Isildur's Heirs
As Aragorn sat reading near the shrine to his ancestor, the man had come to
stand before the mural. Though they had never met, the Ranger recognized Boromir
of Gondor at once, by his bearing as well as his dress. Though built like a
warrior, the Captain of the White Tower had none of the clumsiness of a soldier
at court; he wore his broad shoulders and thick muscles proudly, and his fair
hair gleamed like a crown of gold. Aragorn was not certain whether the heat that
blazed through his loins signified his desire to have the man or to become like
him, though such youth and confidence as Boromir displayed were already lost to
the long-exiled prince.
The younger man gazed with awe and reverence upon the image of Aragorn's
ancestor. Holding the hilt of Narsil, Boromir did not seem to remember Isildur's
quick fall to death and ruin—only the hero's moment of triumph when by
destroying Sauron he saved all the men of his kingdom and the elves besides.
When the blade cut his finger, Boromir reacted as though he had just received an
honorable scar of battle or made a blood-pact with the kings of old. The man
glowed with ambition, pride and spirit, not the expected sophistication and
steadiness of a Steward's heir presumptive. Though he knew he should leave
Boromir his privacy, Aragorn found that he couldn't tear his eyes from the man.
Thus did Boromir discover him staring, an intruder on a very private communion
with history. No matter that this chronicle belonged to Aragorn as well as
Boromir; the young warrior assumed his voyeur to be a mere Ranger as he
appeared, not his secret liege. The two men locked eyes, and Aragorn wondered at
the meaning of the smoldering fervor of the other's gaze. He knew better than to
smile and try to shrug the moment off as unimportant, yet he was
uncharacteristically nervous in the presence of this stranger who was really
none.
Boromir had glared for a moment, then strode off, allowing the venerated weapon
to fall to the floor in his haste. By the time Aragorn had replaced it, bowing
in respect to an ancestor he feared to understand, Arwen had appeared. She
glowed as brightly as Boromir, but with a different fire—mystic, sacrosanct,
inviolate. Aragorn sometimes feared to touch her, lest he should sully her
purity.
Now he lifted her necklace to his throat, watching tiny rainbows dance off the
silver and crystal. Could wearing such beauty transform him into a vision of
radiance like the Evenstar? He doubted it. Neither Elrond nor Legolas had the
same numinous quality. He did not understand why such a creature as Arwen had
chosen him, nor how he could deserve her, short of conquering the fear she had
named for him: "You will face the same evil, and you will defeat it."
"That is a pretty bauble, but it does not match your vest." Startled, Aragorn
jerked his head up to see Boromir watching him with a strange smile—sardonic,
to be sure, yet touched by envy. "Is that a present for your lady-friend, the
elf?"
"She is my betrothed," Aragorn answered with a touch of irritation, though he
felt annoyance at himself for allowing the other man to sneak upon him. "It is
not a gift for her, but from her—a treasure of infinite value to me, no
matter how it looks with my clothes."
"Then you had best be careful not to lose it." Boromir took several long strides
to where Aragorn stood, slid his hands over Aragorn's holding the chain, and
moved around him to attach the clasp at the back of his neck.
The feel of the other man pushing his hair aside sent waves of chill and heat
throughout the Ranger's body. He felt wrong to be letting another handle Arwen's
gift, yet he wanted Boromir to keep touching him. The man's breath tickled
behind his ear, fingers trailing across his collarbone as they settled the
necklace around his throat. Aragorn's own breath caught. He felt Boromir stop
moving before very deliberately stroking the long dark hair back in place.
"Thank you," Aragorn said awkwardly.
"How do they call you?" asked Boromir, pacing around so that they stood face to
face. It was an interesting question, understanding that he would not learn the
Ranger's true name, yet presuming to know his identity from his outward
appearance.
"I am called Strider. Though here in Rivendell, there are some who call me
Estel."
"Hope. An unusual name for a Ranger. I am Boromir of Gondor." The man did not
cite his titles as son of Denethor and Captain of the White Tower, which
impressed Aragorn. "What brings you to Rivendell?"
"I accompanied a band of hobbits from Bree. They had business with Gandalf the
Grey, but could not meet with him until they reached Rivendell. The road is not
safe for travelers now."
Boromir's eyes lit with interest. "I have heard that one of the halflings was
injured by a Morgul blade. Are the rumors true—do the Nazgšl ride for the
Ring?"
