A/N: My grateful thanks to Prof. Tolkien, to whom Aragorn belongs. May be slightly AU in that I assume as Thorongil, Aragorn would have the Ring of Barahir and the hilt of Narsil with him, but hidden.

This original version of this story won 1st place for the Teitho "The Sea, The Sea" challenge, and can still be found at that website in its original form. This is a slightly revised version–the only real change beyond a word here and there is that I’ve broken it up into chapters.

~~~

"Renewed shall be the blade that was broken, the crownless again shall be king." (The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien, page 167, Houghton-Mifflin edition.)

~~~

Pain was a beast gnawing relentlessly at his skull. He grimaced and pulled himself to his feet, trying again to summon the energy... to do what? Beat uselessly against the door? Scream for help?

No one would come. No one would hear.

He knew he was alone, that he had been left alone for... days? Or merely hours? He swallowed. His dry throat and parched mouth told him that he had been imprisoned longer than mere hours. But he really had no way to tell. His thoughts kept skipping and straying beyond his reach, disappearing into foggy shadows and reappearing at random until he moved his head the wrong way and pain drove all reckoning away like quail scattered by the approach of a clumsy hunter.

It was useless, but he walked–stumbled, really–to the door and rested his forehead against the rough wood. Oak. Maybe hickory. Hard and solid and ancient. A door that had withstood harsher assaults than his weak pounding.

But he had to go through the motions. His pride forced him to keep on, to never give up until strength was utterly spent. He pried at the edges of the door, digging in with his fingernails. Nothing happened other than a sharp pain that told him he had ripped back a nail. He cursed, pounded on the door again and again until strength fled and he sagged to the floor with a soft despairing cry. He rolled over on his back and laid a forearm across his eyes. Weary eyes. Aching head.

A soft inflow of air, tangy with the scent of sea and rich with the promise of rain, puffed intermittently under the door, ruffling his hair. Teasing him with the hints of freedom that lay just beyond his reach. He rolled onto his side, fighting dizziness and a grinding ache behind his left ear that hammered relentlessly against his skull with every move. He pressed his eye to the crack near the floor.

