Disclaimer: I don't Aragorn. If I did I would give him a big hug to comfort him right about now.

The King's Braid

Epilogue

Aragorn stood at the window of his chamber, gazing out over Minas Tirith and the Pelennor. In the north, the land was already in the grip of autumn, and around Fornost many of the trees had already dropped their leaves. But here, in the south, summer still lingered, and the foliage was only showing the slightest hint of gold. The mellow evening sunlight struck the walls of the city, making them shine like silver and pearl, as Aragorn knew the spire above him was also, providing a beacon to all those returning home after a long journey.

As it had for him.

Minas Tirith was clean now. Even air sparkled with renewal, now that the vermin that had dirtied it with their very breath were gone. It had two weeks to persuade – forcefully – all the Southrons in the city to leave. And a week in Fornost to eject the Dunlendings. But Aragorn was grateful for these tasks, for they at least gave him a solid path to tread. He could not lose himself while he had the well being of his kingdom to fight for. Even the hurried journey between the two cities had provided a distraction, his head filled with plans about what to do with the Haradrim. As well as the numerous stops at Dunlending settlements to remind them just who their King was.

But now all that was finished. The Reunited Kingdom was no longer under threat from Marin and his associates. Caern was doing an admirable job in continuing the resurrection of Fornost, and the King was back on his throne in Minas Tirith.

Except that he didn't feel like a King. The gaping void inside him made Aragorn feel like a hollow shell of his former self. And this afternoon had brought that home to him with shocking clarity. For it was on this day that he had to inform his people of his loss…of their loss.

It was not new to them. Indeed, it had been felt for months now. But many had believed it was not permanent, that what had been taken from them would be returned. Aragorn had not looked forward to telling them otherwise. He knew he would be blamed, and so he had delayed, not wanting to bring more troubles to his people after the last ones were so latterly solved.

But they had a right to know. And so he had told them. Told them that they would not regain their lost sheep. Confessed his own part in their bereavement. But he had also told them of reconcilement, and reminded them that their loss was not in vain. And lifting his face to them, he had expected to see disgust in their eyes. Had expected to be rejected by them one and all. Instead, he had seen pity and sorrow on every face. And in that moment he had realised that the emptiness he felt inside him was shared by all. And it had overwhelmed him.

Sighing, Aragorn turned away from the window. He had fled up here to his chamber, trying to escape the depth of his pain and the reminder of it on the face of every single one of his subjects.

And he thought he had succeeded. This room had been tidied and freshened many times over the past few months. It did not appear as if even a King lived here, and all traces of its second occupant had vanished. Or so he had thought.

As he turned into the room, Aragorn's eye was caught by something on the floor by the bed. All but obscured by the hangings, he would never have noticed it had not the sunlight been slanting through the window at exactly the right angle, illuminating a corner that was normally in shadow.

As he straightened up from retrieving the object, Aragorn was struck by a shock of painful recognition. Dangling from his fingers was a piece of cord, once used to control an errant crop of blonde hair, now discarded in a fit of passion. A flood of memories washed over Aragorn, making him feel faint, forcing him to sink on to the bed.

He was powerless to stop them. Images of laughter, comfort, and passion flashed in front of his eyes. Tears slid down his cheeks as he remembered the happiness he had felt in this room. Happiness shared with another.

As more and more memories came to him, Aragorn felt a deep pain awake inside him, one he had been trying to hide from ever since that fateful day at Fornost. But oddly enough, despair did not accompany it, as he had expected it would. Instead, he almost felt as if he was being cleansed.

And, with a flash of insight, he understood why. Running away from the pain wasn't the way to deal with it, he realised. He had to accept it, had to let it in.

Falling back on to the bed, Aragorn indulged in the memories, allowing them to crowd out everything else in his head. Now was the time to remember. Now was the time to mourn. The piece of cord was twisted around his fingers, a talisman of the one he had lost.

Boromir.

A/N: Now that I've tidied up the rough edges of this story (grammar, punctuation spelling, etc.) and reposted it, I probably won't be returning to again for a while. Therefore, I just want to say a big thank you to everyone who has reviewed it (and everyone who reviews in the future). It is (and will be) very much appreciated.