Author’s note: Greetings, fellow writers! I intended to compose this short piece for Aragorn’s birthday on the first of this month, but needless to say I only had this partially completed, and then the necessity to complete papers for various college courses took over. However, here it is for you to enjoy now! I would greatly appreciate your feedback, as it has been many months since I composed a Lord of the Rings fanfic. I used to operate under the penname Trishette, by the way, although I doubt I am very memorable. Hopefully I will be able to write much more often in posterity! College keeps a young woman quite busy.

Disclaimer: Much as I wish it were otherwise, I do not own a single thing! Please do not sue. Thank you kindly.

It was the first of March in the 2,933 year of the Third Age of Middle-earth. It was unusually warm for that particular day... so warm, in fact, that Arathorn the Second had found himself compelled to cast his cloak into his pack. The tall, dark-haired man, a breathtakingly beautiful woman, and a very small boy of dark hair and mischievous grey eyes were situated in a grove of trees shrouded by majestic mountains towering all about in the beautiful sunlight. The mountains cast a long, deep shadow but the sun was at a position in the sky such that the campsite of the three travelers was caught by its warming rays.  It was a rare day of relaxation for the trio indeed; for once they were not spending the majority of their hours on the road, with little Aragorn cradled protectively against the dun-colored stallion. They would be remaining at this particular camp for the occasion.

What circumstance would lead to Arathorn II, the fifteenth Chieftain of the Dunedain, Heir of the lineage of Elendil and Isildur, remaining in a single location for more than twenty-four hours straight?  It was a very special day. It was two years to the day that the tiny Aragorn had made his way into the world from the womb of Gilraen the Fair, kicking and screaming, already attesting to the courageous personality of a fighter. He was to carry on the bloodline of Isildur even after Arathorn departed from this world, the only son thus far of the Ranger, and to protectively bear the shards of Narsil, safeguarding them until such a time came as the Sword that was Broken was to be reforged.  The boy was special, and Arathorn would willingly wager his very neck that great things lay in store for his small son. It could be deduced merely by gazing into the keen grey eyes of the boy that this was no ordinary child. There seemed to be in their light knowledge and discernment far exceeding what could be expected of a mere two-year-old child. If there were ever a fitting adjective for him, it was precocious. He was already manifesting an interest in books and scrolls, although he was not quite old enough to undertake the challenge of learning the various Elvish characters. Nonetheless, both of his parents had taken it upon themselves to begin edifying the young mind via reading various history texts to the boy in Elvish, the language of Gondor, and the Common Tongue.

At the present time, however, Aragorn was educating himself in an entirely different means from books. While his father busied himself with the sharpening of his weapons and his mother’s attentions were diverted by the cooking of a brace of coneys Arathorn had hunted down the previous day for a birthday meal- rabbit meat was Aragorn’s favorite at the present time- the small boy had manage to wander away from the campsite in pursuit of- a rather strange-looking beetle

Aragorn had never seen anything like this before! It seemed to be what his mother had told him was a beetle, except it was colored bright red and covered with black spots. It seemed rather keen on crawling slowly through the newly greening grass. It seemed as though spring had come early.

Where did such a queer insect keep its home? Aragorn wished to find out; perhaps there would be more like this! He thus very quietly made his way through the grass on shaky hands and knees, trying not to disturb the six-legged creature lest it take to the air and he thus lose the opportunity to learn something new.

Suddenly, there was a loud rustle, and the red-and-black creature took to the air in a flurry of wings. The thin shoulders of young Aragorn slumped in disappointment. The next thing he knew, he was being whisked into the air.

“Aragorn! How many times do I have to tell you this? Do not wander off!” Gilraen scolded sharply as she took her son into her arms and bore him back to the campsite two hundred yards off. She had looked up from the pot to notice that her ever-roaming progeny was no longer safely next to her. Quite honestly, the boy was going to land himself in quite some trouble! The mother could not help but worry; there were orcs and Wargs and many other foul, ill-meaning creatures to be found in the Wild!