The view was the same as the last time he had looked. A glimpse of stone and gravel, shadow and light... light that hinted that outdoors, far away from this dim cell, the sun shone and people went about selling and buying in marketplaces and elves sang songs and hobbits ate feasts... all oblivious to the man trapped in this cold, stone prison.

~~~

An hour passed. Two. Or maybe it had only been a few minutes. Time had ceased to have meaning in this dank, windowless place.

He lay listlessly staring into the gloom. He didn’t think this was a real prison, a real dungeon manned by guards and lorded over by some evil master. No, more likely it was some long-unused storage building. The wooden rafters far overhead and the cursedly strong but plain locked wooden door–even the small ventilation slits all along the bottom of the stone walls–spoke less of prison and more of some other more plebeian purpose. And few dungeons were square at the bottom only to soar overhead into what looked like a round tower. It reminded him faintly of lighthouses he had seen along the coast of Anfalas and Belfalas. But this building was not tall enough to be such a structure–the roof was only twenty feet above his head, and there were no stairs leading upward, no trap door that would lead to a beacon fire.

It made no sense. Nothing made sense.

He reached back and laid his hand tenderly against the lump behind his left ear. His hair was stiff with dried blood. He let his hand fall. He knew his skull was grievously bruised, maybe even cracked. He had prodded it in an incautious moment and fell into blackness for hours. He had no wish to repeat that mistake. If it was cracked, it would either heal, or he would die. Poking it into fiery life in the meantime seemed pointless.

He turned his mind away from dreary thoughts of broken skulls and tried to chase down whatever elusive knowledge might provide a clue to where he was.

He knew this much: he was somewhere in south Gondor. Anfalas had been his goal, to see the great Bay of Belfalas from the wilds of that long shoreline before heading north for home. He had served Steward Ecthelion II under a name not his own. As Thorongil, he had learned much and fought well but the time had come to put aside that name and don another. Estel, if he were to head to Rivendell, or maybe Strider, if he were to resume his life as a Ranger prowling the wilds of the North. He hadn’t been positive which path to take, nor even if it were to be his choice. He had found, in so many of his journeys, that fate often ignored his plans and pushed him in directions of its own. For all he knew, he might end up in Mordor. But the Bay of Belfalas beckoned strongly, and it was on the road that led to that great water that he had set out, to seek solitude in the wild unpopulated northern shores of Anfalas.

But perhaps not this much solitude.

He groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. How on Arda hadhe gotten here?

He searched his aching brain. Remembered a crushing blow to the side of his head and plunging into darkness that lasted he knew not how long. He remembered a tiny hamlet. A quiet lane. And a face. Wild eyes. A madman claiming to be, of all things, the Heir of Isildur.

Aragorn suddenly laughed, a harsh, guttural bark that frightened him, for it sounded too much like the mirthless laughter of that madman.

But the irony of it! Oh, the awful irony of it. Being locked away to slowly die because the madman wanted the crown that he, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the genuine Heir of Isildur, did not. To die because someone wanted to take the title he had so often prayed, in the secret watches of the night, would not be his to bear after all. And now that it looked as though the throne, the crown ... life itself ... would indeed be snatched from him, he wanted it more than anything on Arda.

It seemed that prayers too often go answered after all.

He curled into himself, hiding his suddenly weeping eyes from whom, he did not know, for he was alone. It was foolish to conceal his tears when no one was there to see them, but still he buried his face and his shame in his arms and cowered in the dark and wished desperately for life, for his life.

His life.

He growled, then, and pushed himself up with both arms until he was sitting, his back against hard stone walls that felt no different than the floor. He would not cower. He swiped his hand across his cheeks, wiping away the betraying tears.

If this be his doom, so be it. He would face it as a man, a Dúnadan. A Númenórean.

A king.

He would not lie sniveling in the dark, tormented by despair. He took a deep breath and then another, searching for the last dregs of strength and wishing he had found a bit more.

The rain scent seemed more pronounced. The zephyr under the door strengthened to a steady whistle of wind that blew cold and damp across the hand that rested beside his leg. He opened his fist and let the air brush his palm, as if he could somehow capture the moisture it carried.

He listened to the wind outside the door, a soft roaring sound, muted but growing louder. Thunder rumbled somewhere above the rafters. He leaned down and looked beneath the door again. A flashing flicker of light, then the thunder pealed once more, louder this time, and closer.

A storm, approaching fast. He straightened back up, thinking about the implications. He did not know if that was a good portent, or ill. He knew that storms on the sea could be fearsome things when they hit the coast, driving surf far inland to flood everything in its path. Tearing roofs from buildings with their strong winds...

Tearing roofs from buildings.

He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the flare of pain in his head that stirred violent protest in his stomach and whirling dervishes in his vision. He steadied himself with a hand on the wall and stared upward into the shadows at the rafters supporting the roof. The stone walls would withstand all but the most violent of floods, but the roof was mere wood, no doubt topped with perhaps slate or tile. He stretched an arm upward, trying to reach the top of the wall, trying to touch the lowest beam.

He wasn’t nearly tall enough. He almost smiled. Seldom was it that he had to admit to being too short.

He walked around the perimeter of the small room, feeling the walls, searching for handholds. Four paces took him the length of each wall. Sixteen paces and he was back at the door. The stone walls were too smooth. The ventilation slits along the bottom were too low and too narrow, barely the width of his smallest finger, and certainly nothing to help him climb the twenty feet he needed to reach the rafters.

If the roof did blow off, he was still trapped.

Thunder shook the building, rattling even the stones beneath his feet and assaulting his aching head with its cracking rumbles. He stared at the ceiling, wondering how high aground his stone prison stood. How far from the shore.

How far from what shore? Had he made it to Anfalas, or was this some remote region of Belfalas or who knows what other shore? He clenched his fist and pounded the door, frustration getting the better of him again. How had he gotten here? And where was here?

He had no answers. Only fuzzy snatches of memories that a concussed brain refused to sort out.

Memories of that wild-haired man, his eyes fixed on Aragorn’s ring....

The ring.

He looked frantically at his hand. Curse his muddled brain, why had he not checked before.... "No," he cried. The ring of Barahir was gone. After so many long months playing the stranger, he had foolishly put it on again, in his longing to once more be himself. He had become so very tired of the person called Thorongil, a wayfarer from the north who no one knew nor could ever know. He had been tired of surface friendships, of deceptions, of half truths.

He had just wanted to be himself again, right down to his uneasy acceptance of his heritage. Somehow being in Gondor had changed something within him, had planted the seeds of a love for this realm, a love greater than he ever would have believed possible. But greater still was his desire to go home. His emotions had been so muddled that putting on the ring somehow soothed him. He saw himself in that green stone, and saw his conflicting desires in the serpents battling on either side. It made no sense, but somehow that ring gave him comfort.

And now it was gone.

With a small groan, he slid back down to the floor. How could he have been so stupid? Giving into homesickness like some whimpering child not yet out of infancy. Well, now he was paying the full price of his folly.

The entire debacle roared back with a skull-pounding vengeance. The beggar, who at first had seemed harmless, almost charming with his childlike stream of chatter, had recognized the ring, somehow, and started making wild-eyed claims that it was stolen, that he was Isildur’s heir. Try as he might, Aragorn could not dissuade him of his sudden delusion, and the man’s childish cries and protests had only grown in volume and fury the more Aragorn tried to calm him.

The only good thing about the entire fiasco as that they had been alone on a deserted lane and no one heard the man’s screeching accusations. No one came running with questions of their own, questions Aragorn would not be able to answer. But that they were alone also gave all the advantage to the beggar when he unexpectedly produced a cudgel that he slammed against Aragorn’s head.

In that brief instant before unconsciousness swept in, it felt like the blow had sundered his head from his neck. He fingered again the aching bump just behind his left ear, winced as he tried with limited success to turn his head to the right. The blow had been a fierce one, for the beggar had been young and strong. Aragorn had slid into darkness, the triumphant laughter of the beggar echoing in his ears. He had no idea how long he had been lost to the world before waking up... here.

"Where is here?" he suddenly shouted. Wind and a peal of thunder were the only reply.

He forced his thoughts back to the storm. From the rising noise of the wind, it appeared this might indeed be one of those massive storms that the sea hurls against the land. He pictured the wind tearing the roof from his prison.

He shivered. A wind strong enough to tear apart this stone building would tear him apart. He shut his eyes and tried to come up with a plan.With all its frustrations and fears and the destiny he did not want but could not willingly refuse. Life that he felt ebbing away minute by minute.

Water lapping at his hand woke him up. He started, wondering how long he had slept. The storm raged louder than ever outside, the shrieking wind making the roof tremble and groan. He eyed it uneasily. He knew now that the wind, far from being the ally he hoped, was his enemy.

He lifted his dripping hand, still keeping a wary eye on the roof, and cautiously licked. Sea water, a surge pushed in by the storm. He looked toward the door and saw a puddle... no, not a puddle but a torrent of water... spreading across the room. He scrambled to his feet, an entirely new fear snatching away his breath. If the seawater somehow managed to fill his small building...

He glanced at the stone walls, trying to see if there was a high water mark that had gone unnoticed in his previous inspections. He could see none, but that did nothing to reassure him. It could simply mean that the light was too dim to see such a mark, or worse, that the water regularly rose to the top. He chased away a bleak image of being trapped against the roof, gasping the last bit of air as the water closed over his head.

Within minutes, the entire floor had an inch of water, the level steadily rising.

He returned to the door. It swung inward, but he still leveled a kick at it, hoping against hope to find a weak spot, a rotten timber that would give way. The jarring thud of his ankle slamming into the unyielding door shot straight to his battered skull. He gasped, although it was more of a scream if he cared to admit it.

He did not care to admit it.

He grabbed his head and cursed in every language he could think of. The door still stood, and now, in addition to having a head that roared with pain with each beat of his pulse, every joint all the way to his hip ached. He felt like he had loosened every sinew in his leg. He limped away, his boots sloshing as the water lapped at his ankles.

Water surrounded him, but still he thirsted. He grimaced, remembering a stupid ditty from childhood... water, water everywhere but not a drop to drink.

He looked up at the ceiling. Surely the water could not rise that high.

Then his heart skipped a beat. The water would not have to reach the top. He looked at the walls, the bare walls. No stairs, no ledges, nothing to hold once the water rose above his head. In his weakened state, he would tire and drown long before the water reached the roof.

And in the moments he had stood dithering, it had already gained his knees, pouring in under the door and through all the ventilation slits. He needed something to block its inflow ... slow it down enough for him to come up with a plan ... something ... anything...

He ripped his shirt off over his head, shivering as the chill air hit his bare chest. He sloshed over to the door and thrust the tunic under the water, jamming it against the space beneath, where the water seemed to be flowing in the fastest. He moved his hands back, but after a moment, the shirt floated free, pushed out by the water. It was simply coming in with too much force. And all those slits ... he didn’t have enough clothes to block every one, even if he stripped to his skin.

His only hope was that the building was on high enough ground to keep the water below his head. But as the water sloshed above his knees, he somehow knew how feeble his hope was.

