Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Prologue: Kingly Valour

And his father gave him the name Aragorn, a name used in the house of the Chieftains.

 Forward                                                                                The Peoples of Middle-earth

~oo0oo~

   Ivorwen stood back from the table for a moment with her hands on her hips and surveyed the results of her long labours.

   ‘There must be enough food there to feed an army’, she thought, greatly satisfied.

   Days, she had slaved at the stove in her kitchen, as had her daughter in hers and everyone else in the village who knew how to turn flour and water into something edible. Preparing sufficient food to satisfy the demands an entire village and two patrols of hungry Rangers was no mean feat. Yet, on the table before her stood a huge pile of crisp, freshly baked loaves, as well as a vast assortment of crusty pies and a veritable mountain of soft biscuits, to say nothing of the whole sheep roasting on the spit outside or the cauldron of vegetables boiling away on the stove. Annoyingly, the sensible voice in her head insisted on reminding her that the supply of grain in the stores was running perilously low and there were still many months to go before the next harvest, but Ivorwen refused to listen to such pessimism. Her grandson was being named today and, by way of celebration, she was determined to provide a feast fit for a king.

   She shuddered slightly as the thought rushed through her mind and turned her attention back to washing the last of the baking trays. Foresight had ever been a mixed blessing for her. For some reason, perhaps known only to the Valar, she had been gifted with more that the usual measure, even for one of her People. If the gift had been such that it provided her with complete and accurate visions of what would come to pass, then there might have been some purpose to it, but rarely were her insights so obliging. Instead fragments of scenes which taunted her with their vagueness were the norm.

    Often weeks, even months, passed by when she was not troubled with them at all, but she had been plagued with visions ever since this child of her daughter’s had been born three and a half weeks ago. Very little of what she saw in her mind’s eye made any sense to her, but there were a few things that stood out clear and firm and recurred with alarming regularity.

   She had been shaken, for instance, to learn of Arathorn’s choice of name for the infant. It was not that there was anything wrong with the name ‘Aragorn’. It was a good, old name from the house of the Chieftains. The first ‘Aragorn’ had not achieved anything of note, as she recalled, except to get himself killed by wolves only a few years after he inherited his title. She could hardly hold that against her son-in-law. But on more than one occasion recently, as her thoughts had turned to her new grandson, she had seen before her eyes, not a newborn child, but a great and noble king, renowned for both his valour and the healing power of his hands. She was quite sure it was no coincidence that Arathorn had chosen a name for his son that reflected that.

   She hardly dared attach too much hope to the truthfulness of the visions. She had been ridiculed often enough in the past when she had misinterpreted the meanings behind her foresight and so had learnt that holding her tongue was often more prudent than speaking up.

   But one vision she received had caused her more disquiet than the others as she understood it not at all. Ivorwen’s mind’s eye had repeatedly conjured up an image of a green stone which she knew was somehow inextricably linked to this babe. And with it, came the suggestion of another name; his true name. It troubled her that she could make no sense of this. She wondered if she ought to mention it to Arathorn, yet she felt it would hardly be proper to announce to the Chieftain that he was giving his heir the wrong name, especially as she had no firm idea of what his true name should be.

   It mattered not now, anyway. In just a few hours, the child would be named Aragorn and thus would he be known ever after.

   The last of the trays washed, she heaved them out of the tub of now greasy water before hauling the barrel out into the yard and pouring the contents into the drain.

   She was still mulling over her thoughts when her daughter appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, holding her infant son in her arms.

   “Can I do anything to help, Naneth?” asked Gilraen. “This little terror here has finally fallen asleep. I can put him down for a while and lend a hand if you have need of me.”

   Ivorwen decided to leave the barrel for one of the men to refill and walked over to her daughter. She gently folded back the shawl covering her grandson so as to gaze at the sleeping child.

   “No, Gilraen, you nurse him a while longer,” she said, smiling loving at the babe. “He looks so peaceful, I would not disturb him. I am nearly done here. There are just those dishes to dry and put away and then I think we are about ready. I expect people will start arriving within the hour. Go and put your feet up while you can. Where’s Arathorn got to, I wonder? I need him to bring more wood for the fire or that sheep won’t be cooked until tomorrow the way it’s going.”

   Gilraen smiled. “I think he and adar are still trying to make some room in the stables. They don’t know how many horses will need caring for tonight. Thankfully, the weather looks set to remain fair.”

   “That is a blessing,” said Ivorwen, glancing up at the clear sky. “Folks can spill out into the yard if needs must. We’ll never accommodate them all in the house. I’ve never heard of so many attending a naming as we are expecting for this one.”

   At that moment a loud crash was heard in the stable and some choice words wafted across the yard towards the kitchen door. Mother and daughter smiled knowingly at each other.

   “Perhaps I’ll see to the wood for the fire myself,” said Ivorwen as she ushered Gilraen back indoors. “Goodness knows what they’re doing in there, but best get that babe into the parlour. They’ll be disturbing this little one’s rest if they do that too often, that’s for sure.”

~oo0oo~

   An hour later it was almost impossible to move inside the Chieftain’s house. The two Ranger patrols had both arrived, as had the entire village and as many people from the surrounding ones as could reasonably make there way there. Arathorn and Dírhael had finished rearranging the stables and were happily accepting congratulations on the new addition to the family from all those present. The babe himself seemed contentedly oblivious to the commotion going on around him and, to his mother’s relief, remained sound asleep.

   Ivorwen stationed herself in the kitchen so as to oversee the serving of the meal. It was also the best place to be sure of chatting to absolutely everyone in the gathering as all made their way towards the inviting smell of the fresh-baked bread sooner or later. But as she watched plate after plate disappearing far too quickly, she realised she had seriously underestimated the ability of hungry Rangers to deplete a table, even one as well stocked as hers had been. Not that she grudged them in the slightest. She smiled at each weathered face atop a too lean frame that came sheepishly seeking a second helping and provided as generously as she could. The men-folk had come to the end of a long, hard winter in the wilds, where, for months, the bulk of their diet had only consisted of what they could catch themselves. The fare on offer today was a welcome treat for their shrunken stomachs.

   Once the kitchen had been purged of every mouthful and nothing remained of the roast sheep but a few charred bones, it was at last time to attend to the important business at hand; the naming of the Chieftain’s first son. Arathorn sought out Gilraen through the mass of bodies filling his house, and taking his wife by the hand, he led her out into the yard and through to the stables where many of the guests had already gathered to escape from the crushinside. The afternoon was passing and, as the shadows lengthened and the first stars began to appear, the fine spring day was already turning decidedly chilly. The fire still provided a welcome source of heat and soon everyone was assembled around it, though with full bellies and several cups of very agreeable ale inside them, none seemed too troubled by the nip in the air. Dírhael called for quite and a hush slowly descended.

   It was the Chieftain who spoke next.

   “My friends,” said Arathorn, in a loud, clear voice. “Dúnedain of the North, this is a most joyous day for us all. We are gathered here to celebrate the birth of my son.” A cheer from the crowd was followed by spontaneous applause. Dúnedain births were far too rare an occurrence as it was, but a birth in the chieftain’s family might happen only once or twice in a lifetime.

   Arathorn glanced at his beloved wife and smiled at her as he drew her and the child asleep in her arms closer to him. Gently, he gathered his son in his large hands and held him up for all to see.

   “My People, I give you ‘Aragorn,’ my son and the next Heir of Isildur. May he serve you honourably with valour and wisdom all the days of his life.”

  The Dúnedain roared their joy. It was only a year since Arador had been so cruelly taken from them and the ever darkening days cast a growing shadow in the hearts of this once proud and noble people. But the birth of this child provided at least a glimmer of hope that the line of Elros would yet endure a while longer.

   When the cheers finally subsided, Ivorwen, who stood beside her daughter, finally decided to seize this opportunity to reveal something of the visions she had seen. In a quite voice, she said: “Kingly Valour, yes, for so that name is interpreted, that he shall have, but I see on his breast a green stone, and from that his true name shall come and his chief renown: for he shall be a healer and a renewer.’ [1]

   All eyes turned to Ivorwen for none knew of what she spoke as there was no green stone to be seen upon the child’s breast. But Ivorwen refused to be drawn further until she herself knew more of what the visions portended.

   “That is all I am prepared to say,” she said as she held up her hands to silence the questions that hurtled towards her following her revelation. “This much I have seen, but what it means for the future of us all, I do not know.”

   Aroused from his slumber by all the cheers and raised voices, baby Aragorn finally realised something out of the ordinary was happening and decided to voice his disapproval as loudly as his little lungs were able. Ivorwen was glad of the distraction created by the child’s timely participation in the proceedings, though Gilraen struggled to quieten him again as Aragorn seemed determined to ensure he remained the centre of attention.

   “Here, let me have him,” said Ivorwen as she reached out to take the bawling infant from his mother. “Go and enjoy yourself for a bit. I’ll get him back off to sleep.” Gilraen smiled her thanks and gratefully left her child in her mother’s capable hands while she joined Arathorn in receiving further congratulations from their guests.

   Ivorwen rocked the fractious child back and for but, for all her wiles, nothing seemed to placate him. She slowly wandered down to the fields, away from the yard and the noisy gathering in the hope that the quietness of the evening would calm him. But her efforts were to no avail. After a time, she settled down on the grass and looked about her, her eyes scanning the now darkening sky to find anything that might distract the child from his noisy protest. There would be a frost that night and the full moon, bright and clear in the cloudless sky, had now risen above the line of the distant trees and was casting its eerie light all about her.

   “Look, Aragorn, can you see the man in the moon?” Ivorwen asked in desperation. “Can you see his face? There’s his nose and his mouth, and I think those two spots must be his eyes.” The child continued to scream and made no attempt to follow his grandmother’s finger as she pointed out the features on the moon’s face.

   “You can’t really see that far yet, can you?” Ivorwen chuckled at the quite oblivious bawling of this child that she already loved so dearly. She continued to rock him gently, but in that instant, the present world suddenly vanished from Ivorwen’s sight and she saw instead a vision of a tall man riding at the head of a vast army. He was leading his men into a terrible battle that raged before the gates of a towering white city. His face was grim and determined, the star of Elendil was on his brow and he held aloft a great sword like a flame. On his breast blazed that green stone.

   Ivorwen’s breath caught in her throat as the vision faded and she realised she was shaking. The babe in her arms had suddenly gone very quiet. She drew him closer to her, fearful of what she had just seen. The man in the vision was surely Isildur’s Heir.

   Was this then what the future held for this child?

   “Oh little, one, what terrible trials will your life hold for you?” she said as she gently stroked his tiny cheek.

   She did not doubt that his life would be a hard one. It was ever thus for the Dúnedain, but she sensed that this child would have to survive even greater hardships than any of his forefathers had in the long years of their decline. She felt tears prick her eyes at the thought of yet another child having to one day endure the hopeless task of struggling to lead their ever diminishing people as they continued their tragic descend into obscurity.

  ‘When would it ever change?’ she thought with despair as she turned her eyes to the night sky. ‘Is there no hope left at all for this once great remnant of Númenor?’

   She tried to picture all the scenes that had come into her head in the last few weeks as she desperately sought to make sense of them. What had prompted her to say this child would be a healer and a renewer? Was he really the one to restore the dignity and glory of the Dúnedain after so long in the wilderness? Oh how she would dearly love to believe this for certain. It was so long since they had had any real hope, she feared she was merely clutching at dreams that would always remain just that and never have substance.

   She sat for a time, lost in her troubled thoughts. But, as her tears dried, she saw that far away on the horizon, Eärendil had began his nightly voyage, the light of the Silmaril piercing the darkness more brightly than any other star in the clear sky that night. For a long time, she watched as the Mariner slowly steered his ship ever closer. Gil-estel, the Star of High Hope, seemed unusually bright tonight, she thought. It was too fanciful, perhaps, to believe that Eärendil had decided to acknowledge this distant descendant of his in person on this, his most special day, but it warmed her heart to hope it might be so.

   Ivorwen gazed in wonder for a while and then shook her head at her foolishness. There was too much that made no sense; the answer to the riddle posed by the fragments of visions still eluded her as much as it ever had.   She did not know anything of this green jewel. Maybe she never would, but she was beginning to suspect that the little baby boy, who lay sleeping so peacefully in her arms at that very moment, would himself one day become a great and treasured jewel in the long tale of his People.

   She wrapped the shawl more tightly about the child and got to her feet.

   “Come, Aragorn, let’s return you to your folks,” she said as she placed a soft kiss on his brow and began walking back towards the house. “They’ll be wondering what has become of you.”

[1]  But Ivorwen at his naming stood by, and said ‘Kingly Valour’ [for so that name is interpreted]: ‘that he shall have, but I see on his breast a green stone, and from that his true name shall come and his chief renown: for he shall be a healer and a renewer.’

