by Jay of Lasgalen
August 22, 2007
Midsummer.
Midsummer – and, at long last,
his wedding day. Aragorn’s nervousness was not helped by the
advisors, servants and pages scurrying around him, all offering a
babble of conflicting advice. As the door to his chambers
opened yet again, adding even more to the throng, he was half minded to
make a break for freedom, seize Arwen, and simply elope into the hills
with her.
Relief filled him as he saw the newest arrivals. His brothers
could be irritating, but just now they were a most welcome sight.
He flung them a pleading glance across the crowded room, and they
nodded in one accord. Elladan raised his hands and
spoke softly to the crowded room, but the shrill chatter died away
instantly. “Your pardon, my lords – would you excuse us? We
wish to have a quiet word with our brother the King.”
Without a word of protest, the courtiers left – all
of them, leaving in their wake blissful silence. Aragorn
breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I have rarely
been so glad to see you!”
“Are you not ready yet, little brother?” Elrohir asked him. “We came to escort you to the Court of the Fountain.”
“I have been dressed and ready four times so far,” he said
sourly, indicating the jumble of clothing littering the room.
“Each time there was something wrong – the cut, the colour, the fabric,
the colour again …”
Elrohir pulled open the wardrobe door. “Then we will have to help
you, little brother – now, do you have anything left to wear?”
Aragorn pushed the door shut again. “I had enough with the
servants and pages – I do not need your help to get ready for my own
wedding!” he protested.
“You may be King now, but you will always be our little brother,” Elrohir observed.
“And you are marrying our sister,” Elladan added.
Aragorn frowned. “When you put it like that, it sounds faintly incestuous,” he objected.
Elladan ignored him. “We are going to make sure you are properly
turned out, littlest brother – and do not let the family down.
Father expects it of us. And you do not want to disappoint Arwen,
do you?”
The thought that Arwen would finally be his wife was the only thing
that made this whole sorry charade bearable. He gave a resigned
nod. “I suppose not.”
“Good.” Elrohir opened the wardrobe again, wrinkling his nose in
distaste. “Valar, Estel – do you still have that disgusting
wolfskin cloak? I had hoped the moths had long since eaten it!”
“It probably smells too foul even for moths.”
“I am not planning to wear it today!” Aragorn snapped in exasperation. “Are you sure you have to help me?”
Elladan grinned. “It is a brother’s duty and privilege at a time like this, Estel.”
“And if you need any help or advice for tonight …”
“Enough, Elrohir!” Aragorn barked. He knew he was blushing, and cursed older brothers – especially when they were nigh on three thousand years older.
Grinning, Elrohir turned back to the wardrobe. He pulled out a
pair of dark blue trousers, and leather boots a shade or two
darker. From the pile on the bed Elladan extracted a silvery grey
undershirt and threw it to Aragorn. “Put this on,” he
ordered. “You need to blend the colours of Imladris with those of
Minas Tirith.”
Elrohir rummaged in the wardrobe again. “This, then,” he
suggested, producing a leather jerkin of midnight blue. The white
tree of Gondor was embroidered on the front, and the stars above it
were picked out in gleaming silver thread.
As Aragorn dressed, his brothers studied him carefully.
“Perfect,” Elladan declared at last. He glanced at
Elrohir. “He washes up quite well when he makes an effort!”
“When we make an effort,” Elrohir corrected him. He
turned to Aragorn. “And now, little brother, it is time to
go. Are you ready?”
Aragorn took a deep breath. “I’m ready,” he agreed.
With the twins at his side, he walked through the citadel to the Court
of the Fountain.
And Aragorn the King Elessar wedded Arwen Undómiel in the City of the Kings upon the day of Midsummer.