~~~

His head slipped under the water and he thrust upward, desperately grabbing at the stone wall to reclaim his precarious grip on the slight ledge, a ledge that had appeared almost like a miracle a few feet beneath the spot where the roof met the walls. He had been unable to see it from the floor, but for the moment, it was all that kept him from sliding exhausted under the surface and into Ulmo’s cold embrace.

But still the water rose inexorably, and despite the ledge’s brief succor, the dreadful vision of drowning, trapped against the roof, was looking to be dismally prophetic. He hooked an elbow on the ledge and reached up with his right hand to push against the planks of the roof. Solid. He hitched along, half swimming, half pulling himself, and tried the next spot, then the next and the next.

Nothing gave.

He slipped again, going under. Seawater burned his eyes. He kicked and shot upward, surfacing in the middle of the room. The roof peak was now less than five feet over his head and still the water rose. He had never seen the like. Within an hour, the room was so full he had been forced to swim and tread water constantly to keep his head above water. His relief when he discovered the hidden ledge was indescribable, for it allowed him a bit of much needed rest. But the respite had been exceedingly short lived, and now the situation had deteriorated to the point where if he didn’t find a way to break through that cursed roof very, very soon, he would not have long to worry about his strength holding out. Ledge or no ledge, there would be no air left to breathe.

His legs were tiring. He took a deep breath and let himself sink beneath the surface, down to the floor by the door. Once more, he pushed against it, pulled on it, tried to kick it, but it held as fast as ever. He kicked upward, so feebly at first that fear gave his next kick more strength, and struggled back to the surface. He took in several gasping breaths and looked up. The roof peak was almost close enough to touch.

Forcing back panic, he grabbed one of the rafters and pulled himself along it. He could hear the wind roaring outside, could feel the vibration in the wood in his hand. He held still for a moment, examining the entire roof. The light that filtered through a few cracks at the roof’s edge was nearly too dim for sight, but he let his eyes trail carefully along every board, every edge, and finally hope dared raise its head. One board, near the very top of the peak, vibrated visibly, and a steady stream of water issued forth from around its edges.

Quicky he swam directly under it and reached up, pushing at it with his outstretched fingertips. It gave, slightly, and he balled his fist and with a kicking lunge, threw himself up out of the water while driving his fist at the board. He yelled in pain as his knuckles hit the board, but it gave noticeably. He shook out his hand, opened and closed his fingers a few times. It might be broken, but better to be alive with a mangled hand then dead with two whole ones. He braced himself against the pain and repeated the lunging punch. The board popped loose at one end, letting in a torrent of rainwater. Aragorn took a moment to let the fresh water pour into his mouth but then focused all his efforts on ripping that board loose.

The angle was all wrong and the nails too stubborn but the wind did it for him in the end. As Aragorn lifted the board higher with each blow, with each feeble yanking tug, the wind caught under its edge and finally lifted it completely clear. With a ripping squeal of agonized nails, the board tore free completely and disappeared into the stormy sky, leaving an opening just wide enough to let him through.