 Forward                                                                            The Peoples of Middle-earth

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And special thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter One: Hope

   “…The days are darkening before the storm, and great things are to come. If these two wed now, hope may be born for our people; but if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts.”   Ivorwen

 The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                            Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   Gilraen paused for a moment, putting down her sewing. She listened carefully; it had gone very quiet; too quiet. Getting to her feet, she quickly glanced around her parlour. She was sure her young son had been playing by the hearth only moments before, but there was no sign of him now.

   “Aragorn?”

   A peek behind Arathorn’s huge chair, a favourite hiding place, revealed nothing. She wandered through to the kitchen, but there was no sign of her son there either. Feeling more irritable than anxious, she swiftly crossed the room to the back door only to find it already unlatched. Cursing herself for her carelessness, she opened it quickly and called as loudly as she dared.

   There was no reply. Becoming more apprehensive, she stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine and looked around the courtyard. Still there was no sign. Panic was just beginning to rise in Gilraen when, beyond the safe confines of the walled yard, she finally spotted her son, toddling purposefully into the meadow towards the grazing horses. The tiny figure held up unsteady arms as he determinedly tried to make friends with Brethil’s new foal.

   “Aragorn!” Gilraen’s scream startled mare, foal and boy. The old mare bolted and retreated to a safe corner of the field where she eyed her mistress cautiously; the as yet unnamed foal frolicking unconcernedly about her. Aragorn turned round so sharply at his mother’s cry, he lost his balance and fell smartly into the grass.

   Gilraen raced across the field to collect her errant child.

   “Aragorn, how many times must I tell you? You should not wander off like that and you certainly must not go in with the horses on your own.”

   Tears appeared in the child’s eyes at his mother’s harsh tone, but Gilraen refused to be moved by them. Her heart was still racing from the shock of finding her son gone from the safety of the house and at that moment she had no soothing words to offer the bewildered child. She gathered up her son brusquely and carried him back into the house, dumping him unceremoniously on his father’s chair.

   “You can sit still for a while and watch while I finish my sewing,” she said, her voice softer now that her son was safe within her sight again.

    Oh how she wished Arathorn would return soon. He could have the task of entertaining his inquisitive son for a time. Her husband had managed to come home for a few days at the beginning of March for Aragorn’s birthday, but several weeks had passed since then.

   Spring was well underway. The winter had been long and severe and Arathorn had been absent for most of it. Gilraen knew when she married him that as chieftain he would be abroad more often than the husbands of other women, but this winter had been particularly difficult and she missed him dreadfully. Aragorn was now at an age when he tried to explore the world from dawn to dusk and continually watching him left her behind with her chores. Her mother helped out when she could, but she had her own troubles. A few months ago, Dirhael had received a particularly nasty knife wound and was proving slow to return to health. Ivorwen had little time to spare for her daughter or her grandson.

   The object of Gilraen’s concern sat across the room from her, patiently waiting to be released from his punishment. His grey eyes followed every movement of his mother’s hand as the stitches formed beneath her fingers. At last Gilraen had endured enough of her son’s intense scrutiny and she relented, laying aside her sewing once more.

   “Very well, young man,” she said with a severity she did not feel in her heart, “if you can behave yourself and do as I say, you may go and see the foal once more today.”

   Aragorn beamed at her and lifted up his arms to be carried. Ever since the foal had arrived he had been fascinated by it and loved nothing more than to spend time watching it scamper in the meadow and, when it came close enough, he would delight in stroking its soft velvety coat.

   Outside the sun was sinking lower in the sky, already lost behind the distant line of trees. As Gilraen led her son back to the field, her thoughts turned to preparing the evening meal. She still had so much to do that day; there was really not the time for such idling, but Aragorn, chattering nonsense to the horses, was in no hurry to return indoors. He squealed and squirmed with delight as the foal nuzzled his hair and face. As always, he pleaded with his mother to be allowed to sit on Brethil.

   “Please, Nana, just a short ride.”

   The imploring look on the child’s face moved his mother’s heart, as it always did, and, with a resigned sigh, Gilraen lifted him up on to Brethil’s broad back and began leading the mare around the meadow. The old war horse had become very staid in her old age and Gilraen had no fear for her son’s safety.

   “Faster, faster!” cried Aragorn, flapping his legs completely ineffectually against the horse’s sides.

   “No, Aragorn, maybe when your father comes home,” said Gilraen, hoping once again that day would be soon. But her child’s joy was infectious and she found herself laughing with him as she continued her sedate circuit of the meadow, the foal skipping playfully beside them.

~oo0oo~

   Later that evening, with her work finally done for the day and her son asleep upstairs, Gilraen sat beside the fire in her parlour and began to doze. She knew she should go to bed yet she felt too tired to even make that effort. But she had barely closed her eyes when she was abruptly woken by the sound of the dogs barking. She heard old Handir talking to them as he came down from his room above the hayloft. Handir was an elderly kinsman of her mother's who did the heavy work outside and had lived with her and Arathorn since their marriage four years ago. He was bent and wizened now, but had been a capable warrior in his day and Gilraen was glad of his protection when her husband was away.

   She could hear voices in the yard, quickly followed by a knock at the door. Her heart lurched. It was far too late for visitors from the village. She jumped to her feet, and strode quickly to the door, though she nevertheless opened it with great caution.

   It was Handir standing there. He looked shocked, his face deadly white and, Gilraen noticed, his hands were trembling.

   “What on earth is the matter, Handir?” she asked, feeling her own anxiety rising. “Who is it?”

   “It’s the sons of Lord Elrond, my lady,” he said.

   “Elladan and Elrohir?” said Gilraen, feeling relieved. “Then please invite them in; they should not be left standing out in the cold.” But even as she said the words, she felt a foreboding in her heart. With another glance at Handir’s ashen face, she pushed passed him and dashed out into the courtyard.

   There, in spite of the darkness, she could clearly see the tall figures of the twin sons of Elrond. They were busy with one of the horses, untying straps that securely held in place a large pack on the horse’s back. As she looked on, she realised the pack was actually the bundled up body of a man.

   Suddenly with horror, she realised that the horse belonged to her husband.

   “No, no, please no!” she cried as she ran towards them, panic raging wildly through her.

  The Elves turned sharply at her call and Elladan rushed to catch her as she tried to fly past him.

   “Gilraen, no!” he said as he trapped her in his arms.

   “Arathorn?” Gilraen barely managed to utter the name, though, with dread certainty, she knew the answer before it came.

   “Yes, it is Arathorn,” said Elladan, his voice breaking with emotion. “I am so very sorry.”

   Gilraen struggled to be free and he let her go. He could not spare her this. She was Dúnedain after all; her life was enmeshed in the sorrows of her people.

   Gilraen walked slowly towards the horse as Elrohir carefully laid the bundle on the ground.

   She stared at it for a moment, still hoping this might be some terrible mistake. Perhaps, when she parted the blanket, it would not be her beloved husband lying there at all. She knelt in the rough dirt beside the body and raised trembling hands to uncover the body of the dead man. Elrohir tried to stop her, but Gilraen had to see with her own eyes. She knew she would never believe it was true unless she had beheld the man who lay there for herself.

   But she was not prepared for what she saw.

   Arathorn had been shot through the eye with an orc arrow. Gilraen gasped and fell to the ground, stricken with shock. The sons of Elrond, were immediately at her side, but, knowing there was nothing they could do to ease her pain, they respectfully retreated to give her time alone with Arathorn. But as she clutched her husband to her and began to tremble uncontrollably, they began to wonder if they had done wisely bringing his body home at all. After a while Elladan managed to steer her back inside the house and sat her in front of the fire.

   As the twins fumbled around the kitchen preparing a warm drink for Gilraen, Handir was sent to Dirhael’s house at the other end of the village. Elrohir remembered his flask of Miruvor and was able to persuade Gilraen to take a sip of the reviving cordial. At once her shivers ceased and she at least seemed calmer.

   “What happened?” she asked when she had stopped trembling. It seemed an obvious question but she wanted to know every detail of why this great man whom she adored had been so cruelly slain.

   But when Elladan came and sat beside her, he told her the barest outline of the terrible day they had just endured. There was no need for her to know the full horror of it. Arathorn had died instantly, that much he could tell her truthfully. He did not think she heard much else.

   Shortly Handir returned with Ivorwen and Dirhael. Both were shattered by the news yet they tried to comfort their daughter as best they could. Their words though were meaningless to Gilraen, hollow platitudes lost in the gaping chasm that was all that remained of her life. Once they themselves had absorbed the initial shock of their loss, inevitably the implications began racing through their minds. Arathorn was more than a much-loved son-in-law; he was also their chieftain, though they both realised that honour now belonged to the little boy asleep upstairs. It was only three years since Arathorn’s father, Arador, had been captured and slain by trolls. Aragorn was now the last of his line; a line which suddenly seemed very precarious and fragile.

   He had to be kept safe.

   Gilraen was soon exhausted by her grief. Elrohir mixed up a draught to help her sleep and her mother took her to her bed. The sons of Elrond camped outside that night, keeping guard over Arathorn’s body. They were grieved to the core. Arathorn was their friend. They had known him since he was a lad and had spent several years at Rivendell under their father’s guidance. They knew in their hearts they could not have prevented today’s tragedy, but that did nothing to purge their feelings of guilt. Like Dirhael and Ivorwen, they were both keenly aware of the new status of Arathorn’s son. They were in no doubt as to what should be done, but the choice was not theirs to make. The final word rested with Gilraen.

~oo0oo~

   In the morning, Arathorn was buried with as much honour as could be afforded a chieftain whose identity his people wished to remain secret. The whole village attended to make their farewells to a man well liked and respected by everyone. Gilraen got through it somehow. Whatever potion the twins were dosing her with, it seemed to work. She brought Aragorn with her to the burial, but no one told him it was his father they were honouring that day.

   When Gilraen returned to her house, she sat motionless, bleakly staring into the fire. She would gladly have stayed there, lost in her thoughts and her memories, but those around her knew a big decision had to be made and it had to be made soon.

   It was Dirhael who broached the subject. He came and sat beside her, taking her hand between his.

   “Gilraen, dearest daughter, you must listen to my words for time is short,” he said. “You must decide what is to be done about little Aragorn. He is our chieftain now and Isildur’s Heir, the last of his line. We can not risk any harm coming to the child.” He paused, he was not at all sure Gilraen was listening to him, but these things needed to be said and so he continued.

   “It is my belief that he should go at once to Rivendell where he will be safe from the eyes of the Enemy. Master Elrond can guide and teach him in all he needs to know. You would, of course, go with him.”

   Gilraen had been paying more attention than Dirhael realized, for the well-being of her son was never far from her concerns. She knew and accepted that Aragorn would travel to Rivendell to be fostered for a time at some stage in his younger years and that she would accompany him, but she did not relish the idea of leaving now, not when her life had been shattered and she needed her family and friends about her more than ever.

   “I can not think on this now,” she said wearily. “I am too tired and too broken with grief.”

   “But Gilraen, do you not see?” said Ivorwen, joining her husband. “We can not delay. Aragorn is the Heir of Isildur. The Enemy will hunt him, but they must never find him. Even before you and Arathorn were wed, my foresight revealed to me that hope would spring from the union of the two of you. This can now only mean Aragorn. Without him, there will be no hope for our people while this Age lasts.”

   Gilraen looked across the room to her son who was sitting on the floor happily playing with his wooden horses, oblivious to the discussion taking place about his future. He was only two years old, just a little boy, and yet so great were the expectations now being placed upon him. Yet she knew in her heart that her parents were right. The orcs that slew Arathorn had been less than a day’s ride away. Nowhere was safe in Eriador now; except perhaps Rivendell, and her own grief would be with her wherever she dwelt. She sighed in acceptance; Aragorn was her whole life now.

   “Very well,” she said. “We will leave tomorrow.”

~oo0oo~

   Early the next morning, Gilraen took Aragorn to the field to see the horses. She could not bring herself to tell him he would most likely never see them again. She doubted she would be able to hold her own emotions together if she had to deal with his distress as well as her own. Although Aragorn did not know it, his father had intended to give him the foal when he was older. As it was, Gilraen struggled to keep her tears in check as her son lovingly caressed the horses and kissed them farewell.

   Ivorwen had taken it upon herself to sort and pack the few belongings Gilraen could take with her. She would want for nothing at Rivendell, but there were personal items, mostly gifts from Arathorn, she knew her daughter would not be parted from.

   Soon all was ready; the sons of Elrond waited in the courtyard, together with four Rangers assigned the task of protecting their new chieftain on the long journey to Rivendell. Gilraen made her farewells brief, steeling herself at every turn to go through with this and not change her mind. Once outside, she quickly mounted Arathorn’s tall horse while Elladan lifted an excited Aragorn up into her arms and pulled a blanket snugly around him. Although it was late spring, the wind was bitter out on the bleak uplands.

   As they set off on their long road, Gilraen did not look back, but as they reached the end of the lane and the wilds of Eriador began to unfold before them, the tears that she had so far been unable to shed, suddenly came forth as a torrent of despair. She had lived all her life in the village, all her memories of Arathorn were there and now she did not know if she would ever return. Aragorn looked up at his mother with concern and fear at her sudden distress and Gilraen once more steeled herself to contain her grief. She did her best to reassure her son, brushing away her tears as she did so.