Ten minutes passed, ten minutes that seemed to drag on forever. It was then that his father sidled up to his mother, having  finished the sharpening of his weapons and stashing them safely out of the reach of his playful child, and proceeded to initiate some sort of whispered conversation. Aragorn cocked his head curiously, endeavoring to pick up the words, but being unsuccessful, he quickly lost interest.

Wait… nether were watching him! Here was his chance! Aragorn took this opportune moment to disappear into the tent and commence rifling through his father’s belongings. Those shiny pointy objects were fascinating, yet he was never allowed to even look at them closely, let alone touch them. However… no! It wasn’t fair; they weren’t in the bag!

However…

Aragorn did notice some other very interesting items. There were, for instance, some circles that reflected the stray rays of the sun that peeked into the tent. They had some strange raised bumps on them and little pictures… on both sides! There were also a bunch of… rocks? Why does Daddy have rocks? Aragorn wondered. That really was quite curious. Aragorn took the dark grey, slightly glassy-looking stones out and began rolling them about in his palms.  They were pretty and very shiny… but what were they?

Well… rocks DID make loud noises if used properly…. Smiling at the thought, Aragorn took one stone in each hand and began banging them together.

Clack. Clack. Clack. The small boy struck them together harder and harder, giggling quietly Clack. Clack clack CLACK! With the last, especially enthusiastic banging, a couple of orange sparks flew into the air. Astonished, Aragorn nearly dropped the stones from the unexpected turn of events, then regained composure and resumed the striking of the stones. Unbeknownst to the young child, these rocks that he grasped in his small little hands were flint stones, which had bestowed upon them the special property of starting fires should they be struck together hard enough.

            Leaning against the side of the tent, Aragorn wondered briefly whether he might get in trouble- clearly these rocks were magic- but his childish mischievousness got the better of him. He struck them once more, exerting all his strength into the action. More sparks birthed from the stone this time… and, as they landed in a patch of grass that had not yet revitalized, the blades ignited. Within three seconds, there was a small fire in the cave, tent and all.

            Yelping from fright, Aragorn dropped the stones and ran out of the tent, tripping over his feet and falling into the grass as he tried to flee. Shrieking again, he resumed and ran more… directly into his father’s waiting arms.

            “Aragorn? What’s the matter?” Arathorn inquired, flummoxed. He and his wife had been so engrossed in discussing a birthday surprise for the youngster that they had not missed their son in the five minutes he had been out of sight until they had heard his first cry from the tent.

            “F-f-f-….” Aragorn was trying to remember the word. What were those hot orange things that he wasn’t allowed to touch called? Oh… that was right… “Fire, Da! Fire!”

            “Fire?” Arathorn repeated. “Where?”

            “There!” One chubby index finger pointed into the tent. Perplexed, Arathorn went in to investigate… and saw that the bottom of the tent was covered in flames. Ducking out and seizing the family’s bucket of water, the Ranger doused it on the flames. Quite thankfully, that one quick action sufficed to quench the flames. What had perpetrated this madness? One glance around the blackened grass revealed two flint stones- and the Ranger noted that his bag was open. That told him all he needed to know.

            Stepping out of the cave, Arathorn glared at his son, who recoiled under the angry stare. He knew he was in trouble now. Stooping down, Arathorn looked directly into the boy’s face.

            “Aragorn!! Stay out of my bag! And do not leave the site of your mother again!” Arathorn scolded, frowning at his young son. Needless to say, that had been quite the scare. What if the boy had managed to trap himself in the tent? Gripping Aragorn’s shoulders, Arathorn carefully listened to the youngster’s breathing in case it was affected by the smoke. Mercifully, he seemed okay- scared, but okay. Perhaps the fright would prevent future incidents like this one, hopefully.  

            “Sorry Da…” Aragorn said. This time around, he looked as though he were ready to start shedding tears.  “What were dose wocks?”

