EDIT: I never knew there were that many errors in my texts but OH GAWD, there were! Thanks to my amazing beta Atiaran all of those errors has been fixed, and the story should be much better and a lot easier to read :)

I can´t believe I´m actually publishing this. I haven´t even written the next chapter, OMG! But I´ve been working on it for months, yes, months, now so I´m pretty tired of it.

Actually I´ve been working on a dozen of different stories on the same theme, but this is what it became in the end. Hope you´ll enjoy!

Disclaimer: I´d be happy to own a handful of muck from middle earth... sadly, I don´t.

The Whistle of the Wren

The wanderer stopped by the roadside to push his dripping hood away from his face. It was raining, an early spring rain that turned the road to muck and the last of the snow to pools of brown water. Grey clouds hung low over the hills, all the way from one horizon to the next, thick and dense and without the slightest sign of movement. The road - naught more than a narrow ribbon of trampled ground, where the grass hadn´t even bothered to start growing - was all ankle-deep mud and trickles of water now, vanishing in a curtain of rain and fog, winding and twisting to where the soft hills gave way to a climbing forest.

The wanderer turned to look over his shoulder. He was a tall man, slender, but bent under a heavy pack, with dark hair plastered to his forehead and water dripping from the tip of his nose. There was a slight frown on his face. He had mud all over his boots and up to his knees, because he had waded over a flooded stream earlier and the water had been deeper than he thought. His cloak was so heavy with water it dragged at the ground.

Behind him, there was nothing but the same rolling hills, covered in yellow winter grass, glinting here and there with water and dotted with thorny bushes and naked trees. The City had vanished in thick grey fog. When he realised that, that the City was behind him, that he had gotten away, the wanderer felt something lift from his heart, like a bird spreading its wings and flying away with all his worries. He straightened up. Suddenly he could breathe.

It was gone.

Something bubbled in the wanderer's chest, threatening to break free. All around him the rain washed down, hammering on the little coltsfoots dotted by the roadside, but the wanderer didn't mind. He spread his arms like wings and tossed his head back and in the rain, he laughed.

He laughed because for the first time in many months, he felt free.

Aragorn looked up, startled.

A signal?

No, not a signal; only a bird. He had lost himself in memories and for a moment thought he was back in the north, where the rangers gave the whistle of the wren when they didn´t dare to call out to each other: I am here, where are you? But he wasn't back in the north and there was no reason to use signals here. Who would have used them anyway? Of the rangers living in the White City, who would want him something in the middle of the night? Who would call to him in the garden instead of using the gate?

No, it was no signal, and if he hadn't been so lost in thought when he heard it, he would have been able to tell the difference. It was just an ordinary wren. Wrens were known for singing even in the middle of winter.

Aragorn shook his head at his own silliness, but he couldn't really find it in his heart to laugh. It was strange, because he usually laughed very easily; much easier now than just a few years ago. The world was a happier place now, and he lived a happier life, had more opportunities to laugh. So why couldn't he laugh now, when an innocent little wren had made him think someone called to him from the shadows of the Queen´s garden? Why couldn't he laugh because he had thought he was a ranger again?

And why couldn't he just let the incident go?

Sighing, he sat down on the low wall surrounding the garden. It was completely dark, only the snow shimmering in the light spilling through an upper window. The citadel was embedded in silence. Cold winds and more snow came down from the mountains and his breath came in white puffs. Aragorn shivered and thought it was time to sneak back into the warmth of the bedchamber, but he didn't want to just yet. For some moments more he wanted to sit here where he could feel the wind tug at his clothes, where he could see the black shapes of the mountains.