"I know very little. I am sure Lord Elrond will explain matters at the council
tomorrow." He knew he might have cause to regret the lie later if Boromir found
out his real name and his role. But this evening he did not wish to think about
the possible conflicts that lay ahead. "Were you summoned to Rivendell?" he
asked.
"I heard about the Council, but I was already on my way to seek counsel. I have
been plagued by disturbing dreams—cold nightmares that make me fear for the
future of Ecthelion." Boromir shook his head as if to clear it.
"Perhaps you need a wife to share your bed," Aragorn said neutrally, making
Boromir laugh aloud.
"Now you sound like my father. He cannot decide whether he wants to send me off
on another campaign or get me wedded to ensure the continuation of the family
line. But what wife would put up with me?"
"I am sure there are many who can appreciate your assets." Boromir stared at
Aragorn for a moment, then the fair skin of his face flushed brightly. Surely as
the son of the Steward, he must have had women seeking his company, mused the
Ranger, gazing appreciatively at the striking figure. "You look the part of a
great lord, Boromir."
"And you...look the part of a Ranger."
Now it was Aragorn's turn to burst into laughter. But as he threw his head back,
he could see Boromir studying him, with a trace of the hunger with which Aragorn
regarded him in turn. "You do not like Rangers?" he demanded.
Boromir's cheeks turned an even darker shade of red. "That is not what I meant.
You seem very exotic with your black clothes and your blade. It is said that
some Rangers choose the wild because they are wild men. Your eyes speak of
secrets beyond the reach of my civilized borders."
Despite his discomfiture, the man sounded as though he might be flirting. "And
does that bother you?" Aragorn challenged, thrusting out his chin. Boromir
graced him with a sheepish smile.
"It puts me on my guard. I do not know whether to feel uneasy or stimulated by
your presence."
Now this was definitely sport, demanding an answer. Aragorn could withhold
himself no longer. He put his hands on either side of Boromir's face and, when
the man did not flinch but met his eyes steadily, drew him in and kissed him on
the lips. Boromir did not pull away, though Aragorn could feel him stiffen with
shock. He released Boromir, stepping back, but as he did so, Boromir put out his
hands to catch Aragorn around the upper arms.
"I..." he panted.
It was all the invitation Aragorn needed. He slid forward until his arms had
wrapped around Boromir's waist and their thighs rubbed together. This time
Boromir pressed his lips to Aragorn's, rather forcefully, as his fingers
tightened around Aragorn's shoulders. The Ranger parted his lips and their
tongues met, Boromir's prodding and competitive, Aragorn's gently exploring.
The younger man emitted a quiet, eager sound of pleasure. He turned slightly,
and Aragorn could feel his erection prodding through his clothing.
"I am sorry..." Boromir began at the same time Aragorn spoke.
"Your body is as magnificent as the sculptures in Elrond's hall."
"My body betrays me. It has some other master than my will." The Ranger slid his
hands down to stroke Boromir's compact buttocks as he spoke, causing the blond
to thrust forward involuntarily. "I am sorry to have so little control."
"There is no need to apologize. Your responsiveness is flattering to me."
Aragorn lifted a hand to stroke across a cheekbone and over lips swollen from
kissing, eliciting another moan from his companion. "Come to my room, Boromir.
Come lie with me."
The other man sagged against Aragorn, then stiffened. "I cannot."
"You cannot or you will not?"
"I am a warrior, the son of the Steward of Gondor. I cannot lie with...a
Ranger."
The slight pause revealed what Aragorn hesitated to ask. "You mean you cannot
lie with a man," he guessed.
"Indeed I cannot. Nor have I ever. My father expects me to take a wife, as do my
soldiers...some of them are surprised I do not have a mistress already. A Lord
of Gondor cannot lie with men."
From the shake in his voice, Aragorn could hear what the confession cost
Boromir. He speculated again, "But you want to."
"It does not matter what I want."
"It matters to me. Come, let me show you how it could be between us. No one need
ever know but ourselves."
"Someone might see us together..."
"No one in Rivendell would think anything of it. The elves do not gossip and
judge private affairs as men do."
"Not even the elf who gave you that necklace?"
Guilt stabbed at Aragorn. "Arwen has long encouraged me to follow my own path. I
know not what she would say if she knew I lay with men, but I do not think it
would surprise her."
