. He clenched them into white-knuckled fists, held, and unclenched them, trembling as they went. Over and over again.

A very real, and very unpleasant, part of Harper hated him for it. He was furious at himself. He was stealing fury that was rightfully hers. She hadn't wanted to talk about it with Aragorn, let alone Boromir, and now she was knee deep in a panic-attack-slash-flashback, and she was having her lines stolen by his pathetic guilt complex. Thrum, thrum, thrum went the rotten string in her heart.

"Knock it off," Harper hissed.

He looked up. His fists shook apart.

"What's your point? Are you trying to apologize? Or trying to convince me to absolve you of your guilt? Either way, you're doing a shit job of it."

Boromir blinked, and tried to speak.

"No. Shut up," she said. "You were afraid? I was terrified. I've been dreading this day for months. I was so, so scared you guys would blame me for what happened. It felt inevitable, and it turns out I was right. But it was somehow even worse than I thought. It's not only your fault, but it is your fault. You started it -- even though I, like you've said, have tried my absolute best to reach out to you."

"A kindness entirely undeserved,” Boromir said ruefully.

“Stop that!” Harper said — too loudly. She saw some of the Fellowship glance at them in her peripheral. She took a deep breath and lowered her voice. “I’m the one who gets to be mad at you, leave your own shit out of this. And don’t you dare tell me who does and doesn’t deserve anything from me. You had your turn to talk. This is mine.”

Boromir held up his hands in surrender.

“You fucked up. You treated me like a treasonous underling at best, but more like an enemy outright. And you made me scared for my life. I am furious, and trying to wrestle with the betrayal of it after the worst three days of my life. I feel like somebody poured hot garbage into my smashed skull and left me out to rot.”

Harper was, in a sick sort of way, happy she was too tired to cry. She was less happy, in that moment at least, that she was too exhausted to maintain this level of anger for very long.

“But you know what? It doesn’t matter. I cannot allow it to matter as much as I want it to,” she ground out. “You think learning your life is a story is weird? Try being robbed of your agency, and torn from everything you know, by being pushed into one. I’m trapped here. I have no choice. So for fuck’s sake, I’m going to steal any possible opportunity to have some control over my life.”

Legolas had finished his song. The Fellowship was very quiet. Boromir’s face was gravesite despairing.

“I’m going to help. However I can, for as long as I can.” She was whispering now. These words were only meant for him. The others could wait their turn.

Boromir’s eyebrows bolted for his hairline. He visibly swallowed a response, unsure if he was allowed to interrupt.

“If you want to decide it’s out of the kindness of my heart, go ahead. It’s nice to have my ego stroked,” Harper told him. “Maybe on a better day, I’ll decide the same. But here, now? It’s fear. And spite. And anger. If my choices are to lie down and pray for victory, or to make some use of being here; I’m choosing to be useful. Otherwise, I will lose my mind. And unless I am forcibly removed from the Fellowship, that isn’t going to change. If one of you fucking— ate the Ring, and the rest tried to gut it out of him, I’d still try to do damage control.”

“Wherefore?” Boromir whispered, unable to help himself. Lost. Hopeless, and looking for hope despite it.

“Because I know how this ends. I know this story — no, this world, this reality — and I love it to death and back. The end is triumphant. Glory and trumpets all the way through. And I want it. For me. For all of you. The Ring is destroyed. Sauron is defeated. Goodness prevails.”

In her mind: a rising score; Barad-dûr on the big screen, crumbling; victory, against all odds, achieved, by two Hobbits and their friends. In the forest: Lothlorien wind-chime harmonizing with the imagined music. In the heart of the world and the heart that was hers: the Song mustering a battle-hymn on strings and sinew. In the Ring: malingering bitter quiet.

Boromir was gaping at her.

“Do you know how impossible that is? To win so decisively, and to help make it happen? Middle-earth is brimming with things that could never happen on Earth, but that’s the height of it. I’d have sooner believed Elves were hiding in my backyard, than somebody who told me I could help kill Evil.” Harper laughed.

What had her life come to? A nightmare of her wildest dreams; a daydream of horror beyond comprehension.

“You really believe it,” Boromir said. “Victory is possible. The Free People will not fall.” A hushed revelation, fear and wonder in equal measure.

“No Boromir, I know it,” Harper said fiercely. “So listen to me: You fucked up. Hard. And I’m furious. And I forgive you. Not because I have no other choice, but because I do. This is something I can control. I’m not going to be the kind of person who chooses poorly, when I’m offered so few choices.”

“You have my gratitude, in full, inadequate though it is,” Boromir said.

“Keep it.” She shook her head. “You want to give me something? Give me this: your belief and your trust, when you’re capable of them; and the benefit of the doubt and a promise to hear me out, when you aren’t.”

“Aye, that is easy enough,” he said.

“It’s not going to be easy.” Harper grimaced when she heard the severity of her tone, incongruent with what she was saying. She tried to soften it. “But I’m asking you to do it anyhow. Alright?”

Boromir nodded. “You have my word,” he said.

“Good,” Harper said. Her mouth was very dry. She took a long drink of water and tried to slow her heart rate. Her hairline was damp with sweat.

“Are you well?” he asked carefully. By the concern in his eyes, she suspected she looked as well as she felt.

“Listen, I don’t want to talk about this afternoon again unless it’s absolutely necessary. Anything else, I’m all ears. But I need to leave that where it happened. I shouldn’t have—“ she took another sip, swallowed hard. “I knew I wasn’t ready to get into it, and did it anyhow. It was probably worth it. But we’ve both said our piece. Let’s not scratch at the wound, you know?”

Boromir made an incomprehensible gesture with his hands in front of his mouth.

“What?” Harper blinked. “Oh, are you like, tying your mouth shut?”

“Aye?” Boromir answered, equally confused.

“That’s not how we do it.” She mimed zipping her lips shut. “It’s the same idea.”

“That is very odd,” he said.

“Zippers are a wonderful invention, and I’m going to make Gimli show me how to work metal so I can introduce them to Middle-earth.”

“Assuredly.” Like how one responded to the ravings of a madwoman.

She flipped him off. If the gesture held no meaning for him, he could still read the feeling behind it.

They gathered their things and joined the others, who were pretending not to be interested in what had transpired between them.

“We should find a place to sleep,” Aragorn said, when they were all gathered together.

“If sleep is possible,” Gimli said. “I will feel ill at ease on the ground tonight, no matter how far we stray from the road.”

“The trees will not mind our presence. The Galadhrim seek refuge there, it is said, and we will do well to follow their example while we are in their realm,” Legolas suggested.

“Aye, that is wise. We have lingered in the open for too long,” said Aragorn.

They walked deeper into the wood for a little while. Legolas stopped suddenly, and stared up at the tree in front of him.

“Here,” he said. “I will climb up. I have never had the joy of climbing a mallorn. It should have room for us all, and I wish to know their shape and way of growth.”

“That is very well for you,” said Pippin, “but we are not all tree climbers. Hobbits are fond of birds, but we are not envious of them. I cannot sleep on a perch.”

“Then dig a hole in the ground, if that is more after the fashion of your kind. But dig well; Orcs have keen noses, and the dark sharpens their sight,” Legolas replied.

With that, Legolas leapt up and grabbed the nearest branch. Like a gymnast, he swung himself around to stand upon it. Knees bent, his eyes were already on the next branch when he froze in place.

“Daro!” Commanded a voice hidden in the tree.

Legolas swiftly dropped to the ground and slunk away from the tree. The Galadhrim had found them. Harper nearly cheered. The day was over at last.

Chapter Text

The Fellowship waited, exhausted and impatient, for Legolas, Frodo, and Sam to climb back down from the talan. Harper sat on the ground, reclining against the trunk of the mallorn, and skimmed the shallow end of sleep. The others milled about on their feet, whispering and casting suspicious glances up at the tree.

Eventually, Legolas climbed back down alone. He explained the bare bones of the situation, and avoided looking at Gimli throughout. Then, he said, "Merry and Pippin will join Frodo and Sam. The rest of us will spend the night on the next talan."

And so they did. Briefly, Harper considered bringing up the subject of blindfolding Gimli. But the climb up to the talan was painful and slow going, even with the ladder. Neither her bandaged arm nor her bruised stomach appreciated the exertion, and by the time she was at the top, the prospect of starting an argument -- well deserved, though it was -- held no appeal.

An Elf brought them food and drink. She picked and sipped at the offerings, until she found herself coughing up a lung because she'd begun falling asleep mid-swallow. After a firm pat on the back from Gimli, she caught her breath, pushed her plate away, and stood.

"Respectfully," Harper said to her companions, "if any of you wake me up before it's absolutely necessary, I will push you out of this tree. Goodnight."

"Hear, hear," Boromir, who was already lying down, said through a yawn.

At that, she burrowed into the pile of furs and pillows the Elves provided, and fell fast asleep.

Harper woke a few hours later. Her face was cold and the rest of her, thoroughly warmed by the furs and Aragorn's body beside her, was tacky with sweat. She scowled into the darkness, and was trying to figure out what had woken her up when she heard it: far below, heavy boots tread over fallen leaves and twigs. A harsh laugh rung through the forest, and her blood ran cold. Somewhere to the south, metal clashed against metal. Then, much closer, at the base of the very tree she was in: a huff, a snarl, and claws scratching against mallorn bark.

She lay very, very still. Her breathing came in shallow pants. Straining her ears, she registered the utterly noiseless presence of the other members of the Fellowship, signaling she was not the only one awake. They listened, and waited -- tensed and ready to draw their weapons -- to see if the warg would manage to scramble up the tree.

Bow twang, whine, and thump. The warg hit the ground: dead.

The Elf responsible sprung up a series of branches, and stuck his head over the edge of the talan a moment later. He whispered something to Legolas, secured the withdrawn ladder at the top so it could not be lowered, and disappeared without another word.

A few minutes passed. Orcs and wargs trespassed deeper into Lothlorien, and the Galadhrim gave chase. The battle noises grew fainter, and then faded altogether.

Slowly, Harper righted her breathing and forced her heart rate down. Over, it was over. She was safe, and would be for weeks to come. And if she was very lucky, she would never have to see or hear another god damned warg again.

Another handful of minutes went by, and the others relaxed as well. A breeze, cold but friendly, drifted through the treetops. The Ring was dead silent on the next talan over. The night was dark, but danger was retreating, and falling over dead one by one on its way.

"I do not think," Aragorn whispered, "it will be worth the effort to haul the warg's carcass up to the talan, if you only wish to push it off again."

Trembling lightly with leftover fear, and still bleary with sleep, Harper buried her face in his shoulder and laughed -- low and just on this side of hysterical. "You're awful," she said, obnoxiously fond. Then, unthinking and already stumbling back towards dreaming, she placed a smacking kiss on his cheek, rolled over, and fell asleep once more.

In doing so, she missed, by the span of a few seconds, the sound of Legolas's laughter at Aragorn's red-faced, stunned silence.

Morning was bright and came far too early. Elves arrived with more food and a few words for Legolas and Aragorn, and left as quickly as they came.

"We will move in a little less than an hour," Aragorn relayed to the others. "Haldir -- their leader -- will meet us on the ground at that time, and lead us to Caras Galadhon."

Harper ignored him, far too busy drinking from her steaming mug as quickly as was possible without inevitably scalding her tongue. "What is this?" She asked Legolas between swallows. "It's definitely not tea. I don't remember having it in Rivendell."

"Calasië," Legolas answered. "'Morning comfort', is one translation. They brew it in Elrond's house, but it is likely they thought you would be more familiar with tea. There are many ways to make it. Most recipes include tree bark, mushroom, and some variety of herbs."

She drained the last of her calasië. Aragorn, after she cast a forlorn look in his direction, offered her his own mug, still full. With a wide smile, she accepted it, and took a sip -- slower, this time.

"You enjoy it, I take it?" Legolas asked, with a wry quirk of his lips.

"It's like coffee," Harper said excitedly. "No, espresso, actually. It's earthier than either, but that's probably the mushrooms." Another sip. "This is my favorite place in Middle-earth. They're going to have to kick me out."

It was, partially, the caffeine talking, but only partially. If she wasn't so happy, she would have started to cry. The taste and smell were so achingly familiar, she felt closer to home than she had in months. She closed her eyes, inhaled, and imagined the crowded noise of a cafe in full swing.

Aragorn's hand on her wrist brought her back to the present. He nodded at the mug, which she returned to him with only a little reluctance. He drank from it, and handed it back to her once more. After he swallowed, he considered the taste.

"'Tis like your caefey," he said. "I would have told you of it in Imladris, had I made the connection."

"Caw-fee," she enunciated.

He furrowed his brow and tried to rein in his vowels. "Coffee."

"Exactly!" It came out a little louder than necessary. His eyes crinkled in amusement, but she just beamed at him in caffeinated delight. "Is this an Elf-only thing, or do you think they'll teach me how to make it? I'd resigned myself to a life of tea drinking, but I'm not going to be able to stomach that anymore, knowing I could have this instead."

"Woe to Gondor's mornings, come the end of our quest," Gimli said. "Best not tell her, Aragorn, if you ever wish to sleep late again."

Pure hypocrisy, given that he had finished his own mug, after a few suspicious sniffs, and was looking significantly cheered for it. Harper would bet money she didn't have that Gimli would pry the recipe out of Legolas before they left Lothlorien.

"Maybe I'll move to Erebor and open a cafe," she shot back, neck heating at his insinuation. "When do Dwarves normally wake up? If I closed early, and sold pastries, I could probably have half of you up at least an hour earlier than normal. I'd make a killing, too."

Gimli laughed. "No need for threats, lass. I won't come between you and your Elvish drink."

"If you pay a visit to the kitchens in the Lord and Lady's house, I am sure they will be happy to show you the way of it," Legolas told her. "The Galadhrim are private about many things, but this they would share."

"Thank-fucking-God."

Aragorn nudged a plate of food in her direction. "I cannot say for certain how it is with your coffee," a pleased smile at his own correct pronunciation, "but you will regret it later if you do not eat alongside calasië."

Good-naturedly, Harper rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Coffee isn't breakfast, I've heard it before. Nothing changes, even when everything changes."

But, admittedly, her hands were beginning to shake a little, so she dug in.

When breakfast was over, and it came time to descend the ladder to meet Haldir and the Hobbits, Harper held Aragorn back. Legolas went last, giving her a guilty look before he climbed down. She counted to ten after he disappeared over the edge.

Quietly, she said, "Legolas agreed to let Haldir blindfold Gimli, because they aren't supposed to let Dwarves in Lothlorien, or some similar bullshit. Frodo tried to sway Haldir, but he wouldn't hear it."

Aragorn sighed. "I feared something like this would occur."

"There's no point in fighting him on it, I don't think. But it's going to be a long argument that I'd rather not sit through."

"What do you suggest?"

"He blindfolds you all as a compromise, in the book. Can you suggest it to him beforehand?" She asked. "Legolas might complain, but it's the only fair solution if there has to be any blindfolding. And Gimli doesn't deserve the humiliation of Haldir announcing it."

"Aye," he said. "I will speak to Haldir. If I present it as a decision we made as a group, Legolas will not argue -- in front of the others, at least. Doubtless he will have words for me, later."

"Then you can send him my way and I'll tell him he needs to stick up for his companions," she said, with a note of bitterness. "Even when he wants to look cool in front of the other Elves."

The warm look Aragorn gave her made her stomach flutter. "I may wish to see that."

"You just like it when I get righteous."

"As fish are fond of the water; and birds, the air."

Harper shook her head at him, grinning like a fool. "You're ridiculous."

Slyly, Aragorn said, "I thought I was awful?"

She blinked, remembered, and blushed. Oops. That had been a little forward, and very public, hadn't it? Not that it seemed like Aragorn was complaining. He was watching her with bright eyes and his jaw set in that maddening, self-satisfied way. Harper was buzzing on caffeine and the airy safety of Lothlorien, and it was far too easy -- and so much fun -- to run her mouth.

"If you're looking for a kiss, you'll have to do better than that," she said. Then she turned on her heel, and climbed down the ladder.

The Fellowship was waiting at the bottom. With them was Haldir, and two other Galadhrim; the Elves nodded at her in greeting, which she returned. Haldir looked as he did in the films, when she factored in the ageless, glowing demeanor of all Elves. The two other Galadhrim were his brothers, if Harper remembered correctly. All three shared the same nose and shade of blond hair, but Haldir's brothers were identical to one another in the singular way of twins.

Aragorn reached the ground. Haldir and his brothers bid him a good morning. Aragorn replied in kind, and then, presumably, informed Haldir of their 'decision' to be blindfolded as a group. The conversation went on a bit longer, with Haldir throwing looks at Legolas and Gimli as he spoke, but ended soon enough. Aragorn gave her the barest nod once they came to an agreement.

"I am Haldir," he said to the group, "and these are my brothers, Rúmil and Orophin. They speak little of your tongue, as do many who dwell in Lothlorien. I am better versed in the languages of other lands, for I most often gather word from abroad and keep watch on our enemies. We will be your guides. Come! The journey is long, and we must begin."

Lothlorien in daylight was a wind-swept sea of gold. Little was said by the Fellowship as they walked. When they weren't watching their feet to avoid tripping over tree roots, their eyes were roving in each and every direction, taking in the sheer breadth and might of the forest. Blue skies peeked between the mallorn leaves, cloudless and bright, and birds chirped to one another on the lofty branches.

Later, of all the endless miles the Fellowship traversed together, Harper would remember those they walked through Lothlorien as the most beautiful by far.

Crossing the Celebrant was a careful, weak-kneed ordeal. The rope beneath her feet was taut and well made, but she clung tightly to the support rope above her head and didn't look down at the river once. Her palms were sweating when she reached the other side. She shared a commiserating look with Gimli, who had sweat dripping down from beneath his helmet.

Rúmil did not cross with them, but remained on the other side of the river to dismantle the bridge and return to his post at the border. Haldir and Orophin said farewell to their brother, and then Haldir addressed the Fellowship once more.

"Now, friends," he said, "we have reached the Naith of Lórien. No strangers are permitted to spy out the secrets of Naith. Indeed, few are ever permitted to set foot here." Haldir looked at Aragorn with a question in his eyes. Aragorn nodded back. "It has been agreed that you will all walk blindfolded from here, until we reach Caras Galadhon, where you will be brought before the Lord and Lady. Take no insult from it, I pray. These days are dark, and I am tasked with guarding us well."

