Where My Heart Belongs
an Arwen x Aragorn drabble
The sun was what woke her.
Arwen blinked as the late afternoon rays poured in through the window. She’d slept longer than she’d intended; then again, she’d needed it. Mortality was something to get used to, especially after just having a baby. The former Lady of Rivendell had never felt so tired as she had these past few weeks.
She closed her eyes and stretched, then sat up to peer over the edge of the Elven crib beside her. The tiny Prince of Gondor still slept soundly.
Arwen’s heart leaped. He looked so much like his father, though his slightly pointed ears served as a reminder of a race almost gone from Middle Earth. She placed a kiss on his fuzzy head and stood to look out the widow onto the dazzling white marble of Minas Tirith.
She felt a familiar pain as she thought of her dear Ada. She missed him so! Tears still lined her face at times, and even now, her eyes glistened with them.
But she knew her decision had been right. Aragorn and the little Eldarion were her life now, and despite the place in her heart that would always belong to the Elves, Arwen never regretted her choice to live out her days among the race of Men.
She moved to the waking baby’s bedside and picked him up tenderly, his long white and gold velvet blanket draping like a waterfall in her arms. She held him close and spoke to him softly in her own Elvish tongue.
She carried him out onto the balcony overlooking the White Tree and Pelennor Fields. Aragorn was just returning from a hunting trip, and the sound of his laughter blended with the clip-clop of Brego’s hoofs as he parted ways with his fellow huntsman.
“Thír, ha na-cín adar!” Arwen held the bundled Eldarion up as if to let him witness his father’s return, but the baby’s eyes had closed again. She hurried inside and downstairs to greet her husband, her footsteps quick and soundless with the gracefulness of Elves. She stopped in the doorway of the entrance hall where two servants were assisting the King with his hunting gear.
Aragorn’s appearance was not at at kingly. His hair was windswept and damp, and the dirt and sweat on his tanned face made for a rather grimy complexion. He stood now, removing his quiver from over his shoulders.
Arwen felt her heart swell. She loved this man. And if she was honest, this was how she loved him best: rough and trail-hardened, wild as the Northern forests, and rugged as the Eastern moutains.
True, she had married a king… but her heart belonged to a ranger.