𝐈𝐋𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄̈ || A.

𝟎𝟑𝟓 ⸺ the first light

Iladya stands before the tall mirror, the morning light still faint upon the horizon, a silver veil behind the mountains. The air in the chamber is cool, laced with the scent of fresh linens and the faint sweetness of elanor oil. She gazes upon her reflection, her fingers brushing lightly over the embroidered emblem that now adorns the front of her tunic—the White Tree of Gondor, flanked by seven stars and crowned in silver.
Behind her, a young maid lowers her head respectfully, her voice gentle as a breeze through the citadel gardens.
"The symbol of Gondor suits you, my Queen," she says, her tone warm with admiration. Iladya's brow creases faintly as her fingers linger upon the fabric.
"It is not the symbol that troubles me," she murmurs, her voice low, touched with a note of distant memory. "It is the strangeness of it ... this garment is foreign to my skin. I wore my old tunic through more than two thousand years of wind and shadow and dawn. This feels... not mine."
The maid, wise beyond her years, smiles softly. "I understand, Your Majesty. Change comes with the turning of the world. But in time, I believe it shall feel as if it were always yours."

On the great bed carved of Gondorian oak, Aragorn lies reclined, his head propped upon one hand, his gaze steady upon his queen. He listens in silence, his grey eyes wandering to the garment she once wore—a tunic of ancient make, bearing the marks of lands long faded and battles hard-won. He turns his gaze to the ceiling above, thoughtful. "I hope so," he hears her whisper.
Iladya releases a soft sigh, the sound carried like a distant harp string. "They did fine work, I cannot deny that," she admits. "And it is as you said—I must learn to dwell in this new life, not as I was, but as I must now be."
The maid's eyes brighten as she smooths a final fold in Iladya's sash. "Then you are ready, my Queen? Ready to train the young men and women who await your command?"
Iladya's gaze drifts to the arched window. Though the sky still clings to the cloak of night, her keen eyes—eyes that have watched the stars shift through millennia—catch the first sliver of dawn touching the high clouds with gold. "I am ready," she says with quiet certainty. "Thank you for your service. You are dismissed."
The maid curtsies and departs, leaving the queen in the hush of morning. Iladya steps forward, her hand resting lightly upon her cloak from Lothlórien, still shimmering faintly in the shadows.

"I cannot become accustomed to this," she says aloud, half to herself, half to her husband, "maids fluttering about, clothing me, tending to every fold and clasp. I am not so far removed from doing such things myself."
Aragorn chuckles softly, his voice a low rumble. "You may tell them to cease, if it burdens you. Yet I believe they take joy in the honor of serving you."
She nods slowly, her expression unreadable. "I have seen it in their eyes. Still, it is new. All of this is new."
Aragorn rises from the bed, his body lean and strong despite the weight of kingship pressing upon his shoulders. He rests his forearms on his knees and speaks with a quiet, weathered honesty. "I too find myself a stranger in this peace. We have won the realm, Iladya, but now we must learn to live in it."
She approaches, her steps light, and cups his face in her hands. Her thumb traces the line of his jaw, and he leans into her touch as though her palm contains the very heart of Middle-earth.
"I know," she whispers.
She leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. He reaches up, instinctively, and cradles the back of her head. The kiss is not hurried—it is the stillness before the morning breaks.
"I must go," she breathes against his mouth, drawing back.
He grunts, a sound of reluctant amusement. "You owe me one," he says with a familiar grin, a glint of teasing in his eyes.
Iladya scoffs, half-laughing, and strikes his chest lightly with the back of her hand. "You are utterly incorrigible, Elessar," she hisses, eyes sparkling. She turns, fastening her cloak with deft fingers.
"I love you, Ilmarë," Aragorn calls after her, his voice warm and unguarded.
"I love you more, my heart," she replies over her shoulder, her smile lingering as she disappears down the corridor.