Sword and Arrow

Chapter 66

In a week's time, an army left Minas Tirith, led by its king-to-be. Gandalf - Aragorn's acting advisor - rode on his left, Pippin riding in the saddle ahead of him; Beruthiel had the honor of riding on the heir's right side. Merry rode with Éomer behind the trio at the front, and Legolas with Gimli beside them. The hobbits had been given armor suitable for their titles in Rohan and Gondor, respectively, and now Pippin wore a winged helm imprinted with seven stars and Merry had donned the gold-rimmed helm that had a pattern of the flowing manes of horses above his brows.

It was a somber procession, and no hopeful songs were sung like on the ride from Edoras to Dunharrow. Their night camps were cold and silent, full of only the dim murmur of men sitting beside cooking fires and the scraping of steel being sharpened.

"I've never felt so out of place," Beruthiel confided in Aragorn on the third day of their slow march. She stood at the edge of the silent woods, her deep cowl up against the wind. "I don't have a place anymore."

"You'll always have a place. You're my Ranger, and you'll be my Commandant when I'm crowned." Aragorn wanted to tell her that she would be his queen, but he didn't know how to say it. He didn't know if she wanted to be his queen.

"Not anymore," Beruthiel said with a sigh. "I'm no Ranger."

"I will make you a Ranger again," Aragorn promised. "When it is the place for a proper ceremony, I will make you Ranger and Commandant of the North and South."

"I don't know." Beruthiel stood perfectly still, an art she had mastered over long years and cold winters. "I don't know if I deserve it."

"Love." Aragorn clasped her shoulder. "You don't go from deserving it for - how long? - sixty-four years and stop being worthy of a position. You are just as worthy as you were three days ago and three years ago."

"But am I?" She turned around to look up at him. "I've been a mess this whole mission, quest, thing. Whatever it is. And you know it. It's been so strange, I've been so strange, I don't know what's happened."

"You've struggled," Aragorn said quietly, his gloved hand rough against her cheek. "We've all struggled. And you've come through stronger than you were before. You are more worthy of your titles now than you have ever been."

Beruthiel shook her head, looking away. "I don't know. I really don't know."

"You gave up your oakleaf over what?" Aragorn challenged. "Fear of disloyalty?"

"I disobeyed your explicit orders."

He nodded. "You've followed me through fire and death." He cut her off with a wave of his hand, then continued, "You came with me through Moria, through Helm's Deep, through the Paths of the Dead. You stayed with me through the day that the sun did not rise and now you're following me to our deaths. What more can I ask, love? You could have stayed at Edoras when you were injured, but you rode into battle with me. This journey has hurt you, inside and outside, and through it all you have fought on, and you have stayed by my side. I see no disloyalty in that."

Beruthiel sighed, looking down at her feet again. "Just- do me a favor," she finally said. "Give it back to me, if you must, but don't do it now. If you give it back, do it after we return to Minas Tirith victorious." Or when pigs fly. And at that moment, pigs flying seemed much more likely than the first outcome. After all, Gandalf might be able to magic up some way for the latter.

"I will," he promised. "And I'll keep it safe until then." He pulled down his collar to reveal two identical chains, a silver beside his gold one.

"Thank you," she breathed, leaning against him for warmth and support. The night was cold, but she felt so much warmer with Aragorn's arms around her and his cheek against his forehead. "Thank you for believing in me."