The king was holding court from upon his throne, and Gondorian citizens thronged within the great Tower Hall of Minas Tirith. Their many chattering voices rang to the hall's vaulted ceilings, with its shining mosaics of marble and gold and soaring black stone pillars. The banner of the House of Telcontar graced the arches of every alcove; one white tree on a field of black beneath seven stars an a winged crown. Citadel guards flanked the doorways, and those who had been granted an audience with the king wondered at the soldiers' shining mithril helms and white gull-feather crests as they passed.

The crowd stopped six paces back from the foot of the dias, held in check by the watchful presence of two more guards on either side of the throne. A herald announced each petitioner as their turn came, and one-by-one they approached the dias. The black seat of the Steward sat empty for now; Lord Faramir was away with the queen and her daughters in Annúminas, the northern capital. Even if the Chair of the Stewards had been occupied, all eyes were instantly drawn to where King Aragorn sat in state.

The king was not a young man, but neither was he old. Winter's frost threaded through his hair and neatly-trimmed beard, and the lines set around his clear grey gaze told the story of both wisdom and endurance. The set of Aragorn's shoulders still suggested strength though, and his frame was as long and lean as it had been the day he stepped through the city gates to claim his crown. It seemed to his people that he had reigned for a lifetime, and yet was still fit and sound to reign for another lifetime to come. How quickly Gondor had forgotten the long years of the kings of Númenor. They were beginning to remember though; the prosperity brought by decades of stable leadership was even now re-awakening the pride and dignity of Gondor's elder days.

As for Aragorn himself, he was listening to the case being put forth with interest. Matters of taxation law and public policy tended to bore Aragorn, even as he made a valiant effort to engage in them for his people's sake. This particular case had to do with both justice and horsemanship, two arenas in which Aragorn was happy to debate.

"And so, Your Grace, even after months of my telling him to keep that fence mended, his stallion still was able to jump clean through the gap and into my pastures. My best mare grazes in that field. What happened next doesn't take much figuring..."

A low murmur of laughter traveled through the crowd. The two men standing before the dias were not laughing though. The second man eyed the first sourly.

"I mended the fence, Your Grace! It's him that insisted on pasturing a mare next to my stallion in the first place. Putting temptation right where it shouldn't be, small wonder my lad Thunder couldn't stay put! My family has been keeping horses on our land for generations, and we've ne'er had troubles until he set up shop."

"I have every right to use my land how I wish," snapped the first man. "It's much ado over spilled milk now though. The mare dropped her foal a fortnight ago, and I say it's my property now. Proper compensation for injury owed and all."

"Your property, the nerve! My Thunder sired that little colt, and he's going to be a one in a million horse if I ever saw one! You paid me no coin for stud service, so I say the foal is mine by rights."

Aragorn held up a hand for silence before the arguing built up steam. He looked to the official who had been sent to arbitrate for the dispute initially. Such mediation attempts had thus far failed, and so the two land-owners had been brought to Minas Tirith for royal intervention.

"You have seen the colt in question, Master Forlong. Tell me, is it really such a fine creature as to inspire such wrath between neighbors?"

Forlong, a rather horsey looking fellow himself, bowed. "I am not a perfect judge of horse-flesh, Your Grace. However, from what I can tell, it's a strong little animal with long, shapely legs and a sleek coat. Once grown, I imagine it could fetch a handsome price."

"Just like his sire!" The second man was quick to jump in. "I'll not just hand over a horse that, by your own admission Master Forlong, is worth a commanding price from any buyer with half an eye."

The first man was nearly scarlet in the face. "I could say the same thing to you sir! Mother and babe are both under my care, and for you to show up at my gate demanding I hand the foal over is nothing short of ridiculous!"

"Enough," said Aragorn, and instantly the two men fell silent. They continued to eye one another venomously though. "Let me ask you a question, all of you. If a man were to father a child upon a woman and leave, would he be within his right to return in a year's time and demand custody of the child?"

Within seconds, just about every woman present in the Tower Hall was crying out "No!" and "Of course not!" Many of the men joined them.

Aragorn nodded. "And let me ask another question, this time of you two gentlemen. Who was it that cared for the mare while the foal grew within her? Who fed and watered her? Tended her stabling and kept her exercised?"

"I did, Your Grace," the first man was prompt to reply.

"Well then, it seems to me that you have been the one responsible for seeing to the needs of both mother and colt for some months now. That is no small investment of coin and effort. Therefore I say this to you..." Aragorn turned to the stallion's owner. "If you wish to possess the colt that your horse sired unasked for, then you must pay your neighbour the value of not only his mare's feed for the past twelve months, but also his labour in caring for her. By my estimation - correct me if my sums are wrong, Master Forlong - that comes to fifty castars."