He pulled one leg to his chest and let the other dangle over the City far beneath him. He had lost count of the number of times he had woken well before dawn like this, unable to fall asleep again; tossing and twisting in the slippery silk sheets before giving up and leaving the bed. His weariness was beginning to be visible. He had dark rings under his eyes now and was constantly tired and unfocused. But, as Faramir had suggested, maybe it was just the winter weather. Winters in Gondor were much milder than those of the north, but they weren't pleasant; there never was much snow because there would always be a rainy day washing it away before it was more than ankle-deep, and so it was cold, wet and windy, with the roads turning to long trails of muck, and the short grey days and the long grey nights melting into each other, forming a long chain of tedious longing for spring. It was no wonder, Faramir had said, that a man grew restless during this time.

There it was again, wasn't it? The wren. Again he had been lost in thought and hadn't heard it clearly. Was it really a wren? Why would a wren be singing in the middle of the night?

What would anyone else do singing like a wren in the middle of the night?

Aragorn pressed his hands to his temples. It was no good, thinking of the life he had left behind. Wasn't he glad it was over? Wasn't he happy? Yes he was, he could truthfully admit that he was. He was just longing for that old life because... well, maybe in a way he had been happy then, too.

I left it behind, he thought, pressing his hands even harder to his temples as if he could force the thoughts out of his head. And I am content with what I have instead. I don't need anything more. I have lived this life for almost two years now and I'm happy. I am.

Almost two years.

It was hard to imagine. Almost two years – it had been May – since he stood in the sun and the courtyard outside the citadel was crowded with cheering people and he was made King of the West. Almost two years since he officially left the life of the rangers and became what he was born to be. The world had changed so much since that day he didn't recognize it. There was peace now, and the children born today were born into a happy world, a world with grave memories and deep scars, but a world that had risen from its knees and stood firmly on its feet again. It was a world with a proudly raised head. A friendly world, but also a world of order, with a strong king; a world were roads dug further and further into the wilderness and houses were built where the lands had been untamed. It was a world of Men now. One day there would be no life of the rangers, because there would be so little wilderness for the rangers to live in. Not soon; not in a hundred years. But one day, Aragorn was certain of it, the world he had known would be completely gone.

Did he grieve? Sitting on top of the white wall, resting his cheek against his knee, Aragorn admitted he did, a little. Not that he would have ever been able to go back to that life, but somehow he would have liked it if others could have done that. Most of the rangers he had known had settled down now and he had given them high positions if they wanted, but some of them had gone back into the wild after the crowning. He imagined them on the roads now, living the life they had always lived. Some people, he thought, didn't fit into a world of order. He was glad he wasn't one of them.

Sometimes, he admitted, it had been hard. It had been hard to go from a ranger of the wild to the King of the West. He hadn't been ready for it, born to it or not.

A memory flashed past like a bird on swift wings: a memory from a spring day many years ago, when the air was full of humming bees and the forest floor covered in buckrams and cowslips. It was the first time he left Imladris on his own. He remembered climbing halfway up the mountains just to see the view, the vast forests, the distant horizon; and he remembered tossing his head back and laughing because the wild stretched out so far before his feet and he was free to go wherever he wanted, as untamed as the roadless lands before him.

"This is my kingdom," he had said. "This land is free and wild and untamed and so am I. So am I!"

Aragorn lifted his head a little. He couldn't see much in the dark – there were no stars and no moon – but he could distinguish the white houses below, almost shimmering a little, and the thin layer of snow on the streets. Somewhere far away the river Anduin glittered faintly. In daylight he would have been able to see all the way to the mountains in the east, with Ithilien as a dark green line by their feet, and if he looked south, he would have been able to see a distant shimmer that was the Sea. This was his kingdom. Or rather half of it, but Arnor wasn't much to boast about yet, although the lands were beautiful and roads and towns were being built up quickly. This was his kingdom, his true kingdom, and it was vast and splendid, and he was proud of it. If ever he felt something was missing, he pushed that feeling away. It was a selfish feeling and he was a king. His interest was the kingdom and nothing else.