Aragorn grasped the slick edges of the opening and with a loud groan hauled himself out of the water and up and out onto the roof. The wind slammed into him with bruising force as he flopped onto the slick tiles. He started to slide, but he caught at the edge of the hole and managed to keep himself from falling further. Rain-driven wind hammered into his skin like a thousand needles and thunder felt like a fist against his skull, but he was free. He might be blown out to sea or worse, but at least he would not die trapped like a rat in the stinking hold of a doomed ship.

He tried to turn away from the wind, but it seemed to batter him from all directions. He squinted, but saw no sign of a shoreline through the driving rain. But he did see that raging waters surrounded the little building, marooning it like some lost island. Churning water covered most of the roof–indeed, his legs were half submerged in water that pulled and tugged with surprising force. He hitched himself as high as he could and curled his legs up, trying not to look too long at the dizzying swirl of the surf.

He wondered how long the storm would last. He hooked his elbows around the edge of the hole in the roof, ignoring the throbbing in his left hand and wrist. He could hold himself there, after a fashion, but already his arms trembled with fatigue. The blow to the head, the struggle against the rising waters, the fight against the roof...

It was all getting to be too much.

He dropped his head down, his face to the roof in order to spare it some of the punishment meted out by the wind- driven rain. Debris hurled past him. Tree limbs, leaves, bits and pieces of things that Aragorn couldn’t identify and feared might be houses and even animals or people. He clung stubbornly to the roof, trying to melt against the tiles, and never felt so frightened in his life. But the roof seemed to be holding. Now if only I can do the same....

~~~

Disaster, by its nature, strikes without warning.

One moment, Aragorn was holding on, secure as he could be under the circumstances, his elbows locked around the edge of the hole in the roof, thinking that maybe, for once in this entire foul chain of events, the Valar would smile on him and he would ride out the storm.

But within a blink, a tile loosened and ripped upward. Caught by the wind, it slammed against him, knocking his right arm loose and clipping his forehead as it spun crazily skyward. His wounded left arm failed, and dazed, he slid, scrabbling feebly for any sort of handhold.

In the span of a breath he fell from the roof into the surging water.

Silence.

Then a soft groan from someone very close by. Aragorn pried open his eyes, or tried to. One eye refused to open and the other looked out blearily at a world that shimmered and blurred alarmingly. Someone groaned again.

As consciousness dribbled back, he realized the groans came from his own throat. He clamped his mouth shut, but annoyingly, the soft cries continued with each waterlogged breath. He coughed weakly, and after a long moment he realized two things: he had nearly drowned, and his head rang with the hammers of Moria. Somewhere between the hammer blows lurked memories. A storm. A bash to the forehead. A fall into churning water that tossed him and battered him like a discarded doll. His legs banging into land. Crawling from the water. Retching and coughing up what felt like gallons of seawater. But beyond that... nothing. The past was a blank wall.

He realized he wasn’t even sure of his name.

After a few moments he became aware of another pain, somewhere in his left arm. He shifted his hand and the pain flared, instant and excruciating. From the feel of it, his wrist must be broken. When the spasm of pain finally eased, he very carefully curled the fingers of his right hand. They dug into something gritty and soft.

Sand.

Yes, he had definitely washed ashore. Was sprawled face down on the sand. With a broken head and a broken wrist and who knows what other injuries but at least he was not drowning. He smiled, or tried to. It felt good, not to be drowning.

After a while, the simple joy of not drowning lost its charm and other worries crowded in. What of the rest of his body? Was he whole? He cautiously moved his right leg and then his left. To his everlasting relief, both moved, and neither hurt.

All right then. A broken wrist. Somehow, even though the knowledge of who he was seemed strangely missing, he knew he had survived worse injuries. So he took a deep breath, steeling himself. Knowing pain was coming, he could brace himself for it, tolerate it for as long as he needed to. One more breath, and then he pushed upward with his right arm, raising his head and chest off the wet sand.

But he had not steeled himself for the daggers that sank into his skull. He gasped, then collapsed back down and knew no more.

~~~~

"Here, lad, wake up! Are you alive?"

Someone grasped his shoulder, shaking it gently but still sending great arcs of pain up his neck and into his brain. The peaceful darkness where he had found retreat dissolved into a red mass of agony. He feebly pushed the hands away, trying to tell the man to stop, but only managing a weak, unintelligible croak.

"Thanks be! I figured you for a goner," the voice cried. "Well, let’s get you untangled from all this seaweed and get you inside, clothed and dried. The storm chewed you up and spit you back out right and proper, looks like."

