Time has always had a strange way of moving. In days of fear and turmoil, when all a person wishes for is the hope of tomorrow, it can slow until each minute feels like a life-age of the earth. Thus it is almost cruel how time can just as easily turn around to fly by, fleeting, leaving behind moments which otherwise would have been treasured and lingered over.

And so it was that two-and-a-half years flew past, during which time peace reigned over the lands of Gondor, Rohan, and Harad. The White Tree gifted to Sufyan by Aragorn was planted and grew tall in the gardens of Harmindon, where it came to be known as Serfermandarê Serayan, or 'The Serpent's Staff'. Just as Na'Man hoped, Myriam would often play under the cool shade of the tree's eves. She now had a playmate to join her too; a younger brother named Arthas. The two were the delight of their parents and grandparents, with Sawda and Na'Man plying the children with sugared dates and painted toys in Harmindon, and Aragorn and Arwen always awaiting their visits with an endless supply of stories and pastries. As she grew, Myriam became very much the younger image of Sufyan, with thick dark curls and an expressive little face that revealed her every emotion. Just as she had inherited her father's compassionate heart though, she also possessed her mother's daring soul. Even at only three years old, Myriam was already notorious in both Harmindon and Minas Tirith. Fiercely possessive of her blue-eyed, chubby-cheeked baby brother, Myriam had caused more than one panic by carrying off little Arthas from his nursery unannounced to join in her childish adventures. Thankfully, Túrien was always at the ready to track them down, while - equally thankfully - Sufyan was always at the ready to reassure Túrien. 

True to his word, Na'Man had indeed retired, handing over the reins of the chieftain's Mûmak to Sufyan. The first time Sufyan, Túrien, and their children returned to Minas Tirith afterward, poor Greyhame nearly had a fit. If Gïdjls had been big, Uthegental was enormous. The old, scarred veteran of the War of the Ring stood so tall, a rider on his back would need to step down off the howdah to reach the top of Minas Tirith's outer wall. Whenever Sufyan and Túrien were visiting The White City, folk as far away as Osgiliath could tell at a glance whether they were still there. Uthegental's massive form was hardly possible to miss, grazing stoically upon the Fields of Pelennor. Missing an eye and half a tusk as he was, it was easy to sympathize with Greyhame's nerves whenever the Mûmak was around. For all his fearsome appearance and vast size though, Uthegental was utterly devoted to Myriam. The little girl could walk right up to him and wrap her arms around his trunk, and he would simply stand there, carefully stock-still save for the pleased waving of his ears. 

Harmindon was not the only city to be graced by the presence of a royal child. In Minas Ithil, young Barahir quickly outgrew his uncertain beginnings to become an exceptionally beautiful boy. Already he could speak in the beginnings of short sentences, his sweet little voice like the trilling of a bird as he hung on his mother or father's hand. Just as everyone had declared at his birth, Barahir did indeed have the grey, piercing eyes of the Peredhil family, and those combined with his reddish-gold cowlicks and matching dimples never failed to reduce the people around him into a delighted, cooing mess. Elboron often joked that, when Barahir grew up, he might use those eyes and smile to devastating effect in the arena of politics. It certainly was already hard enough to deny the child anything, a fact which, like any good two-year-old, Barahir was uncannily good at leveraging. The only people who appeared immune to the boy's charms were Eruthiawen and Arwen. Both knew better than to fall for that lovely, soul-deep stare, no doubt since they themselves had also weaponized Lord Elrond's inheritance in their lifetimes. 

As for Eldarion, life for him took on a pleasant, comfortable sort of rhythm. Most days he spent in Minas Tirith, serving in his duty as Captain of Gondor and learning the arts of political leadership at his parents' side. With Galieth beside him now, Eldarion also made strides toward growing his role as a public face of the House of Telcontar. The two of them would often travel, as he had promised, representing the crown both within the borders of Gondor and beyond. They met with Lord Elphir in Dol Amroth, and there finalized plans for the reconstruction of the old bridge at the abandoned elf-harbour of Edhellond; the first of many steps toward the dream of settling Anfalas. They spent a month in Kazabhâd, the young capital city of Harondor, signing trade deals with Ramyah Yusannah over mugs of spiced chai. Eldarion and Galieth even made the long journey north to Annúminas, where Eldarion was thoroughly put to shame by Galieth's father and brothers (and Galieth herself!) in the traditional Dúnedain arts of hunting, climbing, and fishing. Thankfully, Lady Gwynnis was always happy to revive Eldarion's wounded ego each evening over dinner with her endless praise and not-so-subtle hints toward future marriage and children. Such talk never failed to turn Galieth as red as a northern sunset, a sight which Eldarion in turn never failed to find utterly endearing. 

