This is in honor of Aragorn's birthday, March 1st. It was thrown at me by my Aragorn muse, who has no proper respect for writers… glares at muse, who looks far too innocent And you're not fooling the readers with that innocent look, so quit it.
(Postscript: I am so sorry for the glitch. uploaded the wrong document and I didn't realize until a week later! This is the right version… again, I am so sorry.)
Lady Miir is mine, don't copy; I don't own Tolkien, unfortunately. Anyway, enjoy!
Aragorn peeked into the rooms his sister used—they were empty. The bed was neatly made, showing that she had been gone for some hours now. With a frustrated growl, he turned on his heel and headed for his study.
In the study, he found Faramir waiting for him. "Yes?" he barked, not really in the mood for yet more and seemingly endless paperwork.
"My lord, the Lady Mirwen left at sunrise this morning," Faramir began, looking a little nervous at the black mood of his king.
"I know that, do you have anything else to say?"
"Yes… before leaving, she requested that I deliver some items to you." Faramir held out a folded piece of paper, with Aragorn written on it in Tengwar.
Aragorn took the note, opened it and read:
I am so sorry I could not be present today. I have urgent business in our childhood home, and it could not be delayed. Again, I apologize. I have instructed Faramir to give you some items—first, your birthday gift, and then a letter which I wanted to hand-deliver, but could not.
I will return in two weeks at most, and less if I can help it.
Aragorn read the short note again, then tucked it into a pocket—wordlessly, Faramir offered the other man a thick book. When Aragorn opened the book, a beautiful drawing of Imladris greeted his eyes. "Your sketchbook," he murmured softly, continuing to flip through the drawings.
The sketches were of people that both the siblings knew—Elrond, Glorfindel, the twins, Erestor, Lindir, the periannath, Arwen, Legolas, Gimli, a single drawing of Boromir, a few of Faramir, Éowyn, Éomer… so many familiar faces, all staring up at him from the sketchbook's pages. A drawing of Minas Tirith from his sister's favorite spot—the tip of the rock spur she called the Needle—closed the parade of drawings.
Carefully closing the sketchbook, Aragorn glanced at his Steward, who in turn handed him a sealed letter. Aragorn slid a fingernail under the seal, opened the letter, then began to read.
April 30th, 3019, Third Age.
To my dear brother:
You are sprawled out on the couch asleep as I write this. Legolas is brooding as he stares into the embers of the dying fire.
Looking at the three of us now, I can scarcely believe it. We have come so far, through so many struggles and griefs and hardships—and here we are after so long. We began our friendship as a trio of motley adventurers, but look at us now! A King (to be, yes, I know, but by the time you ever read this, you will be king), a prince, and a lady. I know you would have me claim a higher title, dear brother, because you feel it is my due—but I will not. I am merely a lady, and a lady I will remain to the end of my days.
Between you, Legolas and I, we have probably covered every inch of Arda on either foot or horseback! (Except Barad-dûr and Mordor, and I daresay even your insatiable curiosity has no desire to go there) We have been everywhere—Angmar, the Shire, Bree, Mirkwood, Moria, the Misty Mountains, Lorién, Harad, Rohan, Gondor, and even the edges of Mordor. The three of us have wandered far and fought much—maybe now we can rest, but I doubt so.
Oh, dear brother, Legolas and I are immortal and show no sign of our years, but you bear the marks of time. I remember you as a wide-eyed youth of twenty-odd years—I remember our time in Rohan and Gondor—I remember our journeys—I remember the Quest. I remember it all—the curse of being immortal, perhaps. But I thank Eru that the worst of the memories are already fading. I am watching you sleep now—in sleep, you look younger, and I feel as if I am sitting by one of innumerable campfires, watching a young human at rest. The worry lines are barely visible in your face, as you pillow your head on my thigh. You are sleeping peacefully, and don't stir even when I brush your hair from your face.
When the morning comes, you will be a king, Estel, the king you were born to be. These last few hours are the last we will see of Strider or Thorongil, at least for a while. But know you this—not matter how high you rise, you will always be my beloved little brother Estel, my comrade and fellow wanderer Strider, and my dear friend Aragorn. You will be Elessar to your people, but whenever I look at you, I will see a young man, bright-eyed and hopeful, perpetually ready for a new adventure. You are my brother, and I will regard you as such, Aragorn son of Arathorn.
We stand at the edge of a new journey, brother mine, and none of us will shrink from the challenges and adventures ahead. Tomorrow is the dawning of a new era, with you leading the changes—and I am proud to stand by your side and see it through.
The morning is coming. Tomorrow, you will be a King. Thank you, my beloved brother, for calling me your sister, and being willing to watch over me throughout our adventures. I am proud to claim you as my brother, and I thank the Valar—all and any of them—for sending you into my life.
I do not know what else I want to tell you. Thank you for being my brother, Estel. I have been, am, and always will be willing to follow you, regardless of where you go. I am so proud of you and everything you have achieved.
I love you, dear brother, and I always will, no matter what happens. I wish you all the best in all the years to come, and pray that Eru will smile down on you.
Aragorn felt his vision blur as the tears welled up in his eyes. Tactfully, Faramir slipped away to allow his king some privacy.
What do you think? Constructive criticism is very very welcome!