Again the wren sang and he winced, suddenly remembering the pain so vividly it felt like the stab of a knife in his heart. It had been hard to adjust to that: the kingdom and nothing else. It had been hard to leave the life of the rangers. When the first summer came and went and he couldn't go as he wanted, when he spent the days writing letters and negotiating with ambassadors and noblemen, when all he wanted was to spend time with his friends and with Arwen and he couldn't, then he felt like a slave who had to work so much he never had time to even wish for freedom. It had hurt. He had seen his life stretch out before him, all too long and all too painful, a chain of grey days and nights just like the winter, only with no end but his own death.

He had hoped it would get better, but it didn't. When the autumn came and the leaves turned sparkling red outside his window, and all his friends had left, and peace began to settle down in Gondor, then he rode around the kingdom to see how things fared; but riding at the head of a royal retinue, with hundreds of soldiers and servants and wagons and a long trail of cattle and people to tend them, slowing everything down and making the slightest movement slow and laborious, wasn't like travelling alone. Arwen had been there to brighten the days, but even she couldn't chase away the longing in his heart. Not when he lay awake in the great royal pavilion and saw the lights of the campfires through the embroidered fabric, wondering how it would feel to be out there, just a simple man among the others. Not when northern winds tore at his clothes in the mornings when the retinue made ready to leave. Not when the dark autumn nights were dotted with stars and the moon hung low above the plain and the greatness of the world seemed to stretch out around him – but always out of his reach. Then he felt like a caged animal, a wild beast trapped and chained and only able to see the horizon through the thick bars of its prison.

But as every bad thing, this had its end. One day – a day of early spring, if he remembered correctly – he had woken and found Arwen at his side, and suddenly he had just realised it was worth it. Indeed, it was worth anything. He had looked at her in the golden morning light until she woke too, and when she smiled at him, he smiled back, thinking that freedom wasn't too high a price for her. It was actually perfectly fair. Arwen was simply worth everything he could give her, everything he could sacrifice.

After that morning, he never longed for anything again, and he felt his life expand. He realised, in time, that he wasn't caged, unless he chose to see himself as such. It was just that he had his duties and his limited amount of time, but how many people, truly, had all time they wanted and freedom to do anything? He was a king, after all, and he could do almost anything he wanted, as long as he didn't offend important noblemen. He could joke with his soldiers, be friendly to the young pages and the servants and smile at the stable boys, and as time went by and things settled down in the kingdom – it had been somewhat chaotic at first, when Gondor suddenly had both a king, peace and new-found allies in the south after so many years of decay – he had time to himself and for Arwen. He wasn't as relaxed in his role as Faramir was and not as used to court as Arwen, who had, after all, been brought up rather like an elven princess. But he managed, and now, almost two years after his crowning, he was happy. Satisfied. At least that was what he told himself.

But then he heard it again, closer this time, and he leapt up from the wall.

That was no wren.

It was no wren.

It was a signal, meant for him, and it came from the tree that grew by the wall, the tree that was the only way to get in or out of the citadel when the gate was closed. Legolas had found it a few weeks after Aragorn became king, growing in the back yard of one of the many abandoned houses on the sixth level, and they guessed it had only escaped being cut down because no one had noticed how tall it had become. Since Legolas hated to be trapped somewhere, even by something as friendly as a door, Aragorn had agreed to keep the tree; not many knew of it anyway. He gave the abandoned house to Faramir and Éowyn so they could make sure no one could get to it who shouldn't be let into the palace, but truth was it took an elf to climb it without help. Or at least someone who had been trained by elves. Aragorn might have succeeded, if he had tried.

And now someone was sitting in that tree, calling to him with the wren's whistle. Aragorn stared at it intently. Maybe he saw a shape among the dark branches, and maybe he did not. It would have been unsafe to go close to it – kings were assassinated at times, after all, and he had no weapons – and even if it was a friend of his hiding in that tree, it might be a friend who couldn´t resist pulling him a prank if there was an opportunity. He had a many such friends.