   The journey was slow and tedious, the nights bitterly cold, but the days bright and sunny. They met no one, much to their relief. They had all realised that exposing the child to the dangers of the wild was the weak point in their plan. Five days after they left the village, they finally crossed the Bruinen. Aragorn’s initial excitement over his adventure had long since dissipated and he was now irritable from lack of sleep and confinement. Gilraen’s arms ached from holding him, but she would not allow anyone else, not even the sons of Elrond, to hold her precious burden. She told herself it was because the warriors needed both hands free to properly defend him.

   Dusk was falling when Gilraen became aware that they were on a descending path. She could see little as they were surrounded by pine trees which made the night close in more rapidly. The path was a twisting one and as they descended further, the pine trees were replaced by the stark forms of beech and oak not yet in leaf. Then Gilraen could see they were in a valley, though it was grey and formless in the late evening light. They were nearing the bottom of a gorge and ahead was a large house with lights twinkling in the windows and she could hear singing, though where it was coming from she could not tell. Aragorn had fallen asleep, but now he poked his head out from the blanket and looked around in surprise at the changed landscape all about him.

   The horses walked in single file over the narrow bridge that led to the house and then they were there, halting in a large courtyard before the imposing home of Master Elrond. Several Elves came to take the horses and then the main door to the house opened and out stepped a tall, dark-haired Elf who so resembled Elladan and Elrohir that it was obvious to Gilraen that this was Lord Elrond. Elrohir came to her side to take Aragorn and help her dismount while, she noticed, Elladan went to talk to his father. Once on the ground, Gilraen leant on the horse for a moment while the feeling returned to her legs. She was unused to such long hours in the saddle and the journey had taken its toll, but she stood up straight when Elrond approached her.

   Very tall and regal he seemed. She felt suddenly shy and a little nervous. He may be Halfelven but to Gilraen at that moment he looked to be entirely of the Eldar. There seemed to be an unearthly quality to him that she found both intriguing and intimidating. But as he came towards her, he held out his hands and took hers. Gilraen could see the sorrow in his eyes as he spoke.

   “Lady Gilraen, I am shocked beyond words by the tidings my son has brought this day. Arathorn was a good friend to all at Imladris and everyone here shall grieve deeply at this news. Be assured it will not be the Dúnedain alone who mourn your husband. But your own loss is the deepest felt of all, and for that I can only extend my hand in friendship and offer you whatever is within by power to give that might bring you comfort and succour.”

   He was very sincere and kind and Gilraen felt more at ease as she thanked him. Then Elrond turned his attention to the bundle in her arms and the face peeping out from the blanket that seemed to behold him in wonder. Elrond reached out a hand to stroke the mass of unruly dark hair.

   “And this little fellow must be Aragorn,” he said, smiling at the child. Aragorn, however, was too overwhelmed to reply and frowned in confusion at the familiar and yet unfamiliar face.

   “This is Elladan and Elrohir’s father,” said Gilraen, remembering too late that she was trying to avoid that word. But Aragorn was too amazed by this revelation to be reminded of his own father, who in truth he had seen little of in the last few months.

   “Come, you must be tired from your journey and in need of refreshment,” said Elrond. “Rooms are being made ready for you as we speak. Erestor will see that your belongings are brought to them.”

   Then he ushered them up the steps and inside the Last Homely House. The size and sumptuousness of the dwelling far exceeded anything in Gilraen’s experience among the Dúnedain. The carving on the furniture and walls, and the needlework of the tapestries and hangings displayed skill of craftsmanship vastly superior to any found among her own people. Gilraen looked about her in awe, quite forgetting her earlier awkwardness.

   After walking down several corridors and ascending two flights of stairs, Elrond brought his guests to a beautiful sitting room. It was light and airy with exquisite furnishings. There was a spacious bedchamber in the room beyond. Arathorn had often told Gilraen of his years living at Rivendell, but the vision she had seen in her mind did not begin to compare with the reality. With a stab of guilt, she suddenly remembered why she was there and realised that for a few minutes she had not been thinking about her husband at all.

   Elrond left them alone for a while and arranged to have food sent up to the room. In his wisdom, he had rightly assumed a formal meal would be something of an ordeal for Gilraen on her first evening in such unfamiliar surroundings. Gilraen thanked him profusely, acutely aware that she and her son were now entirely dependent upon his goodwill. Once the Elf lord had gone, she lowered Aragorn from her arms and allowed him to explore, though she was not at all sure she would ever feel confident letting him loose amongst all this finery.

~oo0oo~

   Later that evening, after they had eaten and begun to settle in, they received a visit from one of the twins. Gilraen was glad of a familiar face, although the Elves who had attended upon her had all been very kind. Aragorn raced across the room when he entered.

   “El’dan!” he cried as Elladan swept him up into an embrace. Aragorn had always enjoyed the twin’s visits to their home and it continually amazed Gilraen that he never had any difficulty telling them apart. She, on the other hand, had not been at all sure of the identity of their visitor until Aragorn spoke his name.

   Elladan had come to check on their well being before turning in for the night himself. Watching Aragorn contentedly cuddling up to him, Gilraen had to admit that, for her son at least, she may well have made the right choice. He already had two friends here and no doubt in time she would too, but at the moment this new world was too strange and too different for her to feel anything other than a complete outsider.

   However, she assured Elladan that she had all she needed for now and arranged to meet both the twins and Master Elrond in the morning after breakfast. Alone again, tiredness swiftly overcame them both, though only Aragorn slept soundly. Gilraen woke often and lay in the vast bed between crisp sheets, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of Rivendell and all the while, willing herself to ignore the dull ache of homesickness that was threatening to surge within her.

~oo0oo~

   Gilraen awoke to find the sun streaming in through the windows. Clambering out of bed, she opened the doors onto the balcony and stepped out into blazing sunshine. The bedroom faced east and although it was still very early, the sun was already peeping over the Misty Mountains, bathing the whole valley in the soft, golden glow of morning. Gilraen gasped in amazement at the sight before her. If she had thought the house sumptuous, it was now revealed as only a pale echo of the splendour of the valley itself. She drank in the warm air, much warmer than it had been at home, and stood soaking up the wonders of Rivendell. Gilraen in all her twenty-six years living in the same village in the bleak lands between the North Downs and the Weather Hills had never ventured very far. She had on occasion ridden into the hills, but she had never seen land carved and chiselled as deeply as this. The sheer rock faces of the valley towered above the house, and way, way below, amid the pattern of green fields and woods, there flowed the river, tumbling over a succession of waterfalls, the sound of it lifting joyously into the clear morning air.

   She had never seen such a sight and immediately, for the briefest moment, thought she must tell Arathorn about it, only to remember, cruelly, that this was something they would never now share together.

   The stirring of a toddler brought her mind back to her responsibilities. She returned to the room, closing the balcony doors, and saw to the washing and dressing of Aragorn. The serving maid soon brought their breakfast and Gilraen and her son tucked in with relish. The food was as wonderful as their new surroundings and there was plenty of it.

   They had just finished their meal and Gilraen was wondering whether to venture from the room when there was a knock at the door.

   It was Elrond.

   “Good morning Gilraen,” he said. “I trust you are refreshed from your journey and have breakfasted to your satisfaction.”

   “Yes indeed, my lord,” said Gilraen, feeling a little overwhelmed again by the Elf-lord’s presence. But she continued politely. “Everything has been perfect, and I thank you again for your hospitality.

   Elrond just smiled at her a little sadly and led her through the house out into the gardens beyond. Here they met Elladan and Elrohir who were sitting by the river, deep in conversation, but they ceased talking at once as Gilraen and her son approached. Getting to their feet, they greeted them both warmly. Aragorn immediately began pestering his mother to be allowed to go to the twins.

   “It would be as well to let him, Gilraen,” said Elrond, “for we have much to talk about. If you will permit it, perhaps my sons could take Aragorn to the stables to meet the horses.”

   Gilraen nodded, though in truth she did not want to let Aragorn out of her sight.

   Elrond then knelt down to be at eye level with the little boy: “Would you like to go with Elladan and Elrohir to see our horses, Aragorn? There is a new foal only a couple of weeks old who I am sure would be most pleased to meet you.”

   Aragorn looked at the Elf-lord with eyes filled with wonder. He nodded shyly, but grinned at Elrohir as he came to take his hand.

   “Come along then, little rider,” Elrohir said to him. “Let’s go and say hello to Tathren and her baby.” Elladan took his other hand and, clasped safely between his two new big brothers, Aragorn toddled off to the stables.

   Gilraen watched him go, cheerfully telling the twins all about Brethil and her foal.

   “Gilraen?” said Elrond, gaining her attention, “let us sit here by the river and talk for a while.” Gilraen was shown to an ornate white seat where she perched uncomfortably on the edge.

   At first Elrond chatted to her of her home, asking her about the little everyday things as if he hoped he would put her at her ease. Then he talked of Arathorn and of the years he had spent living at Rivendell. Gilraen was surprised at how well he knew her husband. She had never really considered this to be a bond they shared. It pleased her enormously and she found herself warming further to the Elf-lord. But then he turned the conversation to Aragorn and the future.

   “I want you both to think of this as your home now,” he said. Then adding with a kindly smile: “Please do not feel that you must thank me for my hospitality. It is freely and gladly given to both you and your son.”

   Gilraen returned his smile. “Thank you, I shall try to remember that.”

   “Good. Do not forget, Gilraen, Aragorn is my kin. Through many lives of Men he is directly descended from my brother. And are you not yourself a descendent of Aranarth? That makes you both part of my family. As you know, I have fostered all the Chieftains of the Dúnedain in this house since Arahael, Aranarth’s son, although I confess they were all older than Aragorn when they came to live here. Having a child so young in Imladris will be a pleasure, I am sure.”

   Gilraen could not help feeling both amused and apprehensive at that statement.

      “There is one last thing that I wish to discuss with you, Gilraen.” Elrond paused and took a deep breathe before continuing. “As you know only too well, Aragorn has been brought here for his own safety, to keep him hidden from the eyes of the Enemy. I greatly fear though that the Enemy has many spies and many ways to find what he wishes to learn. Although you may be assured that none here would ever betray him and we will do all in our power to protect him, this house, nonetheless, does not have a closed door. It was built as a refuge, and a refuge it remains, for all who come asking for succour and aid. It is mainly for this reason that I believe Aragorn’s true identity should be completely hidden from all, even himself.”

   “Whatever do you mean?” asked Gilraen in surprise.

   “These are dark times, Gilraen. The Shadow in the East deepens and the hand of Sauron reaches further than at any other time in this Age of the World. The name of Aragorn may have little meaning to most, but to those whose memories are long it is known to be a name from the line of chieftains, and the name itself is one denoting royal status.”

   “You wish to change his name?” Gilraen’s voice betrayed her disbelief.

   “Forgive me, lady, but I can not stress the danger enough. I do believe he should be known by another name until he is old enough to be told of his heritage and of the burden that fate has placed upon him. Until that time he should not be told who he really is, nor should he know whose son.” Elrond raised his hand to silence Gilraen’s protests until he had finished.

   “I foresee that this child’s life shall be hard and long. Let him have these few years of his childhood in ignorance of that burden which he will have to take upon himself all too soon. I know how hard this must seem to you, especially now when you have just lost Arathorn, but trust me, Gilraen, Aragorn’s life could depend upon this. Is it not a small price to pay so that he may live and grow into the man he may become?”

   Gilraen got to her feet and walked unseeing towards the river. She could not believe this was being asked of her. If she agreed, she would not be able to talk to Aragorn of his father. There were so many things she would be unable to share with him. She wondered how much more she would be expected to give of herself. It was as if her old life was vanishing before her very eyes, being rubbed out by some unseen hand. She tried her hardest to conjure up an image of Arathorn in her mind so that she might cling to something from the past that might anchor her to an uncertain future. But right then even he eluded her. She felt she could weep such was her despair.

   Then, above the sound of the water rushing passed her feet, she heard laughter ringing clearly in the crisp, spring air. Penetrating her despondency was the happy, carefree sound of a small child. Somewhere beyond the trees, Aragorn was enjoying himself enormously. The sound touched her heart and in that moment her mind suddenly cleared and she put her fears behind her.

   Elrond was right; all that mattered now was that Aragorn lived to grow into the man he was destined to be. The years of his childhood would be so short; there could be no harm in allowing him to enjoy them without cares. He would learn of Arathorn and of his doom soon enough. And as to his name, it really made no difference what others called him. He could have a dozen different names, but he would still be Aragorn; he would still be her little boy.

   Bracing herself, she turned to Elrond.

   “Did you have any particular name in mind?” she asked.

   Elrond smiled at her, seeing her acceptance. “I thought perhaps we could call him Estel.”

   At the puzzled expression on Gilraen’s face, he added.

   “It means Hope.”