"Fifty castars!" Exclaimed the farmer. "That's an entire year's earnings for me!"

"And a generous price, for I have not included any of your self-stated prodigious estimate of the colt's actual worth in that sum. For fifty castars, you would simply be compensating your neighbour for his time, effort, and care in ensuring that the colt was carried and birthed by a strong, healthy mother. If the price is not to your liking, then it seems the pair are already well contented with their current lodgings. Indeed, I would not have you remove the creature from its mother until it has been fully weaned."

Thus frustrated, the stallion's owner turned a baleful glare on the mare's owner, who meanwhile had been standing quietly by with a satisfied grin on his face.

"Alright, you keep the little beastie then...and may he eat you out of house and home!"

Aragorn, who until now had been rather enjoying this little spectacle, now narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. The resulting picture of kingly disapproval was enough to cast both farmers' eyes meekly to their shoes.

"Before you leave though, ask yourselves this; is any price worth a lifetime of ill favour between neighbors? Does the value of a horse outweigh the value of good cheer in the company of those around you? Consider these questions, both of you, and know that reconciling this quarrel is not in my best interest, but in yours." 

The two men bowed in silence, not looking at Aragorn or one another. When they withdrew into the crowd, they quickly went their separate ways without a word. What would come of the dispute between two neighbors, Aragorn could not guess. He wondered briefly if the men's wives were as inclined to bitterness as their husbands. A memory surfaced from the long past years of Aragorn's childhood of two Dúnedain women who stubbornly remained steadfast friends even after their husbands quarreled over a failed hunt. Strange, how households could be thus divided and yet learn to coexist. 

Before the next set of petitioners could be brought forward, the Citadel guards at the Tower Hall's entrance signaled a new arrival. Turning inward, they flanked the doorway and thumped the butt of their spears upon the marble threshold. 

"Master Fulthain of Rohan, Chief Messenger of King Éomer," the herald announced, his voice carrying over the crowd even as every head turned toward the door. 

Sure enough, there stood Fulthain, a banner-man at his side carrying the white horse of Rohan rampant upon a field of green and gold. The two Riders did not smile as they entered the hall though. With great solemnity they approached the throne, and when Fulthain bowed his shoulders seemed to sag beneath his embossed pauldrons. 

"Welcome to you, Fulthain of Rohan!" Aragorn was quick to wave the Rohirrim forward. "In truth I had not expected your coming, but I am glad of it nonetheless. Tell me, what news do you bring from The Mark?" 

Fulthain lifted his sun-weathered face, and when Aragorn read the deep sorrow carved there his heart sank. Almost before Fulthain spoke, he had guessed at what the King's Messenger would say. 

"It is with a heavy heart that my lady, Queen Lothíriel of Rohan, sends word of the death of King Éomer Éadig, Lord of the Mark and eighteenth King of Rohan." 

OoOoO

There was utter silence in the Tower Hall. No one moved, and no one spoke. Aragorn sat as one transfixed upon his throne. Then, slowly and with great effort, he roused himself to speak. 

"Éomer...dead? I do not doubt your words, Fulthain, but how can this be so? When last I saw him, the Lord of the Mark was as fit and hale as any man approaching sixty." 

Fulthain bowed his head, and the grief weighed heavy in his words when he answered. 

"Indeed he was, my lord, right up until the day of his passing. A sudden malady struck our king when he was out riding with his wife in the early morn. As Queen Lothíriel describes it, he reined up his horse suddenly, and pitched in the saddle as if smote through the breast. When she reached his side, King Éomer was already grey in the face and short of breath. Together they managed to return to the Golden Hall of Meduseld, but our lord died less than an hour later. Even Prince Elfwine was scarce able to reach his father's side before he was gone." 

To say that Aragorn was bereft was an grievous understatement. Long had Éomer named him as his brother in all but blood, and Aragorn had returned the sentiment whole-heartedly. 

'Between us there can be no word of giving or taking, or of reward, for we are brethren.'

Such had Éomer once said to Aragorn, and those words came back to him now. Even still he remembered pausing before the walls of Minas Tirith to lean upon his sword and greet the Third Marshal in battle. Elladan and Elrohir were once as kin to a young fosterling named Estel, but Éomer had been a brother to the man who would be king. That such a brave, valiant man would die, not in battle or by the weathering of time, but at the hand of a chance malady such as this grieved Aragorn deeply. It also came as a bitter reminder of the fleeting nature of mortality. 