An arm slid under his chest and he wanted to scream no, don’t touch me leave me alone... but the man lifted him and there was an instant of blinding, shattering pain and then nothing.

~~~~

Bright blue eyes peered at him from below grizzled brows as a hand ran a rough cloth gently across Aragorn’s face. "Bled like a slaughtered hog, that cut on your forehead," he chuckled. "You’ve got quite a bump. Two big bumps, actually, counting that one behind your ear."

Aragorn winced as the cloth scraped across the cut. The old man may chuckle; it wasn’t his forehead that felt like it had Durin’s Axe buried in it. "Where am I?" he whispered.

"My home," the man replied, as if that were sufficient. "Drink."

Aragorn sipped from the cup the old man held to his lips. It was some sort of broth. Watery and warm. He swallowed, grateful, but he couldn’t help the touch of asperity that crept in his voice. "And that is supposed to mean something to me?"

Again, a dry chuckle. "Tetchy, aren’t you, lad? What’s your name?"

Aragorn opened his mouth, then shut it again. Panic fluttered in his gut. Why could he not remember his name?

"Calm down, calm down. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to."

"No, it’s not that. I-I can’t remember."

The old man frowned. "Can’t remember? Well, I suppose a knot on the head will do that to a man. And you have two knots on your head," he added calmly, as if not remembering your name was the normal outcome of two knocks to the brain but cause for concern only if following one knock.

Aragorn did not feel so nonchalant about the entire situation. Not when it was his brain that evidently was so battered that it had decided to quit working. "Where am I?" he asked again.

"I told you, my home. But since you seem to be a man who wants specifics like names, you are in Fyrstrand, a very small village by the sea."

The name meant nothing to him. "By the sea?"

"Aye, lad. The sea. Surely you know the sea? Big body of water that nearly swallowed you whole? "

"Yes, I know what a sea is, but what sea?"

The old man sat back. "Your brain is addled, boy. You’re in Anfalas, also known as Langstrand. On the coast–the Bay of Belfalas, to be exact. Further south lies Harad. Not knowing Fyrstrand I can understand, but tell me that you know of Anfalas and Belfalas?"

He started to say he had never heard of either, but another name floated up through the murk and he made the connection. With some relief, he sighed, "Gondor. South Gondor."

"Aye, that’s more like it! You’re in the south of Gondor, the province of Anfalas. Village of Fyrstrand. Such as it is. Not much left of it after those scoundrels of Umbar attacked last spring."

"Thorongil," he whispered, more to himself than to the old man.

"That your name? You finally remembered it?"

"I think so," Aragorn said uncertainly. But something about that name did not sound quite right.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Thorongil."

Aragorn tried to smile but wasn’t sure he quite succeeded. He waved vaguely toward his head and his wrist, which he saw was tightly wrapped. "Thank you for taking care of all... this."

"Nothing any decent soul wouldn’t have done. Are you hungry? You have a sort of starved look about your eyes."

He had a sudden flash of going days without food or water. He frowned, trying to catch the memories but they eluded his grasp like smoke through his fingers. "I-I was ... trapped," he said, his eyes widening as the word leapt unbidden to his lips. Trapped? How? By what, or who?

"Trapped, you say?"

"Yes," he said slowly, thinking. He shut his eyes and immediately was bombarded with images of stone walls, of a locked door, rising waters and a feeling of utter panic. "I was trapped, in a building somewhere by the sea. Water came rushing in and I had to break through the roof." His eyes flew open and he struggled to sit up.

"Here now, lay back down before you hurt yourself."

"No, I’m fine." He wasn’t, not with the way the room pitched and spun about, but no matter. "I can remember some of it. I had a ring ... and someone hit my head and took it, and locked me in that place." Then, frustratingly, memory seemed to exhaust itself and the blank white curtain crashed across his thoughts again. He pressed his hand against his eyes. "No," he groaned. "It’s gone."

"Now, now, don’t take on so. Just give yourself time. You will heal and your memories return."

He sagged back against the pillow. "But who am I?" he whispered miserably. A name held little meaning if he no longer knew the essence of himself.

"You said you had a ring? That means you must be somebody fairly rich."

"No, I don’t have much money," he immediately said. How he knew, he wasn’t sure. But he knew he did not have much in the way of possessions. Just a ring–his eyes widened. "And a sword. I have a sword, and... and the hilt of another sword. A broken sword," he finished uncertainly. Why would he have a broken–

Renewed shall be the blade that was broken, the crownless again shall be king.

He frowned. How did he know that? And where were those things now? He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm the fear that he might never remember, and that not remembering would have very tragic consequences. He felt almost swamped by a growing sense of urgency. He had to remember!

The old man’s voice cut across the storm of his thoughts. "A ring, a sword... and it looks like a strong arm. A bandit might think you rich, if not easy pickings."

"I am not rich, but I apparently was easy pickings." The thought did not please him. He had a hazy impression that he was not normally a man easily waylaid.

"Well, the solution will come in time. You sit tight while I get you some soup."

The man got up, moving with surprising grace and speed for such an elderly man. "Wait!" Aragorn called. "Your name. What do I call you?"

The man paused, staring deeply into some vista far beyond the room. "Call me The Mariner. Any other names I had don’t really matter anymore."

With that odd statement, the man turned away. Aragorn’s eyes drifted shut. When he opened them again, many hours had obviously gone by. Moonlight shone through a window, and the old man sat snoring in a chair, the bowl of stew on a small table beside him, forgotten.

Aragorn touched a bandage that circled his head. His forehead ached dully, but the hammering had mercifully quit. He drifted back to sleep and when he opened his eyes again the sun was streaming through a window. He squinted, disoriented. He thought he had only shut his eyes for a moment. Losing so much time at a blink was disconcerting.

The old man stood in front of a fireplace, ladling soup from a black iron pot hung from a hook over a small blaze. He brought the bowl over. "How do you fare this morning?"

Aragorn cautiously lifted his head; the room remained blessedly still. "Better, I think."

"You look better. Think you can feed yourself or do you want me to help you?"

He struggled to sit up, and when nothing happened more dire than a brief throbbing near his forehead, said, "I can do it myself."

"I’ll hold the bowl. That wrist of yours won’t let you hold anything for a while yet."

That was true enough. But the broken wrist wasn’t hampering his appetite at all. His stomach growled loudly as the aroma of the stew wafted across his nose.

The old man chuckled. "Yes, from the longing in those grey eyes of yours, you are most definitely starving."

He blinked. "Grey eyes?"

"Silvery blue. Grey. Like the sea before it storms. I don’t know what to call ‘em but they’re keen enough this morning. But surely you know that, even if you can’t remember your name. A man usually knows the color of his eyes."

"Right now I couldn’t tell you if I was a man or an elf."

"You’re no elf, I’ll tell you that right now. Not with that thicket growing on your jaw."

Aragorn smiled, but somewhere in the back of his mind he suddenly felt a wistful longing. He frowned for a moment. Why would he want to be an elf? It made no sense. Just another mystery to solve. He shrugged off the worrisome thought in favor of getting some of that soup. He took a big bite. "Good," he mumbled, and took three more big bites.

"Slow down, son! You’ll sicken yourself, eating too fast on a starving stomach."

Aragorn shoveled in one more spoonful, then he sat back, chewing slowly. Thinking. "What do you know of a stone building, square on bottom, round at the top?"