There was surprise, but no outward objection, at Haldir's announcement. Legolas's shoulders slumped -- in dejection, yes, but shame, too. Harper felt a pang of guilt, but pushed it down. Legolas had weeks to explore Lothlorien to his heart's content. Gimli couldn't be spared the insult of being singled out, after the fact.

Though it was strange and unsteady at first, Harper soon grew used to being led without her sight. The path evened out after a time, and there was little to trip over, and ample warning and redirection from Haldir when something stood in their way.

Lothlorien was louder, like this. The sounds of the forest were sharper, with her hearing overcompensating for loss of sight, but that hardly registered. No, Lothlorien was singing, in perfect harmony, an ode to the Song itself, and nearly as loud. Deeper they went, and the two began to merge into a single melody, alto voices over a woodwind chorus, ageless and touched by sorrow, but never stained by it.

Haldir and Orophin guarded them as they slept that night, still blindfolded, in a soft meadow. Come sunrise, they began again. At midday, a company of Elves met them and brought word: the Orcs had been destroyed, and Galadriel and Celeborn had given them permission to walk freely. Haldir removed their blindfolds gladly, and begged their pardon.

Their path wound around the edge of a wide clearing, where the air was sweet and flat ground stretched out until it rose suddenly into a great hill. They slowed, but did not stop, and Haldir marked it for them: Cerin Amroth. But he said they were expected by the Lord and Lady, and had no time to linger. So on they went.

At last, during the last dregs of twilight, they entered Caras Galadhon. They walked through the city and up endless flights of stairs, until they came to the center. It was marked by the tallest tree of all, which had a wide ladder running up its length. Haldir took Frodo and Legolas with him first, and told the rest of the company to follow behind.

A large round chamber was built on the topmost talan. The air was lit by a soft light Harper could not determine the source of, and the silver and green walls glimmered under it. There were many Elves in the hall, at benches here and tables there. But in the center, on a dais, were two chairs grander than the rest; they were made, it seemed, of living wood and canopied by an arch of flower laden branches. Frodo, Legolas, and Haldir were already seated at their feet when Harper and the others arrived.

As it was, nothing in Middle-earth so far -- whether a thing of wonder, terror, or both -- had failed to live up to Harper's expectations. But each and every heart-stopping moment since spring paled, then, as she looked upon Galadriel and Celeborn in the heart of Lothlorien.

Celeborn was mighty and handsome. At first, terracotta clay and black slip figure paintings flashed through her mind; there was an air about him, a strength of presence, which on brought thoughts of Olympus. Yet the longer she looked, the clearer it became that was off the mark. Myth was a changeable thing, half-forgotten and malleable. Celeborn was tall, and proud, and immediate -- as undeniable as mountain viewed from a valley pass. The deep past lived within him, but it had no hold upon him, no mastery over him. He had lived for years beyond counting, and would live on still, until world's end.

Galadriel was-- Galadriel was, as Lothlorien was. Did the light in the chamber come from some unseen source, or was it born there, from her and for her? The mellryn below; the sky above; the arched, golden ceiling of the chamber enveloping them: Galadriel was in all of these, and they were all in her. And her eyes -- once Harper met them, she could not look away. Galadriel's eyes were bright beyond reason, shining from within; two fixed points were in each, like twin stars, silver and burning in the pale blue dawn.

The Lord and Lady stood to greet their guests, and Celeborn welcomed each by name. Frodo first; then Aragorn and Legolas; Gimli next; followed by Boromir and Faramir; and Sam and Merry and Pippin.

"Welcome Harper!" Celeborn said at last. "You have come by the strange way to fair Lothlorien, if the scouts of Lord Elrond spoke truly. Sit, join your companions, and we shall hear the full tale."

Harper nodded, dry-mouthed and stupid, and sat in the empty seat -- thankfully left by the others -- at Aragorn's side.

"Here are ten," Celeborn said. "Eleven set out, or so we were told. But perhaps there was a change of counsel."

"Nay," Galadriel said to Celeborn, and her voice was deep, and lovely, and brimming with power. "There was no change. Gandalf the Grey set out with the Company, but he did not pass the borders of this land. From here, I cannot see him, he is cast in shadow." She turned to the Fellowship. "Tell me, where is Gandalf; for I much desire to speak with him."

A heavy, heavy silence.

"He was taken by both shadow and flame," Legolas said. "A Balrog of Morgoth."

The Elves in the hall cried out in shock. Celeborn, stricken, gazed at Legolas for a moment before he quieted the chamber with a raise of his hand.

"These are evil tidings," Celeborn said.

"And yet," Galadriel said, "this Company does not come to us marred by grief. There is loss here, but not of the kind one might expect."

If possible, a heavier silence than before.

"He comes back." Harper looked around when she heard the words, only to realize she was the one who said them. "Here, later -- he comes back," she stuttered out, as if that explained it any better.

Galadriel and Celeborn considered her. Her hands shook where they rested on her thighs. The chamber was deathly silent.

"Strange ways..." Celeborn repeated. "Elrond, I believe, did not share the least of it."

A sliver of a smile from Galadriel. "Elrond is oft long-spoken; it is through rare reticence which he says most of all."

"Tell us now the full tale of this Company," Celeborn said.

Aragorn, thankfully, took up the task. Harper half-listened, and tried to ignore the queasy digital creep of deja vu as he recited words she already knew. His story, finally, brought them to the arrival of the Balrog and the place where Gandalf fell:

"It was an evil of the Ancient World, such as I have never seen before. Gandalf smote it upon the bridge, but he was dragged after it, into the abyss, as it fell," Aragorn said. "It was his sacrifice which allowed us to escape. We grieved for him then, but learned of his return ere we set out for Lothlorien."

Celeborn raised an eyebrow. "Learned how?"

"Harper told us." It was Frodo who answered him. He was sitting straight up in his chair and, though polite as ever, there was a firm note in his voice: he was the Ringbearer, and for all it was worth, he believed her.

"How can you know this?" Celeborn asked Harper. "There is no lie in your eyes. Yet neither is there any trace of sorcery upon you, by which you might claim such foresight."

Harper swallowed thickly. The Elves in the hall were murmuring amongst themselves. She steeled her nerves, ignored their voices, and told her story from the beginning, ending with her joining of the Fellowship. Aragorn had covered the rest.

"Lord Elrond told me what I share with the others is a matter of personal judgement. I didn't really intend to say anything about Gandalf, but it, uh--" a loaded pause as she tried for tact, "became necessary I let them know."

A few seats down, Merry snorted. Sam kicked him in the leg.

"Curious," Galadriel said. "I wonder what may change in weeks to come, now that the unexpected is readily anticipated. Such knowledge has a way of twisting upon itself."

Unease rolled through the Fellowship. Harper felt several sets of eyes on her. She met Faramir's, which were filling up with fear, and looked quickly back at Galadriel, who was now watching Frodo.

"But your quest is known to us, and now so is your tale. We will speak no more of it here. Your hopes may not be in vain, and it is fortunate you came to this land seeking aid. For I say to you: your quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all." Galadriel's solemn face then softened. "Yet hope remains while all the Company is true."

Harper tensed the second before Galadriel's eyes ensnared her. Then, silver and bright in Harper's skull, Galadriel's wordless voice rang:

'Tis by untraceable roads you have come to look upon Lothlorien. Welcome, once more: may the sight be as glad as it was, though time and realm have changed. Here, the grief of the Company has been lessened by your words. Yet you have grief of your own, and it is deep. How needless, say you, is this grief?

What do you mean? Harper thought.

It is clear to us both there is pain to come, but it need not be pain you endure. You have seen from many angles, and may so judge: is our plight better watched from afar? There is a tale of victory in your heart. Fear no consequence. What has been writ, is written already. Might you turn away, and return to lands better known, if I show you the way?

It was an offer, she realized, to send her back. Gandalf and Elrond had told her it was impossible.

Much is within my power.

That felt true, it became true, the moment Galadriel said so. Harper saw it, as clear as day: hiking out of the woods she disappeared into; going home; seeing her family, her friends. Mundane days followed by unremarkable nights. She could pet her dog. Call her grandmother on the telephone. Boil herself in the shower for an hour straight.

You will be safe, and happy, there.

Safe. She would be safe. Monsters and demons and incomprehensible beasts would be forced back into the confines of fiction. The thought was sweet. It was tempting. It was the obvious choice, if Harper let her self preservation have a say in the matter.

Yet, something in her heart rebelled. Home, yes: and then what? She would never be able to open a book again without fearing (hoping) she'd fall straight into it. If she put the first film of the trilogy on, she would start trying to crawl through the screen before Bilbo's birthday party even started. Good Lord, the aftermath. How could she make her loved ones witness that?

Unblemished, both the story and your mind will be.

Wait, what?

There is space, far away, which you once occupied, and it may be opened for you yet again. What space has been carved for you here, will fill and close without a trace. Less than a dream, it will seem, when you wake. Memory will not haunt you; nor will memory of you here remain.

Oh. It wasn't an offer to send her home, but to make it like she never left home in the first place. The Earth, returned to her -- or she to it. She would never know anything was amiss, and no strange and unnamed power would ever steal her away again.

It was the easy way out, the safest road available. Sauron was defeated without her. Harper wasn't necessary -- she was a complication, more often than not. And she wouldn't have to worry about breaking down, facing prolonged sessions in the psych-ward where she tried to convince the doctors she had, in fact, seen a Balrog in the flesh.

This was a different kind of temptation, and it made her heart ache. Grief: Galadriel was right, she was full of a deep, longing grief. She missed Earth. She missed it so terribly she had almost cried yesterday morning, when the calasië reminded her of something as simple as coffee. Her life on Earth was small, and frustrating, and on occasion, deeply unfortunate. But it had been her life. And she could go back it to, she could go home, plain and simple. She wanted to say yes.

You will take it, then?

...No.

Harper didn't want to say yes. She wanted to want to say yes.

Alongside the longing and the grief, there was another ache: guilt. Guilt, which she had been hiding from for months now, if not since the moment she first accepted she was in Middle-earth.

Again -- home, yes: and then what? A return to moving boxes and job listings and used-car ads on craigslist? A grey shrunken life, on a slowly poisoned planet. Bank cards and spam calls, reality television and acid rain. Hiding from it all, in any story she could sink her teeth into. Her skin, distant though it seemed from deep within her mind, crawled at the thought. Plain and simple did not mean good, it did not mean right.

This was a one way ticket, even if she never meant to book it. She could never go back.

Middle-earth had changed her, remade her in a hundred tiny ways. She knew it, had known it, and she knew now she could not stomach being unmade. And unmade she would be, if all memory of this life became less than a dream.

It would be death, of a sort. A purging of the self. Her life on Middle-earth would disappear entirely. All she had done, all she might still do, and the woman she had become along the way. No trace across all of creation would remain.

Her life on Earth still existed, sundered from it though she was, as long as she remembered it. There, she had loved and been loved in return; to stay did not mean the death of that love, only the changing of its shape. It meant admitting the shape had changed with springtime, as Galadriel's cryptic speech suggested, and Harper alone remembered what the Earth forgot.

It was a lopsided deal. Memory tipped the scales, sent them toppling over sideways. Maybe she was a horrible daughter and friend. Maybe she deserved to feel guilty. But that guilt mattered, served as evidence -- fingerprints left behind on the crime scene she was. There would be no evidence if she went back. Coldblooded self-murder, and she'd get off scot-free.

Evidence, she wanted evidence. Of every wondrous and hideous thing she had seen in Middle-earth, of all the days she had lived, and the whole wide relentless future she had left: how could she deprive herself of any of it? Even if -- especially if -- she would never know the lack.

She wanted to remember. She wanted to stay. She wanted to help Frodo do what ought to be impossible; to destroy Sauron and all the evil he had wrought; to put Aragorn on the throne of Gondor. She wanted whatever the future held, here, in Middle-earth.

This is your answer?

Yes.

Remember your choice.

Harper blinked. Around her, the other members of the Fellowship were doing the same. No more than a few seconds, it seemed, had passed.

"Tonight you shall sleep in peace," Galadriel said to them all.

"Go now," Celeborn said. "You are weary, and have toiled on your journey hence. Even if your quest did not concern us closely, you should have refuge here, until you were healed and refreshed. Now you shall rest, and we will not speak of your further road for a while."

The Fellowship was led back down the ladder to a wide pavilion, near a fountain and tucked out of sight of the main road. Elves had set plush couches for sleeping along the far end; placed a low table in the center and lined it with ten wide cushions; and loaded the table with plates of food and drink. There, they ate, and talked for a while of their journey through Lothlorien, and their meeting with Galadriel and Celeborn.

"What did you blush for, Sam?" Pippin asked, and launched them all into a discussion of what Galadriel had offered in the privacy of their own heads.

Harper listened, but didn't bother to participate. She was mulling over the strange feeling in her chest. It was an-- airy-weight; the natural aftermath of a loaded offer. It hurt, and it was a hurt she was glad for. A puzzle she would be piecing together for a while yet.

But then, "Harper," Merry said, "what did she offer you?"

"To send me home," Harper replied absently, tearing apart the bread roll on her plate.

The Fellowship fell into silence. She looked up from her supper.

"What?" She asked. "That's basically what she offered you guys."

"It's a fair bit different for you," Gimli said.

Harper shrugged. That was true enough.

"I thought you could not return," Boromir said.

"Well, yeah. Elrond and Gandalf couldn't send me home. Honestly, I'm not sure she actually can, either. It's more to gauge our commitment than anything else," she said.

Without Galadriel in her mind, the perceived sincerity of her offer was diminishing. Galadriel was old, and powerful, and had a Ring of Power to boot. The exact same could be said for Elrond and Gandalf, and neither of them thought it was possible. But she stood by her choice, even as it began to seem she'd had no choice at all. That, at least, was familiar.

They were all trading long looks with one another now. Harper fidgeted in her seat, uncomfortable despite the soft cushion she was sitting on.

"Are you just gonna let Merry dodge the question like that?" She asked Pippin, when the silence went on too long for her to stand. "He only asked me once it was his turn to share."

Pippin perked up. "Sharp, you are," he said. And then he returned to bullying Merry into sharing what Galadriel's offer to him had been.

Harper returned to her food, tuning him out. She glanced Aragorn's way, but he was staring at his hands in his lap, wearing that blank-bordering-on-painful mask, and refused to return her gaze, even though she knew he felt it. She gave up, eventually.

Before long, she yawned, stood, and announced she was going to bed. They bid her goodnight without much fanfare. But there was a somber air over the Fellowship which had not been there before Merry asked his question. She left them to stew in it.

The Elves had set one couch away from the rest, half concealed by tall, flowering hedge. Harper claimed it for herself. The airy-weight was still sitting heavy in her chest, and already threatening to keep her up for half the night. As was the Fellowship's reaction to what she had been offered. So she focused on every weary ache and pain in her body and nothing else, and tried to trick herself into succumbing to exhaustion.

By some miracle, it worked, and a few minutes later she fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Morning's usual sting was dulled by two things: calasië, and a bath.

Harper awoke to a beautiful Elf standing above her, holding a steaming mug in her hands. That kind of hospitality transcended any and all language barriers. The same could not be said for the offer of a bath, which she only understood after a prolonged game of pantomime with the Elf, the trading of the scant few words they both knew, and a fair amount of confused laughter from them both.

The Elf was somewhere between strawberry blonde and ginger. Her hair was long and worn in intricate twin braids down her back. She had freckles, and half a dozen gold rings in one ear. After they came to an understanding about the bath, the Elf led her away from the pavilion and down too many flights of stairs.

Around the fifth flight, Harper said, "what's--"

The Elf crooked an amused brow at her, as if to say, is there a reason you believe I have learned Westron in the last ten minutes?

Harper shrugged, embarrassed. Then she laid her hand on her own chest, and said, "Harper."

The Elf's eyes brightened when she understood. She repeated the gesture, and said, "Faeleth."

"Mae govannen, Faeleth," Harper said, and felt pleased with herself for the span of a second. "Wait! No, formal tense, we're strangers. Mae lovannen, Faeleth. Sorry, uh--" Aragorn had definitely taught her how to say sorry. What was it? "Díheno nin?" She offered uncertainly.

Faeleth shook her head, laughing brightly. "Mae govannen, Harper." Harper grinned, relieved Faeleth hadn't taken offense. They said nothing else, but the silence was pleasant as they continued on.

At the bottom of the city's centermost hill, which Harper figured constituted Caras Galadhon proper, there was a series of deep, clear pools rimmed with round flagstones. Many smaller pools formed a circle around the largest, which was probably meant for communal bathing. A stone bathhouse was built into the base of the hill, and the largest pool flowed along two channels into the bathhouse and out of sight.

Faeleth retrieved a cloth-wrapped bundle from the bathhouse, and then led Harper to a small pool on the far side of the baths, where the morning light was resting on the water. Faeleth gestured at the pool: is this okay? Harper nodded vigorously. At this point, she was willing to bathe in snowmelt, let alone a private, sun warmed bath. Faeleth smiled and handed the bundle to Harper. Then, she hesitated.

After a moment's consideration, she seemed to decide whatever she wanted to say wasn't in their shared vocabulary. Faeleth pointed at Harper; the pool; herself; then the pool again. She paused for a moment. Then she repeated the same series of gestures, but pointed the way they came after pointing at herself.

Harper blinked stupidly. Hands full, she copied Faeleth's pointing with a single finger, and tried to make sense of it.

Oh! Did she want Faeleth to help her bathe, or to leave?

Setting the bundle down, Harper, feeling incredibly rude for it, literally waved her off. But Faeleth seemed pleased she had understood. Before leaving, Faeleth undid the bundle. Inside, there were towels and a fresh change of clothes, as well as a smaller cloth sack. That contained a variety of soaps, some kind of lotion, and a wide toothed comb carved from sandy colored wood.

Faeleth made quick worth of indicating what each of the soaps was for -- miracle of miracles, there was conditioner -- and then laid them out in the order she demonstrated their usage, so Harper wouldn't forget. Then Faeleth nodded in farewell, and left Harper to her bath.

Harper scrubbed herself raw twice over. Once she was finally clean, she switched pools and soaked until her digits were pruned. Then she soaked for a while longer. The sun warmed the water to that perfect, five minutes after turning-off-the-tap temperature. She floated on her back and counted birds as they flew far overhead, dark fluttering specks against the blue, cloud scattered sky. The bathhouse was in a fairly deserted corner of Lothlorien. Distant voices caught her ear now and then, some chatting and some singing, but nobody came into sight.

Eventually, the thought of more calasië, and breakfast, pulled her out of the bath. She dried herself off, combed out her hair, and dressed.