~oo0oo~

    But Aragorn was only two years old when Arathorn went riding against the Orcs with the sons of Elrond, and he was slain by an orc arrow that pierced his eye……...

 Then Aragorn, being now the Heir of Isildur was taken with his mother to dwell in the house of Elrond; and Elrond took the place of his father and came to love him as a son of his own. But he was called Estel, that is “Hope”, and his true name and lineage were kept secret at the bidding of Elrond; for the Wise then knew that the Enemy was seeking to discover the Heir of Isildur, if any remained upon earth.

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 2: Great Deeds

   But when Estel was only twenty years of age, it chanced that he returned to Rivendell after great deeds in the company of the sons of Elrond; and Elrond looked at him and was pleased, for he saw that he was fair and noble and was come early to manhood, though he would yet become greater in body and mind.

 The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                   The  Return of the King

   “All right, all right,” cried Elladan holding up his hands to stop any further arguments from the lad. “You may come with us, providing….” But his next words were drowned out by a squeal of delight from the youth as he threw himself at his foster brother, nearly squeezing out his breath in the strength of his embrace.

    “Estel, if you will just let me finish,” said Elladan, extracting himself from the lad’s arms and gripping his wrists. “Estel, you may come with us providing you do as Elrohir and I tell you at all times. There are to be no arguments, no quibbling. You do as you are told. Is that understood?”

   “Of course, whatever you say, I will do everything just as you ask of me.” Estel beamed. He would have agreed to any condition if it meant he was allowed to go with his foster brothers. He had already secured Elrohir’s consent and now only needed Elladan’s approval.

   “Thank you Elladan, so much,” he said; his young and eager face ablaze with excitement. “I feared you would never let me go with you. You will not regret this, I swear.”

   He leaped at Elladan again and then released him quickly.

   “But now there is so much to do; I must start preparing at once.”

   “Yes, there is indeed much to do!” said Elladan, speaking sternly now. “I want to see your pack, Estel when you have prepared it. Your sword I expect to glisten and all your gear to be clean and in full working order. Remember we shall be away for a very long time and it will be cold and hard; you must be ready to face any danger and cope with every trial that chances our way. I shall come and inspect all that you have done later.”

   As he listened to Elladan’s strict words, a small flicker of doubt touched the young man’s mind and he frowned.

  “I am not sure how much to take with me,” he admitted quietly, looking at his elder brother almost pleadingly. Now that Elladan had finally agreed and he was actually going, he was suddenly less certain. Joining his brothers on their winter patrol was all he had dreamed of for as long as he could remember, but he had never been away from home for very long before and much as he yearned to go, there was a small part of him that was scared. He had joined the Imladris scouts for a few weeks or months at a time ever since he was fifteen but now he would be away in the wilds for the entire winter and possibly much longer. More than that, this time he was going to meet some of the Dúnedain Rangers and ride with their patrols.

   Elladan saw the plea in his little brother’s eyes and took pity on him. “Prepare your pack as best you can,” he said more kindly. “Then I will come and see what needs to be changed.”

   Estel smiled his gratitude. “I won’t let you down, I promise.”

   Elladan put his hand on his shoulder and looked at him solemnly. The lad was as tall as he now.

   “I am counting on it,” he said gravely.

   Estel nodded his understanding. He knew going on patrol was a serious endeavour but, with his confidence rising as quickly as it had fallen, he rushed off excitedly to start preparing his gear and to tell his mother the good news.

   Gilraen of course already knew. Although Elrond had assumed the role of Aragorn’s father, he always discussed anything this important with her first. She had resignedly given her permission. In her eyes, her son would never be old enough to face the dangers of the wild but she knew she had to let him go sometime, no matter how heavy her heart at the thought of it. The Dúnedain after all would soon be expecting their chieftain to return to them.

   Elrond for his part had sought the advice not only of Elladan and Elrohir but also Glorfindel and all the warriors who had taken a hand in Estel’s training. They all agreed he was ready to fully face life beyond the safe confines of Imladris and if Elladan and Elrohir were prepared to take him, there was no reason why he should not go.

~oo0oo~

   A couple of days later a small party of Elves and one young Man rode out from Imladris. Some of the Elven scouts were coming with them for part of the way though they would soon turn to their own defences. Elrond and Gilraen were among those in the courtyard to wave them off, but Estel, having said his farewells, kept a wary distance from them both; he was not prepared to risk either of his parents treating him as a child in the presence of the warriors.

   His preparations had been intense. It seemed everyone wanted to give him some last minute advice or instruction. Elladan had made him study the maps of Eriador in great detail as they would largely be journeying to lands that were unknown to him. Elrohir helped him with his pack so he could impress Elladan when he came to inspect it and Glorfindel sparred with him to hone his fighting skills. Gilraen just told him to keep himself safe while Elrond reassured him that he was ready for this and advised him to stay close to his brothers when things became dangerous.

   The night before they set out, Estel was worried he would never remember all the advice he had been given but as soon as he was riding out of the valley and up the twisting path to the moors beyond, he began to relax and just enjoy being out in open country again. His heart was high within him as he rode and, although it was early in the morning, the late summer sun warmed his face while a soft breeze played with his hair. Life was good and the weather kind. It was still very mild for the time of year, though the leaves were already turning to gold, heralding the arrival of autumn.

~oo0oo~

   The patrol slowly wandered west over the empty lands of Rhudaur that lay between the Misty Mountains and the Weather Hills. As they rode they kept a constant eye open for potential danger, but fortunately they encountered few problems along the way. Estel initially found the days were filled in much the same way as on his previous adventures with his brothers. He did his share of tracking and hunting to keep them all fed and in the evenings he listening with delight as the Elves sang softly of past glories around their camp fire.

    He found he was enjoying himself immensely. Now he was truly grown up at last and was proud to be playing his part in protecting the lands around his home from wherever evil might be out there in the wilds. He did of course fully realise that his brothers were watching over him the entire time so he never really expected to be in any great danger. He considered Elladan and Elrohir to be the most capable warriors in Imladris, except perhaps for Glorfindel. His brothers alone of the Elves in the Last Homely House rode regularly with the Dúnedain so their forays with orcs and other fell creatures were far more frequent than those of the other warriors. Estel therefore was very aware of how well protected he was, even if the others tried to be discreet about it for the sake of his easily wounded young pride.

    Still, he really hoped he would see some proper fighting this winter. He longed to use his sword in a real battle. His fingers involuntarily moved to his side and rested on the sheath that lay against his thigh. He had few possessions that he could call his own, but his sword was definitely the most treasured. Elrond had given it to him on his sixteenth birthday and told him that it had a noble history, but of that history he had said no more.

   Estel marvelled at the lands about him. His previous excursions with the scouts had mostly taken him south along the course of the Bruinen towards Tharbad, so the hills of Rhudaur and the Trollshaws were new to him. He harassed his brothers continually with questions about the people who used to live in those long deserted lands. Now there were few signs of habitation remaining. Only the occasional derelict tower and piles of hewed stones bore testimony to anyone ever having dwelt there at all.

   After crossing the Last Bridge over the Mitheithel, they travelled along the East Road until they reached Weathertop. Estel was most eager to see the hill of Amon Sul, remembering as he did tales of the battles that had taken place there in the last days of the kingdom of Arthedain. When they reached the base of the tall, conical hill, Elladan and Elrohir took him with them when they ascended the ancient fort and from the summit amid the broken ruins of the once great watch tower, they told Estel of the country around them. They pointed out the distant South Downs which, in the cloudless sky, were clearly visible rolling away into the distance. To the north could be seen the Weather Hills and to the west, Elladan told him, were the Midgewater Marshes and beyond those were lands of Men and Hobbits, but Estel’s sight would not stretch that far.

   “It is so big,” he said in wonder, straining his eyes towards the distant horizon, a barely visible margin of the world. “There is so much to see and so many places to visit. How far are we going to go, Elladan?”

   “We will travel a long way in the next few months though I somehow think it will not seem far enough to you.” Elladan said, smiling fondly at the impatient lad. “You will soon have many years to explore all these lands and many others beyond even your imagining, Estel.”

   As they descended the hill, Estel unexpectedly shivered as he felt a cold stab of fear run through him though he knew of no reason to be afraid. It was soon clear to him that none of the others were similarly troubled so he thought no more of it. All the same, he was still glad that they chose to camp some way beyond the hill that night.

   In the morning the patrol divided into two. Elladan, Elrohir and Estel headed north; their plan to meet the Rangers at one of their bases near Fornost, while the rest of the patrol turned south-west to scout the northern borders of Dunland.

    As the three set off alone, Estel began to feel very small and insignificant in those vast, wild lands. Ever since they had left Imladris, he had been very alert at all times, conscious of his training, but now as they rode, he became even more so. They were far more vulnerable now should danger find them, though, with his brothers beside him, Estel had little fear. Travelling north through the bleak Weather Hills, they would however all be glad when they reached the Ranger camp near the ruined city. Having discovering Weathertop, Estel very was interested to see what remained of Fornost as well. He loved to hear Glorfindel’s account of how the Witch-king fled before him in the great battle that happened there over a thousand years ago.

   The weather continued to remain fair although the wind changed to blast down from the north making the days much colder. At night they lit a small fire and cooked what ever they had caught or found along the way. The two Elves were good company and on those long evenings, they entertained Estel with all the tales he could possibly wish for.

~oo0oo~

   On the fourth night since parting with the rest of the patrol, Estel was on watch. He felt very honoured to be trusted with this duty and was determined not to be found wanting. So it was that he was wide awake and listening to every rustle in the night air when he was sure he heard an out of the ordinary sound carried on a sudden gust of wind. It could have been a cry or a scream. Then he heard it again. It was some distance away, he was sure, but it was unmistakable. Immediately he rushed back to the fire to wake Elladan, just as he had been told to do if he had any suspicions about anything, no matter how seemingly trivial. He did not need to rouse either of the Elves as they both woke instantly at the sound of his fast approaching footsteps.

   “What is it?” hissed Elladan.

   Elrohir did not wait to hear Estel’s reply but raced passed him in the direction from which the young man had just come.

   “I think there are cries coming from the north,” whispered Estel, “I heard them for sure at least twice but I could not tell how far away they were. Of this I am certain though, something is amiss.”

   At that moment Elrohir returned, running.

   “There is trouble in the hills ahead,” he said, kicking out the fire as he spoke. “We must leave at once. Come Estel, gather your pack.”

   “We must make all haste,” agreed Elladan. “I will fetch the horses. Estel, stay and help Elrohir clear the camp.”

   Estel nodded and sprang into action, excitement and fear both welling inside him. It took seconds for the three of them to be ready to leave. There was no time to dispose of the fire properly, but Elrohir and Estel had all their gear together by the time Elladan reappeared with the horses.

   All three leaped easily onto the backs of their steeds and sprang at once into a gallop in the direction of the disturbance, the surefooted Elvish horses having little trouble finding their way in the darkness. Elladan and Elrohir were leading. With their superior Elvish ears they could easily hear the cries carried towards them in the night air and before long they were heard by Estel as well. He only remembered hearing such sounds once before in his life and realised there was a battle taking place ahead of them, one that they were now riding into with all haste.

   On they galloped. They had gone about a league when Estel could see a camp fire up ahead and against it the silhouetted shapes of figures with weapons raised. Riding beside him, Elrohir told him to unsheathe his sword.

   “Stay close to me at all times Estel and you will be fine,” he said and smiled reassuringly.

   Estel had no time to reply for now the camp was there before them. It was obvious to all three what was happening. A Ranger camp had been invaded by a large troop of orcs and the men were struggling to defeat them. As he charged into the battle, Estel could feel the blood pumping furiously through his veins. He was afraid, but his fear was more of disgracing himself and letting down his brothers than of being harmed by the orcs. He had encountered these creatures once during the previous winter, but it had only been a small group and the Elves had dealt with them swiftly before he even had a chance to join the battle, much to his disappointment and shame.

   But now he was expected to fight. His sword raised, he prepared to use it for the first time in anger. Then as one, the three leaped from their horses and hurtled into the fray, surprising both orcs and men alike.

   The noise and the chaos and confusion at first nearly overwhelmed the fledgling swordsman, but he quickly gathered his wits and swiftly raised his sword to block a swipe to his head from an orc which seemed to spring up out of nowhere. As soon as he became engaged in the action, Estel’s training came to the fore. The endless repetitive hours of practice had made his responses instinctive and lightening fast and he found he was able to repel his attacker and block its strikes without too much difficulty and then, when he saw an opening, he delivered a fatal thrust right into the orcs midriff, his sword, for the first time by his hand, biting flesh.

   Shocked at the feel and sound of the blade slicing through living muscle, Estel quickly pulled back, but he had no time to contemplate what he had done as another orc leaped at him, taking the place of the first. Again, he found he could deflect the blows quite competently and when his chance came he sliced at the orc but this time he failed to kill it outright, only wounding it. It squealed in anguish, causing Estel to hesitate before raising his sword again to kill it. But he did not get the chance to deliver the decisive thrust for Elrohir stepped in and beheaded the stricken orc with one perfectly timed swing of his sword.