"I know it well. It’s what’s left of a lighthouse that used to be out on the point, ages past. Legend has that the Númenóreans built it. The top part has been gone for centuries. Some years back, I put a roof on it and turned it into a little store house sort of thing, but a big storm changed the coastline. Made it to where you had to wade through the surf to get to it, and then come high tide the water gets in. Useless for storage. I’ve heard that in storms like this one we just had, it fills to the rafters."

"It does," Aragorn said quietly.

The Mariner eyed him askance. "You don’t mean to say that’s where you were trapped?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Well... how? I put a lock on the door, but it’s on the outside, high up, just to keep children from getting trapped. You have to deliberately drop a peg in to stop the door opening." Horror rose in his eyes. "You mean to say someone put you in there and locked you in, with that typhoon brewing?"

Aragorn nodded.

"Why... why, that’s murder, lad! Somebody deliberately set out to kill you!"

"It appears that way," Aragorn sighed. He carefully pulled his left wrist into his lap and rubbed the bare spot where the ring of Barahir... his eyes widened as the name popped into his head. But what did the name signify? He started to ask, but some inner voice cautioned him not to mention it to the old man. Another memory beckoned. "Do you know of a man," he said slowly, letting the thought unveil itself at its own pace, "Young, probably not yet twenty. Wild black hair, strong, carries a cudgel? Not entirely in his right mind?"

The old man paled. "Oh my," he whispered. "Oh dear. I never thought–"

"What?"

The man seemed to be in almost physical pain. He placed the bowl on the table. "I never thought he would hurt anyone," he whispered.

"Who? Who is he?"

"He’s my son."

For a long moment, neither man spoke.

"I’m sorry, but he’s the one who..." Aragorn’s voice trailed off. He couldn’t bring himself to accuse the man’s own son, not when the Mariner’s eyes were so stricken. He changed tack. "I gave him a coin, thinking he needed a hot meal, and he started following me, talking about the ring I wore." The stream of memory stuttered and stopped. He grimaced. "I’m not sure what happened. I think he took my ring."

The Mariner nodded, lost in thought. "The boy always has liked shiny things," he sighed. A hard look came into his eyes and left just as quickly. "I never named him. You may think it cruel, but his mother died birthing him and in my sorrow I could not bring myself to give him a name. When she died, I abandoned even my own name, for it felt like my own life had ended with hers. I came with the boy to this wild shore, abandoning the world and my name and all that I had been. But lest you think me heartless, I will say that as time went by, I grew to love my son. I thought about giving him a name but by then it seemed not to matter. Folks knew him as the Mariner’s son and that seemed to suit him as well as anything. He never was quite right, my son. Whatever went wrong with his birth damaged his mind. He’s eighteen now, a grown man in body but a child in here," he tapped his head. "But he’s never harmed a living creature. So I don’t understand how he could have done what you say."

"I wish I could say that it wasn’t your son. Perhaps there’s some other..." But even as he spoke he knew the likelihood of one small coastal village possessing two stray-minded, cudgel-wielding denizens was too ludicrous to contemplate.

"No, no . . . I believe you. I fear I made a grave error. You see, he was always such a gentle child that I assumed he had grown into an equally kindhearted man. But now it appears I am wrong, and you have paid a dear price for my stupidity."

Aragorn looked at the old man, wishing he had some words of comfort or wisdom, but being a parent of even a normal child was too far beyond his realm of experience. At least he thought it was beyond his experience. Surely if I had a child, I would remember. He chased away the disquieting thought. "Does he live with you?"

"Sometimes. Mostly he spends his days on the beach. He lives in a sort of dream world. He lives largely in castles he builds in the air. " The Mariner laughed, but his twisted smile spoke more of bitter resignation than mirth. "Lately he seems obsessed with being the King of Gondor. I wish I had never told him the story. But I was a bit of a wanderer, you see. Before. I have walked lands north, south and west, sailed the seas, gathered many of Arda’s stories. I’ve seen elves and hobbits and dragons and things in the sea that would curl your hair. And I passed along all the stories to my son, to entertain him. When I told him the story of Gondor and the White Tree, he latched onto the idea that he’s the long lost heir of Isildur."

Aragorn felt a frisson go through him at the name of Isildur. Before he realized what was happening, a litany of names paraded through his head. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the Heir of Isildur, Estel Elrondion, Strider, Thorongil... The array was a little dizzying, but he knew beyond a shadow that they were his names. All of them, and the past and the present bloomed in his mind with such clarity that he winced. And two names alone were his more than any other. Estel, and... "Aragorn," he whispered before he could stop himself.

The old man looked at him quizzically, then a speculative light grew in the sharp blue eyes, ending in a shocked stare. "You are ... are you Arathorn’s son? You are–I met him, upon a time, and I can see him in the set of your jaw, the light in your eyes! I had no idea he had a son, but as I live and breathe, you... you’re the heir of Isildur!" His eyes grew bright with unshed tears. "Oh, the hope... the hope is not lost after all," he whispered.

"You must not tell anyone," Aragorn pleaded. "If Sauron’s agents were to discover... if Sauron himself...."

The Mariner shook his head, putting a calming hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. His throat worked and he finally found his voice. "Fear not, I will speak of this to no one," he said fiercely. "I have seen Mordor from afar and Sauron’s evil close at hand. I shall not betray the hope of Arda to such a one as him."

Aragorn shut his eyes, partly in relief and partly in self recrimination. "I should never have come south."

"What, if I might ask, brought you here?"

He sighed. "Like you, I wanted to learn. To see the world and particularly this nation over which I am to someday be... be king." The word ‘king’ still did not come easily to his lips. And definitely not in association with the phrase ‘I am to be...’.

The Mariner looked him over. "If you don’t mind my saying, at the moment, you don’t look like much of a king."

Aragorn laughed, the first feeling of real mirth he had felt in many, many days. "Nor do I feel like one. I feel more like something someone left out in the rain and forgot to bring back in."

"Never fear, you’ll recover," the old man said, squeezing his shoulder. A look of wonder crept back over his face. "So you are Isildur’s heir. A Númenórean. I have a feeling you’re twice my age and look half as young."

"Fifty lies some years yet before me."

"Hmmph. I am older than you, after all. Although at your age I at least had the decency to look my years. You look barely older than my son."

"If it’s any comfort, I feel a hundred and twenty."

The old man chuckled, then grew serious. "I am sorry my son caused you so much trouble. I gave him that cudgel, you see, because he had been having trouble with bullies, with men who would rather beat him than try to understand him."

"Do not trouble yourself–I will heal. But I need my ring back, if you know where I might find your son."

"You’ll find him wherever the wind blows him," the old man said sadly. "He ran out shortly after the storm ended. It makes sense now, the manner of his leaving. As we listened to the howling wind, I made an offhand comment about the storehouse likely being filled to the rafters with water. The look on his face–I’m certain he had no idea that would happen, and I think he was sick with knowing what he had done. I’ve not seen him since." He paused, his eyes pleading for Aragorn’s understanding. "He’s not a bad boy, my son."

Aragorn believed him. Hadn’t he himself been initially charmed by the beggar’s innocent ways? "I know. Perhaps, if I may rest here for a day or two, I might try to find him. I promise I will not hurt him. In the household where I was brought up, we were taught to protect those that my father called ‘the ones touched by the Iluvatar’."

Tears glittered in the old man’s eyes. "You will make a good king, Aragorn," he said. He squeezed Aragorn’s shoulder. "And who am I to turn the King out of my house? Stay here as long as you need. Maybe my son will show up and you won’t have to go searching for him."