            “These?” Arathorn said, releasing his son and withdrawing the stones from his pocket. Aragorn nodded, still looking a bit pale, as though afraid of the rocks. “These are flint stones. You hit them together and they make fire. You see that fire?” He pointed at the campfire where Gilraen was putting the finishing touches on supper. Aragorn nodded. “I made that with these.”

            “Weally?”

            “Yes, my son. Fire is a friend but it is also a foe. It keeps you warm but can kill… you will know when you are older.”

            Aragorn nodded. “When can I have my pwesent?” In all honesty, he was not sure he was going to get one now that he had made his father mad.

            “When we eat”

            “When is that?”

            Just then, the melodic voice of Gilraen called “Supper’s ready!” Aragorn, all terror forgotten, gave a joyous shriek and began to jump up and down enthusiastically.

            The three people gathered about the fire and grabbed some plates. Gilraen began to pile the meat and some potatoes onto everybody’s dishes. Aragorn wrinkled his nose, and pointed at his plate.

            “I don’t wike that,” he stated loudly, grimacing.

            “You like rabbit,” his mother said in a scolding sort of manner.

            “No… that.” He indicated the potatoes.

            “Well, you’re going to have to eat it anyway,” his mother said. The two-year-old groaned. “Why?”

            “Because it’s good for you.”

            The boy began to obligingly eat the rabbit. However, he very pointedly left the potatoes untouched. He put his plate down once the meat was gone. “All done!”

            “Oh, no you’re not! You have to eat your potatoes, Aragorn,” Gilraen said.

            “NO!” Aragorn said.

            “Eat them.”

            “No!” The boy folded his arm and stuck out his lower lip.

            “Aragorn, eat your potatoes or you won’t get dessert.”

            “We have dessert?” That was not a usual circumstance when they were traveling.

            “Only if you eat your potatoes.”

            Gingerly, the small boy lifted a very small amount to his lips. He gagged at the unpleasant texture and the cold temperature, replacing what would have been a mouthful on his plate.

            “They’re cold.”

            “Well, Aragorn, they would be warm if you had eaten them right away instead of whining,” Arathorn responded. At the same time, Gilraen lifted the plate with tongs and held it over the fire briefly. After a moment, she removed the food from Aragorn’s original plate and put it on her empty one.

            “They’re warm now, so eat up. They’ll make you big and strong,” said Gilraen.

            “Weally?”

            Gilraen smiled indulgently at her son’s question. She was confident that in a few months he would unfailingly pronounce his R’s correctly. “Yes, son. Eat.”

            Aragorn tentatively prodded his food. How would these white lumps make him strong? He definitely wanted to be big, then he could do more… screwing up every ounce of courage to face the quarry that was one most foul-tasting food, the tiny boy cut a lump of potato and began chewing it. His face was one of revulsion, but he bravely plowed through his first bite. He gulped, pulling a sour face. Grabbing his flask of water, he washed down the chunk. Wait… it disappeared from the mouth a lot faster with water…

            Smiling at his discovery, Aragorn proceeded to gobble the rest of the potatoes with the aid of his drink.

            “Dessert?”

            “First present,” said Arathorn. He went into the pack he kept at his side and retrieved a long, thin package, essentially something long and thin wrapped in a blanket.

            “What is it?”

            Arathorn chuckled. “Open it.”

            Squealing with glee, Aragorn did just that. The long, thin object, was a piece of wood shaped into exactly like that pretty thing his father always carried. It had the same handle and the same point part! It even had funny etches in it!

            “What is this, Da?” Aragorn inquired.

            “Son?” Arathorn said, “This is your first sword. You will have one like mine when you are older, but for now, you can play with this. Enjoy your sword!”

            “Hooray!!!!!” the youngster shrieked, running about the vicinity swishing his “sword” with joy.  “I can fight like Daddy!”

            Arathorn looked at his wife. “Did he just pronounce an L?”

            Gilraen returned the smile. “I think he did!”