The clothes Faeleth gave her were not as outwardly fancy as what she had been provided in Rivendell. But she had thought on that oddity since their departure. Arwen had been far too exacting in taking her measurements when she tricked her into borrowing a gown for the Welcome Feast. She likely had a heavy hand in Harper's mysteriously lovely and well tailored autumn wardrobe. Harper would have to thank her for it, if she got the chance.

Now, Harper was wearing linen trousers dyed a mossy green, which tapered and tied off at the ankle. Her tunic was made from unfamiliar fabric -- as light and breezy as linen, but with a liquid quality not unlike mithril. It was silver-grey, but had a blue and green opalescent sheen in the sunlight. The neckline was a sharp V-cut, extending down almost to her navel, but threaded with delicate silver ties so she could close it to her comfort level.

It was verging on midday by the time Harper made it back to the pavilion. She had been the first to rise, and the others were still sleeping when she left with Faeleth. A quick check of the couches confirmed the pavilion was now deserted.

There was food on the table, with six plates emptied and four remaining. The Hobbits, certainly, had eaten. Boromir and Faramir were nearly as strict about their mealtimes as the Hobbits, so the other two probably belonged to them. Maybe they insisted on eating before being carted off to their own baths, while the others chose to wait. How she was the first one back, after taking the longest bath of her life, she could not say.

Harper shrugged off her missing companions, took a seat, and dug in. Each accidental scrape of her fork against the plate echoed sharply in the quiet pavilion; after a few bites, she literally hand-to-mouth checked she was eating with her mouth shut, because of how overloud her chewing sounded; she got half way through the sentence before she realized she was asking the empty seat next to her to pass the butter.

Briefly, she wondered if she was finally losing her mind, but no dice. She was just eating alone for the first time in months. Almost a year, really, if she didn't count a few meals in her room in Rivendell.

She had lived by herself for years on Earth. Roommates were hell, and she'd seen too many friends get stuck in lease agreements with ex-boyfriends to move in with a partner before getting engaged -- save for one near thing, that had never happened. But she had enjoyed living alone, appreciated the peace of it. The quiet of a quiet meal hadn't always been so suffocating.

The airy-weight from the night before returned to her chest.

She was breathing through the feeling when a pair of voices caught her attention. Legolas and Aragorn entered the pavilion, discussing something lowly -- but with feeling -- in Sindarin. The Galadhrim had gifted clothing to them both. Even Legolas's clothes had been in need of a wash, though it often seemed like dirt was allergic to him. No sane person would say the same about Aragorn, and Moria had reduced his already tattered traveling clothes to singed rags. Nearby, some unfortunate Elf was probably committing them to the fire and finishing the job. Those were gone for good.

They stopped halfway between the fountain and the table where Harper was sitting. The conversation was getting heated, or, it was getting heated for them -- which meant talking with their hands and overly-crisp enunciation. She drummed her fingers on the table top and stared at her half-empty plate. Was it still rude to eavesdrop when one didn't really speak the language? Regardless, she wasn't interested in getting in the middle, and they looked like they needed space.

"Harper!" Legolas called, and robbed her of the chance to escape.

"Yeah?"

"Join us, for a moment, if you please."

It was the first time she'd heard Legolas sound angry. Typically, he spoke in a breezy manner that made it easy to forget how old he was. But the full weight of his millennia were in those words. Too surprised to reply, she did just that. She waited a beat, after crossing the courtyard, but neither of them spoke.

"What is it?" Harper asked. "Is everybody alright?"

"Our companions are safe. It is no great cause for concern," Aragorn said. His tone was comforting; seeing the vein in his temple which only rose the surface after a fight or a prolonged argument, was not.

"Uh, okay. That's good." She waited for him to explain. He did not. "So did you guys just want a third for your angry chat, or--"

Legolas made an irritated noise. "Aragorn needs to speak with you."

Aragorn glared at Legolas. Legolas glared back. Harper saw two peacocks have a ten minute stand off at the zoo, once, when she was in grade school. They'd honked back and forth, feathers fully extended, and chased one another over the same twenty foot stretch of grass without ever gaining any ground. It was the highlight of the trip for her whole class. But she was no longer nine years old, and there was a distinct lack of plumage here to hold her interest.

"Great, thanks for letting me know, Legolas. You can get back to whatever you were doing. I'll talk to Aragorn as soon as I find him," Harper said, with false cheer. She turned a deliberate ninety degrees toward Aragorn. "Hey! I was looking for you. Legolas said you wanted to talk to me."

Legolas let out an exasperated laugh. "I can say I have done my part, at least."

"Perhaps more," Aragorn muttered.

Legolas ignored him. To Harper, he said, "I will take my leave. G--" a lengthy pause. "The Dwarf insisted I show him Lothlorien's armory. Farewell." With the tips of his ears pink, Legolas made his retreat.

Harper smiled as she watched him go. Good. If Legolas and Gimli hadn't started getting friendly soon, she was going to be tempted to meddle. It was better if it happened naturally. But her smile faded when she turned back to Aragorn. The vein in his temple was, if anything, more visible than a moment ago. There was no way that was good for his blood pressure.

"What's going on?" She asked quietly.

Aragorn ran a hand through his hair. It was still damp from his bath, and the shorter strands were curling sweetly by his ears. The circles under his eyes weren't quite as dark as they had been; he might even look well rested by the time the Fellowship set out again -- as long as he didn't let whatever was bothering him keep him up for three weeks straight. And he might. They had decidedly different ideas about the amount of sleep a person needed.

"Walk with me? The pavilion may remain empty for a while yet, but--"

"Somewhere private is better," she finished. "I get it. Lead the way."

North, away from the centermost hill of the city, down the gentler slopes of the surrounding hills and through the outer reaches, they walked in silence. Harper admired the scenery -- Lothlorien didn't have gardens, it was a garden that happened to be a city -- and counted the shrubs and flowers that were unfamiliar to her. Her count reached twenty, just as they reached the city wall.

Haldir had said they could not enter from the north, and brought the Fellowship around to the southern gate the night before. A white lie, evidently, because there was a gate before them, guarded by two Elves. The guard's faces were stern as they approached, but softened when they stopped at the threshold.

The taller of the guards, an Elf with chestnut hair and silver eyes, greeted Aragorn by name. He traded a few words with Aragorn, and then with the other guard, who gave one word answers and was more interested in the position of the sun than the conversation.

Harper looked up at the sun herself, after the sixth time the shorter guard did so, but there was nothing unusual about it. Her ability to tell time via the sun was still a little rough, but she guessed it was near two o'clock. She choked down a laugh when it clicked: the guard was waiting for his shift to end. Or, given the way he was glaring impatiently into the distance, it had ended already, and his replacement was running late. Nothing changed, even when everything changed, indeed.

Having come to a decision, the taller guard bid Aragorn farewell, gave Harper a polite nod, and then opened the gate. Once through, it breezed shut behind them. They followed the path leading away from the gate, which soon split into three branches. Aragorn led her down the center road for a few minutes, before he spoke at last.

"You said little, when Merry asked. What did Galadriel offer you?"

"There wasn't a lot more to say. She offered to send me back."

"But that was the whole of her offer?"

"Well, yes and no," she admitted.

He looked at her curiously. The angry vein in his temple was less prominent now, but still visible. There was that pinched look in his eyes, the one which meant a thought was spinning him half-dizzy inside his own head, and he was trying to anchor himself outside it. He waited for her to explain.

"I thought it was, at first. But it was more complicated than that. She offered to send me back to Earth, where I would presumably wake up on the day I woke up here instead, and I'd forget any of this ever happened. Middle-earth would go back to the way it was in the story, and no one here would remember me, either."

The noise he made was too rough to be a sigh. "Did she say by what means?"

"No. I didn't ask."

"Are you not curious?"

She shrugged. "Not really? I mean, I don't think she actually can. It was a test. She can't fly Sam home to the Shire, give him a smial and set him up with a garden and Rosie Cotton -- but it's what she offered him. So why would she be able to send me back? Elrond and Gandalf both said it isn't possible."

"She cannot command the hearts of Hobbits, that is true," he said. "Yet your circumstance is altogether different, and if any of the wise in Middle-earth have the power to send you home, it is Galadriel."

"Maybe," she said, though she still thought she was right. "What'd she offer you?"

The path they were following was narrow and winding, but well kept. Low shrubs lined the sides, and the longest of their branches scraped against Aragorn's knees as he walked; if he took two steps to the side, he'd be off the path entirely. Harper was hardly hogging the center of the path, but avoided the branches on her side easily. There was room enough for both of them, but she let him rough up the clothes of the Galadhrim as he pleased.

"Peace," he answered. "She offered peace. For the Dunedain to live at last in a safety not bought by blood; and for myself to have no need to stray far and wide, so that I might enjoy it."

"Jesus."

A wry grin. "She knows me well, and used it to her advantage. The vision of my kin around the high table, near to buckling under the weight of a feast, bordered on cruel."

"Why did you say no?" She was starting to suspect she'd gotten off easy. The qualifying clause had really taken the shine off her own offer.

"My destiny lies elsewhere," he said. "It is an idle dream I dwelt on, years ago, when I strayed into unfriendly lands in pursuit of the Enemy. A source of comfort, nothing more. I have long known that will not be my fate."

They came to another fork in the path. To the left, a straight line cutting through thickening forest. To the right, meandering by twist and bend up through thinning trees. He led her down the righthand side without so much as a glance to the left.

"Yet I hope, if our Fellowship prevails and Gondor welcomes me, to give aid to the North, and rebuild it if I can."

The way he said it: like a kid at a claw machine with a roll of quarters, full knowledge the game was rigged, and the righteous determination to beat it anyway; it made her stomach flutter.

"You do," she said impulsively. "You definitely do." She shut her mouth before she began talking about Lake Evendim and trips to the Shire border.

The soft look he gave her almost broke her resolve.

They were climbing steadily upwards. Smaller vegetation gathered in denser patches as the trees thinned out. A sweet note mixed in with the earthier scent of the forest. Bright and warm, the sun lit their path, and the clearing of the tree canopy unveiled the blue sky.

"And you?" He asked, after a silent while.

"Hm?"

"Why did you say no?"

The truth, she decided, was the simplest answer. "I can't go back."

He frowned. "I do not doubt your commitment to the Quest. She purposed to gauge our loyalty by asking, but her offer may not have been false. The time will come when our journey reaches its end, and you would do well to ask her again with that in mind."

"That's not what I mean," she said. "The Quest is one of the reasons I said no, but it isn't the only reason. Even if she can send me back, after all is said and done, I won't ask her to. This is my life now, as crazy as that is. I can't go back to my old one."

“There is naught that you desire to return to?” He asked, disbelief written clear on his face.

"I didn't say that. I miss plenty of things. My family and friends. My dog. Central heating and public transportation. But I remember them, which is more than I can say if she sends me back. I'm pretty sure forgetting this ever happened is part of the deal, no matter what. And the thought of that makes me sick."

"Would it be so different? You knew this world ere you came to it, and loved it though it was unreal in your eyes. Unreal, but unstained, it would be again."

She laughed at him. "Okay, and? It's not about a story, Aragorn. It's like-- God, what if I remembered, someday? She says I'd forget, but it's not like the impossible hasn't happened to me once already. I would not be able to live with myself, knowing what I'd done."

Veering sharply to the left, the path led them into a clearing. The grass was lush and green, and a great hill stood on the far side. Halfway up the hill, there was a circle of bare birches; and the top was crowned with mellyrn. The sweet note grew stronger, and now Harper recognized it. Elanor and niphredil. The Fellowship had passed through, but not lingered here, the day before. This was Cerin Amroth.

"And if you never remembered?" Aragorn pressed.

"And if the sky was made of peanut butter?" Harper shot back. "This is a pointless argument. I know she's powerful, but I think you're underestimating how difficult it would be. Elrond and Gandalf can't even decide if I'm in a different dimension, or just really far in the past."

"You have done us all a service by aiding in the fight against the Enemy. They are all part of the White Council, and can work together to great ends. Even if it is not as simple as she presented it in her offer, they would be glad to take up the task at your request."

"Sure. But I'm still not asking."

Aragorn pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fate has dealt you an unfair hand, and you are right to be wary of the consequences of sorcery. But I do not believe Galadriel would have promised to help you forget, if she cannot hold to that promise."

"Fine, I'll play ball," Harper said, rolling her eyes. "You're right and she can whoosh me away with a money-back guarantee I'll never remember. That's great for Galadriel, but I'm still saying no. It's not about the possibility of remembering. It's about-- trust. Betrayal. The sheer idea of wiping my own mind like that is revolting. I would rather stay here and remember Earth, than return and have Middle-earth be rendered back into nothing more than fiction. I can't rob myself of like, a whole year of my life in good conscience."

"Do you not wish to be happy? Safe?" Aragorn asked. "Memory is a hollow comfort, and it rots those who rely upon it from the inside out. You deserve far better than to linger in an unhappy life." His voice was hard and his eyes were bright with that strange burning light that kindled in him at times, all indignation of Kings of Old.

At some point, she really wanted to see him turn this look on someone else. It would be fascinating to watch, from that angle. From this one, it was just irritating.

"You aren't listening to me," Harper snapped. "Is this why Legolas is mad at you? You've made up your mind Galadriel should send me home, whether I like it or not?"

"It is not a matter of like--"

"It's absolutely a matter of like! Mine, and no one else's. You don't have a say in this. It's my stupidly hypothetical decision, since there's no way she can actually send me home."

"You do not know that."

Halfway across the clearing, Harper hoped there were no Galadhrim nearby. They must have made a ridiculous picture, walking quickly to nowhere in particular and arguing all the while, rudely disturbing the afternoon for any within earshot.

"Neither do you!" Harper scowled at him. "Listen to the words I'm saying: I am not asking her to send me back. I do not want to leave. I want to stay."

"Wherefore?" Aragorn demanded. "Do you think I have forgotten every time you have decried Middle-earth and all its cruelty, and wished to return home? I cannot make sense of it, so say it plainly. What has changed your mind so completely, that you refuse to consider the offer now that it has been extended?"

"Are you stupid? Or is this your incredibly tactless way of letting me know you aren't that into me?" Her words were flippant. Irritation was easier than fear. The subtext of the conversation was piling up. All at once, it felt like a very real possibility. Why did he, of all people, think she had no reason to stay?

Aragorn stopped walking. Harper stumbled to a stop a second later, and turned to face him. He looked like he didn't know if he was about to laugh or cry.

"I know it is your habit to make light of things," Aragorn said through clenched teeth, "but I find no humor in that suggestion."

"I'm not joking. You're trying to convince me to disappear from this reality with a trace. What the fuck else am I supposed to think?"

"Think of your own happiness!"

"I am!" Harper cried. "This is the most selfish decision I have ever made! I have no idea what happened on Earth after I left. Galadriel said something that makes me think it's like I never existed, and I hope that's true. Because all summer I had nightmares that I'd gone missing. And my family thinks I died in a freak accident, or was murdered, or killed myself -- or just disappeared out of their lives without so much as a fuck-you-and-goodbye."

The guilt punched the oxygen out of her lungs. She needed to believe Galadriel's talk of spaces once occupied meant that memory was a here-or-there kind of thing. If Middle-earth remembered her, Earth did not -- as she would be erased from this world if she left it. As this world, as it truly was, would be erased from her if she left it.

Forgetting was altogether different than being forgotten.

"Listen: Middle-earth is terrifying. Dangerous. There are monsters, and demons, and I'll be lucky if I don't die of a plague in the next five years, seeing as the best medicine relies on Elves chanting at you and magic herbs. I would kill a man for easy access to a notebook and ballpoint pen, if only to find out if I'm more than half-literate, since I don't actually know the language I'm speaking. I miss googling things, and the smell of gasoline, and iced coffee. I am out of my element everywhere I go, and distinctly fucking aware of it."

"Is this meant to convince me that you are right in wishing to stay?" Aragorn's baffled eyebrows were reaching for his hairline.

"Yes! Because this isn't new information! I know what I'm missing, and I've spent months cataloguing every small way Middle-earth pales in comparison to Earth. And I still want to stay," Harper said. "You don't know -- you can't know -- what it's like: to wake up in a world and realize you had no idea what living is supposed to feel like. I'll love it forever, but Earth was a-- shadow on the wall, in hindsight. Thin and grey."

"I cannot believe that is true."

"Excuse me?!"

"That may be how you remember it," Aragorn said. "But your memories are biased. I know you, Harper: you are vibrant -- curious, sharp, and kind in equal measure. You are clever, and unyielding, and have thrown yourself into danger with a fierceness that would frighten me if I did not admire it so. I know little of your world, but I know it must be a miraculous place if it is lucky enough to lay claim to you. 'Tis no shadow world, whatever you say."

"Then believe me when I say Middle-earth makes it seem like that. Everything here is so unapologetically alive, so real that it hurts. Even the things that have tried to kill me are-- full of wonder, an awful kind of wonder, but still full of it. It's just dazzling thing after dazzling thing, everywhere I look. For fuck's sake Aragorn, I can hear the universe singing," she was shouting, she realized. She lowered her voice, but did not gentle her tone. "I refuse to give any of it up, and you can't make me."

"And when that wonder fades, in time?" He asked.

"And when it doesn't?" She replied. "I can't live like that, agonizing over what-ifs. It's useless. The biggest what-if already happened to me, and I couldn't have anticipated it if I tried. Fear is a shitty lodestone to steer by, and I won't let it rule my life. At any other time, you would agree with that, so I don't get what the issue is."

The melody here was older, lower, than the music in Caras Galadhon. Top soil to solid core, it kept rumbling time for the last slow song of the night. But the party was over, the dishes were stacked, and there was no one left to dance. So, untrodden by barefooted merriment, the green grass swayed; rustling, high and sweet, as lovers did, long ago.

Sweat was gathering on the back of Harper's neck. Aragorn was standing two, maybe three steps away. Crossing the ocean would be simpler. Nothing in Aragorn's expression made sense. He was cracked open, pulled every which way. His jaw was clenched and his shoulders slumped, and he held her gaze with such conviction it would have bruised, were it a physical thing.

"I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to pick an answer. No equivocating, no asking a question of your own instead," Harper said. How her voice did not shake then, she would never know.

Aragorn nodded. A nervous hand reached to rest on the pommel of his sword -- a tic of his which she found amusing and heartbreaking in equal measure -- but he had left Andúril behind, not needing to go armed in Lothlorien. With missed-step swiftness, his hand fluttered through empty air and fell back to his side.

"Is this about me? Or is it about you? Because I've explained myself in every way I can. I want to stay here. I know I will be happy here. But you keep insisting I won't be. So if this is about your own feelings -- if this is about us -- I need you to tell me."