Today though, daybreak in Gondor - a clean March sunrise bedecked with gentle frost and birdsong - found Eldarion at home in Minas Tirith. He spent most of the morning in the barracks, watching yet another new crop of recruits try out for the city guard alongside Ohtar and Malbeth. With thirty-two years to his name now, Eldarion could no longer claim to be of the same generation as the boys who came to them, fresh-faced and starry-eyed and filled with the eager confidence of youth. Ohtar nevertheless persisted in grousing about the lack of discipline amongst 'today's young folk', while Eldarion and Malbeth exchanged good-natured smirks and shrugs. They were not so old that they did not still remember what it felt like to stand in the training yard beneath the intimidating weight of plate armor and expectations. Eldarion especially knew the feeling of trying to measure up to the expectations of others. It was for this reason that, whenever a recruit was in need of correction during sparring practice, Eldarion did so with calm, steady patience. Now and again though, a young nobleman with too much hot air between his ears necessitated a more direct approach. And so it was that Captain Eldarion had developed a reputation for being a generous, amiable teacher...who could also deliver positively wicked shin-hits with a training sword. 

After hearing the daily report from the city guard, Eldarion shed his armor and returned to the Citadel. The guards in the Court of the Fountain pointed him along to the White Tower, and it was there, shut inside a meeting with the bankers' guild, that he found his father. Rather than interrupt, Eldarion took advantage of a rare moment of empty time to simply watch as a servant arranged flowers in a vase at the end of the hall. So intent was the woman upon her work that she did not notice the prince watching her, and Eldarion preferred it that way. Her fingers - old and gnarled but still moving with surprising delicacy - tucked and turned the tulips this way and that. At last, satisfied, the servant stood back to admire her handiwork. Then, humming softly to herself, she turned and walked away, leaving a spot of bright, colorful cheer in her wake. 

"Uncle 'Darion!" 

The spot of cheer spread quickly to encompass the entire hallway as Eldarion turned to see his nephew running toward him. His little arms already reaching up for a hug, Barahir tottered down the hall at full speed, sunbeams highlighting sparks of red in his hair as he passed. Eldarion was only too happy to oblige. Bending down, he scooped up the little boy with ease. 

"Ah, there he is! I should have known you'd be lying in wait for me! Aren't you tired after riding all the way from the Vale yesterday?" 

Barahir grinned and shook his head. "No! M'not tired!" 

"Rest assured he will be...his excitement at being here had him wide awake well before dawn," Elboron called out from the end of the hallway. He and Eruthiawen looked none the worse for wear, despite being roused early by an eager child. The Lord and Lady of the Vale followed after their son at a more leisurely pace, walking arm-in-arm and smiling. 

"Oho! You hear that, Barahir?" Eldarion looked at Barahir with great seriousness. "Are you going to be in need of a nap soon? Or are you ready to play?" 

"Play! Play!" 

Barahir had grown since the last time Eldarion had seen him, and his eager wriggling made holding him a challenge. Eldarion gamely kept up appearances though, even as his arms began to cramp. 

"Well, there you have it then. No naps needed here!" 

Eruthiawen laughed, but Eldarion caught just the faintest hint of a warning gleam in her eye. "Oh, I rather doubt that. It is either a rest at two o'clock, or bedtime straight after dinner. You must choose one, ion-nin." 

 Pouting out his lower lip, Barahir avoided having to choose by refusing to answer the question altogether. If it came to a battle of wills though, Eldarion had no doubt that a nap would indeed be in the little boy's future. They had all seen, after all, just what kind of chaos resulted when Myriam once missed her afternoon rest. For now though, Eldarion could indulge himself in being the 'fun' uncle (Elfwine notwithstanding). 

"Is Adar still with the bankers?" asked Eruthiawen, indicating the closed door by which Eldarion lingered. 

"Oh yes, and has been for the past hour or so. Tax season is upon us yet again, and that always puts the books on the forefront," said Eldarion. 