   Then all was quiet suddenly; the last of the orcs were slain and the battle was over. Elrohir turned and smiled at Estel.

   “Well done little brother, you had your first orc.”

   Estel was breathless and he realised with embarrassment, he was shaking. Elrohir, knowing the significance of this battle for Estel, came and put his hand on his shoulder and said quietly: “Come and sit for a moment.”

   But Estel pulled away, looking at the ground, avoiding Elrohir’s gaze.

   “I am alright, Elrohir,” he said, desperately wanting a chance to calm his raging emotions away from the eyes of his brothers, no matter how caring and understanding they might be. Also he was suddenly very aware of the men in the camp. They were all about him and one was now approaching to speak to the three newcomers. Elrohir at once understood and turned to face the man, shielding Estel with his back as he did so.

   “Welcome, my friends,” said the man, holding out his hand to Elrohir and then to Elladan who had stepped up beside him. “I must say, you certainly know how to make on entrance. I don’t mind admitting that was harder work than it should have been. That’s the second troop we’ve dealt with in the last three weeks. We have not seen so many orcs since before the Battle of the Five Armies. It could be a long winter if this continues.”

   “Mae govannen, Dírhael, I’m glad we were of assistance,” said Elladan smiling cheerfully. “You look well in spite of your troubles. Are all your men unharmed?”

   “They appear to be, thanks to you three Elves. Come, sons of Elrond, I trust you will sit with us and rest a while, I am sure there is much for us to talk about.”

   “Gladly will I join you,” said Elladan, “but your eyesight is failing you, my friend, if you think the third member of our party is an Elf.”

   While his brothers were chatting to the man, Estel stood apart taking deep breaths and willing his hands to stop shaking. He was greatly relieved he had not behaved shamefully though he was furious with himself for not having slain that second orc cleanly. He knew Elrohir would have something to say later about the dangers of hesitation in battle. He was sure he had not needed his help although he could not deny he was grateful for it. But he was very shaken by how breathless he felt after just minutes of real combat. Fighting a sustained battle, he begun to realise would be a very different matter.

   His mind was abruptly brought back to his companions as he noticed Elrohir had stepped aside and the man they were speaking to was approaching him, looking at him intensely.

   It was an easy mistake for Dírhael to make. The young warrior was as tall as the Elves and with his dark hair and deep, grey eyes he could be close kin of the Peredhil. He was dressed in the garb of one from Imladris, but as Dírhael looked at him now he saw he was indeed a young Man, not an Elf. The elderly Ranger was suddenly filled with hope that this boy should be the one whose return all his people were longing for. And then his face lit up with joy as he realised he carried the sword of his daughter’s late husband. Elrohir saw the recognition on Dírhael’s face but acted swiftly to prevent him speaking of matters as yet unknown to Estel himself.

   “This is Estel, who lives with us at Imladris,” he said quickly. “This year he is spending his first full winter on patrol. I trust he will be welcome to join your watch.”

   “He will be more than welcome,” said Dírhael softly, then he turned to Estel and smiled warmly.

   “Well young man, it is a pleasure to have you among us. My name is Dírhael; I am the leader of this patrol.”

   Estel had now recovered sufficiently to respond appropriately.

   “I am very pleased to meet you, Dírhael,” he said, bowing courteously although he looked upon the Man with amazement. He was not unlike an Elf in height but he was more solidly built and his long dark hair was streaked with grey. And Estel looked with wonder at the lines and wrinkles upon his face which gave the man an aged and weathered appearance that rather reminded him of the rugged hills themselves.

   Dírhael took his hand and held it while he looked at the lad, long and hard. Yes, he was Arathorn’s son alright; the long nose and the intense grey eyes, watching him now with evident curiosity, marked him as one of the true line. But he thought also he saw a hint of his daughter’s gentleness and compassion in his pale face. It took a remarkable power of will for Dírhael not to draw the young man into his embrace such was his joy at meeting his grandson again after seventeen long years apart.

   “Come Estel and talk with me also,” he said at last. “I would very much enjoy hearing about you.”

   Surprised, yet pleased to be included, Estel gladly went with his brothers to sit by what remained of the Ranger’s fire and listen to the exchange of news. As they settled down, the Rangers came one by one to join them. Estel looked at them with great interest. They all wore the same dark cloaks, fastened at the shoulder by identical rayed brooches. Some of the men were older, like Dírhael and they all, Estel thought, looked tired and care worn. Coming last, a little behind the others, was one lad younger than the rest who looked much the same age as Estel. He was holding his arm protectively and Estel noticed there was a cloth which had obviously been wrapped in haste around it, in the middle of which was a large red patch.

   Estel immediately jumped up to offer his help.

   “You are hurt,” he cried, rushing over to the young Ranger. “Here, let me see.”

   The Ranger pulled back with a mixture of surprise and annoyance.

   “It is nothing,” he said sharply, and went to take his place beside the fire.

   Estel however had been instructed in the treatment of wounds by his father and was not about to be brushed aside.

   “Do not be so foolish,” he retorted, sternly. “I am sure you know well enough the dangers of orc blades. Do you wish for an infected arm?”

   The young Ranger looked taken aback and was clearly unsure how to respond. He turned to Dírhael, hoping for guidance. But Dírhael looked intrigued and just shrugged.

   “Perhaps you should listen to him, Halbarad,” he said. “You know he speaks wisely.”

   Encouraged by this, Estel homed in on his quarry.

   “I am well versed in the treatment of wounds,” he said, trying to sound authoritative, “and I have herbs in my pack that will aid in healing.” By now he was sitting beside Halbarad and was starting to unravel the makeshift bandage. The young Ranger was stunned into submission and in silence allowed his arm to be examined. Estel asked for water to be heated and Dírhael nodded to one of the men to comply. Estel’s face was grave as he explored the wound; his fingers working skilfully. He ignored the occasional wince of pain from his patient.

   “I will need my pack,” he said, looking up at his brothers who were watching him with a mixture of amusement and pride.

  “Of course, Estel,” said Elladan, “I will fetch it at once.”

  He got to his feet and whistled. In moments their three horses trotted towards the camp. Elladan approached Estel’s bay mare and talking softly to her, untied the pack and brought it over to him. Releasing Halbarad’s arm, Estel rummaged around until he found what he sought. He produced several leaves which he dropped into the water now warming in a pot over the fire. He then carefully bathed the wound, all the while watched by an astonished Halbarad.

   “I think perhaps you where right,” Estel said to him as he finished cleaning the injury. “It is not serious and I do not think it will need suturing. It should now heal well and trouble you no further.” He then bandaged it expertly with a linen cloth from his pack.

  As he tied the knot, he smiled at Halbarad a little shyly.

  “Forgive me for being so insistent,” he said, “but you should never be dismissive of wounds no matter how trivial they appear.”

  “I shall try to remember that,” said Halbarad, finding his voice at last. “May I ask who you are? We have not met before.”

  “My name is Estel. I live with the Elves at Imladris.”

  “But you are not one of them, that much I can see with my own eyes. Surely you are Dúnedain, though I did not know that any of our people dwelt there.”

  “There is only my mother and myself.”

  “Have you always lived there?” asked Halbarad.

  “Most of my life, I believe; I don’t remember living anywhere else.”

   Halbarad was too young to remember the death of Arathorn and if he knew the tradition of their chieftain being raised at Rivendell, he had forgotten it at that moment.

  But before he could ask another question, Dírhael interrupted.

  “You tended Halbarad’s arm most competently, Estel,” he said. “I presume Master Elrond has instructed you in the healing skills.”

  “Yes, lord, he has taught me some skills, but they are very basic compared to his.”

  “Well, if our luck continues as it has, we shall be glad of them I daresay,” said Dirhael. He then turned to speak to a couple of his men.

  “Haldir and Galdor, you two take the last watch together. I doubt we shall have further trouble tonight but we should not be without eyes.”

~oo0oo~

  Elladan and Elrohir talked long with the Dúnedain, exchanging news of events the length and breadth of Eriador. The twins purposefully steered the conversation away from Estel but it was clear most of the Rangers had guessed who he was. They all treated him respectfully, yet their curiosity was only too evident to the Elves. Fortunately Estel was oblivious to the interest surrounding him and for the most part listened in silence, absorbing every detail of what was said, and only speaking to answer questions directly asked of him.

   He watched the men in fascination. He had in the past spotted the occasional Ranger visiting Imladris but he had never been allowed to meet any of them face to face before. He knew he belonged to the Dúnedain himself, but he felt little kinship with these strange, grim-faced Men. In spite of his mother’s efforts, it was inevitable that he had been raised more as an Elf than as a Man and the differences between the two peoples were not to be easily cast aside.

    His first impressions of the Men sitting about the camp fire were that they appeared quite dissimilar to Elves, with their travel-stained, almost ragged, clothing and their rough weather-beaten faces. But, as he watched and listened, he came to understand they had far more in common than he first realised. It seemed they had the same sense of decency and justice as the Firstborn and their determination to defeat their enemies, if anything, surpassed even that of the Elves.

   Estel had studied the history of the Northern Dúnedain and knew of their past alliances with the Elven realms, but he could not be expected to comprehend quite how hard and difficult the lives of that once great people had become. He did not know that they were now so few that they had little hope that Sauron could ever be destroyed. That hope, such as it was, centred on vague dreams of their chieftain one day restoring their former kingdom and leading them from the shadows. Then, with their power and dignity renewed, and perhaps allied with their neighbours, the Dúnedain might hope to challenge Sauron as Elendil had done nearly three thousand years ago. So it was that while Estel looked upon the men with genuine, but detached interest, the men studied the eager fresh-faced lad, so young, but so full of promise, with a growing sense of joy and hope welling in their hearts.

   Could this boy possibly be the one to change their fortunes at last?

~oo0oo~

   In the morning, the patrol packed up and headed north. The Rangers and the sons of Elrond suspected the Orcs were issuing from the hills around Mount Gundabad and a decision was made to rout them out before they came any further south and threatened the Dúnedain settlements in the lands to the north of the Shire. Swelled by the newcomers from Imladris, the patrol was now one of ten members in total.

   As they rode, Estel at times made an effort to converse with the Rangers nearest him, but at first he found it very difficult to talk naturally. He was unsure of what to say and so became shy and awkward and soon tended to only speak when spoken to. He was very polite and proper, as he had been raised to be, but his Westron was of the rather archaic form rarely spoken by Elves which meant at times he had difficulty understanding the men. Those that could, switched instead to Sindarin for which Estel was very grateful.

   After a while he found he naturally gravitated towards Halbarad. Although, as Estel soon found out, he was a year younger than he, this was his second winter on a full patrol. Halbarad had discovered from the other Rangers exactly who the newcomer was and he had been amazed to find that the lad himself had no idea of his ancestry. The result was that he felt emboldened in the presence of his young chieftain and chatted freely with him in an uninhibited manner that might have otherwise proved beyond him. So it was that friendship slowly grew between the two young warriors and, after his initial reluctance, Halbarad also welcomed Estel’s attention to his injury, appreciating as he did the skills that the young man clearly possessed. Estel insisted on checking the wound daily for the first three days after they left the camp. As he predicted the wound was healing well and so he soon left the care of it to Halbarad himself.

   In a couple of days the patrol reached Fornost. Estel was very disappointed to find it nothing more than yet another decaying ruin; rings of long-broken stone now covered with moss and grass. So this was all that remained of what was once the capital city of the Dúnedain. The sun was setting as they rode passed the site and, in the grey light of early evening, the place had an eerie feel to it; Estel was not surprised that it was known now as Deadmen’s Dike and shunned by most people. But he found he was greatly moved and saddened by the place though he could not say why.

~oo0oo~

   One evening, about a week after the orc attack, the Rangers’ path crossed that of a well known deer trail. Estel had done no hunting since joining the Rangers and so Dírhael decided this was a good opportunity to test his grandson’s skills. As the Rangers made camp nearby, Dírhael went over to talk to him.

   “Estel, what say you and I go and find some venison for the pot?”

   Estel jumped up eagerly. He loved tracking though it usually left him frustrated that he was never as good at it as the Elves. He and Dírhael left the camp on foot taking their bows with them to have a closer look at the trail.

   The North Downs had largely turned to forest in the long years since they were grazed by the sheep flocks of the Dúnedain. The hills were now a mix of woodland and open country where moor and bare rock cut into the forest breaking it into separate stands of trees. The deer trail lay between two particularly tall outcrops of rock, the height of which forced the deer to move between them when roaming the forest. There the two hunters found a number of deer slots, some of which did indeed appear very fresh. From the sharpness of the imprints, Estel reckoned the deer had passed that way only a matter of hours earlier.

   “Well, how many do you think there are ahead of us?” asked Dírhael, squatting to look more closely at the tracks.

   Estel took a time to answer. He wanted to get this right but when he finally replied he did so with conviction.

   “There are nine deer, four calves and a stag. The stag is full grown.”