She was brave. She was an adult. If he said this was about his own feelings, it wouldn't kill her. Break her heart, definitely, but she would survive; and do so with her dignity, mostly, in tact. There would be no charging the White Tower and demanding a second chance, come the end of the Quest. She would-- rebound with an exceedingly blond man from Rohan, or something; and casually leave the room when people talked about Gondor's new King, until she could participate without feeling sick to her stomach.

They were both capable of putting the Quest first, of finishing it side by side without making things awkward for the Fellowship. And hopefully, later on, they could learn how to be friends again. He was too good of a friend to lose. He was her best friend, she realized then, truly her dearest friend in this life. And regardless of everything she thought was between them, everything she wished for, she--

Cared enough, so outrageously much, that she was determined to put that first. If their friendship survived, it would be enough.

Harper laughed, dry and humorless. "I mean, I can take no for an answer, if that's what's going on here. There's no need to erase me from existence and end up married to your foster-sister. That's a little extreme."

Aragorn sighed. He ran a hand over his beard; stared up at the sky, considering. Empty and blue, to her eyes, but he scanned it as if some sense of clarity might be hidden there. After a moment, it seemed, he spied it.

"It is my own heart which troubles me," Aragorn confessed. He held up a hand. "Wait! And allow me to make myself clear. I said, some days ago in the dell, that I have not wished to distract us from our quest, and it is for that reason I have not been more forward in word or deed. If you must ask this of me, I have waited far too long to make my intentions known."

Harper inhaled, held, exhaled -- and did the same again, and again. Her lungs forgot basest instinct; crackling, electrostatic fear hijacked her nervous system. A skin-wrapped vessel -- sinew and marrow and vital organs burned away -- for writhing kinetic anxiety with nowhere to go but snaking down her limbs and staking claim to all her empty spaces. If she swallowed a lit match, a blackhole would be left in her wake.

"To another, I might say I have urged you to consider Galadriel's offer out of a willingness to sacrifice my happiness for your own. It would be no lie, but it is less than half the truth."

Harper's heart stuttered. "What's the rest of it?"

"That neither a coward nor a self-serving man do I wish to be."

"And you aren't."

"But I may yet be," Aragorn said. "For now when I look to the future, I see myself, made gloriously happy by you at my side; and I see you, fading year by year as Middle-earth becomes familiar, until all the wonder is gone and your spirit withers. And in this future, I blind myself to it. I wake beside you each morning and give no thought to the regret which haunts you. With terrible selfishness do I live out my days, taking joy in your presence, as you suffer for the mistake of your choice."

Half confession, half prophecy, spoken slow and distant. A veil was over his eyes; he strayed from the clearing, from that moment and out away into a sick daydream future. Pulled in after him, she saw it. Their happiest ending: a ripe red apple plucked from a silver bowl; halved for sharing; and tunneled through from core to skin by fat white maggots open-mouthed and crawling. Her breath ran away from her again and back into the present. She chased it.

"Do not think me inconstant or false," Aragorn continued. "Though you must know I lied, in Imladris, the morning after you requested an audience with Elrond: I lied. He said it was unlikely that you would be able to return to your home. I told you that I was sorry. I was not. You were distraught, and it was for that reason alone I did not cheer at the news. But the future I hoped for then was different. Grief and regret are well acquainted, but work through different means. I never doubted your ability to find happiness here, when neither of us knew you might have another choice. Yet we now know, and will not forget. The future, I fear, is changed for it."

"Telling the future is supposed to be my thing," Harper said, voice thick with tears. She wasn't crying yet, but her eyes were hot and filling quickly.

The ghost of a smile pulled at his lips; brief mischief from a sorrowful house spirit. Mostly, it was a thing of pity. It hit her full in the chest. Her heart greenstick fractured. Throbbing, though it was, she searched her heart, searched her mind; every inch of sense she had, she plumbed the depths of.

And found his prediction wanting. Fear was persuasive, and on occasion it delivered visions which rang too true to ignore. The same could be said for a fortune cookie. Or an amateur tarot card reading. Or a dusty Zoltar machine, in back of an empty arcade, tucked away by the office of the speed-eating goatee'd manager, where the fiberboard door was rattling as he thundered down the phoneline at the electric company, with whom he was two months past due.

They'd have better luck flipping a coin.

"It's my thing," Harper repeated, with more conviction. "And I think you're awful at it, even though you're supposed to have Númenórean foresight. So here's what I see: I stay here. Middle-earth becomes familiar, because living is living anywhere you go, but I never get bored."

Spun glass hope in his eyes. "And what fills your days, keeping you so occupied?"

A wet laugh. "Mostly? It's you."

"Tell me." Pleading.

Harper unlatched the kennel where her private dreams paced, and let them run.

"I make you teach me about all the plants I don't know; try all your favorite foods from the far places you've been; and get better at sword-fighting and horse-riding and archery. I read a whole history worth of books I've never heard of, and learn every inch of Minas Tirith. And when the time comes, I help you build a new city in Arnor, and learn it just as well. I stay, and I wake up next to you in the morning and beg for five more minutes of sleep when you try to start our day, and then I keep you up long after the candles burn out at night."

Aragorn's twitching hand fingered the hem of his tunic, where his sword should have been. "One may have a full life, on the surface, and long for another underneath."

"Do you plan to issue a royal decree, at some point in the future, outlawing any non-Gondorian custom?"

"Never."

"Are you going to sleep on the couch when I try to talk about Earth?"

He blinked at her, bewildered. "I wish to know anything about your world which you see fit to share with me."

"Then this doesn't have to be an issue. I know I'll miss home, but it's-- not solvable, maybe, but it's manageable."

"Explain it to me," Aragorn said, captain's voice breaking through. If there was to be a plan, he needed to lay eyes on it. Decades of command was a difficult habit to break.

"I'll make you celebrate Christmas alongside Yule, and find a twin for every other major holiday. We'll both get fat, because I'll cook you all of my favorite comfort foods and I'm from a country that takes deep-frying seriously. I'll tell you every story I know until you've heard them all a hundred times, and then I'll make you recite them for me instead. Once you learn enough English, I'll start picking days at random where I refuse to speak or respond to anything else. You'll have no choice but to go along with it, and everyone around us will think we're crazy."

"Yes," he said in English, and oh, his smile as he did, "they will."

Their future was sprinting circles around the clearing, wild and wonderful beyond measure. She dizzied herself with it. He was looking a little unsteady on his feet, too.

"You can ask me the million questions you have about Earth. I'll show you how to make pinhole cameras, and you'll waste too much time pioneering landscape photography. We'll have long fights about how I can't antagonize the landholders, and I'll threaten to distribute pamphlets to the masses about dissolving the feudal system. I'll make friends, and bother Boromir while he works, and write long letters to Faramir in Ithilien reviewing the books he recommends me. I'll be happy. Not impossibly, permanently so -- that's not how life works. But I will make a happy life for myself, and it will be all the better knowing I chose it."

Wind swept through the clearing, full of white and golden sweet perfume. It blew back Harper's hair, and cooled her sun-and-tear warmed face. The Song was paying them no mind -- humming the horn-song of late afternoon, freed for a while from the Ring's hideous counter tune. Aragorn watched her hair dance in the wind. And when the air grew still again, he went to her. One step, then another: easy as anything, he was there.

His hands were warm, and gentle, and tucked Harper's hair behind her ears before he cradled her face. He searched her eyes -- his own were burning still, but their light had changed, no wildfire but a star in steady bloom. He laughed softly, more breath than sound, and shook his head and some unknown thought away.

Cracked and low, Aragorn said, "You must understand. I have looked for you across the continent and through the years. Mostly, I have failed to find you. When you did appear, it was never for long, and never for keeping. Perhaps, by counting, you have more reasons to be amazed by our meeting; but until I pass beyond this world, I will be shaken to my core by the sheer wonder of finding you at last. It is as if I was allowed to wish you into being."

Harper blinked. A tear rolled down her cheek. "Then stop trying to wish me away again. I want to stay, and I want to stay with you."

Aragorn wiped the tear away. "Stay, then. Choose your happy life, and if it pleases you, choose to spend it at my side. I will be five minutes late to every early meeting and field letters from insulted landholders with a smile; and I will glory in all the chaos you cause my court. Foresight may be in my blood, but your prophecy is fairer than my own, and rings clear with truth."

"You're damn right it does," she said. "I'm not going anywhere, except to cause trouble where you are. Good. That's-- settled." More than. They were always running before they could crawl. The moment caught up to her. She laughed, a little hysterical. "This is insane, you know that right? We're insane. Normal people do not express their feelings like this."

Unimpressed, Aragorn asked, "what do 'normal people' do?" He was threading the front section of her hair through his fingers; watching it slip over his skin with great interest.

"Uh." His hand in her hair like that was-- distracting. She blinked rapidly.

"Hm?" A self-satisfied grin was hiding at the corner of his mouth. He glanced briefly at her, eyes dancing, before returning his attention to her hair.

"Talk," she said eventually. "Normal people talk. They don't skip every step between hand-holding and forever. I should be-- screaming and running away. Saying this is too much, too fast, and we need to slow the fuck down."

"Is that what you wish?" He asked, serious now, his hand left her hair and he searched her face. "I will not pressure you in this."

"I-- no, that's not what I'm saying. You're insane for jumping right to waking up beside me each morning. And I'm insane because I jumped after you. With you. Didn't even blink at the suggestion," she said. Even now, she wasn't blinking at it, was only bewildered by her total lack of surprise. "Both of us just independently decided this is it, at some point in the last nine months. Normal people don't act like that -- in any world."

"Does a normal person see glimpses of his beloved, scattered through the decades, long before he ever finds her in truth? Does a normal person wake in a world which is not her own, and there by chance meet the man who has seen her?"

Beloved. That was new.

"Well, no."

"Then it seems we are not among these so-called normal people, and may cast aside their customs as we please."

"I don't really know how to argue with that," she admitted. "But this is still insane. We've never even said we like each other out loud! I think that's usually a requirement, even for two people who are committed to doing this as ass-backwards as possible."

"Like is a paltry word, and a pale imitation of what I feel for you," he said, with a warm low laugh. "I like Pippin's good humor, and the songs the minstrels play in the Hall of Fire at Midsummer; neither of these, you will find, I have asked to spend my days and nights beside."

"That's probably good," she said, suddenly lightheaded. "They're both pretty intangible. Would make for a cold bed."

"Aye, it would."

"I'm, uh, I'm not ready to say the other one. That comes after like, which I'm pretty sure you're getting at. I know you're Mr. Heart-On-His-Sleeve, but I'm not used to saying it to someone I've known for less than a year. That's probably silly, after everything else I just said. But there's being insane, and then there's being insane, y'know?"

"We have time aplenty," he said patiently.

"But I still want--" She definitely used to be better at this, never great, admittedly, but surely she hadn't always been so hopeless. "Aragorn, I like you so much; you're stupidly charming, and handsome, and funny, and smart. You are such a good man it takes my breath away, and you never stop trying to be good. And I like who I am when I'm with you. I like that you make me want to be a better person, and that being with you helps me see all the good in the world, hidden just below the evil, a little clearer. I'm fucking crazy about you, and I have been since Bree, at least."

"Bree?" He asked. And the thrilled glitter in his eyes shamed the stars.

"At least," she repeated, with feeling.

Twin, foolish grins.

"So we're doing this? We've met the most basic requirement, and now we're commencing with pure insanity?"

"Aye," he said. "And if we are insane, I pity those who are not. "

"Yeah, me too," she said. "Okay. Don't try to erase me from reality again. And apologize to Legolas when we get back. He was totally right to take you to task for this."

Abashed, he nodded. "For what it is worth, I would have suffered the same fate. If you, and all memory of you, departed this realm, the man who walked here in my stead would be a stranger in all but shape and name."

"No, I know who you would be. That's not true." Book or film or right in her face, Aragorn could never be anyone but himself.

"Ah, but for once it is I who knows what you do not. The story is long, and the time to tell it, I think, has not yet come. But this I will say: a man is shaped by his past; mine is covered in you."

"I think you're enjoying turning that table on me a little too much."

He grinned. "Nay, I think it is well earned. The wait has been long, indeed."

A moment, then, when his eyes drifted to her lips and her heart forgot to beat. And a thought came to Harper -- unwelcome, perhaps, but necessary. She stepped back, and gestured at the great hill of Cerin Amroth.

"We should climb it," she said. "We've come this far."

Aragorn agreed and took her hand. They walked together, in silence, though the clearing; Harper searched for the words she needed to say. At the base of the hill, she found them.

"Listen, I'd rather not talk about this, now or ever, but that's usually a sure sign it's a conversation I need to have. Are you up for another heavy one?"

He nodded.

"What happened in the Dimrill Dale was-- fucked, quite honestly. I meant it when I said I don't want to be mad at you, but I am. Less so now, since Boromir bravely took the brunt of my anger the other night, and Lothlorien is too peaceful to really get angry. But I don't want to let it fester," she said.

"I am listening. Speak freely," he encouraged.

"Mostly, I have questions."

"Ask, and I will answer."

Easier said than done. But the best place to start, she supposed, was the beginning.

"Do you understand why I didn't tell you about Gandalf?" She asked.

"I do."

"Let me hear it."

"I-- do not like to dwell on my own journey through the Dimrill Gate, ere our quest began, but the memory is not the fading sort. Gandalf suggested the Fellowship take that road in Imladris, and again when we passed into Hollin. I refused to hear it, until all other options were exhausted. When the decision was made, though you agreed to it, I could not escape my fear. I acted rashly, in asking you to tell me what we would find there. I hoped for--" he shook his head, breathed in deep. "You were right not to tell me. If I knew, in the end, I would have tried to intervene, to the ruin of the Fellowship, more than like."

"I couldn't afford something like that happening, and no matter how good your intentions were, I knew it was likely to. I wish I could stop every awful thing that's going to happen, but I can't. Some things need to stay consistent. I'm always off-script, but things will fall apart if the rest of you are, too," Harper said. "And consequences aside, it wouldn't have been fair of me to tell you. Just-- mean, honestly. Like asking an off leash dog not to chase squirrels at the park: here's someone you can save, Aragorn; now ... don't!"

"An off leash dog?" Aragorn seemed unsure if he was supposed to be offended.

"What, do you want a leash? I can work with that." The words were out of her mouth before good sense had a chance to stop them.

"Lady!"

He laughed loudly, all shock and no scandal. A flush crept up his neck. She appreciated it for a few indulgent seconds. The flush darkened when he realized she was staring.

"Sorry, sorry. That was supposed to be an inside thought." An accident, really, but she didn't care enough to truly sound apologetic. He was the one who blushed, after all.

"An inside--" he shook his head, sobered. "You were saying?"

"Right." She forced herself back on track. "Point being, I didn't tell anybody for a reason. And I've known since the beginning that letting him die wasn't going to go over great with the group. Why would it? But I didn't expect it to be, well, like that. And I didn't think to expect you -- or any of them, but you specifically -- to accuse me of lying."

He made a soft noise in his throat. "Perhaps lying is the most applicable word, but I want you to understand: I did not think you were acting with malicious intent to deceive."

"What did you think?"

He was quiet for a while. Then, he said, "I am not sure how to best explain. There is a story from my time in Rohan that may help get the point across? If you are willing to hear it."

"Go ahead."

“Once,” Aragorn said slowly, “while I was in the service of Thengel King, a man under my command witnessed his brother cut down by Orcs. It was a mortal wound sustained in the heat of a losing battle. Whether the man did not know or did not want to know that his brother was as a good as dead, I cannot say. At some point, a field medic convinced him his brother was going to be fine, and to leave him be — I think in hopes to get the man to join the retreat. After we reestablished camp at a safe distance, and the medics resumed their work, the man went to visit his brother.”

"Oh no."

“But his brother was not among the wounded — his corpse was wrapped in his burial shroud and laying down with the rest of the dead, awaiting transport to Edoras. When the man discovered this, I was on the other side of camp talking with the Third Marshal, but I heard his cries as if he was standing next to me in the Marshal’s tent. He was inconsolable, fully consumed by his grief. It took me and two other men to subdue him.”

“What happened after you did?”

“He never truly recovered. Thengel King issued him a honorable dispensation from service, believing some distance from battle would help him heal, but it did little good. I left for Gondor four years later. Last I heard of him then, on particularly difficult nights he could be found with drink in hand near the stables, talking to some shade of his brother no one else could see.”

“What was his name?” She could not say what compelled her to ask it, other than the wretched image in her mind which, she felt, was owed this little dignity.

“Ordlac. His brother was called Ordred.”

“Wait.” Something clicked in her head. “Ordred? Like—“

Aragorn glanced at her, surprised, but the surprise quickly fell away. “I forgot you met him at Sarn Ford. Aye, like Ranger Ordred. He is their nephew, by way of a much younger half-sister. She named him for the brother she never knew.”

“How did he end up with the rangers?”

“By chance. Halbarad encountered Ordred and Wald maybe a decade ago, while he was on some errand in Dunland,” Aragorn said.

“Small word,” she said, and it earned her a quiet laugh.

“It is. I cannot remember the full tale, but they fought together for a time and when they meant to part ways, Halbarad recruited them instead. Ordred looks like his uncles, though he was disquieted when I told him so.”

“I’d wondered why there was a random contingent of Rohirrim there,” Harper said.

They passed through the circle of birch trees, halfway up the hill. The slowly westering sun carved their shadows into the grass. She could see now the trunk of the topmost mallorn tree, peeking through the golden leaves of those lining the rim of the crest.

"There is a point to this," he said. "I do not simply mean to bore you with battle stories."

"You aren't boring me," she said. "But make the point if you want."

"What I mean to say is: it may seem a kindness to let a man believe his dead are still among the living, if only to keep him on his feet for a while longer. But it often does more ill than good in the end. You have no reason to know that, and are inclined to treat our companions gently. That was, in part, why I hesitated. I needed to be sure, before—“ he trailed off.

“Before?” Harper prompted, when it became clear he wasn’t going to continue.

“Before allowing myself to believe it, too. Hope is a dangerous thing; false hope, doubly so. It is best to leave a man to his grave, once you see him to it. Those who needlessly dig up their dead are soon to join them — in body, spirit, or both.”

"So you were worried I said it to get us out of there; and was planning to break the news later, after everyone had a chance to calm down?"

"Aye."

"But why did you decide to believe me? It was like a switch flipped when I said he comes back on your birthday. What was up with that?"

A strained laugh. "I cannot tell you."