Privately, he wondered whether that were true. Arwen's love for him seemed
almost innocent at times; her kisses were warm yet chaste, and she would not
invite him to her bed until they were wedded. He had little doubt of what Elrond
would say if he found his future son-in-law in an intimate embrace with the son
of the Steward of Gondor; Elrond already believed him to be too immature for
Arwen.
He had dithered too long. Boromir's eyes, which moments before had contained
thunder and looming rain, now reflected the bleak green-gray color of a winter
sea. "Your feelings are torn as well," the warrior said grimly. "We have only
just met. We should attend to our duties."
Aragorn knew that on the morrow at the council, Boromir would more than likely
discover his true identity, and that might create a rift between them far
greater than the issues of propriety separating them now. "Boromir, don't go,"
he pleaded. "Walk with me awhile. Tell me of the White City."
So Boromir accompanied Aragorn through the wild gardens, speaking of his
struggles with his father and his battles for Gondor. He spoke of his home with
a passion like that which had lit his face as he gazed upon the mural of
Isildur, his large, expressive hands mesmerizing the Ranger as he described the
glorious buildings and dazzling armor of Ecthelion. When the night air grew
cool, they went inside, still conversing as they passed the dining hall and
Elrond's great library. Finally they reached the door of Aragorn's rooms.
"Come in and have a drink, for the long walk has parched my throat," he said
casually. Boromir followed him through with a stride that seemed unconcerned,
flicking his eyes from wall to wall, feigning disinterest in the decorations and
Aragorn's belongings, though the older man guessed that he was cataloguing them
all. There were few enough; the Ranger's true treasure at Rivendell, his
ancestor's sword, was on public display.
"Sparser than you're used to," Aragorn guessed.
"One needs few luxuries at Rivendell; the elves provide very well for us."
Boromir's blond hair gleamed in the candlelight from the sconces on the wall.
"But I cannot help missing Minas Tirith. Do you never get lonely in the wild?"
"Sometimes I long for companionship. But there are few men who know my heart."
"I understand. There are few who know mine." Their eyes met and held.
In two long strides, Aragorn was at the other man's side. The kiss Boromir gave
him was ferocious, knocking him back to the wall. "Somehow you see through me,
Strider," he panted. "I do not understand. Yet I have no will to resist you."
Aragorn twisted, rotating them through the doorway that separated the living
rooms from his bedchamber. There he pressed Boromir against the frame, giving as
greedily as he took. The younger man's arms grew tense when Aragorn released the
clasp on his cloak, yet he pulled away the material with his own hands,
loosening his tunic. Aragorn slid his own fingers down to pull the man against
him, reveling in the feel of his hardness through the leather and cloth that
bound it.
"I would unleash your demons, my warrior," he murmured into Boromir's throat.
Boromir groaned and thrust into his hands as Aragorn began to unclasp his belt
and push aside his leggings. The sharp scent of arousal rose between them.
"Come, let me taste you..."
"No..." But Boromir choked on the word as Aragorn fell to his knees, his mouth
upon Boromir's manhood even before he had finished tugging the layers of cloth
out of the way. A hand descended to stroke Aragorn's hair, nudging at his cheek
before falling away. He could see the man braced in the doorway above him, eyes
wide with excitement and a fearful fascination. Aragorn took him as far in as
his throat would allow, eliciting loud, shuddering moans and the helpless
rhythmic thrusting of Boromir's hips.
Clearly, the Steward's son had no idea how beautiful he was unclothed, or he
would surely have a good deal more experience with men than he allowed. Aragorn
had been a beautiful youth; elves and men both had admired and cherished him,
teaching him with their gazes and caresses of the promises of pleasure as he
grew to manhood. Yet Boromir seemed stymied, maddened by his own body's
responses, trying to quiet himself and stop the writhing that so excited
Aragorn.
"Strider." Boromir's urgent whisper interrupted Aragorn's musings. "Stop, before
I shame us both." His entire body trembled as his erection twitched forcefully
against Aragorn's tongue. "Please, I cannot control...ohhh..."
Boromir bucked wildly as his need overwhelmed him. He pulled out of Aragorn's
mouth, pressing against his throat as his strong hands held the Ranger in place.
Hot seed spurted over Aragorn's skin, wetting his hair and the side of his face.