   Dírhael was surprised. “I confess I can only commit to seven deer and three calves although I agree with you about the stag,” he said. “Are you sure Estel that you have read the signs aright?”

   Estel looked again, suddenly doubtful and it was many moments before he spoke. When he did, he was certain of his answer.

  “I will stick with my reading,” he said, shy at contradicting the leader of the patrol but nonetheless confident about what he had seen.

  “Well, would you like to lead the way,” said Dírhael, gesturing for Estel to follow the trail. “There is only one way to be sure.”

  At first the trail was very clear and Estel followed it with ease moving, as the Elves had taught him, nearly soundlessly through the forest. He was soon aware that his companion behind him was not as quiet as he. After about a mile, the trees gave way to a large rocky outcrop and the trail ended.

   “Well that looks like the end of it,” said Dírhael. “Tracking them over this bare rock will be extremely difficult.”

   “I believe I can still see some signs,” said Estel, kneeing down, examining the smooth surface of the rock. He got to his feet and scrambled over the boulders. He had not gone far when he indicated for Dírhael to follow. On he went over the bare crags until he came to the woodland above. There, clearly seen in the thin damp soil, were the slots of many deer.

   “I do not think they are far ahead,” he whispered.

   Crouching low, they crept through the belt of trees and there, deep within the forest could be seen the herd, quietly browsing, oblivious of their pursuers.

   Carefully Estel and Dírhael counted their quarry. There were nine deer, four calves and an enormous stag with a full head of antlers.

   Dírhael grinned at the lad and then motioned for him to look to his bow. Estel understood and silently notched an arrow. He carefully studied the group ahead of him. He knew better than to kill a hind with a calf at foot and he certainly did not want to bring down the stag. At last he saw what he was looking for, a young buck about half grown. He waited patiently for the beast to walk more clearly into his sights and then he swiftly let his arrow fly. It found its mark and the young deer dropped like a stone. Instantly the rest of the herd was gone, a mass of bouncing white tails as they leaped away, vanishing into the forest.

   Estel raced to check on his kill. The buck was dead. It was a beautiful creature and as he laid his hand on its warm fur, he felt a moment of pity for the animal. Then he pulled a short rope from his belt and bound its legs.

   “That was a good shot, young Estel,” said Dírhael, joining him, “and a good choice of kill. Anything larger and we would be hard put to carry it back.”

   As it was they were both tired by the time they returned to the camp. Elladan came out to meet them and help with carrying the beast. He had been most concerned when he found that Estel had disappeared into the forest with just one man for company. But on hearing Dírhael’s tale he reminded himself once again that the boy was not a child any longer. If he was going to learn, they had to allow him some scope to test himself and that might mean facing dangers and making mistakes, though he was pleased to admit, Estel had not made too many of those so far.

   That night the patrol gladly dined on a venison feast and Dírhael generously told the tale of how their newest recruit had bested him on the trail. Estel flushed with embarrassment at the gentle ribbing he received, but that evening he found he was more at ease in the company of the Rangers, and for the first time, he began to feel as if he belonged among them.

~oo0oo~

   It was to prove a long and hard winter.

   The northern reaches were bitterly cold and the small group of warriors was beset with troubles. The Rangers mainly patrolled the western foothills of the northern peaks of the Misty Mountains. Here they worked hard systematically routing out nests of orcs.  The numbers were not large, but in the rugged highlands they had plenty of cover as well as the advantage of being on their home territory. The patrol had to be exceptionally vigilant; malicious eyes followed them where ever they went and stray arrows from hidden archers were a constant danger.

   The skirmishes with the Enemy were intense but brief. But, whereas most members of the patrol looked upon killing orcs as just part of a day’s work, for Estel, each bout of fighting was a supreme challenge, a test of his nerve as much as his skill. Of the other Rangers, only Halbarad was in a similar situation and he at least had one season’s experience behind him. But Estel learnt quickly and soon began to feel he was earning his place on the patrol.

   For the most part he enjoyed his first full season as a warrior, especially once he began to make friends among the men and relax in their company. The constant cold and the sometimes less than inviting food had taken a little getting used to after the comforts of home, but Estel accepted the hardships as being an unavoidable part of life on patrol.

   Halbarad, it soon became clear, had taken it upon himself to be Estel’s unofficial guide. He explained any peculiar words or sayings used among the Dúnedain as well as informing him of the entire life history of everyone in the patrol. He also made it his mission to tease Estel at every opportunity, something for which the serious, Elven-raised young man was at first ill-equipped to deal with. The result was that Estel was not sure for a long time if he could believe a single word the young Ranger said to him. After a couple of weeks, however, he began to get the measure of Halbarad’s sense of humour and started to retaliate in kind.

   His confidence also grew as it became clear that, young though he was, his sword skills were a match for any of the men in the group and, after the incident with the deer, none questioned his tracking abilities.

   February was gone and March blew in like a howling warg. The patrol had scoured the foothills of the Misty Mountains from the High Pass to Carn Dûm and was now heading south again towards the Ettenmoors, the craggy uplands to the north of the Mitheithel River. The Ettenmoors were as bleak and uninviting as any place they had been that winter and Estel shivered as they rode into the hills, though none of the patrol seemed at ease. They had not ridden far before Estel noticed that Elladan and Elrohir had discreetly positioned themselves so as to be on either side of him.

   “There is a strange feel to this land that I little like,” he said quietly to Elladan. “What lives in these hills?”

   “This is troll country,” replied Elladan, never taking his eyes off the hills about them. “These hill-trolls are large and dangerous Estel. Their hides are extremely tough and so they are difficult to kill. You must stay close to us at all times.”

   Estel nodded. He knew he had proved himself sufficiently by now that his brothers would not be this protective without good reason. He looked about him, expecting to see huge beasts waiting to pounce behind every boulder. Although it was usual for the Rangers to purposefully seek out their enemies, they rarely hunted trolls in their own land. They rode on all day hoping to pass through the hills without incident. But as they travelled deeper into Troll country, the hills on either side of them rose higher and drew closer together taking them into a narrow ravine. All were watchful and alert, aware this was a place they would rather not be.

   They had nearly reached open country again when suddenly the Elves halted and Estel noticed his mare was trembling. He instantly withdrew his sword and the air rang with the sound of the others doing the same. Then all was quiet again; everyone straining their eyes and ears to their limits, listening intently for the slightest sound and watching for the smallest movement. But there was no sound at all.

   But suddenly the silence was shattered by a might roar from somewhere in the hills above. Immediately, huge boulders began hurtling down the slopes towards them. The horses screamed in panic and several riders were thrown as they all struggled to control their terrified mounts. The patrol could not hope to retreat through the storm of rocks crashing about them.

   “Take cover!” shouted Elladan, leaping from his horse and grabbed frantically at the reins of Estel’s mare. Estel sat frozen in shock, but, as Elladan screamed at him again to jump down, he finally moved swiftly and immediately sought protection beside his brothers.

   “Let the horses go!” screamed Dírhael. It was a wise decision. They were too wild with fear to be held and running free they might just escape the clutches of their attackers. Elladan pulled Estel to him as the members of the patrol tried to flatten themselves against the sides of the ravine. It was their only hope of avoiding the storm of boulders which continued to rain down upon them. One Ranger did not move fast enough and was knocked off his feet by a well aimed rock. Then, it seemed to Estel, the ground shook all about them and, in an instant, a group of trolls was there in front of them in the ravine. They were hideous to behold and Estel felt the blood drain out of his face as terror seized him. He watched with mounting horror as the monsters proceeded to brutally trample the fallen Ranger. But there was nothing anyone could do to help him as the trolls were now determinedly lumbering towards the rest of them. None of the Rangers doubted for a moment the peril they were all in.

   The trolls were huge, probably at least twice man height and immeasurably strong. Their only weapons were crude clubs which they used as both shield and cudgel. But it hardly mattered that their weapons were primitive for their size and strength was enough to daunt even the most experienced Ranger. How many trolls there were it was impossible for Estel to say; he only knew that they felt very outnumbered.

   But immediately the patrol sprang into action. Elladan and Elrohir pushed Estel behind them and charged forward, throwing their full might into the attack. Their Elvish blades swiftly found their mark, but, in spite of their razor bite, the trolls did not fall. Estel gripped his sword tightly to try and still the quake in his hands as he forced himself to race after his brothers and confront the fearsome foe. But, as he raised his sword and found himself battling hard beside them, the fury of battle flared within him and he overcame his fear. Time and time again he manfully brought his sword down upon the mighty beast in front of him. Trolls, he quickly discovered, move slower than orcs so he found he could outwit his opponent with ease, but none of the blows he landed seemed to lessen the ferocity of the attack; even wounded, the troll just kept lunging back at him, more aggressively than ever as its injuries enraged it.

    Soon Estel felt his strength waning. He was not yet full grown and did not possess the strength and stamina of a mature man. He did not take his eyes off his attacker, but he sensed that all his comrades were engaged in similar battles of their own; there was no one to help him. He could hear his own breathing even above the noise of the battle as his lungs fought for more air. His arms felt heavy and he knew he was not moving his feet as much as he should. He could almost hear Glorfindel scolding him. He realized if he did not think of something soon, the troll would claim him. His back was to the craggy hillside now; he could retreat no further. The troll raised its cudgel as if to land a fatal blow and Estel knew he had not the strength to field it. But with a last surge of energy, he leaped onto the boulder behind him and, from that vantage point, he summoned all his remaining strength and thrust his sword deep into the neck of the troll. He killed it instantly. He had just enough presence of mind to maintain his grasp on the sword as the beast fell away from him, crashing heavily on to the rocks about it.

   Gasping and shaken, Estel was finished and would have collapsed to the ground had not the battle still being raging all about him. Sweat ran into his eyes and clouded his vision, but he could see enough to know that, although several trolls had now been felled, some of the men had also fallen. He could see his brothers, battling tirelessly in the midst of the fray. Then he looked for Halbarad and saw him struggling much as he himself had done. Wiping his sweaty palms on his cloak and taking a deep breath, he prepared to dive in to offer whatever help he could. Then to his horror, he saw Halbarad stumble. Without hesitating, Estel flew at the troll, his sudden and vicious attack giving Halbarad enough time to quickly scramble to his feet. Together they then strove against the beast, but even with two of them, it was still an incredible struggle as strength died in them both and neither was able to find the decisive strike. Eventually, between them, they messily slaughtered their foe and, when Estel looked around this time, he saw that the battle was virtually over.

   He stood there, head bowed, trembling with exhaustion and gasping for breath when, without any warning, he found he was locked in the arms of Elladan. His foster brother wrapped his arms tightly around him, softly repeating his name, so thankful was he that the lad was safe. Estel, who by now was swaying on his feet, gladly lent against his brother, grateful for the support. But he could not know of the haunted memories swirling through the mind of the son of Elrond; of a day twenty-three years ago that he would never be able to forget. Elladan could still hear Arador’s stricken cries even now and as he held his grandson in his arms, he wondered whatever had possessed him to come this way and expose the lad to the same danger. It was many minutes before Elladan was able to release his little brother, slowly opening his arms and stepping back to look at the young man.

   “I saw what you did,” he said, forcing a smile. “I am so proud of you.”

   Estel could not reply. He felt light headed and was desperately trying not to faint.

   “Unfortunately I fear not all our friends fared so well,” continued Elladan. “Stay here with Halbarad while I see what can be done.”

   Estel just nodded absently and turned to look for Halbarad. He was leaning on the rocks behind him and looking as shattered as Estel felt. Estel went over to him.

   “Are you hurt?” It was all he could think to say.

   Halbarad shook his head. “Nay, but I think others have taken grievous hurt.” He gestured with his head and Estel looked towards the carnage behind them. There were six trolls lying there; great hideous mounds of grey hide, barely distinguishable from the boulders about them. Nearby, some of the men were sitting on the ground, heads bowed; a couple were just standing, devoid of purpose. One, Estel noticed, was weeping. There were two men lying on the ground beside them. They were very still and Elladan and Elrohir had covered them with blankets though no one was attending them.

   Estel started to wander over, wondering if he could be of any help. No one stopped him as he made his way to the first man. But even as Estel pulled back the blanket he knew the man would be dead. It was Galdor.  Estel looked in horror at the white face and the staring eyes, so full of terror and pain. The man’s arm had been severed at the shoulder and he had been mercilessly trampled to death. Estel choked and dropped to his knees. He knew he was going to be sick but he did not care. Galdor was his friend; an older Ranger who had befriended him and told him stories of his past adventures and of his home and family. Estel could not even begin to accept what had happened here. This was his first taste of death and it was bitter.

   Elrohir came and sat beside him; he knew there was no point in protecting Estel from any of this. The man had died a horrible and agonising death, but such was the reality of life on patrol in Eriador and Estel had to see it. He needed to know that being a ranger was not all tales around the campfire reliving heroic deeds. Elrohir did not speak, but put his arm around Estel’s shoulders and waited.

   Estel was quiet for a long time, but at last he said: “And Belegund; is he dead too?”

   “Yes,” said Elrohir. “There is nothing to be done.”