"Why not-- oh. It was wisp-me?"

"It was," Aragorn said. There was something in his voice, a warm note she felt in the pit of her stomach. "I knew by that point it was more than likely you spoke the truth, but--" he paused, shaking his head. "It takes more skill than I realized to reveal part but not the whole. All I can say is: I was waiting to hear you say it, though I did not know I was waiting at all."

"Incredibly vague and mysterious -- you're better at this than you think," Harper said.

"I was taught well." He squeezed her hand.

"But you kind of, at least, believed me before that?"

"I did. You made a strong argument for it. It is easy to see Gandalf as he wishes to be seen, and naught else -- even for those who know him well. I believe we all needed the reminder."

Silence, for a minute or two, as she thought it all over. She slowed her pace, and he copied it, until they came to a stop.

"Alright. Knowing what was going on in your head helps, some. With everything that happened, I already felt half crazy by the time the Balrog showed up. And then everybody was shouting, and the Ring was so loud. It was just too much. I was barely coherent, and not understanding why you were reacting like that was kind of the last straw. Only-- look, I need to get this out. You don't need to start apologizing, just let me say it."

He nodded.

"The main thing isn't that you didn't believe me right away. Out of the heat of the moment, It makes sense that it took a little convincing, even though you guys are used to magic. I wish the reaction hadn't been to accuse me of lying outright, but I already had it out with Boromir, and you explained yourself. All that is secondary," she said, and then trailed off. It would be so much easier if she could leave it at that.

Aragorn listened patiently to her silence.

"I was, no, I am-- hurt," Harper forced out, "that you didn't intervene when they were all laying into me. And that nobody else stopped it, either. It's different, though, with you. I know we've gone at this sideways, and that makes things difficult. But we just argued about whether I'll be happy spending my life here with you -- and the issue was the here, not the with you. That didn't come out of nowhere. This has been serious for more than a few days."

"It has."

"Which is my point. Leaving me on my own like that in the Dimrill Dale? It made me feel small. Powerless and unimportant, like I'm a drag along on this quest who you don't give a shit about. You cannot do that to me again. It's unacceptable. We're doing this, so I need to know you'll stand up for me -- by me -- regardless of how you're wrestling with your own emotions. This is the bare minimum, and I shouldn't have to ask for it."

"No," he breathed out, "you should not. It was a grave error, and were it in my power to undo it, I would."

"But you can't. So I need you to really get this in your skull. This isn't something I'll just grin and bear if it happens again. I'm not interested in feeling alone in something that's supposed to be a partnership. We're together, or we aren't anything at all. Everyone makes mistakes. It's part of life, and I don't expect either of us to be perfect. But I'm laying this out for you so you know how I feel about it. If it happens again, it'll be a choice, not a mistake. And it's not a choice I'll forgive."

"And it is not a choice I will make. I do not think you wish for an apology?" She shook her head. "Then I will say this: through whatever may come, I swear to stand by you, and with you. Against no peril will you stand alone, until the day I am torn from your side by the sword or the ravages of time, or you order me away."

The oath rippled through the air around them, down his arm, through their clasped hands, and up her own. By silver bells, the Song marked it.

"Oh, that was--" she shivered. "I felt that. Magic is so weird."

He raised an eyebrow. "You felt what? The oath?" He asked it like she wasn't quite making sense.

"Right. I'm weird and magic is weird."

A teasing grin threatened to break over his face, but he mastered it.

She sighed. "Thank you for hearing me out. And for saying that."

"It is the least I can give you."

"I'm good with leaving it there, if you are," she said. "I trust you not to do it again."

"I will not betray that trust," he said. "And we will speak no more of it, if you wish."

"Good. Well, I don't have any other tricks up my sleeve to ruin the afternoon. Do you?"

"Not at present,"

"Might as well enjoy what's left of it, then. C'mon."

They were standing just below the crest of the hill, outside the crown of mallorn trees. Passing between the trees and onto flatter ground, they came at last to the top of Cerin Amroth.

Many questions came to her then, as she wandered forward, wide-eyed and breathless. All of which went unanswered: what Tolkien had somehow known, and what he had shaped. Questions of time, and light, and radio waves. For Sam was right, though the Sam she knew had never said it. Here she walked behind an amplifier's grate, over the unfinished wood of a guitar's hollow, between plucked piano strings. The sheet music was all backwards. The mirror side of the melody was playing loud. Cerin Amroth stood beyond the physical, outside time and within the Song.

In branches high above, birds were calling, sweet and sharp. The afternoon was getting on, and pink light poured up the edge of the western sky, dappling the bottom of distant clouds. The hill was awash in a sea of flowers, white and gold waves pushed gently by the breeze. At the center of the hill grew the tallest mallorn tree. Harper went to it.

She laid both hands on the silver-grey bark. Life was in that tree, a bright singing spark of it; when she pressed her palms there in greeting, it pressed back. Time went slack and her heart reached, ring by concentric ring, through millennia of sun and rain and climbing feet: those things by which a tree marks the years. And each year was filled with the unstained delight of being. Growing. Drinking and sunning. It was as it was, a tree atop a hill; nothing more, never less, and blessed by this fact.

A hand on her shoulder. Harper startled and turned around. Aragorn was smiling softly at her. He nodded at the ladder running up the tree.

"Do you wish to climb it?" He asked.

"Yes, please."

Empty telain were dispersed throughout the branches, but they made for the very top. It was a long climb, and they stopped twice to rest. Aragorn was below her on the ladder, and he rubbed at her calf idly as she caught her breath.

They stepped onto the highest talan. Harper did not stray far from the center -- they were up very high -- but she did not need to. The view stretched impossibly wide in every direction, and nothing dared to obscure it. She spun in a slow circle, taking it all in.

To the east, the Anduin was a pale blue glimmer, winding down the border of Lothlorien. Beyond it was the shadow of Southern Mirkwood, where many fir trees lay in the gloom of dark, unnatural clouds. To the south, Caras Galadhon rose up in all its towering glory, bathed in the setting sunlight and glowing, torch-like, at the heart of the forest. To the west, the Celebrant ran past the Nimrodel and to the foot of the Misty Mountains, where Mirrormere waited for the return of her deathless king. No smoke rose from the top of the Silvertine; in its depths, Gandalf and the Balrog battled still. To the north, the Gladden Fields, a marshland of brown grass and murky pools, lay in the mountain range's shadow. No trace, it was said, was ever found there of Isildur after he was slain.

Harper turned away from Isildur's empty grave. Aragorn was looking out into the east. Their future had followed them up the tree, lay well-run and panting at their feet. There would be no kenneling it again. They were insane, she was sure of it, but it was a delightful way to be. It was the only way they knew how to be. Aragorn was right -- they had no hope of doing things normally.

The airy-weight was stampeding in her chest, but no pain came with it. Choice after choice with no choice at all. It was absurd to think she ever could have avoided this. She'd been half-gone on the idea of him, before they ever met; at every turn, his truth had outmatched her fiction. It was far beyond absurd, way out at the border of luck and suspicion, how mangled her fiction had become, so there was even a chance he felt the same. And he did. By singing fucking fortune, he did.

Like he wished her into being, he said. There was no more need for wishing. She was here; she was staying; and she was patently insane, because he asked her to stay with him, and there was no place in all of creation she'd rather be.

So she went to him. He left the east to the east, and looked to her instead.

"What do you think?" Aragorn asked.

"It's beautiful," Harper said.

"It is."

He was. In the setting sun, the silver in his hair was gleaming. His cheeks were pink from the climb, and there was a small nick along the edge of his beard, where he had cut himself while trimming it that morning. She traced a fingertip over the cut, as if she might rub that small hurt away.

"What?"

"You cut yourself."

"Did I?" He asked. "I did not notice."

"I noticed for you," she said. "I really like the beard, y'know."

The view, perhaps, or the future, maybe: some broad and beautiful thing smoothed away all uncertainty. They were always reaching for each other, nudging sly wanting hands over invisible boundaries, then retreating and awaiting rebukes which never came. She could think of better uses for both their hands.

So she ran hers down the edges of his jaw, over his beard; less wild now that he'd trimmed it, but having lost some of its softness in return. Shifting from dark here, to grey there, and dark again, her fingers reveled in the short haired prickle until they met in the middle below his chin. Idly, she rubbed a thumb along the hollow cleft. His breath caught, and his eyelids fluttered a few times before he willed them to stay open.

"Do you?" He asked -- and God, she felt the rasp of his voice everywhere. A honeyed, scraping thing.

"Mhm. Always, but especially when you let it grow out a little." She abandoned the cleft in his chin for the grey patch right over the hinge of his jaw; a sheathed knifepoint of bone, delightful under her fingers, and sure, she thought, to someday be revelation between her teeth.

"I will bear that in mind," he said, and meant it, was winding the ends of her hair between his fingers. After a year without a haircut, it was chest length and for once, unbraided. His knuckles skimmed below her collarbone, a brief accidental caress. It reverberated through every bone in her body, and shattered the rusted shackles of a bound and hungering urge.

"And this," she said, with the lightest touch to the scar on his upper lip. "I like this too."

Aragorn swallowed, wet his lips. "Fishing accident. I was eleven." His eyes had strayed to her mouth, and seemed to be stuck there.

"You can tell me about it later," Harper said. She wrapped her arms around his neck, shuffling forward until their boots and knees knocked. All warm, solid muscle against her. "I'm pretty sure you owe me something."

"Oh?" A breath, really, and hot against her cheek. He blinked, and the black of his pupils swallowed grey iris by gulping degrees.

One hand fell her to waist, and his other came to rest along the side of her neck. He drew small circles over her pulse with his thumb. She shivered, and found the hair at the nape of his neck. Ever so gently, she tugged; the sigh it pulled from him drained the oxygen from her own lungs.

"Yeah. We had an argument. I'm supposed to get a kiss."

"Of course." In a flash, he placed a kiss on her brow and pulled back to look at her. He grinned, all mischief. "Does that satisfy the debt?"

"No," she said simply.

A game, then. Kissing cheeks; temples; chin; and with an absurd smile, the tip of her nose. He pulled back each time, and asked the same question. And she gave the same answer.

He heaved the most put upon sigh. "I am at a loss, Lady, on how to repay this debt."

"I have an idea," Harper said.

"Tell me," Aragorn replied.

Together they stood, for a few unsteady breaths; all the circles of the world spun around them, and a waltzing melody twirled up over the pink horizon. She had come by plain and valley; through darkened wood and river rushing; over mountain, under mountain; across the curtain of spacetime and make-believe -- to this: a slick palisade, and the inexorable surrender to gravity.

"Kiss me, Aragorn."

"Gladly."

Aragorn swayed infinitesimally forward. Their noses bumped, and they laughed quietly. His eyes were grey and sharp and in them, for the first time in either of her lives, Harper felt precious and fully present. His eyes slid shut and a second later, hers did too. And around them, the world dissolved. The Song played on and she didn't listen. Nothing, but the warmth of his skin and the rhythm of his breath, and the synced reaching pound of their hearts.

He kissed her.

Soft at first, chastely brushing. Then, the bend of his neck, and the tilt of her chin. Better angle, move leverage, she fell into him and kissed him back. Firmer then, with lingering purpose. Rough and sweet, his beard grazed her skin. She ran her fingers through it, nails lightly scraping. The softest noise in his throat, and his mouth fell open. A question, as she tasted his bottom lip. His answer, in the clasp of both those ridiculous hands around her waist, and the taste he stole back.

Breathing, what use was breathing? She dizzied herself on his every exhale, chased after the temptation of his mouth; a trap, that was right where he wanted her; a gasp, at the hot clever slide of his tongue against her own. Harper's hands went restless, were done with waiting, refused to stay still. There was so much of him -- firm chest and broad shoulders; the devastating curve of his bicep, where she palmed a delicious swell of muscle, squeezed. Aragorn captured her bottom lip, sweet treatment for his prisoner at first, a suckle and lick. Then he bit down, tugged at it.

A high noise stole out of her throat, and he swallowed it. Her blood was roaring in her ears, rushing south and she was sweating, every inch of skin lit up electric. Aragorn's hands wandered; over her hip, across the small of her back. She went looking, teasing, tasting, and found the hard sliver of scar tissue on his upper lip. Harper licked it once, then again, and again, was suddenly desperate to memorize the shape of it, and Aragorn was panting slack jawed against her, pulling her in by the hips as he did. Then she changed tack, didn't bother to be sweet, sunk her teeth in his bottom lip and sucked sharply at it. He groaned, a rumbling she felt in his chest before she heard it.

She pulled back, caught her breath, opened her eyes. His blinked open and he stared at her, dark and dazed. Idly, he tongued at the indent she'd bitten into his slick bottom lip. Desire pooled low and warm in her hips.

"What the fuck," Harper asked, "have we been waiting to do this for?"

"For you to ask," Aragorn said, like it was obvious, and surely the ragged timbre of his voice in that moment could have revived her, were she on the edge of death.

She pulled him in for another kiss.

Chapter Text

Time turned to little more than casual suggestion. The sun rose, the sun set, stars beyond counting blanketed the forest in gentle rest, and the sun rose again. There was food to eat, when one hungered, and songs to sing, when the birds inspired. Outside the forest, the hours lumbered past with the earthquake weight of giants. But no tremor was felt there in Lothlorien. Cloud light, it drifted from one minute to the next with no thought given for the guiding breeze.

On the eastern edge of the penultimate hill of Caras Galadhon, there was a tall oak growing precariously atop a steep curved bank: an aberration carved into an otherwise gentle hillside. Exposed tree roots spilled over the side of the bank, winding a cozy wall around the concealed bower at the bottom. Alone Harper sat nestled in this bower, amidst a patch of robin blue flowers, quite preoccupied with puzzling out how many days the Fellowship had been in the city.

Counting back by sleeps didn't work. After the first two nights in the pavilion, sleep became an irregular yet unfailingly-restorative indulgence; dozing off for a few hours here, when the sun was up, and a few hours there, when it was sailing off to warm distant shores. Counting by meals didn't work, either. The Hobbits were determined to eat the Galadhrim out of house and home. (Tree and talan? She would admit the metaphor didn't quite carry.) After weeks in the wild, Harper no longer found humor in the Hobbit's appetites, and often joined them for their many meals. Maybe counting by baths would work? Except, she realized, there was at least one day when she had bathed twice, and possibly a second day when she had done the same, but she couldn't be sure.

Finally, the solution came to her, though the method struck her as a tad absurd, even in the privacy of her own mind: counting by kisses.

On the Fellowship's first full day in Caras Galadhon, Harper and Aragorn had gone to Cerin Amroth. That evening, they watched the sunset from the gloriously dizzying topmost talan. Come dark, they returned to pavilion, where he kissed her goodnight, and then went to his own bed for the night.

The second day, they had found themselves alone in the pavilion for the better part of the afternoon. So they dragged her couch into a patch of sunlight and, after some careful arranging of limbs, determined it was just wide enough for them to share. They lounged side by side, and Aragorn listened to her ramble about Lothlorien: how the forest was teeming with near-sapient serenity; how she expected nothing less; and how, regardless of her expectations, that serenity still dazzled her into a shocked stupor when she stopped to consider it.

"Up until now," Harper had said, trying to explain Lothlorien's song, "it's only been the Song and the Ring. It's like a box divided into sections: the noises are all contained in the same space, but they're not really in the space together, y'know? But Lothlorien has its own music, and it's muted the Ring, and made a section for itself in the box, and sometimes jumps out of its own section and mingles with the Song. Which probably doesn't--" she glanced at him to gauge if he was following, and stopped mid-sentence.

Because Aragorn was wearing this soft smile, unguarded and reflexive, and it deepened when she looked at him. She wouldn't have been cloud-gazing as she talked if she knew he was watching her like that -- adoring, attentive, like he would be just as happy listening to her read the phone book. Her stomach flipped. She wanted to kiss him, realized she was allowed to kiss him, and her stomach flipped again.

"You were saying?" Aragorn prompted.

Harper shook her head; it didn't matter, and that train of thought was now lost. Rolling onto her side, she dropped her gaze to his lips for a deliberate moment, then met his eyes again. Aragorn blinked, and his smile morphed into a surprised little O. She laughed quietly, leaned in, and kissed him -- as sweet and slow as the look he had been giving her, and his surprise, deserved. When Harper pulled away, she smiled at him, and then lay back down, fully intending to relocate her train of thought. But Aragorn wasn't one to be outdone: he rolled over and kissed her back, just as slow and just as sweet. They spent the rest of the afternoon like that, talking until one of them fell to distraction, and trading kisses until they felt like picking the conversation up again.

The third day, they had spent the morning sitting next to one another at the table in the pavilion, pretending they weren't thoroughly entertained by the unintentional sitcom Legolas and Gimli were starring in. Legolas was sitting on the other side of Aragorn and, technically, telling him about the different parts of Lothlorien he wanted to visit. Gimli was next to Harper and, technically, asking her if any of the places Legolas mentioned featured in the trilogy, and what she thought of them.

It was the strangest, most indirect way Harper had ever seen two people make plans to hang out.

When Legolas told Aragorn that just beyond the western wall of the city, there was a waterfall in front of the entrance to a small system of caves, Harper forced herself not to laugh. When Gimli asked her about it, she lied and said she thought it was mentioned in the book, and it was supposed to be beautiful; everything in Lothlorien was beautiful, so it felt like a safe bet.

"Well," Gimli had said, "if it made your book, I suppose it must be worth visiting."

Legolas, looking in Gimli's direction but not directly at him, said, "I believe this is a fine day to make the trip. The weather is fair, and should hold throughout the afternoon."

"If you are not opposed to company, and mean to go now, I will follow," Gimli said. "I want to see what manner of caves this land has."

"Come along then, if you wish," Legolas said, and got to his feet. Gimli nodded, and did the same. They bade farewell to Harper and Aragorn, and went on their awkward way.

After they disappeared around the bend and out of sight, Aragorn shook his head and laughed. "You knew this would happen," he accused her. "You have been smiling like the cat that ate the canary for the last half hour."

"Oh, absolutely. I've been waiting for it. We weren't even a week outside of Rivendell the first time I wanted to cut into one of their arguments and tell them to just give up and be friends already."

"I wonder if they would have decided on the caves earlier, were we not here for their discussion," he said, but didn't sound very sorry for staying.

"Probably," she said, equally unapologetic. It had been like spectating a shy, slow motion car crash. Then, impulsively and without quite meaning to, she asked, "Do you want to know a secret?"

"Aye," Aragorn said, intrigued.