He was sorry Boromir had not understood that he would gladly have swallowed the
spill, but delighted to be able to see the younger man's face when he reached
fulfillment. Boromir's eyes were clenched shut, but his lips were rounded in a
long groan of pleasure. Sweat ran down his neck and over his chest. He glowed as
if divine radiance blazed down upon him, shining like a tower in sunlight.
Too soon, however, Boromir stepped away and covered his face with a hand. "I am
sorry. I could not stop myself." Embarrassment and the after-effects of shouting
made his voice sound thick with regret. Rising quickly to his feet, Aragorn
reached for his lover's shoulder.
"Never apologize for showering me with your desires, Boromir. I want only to
give you happiness." When the other finally met his eyes, wary and guarded,
Aragorn pulled him back to kiss him. Hesitantly Boromir raised his fingers and
wiped at the wetness on the side of Aragorn's face.
"It does not offend you?"
"Why should it?"
"I had thought only whores allowed themselves to be treated so."
Aragorn was startled. Though Boromir had confessed his lack of experience with
other men, the Ranger assumed that a man of his upbringing and appearance would
have had dozens of women from many different backgrounds and walks of life. Did
he always keep his urges in such tight rein? Perhaps, if he found himself drawn
to men, he had not allowed himself much exploration. Carefully Aragorn said, "In
my experience, any act between willing partners may bring them both pleasure."
"My experience has mostly been with whores. Do...do you want me to do that to
you?" Boromir's voice wavered, though Aragorn was uncertain whether it was the
act itself or the newness of the situation that gave him pause.
This was certainly not what he had expected of an encounter with Boromir of
Gondor, whose reputation for fearlessness and innovation on the battlefield was
known throughout Middle Earth. Aragorn had thought to find delight in a
well-wrought body and perhaps a sense of kinship. Yet this uncertainty bordering
on innocence had its own intoxicating sweetness. "I want nothing that you do not
also want," he promised Boromir. "Tell me, what did you hope for when you agreed
to accompany me into my rooms?"
Boromir swallowed but held Aragorn's gaze. "I would like to see you undressed,"
he admitted.
"Then I will undress."
As Aragorn stripped off his clothes, he watched Boromir watching him. The other
man removed his boots and the leggings from around his ankles, yet he kept his
silk undershirt, which hung almost to the base of his pelvis. Aragorn started to
suggest that he remove it, then decided that Boromir would do so when he felt
comfortable enough.
When he was naked himself, he turned his palm open in the direction of the bed.
"Would you like to sit?"
"I would like to lie down with you." The words came out in a rush. "But I do not
know, I am not sure that I would like to lie with you..."
"Nothing will happen here that you do not wish," Aragorn assured Boromir again.
He walked around the left side of the bed and lay down, waiting while the other
man followed more slowly on the right side. For a few minutes they simply rested
side by side, shifting closer together as they settled among the pillows and
feathers. Finally Boromir rolled toward Aragorn, who followed suit.
"I would like to touch you."
The confession hovered halfway between request and apology, triggering another
wave of unexpected tenderness in Aragorn. Not for the first time, he worried
what would happen when Boromir discovered the true identity of the man whose bed
he shared, but his own craving to be close to the man of Gondor dominated any
misgivings. "Touch me," he whispered, hoping it would sound like neither a plea
nor a command.
Slowly, but without any sign of nervousness, Boromir reached out to lay his hand
flat against Aragorn's chest. The long-desired contact made the Ranger inhale
sharply. Holding his gaze, Boromir stroked over his throat, the hollow above his
collarbone, his nipples, the stripe of hair beneath his navel that led lower. By
this point Aragorn felt as ready to burst as Boromir had been earlier; he
groaned and closed his eyes as the other man's fingers brushed over the tip of
his erection, then slid down to explore the length, tracing the veins, cupping
his groin.
"This at least I know what to do with," noted Boromir in an amused voice.
Aragorn opened his eyes to see that the warrior had drawn closer, his face
hovering over Aragorn's own. They shared a soft, delicious kiss that broke when
the Ranger had to moan. "Do you like it, then?" Both of Boromir's hands were now
rubbing Aragorn intimately, one gliding up and down the shaft, the other
exploring his scrotum and the area behind it. A single finger traced a circle
around the puckered opening, then pressed down. "Do you like that?"
