The snows had melted from the plains of Rohan, giving way to rolling seas of green. Wind rippled across the tall grass, carrying the songs of meadowlarks and the distant laughter of children who played outside the wooden walls of Edoras. The city breathed with life again, a realm reborn under spring's gentle hand.
Within Meduseld, warmth and peace held court. The golden hall no longer echoed with the weight of strategy or the cries of war, but with softer sounds, the babble of a child, the soft cadence of lullabies sung in Elvish and Rohirric alike.
Edwen stood upon the balcony of his chambers, watching his kingdom stir to life beneath the rising sun. His armor, long polished, rested untouched beside the hearth. These days, he wore the robes of a ruler, not a warrior, deep green trimmed with silver thread, the crest of the horse and star embroidered upon his breast.
Behind him, laughter light and musical, broke the morning stillness. Arwen stood by the cradle, their son nestled in her arms. The little one had grown in these months silver-flecked hair like starlight caught in morning dew, and eyes that gleamed with both curiosity and quiet wisdom.
"You stare as though you still cannot believe he is real," Arwen teased softly, though her own eyes were full of wonder.
Edwen smiled faintly. "Every time I wake and see you both, I half expect it to be a dream. A cruel one, that vanishes with the dawn."
She stepped closer, placing the child into his arms. "Then you must keep waking, my love," she said. "For the dream is life itself now."
He held the boy gently, feeling the tiny heartbeat against his chest. His son reached upward, clutching at a lock of his long hair. Edwen chuckled, brushing a kiss to the infant's brow.
"The grip of a warrior already," he murmured.
Arwen smiled, resting her hand lightly over his, and for a heartbeat, her gaze flickered toward the horizon, where the mountains lay faint and blue in the distance. "You have that look again."
"What look?"
"The one you wore before battle. Before destiny found you on the plains and in the dark places of the world."
He hesitated, then exhaled slowly. "Old habits die slowly. Even in peace, I feel the stir of something… calling. Perhaps it is only a memory."
But deep down, he knew better.There was a restlessness in the wind, a whisper of coming change.
Later that day, Edwen walked the outer walls of Edoras, his cloak stirring in the breeze. The city bustled with life, merchants trading, smiths hammering, and elven craftsmen working alongside Rohirrim builders to raise new bridges and fortify the mountain roads. The dream he had shared with Elrond of roads of stone linking their realms, guarded by forts and watchtowers, was slowly becoming real.
"King Edwen," called one of the elven overseers, bowing lightly. "The foundation stones from Rivendell have arrived. We will begin the first bridge by midsummer."
"Good," Edwen replied. "Let it stand strong enough to outlast both time and shadow."
He paused a moment to look eastward, toward the unseen lands beyond.Peace had settled here, yes — but peace never lingered long in Middle-earth.
That evening, he returned to his family. The great hall had quieted, and only a few torches burned low along the walls. Arwen sat near the fire, singing softly to their son, whose eyes fluttered in half-sleep. Her voice was pure, clear, and full of ancient melody, carried through the chamber like a benediction.
Edwen stood in the doorway, watching silently, heart full to bursting.For all his strength, all his victories, it was this fragile, fleeting peace that made him feel truly small before the vastness of the world.
When the song ended, Arwen lifted her gaze to him. "You were far away again," she said gently.
He came to her side, kneeling. "Not far," he said. "Just… remembering. My mother's hall was filled with song like this once. And before that," He paused, the faintest shadow passing his eyes. "Before that, another world altogether."
Arwen reached out and took his hand. "You have carried many lives, my king. But only one heart."
He smiled faintly. "A heart that is no longer mine alone."
She brushed her thumb across his cheek, where faint scars still lingered. "You have earned your peace, Edwen. Do not fear it."
He took a slow breath, looking at her, at their son, and finally at the fire. "Peace, yes… but perhaps not forever. The winds shift. Gandalf does not travel idly, and the north stirs. I feel it."
Arwen's gaze softened, though her voice held quiet steel. "Then, when that time comes, you will go. But for now… stay."
And so he did. He stayed through that night and many more walking the city, tending the fields, holding his son beneath the open sky, teaching the young riders, and building a realm that could endure beyond him.
But fate never sleeps.
One morning, as the first golden light crept over the mountains, a raven descended upon the parapets of Meduseld. It bore a small seal upon its leg, the mark of Gandalf the Grey.
Edwen broke the seal and read in silence, his eyes flicking over the words. When he finished, he closed the parchment and stared toward the far horizon.
Arwen appeared beside him, silent as dawn itself. "He calls?" she asked softly.
He nodded. "A gathering of dwarves. A journey to a mountain long lost."
Her hand found his arm, steadying him. "Then Middle-earth stirs again."
Edwen folded the message carefully and slipped it into his cloak. "So it does."
He looked down at her, at the life they had built together, at the son sleeping in her arms, and though his heart ached, there was a calm acceptance in his eyes.
"Whatever comes," he said quietly, "I will return. I swear it."
Arwen smiled faintly, a tear glinting like a diamond in the sunlight. "Then go, my love… and let your courage guide you once more."
He kissed her hand, then the crown of his child's head, and turned toward the rising sun.
The wind caught his cloak, carrying it eastward toward fate, toward adventure, toward the mountain that awaited.
And as he rode from the golden gates of Edoras, the bells of the city rang softly behind him, not in sorrow, but in hope.
For peace had not ended.It merely waited, patient as the dawn, for its champion to return.