Harper glanced around to ensure they were alone; with Legolas and Gimli gone, they were the only ones in the pavilion, and there was no obvious sign any Galadhrim were lingering nearby. Even so, this was, possibly, a foolish decision. There were plenty of reasons she didn't go around announcing the future, at least until the future began to verge on the present and was relevant enough to share. But the odds that telling him would bring about some unknown disaster were very slim. And the thought of shocking him with this revelation was tempting enough to make her roll the dice.

So, abandoning her own cushion, she knelt beside him, and whispered into his ear, "Legolas brings him to Valinor."

Aragorn whipped his head around and stared at her. "Pardon?" He asked, rather loudly. She made an odd noise, half a laugh and half an attempt to shush him. "That cannot be true," he said, at a more appropriate volume, and looked like he was waiting for her to admit she was joking.

"It is!" Harper insisted, but wasn't offended when he remained skeptical. She was simultaneously trying to whisper and force down a laugh at his bewildered expression. Even to her own ears, it sounded like she was having him on.

"This is in the book?"

"Yes. There's a list of important dates in the back, and it's the final entry. They'll be the last living members of the Fellowship, and I think he's one of the last Elves in Middle-earth. So he goes to the Grey Havens, builds a ship, and brings him along."

He searched her face, and seemed to realize she was telling the truth. For a thoughtful minute, he turned it over in his head, but remained at a loss. "How is his entrance permitted? Or even possible? Arda was reshaped to prevent any mortal from following the Straight Road."

She shrugged. "I have no idea. Galadriel is pretty charmed by Gimli, maybe he gets lucky and she pulls some strings for him. Or maybe Aulë realizes he'll get to meet a Dwarf, and asks to have him let in. Or, hell, maybe Bilbo talks the Valar into it -- he's clever enough that I wouldn't put it past him."

His eyebrows shot up. "Bilbo?"

"Uh. Well." Her face heated. Fuck. Here was one of the reasons she didn't go announcing the future: she was terrible at shutting her mouth after she had opened it. This was even worse than that time in Rivendell, when she almost told Aragorn when he was going to die. Then, at least, she had been able to blame her slip up on the wine. "Can we just pretend I didn't say that?"

Aragorn laughed -- at Harper, not with her, and in a way she hadn't heard him laugh before; it was fond and mocking at the time time, and when she blushed deeper, it wasn't out of embarrassment. He shifted in his seat to face her, cupped her cheek, and kissed her.

Slow, at first, but there was an unexpected heat to it, like the only reason he wasn't still laughing at her was because he thought this was a better use of his mouth. It shot sparks up her spine, and for a bright and thoughtless moment she could only let him kiss her. When Harper's brain came back online, she wrapped her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss. Aragorn's hand drifted up to her hair; stroking at first, and then he tangled his fingers in it. Harper nipped at his bottom lip and he made this fascinating, breathy sound in response, so she did it again, just to see if it would have the same effect.

Instead of repeating the sound, Aragorn tilted her head up, and for a long while he teased her with these barely-there slips of his tongue, until she lost her breath and her patience. Harper's hands went to his shoulders, and she surged forward. Leaning over his lap so she was a hitched leg away from straddling him, she tried to steal the upper hand. He made her work for it, and that sent a dozen wondering thoughts thrumming sideways in her skull: absurd, lust-addled things about appreciating the difference between give and take, how he already knew she liked the chase, that he kissed like he argued and like he sang.

Victory, when she claimed it with a slow taste of the scar on his upper lip, meant his hands grabbing her waist, and his jaw dropping open on a shuddering exhale. He was gracious in defeat, eager to please and yielding to every demand her mouth made. It spun her something crazy. He was pure power wrapped in six-plus feet of solid muscle, and when Harper gripped his jaw and wrapped her tongue around his, Aragorn moaned: for her, and for more. The noise reverberated through every bone in her body, bouncing from ribs to hips to toes, and then up again until she echoed it back at him. His grip on her waist turned bruise-tight for the span of a stunned second. He kissed her hard once, twice, and then for a final gentle time before he pulled away.

Harper sat back on her legs, heart pounding, and tried to decide if it was a shame he didn't walk around looking thoroughly kissed all of the time. One on hand, he was breathtakingly sexy like this -- bleary eyed and pink in every place it mattered. On the other, there was a little dragon living in her heart that wanted to horde the sight of him in its bloody pulsing lair, and never let anyone else see. Aragorn's jaw was working like he was trying to think of something to say, but his eyes kept drifting down to her mouth and cutting the thought short.

"I think," Harper said, to fill the silence, and because she suspected she was half-right, "if we hadn't taken things slow in Rivendell, the Fellowship would have needed to knock down our door on Christmas morning."

Aragorn laughed, quiet and a little rough. "Aye. And Elrond would not have farewelled the Fellowship at the gates, but accompanied us to the very border of Imladris for the sole purpose of castigating me all the while. My brothers would have written songs about his wrath, and sung them until the breaking of the world."

Harper grinned. "Would've been worth it," she said, and he didn't disagree.

When Legolas and Gimli returned to the pavilion that night during supper -- chatting happily until they saw the rest of the Fellowship, and then falling into forced silence -- Aragorn caught her eye from across the table, and Harper hid her smile behind a sip of wine.

The fourth day -- yesterday, and there was her answer -- Aragorn had taken her to a lovely pond on the southern edge of the outer reaches. They watched the fish swim about, and he asked her curious, disconnected questions about Earth. Harper told him about grocery stores, and laptops, and climate change. The light in his eyes as he asked and she answered was so captivating, it took a moment for her surprise to register when he asked about the last person she courted.

"Dated. We call it dating. Same difference," Harper had said, after a few moments of listening to the water and failing to gather her thoughts. Then, "Matthew. His name is Matthew."

"Matthew?" Aragorn asked. And didn't that sound strange in his mouth, no matter that his pronunciation was spot on, if hesitant.

"The names here are very different from back home, I don't know if I've told you that. Honestly, the only person I've met with a familiar name is Bill-fucking-Ferny. And Bob the Hobbit, I guess," she said, and laughed when Aragorn glowered at the mention of Bill Ferny. "But yeah, Matthew -- or Matt, he liked both. He was my last real relationship."

Like in the dell after Moria, Aragorn was studying her with healer's eyes that made her skeleton shy, trying to gauge how fresh the wound was before he poked it. "Will you tell me about it?" He asked.

"Sure, if you want. Uh-- I met him at the doctor's office, of all places; they were running behind, and we hit it off in the waiting room. We went out for dinner that same night, and then dated for four years. Broke up ten months before I came here. I thought he was going to ask me to marry him," she said, and the ache in her chest was dull and unimportant, the fading of a habit that had once replaced a habit, broken.

"But he did not?" He asked, in a tone somewhere between pity and scorn, like he was trying to decide which Matt deserved for failing to propose to her. She ignored how much it made her want to preen.

"To be fair, we were both ambivalent about marriage. We had talked about it though, enough that I thought it would happen someday. But it didn't, and eventually I left him."

"That is what led you to leave him?"

"No. Or, kind of, I guess. One day he told me he had gotten a new job on the other side of the country, three thousand miles away. It was very much a surprise. He never mentioned applying for it, let alone that he intended to accept if they made an offer. The whole thing was weird. He asked me to come with him, and got confused when I was angry instead of excited."

Aragorn failed to stifle his laughter with a cough; she raised an eyebrow at him; and he offered her an embarrassed shrug in return. "Four years was not time enough to teach him that you dislike being kept in the dark?" He asked, and by the odd mix of sympathy and confusion in his voice, seemed to be thinking of when he told her about her wisp in Rivendell.

"Y'know, you'd think it would be, but apparently not," she said, and he laughed again.

"Is this when you left?"

"Not that same day. It took a few weeks," Harper said. "There was-- a very long fight, made up of a bunch of little fights. I was giving him time to get his shit together and propose, to tell you the truth. We didn't even live together, and I wasn't going to make a cross-country move for him without some kind of binding commitment. When I got sick of fighting, and he still hadn't asked, I broke it off. I probably would have said yes and gone with him, if he had. I don't know if he didn't realize that, or if he did, and just didn't want to marry me."

"I am sorry," Aragorn said, and to his credit, he said it with a straight face. But still--

"About as sorry as you were when Elrond told me I can't go home," Harper said, but there was no heat in it.

Aragorn gave her an unrepentant grin. "I am sorry for your heartache, at least, as I was in Imladris."

"That, I believe," Harper said. "And thank you. But don't strain yourself. You can be happy I didn't show up here married to Matt."

"It would have been-- unexpected," he said, and his eyes turned distant, skimming the shallow end of a memory; maybe it was of her wisp, but she didn't ask.

"And complicated." That was definitely an understatement.

Aragorn nodded. There was that tension in his jaw which meant he wanted to say something, but was holding the words back by the skin of his teeth. She thought she could guess the rough shape of it.

"The breakup isn't still keeping me up at night," Harper said, and that tension disappeared. "It took me like, two months to realize it was for the best -- which says a lot, after four years. The job thing was a symptom of our issues, not the cause of them. We loved each other, but I don't think either of us were really set on building a life together, just next door to one another, maybe. I could have told him I expected us to get engaged before I moved across the country with him, but I didn't; it was the principle of the thing, that he didn't bother to ask, and not that the prospect of never marrying him broke my heart. It was easy and fun and safe, until it wasn't, and then there wasn't anything worth falling back on."

Aragorn nodded. "What was he like?" And there was nothing remarkable about the way he said it, but there was a telling light in his eyes. He was looking for overlap, trying to see if she had a type without asking outright.

Urged on by a sudden sense of mischief, Harper asked, "what do you think he was like?"

"Foolish and shortsighted," Aragorn replied at once.

Harper laughed, loud and sharp. "Yeah, but other than that."

Aragorn pretended to think about it, then he grinned. "He was five feet tall, bald, and often snored."

"You snore."

Flatly, "I do not."

"Yes, you do. Not as bad as Merry does, but you still do," she said, and he rolled his eyes. "Okay, Matt was a short bald snorer. So why was I with him? Did he have a winning personality? Or a huge--"

"Personality," he cut her off.

Harper snorted. "A huge personality? Sure, we can call it that, if it makes you feel better," she said, with a wink. He lifted an unimpressed eyebrow and refused to rise to the bait. Spoilsport.

The pond bubbled while she tried to come up with an actual answer to his question. They were sitting next to one another, with their legs stretched out in front of them, watching the water. Harper moved, turning her back on the pond, and sat on her knees facing Aragorn. Her thigh pressed against his. She tilted her head and looked hard at him. What did he want to hear, and what did she want to tell him? As soon as she thought it, she realized it was a stupid question. Everything: when they were free to speak, the answer was always everything.

"The first thing he said to me was, 'the woman at the check-in desk is giving out lollipops, but don't repeat my mistake by taking the mystery flavor: purple isn't mysterious or a flavor.' So I got myself one, and brought him back a different flavor. He smiled at me like I'd given him a sack full of gold instead of a piece of candy," Harper said.

Aragorn furrowed his brow. "And you were charmed by that?" He asked, like maybe he was missing the joke.

"I like free candy and a nice smile, and it was enough to break the ice." She shrugged. "I don't think he was ever really charming, but he was funny. Smart, too. He was a mediocre cook, but an excellent baker. We liked the same music, and he was terrible at dancing, but he danced with me when I asked him to."

"Do you enjoy dancing?"

"I do."

"I will remember that."

She didn't doubt it. A moment, then, when she looked for a sign his curiosity had been sated, and continuing to talk about her ex-boyfriend was going to make it awkward. But she found no such sign. He just waited, in his roving stillness -- eyes darting to the pond, or the sky, or the tree line, but returning to her in between -- and seemed ready to let her steer the conversation wherever she pleased, in her own time.

So Harper tucked Aragorn's hair behind his ear. "His hair was lighter than yours, but darker than mine." She traced a finger over his cheekbone, then down his jaw. "He was pretty more than he was handsome, and had a beard because he was self-conscious about it. For six months in the middle of our relationship he had a ridiculous moustache, and we both pretended to like it. Then one night we were wine drunk, and somehow ended up laughing until we cried about how stupid it looked. He kept it for another month just so we could keeping making jokes about it."

"I had a moustache, for a while, in Rohan."

"And I'm sure you looked very dashing," she said, sweet and teasing.

He grinned. "Perhaps I will--"

"No."

"As you wish."

Harper laughed. She ran her hand down the curve of his neck and along his shoulder. "He always insisted he was six foot one, and ignored me when I pointed out he was not four inches taller than me." She paused, unsure of how he would respond to what she was about to say, and then said it anyhow. "The sex was good. He had, in fact, a perfectly average personality--" this time, Aragorn laughed, "--but we didn't really have a hot-and-heavy phase in our relationship. We were attracted to one another, and knew what the other liked, but there was never that spark."

"Spark?" He asked, and she thought he wanted to hear her explanation more than he needed one, but she was happy to play along.

"Like how sometimes you consciously decide you want to sleep with somebody. Because you're simply in the mood to have sex, or you're bored, or you like them as a person. And other times, desire shoves reason and logic into the closet, and reminds you that your body is an animal with an animal's needs, and it can make decisions on its own. Like when just being in the same room as that person gets your blood hot. You can look at them and feel it, that the sex would be mind blowing. Ignoring it doesn't make it go away, and sometimes sleeping with them makes it worse, because then your brain knows it, too. Do you know what I mean?"

"Aye," Aragorn said quietly. His eyes were dark and intent, and for a moment her heart forgot to beat.

"Good," Harper said, then unceremoniously swung her leg out and straddled him. His hands found her waist before the rest of him processed what was happening. He blinked rapidly at her. She waited a beat, to see if he would object; he gave her a heated look and no complaint. "Do you have any other pressing questions about Matthew?"

"I do not."

"Are you sure?" Harper asked. "We could talk about his perfectly average personality."

Aragorn shut her up with a kiss.

It was a lightning strike, not some measly spark. He hadn't done this yet, gone and bypassed a gentler start to throw them straight into the thick of it. White-flash, thunderclap, the field on fire and his tongue in her mouth like he was looking to buy it. She would have laughed, but it was the furthest thing from funny. It straddled the line between vestal and obscene, the kind of science artists love and ethics committees deride: viewing a body's purpose through a microscope, and seeing nothing more than helixes wound together by need.

What was a body anyway, except flesh steered by electricity? And what was Harper, really, except a body steered haywire by desire? There was no room for thought; her every smoking synapse was bent on feeling, and a hundred kilovolts overloaded with it. His thighs were firm under her ass, his hands were wandering down to her hips, and he was kissing her with such single-minded intensity she suddenly pitied every creature he had ever slain. None of them ever stood a chance, and neither did she. Because what was Aragorn, except undiluted focus steered by fate? Doom tasted sweeter by the mouth than by the sword; and luck had favored her when fate handed down its decree.

Harper pulled back, if only because suffocating now meant she couldn't kiss him again later. "Good fucking Lord," she said, when she caught her breath. "What in the world brought that on? Is it because I'm in your lap? Does this hit one of your buttons?"

Aragorn laughed, and sounded so brazenly pleased with himself for eliciting that reaction, she almost cut him off with another kiss before he could answer. "Brought what on? I simply kissed you."

"You're so full of shit. The last time I got kissed like that, I was naked and had just made a man come so hard that his legs gave out."

"Elbereth." Aragorn, turning a fascinating shade of pink, stared at her. He seemed at a loss for words, and after a few false starts, settled on saying, "Matthew is more foolish than I thought."

"No, not him. A guy I went out with a handful of times after I broke up with Matt. It wasn't serious, we were both getting over long term relationships," she said, and he nodded, but didn't bother to rescind his condemnation. "But seriously: is sitting in your lap a shortcut to getting kissed within an inch of my life? Or is something else about this really doing it for you?"

"I think you may be looking for answers where none exist," Aragorn said, but the way his eyes were sparkling undercut his mild tone.

"And I think you're dodging the question. Depriving yourself in the future, too. I can't do it on purpose if I don't know what it is," Harper said, but he kept his silence. "Fine, if you won't tell me, I'll just figure it out myself."

He raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Will you?"

"Yes, I will. You're more obvious than you think."

"Enlighten me, then."

She laughed. "No. I have a few theories, but I need to test them out first."

"And how do you intend to test them?"

"You'll just have to wait and see."

They talked for another hour or two. Aragorn kept a sharp eye on her at first, anticipating whatever tests she had in mind. But Harper let him roll in the wait. She went back to sitting on the ground, and didn't so much as brush their shoulders together, which only made him more suspicious. She weathered his suspicion with a smile, and had the time of her life teasing him by doing nothing at all. When the sun began to set, they wandered back to the pavilion for supper.

Back in the present, nestled alone below the oak in the bower: Harper double-checked her math and was satisfied with her answer. This was their fifth full day in the city.

If she remembered correctly, they would be here for another three weeks. On the way to Caras Galadhon, while Haldir was guiding the blindfolded Fellowship through the Naith, she had promised herself a full week off from worrying about the Quest; so far, she had kept that promise. On one hand, Harper was proud of this accomplishment. On the other hand, the fact that going five days without falling into an anxiety-spiral was something she needed to think of as an accomplishment seemed unfortunate, if understandable given the general circumstances of her life. On a third, metaphorical hand: Aragorn--

"Lady."

"Jesus Christ!" Harper fell over sideways, face first into a pillow of wildflowers.

Aragorn, laughing, stepped out from behind the oak.

"The Galadhrim will not mind if you pick a flower or two. You need not lie down to smell them," he said. A considering tilt of his head. "But perhaps you are simply taking in the city from a flower's point of view."

Harper righted herself and glared up at him. "Sneaking up on me like that isn't funny," she said, but her lips were trembling as she fought down a smile. It was a little funny.

"Sneaking?" Aragorn leapt down into the bower, landed noiselessly, and took a seat. "I made no attempt to conceal my movement. 'Tis not my fault you did not hear me approach."

Her smile fought back and, after an a final pointless struggle, won out. Harper laughed through it. "Isn't this abuse of your ranger powers? There must be a rule against scaring innocent women for your own amusement."

"Innocent, I think, is the key word here."

"I'm the picture of innocence!" Lounging on a hill, surrounded by flowers, with a basket filled with fruit and bread. All she needed to complete the idyllic scene was a lap harp -- but no, she thought, that was too on the nose; a lyre, then.

"Deceptive, a picture may be," Aragorn said, with a teasing grin. He looked around the bower. "What have you been doing here, in your supposedly innocent picture?"

"Honestly? Thinking about you."