"Yes, oh," Aragorn groaned, writhing not just from the physical sensations but
the longing in his partner's voice, the hope, the eagerness to please. Reaching
out blindly, he encountered Boromir's hip, then discovered as he clutched at him
that his partner had grown hard again. Aragorn hesitated, not wanting to give
any suggestion of trying to pressure Boromir into something he was unwilling to
do, but in the end his own desire won out:
"Boromir. If you wish it, I very much want you to make love to me."
As Aragorn had feared, Boromir stilled, though he did not flinch or look away.
"You would have me take you?" he doubted.
"I would have you inside me," clarified Aragorn, wanting to make certain the
other understood that he was offering himself, not asking for the same.
Boromir's breathing grew harsh and for a moment Aragorn thought he had pushed
for too much, but then Boromir ducked his head and murmured, "I have wanted
this...but I did not dare to think...are you sure I will not hurt you?"
"Give me one moment." Aragorn rose swiftly to find some of the oils and
ointments that were always in plentiful supply at Rivendell, where herbs and
flowers grew freely and all the elves had learned how to concoct sweet potions
from them. "Here," he said, returning to the bed with a bottle to see that
Boromir had at last removed his shirt. "This will ease the way." Aragorn poured
some of the liquid into his palm and stroked it over Boromir's fully erect
shaft, which quivered and jolted at the touch. "Now you must put some on me."
Aragorn waited for Boromir to rise to his knees before getting on all fours,
afraid of unnerving him with the untidy details of lovemaking between men. But
Boromir's touch was eager as he smoothed oil over and around the wrinkled
aperture that reveled in the touch. "Let me feel your fingers. Like so. Oh!" The
first small penetration sent a wave of fire through Aragorn's loins. "Please,
now," he begged, all restraint obliterated.
Boromir moved close and thrust inside too rapidly for comfort, forcing Aragorn
to spend a moment just getting his breath back after swallowing a cry. Clearly,
this was not a man accustomed to languorous lovemaking. Yet despite his
inexperience, Boromir's instincts were well-refined, and he paused. "Am I
causing you pain?" When Aragorn shook his head—he did not yet trust his
voice—Boromir whispered, "This is beyond any feeling I have imagined," giving
a few shallow thrusts. Then his hand went around Aragorn's side to grasp the
rigid shaft between his legs.
One stroke, two, and Aragorn erupted, spraying his seed over the pillow and his
own chest. His shout reverberated within the bedchamber. Before it faded,
Boromir began to move in a steady rhythm, driving in and out with vigilant
control until he jerked suddenly, dug his fingers hard into the flesh of
Aragorn's buttocks, and cried out "Strider!" in a voice of unrestrained joy.
They lay together afterwards, curled together where the sheets were dry, with
the younger man murmuring his gratitude and the Ranger promising him that the
pleasure was his. But though he tried, Aragorn could not persuade Boromir to
stay the night. "It would not be seemly for me to be seen leaving your rooms
before dawn," the warrior insisted, and Aragorn feared that any more attempts at
persuasion might seem like possessiveness. Neither of them knew what the morrow
might hold.
They said regretful goodnights and slept in their respective beds. Aragorn did
not change the covers, so Boromir's scent stayed with him until he woke. He did
not see his lover again until Elrond convened the Council. Boromir nodded to
Aragorn as he sat, but he did not smile, and all the tensions and
responsibilities with which he rode to Rivendell seemed to hold him in their
clasp.
Aragorn was saddened by the younger man's naÔvetÈ when he proposed using the
Ring to protect Gondor. For most of his life, Boromir had watched his father's
good intentions as the threats to their borders increased; he had done
everything in his own power to defend the White City, but Aragorn knew he feared
that it would all come to naught. Still, he knew that someone must speak to
convince Boromir of the folly of trying to control the Ring, and foolishly he
hoped that Boromir would trust him enough to listen to him.
"You cannot wield it. None of us can. The Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has
no other master."
Boromir turned to him with the eyes of a stranger, or perhaps those of the man
who had glanced at Aragorn before Isildur's mural so many long hours before.
"What would a Ranger know of this matter?" he asked, with an edge in his voice
that sounded entirely private to the subject of his address.
Legolas spoke before Aragorn could formulate a reply. "He is no mere Ranger!
This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."
"This is Isildur's heir?" The betrayal that flickered through Boromir's eyes was
far more devastating than the sarcasm of his tone.
"And heir to the throne of Gondor."