"These are sorrowful tidings indeed, and my heart is sore grieved to receive them." Aragorn spoke slowly and with care. As much as his grief was his own, he was also a king before the eyes of his entire court. "What news of Queen Lothíriel and her son Elfwine?" 

"They are deep in mourning, Your Grace. Queen Lothíriel has donned all black, and vowed not to return to her family home in Dol Amroth. Rather she has chosen to live out her days in Edoras, to be at Prince Elfwine's side when he is crowned the nineteenth King of Rohan." 

"And King Éomer's funeral? What of those preparations?" asked Aragorn.

When Fulthain answered, his voice hitched ever so slightly. Clearing his throat, he continued. "King Éomer will be buried in state, with full honours as befits a Lord of the Mark and hero of the Third Age. His tomb will bloom evermore alongside the tombs of his uncle, King Théoden, and his cousin Prince Théodred. Queen Lothíriel has set the date of her husband's funeral for three days hence, to give Lord Éomer's friends and kin from across the Westfold time to travel to Edoras." 

"That will not be enough time for Merry and Pippin to make the journey south," said Aragorn, more to himself than anyone else. 

"My lord?" asked Fulthain. 

"Has anyone written to our friends in the Shire yet? Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took will be wanting to hear this news sooner rather than later," said Aragorn. 

Fulthain nodded. "Queen Lothíriel ensured that missives were sent, at King Éomer's request. A sorrowful message to send, especially to such cheery folk as the halflings." 

"And no doubt an equally sorrowful message to deliver, Master Fulthain," said Aragorn grimly. "You and your banner-man must be weary after the long ride from Edoras. See to it that our guests are well cared for," he instructed his nearby chamberlain. 

"Thank you, Your Grace." Fulthain bowed once more. The crowd parted respectfully for Rohan's messenger as he departed the hall, and it seemed to Aragorn that the horse upon their banner hung listless, bereft. 

OoOoO

As expected, Eldarion took the news of Éomer's passing hard. Pulled from his turn of duty on the city guard, Eldarion had tried to hide his tears beneath his white-plumed helm. Aragorn knew how fond his children were of Éomer though; as befitting self-declared brothers, their children regarded them as beloved uncles respectively. Aragorn dreaded the thought of having to write to Arwen and the girls in Annúminas, to say nothing of informing Elboron that his blood uncle was so suddenly gone. He wondered if Éowyn had been told yet. The thought of the White Lady alone in Ithilien to receive such news pained him deeply. 

Aragorn laid a hand upon his son's shoulder. Eldarion was a man of full years now, easily Aragorn's match in height and build. The white tree of Gondor shone proudly upon his polished breastplate. It was no easy task that Aragorn had in mind for Eldarion, but as King of Gondor he had little choice. 

"Eldarion...you must go to Edoras in my stead."

Eldarion's head jerked up sharply in surprise. "You mean...you are not coming?!"

Aragorn held out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I cannot, however much I might wish to. Your mother is away in Annúminas, and Faramir with her. Without either of them to lead the city in my stead, I am bound by law to remain in Minas Tirith. The House of Telcontar must be present when Éomer is laid to rest, both from a perspective of state as well as kinship." Seeing Eldarion's incredulous expression, Aragorn added "Were this any other time, our entire family would be setting out for Edoras together, to be with Elfwine and Lothíriel. Alas, we are scattered across Middle-Earth in this moment, and it falls to you to carry the love and grief of us all to our friends in Rohan." 

For a moment, it seemed that Eldarion might rail against the laws and protocols that held Aragorn bound to the White City at such a time. Then he let out a long breath. Eldarion removed his helmet, and Aragorn could see clearly the sorrow shining upon his son's cheeks. 

"I will go...but not alone. Éowyn will not stay in Ithilien at such a time, no matter if she must leave the lowliest goatherd to lead their people. I will ride out to meet her at Osgiliath, and together we will make the journey to the Golden Hall." 

Aragorn nodded. "Yes, that is well. I would not have either of you alone on the road, regardless of how many knights you take with you. Gimli will be there in Edoras as well I'm sure. Although it is cold comfort, please tell Elfwine and Lothíriel that they have all our love and support in this troubled time." 

"I will, Adar," said Eldarion. Slowly, he turned to go; there were many preparations to be made if he was to depart for Edoras before sundown. Then Eldarion paused. "Do you ever wonder what might have been, if you had never been a king?"

Thoughts of traveling freely across Middle-Earth with his family, nights spent out under the stars around a hearty campfire, and leaping in the saddle to ride to his friend's graveside now swept across Aragorn's mind. The weight of the crown was a heavy burden indeed. 

"Only every day, Eldarion. Only every day." 

OoOoO