"Oh." His grin turned slanted, and shy. A faint blush bloomed on the high points of his cheeks. It was a painfully sweet and entirely unexpected reaction; she wanted to spread it like jam over toast and eat it. "What about me?"

"Well at first I was trying to count out how many days we've been here, but ended up thinking about us making out for non-quantitative reasons, instead."

This answer, for some reason, was easier for him to take in stride than her last. Aragorn laughed under his breath, and said, "I was right, then, to find the innocence of your picture suspect."

"You could find a rock suspect, if you tried," Harper said, and he nodded like it was a compliment.

They lapsed into a pleasant silence. Aragorn shut his eyes and stretched out his legs. Dappled sunlight reached into the bower to dance over his face, down his chest, away along the wildflowers and then, tempted by the sight of him, raced back up to kiss his cheeks again. Lazing there, in the sun's delighting, he seemed, simply, to listen: as leaves rushed with the wind, animals scurried through the brush, and Elvish song lilted in the distance. Before long he began tapping a nonsense rhythm against his thigh; Harper ran her eyes down the indecent length of his legs, and found his foot was swaying to the same tapped nonsense time.

It was sometime after noon, and he must have come from the bathhouse. The breeze flirted with his loose shirt-sleeves and through his hair; a damp strand brushed the side of his face. Without opening his eyes he swept the hair away. A drop of water clung to his skin, remaining, for a moment, half hidden in the shadow of his cheek bone. He tilted his head just so and the drop began to slide -- over the sharp cut of his jaw, down a tendon in his neck, and past the delicate hollow of his throat; coming to rest, at last, atop the hinge of his collarbone.

Hospitality was a serious thing in Lothlorien. The Galadhrim gave kindness for the sake of kindness, not with thoughts of repayment. Yet Harper owed them a debt, if only of gratitude: the low cut of Aragorn's tunic was far too generous a gift. He wore it only half laced, and a tease of chest hair was visible beneath the laces.

Christ. A tendril of heat twisted in her abdomen. Midwinter in the Golden Wood was temperate and breezy, and the back of her neck was sweating. Harper was struck animal dumb by the sight of him -- absent of thought and altogether starving. Hoping the sweetness of it might center her, she slipped her eyes shut, and remembered saying goodnight to him after Cerin Amroth: how he had laughed as he pulled her in, smiling into the kiss, and how she could only smile back. Had he fallen asleep still smiling, too?

A tender question, and one she cast aside as soon as she reemerged from the memory. His eyes had opened in the interim, and he was staring at her -- not her face, no, his gaze was glued to the hint of cleavage visible beneath the laces of her own tunic.

Maybe they would write a joint thank-you note to the tailors of Lothlorien. Later.

Now, Harper laughed quietly.

Aragorn heard her, the sudden light in his eyes was telling. But he said nothing. Slowly, his eyes slid down, from chest to waist to hip, and over the curves of her legs. Harper exhaled slowly. The weight of his gaze was a physical thing -- not a caress, that was too gentle a word. It was heavy and utterly self-assured. Aragorn knew she was watching him look at her, and he knew she liked it.

He retraced his steps. Back up over legs and hips, lingering again at her chest, before climbing the final stretch of her shoulders and neck. His gaze met hers but didn’t stay there, dipping low to steal one final glance at her lips before returning to her eyes. Aragorn leaned back against the bower wall and arched an eyebrow at her.

Time jumped and shivered. A handful of seconds were lost and never regained -- melted away by the heat in her stomach, dashed and scattered by the beating of her heart. One moment she was sitting opposite him and the next she was in his lap.

“Hi,” Harper whispered. He smelt like sunlight and soap and smoke.

Aragorn gripped her waist, steadying her -- her tunic bunched in his hands. “Hello,” he said, more laughter than word. If he was surprised by how she’d pounced on him, it was overshadowed by a bloom of delight.

Their heads were level like this, with Harper straddling his thighs -- strong, clenching then relaxing under her weight. His skin was still bath-warm, and she could feel his heart beating as she gentled fingertips over his sternum, clavicle; she dragged her thumb over his pulse point just to feel it jump, and followed the line of his jaw back until she cradled the hinge of it in her palm.

“Have we been here for four or five days?” She asked, just to be contrary, even though she already knew; because he was waiting for her to kiss him, and she wanted to see what he would do.

A pause.

“Four," he answered, but with little confidence.

"You're just guessing."

Aragorn shrugged. She ran her fingers through his hair, tugging softly at the root. Just to watch his eyelashes flutter, just because she could; she needed no other reason and rejoiced in the freedom. Then, his easy smile turned mischievous. Her pulse kicked up.

It was ridiculous: how wonderful he was, how much fun this was. They'd thrown the rulebook out with the game box and were sliding the pieces whichever way they pleased. Let's play, said her heart, and his rolled the dice without a second thought.

"Why do you ask?" His voice was low and teasing, and he curled his arm around her waist.

Harper bit her lip and said nothing. She shifted her weight to test his hold and just as she hoped: he held her tighter for it.

"Are you expected somewhere?" His other hand dropped to her thigh, stroking up from her knee to the swell of her hip.

She shrugged in response, and kept her silence, pretending to be fascinated by the embroidery around the collar of his tunic. It was soft to the touch, but not soft enough to distract her from the perfect way his hand spanned her hip.

"An afternoon tryst with a pretty Elf, perhaps?" He tugged her closer, and sat up straighter so there was little room left between them. His eyes darkened when she arched her spine to press her breasts against him.

And that was game on.

"Actually, now that you mention it? I am," Harper said brightly. "He's super cute. All lithe and hairless, totally my type. I'd completely forgotten. Thanks for the reminder." She made a half-hearted attempt to break free from his hold; there was a deep noise of protest, a shift of his grip, and swift movement.

Harper blinked, and found herself lying flat on her back. Aragorn was holding himself up above her, with his arms straight and his hands on either side of her shoulders, blocking out the sky. Oh. The sky had been blue, anyway, nothing new. But her mouth was very dry. She swallowed. It didn't help. The smug smile on his face and the glitter in his eyes didn't help, either.

"My bad," Harper said, when she found her voice again. She propped herself up on her elbows. "I forgot to ask if you'd want to watch."

Point to her: Aragorn blushed.

Harper stroked his cheek and tucked his hair behind his ear, only to have it fall free again a second later. "Y'know, if you want me to behave, you really have to stop blushing like that. It only makes me want to run my mouth more often," she said. The ties of his tunic were dangling between them. She wound one around her finger.

"I cannot control the whims of my blood," he said. She waggled her eyebrows at him. He laughed, blushed deeper, and shook his head at her leering. "So I suppose it is fortunate that I do not wish for you to behave."

"Big talk," she said.

Point to him: he kissed her.

A while, like that, there among the flowers. The game was sweet, at first, playing for the sake of playing. Aragorn ghosted kisses over every inch of skin in reach. Laughing, when he realized her earlobes were ticklish. Lingering, in the hollow of her neck, to see what soft sounds he could pull from her; with a hint of teeth, he won a pitiful noise that made her face heat.

Harper hauled him up to kiss him properly, stole the reins and turned it into a taunting game. She worried his bottom lip; took hold of his chin and licked behind his teeth, which she wanted to be doing always, actually, because it made his jaw slack and his arms shake. He groaned, rallied, and gave chase.

Next round, suddenly less sweet. Or not so suddenly. Time went missing from that bower and they didn't care to look for it, so it was difficult to say. This, instead: the space between their bodies surrendered under siege.

Aragorn kissed her until she couldn't breathe and decided that wasn't good enough for him; he shifted his weight to one arm and buried his hand in her hair. His hand was hot and huge, cradling her skull like that, and she was sweating, on her scalp and down her neck and behind her knees, every odd place desire reached. Harper strained against his grip, just to feel the sharp tug, and shivered at the liquid-sweet sting flooding across her skin. Clever as always, he caught on; a better handful of hair, a more deliberate pull; and she traded her gasp for the sharp press of his smug grin into the next kiss.

Her stupid lungs were burning, but his tongue was in her mouth and sliding slow and deep, like he was starving too and she was his first real meal in weeks. If he tried to eat her alive Harper would let him do it with a smile, as long as it felt like this: carrion-bird and carcass bliss, the lines of nature blurring until it was impossible to tell who was doing the devouring. And then a thought came: of Aragorn's head between her spread thighs, making her buck and writhe with that same tongue and those same slow deep slides; and then the rest of her was burning too.

Another thought followed: of both his hands, resting hothuge on her head, trembling and too brainless to pull at her hair as she swallowed him down as slow as she pleased. Every time Aragorn so much as twitched she'd pull off, wait, and then start again. She would take her sweet time until he begged for it, until she made him cry.

Her lungs raised the white flag. Harper fell down flat, panting. Christ, the way he grinned at her, with his mouth red and kiss-bitten, stole her breath again. Aragorn pushed his legs back, dropped to his elbows, and followed her down.

All the play went out of playing, as rules and sides changed. Harper twisted her head to the side, and he nipped his way up her throat and then down again. Was she an open book, or was he just offensively good at this? Who knew, who cared, it didn't matter -- not when he was focused on that spot below her jaw, alternating between whisper-light brushes of lips and biting threats of bared teeth.

Aragorn was relentless, kept it up until her blood was boiling and she could only pant and arch her neck to give him better access. When Harper whined -- loud, too loud, shit they were technically in public -- at the scrape of his teeth, he let out this ragged, wondering laugh; Aragorn tangled his hand back in her hair, tilted her head up and sought her lips, but the angle was off. So he moved, slotted a leg between her thighs, and let her feel his weight.

Harper wasn't short; but with him over her, on her like this she felt downright tiny, and it flipped some desperate switch. Her hands got greedy, went running down his chest and it was absurd how much of him there was and how much she needed to feel every inch.

She mapped him out from shoulder to hip -- dallied in the valley of his waist and the mountain range of his ribs -- but it was an incomplete sketch of his typography; his stupid tunic was in the way of what she really wanted, skin against skin. Bravery struck, and she slid her hand under the hem of his tunic, palmed his abdomen.

Aragorn stilled, and broke the kiss.

They stared at one another, for a frozen minute, with her unmoving hand still spread below his navel, and her brain spinning out from a mere palmful of revelation. There was coarse hair and soft skin, a little bit of padding -- not enough, quite frankly, he needed to eat more -- and under that was lean, solid muscle earned through sixty-odd years of putting his body to hard use. He was hot the touch and sweat damp, and she wanted nothing more than to roll him over and find out if the sweat on his abdomen tasted the same as the sweat on his neck. But:

"I can behave," Harper offered, and meant it. "I just-- you feel so fucking good."

Aragorn let a quiet noise slip through his parted lips. There was a wild look in his eyes and his pupils were blown wide. Twofold, she felt his breathing quicken: in puffs of warm air breaking against her face, and the rise and fall of his stomach under her palm. Her hand twitched. He shook his head, and before she was able to ask what he meant by it, he answered her with a kiss.

It turned open, frantic, messy. All liquid heat everywhere: sweat was dripping down her back, her blood was evaporating into steam, and she was soaking wet, could feel her pulse jumping in her clit. With permission granted, both her hands went wandering; around the subtle bow of his waist and up the sinful arch of his spine. Her palms grazed over the ridged hints of scars and the wiry spill of his chest hair; his blind haphazard portrait in her mind scrawled to life, line by line, with every new curve and dip of him her hands realized.

Aragorn dug his teeth into her bottom lip; Harper scraped her nails down his back; and somebody's weight shifted, it didn't really matter whose. Because then his thigh dragged against her cunt, and the friction was just enough; bright dizzy pleasure flared in her gut and she gasped. Her hips kicked up of their own volition and collided with his, and God-- he was hard, pressing hot against her even through the strained fabric of his trousers. She couldn't help herself, grabbed his waist and dug her feet in for better leverage, then arched her hips with purpose and ground against his cock. Aragorn buried his face in her neck, panting; another rolling grind, and a ragged moan ripped out of his chest.

God. She wanted--

But sense broke though the wanting and the heat and the haze they made. No, okay: public. They were outdoors, and it was the middle of the day, and they were in public, so they needed to stop.

Reluctantly, Harper let go of him and fell flat on the ground. Aragorn read the signal and pushed himself up onto his elbows so there was some space between them. But, head bent and struggling for breath, he took a moment to meet her eye. She bit her lip. The stunned look on his face was not helping -- like desire had run a redlight and plowed right into him while he was crossing the street.

She reached, desperately, for sense again. "Um." It was a squeak, more than anything else. His hair was disheveled, his lips were puffy and wet, and he was taking these deep, measured breaths. "Fuck. I want you so bad. Do you have any idea how sexy you are?" Harper heard herself ask, which was absolutely not what she had intended to say.

Oh-- It was like he short-circuited. Embarrassment and arousal and pride crashed together in a conflicted burst of disbelief, flushing his cheeks and creasing his forehead and snapping his jaw shut. Aragorn swallowed hard.

Clock stop, buzzer, game over.

Voices sounded nearby and began to draw closer, down the hill and toward their bower. Aragorn rolled off her and Harper scrambled to sit up. For a small handful of minutes they messed uselessly with their hair and clothes, trying to smooth everything down and look as if they'd been innocently enjoying the afternoon and were not about to be caught, very publicly, in flagrante by whoever was walking past.

It was the Hobbits, or most of them. Eventually, Frodo, Merry, and Pippin came around the oak to the top of the bank. They halted, and for a very silent moment stared down at Harper and Aragorn, who were doing their level best to appear casual. Their level best was, unsurprisingly, not good.

Pippin put his hands on his hips. "Well that solves it."

"Solves what, exactly, Master Took?" Aragorn asked, and Harper kept her eyes on the Hobbits. There was a grated edge to his voice that might have passed as an attempt to emulate Gandalf's usual irritation with Pippin -- as if that would cow him -- but she knew why, exactly, he sounded like that, and she was going to break if she so much as peeked at him.

"Our mystery!" Pippin replied. A terribly impish smile curled the edges of his mouth.

"It is time for luncheon, or well past it now. It was time for luncheon when we set out to look for Harper," Merry said, and then addressed her. "You have been eating properly since we came here, and we have been glad to see it. But when noon arrived and you did not, we decided you must have forgotten, not being quite used to our schedule. So we went to find you."

Fondness surged in her heart. "You guys didn't have to wait for me," Harper said.

"And we might not have!" Pippin said. "Had we known we needed to traipse the entire wood to find you. I'd bet the whole of Tuckborough that Samwise has eaten double his portion, and is well into his nap by now. 'Go on ahead, I'll hold the table,' he said. As if we are at the Green Dragon!"

"Be kind, Pippin," Frodo said, laughing. "Sam is not here to defend himself, and you were the one who started talk of 'solving mysteries'. If you wish to blame anyone for your empty stomach: blame yourself."

At the mention of mysteries, Pippin's eyes gleamed. "So you have heard our tale and all the sacrifice therein. I believe we are owed a full accounting for our troubles. What have you been getting up to, out here and away by yourselves? Talking with the trees like Elves?" Pippin looked up at the oak. "He's a tall fellow, but he does not look as if he has very much to say."

Harper pointed at the untouched basket of fruit and bread. "Picnic."

"Naturally," Frodo said, dry as the desert.

"So we may split your plate between ourselves?" Merry asked, with faux-innocence and real hope. "I doubt you will want your lunch after a picnic. And afternoon tea is not far off."

Harper's stomach cramped in protest. She hadn't eaten since breakfast and it was indeed well past time for lunch. "No. We didn't get around to eating, because, uh--" she threw caution to the wind by glancing at Aragorn, waiting for him to jump in.

But Aragorn was looking up at the Hobbits and doing a mediocre job of hiding his amusement with the whole situation. After a beat, he returned her glance; his shoulders twitched as he fought down a laugh, and he looked away again.

"Because I was feeling very sad about missing home. I did some crying, Aragorn let me vent, and we forgot to eat," Harper lied, and managed to do so with a straight face.

The Hobbits shared looks amongst themselves. They were obviously not convinced, and rightfully so. But they seemed to be silently debating whether it was worth it to challenge her. It would be horrible to accuse her of lying about this, if she was indeed telling the truth, which of course was why she said it. When no one dared to take the risk, they accepted it with a shrug.

"Well if you are done venting," Frodo said, and there was nothing unusual about the way he did, save for the fey light in his eyes, "and think a meal will help you recover your strength: come along. Sam would be right to have started picking at our plates by now. Luncheon and afternoon tea will have to be a joint affair. The walk back to the pavilion is hardly short, at least for us Hobbits."

"You guys can eat what I packed on the way," Harper said, earning smiles from Frodo and Merry, and a full hurrary! from Pippin.

Harper, Aragorn, and the Hobbits left the bower behind and went to the pavilion. Faithful Sam had not, in fact, eaten any food but his own. He greeted them with a healthy amount of fuss; after all but shoving a plate at Frodo, he chided Harper -- and Aragorn, though Sam's face went red halfway through doing so.

"It's easy to lose your way here, is all I mean to say," Sam concluded, blush fading now that he'd turned back to Harper. "I'm not doubting the Elves to help if they find us wandering about lost, but they'll need to find us first, if you take my meaning. These three might've walked right around you and gone on looking, and not made it back 'til supper."

"Point taken," Harper said, with full sincerity. "It was very nice of you to form a search party, but don't miss your meals on my account. I'll turn up sooner or later."

Satisfied, Sam nodded.

Afternoon tea arrived then, as did Boromir. He took a seat at the table, at first looking excited to have come just in time for food, but after a glance around the pavilion, his smile faded.

"Is Faramir not here?" Boromir asked, squinting in the direction of the empty couches.

"We have not seen him since breakfast," Merry said.

"Breakfast?" Boromir echoed, with a faint frown. "There was some talk between him and Legolas of snare-making yesterday, after they disagreed about the best method to bait a leg snare by. Perhaps they have gone to settle it."

"More time spent lying about in the brush?" Pippin asked, vaguely disgusted.

"The challenge is what appeals, not the brush itself. For Faramir, at least," Boromir explained. "It was quite a problem in our youth. My brother is open-minded, but if you challenge him on something he feels firmly about -- and are well reasoned in your argument -- he will not rest until the matter is proven, one way or the other. We had three tutors in as many years once he reached adolescence. He was never ill-behaved, of course, but he ran them ragged. If Gandalf had not come to Minas Tirith after the last resigned, I cannot imagine how our father would have found another."

Pippin remained skeptical. "Even so, wouldn't one want to embrace the change of pace the city provides, after spending weeks in the wild?"

"One does," Boromir agreed. "Which is why I am not out there with them."