Deciding it was best, he kept a safe distance from the tree and whistled the wren's song back in reply: I hear you, I am here! There was a short silence, then came another whistle, that of the blue tit: Is it safe?

"It's safe," Aragorn said out loud. They had never come up with a signal for that since, if it was safe, there wasn't any reason to keep hiding.

In the next second he heard something moving through branches, far too quietly for a ranger but too loudly for Legolas. A dark shape came climbing up close to the trunk, then balanced on a thick limb over to the wall and onto it. Despite the wide cloak and the hood hiding its face, Aragorn instinctively knew who it was. He realised there should be one more coming up the moment before a second shape slipped out onto the branch and over to the wall where the first one perched, watching Aragorn from beneath the hood as if waiting for him to come closer. For some time they merely looked at each other, two dark shapes and the king. Finally he managed to speak.

"Elladan," he said, looking at the first one. "Elrohir." He might not be able to see who was who, but he still knew it, instinctively maybe.

The shapes nodded.

They stared at each other for a few seconds more, waiting for the other to move first. Then Aragorn burst out laughing, so unexpectedly even to himself he couldn´t stop it, and whatever it was that held them back vanished in less than an instant. The twins jumped down from the wall, grinning, and Aragorn walked over to hug them both. Elrohir must have missed him a lot, because he didn't try to break free.

"What on Arda," Aragorn said, looking from Elrohir to Elladan with an incredulous smile, "are you doing here? Now? I haven't had a word from you in months! And why by the stars of Varda did you climb that tree when you could have used the blasted gate?"

The twins looked at each other with identical mischievous smiles.

"We were going to use the gate," Elrohir admitted. "But they don't let anyone in at night. Not even those who claim they're kin to the king."

"Especially not them," Elladan added, somewhat irritated. "They must have thought we were assassins or something. We gave up trying to persuade them when they threatened to arrest us."

Aragorn lifted his eyebrows still higher. "Exactly how did you try to persuade them?"

"Well," Elladan said with exasperated sigh and a glance at his younger twin, "what is a man to do when politeness doesn't work? Or rather, what does Elrohir do?"

Elrohir grinned. "It was quite amusing. Anyway, we were going to stay at the Singing Swan, but then Elladan remembered this tree, so we sneaked into Faramir's and Éowyn's garden – you really should tell them to guard it better, a troll could have gotten past the watch – and then we thought we saw someone in the garden. It was Dan who thought it was you."

"Yeah, I wasn't sure, so we didn't dare to just climb over the wall and let ourselves be seen. Could have been unpleasant, if you were someone else."

"Very unpleasant," Aragorn agreed. "Did it never occur to you you could have sent me a note beforehand? The guards would have let you in if they had been told someone would come."

"Oh, Estel," Elladan sighed, "are you always going to be that stupid? It wouldn't have been a surprise if we sent you a note!"

Aragorn shook his head, smiling. At least his brothers hadn't changed at all. They even wore the same old grey cloaks, ragged at the hem now, as they had worn when they travelled with the rangers. Indeed, when Aragorn took a step back to look them over, they looked exactly like a couple of rangers; their clothes worn out and dusty from the road, simple quivers and bows flung over their shoulders and a rugged leather scabbard with a plain sword in their belts.

"Hey," he said, "did you come on foot? All the way from Imladris?"

"We did," said Elrohir. "Why not?"

"Well, why? You could have taken horses."

"We didn't."

"I can see that."

Aragorn frowned. There was something disturbing him, but he didn't know what. It wasn't as if he felt ashamed for his brothers dressing so simply when he was a king. It wasn't as if there was anything unusual about it either.

"You haven't been hunting orcs, have you?"

"There aren't many orcs left to hunt."

"No, but have you hunted those that are left?"

Elladan shook his head. "Nay, Estel, we haven't. We don't do that any more. We've gotten our revenge."