~~~

Aragorn stood on the beach, looking to the left and right. He had been coming out here every day for a week, sitting or sometimes pacing when strength allowed, hoping against hope that the Mariner’s son might show up.

He was beginning to fear that the storm had washed him to sea like it had several other luckless citizens of Fyrstrand. He sat down on a log and stared at the surf pounding the shore. The storm had left debris all over the beach. He kicked at a broken shell, wondering if someday the tide would bring up from the depths a small circlet shaped like two serpents, with a green stone between. It would be a fine treasure for some unsuspecting beachcomber.

He cringed at the thought of telling Lord Elrond he had lost the Ring of Barahir. It wasn’t like losing a ring of power... but still, it was a priceless heirloom, the ring of Kings, a link to Númenor.

And he had lost it. He kicked the shell again.

A movement down the shore caught his eye. He looked, and saw a shambling figure, familiar and very welcome. He started to stand, then stopped. The man no doubt expected him to be dead. There was no telling what he may do when he saw Aragorn alive and breathing and demanding his ring be returned to him.

Better to wait and let the man come to him.

The man shuffled among the driftwood, stopping here and there to pick up and examine shells and other objects, tucking some in a pocket, discarding others. He worked his way ever closer to Aragorn, intent on his task.

"The beach holds many treasures," Aragorn said softly when the man was within earshot. "Treasures fit for the King of Gondor."

The man did not react in any way other than to give him a quick glance. He seemed neither startled by Aragorn’s sudden words nor frightened that the man he had tried to kill was sitting calmly watching him. If anything, he seemed not to recognize Aragorn at all. He tugged at his pocket. "I have a lot of treasures."

"Can you show me? I’d like to see them." He scooted over on the log, patting the spot beside him with his right hand. His left was securely tucked in a sling the Mariner had rigged for him.

With an uncomplicated smile, the young man sat down and started emptying his pockets. "I found all this after the storm. Look!" He spread his treasures across the log between them. Bits of sea glass, shells, a sand dollar. A starfish. No Ring of Barahir.

Aragorn hid his disappointment. "Those are fine treasures," he murmured. He sighed. "I had a treasure once, but I lost it."