   Estel continued to sit silently as the scale of the disaster that had befallen their small patrol began to slowly register in his mind. The grief he felt in his heart was something new and terrible and he found it too much to bear. Compounded by his own exhaustion and fear, as well as relief that the battle was over, his emotions finally overwhelmed him and he wept. Elrohir gently drew him into his arms and held him until his sobs subsided and he could cry no more.

~oo0oo~

   A week later the patrol had come south to the Last bridge over the Mitheithel. They had all ridden from the Ettenmoors with heavy hearts having buried two of their number there but now, as the new buds on the trees signalled the first signs of spring, the Rangers were heading west to return for a time to their families, while Elladan, Elrohir and Estel were going east to Imladris.

   Estel was sad to see the men go. In the months they had been together, they had shared great trials but also many happy times and Estel felt he had made some good friends. He was especially going to miss Halbarad, but he had the consolation of knowing he had acquitted himself well and so was sure he would be allowed to join future patrols. He had to admit that, much as he had enjoyed the adventures, he was greatly looking forward to going home.

   There was so much he wanted to ask his father. In particular, he had many unanswered questions about the Dúnedain. It had seemed to him, at times, that whenever he asked Elladan or Elrohir anything about the Rangers, he always received the same answer.

   “Ask Adar, he will explain everything.”

   Well now they were going home, he certainly intended to do just that.

   And when he was still a youth, yet strong withal, he went abroad with Elladan and Elrohir and learned much of hunting and of war, and many secrets of the wild.

The Making of Appendix A                                                     The Peoples of Middle-earth

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 3:  The Son of Arathorn

   But when Estel was only twenty years of age, it chanced that he returned to Rivendell after great deeds in the company of the sons of Elrond; and Elrond looked at him and was pleased, for he saw that he was fair and noble and was early come to manhood, though he would yet become greater in body and mind.

“The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen”                                                   The Return of the King

   It was good to be home.

   It was a glorious April day. The sun was now high above the Misty Mountains in the east and the whole valley was bathed in its soft warming glow. To Estel’s eyes the house had never looked so fair, its mellow golden walls reflecting the brightness of day. Daffodils lined the path and primroses and bluebells clustered under the budding chestnut trees.

    Spring had come to Rivendell, and with every step that brought him home, the winter in Estel’s heart slowly receded too. Six months on his first proper patrol had left its mark on the young man. The excited lad who rode out of the valley last autumn had gone forever. Never far from his conscious thought now were the images of battle and death. At night when he closed his eyes those images still filled his mind; the horror would be slow to leave him. In the last few days, as he and his brothers had ridden home, Estel had brooded interminably over all he had seen and done that winter out in the wilds. He wondered how the others coped with such a life, year after year; how he would cope with it. But cope he must; this he knew. He was a warrior now. But the reality of seeing his friends butchered before his eyes was not as he had expected. The heroic tales he had devoured from his earliest years never mentioned the pain and the fear and the suffering that accompanied them.

  And he was exhausted. The endless watchful days and nights had left his young body yearning for a full night’s sleep in the comfort and safety of his own room. He ached for the soothing presence of his mother, and the compassion and gentle guidance of his father. He had missed both his parents dreadfully. It had not helped that he felt unable to admit to such childish longings to anyone on the patrol, not even his brothers.

   But as he left the stables and made his way to the house, Estel felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was Elrohir.

   “Come, let us go find Adar,” he said, smiling at his foster brother. Estel nodded, grateful for his wordless understanding, and then with Elladan beside him, the three walked side by side to the main entrance. Estel could not help but remember that a year ago he had returned from a month’s scouting with his brothers and had fairly raced down the path before leaping up the steps three at a time in his excitement at being home. No such compulsion drove him today.

   And yet amid all his turmoil and grief, there was a part of him that felt a joy such as he had never known before. Ever since he was a small boy he had dreamed of joining the warriors and fighting along side them in battle. He had trained eagerly for years, but as his training had neared completion, fear that he would fail this very first test had steadily grown within him. But now he had come through this rite of passage, and with honour at that. He had not only killed many orcs but he had slain a troll as well. He had earned respect and in doing so his confidence had soared. This was no longer the untried confidence of an optimistic youth but the firm surety of experience. In this he justifiably took no small amount of pride.

      Glorfindel met them all in the hallway as he was eager for news, but Estel wanted his father and so he left the twins giving their report and made his own way to Elrond’s study. Elrond heard him coming and was already at the door as he arrived. Estel’s face lit up as his father opened his arms to him.

   “Adar, I have so many tales to tell you,” beamed Estel, “So much has happened!”

   Elrond kissed his foster son and embraced him tightly, ruffling his unruly hair as he did so. He was relived to find him not only well and unharmed but also apparently eager to speak of his adventures. He had seen so many young warriors return changed from their first patrol and already he could sense that change in Estel. There was a haunted look in his eyes that stung Elrond.  He did not doubt that the lightness of his son’s greeting was a sign of the first thickening of his skin, a sad necessity if his ordeals were not to break him.

   “I’m glad to hear it,” Elrond said, holding the lad at arm's length so he could cast his eyes over him and satisfy himself completely as to his well-being. He had clearly thrived on his experiences. His eyes shone and his face glowed with health and vitality. He seemed to have grown even taller and he had certainly filled out. The muscles beneath his tunic were now firm and taut. In just a few short months, the boy had become a man.

  He was, however, filthy.

  “And I want to hear all about what you have been doing,” said Elrond, “though I’m afraid my son, half a year in the wild leaves you in more urgent need of a bath! Why don’t you go and get cleaned up and find yourself something to eat. Then when you are refreshed, come and sit with me and I can hear all the news.” He smiled affectionately. He did not want to push Estel away but he really wanted to hear from Elladan and Elrohir how he had fared before he heard his son’s own account of his adventures. Estel smiled back happily, his relief at finally being home, blended with the warmth of his father’s love, was already doing wonders to disperse the remnants of his grief.

   “Very well, Adar,” he said, “but I won’t be long.”

   “And go and see your mother,” Elrond added as Estel walked back down the corridor. Gilraen he knew had worried the whole time he was away, but like all Dúnedain women who lose their husbands young and then watch their sons grow up to face the same dangers, she bore her sorrows stoically and silently.

   Elrond watched him go, a child no longer. Yet it seemed hardly any time at all since he had arrived in Rivendell, a frightened little boy of just two years, brought here hastily for his own protection following the slaying of his father. Estel was the fifteenth Heir of Isildur he had fostered, but he was the only one who had come to him as a baby. He was the only one he had named himself, and the only one he had reared as his own son. He was also the only one who had not known who he really was. Elrond had made up his mind; if Elladan and Elrohir spoke well of him, then the time had come for him to be told.

   He could see the twins chatting to Glorfindel in the hallway and went to greet them, embracing them together, one in each arm. They returned with him to his study and Elladan went straight to the wine flask to pour them all a drink.

   “It’s a relief to be home,” he said. “It’s been a long winter and hard. We’ve had more than our usual share of trouble this year. Certainly there were orcs roaming about in greater numbers. The Dúnedain have been very hard pressed and were glad of our aid. They would have struggled without us, I think.” He took a long swig of his wine and sat himself down in a comfortable chair beside Elrohir, who was already sprawled on the sofa.

   “Estel seems well,” said Elrond. “I hope he didn’t find it all too much of a trial.”

   “Yes, where is Estel?” asked Elrohir, reaching for his glass. “I thought he would be here regaling you with tales of all his adventures.”

   “He would be,” said Elrond, smiling at his son, “only I sent him to get a bath.”

   “Ah, we had noticed!”

   “Not only that!” continued the Elf-lord, “I wanted a chance to ask you about him, how he fared. Is he ready to be told?”

   Elladan and Elrohir glanced at one another and a look of resignation passed between them. They knew this was the first step to losing their foster brother to the life he must soon lead.

   It was Elladan who answered. “He is more than ready,” he said. “He has learnt his lessons well. He will soon be as good a swordsman as any among the Dúnedain and already he has more skill at hunting. He had to face many trials this winter and at times it was far from easy for him, but nonetheless he overcame his fears and proved a worthy member of the patrol. He is growing into a fine young man; we all have good reason to be proud of him.”

   “Yes, it was a joy to see him,” added Elrohir. “He earned the respect of all the Rangers. And although life in the wilds is still something of an adventure for him, he is well aware it is only so because we are at hand to protect him. He takes everything we have taught him to heart; I deem his greatest fear is disappointing you.”

   “All that you say pleases me,” said Elrond as he considered his sons’ words. “Of course he has always been an eager pupil. But what of Dírhael; did he meet him?”

   “Oh Dírhael is impatient for his return,” said Elladan. “The lives of the Dúnedain are as difficult as ever. They lost two good men just this last week. Dírhael leads them as best he can, but it is so long since they had any real hope.”

   “But they do not want Estel just as a figurehead,” added Elrohir quickly. “It was not just his fighting and hunting skills that impressed them. In his quiet, thoughtful way of listening to and learning from all that is said, he shows a maturity beyond his years. He is not at all proud and arrogant as some young men seem to be. They will follow him, Adar, even now, even though he is only young. Dírhael said as much.”

   “Well,” said Elrond, “if he has impressed Dírhael then he must have fared well indeed. I shall never forget the trouble poor Arathorn had persuading him he was worthy of marrying Gilraen. My mind is made up. I shall tell him today.”

~oo0oo~

   Estel, clean, changed and fed, arrived back at his father’s study to find Elladan and Elrohir still there, still drinking wine, still telling Elrond all the news from Eriador.

   “I hope you two have left some tales for me to tell Adar,” he said, as he strode across to the board and poured himself a drink from the dregs in the flask.

   “Do not fear, Estel, I want to hear all about your adventures,” said Elrond. “Come and tell me your news. These two, I’m sure, want to get cleaned up as well.”

   Elladan and Elrohir showed no inclination to move from their comfortable seats by the fire until discreet gesturing on Elrond’s part signalled that they had out-stayed their welcome, and they both reluctantly got to their feet.

  As the twins left the room, Estel came and sat beside his father and told his tales. As Elrohir had said, there were no boasts, mostly stories to make Elrond laugh, although there were many things about which Estel wanted advice on or reassurance. Meeting the Dúnedain had made a huge impact on him. He was immensely curious about these rather grim and silent men, for he had long known he was of the same blood though he could not, in truth, say he felt much sense of kinship with them.

    But the deaths of the two men he had come to know as friends troubled him greatly and as he finished his tale, it was obvious to Elrond he was still badly haunted by the experience.

   “It was horrible,” Estel admitted, “there was nothing anyone could do to help them.”

    Elrond knew he could offer his son little in the way of comfort.  “It is a risk for all who take up arms,” he said. “There are no guarantees that a warrior will survive any battle. It is hard my son, I know, but you must not allow the deaths of your comrades to blacken your heart. All those who fight the Enemy do so because they must. Perhaps when you have seen more of the lands beyond our borders you will understand better why that is so.”

  Elrond was relieved, though, that, on the whole, Estel appeared to have enjoyed being in the company of the Dúnedain, and he was particularly pleased that he had become friendly with young Halbarad, whom he knew to be a kinsman of Gilraen. He was however rather evasive with some of Estel’s questions as he had no wish to be drawn further into a discussion on the Dúnedain until he had made his big announcement.

   And so at last Elrond stood and faced his son. He looked carefully at the young man before him. He had grown tall and fair and in his noble face Elrond noticed for the first time that of all his ancestors, he was most like Elendil himself. There was joy in his smile and as he looked at Elrond, he saw the trust in his eyes. With a twinge of guilt, Elrond realised they had all deceived him, no matter how well intentioned they had been.

   “Estel, I have something important to tell you,” he said. The young man immediately gave him his full attention. He considered everything that his foster father said to be important but if he himself said it was then it must be very serious indeed.

   “I have told you all about my brother Elros, have I not?” asked Elrond. Estel nodded, wondering whatever his history lessons had to do with anything.

   “You know that he was half-elven like myself but that he chose to be accounted among Men and became the first King of Númenor, from whom Elendil and his son, Isildur, were descended. I am sure that you remember all about the Kings of Arnor and, as the line later became, the Kings of Arthedain. But do you also remember that when the Kingdom was destroyed and Isildur’s Heirs just became known as the Chieftains of the Dúnedain, my brother’s line still did not fail?”

   Again Estel just nodded.

   “Can you perhaps recall the name of the last Lord of the Dúnedain?”

   Estel thought he probably did know, but he shook his head; he was beginning to feel a little nervous about where all this was leading.

   “His name was Arathorn, son of Arador. He was killed by an orc arrow eighteen years ago. Elladan and Elrohir were with him at the time.”

   An alarm rang in Estel’s mind and he sat very still. Elrond had his complete attention. He deliberately did not think any thoughts at all.

   “But the line did not die out even then,” said Elrond, as he watched Estel carefully. “For Arathorn had a son, though he was only a child of two years at the time.” Elrond saw comprehension and then disbelief dawn on Estel’s face. “Yes, Estel, you were that child; you are Arathorn’s son. You were brought here for your safe-keeping until you were old enough to take your rightful place as leader of your people. Your true name is Aragorn.”