"Good," Aragorn said, and he was truly relieved, because for a moment he had feared that not even the fall of Sauron had been enough for his brothers; that they still weren't at peace, that they still couldn't rest until every single orc in the world had paid for what happened to their mother. Apparently they had finally let it go.

"So why did you come on foot?" he asked.

To his surprise, Elladan and Elrohir sighed deeply.

"What?"

"We thought you'd be happy," Elrohir said and looked almost hurt. "Not that you would start some sort of interrogation, as if we were intruders or something."

"You are intruders."

"You know what I mean."

"I do," Aragorn admitted. "I'm sorry. I was a bit... unprepared."

That was the truth, he realised. They hadn't only surprised him, they had unconsciously brought down the wall that he had built to protect himself from his memories. He could live the life of a king, but only if he forgot the life of the rangers. By showing up unexpectedly they had brought those memories back, without giving him time to prepare; he had been startled, overwhelmed, and the wall had fallen. That was what disturbed him about their arrival. That was why he wanted them to go.

The whole situation was so familiar. Here they were, his brothers, back from one of their long journeys, with a thousand new stories and maybe some news from Eryn Galen or the other rangers. As so often they had arrived in the middle of the night, and his first instinct should be to ask if they had been in battle, if they had wounds that needed to be tended, if he should wake the healers; and they, of course, would say they were fine. They would be tired after the long journey, but they would have so much to tell him, and Aragorn would blow life into the embers in the hearth in his room and they would sit down on the floor and talk until dawn. That was how it should be. That was how it used to be. That was exactly what he had tried to forget.

"To be honest," Elladan said, interrupting his thoughts, "there is a reason we came on foot." He looked at his twin. "Is it time to tell him, Ro?"

"I should think so, Dan."

They looked at Aragorn, eyes glowing.

"What is it?"

"We´ve been thinking," Elladan said. "And we have a plan, of sorts. You've been stuck here long enough. A ranger isn't meant to be stuck."

"I am not a ranger."

"Not officially, no. But we're not officially rangers either and yet we are rangers, in a way. You always used to hate winters, Estel, because you couldn't go as you wanted. Don't you hate this?"

"As a matter of fact I don't," he lied, then asked, eager to get this conversation over with: "What have you been planning, then?"

Elrohir beamed at him. "We are planning to leave. And we are thinking you might go with us."

"We're aware it might be against the etiquette and such, so we´ll do it in secret," Elladan added eagerly. "It wouldn't be very hard. You'd only have to say you were ill and people wouldn't wonder why the king didn´t show up."

"It wouldn't be a long trip," Elrohir said, "to the coast maybe - it depends on what you want."

They looked at him expectantly.

"What do you say?"

Aragorn looked from one twin to the other and fought not to laugh, because they looked just like children on their birthday, but he stifled it. He was going to make them disappointed, and he was sorry for that.

"No," he said.

"No?" they repeated. "But, Estel..."

"Don't be foolish," Aragorn said. "I can't do such a thing. It's too risky."

"Why would it be? It's not like it would be dangerous, no one would have to know a thing..."

"Ro's right, I can´t see any reason..."

"Well, I can," Aragorn cut them off. "I have a kingdom to take care of, and I have a reputation. What you suggest, it's – ridiculous."

"No, it's not." Elrohir crossed his arms across his chest and looked impatient. "I'm telling you no one has to know. Arwen can take care of the kingdom."

"And I'm telling you it's still too risky."

"Estel, listen." Elladan quieted his twin with a glance – Elrohir wasn't the most persuasive of the two, at least not towards people who didn't fear him – and looked at Aragorn almost pleadingly. "We've really been thinking – we know you can't do whatever you like because people might lose respect for you – and I can't see any risks. Or well, risks, but we'll be careful. You want this, don't you? You need it. I'm serious, Estel, I do think you need it. If I were you, I would hate being a king."

"Then be happy you´re not. There's nothing I need I can't get here."

"Estel, if you'd only listen..."