Talk turned from Minas Tirith to old Shire gossip, and then along the non sequitur paths of conversation a well acquainted group tended to take between mouthfuls. Aragorn was sitting across from Harper, and they couldn't seem to go more than a few minutes without trading heated looks. Which was encouraging, if distracting. There was no shadow of regret in Aragorn's eyes, and he hadn't taken her up on her offer to keep her hands to herself and behave, but the way he had stilled when she first touched his bare stomach was lodged in her mind.

It irritated her to the point of exhaustion that her life in Middle-earth seemed to primarily consist of serious conversations, even though she had reluctantly accepted this fact wasn't a bug, it was a feature -- and would remain so until the Quest was completed. But the anxious fluttering in her chest now was different than the dreadful pressure she felt in the days between the Dimrill Dale and her consequent conversation Aragorn, or when she considered the conversations she would need to have with the Fellowship before they left Lothlorien.

Discussing their boundaries as a couple -- and the thrilled leap of her heart at being able to think of them as such was visceral, if slightly laughable -- was important and unavoidable. Harper didn't even want to avoid it. This conversation wasn't strictly overdue, but she had been daydream anticipating it for months.

They had been chastely intimate since Rivendell, after all. Coy, curious, teasing, testing -- finding reasons to reach for one another, and inventing reasons where none existed. They had pressed but never pushed, dancing around the truth of the matter while it grew and took shape between them.

But on Cerin Amroth, the dam cradling desire cracked and shattered; they were swept up in the current together, and it showed no sign of slowing anytime soon.

The problem: Aragorn was a piecemeal tapestry of different cultures, and a gentleman to boot. It was a joy to shock him with wandering hands or filthy flirting, but the line between shock and distress was frighteningly thin, and she didn't know where it was hiding.

Harper needed parameters, exacting instructions on how to navigate the flood. If he wanted to take the plunge, to tumble along the riverbed until the water burst rhapsodic in their lungs, then she was more than willing to drown down there with him. But that felt closer to fantasy than possibility. For a dozen unfortunate and understandable reasons, it was probably far too soon to expect him to stop treading water and submit to the current's whims. So Aragorn needed to tell her whether he wanted to float downriver on his back, or on a raft, or even swim for shore; and do so before the rush and glimmer of the water went to her head, and she managed to waterboard him with what she considered a playful splash.

Later, Harper decided, she would pull him aside and ask what he wanted. And then, by God, she was going to give it to him if he let her. Another look between them, at the tail end of that thought -- Harper glanced at Aragorn over the rim of her cup, and caught his eyes wandering down to her chest. He sensed her looking, and met her gaze. Utterly unabashed, he grinned, and then turned his attention back to the story Frodo was telling and Merry was interrupting. Harper shivered in her seat before doing the same.

Later. Definitely, definitely later.

When the meal ended, Boromir declared it had been too long since Merry and Pippin's last proper dueling lesson, and it was time to run them through their paces again. After a few half-hearted complaints about exercise so soon after eating, they relented, and left the table to fetch their weapons.

"Might I observe?" Aragorn asked Boromir.

Boromir obviously wasn't expecting the question. He hesitated. There was a sudden tension in his shoulders, but after a moment, a cautious optimism filled his eyes. He studied Aragorn, looking for the answer to some unspoken question. Aragorn returned Boromir's gaze guilelessly, and waited for his response. Frodo and Sam politely pretended not to pay attention, but Harper watched the Men with her heart in her throat.

After a minute, Aragorn graciously offered him an out. "Pippin wished to duel me for the last of my pipe-weed. I thought to see how likely he is to win before I accept -- he is quite fierce when he is properly motivated. But if you think it unsportsmanlike, I understand."

Harper was almost certain that was a load of bullshit. Then again, she wouldn't put it past Pippin. And either way, it was the right thing to say.

Boromir laughed, quiet but sincere. "Perhaps you are overdue for practice as well, if you doubt your ability to best him. Aye, join us -- and bring your blade. 'Tis easier to demonstrate with a sparring partner, and my sword arm could do with a good stretch."

Aragorn simply nodded, but his eyes were bright, and he seemed pleasantly surprised by the invitation to spar.

"Harper?" Boromir asked, apparently expecting her to invite herself along as well.

Harper considered it, then shook her head. "No thanks, I ate way too much. I'm probably going to nap." She did want to lie down in the sun and digest. She also wanted to give Aragorn and Boromir a chance to bond without her observing like a neurotic hall monitor. Two birds, etc.

A friendly roll of his eyes. "You have eagerly converted to the Hobbit's schedule, I see. By the time we depart Lothlorien, you will be a Hobbit in all but stature," Boromir said.

"And what," Frodo sniffed, fighting back a laugh, "is so wrong with that? Harper would get along quite well in Shire. Perhaps other Men would be more peaceable if they were as inclined as she to see the sense in our way of doing things."

Boromir raised his hands in mock surrender. "I mean no disrespect to the Shire-folk. But you must admit she would be an oversized addition."

"You know," Harper mused, "most people in my world would choose to be a Hobbit, if they had to pick a different race from Middle-earth -- myself included."

"And we would be delighted to have you," Frodo said, with a bright smile.

"Gandalf gets around good enough back home, and he's got a few inches on you," Sam said, eyeing her critically. "It'd be a bit cramped though, 'less you're willing to knock your knees and watch your head everywhere you go, or dig a smial to suit your size."

"Crickhollow has high ceilings," Frodo said to Sam. "Finding comfortably sized furniture would be the real challenge. Perhaps from Bree?"

"Mr. Bracegirdle's lad is taking up carpentry, according to my Gaffer," Sam said. "He might make a quicker job of building things proper. Would probably cost a pretty penny, but it'd be easier than having it all hauled in piece by piece."

Merry and Pippin returned from retrieving their swords as Sam was speaking, and when Boromir did not immediately rise to herd them toward their lesson, they plopped back down into their seats.

"Bero Bracegirdle is doing carpentry now?" Pippin asked. "That will not last very long. He is the clumsiest Hobbit I have ever met. I cannot imagine anyone trusting him with a butterknife, let alone a saw. He will lose half his fingers by autumn, if not a whole hand at the wrist."

Sam frowned like he thought Pippin was right, and he was now worried about the fate of Bero Bracegirdle's limbs.

"Do not tell me you are thinking of getting new furniture when we return home, Frodo, or I will be quite put out," Merry said. "Moving the mathom horde of Bag End into Crickhollow was an ordeal, even with Fatty's help. You ought to appreciate our hard work for a while."

Frodo shook his head. "Not for myself -- for Harper."

Merry raised his eyebrows at her. She just shrugged, unsure why he looked so surprised. This was hardly the strangest conversation they'd had as a group. Two days out from Bree, Pippin had barely said good morning to Frodo and Sam before asking them which vegetable they thought looked the least trustworthy. It turned into a spirited debate, which Merry joined as soon as he woke up; jumping in with strong opinions about parsnips, and never giving any sign he thought the topic was odd.

"For Harper?" Pippin cried. "Aha! Merry, you owe me a drink."

Merry wasn't having it. "That was not a real wager, and you know it. And I might have placed my bet differently, if I knew we were going to ask her."

"Ask me what?" Harper said, a little lost. "Boromir didn't think I'd fit in, literally, in the Shire, so Frodo and Sam were talking about hypothetical accommodations."

"Oh," Pippin said, oddly glum.

"Not entirely hypothetical," Harper said, confused but trying to cheer him back up. "I definitely want to see the Shire at some point."

"Would you like to help me win a bet, as well?" Pippin asked hopefully.

Merry rolled his eyes. "It doesn't count now that she knows, Pip."

"Know what?" Harper asked.

But Pippin talked right over her. "Says who? We set no such terms."

"Whatever you have wagered, I suspect you ought to listen to Merry and leave it be," Boromir said. "Unless you are keen on buying him a drink."

Pippin scoffed. "We haven't even asked yet!"

"A fool and his coin..." Boromir muttered.

Harper didn't bother asking them for a third time. She caught Aragorn's attention, and raised a curious eyebrow. Did he know what Merry and Pippin were talking about? Aragorn shook his head. He was out of the loop as well, but seemed content to watch the conversation play out.

Sam had been quietly mulling something over, and came at last to a conclusion, which he shared with the group. "Now that we're saying it, I'm not sure we thought this through. Leastways because Harper might be comfortable in Crickhollow or the like, after a good bit of work, but there's not a home in the four Farthings that's built for Strider's height."

"I believe he intends to stay in Gondor, when all is said and done. Unless we are talking of him simply visiting," Frodo said.

Sam frowned and looked skeptically between Aragorn and Harper, like he thought that only proved his point further. Harper grinned at Aragorn, imagining him traveling all the way from Gondor to see her, and spending the entire visit smacking his head on every doorway in her absurdly small house. Aragorn seemed to follow her train of thought, and rolled his eyes playfully in response.

"Perhaps he does not need to fit in Crickhollow," Merry joked. "Aragorn, you are fond of the outdoors, are you not?"

Harper burst out laughing. "You could have a stable in the backyard!" He tried to look offended, but his eyes were bright with mirth and it only spurred her on. "C'mon, I'd even paint it in Gondor's colors, and spread out fresh straw whenever you came to visit. It'd be very regal, you wouldn't even notice the difference from Minas Tirith."

Boromir snorted. "You could call it the Royal Apartments."

"Or Rangers Rest," Harper suggested, and Boromir nodded his approval. Aragorn gave them both a reproachful look. Harper and Boromir glanced at one another, and laughed even harder.

Pippin crossed his arms over his chest. "This is a serious matter, thank you very much! Harper needs to live somewhere, after all. I think the Shire is a perfectly good choice, even if it would be a tight fit, and Aragorn is too tall for polite company." He looked accusingly at Sam and Merry. "You turncoats did not think it quite so ridiculous when Frodo first suggested it."

Harper blinked at Pippin's outburst, glanced between the Hobbits, and tentatively put the pieces together. "Okay, wait. I feel like there are two different conversations happening here, and somebody needs to catch me up. Were you guys genuinely going to suggest I move to the Shire?"

"Yes," Pippin said.

At the same time, Merry said, "maybe not."

"We had not come to an agreement," Frodo said, a second after that.

Harper laughed quietly. "Yeah, I can tell."

"We got to talking our first morning here," Sam explained. "It seemed awful sad you passed up a chance to go home, just to stay and help us out here. Even worse, that when all is finished we'll get on back to our own homes, while you aren't able to do the same. So we started wondering where you might like to make your home, in a manner of speaking. We're a bit biased, I'll allow, but it seemed a right fit when Frodo suggested the Shire."

"Oh," Harper whispered, immediately on the verge of tears. That was the sweetest thing she had ever heard.

"It felt impolite to ask you about your plans, so soon after you chose to stay. We intended to wait a while, and consider the matter further, but that has fallen apart rather quickly," Frodo said.

"I thought, and still hold, that your size will pose a cumbersome challenge," Merry said. "I also suspect you will be happier amongst Men in the long run, and it is a bit foolish to think you will feel otherwise. But it is a standing invitation, even though we have issued it poorly."

"And I still hold that Merry is the foolish one, for thinking it so unlikely," Pippin added. "You should say yes, now that we have asked -- and not only so he will buy me a drink. I think you would find the Shire exactly to your liking."

Harper rubbed at her eyes and let out a thick, mangled laugh. Hobbits! She loved each of them to death, and had no idea how to let them down gently after such a kind, and oddly delivered, invitation. Hoping for backup, Harper shot a pleading look at Aragorn. He didn't hesitate.

"Alas, my friends," Aragorn said, "I cannot fault you for hoping to steal Harper away to the Shire, come the end of our quest. But I think you will find you have missed your chance."

Harper smiled at him: wide, thankful, and ridiculously besotted. Fondness creased the corners of his eyes, and there was that self-satisfied twitch of his jaw; he had enjoyed announcing that so definitively. Her heart leapt every exhilarated which way in her chest.

Pippin harrumphed. "And why are you so sure of that?" He asked Aragorn, sticking his chin out. Aragorn did not laugh at the challenge in his eyes, and Harper adored him for it.

Boromir gaped at Pippin. "You cannot be serious."

"My dear cousin," Frodo said, "I think the solution to your afternoon mystery makes the answer quite obvious."

Pippin refused to back down. "No, it does not," he said archly.

Merry, the little terror, looked at Pippin for a moment and decided to switch sides. "If a friendly tumble in the flowers is meant to decide where one lives, I am long overdue for a move to Bywater. I say the Shire still has a chance, and Gondor has not won this, yet."

Pippin nodded. "Exactly!"

"I told you, he was listening to me vent about missing home," Harper said, and Merry just grinned back at her, all unswayed mischief.

Boromir looked thoughtfully at Harper. "I wonder: is it your land's custom, or his northern one, to scrub your skin pink on his beard while you air your grief? Either way, I confess I find it strange."

Harper's hand flew up to pat at her chin and cheeks, like she could wipe the beard burn off her face. She glared an accusation at Aragorn. He could have told her about that! Aragorn shook his head a moment too late -- there was, in fact, no lingering beard burn -- and Boromir laughed at them both.

"Oh, fuck off," Harper said, but she was too impressed by how clever that had been to really mean it. "Jesus, fine, you all win. It's not like kissing is some hideous crime."

"Nor does it concern anyone but ourselves," Aragorn said, stern but not unkind, and politely refraining from directing it at anyone in particular.

"As if we are at all surprised," Merry muttered, and ignored Aragorn's admonishing stare.

"Is that enough to make you stop being willfully obtuse?" Frodo asked Pippin.

"No," Pippin said. "Because I am being logical, not obtuse. It's true that we Hobbits are not your tumbling sort of friends, Harper. But we are still your friends, and outman Aragorn four to one. If you intend follow a friend home at the end of this, the numbers are on our side, and I think that should be taken into consideration."

Boromir frowned. "And where are Faramir and I marked in your tally? Among the pickled giblets? If you insist on counting, then count correctly. It would be four to three." Maybe Boromir sensed the surprised look Harper gave him for arguing he counted as her friend, but he didn't react to it, and kept his eyes on Pippin.

"Four to three, then," Pippin said, rolling his eyes. "It hardly matters, since the numbers are still in our favor. But if closer odds make the loss easier to bear, that is your business." Boromir shook his head, muttering friendly invective at the insolence of Hobbits. Pippin grinned and nodded his agreement, and Boromir laughed.

"Begging your pardon, Pippin, but I think calling Strider and Harper 'friends' is rather like saying the same about Fatty Bolger and my sister, May," said Sam.

"Well, yes," Pippin said, confused. "I acknowledged they are the tumbling sort of friends, did I not?"

"You did, though I'd rather we leave the tumbling right out of it," Sam said, cringing.

Merry laughed. "If you think Fatty and May have not gone tumbling, then you will be surprised by the tale I can tell of an awkward encounter on the Yuledays before last."

"And I'll ask you kindly not to tell it," Sam said firmly. "What I'm meaning to say is: Fatty's been a good friend to May, but he wasn't asking my Gaffer about moving her out to Budgeford next year for friendship's sake, or just 'cause they're friends who've gone a little sweet on each other. Seems fair to say that after a point, 'friends' starts being a strange thing to name it."

"And when was this?" Frodo demanded, eyes wide with intrigue. "I heard no such news from Fatty, even when he was singing May's praises on Mid-year's Day."

"About a week before we left home," Sam said. "He means to keep it secret for a while, I reckon. He and the Gaffer were talking in the garden while I was fixing my tea, and you know that old window in the kitchen never closes right. I doubt Fatty knows I heard -- I made myself scarce before he left. So if he hasn't worked up the courage to ask her by the time we make it back, I'll ask you three to not go spreading that around."

Frodo looked at Sam in wonder. "Samwise Gamgee, the extraordinary spy."

"And that is why we chose Sam as our conspiracy's chief investigator!" Merry cried proudly. "He is lighter on his feet than he looks; sharper, too."

"And I believe he has made an excellent point," Frodo said to Pippin.

"Perhaps he has," Pippin said, realizing it was hopeless but standing firm until the last. "But I will not rest until I hear Harper's answer."

Harper sighed, and looked at the Hobbits one by one. They met her eyes with varying levels of hope, but full sincerity. If she needed a home, they would share theirs with her, and do so gladly. That airy-weight was spinning in her chest again; she was the luckiest woman to ever be struck by fantastic misfortune. The idea of leaving Middle-earth behind seemed more absurd than ever. Galadriel had really let her off easy.

"I'm not moving to the Shire, but I will absolutely come see it, and you can hold me to that," Harper said. "And it was incredibly kind of you all to even think about me needing somewhere to live, let alone to ask me to come back with you. So thank you, really. You are wonderful friends, and I'm very lucky I get to know you."

Frodo, Sam, and Merry smiled at her, while Pippin nodded solemnly. "You can come visit whenever Aragorn gets intolerably grim," Pippin offered. "I imagine that will be often enough, so it will almost be like you are living there officially."

Aragorn arched an eyebrow at Pippin. "Perhaps she will send me north instead, and expect you to remedy my intolerable grimness before sending me back."

"We will require advance notice for your first visit, so we can have time to build a stable to keep you in," Merry said. "But otherwise, that will be just fine." Aragorn looked menacingly at Merry, who just gave him a toothy smile until he broke, shaking his head fondly.

Boromir clapped his hands together, and stood. "If we all now know where we are meant to be living: 'tis time for your dueling lesson. You have had ample time to digest, so I will not hear another round of complaints." He nudged a friendly foot in Merry and Pippin's backs until they got on their feet. "Are you coming, Aragorn?" He asked, and almost managed to make it sound casual.

"Aye," Aragorn said, equally almost-casual. He got up, nodded in farewell to Frodo and Sam, and then looked at Harper. After hesitating for a second, glancing at their friends, Aragorn walked around the table. He tilted Harper's chin up with a gentle hand, bent down and kissed her chastely.

Merry whooped, and earned himself a harsh word from Frodo.

Harper ignored the Hobbits, and smiled up at Aragorn instead. "Have fun," she said. "And feel free to rough Merry up a little." Aragorn laughed softly, and nodded.

"I beg your pardon!" Merry cried.

Boromir shushed him, and then ushered Merry and Pippin out of the pavilion. Aragorn went first to grab his sword, and then followed in their direction. Harper watched him go with a stupidly fond look on her face. She felt eyes on her, and turned to find Frodo and Sam looking at her.

"Do not mind Merry too much. He is only glad to see you both happy, and the rest of us are glad, as well," Frodo told her. Sam nodded in agreement.

"Thank you," she said, beaming. "I'm glad we're happy, too."