“What else do you want from me, Arwen?” He knew he was saying the wrong thing in the wrong way, but could do nothing about it. “I crushed Mordor and laid the crown of Gondor and Arnor at your feet; if that’s not enough, I will spread our borders beyond the Rune Sea and the mountains of Vendotenia. I will conquer Harad and the other countries of the Far East and make you Queen of the world – just give the word!”
“Don’t you want all that yourself?” “Not any more. Now I want only you… You know, it seems to me that I was closer to you back then, in Rivendell…”
“Please understand,” her face once again assumed an expression of weary compassion, like a teacher who has to explain a grammar rule to a dim student for the tenth time, “I may not belong to any man; don’t torture yourself for nothing. Recall the story of Prince Valacar and Princess Vidumavi; your own chronicles say: ‘For the high men of Gondor already looked askance at the Northmen among them; and it was a thing unheard of before that the heir to the crown, or any son of the King, should wed one of lesser and alien race.’ No wonder it sparked a civil war. Whereas compared with the nobility of my heritage there’s no difference even between Isildur and some black chieftain from Far Harad. But even that is not much compared to the real obstacle – our age difference. To me, you’re not even a boy, but a baby. Would you take a three-year-old to wife, even if she looked like an adult?”
“So that’s how it is…”
“Of course, and you’re even behaving like a spoiled child. Bored with the royal power in just a few days, you now want a new toy – Arwen, the Evenstar of Imladris! Think about it – you want to trade even love for a handful of candy: the crowns of Men’s kingdoms. After all those years of dealing with Elves, have you not understood that none of us wants power as such? Believe me, I see no difference between the crown of Gondor and this cup – both are just gem-studded pieces of silver.”
“Yes, looks like I’m just a baby. And you’ve tricked me, back then in Lórien, just like a baby.”
“You have tricked yourself,” she objected calmly. “Please remember how it happened.”
In a moment a silvery fog covered the walls of the palace hall, blurry silhouettes of Lórien mallorns showed through, and he heard again Elrond’s soft voice right next to him: “Perhaps my daughter will revive the rule of Men in Middle Earth, but no matter how much I love you, I will tell you this: Arwen Undomiel will not change the course of her fate for a small man. Only the king of Gondor and Arnor can become her husband…” The voice of the Ruler faded away, and Aragorn again saw Arwen before him – she had restored the hall to its former appearance with a casual wave of her hand.
“This was the precise statement, Aragorn son of Arathorn. It’s the honest truth: only the king of Gondor and Arnor can become the husband of an Elvish princess, but did anybody promise that he will actually become one?”
Aragorn smiled crookedly. “You’re right, as always. A baby such as myself could never think of such a thing – the Ruler of Rivendell trying to weasel out of his words! Well, he can find a loophole very well, better than any Umbar shyster.”
“You were paid for your work in honest coin – the Re-forged Sword and the throne of the Reunited Kingdom.”
“Yes, the throne I don’t control!” She frowned a little. “Don’t demean yourself. You knew from the very beginning that you’d get an Elvish advisor once you ascended the throne.”
“You mean a regent.”
“Again you exaggerate. Besides, we met you halfway: Lórien sent you not just anyone, but myself as the advisor, so that to your subjects it looks like a regular dynastic marriage. You, on the other hand, have imagined who knows what and now desire to add the daughter of the Ruler of Elves to your collection of sluts!”
“You know that this is not so.” There was nothing but weary submission in his voice now. “Back in Lórien, when you accepted Barahir’s ring from me…”
“Oh, that. Do you wish to remind me of the story of Beren and Lúthien? Understand already that this is a legend, and a human legend, at that – an Elf can only laugh at it.”
“Thank you for the explanation. To put it bluntly, you consider love between an Elf and a Man to be bestiality, right?”
“Let’s end this stupid conversation. You have rightly mentioned the need to adhere to one’s agreements. Don’t you think that a second ‘accident’ befalling a man from my entourage in as many weeks is a bit much?”
“Oh, so that’s what you wanted to discuss.”
“Precisely, my dear. If you have imagined that Lórien is incapable of protecting the people working for it, we will teach your Secret Guard a lesson they’ll remember forever – if there’s anyone left to remember.”
Resurgent anger helped him come back to his senses, like the stink of smelling salts helps a man out of a swoon; the hex dispelled, and the Dúnadan was becoming himself again – a white polar wolf facing a pack of jackals. “Allow me to remind you, my dear, that you’re not the masters here – not yet. Let’s call a spade a spade: had your ‘entourage’ been a real embassy, all of them would’ve been expelled long ago ‘for activities incompatible with diplomatic status.’”
“You know,” Arwen said thoughtfully, “sometimes you’re undone by excessive logic – it makes you predictable. You wouldn’t have resorted to such measures without a dire need; therefore, the dead men have sniffed out something top-secret and extremely important. Hence, all I need to do is determine what they were doing in their last days.”
“Any progress?”
“Oh yes, quite a lot! If one can call it progress. I’ll admit that we’ve tended to overlook your games with the dead; to be honest, no one believed that a mortal could master the Shadow Spell well enough to actually bring them back to life. But now you have decided to inherit the black knowledge of Mordor, too; you’re gathering those poisoned shards everywhere you can and expect to get away with it. There’s no denying that you’re a top- grade swashbuckler (that’s what we were choosing for among very many): highly intelligent, desperately brave, and totally merciless to others and himself. I know that you’re no novice at juggling live cobras, but believe me: you have never – by the Halls of Valinor! – never played a game as dangerous as this!”
“I’m also very practical. The thing is, those games are as dangerous to you Elves as to me; I’m glad that you’ve finally understood the danger. I am ready to undo it all if I’m properly paid.”
“Ah so? What is your price, then?”
“You already know the price, and there’ll be no other.”
Arwen walked away in silence, like a vertical ray of sun piercing a dusty room; when she looked back at his soft: “Wait!” it was a victory greater than Pelennor or Cormallen.
“Wait,” he repeated, then carelessly tossed up the silver cup she had just used to illustrate her invective, caught and crushed it in a single movement like it was made of paper; the encrusted rubies burst through his fingers like drops of blood and rattled across the marble floor. “By the Halls of Valinor,” he repeated her words slowly, “I, too, no longer see a difference between the crown of Gondor and this cup; sorry that the crown wasn’t to hand.”
He tossed her the lump of silver so that she had to catch it and left without looking back. It looked like for the first time ever a battle went to him. Yes, she’s right – he’s playing the most dangerous game of all and isn’t about to turn back. He wants this woman, and he will have her, whatever the cost. This will never happen while Elves are Elves? Very well, then the whole foundation of their power must be crushed. This is a task of unimaginable complexity, but a lot more fun than, say, the conquest of Harad…