The man ... no, he truly was more like a boy, Aragorn decided ... looked sadly at Aragorn. "I’m sorry. What was it?"

Aragorn shrugged. "Just a ring. But it was given me by my father. Do you have anything your father gave you?"

He nodded and pulled at his collar, revealing a pendant made from a coin. "He made this for me when I was little."

"That’s a fine ornament," Aragorn admired. He lifted his left hand in its sling. "I used to wear my ring on this finger." He wiggled his index finger. His wrist twinged, but he ignored it.

"What did it look like?"

"It had a green stone," Aragorn said, watching the boy carefully. "And two serpents."

A crease formed between his brows, marring his otherwise sunny expression. "I know a ring like that," he said softly, staring down at his feet.

"You do? I’m not surprised. That I own it is a secret, at least for now, but the ring itself is well known. I lost it somewhere between Fyrstrand and this beach. I’ve looked and looked but I can’t find it." He sighed. "My father will be very angry with me for losing it. It was careless of me."

"That ring belongs to the Isildur’s heir. The King of Gondor."

"Yes."

"I-I want to be the King of Gondor."

"I know. I remember you telling me that."

"I hit you in the head."

"Hmm." Aragorn carefully moved his gaze seaward, although, wary of more whacks with that cudgel, he kept the boy in his peripheral vision. He kept all trace of accusation out of his voice, burying the urge to retaliate, to trade hurt and fright in equal measure to what had been meted out to him. He was alive, after all, largely unscathed and if his dreams were a bit dark, well, that would someday pass. Revenge would serve no purpose, not against this child of a man, nameless and largely unwanted by all save one. No, Aragorn wanted only the ring, not his pound of flesh. He must earn the boy’s trust.

"I was afraid you would want your ring back. So I-I locked you in the lighthouse. Out on the point."

Aragorn wasn’t sure what to say, so he remained silent, keeping his face impassive. He picked up the shell he had been kicking and studied it.

"I was going to come back. I really was, but then it started raining and I... I forgot. And then it just kept raining and kept raining and I heard my father say the lighthouse was going to fill up with water. I-I didn’t know it would do that. But the storm was too big and I couldn’t get out there and get you out."

Aragorn searched for words that would not break the fragile bridge of trust between them. He risked a glance at the boy. His face was crumpled, like he would burst into tears at any moment. "I was able to get out before it filled up."

"How?"

He kept his voice matter of fact, even though thinking of it still brought a clutching fear. "I pushed a board up on the roof and crawled out."

A long silence fell, during which Aragorn carefully placed the shell next to the boy’s treasures, again keeping his gaze on the shell and not on the boy’s face. Even without looking, he could sense the conflict raging through his spirit. He prayed he had judged the boy aright.

"I’m sorry," the boy whispered. "I just wanted the pretty ring. I wanted to pretend to be the King. To–to be somebody. To have a name."

Aragorn’s heart ached. "A name is something that a man can choose himself," he said quietly, "and something that can change with every shift of the blowing wind. But the person, and the heart he possesses, remains. You may have made a mistake, but you have a good heart, and that is worth far more than any name."

The boy ducked his head, but Aragorn saw the small smile and the pleased rosy blush that colored the boy’s cheeks. He sighed, grateful he had found the right words, but then he had to smile wryly as he considered those words. Thorongil, Aragorn, Estel ... he might change his own name to suit his purpose, but the man he was, the man destiny required, remained, whether that man proved strong or weak. His smile faded. He just wished he knew which way the coin would land.

He heard a rustling beside him, and something bumped his hand. He looked down and saw the ring of Barahir sitting on the log. He didn’t pick it up right away but looked instead at the boy. "Thank you."

"You... you are the real King, aren’t you?"

Aragorn looked into the boy’s eyes for a long time, then slowly nodded. "But you must not tell anyone. It must be a secret between us."

The troubled air suddenly left the boy like the sun slicing through clouds. "I’m good at keeping secrets."

Aragorn laughed, resisting the urge to ruffle the young man’s hair as his brothers so often used to ruffled his. "I bet you are."

The boy suddenly sat up straight. "I have the rest of your things. You had a sword, a really nice one with fancy writing all over it. And you had a broken one, too, just the hilt. It looks like it used to be a really big sword."

Relief nearly swamped him. "It was. It belonged to one of my ancestors. Someday, I’ll have it reforged."

"And I have your coat. I wore it sometimes. I hope you don’t mind."

"Since I’m wearing one of your shirts, I can hardly mind," Aragorn smiled. "I would let you have it if I had another, but I don’t. Thank you for keeping all my things for me."

"I hid them in my special spot. If you promise to keep it a secret, I’ll show you."

"We’ll trade secrets," Aragorn said solemnly, "and swear never to betray the other." He offered his hand, and they shook. "It’s a pact." He picked up the ring and slipped it into his pocket, where it should have stayed and would now stay until he was safely back in Rivendell. He smiled wider and leaned in conspiratorially. "I have to keep who I am a secret, too, because right now, there’s a very good Steward in charge of Gondor, and it is not my time to come yet. I don’t want to make him mad."

"When will you come?"

Aragorn’s smile slipped away. He looked long at the sea, and saw not the white-capped waves but battles, long and hard and bloody and terrible and too awful to explain to a man-child with the mind of a five-year-old.

"A long time from now," he whispered. "A very long time from now."

~~~fini~~~