He climbed over her balcony and onto the terrace, stealthy and barefoot as he crept around the windswept leaves and between the curtains. Yet she heard him anyway, for her ears were far more perceptive than his own; and after so many years among the elves, she knew, he would expect her to anticipate his coming. Arwen sat up among the velvet cushions and smiled into the darkness.

"You have decided to grace me with your company this evening, instead of the son of the Steward of Gondor?"

She heard Aragorn stop moving towards her, heard his swift indrawn breath. "I thought you advised me to befriend the man..."

"So I did." Arwen laughed quietly. "Your journey will be long and difficult, the more so if you avoid one another. The Ring will cause discord to fester between you. If you can replace anger with love, it may save his life and your own."

Aragorn was absolutely still, almost as still as an elf. This, she thought, must be what he was like when he hunted, at the moment before he leapt upon his prey. But she sensed no aggression in him, only a deep uncertainty.

"I do not love him," he whispered, turning his face to the ground.

"You do not need to spare my feelings," she assured him. "I am happy for you. You have spent so much of your life among my people; if you are to be made King, you must learn the ways of your own. There is much he may be able to teach you, my love."

Softly Aragorn padded across the floor to sit beside Arwen among the cushions, though he did not touch her, nor meet her eyes. "Boromir is a brave man," he admitted. "But I do not wish to become too fond of him. Our fates are so uncertain..."

He fell silent, and Arwen thought that she understood what he wished to explain. "He is mortal," she said. "You fear that death may take him from you, as it has taken so many others..."

Very suddenly, Aragorn reached for her, putting his arms around her to crush her against his chest. His lips hungrily nibbled at her forehead, the tips of her ears, her chin, her mouth. "How I want..." he murmured in between kisses. "...want you."

She laughed airily. "Doesn't anyone say 'please' anymore?"

"Please. Arwen. Be with me tonight. Be with me always."

Aragorn's fingers stroked through her hair, up her neck, rising to the points of her ears which had always seemed to fascinate him, so different as they were from his own. The tenderness of his touch made passion quicken within her. "Always," she agreed.

And then she did understand.

"I will not die," she whispered, the words for herself more than for him. "You will love me alone because you need not fear that, like your mother and so many others, I will leave you alone."

Aragorn said nothing. Yet she heard the truth in his gulping swallow and in the sniffle he tried to disguise as a deep breath. His mouth pressed the hollow of her throat, marking her in a wet trail, though they both knew the bruise would vanish as quickly as the dampness.

Arwen thought of the affections of her youth, then the long lonely years when she thought she would never find the one to whom she wished to cleave for all the ages. The promise of the Undying Lands had seemed a prison to her. Then she had met Aragorn, and he had made her feel alive, renewed. He had made her understand what it would mean to live every moment as though it might be the last, as though everyone and everything worth loving could vanish from the world.

Of course he loved Boromir; she had suspected that he was beginning to feel it even before she suggested that he seek out the other man. But he would bury that feeling deep within his heart, where it could not hurt him if Boromir were hurt. If he died. This Aragorn had learned among the elves: that love for a mortal could be undying, yet every mortal would die. Indeed, love for a man was one of the few things that could kill an elf.

"I will be with you always," she heard herself promise again, and returned his kisses.