"Sit down, Legolas," Aragorn said in the elf's own language. He knew that
Legolas assumed the scorn in Boromir's voice stemmed from lack of respect for
the man who roamed the wilds, rather than the personal duplicity of a lover.
Aragorn understood full well what he had done to Boromir; he had shattered the
man's private code of behavior, and now, it seemed, he would challenge for the
right to speak for the country he loved.
"Gondor has no king," said Boromir, looking at Legolas. Then, turning to
Aragorn: "Gondor needs no king." His voice dripped contempt, but not all of the
loathing was directed outward. Aragorn wished there were some way to assure
Boromir of his regret, even his devotion, but it was too late. When the Ring
began to burn, when the minds of all at the Council were swayed by its dark
anger, Boromir was the most susceptible of all.
So when Aragorn swore to protect Frodo by his life or death, making Boromir feel
he must swear the same in the name of Gondor, he knew the dangers he had
inadvertently created by trying to bring a little joy into both their lives.
After the meeting adjourned, he spent several hours trying to speak to Boromir
alone, but the other man threw himself into the preparations for their journey
and was constantly accompanied by Gimli, the tagalong hobbits or one of the
other men at Rivendell.
Finally, on the night before they were to depart, Aragorn spotted Boromir
standing alone before Isildur's shrine. He approached quietly, admiring as he
had before the powerful shoulders and gleaming hair of the Captain of the White
Tower. "You cut a striking figure standing here, Boromir," Aragorn said softly,
startling the younger man out of his reverie.
"Have you come here to seek the wisdom of your ancestors?" he demanded harshly.
"I came looking for you. I have wanted to speak to you, Boromir. To tell you
that I'm sorry, though I did not mean to deceive you. I planned to tell you my
true name, though there did not seem to be a moment when it was right to speak
of it."
"The moment when we met would have been suitable. Or when I asked how you were
called. At the very least, you might have told me before I called your name
out..." Boromir bit back the rest of his words, but Aragorn knew he meant when
they had made love.
"In truth, I never meant to hurt you. Nor am I your rival, Boromir. I offer my
friendship. My sword, should you need it. And..." Aragorn paused, fearing to
replace one betrayal with another, remembering an earlier conversation. "...and
my heart, if you will have it."
Boromir turned with an expression of such aching need that Aragorn stepped
forward to embrace him. But Boromir's words stopped him in place. "My heart
belongs only to Gondor," he grated. "There can be no other love for me. You have
shown me that. I will march with you on this journey, and I will defend you with
my sword, but I will never call you brother, and I do not want your heart."
"Son of Gondor, you have it nonetheless," murmured Aragorn when the other man's
back had disappeared beyond the pillars. Turning, he gazed at the mural of
Isildur, his kin. Which was the greater folly—to love in the face of ruin, or
to cling to power that was not one's own to wield?
Aragorn did not know. He knew only that he would not wish Isildur's fate, which
he so feared for himself, on any other man. Yet it was possible that he
unwittingly had set Boromir on the same dark path.
There was only one recourse if Boromir would not forgive him, only one vow he
could make that might set things right. "I swear on my ancestors that I will
defend the kingdom that he loves," whispered Aragorn, eyes clenched shut in
entreaty. "I will fight for Minas Tirith with all the strength that is in me.
Though I have pledged to protect the Ringbearer, I promise to look after all my
people. Hear me, Isildur—your bane may end my life, but it will not destroy
what I hold dear."
A loud clatter made Aragorn's eyes fly open. The hilt of Narsil had fallen to
the floor, in precisely the same spot where it had landed when Boromir had let
it slip, days before. The heir to the throne of Gondor lifted his birthright
back to its spot of reverence. As he moved, light reflecting off the broken
sword struck the charm on his necklace, sending rainbow beams over the image on
the mural.
Aragorn set off to say his goodbyes to Arwen, knowing that his oath had been
heard and accepted.
END
Em Wycedee
ragorn walked into the dimness falling upon Rivendell, holding Arwen's necklace
clasped in his palm. Never had he felt so unworthy of the love of an elf. He
knew her father had been right to make his Evenstar wait before binding herself
to a foolish young mortal, though Arwen's determination had never wavered. She
was certain that the weakness of Isildur did not flow in his veins, yet Aragorn
knew better. If he could be tempted by the son of the Steward of Gondor, how
could he resist the allure of the Ring?