Elboron groaned. "Speaking of which, we had probably best meet with our own guildmasters once we get back to Minas Ithil. Now that the city granary is repaired there'll be-" 

Barahir, already bored by his father's talk of business, squirmed to be set down. Eldarion obliged, and no sooner had the boy's feet touched the ground than the sound of a latch opening ended any further dull adult conversation. 

"A'tair!" 

That was the closest that Barahir got to pronouncing the Sindarin word for 'Grandfather', but Aragorn was more than happy to answer to the childish nickname regardless. Leaving the bankers to filter out of the meeting room in his wake, the King of Gondor scooped up his grandson and lifted him all the way overhead. 

"Ahhh! Soon you'll be too big for even me to lift, Barahir!" Aragorn exclaimed. "Someday you'll be taller than both your parents, I can tell." 

"I be big!" Barahir agreed whole-heartedly, waving his arms and kicking his little legs in midair with excitement. Aragorn did not falter, but they all knew from experience how surprisingly heavy a toddler in motion was. Elboron just barely had time to come to the rescue, helping to support his son's weight as Aragorn lowered him back to the ground. 

"Are you certain that 'soon' is not already 'now', Adar?" Eruthiawen raised her eyebrows. 

Aragorn smiled, somewhat sheepishly. "As I said, he'll be a tall man someday...soon, but not yet." 

Elboron ruffled Barahir's hair, prompting the child to giggle and wrap his arms around his father's knee. "Is Arwen not with you today? We arrived so late last night, we didn't have a chance to greet everyone properly." 

"She and Almárëa are still in Edoras," said Eldarion. "They planned to be back by Tuesday at the latest." 

"Ah, we may yet see them then!" Eruthiawen exclaimed. "Hopefully the guildmasters of Minas Ithil can wait upon their ledgers for an extra day or two." 

"Just as our ledgers can wait here as well." Wrapping outstretched arms around Eruthiawen and Elboron's shoulders, Aragorn led them toward the main stairwell where the White Tower connected to the King's House. "Come! You've been missed since Yuletide, and I want to hear all about the comings and goings in the Vale." 

Barahir once again took off running in the lead, and this time Elboron had to break away to catch up with him. Eruthiawen, thinly veiling her amusement beneath the long-suffering sigh of a mother, went calling out after them both. Eldarion took advantage of the opportunity to catch Aragorn's attention. 

"Adar, while we have a moment, there are two things that I would ask of you..." 

Barahir's laughter echoed around the corner before them, and Aragorn smiled before turning to look back. "Two things? By the look on your face, I should guess that they are rather important. Is something the matter?" 

Eldarion shook his head. "No! Not at all! I just hardly know which to speak of first..." Making up his mind, Eldarion smothered his mounting anticipation for the second subject with the more logistical aspects of the first. "I wish to forestall the planned destruction of the Black House." 

Few things tended to catch Aragorn off guard these days, especially considering all that he had seen and heard in his long years as king. His brows flew together in surprise though, and for a moment he wondered if he had heard Eldarion correctly. 

"Now why is that, Eldarion? I thought you were in agreement that there is nothing for anyone in that accursed place anymore. The decision was to replace the Black House with new studio space for the artisans of the Sages' Tier, was it not?" 

"It was...but I've been thinking about something that Rhoss told me." 

Understandably, a look of consternation and concern tightened Aragorn's frown. Eldarion had never so much as spoken Rhoss or Serthîk's names since the Siege of Minas Ithil. For all intents and purposes, the whole ordeal had been set aside and forgotten. That it should come up now, more than two years afterward, brought many dark memories in danger of rushing back to the surface. 

Eldarion was quick to allay his father's fears. "He said 'This city once prized education far more highly than it does now'. I was of no mind to think on his words at the time, but he wasn't entirely wrong. In the days of Númenor, knowledge and learning were pursuits of value not just for the children of the nobility. Amongst the Númenóreans, the ability to speak in multiple tongues was commonplace, and history, arts, and science were taught widely. I was speaking to the city guard's newest recruits today. The noble-born youths have been tutored in their family homes, as we ourselves were. I have noticed though that those born to everyday families come with less and less comprehension of the Sindarin tongue every year, to say nothing of Adûnaic
 or Quenya. And it is not just the tongues of old that are worth knowing now; there is also the Haradrim tongue, and far be it from us to know more than a handful of Rhûnic words either. 