"No, Elladan, you listen." It wasn't his intention, but the authoritative tone he otherwise spared for court slipped into his voice. Elladan stiffened. "I don't even know why I'm discussing this with you, because the answer is no and it won't change. I understand you want me to come with you and I admit it could have been fun, but it's nothing I need, and it's certainly nothing I've been longing for. I am perfectly happy, Dan. Perfectly happy."

Elladan looked at him defiantly, apparently not believing him. Aragorn looked back. Not until Elladan looked away did Aragorn turn his gaze to Elrohir.

With a start he realised Elladan had been the first to look away. He couldn't remember that ever happening before.

"I still don't understand why not," Elrohir said.

"You don't have to," Aragorn replied. He did not mean to sound so cold, but he could not help it. "Let's just forget it, shall we? I suggest we go inside. It's getting cold. Unless you want to leave, of course."

"I guess Arwen will want to see us," Elrohir mumbled and looked away.

"I'm sure she will." And I wanted to see you too, only not in this way. "Shall we go inside? Your rooms should be quite ready for you, if you want to change."

"We left our packs at the Singing Swan," Elrohir said. "We thought we might pass it on our way out of the City."

"If you're going back to fetch them, I'll wait for you inside. If that's fine with you."

The twins nodded. They didn't seem to know whether he was happy to see them or if they had been dismissed, and frankly, Aragorn wasn't sure himself. After a few awkward moments that felt like hours, Elladan said, "well, we better go then," and they left, climbing over the wall and down the tree almost soundlessly, like the shadows they seemed to Aragorn. That tree should be better guarded, he thought, and in the next second hated himself for thinking like that. It wasn't the twins he was angry with, not really. It wasn't them he hated.

It wasn't the memories either. It was the way they tore his stupid heart to pieces.

Aragorn didn't go inside. Instead he found himself leaning against the wall, looking over it, searching the dark alleys for a sight of his brothers. He followed them with his eyes, unable to let go as if he feared they wouldn't come back. Then, suddenly exhausted, he folded his arms on the cold stone wall and rested his head on them, wishing he could have banished the memories as easily as he could close his eyes and banish the light of early dawn appearing in the eastern sky. He wished there had been no memories. Wished what he had told Elladan, those grand words about perfect happiness, had been at least a little bit true.

No. What he truly wished for was that the memories weren't only memories.

It was as impossible as he had told the twins, as impossible as he had told himself so many times before he accepted – or thought he accepted – his new life. He couldn't risk the respect that people held for him, he couldn't risk being seen on the roads like a beggar, he couldn't risk leaving his kingdom without being able to even send messages or couriers to Arwen while he was gone, and perhaps most of all, he couldn't risk death. If he died there would be chaos. It wasn't boastful to say that because he wished it wasn't true, but it was true: Gondor wouldn't survive losing its king again.

Truth was he would dearly like to leave the City with his brothers. There were some things about court life he couldn't stand. He, who had been accustomed to weeks and months alone in the wilderness, seldom found himself alone in the palace. He, who had been accustomed to go wherever he wanted, do what he wanted and say – and not say – what he wanted, was tangled in a net of traditions and formality, of custom, of propriety, of what was fitting for a king and what was not. There was always someone calling for his attention. Always something wrong in the kingdom.

He longed to, for once, make a journey without hundreds of servants and soldiers and counsellors demanding his attention every second. He longed to be Strider again, if only for a short time. The twins wanted him to run away like a child who was angry with his parents.

But he was no child. He had a responsibility. Sometimes he was certain that the fate of all of Middle Earth, or at the very least the peace they had fought so hard for, rested on his shoulders. And yet he couldn't shake his longing off as he had done so many times before...

"It shouldn't be that hard," he said out loud. "I was born a king."

Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice answered:

But you became Strider.

TBC

What do you think? Should I go on? Thrash it? Hide somewhere in the woods and never show my face again? Please review!

Thanks for reading!