Besides being able to speak and comprehend these languages, there is also the understanding of the peoples and histories behind them to consider. What good is the knowledge of the Haradrim tongue to a merchant traveling in Harondor, if he does not know to conduct his business with the woman of the shop when he arrives? What good is the ability to speak Sindarin and Quenya, if the folk of Ithilien do not understand why Legolas's folk comprehend both but speak only the former? What good is it for our people to have lived through history, if we do not look back and learn its lessons?" 

Aragorn, who had until now listened with dawning understanding, was still not quite satisfied. "What purpose does the Black House serve to such ends, Eldarion?" 

Without entirely meaning to, Eldarion's hand found and clasped his wrist. The thin, white wire scars had never quite faded. "The Black House was once a place of learning, long ago in the days of King Atantar and his successors. Let it be so once again. Let us learn from our mistakes, rather than seeking to erase them. I wish for The Black House to become a center of learning; a center from which knowledge and understanding might spread the cause of peace for years to come." 

"Precisely the opposite of what Serthîk intended to do," concluded Aragorn. 

"Yes. I cannot forget the Black House, no matter if we were to dismantle every last stone down to its foundations. So, rather than destroy it, let us restore it." 

Pride bloomed in Aragorn's chest as he looked into the face of his son. Eldarion stood resolute, the spring sunlight upon his face and wisdom in his gaze. And so, Aragorn relented. Placing a hand upon Eldarion's shoulder, he nodded. 

"Very well then. I give the Black House over to you, and to the scholars of Minas Tirith. Whatever assistance you need from me to realize your vision, you need only ask. To you I entrust the task of guiding Gondor in the footsteps of learned Númenor." A whisper of Foresight prompted Aragorn to add "This I suspect shall be your legacy, Eldarion...the legacy of your kingship." 

"I am not king yet," said Eldarion, even as he bowed his head to accept his father's blessings. "To that end though, there is something else that I wish to ask you..."

"Oh?" 

The beginnings of a smile tugged at the corner of Eldarion's mouth. "Every king needs a queen. With your permission, I intend to ask Galieth to marry me." 

Where moments before Aragorn had been solemn and thoughtful, now his entire face warmed with pride. His grey eyes sparkling, he laid his free hand upon Eldarion's other shoulder and gave both a squeeze. 

"You have it, ion-nin. That and all my blessings for a life filled with love and happiness. You should know though..." He trailed off suddenly. 

"Know what, Ada?" Eldarion's expression turned anxious. "What should I know??"

Aragorn laughed. "That you will be making Almárëa very happy indeed with such a decision. She and Túrien have had wagered placed on when you would propose ever since the Harvest Feast." 

So unexpected was this answer that Eldarion too burst out into laughter. "After all these years, Túrien should know better than to wager against Almárëa!" Then he sobered, looking Aragorn steadily in the eye. "Do you think Galieth will be happy, as Queen of Gondor?" 

"Eldarion..." Clapping his son on the arm, Aragorn steered him to set out after Elboron, Eruthiawen, and Barahir. "If I have learned nothing else from being married to your mother for near forty years, it is that you marry a person, not an idea. The two of you will be Eldarion and Galieth first and foremost, King and Queen of Gondor after. It is true; to be a king is not a mantle taken lightly, and in many places it might become difficult to see where you begin and the crown ends. Galieth knows you though, and you know her well enough no doubt to trust that she would be choosing you first, the crown second. So long as you ask for her hand in good faith, and so long as she accepts in the same, then yes, I believe the two of you will be happy, even when you are a king and queen." 

"Believe me, Galieth is the last sort of person to ever choose a crown first. If anything, she might just refuse my proposal because I come with a crown and kingdom!"

Shaking his head, Aragorn chuckled. "Let us hope not! I think we have all grown very fond of her over the years. Your mother especially; did you know that last month she accidentally referred to Galieth as 'iel-nin'?"

"She did not!?! However did Galieth react?" 

"You know, I'm not entirely sure she noticed. Or perhaps she simply convinced herself that she misheard Arwen." 

"...Naneth did that on purpose, didn't she?" 

Aragorn's wink was pure knowing. "Where do you think your sisters get it from, hmmm?" 

Arm-in-arm, Aragorn and Eldarion were met at the bottom of the stairs by Barahir and the others. When Eldarion caught up his nephew for another hug, the thought occurred to him that someday, he might be holding out his arms for his own children. 

But he was getting ahead of himself. The future was, after all, yet to be written. 

OoOoO