   “Aragorn?” echoed Estel, quietly. Elrond waited for him to say more but he was clearly still absorbing this revelation so Elrond continued.

   “You are not only Chieftain of the Dúnedain, Estel, but you are also Isildur’s Heir and for that reason we changed your name and kept your identity secret, even from you. Your lineage may be the highest and most noble among men in Middle-earth but I am afraid, my son, that you inherit your title at a time of greater danger than has been seen by any of your forbearers since the days of the Witch-king.”

   He paused and gazed hard at his foster son. Still Estel said nothing but looked very grave and serious as he weighed up everything Elrond had said to him. Elrond laid his hand on his shoulder and smiled at him reassuringly. “I have some heirlooms of your house to give you,” he said. Estel watched him walk over to a chest at the back of the room and unlock it. He realised then that he had never seen inside that chest and had wondered as a child what might be in it. Elrond lifted out some items wrapped in cloth and brought them to him.

   “Here is the ring of Barahir,” he said, “the token of our kinship from afar; and here also are the shards of Narsil. With these you may yet do great deeds; for I foretell that the span of your life shall be greater than the measure of Men, unless evil befalls you or you fail at the test. But the test will be hard and long. The sceptre of Annúminas I withhold, for you have yet to earn it.” [1]

   Estel took the ring but did not put it on his finger. He knew well the story of Barahir and the ring given to him, more than six thousand years ago, by Finrod Felagund for saving his life. Could he really be Barahir’s direct descendent? The Shards of Narsil he handled with awe and disbelief; the broken sword of Elendil that Isildur had used to cut the Ring from Sauron’s hand; was it really his heirloom?

   Elrond watched him turning the shards over in his hands, slowly coming to terms with all that he had told him. Elrond hoped that once he had absorbed these tidings, he would rejoice at the news of who he was. The burden of his destiny would weigh heavily upon him all too soon. It grieved Elrond to think of the hard and difficult life that would lie ahead of his gentle son. At least he had given him a happy childhood and equipped him the best he could for the life that he must lead. He would continue to offer him guidance in the future, but he knew others would do that task better now.

   He sat down next to Estel and put his arm around him. “This will always be your home,” he said, “and we will all help you all we can, but it is not your fate to stay here, nor do I think you would wish it to be. You have seen for yourself the work of the Enemy. His power grows; the Shadow in the East lengthens. There is much to be done and in this I foresee you will play no small part.”

   Estel looked up at his foster father then. “I can’t pretend this is anything other then a big shock,” he said, “but it is a relief also to know who I truly am and that my father wasn’t some kind of a rogue as I had sometimes feared.”

   “Estel, my son, you did not say!”

   “No, Adar, but I knew there had to be a reason why I was the only boy in a house full of Elves; now I know.”

   He paused and frowned. Looking questioningly at Elrond, he said:   “But why could I not have known of this before now? Why was my identity kept secret?” Such was Estel’s trust in his foster father, there was no accusation in his question, but it was nonetheless a question Elrond had hoped he would not ask just yet.

   “Sauron has long sought Isildur’s heir,” he replied. “It has ever been my greatest fear that he would find you. Let us not speak of this now. Know only that to keep you safe, I decided not to risk any knowing that you dwelt here. Fear of that chance remark or slip of the tongue guided me in this. A child could not be expected to fully understand the importance of this. I am sorry, Estel, but I deemed the risk too great. I am afraid, my son, there will be few to whom you can ever reveal your true name.” It was another burden to lay upon him and it saddened Elrond to have to do it.

   But the full implication of this did not at that time register with Estel as he was still too preoccupied with wondering about his new father. He hesitated to ask his next question, still fearful of what he might learn. Avoiding Elrond’s gaze, he asked in a quiet voice: “Did you know him?”

   “Yes, my son, I knew him well. He was a good and honourable man.”

   Estel was quiet for a long moment. This sudden and unexpected discovery of his real father had rocked him to the core. Although he had long known Elrond could not be his blood father, he nonetheless adored him. He had no wish for another to replace him and yet he was burning with curiosity for this man Arathorn. Involuntarily he reached for Elrond. His foster father took his hand in his and imparted what comfort he could.

   Estel’s mind was racing, his emotions a swirling maelstrom, but he was not the son of either of his fathers for nothing. He realised Elrond’s revelations were about far more than just his own parentage. He forced his own concerns into the back of his mind and tried to consider the wider perspective. He now found himself, quite unexpectedly, to be the lord of a scattered and impoverished people who fought a never-ending battle against evil. Before he continued, he thought about his words carefully.

   “This last trip, being among the Dúnedain; they see things differently from Elves, I believe. Maybe it has something to do with being mortal or maybe it’s because of how hard their lives are; I’m not really sure. But I do know I felt a need to do something more than just help with the patrols, and now I see that I must, that it is my duty even.”

   Elrond squeezed his son’s hand. “You are right, Estel, and I am glad that you can see this. You should talk to your mother. There is much that she can tell you.”

   “Yes, of course!” said Estel, jumping to his feet at once as questions to ask Gilraen immediately flooded into his mind. But then he stopped, for amid all the turmoil and confusion raging within him, it was slowly dawning on him that he had at last acquired an identity of his own. A smile spread across his face. He turned to his foster father and asked: “Is my name really Aragorn?”

   “Yes, Estel,” said Elrond, smiling back at him, “Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

~oo0oo~

   Estel went to find his mother. He was still in a daze over all that Elrond had told him yet his heart was surprisingly light and untroubled. Quite what the implications were for him, he had as yet no real idea. Being a chieftain sounded a rather daunting role but already he felt a growing pride in his newfound ancestry. He would go to the library later and work out exactly how he was related to Elrond. That he was actually distant kin to his foster family thrilled him enormously, though he was still a little stunned at the thought of all that royal blood flowing in his veins. But right now he wished only to hear more of his true father.

    He made his way through the house to his mother’s sitting room and knocked on the door.

   “Estel?” said a woman’s voice.

   “No, it is Aragorn!” came the reply.

   Gilraen opened the door and looked anxiously at her son. “He’s told you.”

   “Yes, he’s told me everything,” said Estel, smiling at his mother.

   Gilraen threw her arms around her son and held him close for a moment. She had waited for this day for so many years. At last she could share her husband with her son and tell him all the things about his father that she had kept to herself for so long. She had not been many years older than Estel when she had fled with him to Rivendell following the death of Arathorn. That day she not only lost her husband but also her family, her friends and her old life. She gazed up at her son and allowed her fingers to gently brush the thin stubble that now grew on his beloved face. She had given up much for her child but looking at her grown-up son, so tall and fair, who reminded her so much of Arathorn, she knew her sacrifices had all been worth it.

   “Come Aragorn, we have much to talk about.”

                                                                                 ~o00o~

That day therefore Elrond called him by his true name, and told him who he was and whose son; and delivered to him the heirlooms of his house.

“The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen”                                                   The Return of the King

[1]  The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 4: Elrond’s Daughter

   “…You shall be betrothed to no man’s child as yet. But as for Arwen the Fair, Lady of Imladris and of Lorien, Evenstar of her people, she is of lineage greater than yours, and she has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot besides a young birch of many summers. She is too far above you. And also Ithink it will seem toher…”

Elrond                                                                                 The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

~oo0oo~

   Rain had been falling persistently all day long. It ran in rivulets down the window planes of Aragorn’s bedroom and drained into an ever increasing puddle in the middle of the balcony. Aragorn stood with his nose almost touching the glass, his breath condensing in front of him, obscuring much his view of the valley. It was not the best day to be leaving home. His camp tonight would be chill and sodden. But now he had made up his mind to go, he would delay his departure by not even so much as a single day. He had postponed leaving for too long already.

   He was twenty years old; no age to still be loitering at home. Turin by this time was a veteran of some three years fighting on the marches of Doriath; Tuor had endured four years as a thrall of the Easterlings. He had been most fortunate to have a home with a loving family for so long. But he had duties to take up; people were expecting things of him. And he himself was not the least of those. He wanted to be on his way now. That was where his future lay, not here in Imladris. If it had not been for her, he would have gone months ago.

   He felt his face colour as he thought of Arwen and of his own audacity. What a fool he had been. Was everyone laughing at him, he wondered; the foolish boy, daring to think he stood a chance of claiming the hand of the great Elf lord’s only daughter? But his mother had not laughed when she learned of his desires and Elrond certainly had not. Even the lady herself always treated him with a measure of respect and was invariably kind and friendly towards him. He cheeks flared even more brightly as he recalled his stumbling attempts to woo Elrond’s daughter. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the cool glass as he did so. His emotions had been in complete turmoil ever since he first met her. His longing for her made him shy and clumsy in her company and he found his blood rose within him whenever she so much as entered his thoughts. Now that Elrond had crushed what little hope he ever had, there was no point in delaying his departure any longer. To stay now would only bring him continued anguish.

   Autumn was well underway; there was scant green to be seen in the trees now. It hardly seemed a whole year since he had set out on the winter patrol with Elladan and Elrohir. Looking back, it was a very different young man who rode out of the valley on that fine morning from the one planning his departure today. How youthful and beguilingly innocent he must have seemed. His hopes and dreams were so simple in those days.  Then he had been blissfully unaware of the responsibilities he would soon be required to undertake. He had grown and matured on that patrol, but the change within him then was as nothing to that wrought in the last few months.

   ‘Lord of the Dúnedain!’

    He said the words out loud as if to remind himself to whom this title belonged. It had taken some getting used to. After Elrond’s revelation, his mother had spent many a long evening talking to him, providing him with intensive instruction on his inheritance. She told him tales of the exiles of Númenor, tales passed down through countless generations and told beside every fireplace, in every cot where still there lived the remnants of that people. Aragorn had heard many of them before as he had been taught the history of the North Kingdom from a tender age. But learning of his people through the tales of his mother was quite unlike being told of their history in the school room. Elrond taught him the names of the kings, the places where they fought their battles and the dates when they died. His foster father, of course, knew all the kings and chieftains personally and remembered many with affection and not a little sadness. But his mother spoke of other things; of a people diminished; their pride and dignity long gone, of a house bereft of power and status, of lives lived in the shadows, a sad, secret people; the former kings of men living as shunned outcasts, with little hope of ever renewing the days of their past glory.

   And she spoke of his father, a man he felt he was gradually getting to know at last. She told of his difficult life and the struggles he had and how valiantly he fought to keep Eriador free from evil. Aragorn wished with all his heart he could know him through more than just the memories of others. He needed him now as he never had when he was growing up. Arathorn alone could tell him what it meant to be the lord of their people. Elrond had been as a father to him, and he hoped he always would fulfil that role, but already he could feel a distance growing between them. It was tiny, a germ of division, too small too fret over, nothing more perhaps than the natural easing of the bonds that inevitably occurred between father and son as the son grew to manhood. But it was there all the same. He rarely called his father ‘adar’ any more. ‘Master Elrond’ had become the form of address. It was spoken with love, deep felt and lasting, but Aragorn had another father now. Even long dead, Arathorn was beginning to exercise his influence over his son.

   Aragorn turned away from the window. The bleakness of the day only darkened his mood. He returned to his task of oiling the Shards of Narsil. It was the sort of job that freed his mind to allow him to dwell on other matters. It would soon be time to say his farewells and he needed to gather his thoughts. He was going to miss everyone terribly. There were so many here whom he had grown to love; his foster family had never made him feel anything other than a full and beloved inhabitant of Imladris. He also owed Elrond and his entire household a huge dept of gratitude. Almost everything he possessed had come from the Elves. They had kept him well fed and safe, and he had wanted for nothing in all his growing years. But more than that, they had guided and tutored him and shaped him into the young man that he had become. He had so much to be grateful to them for; when he left, he wished to express his appreciation fully.  But he knew he would be tongue tied and incoherent if he did not sit in the quiet of his room and rehearse and perfect his words beforehand.

    And then there was Arwen. As his thoughts turned to her, he winced as if in sudden pain. There is was again, that aching desire, stabbing right through him, consuming him. He fought to suppress his longing, as he knew he must. Even if he could stay, the pain of doing so would now be unbearable.  Yesterday Elrond had made his feelings on the matter of his daughter quite clear. Arwen was beyond his reach. Yet in spite of his foster father’s words, there was still a corner of his youthful heart that retained its optimism. It may just be his imagination, but when Arwen looked at him, he was sure that her smile was that bit warmer and her eyes more vital than when her gaze fell on any other. He knew her station placed her too far above him, and he had nothing to offer her, but equally, he thought to himself, such concerns had not deterred Beren or Tuor. Perhaps in time he too might achieve great deeds and earn the right to her hand. Somehow he could not completely abandon his hope, however remote its chance of fulfilment might be.

~oo0oo~

   “Finished at last,” said Arwen, holding up for inspection the thick woollen shirt she had been embroidering. She had joined Gilraen in her sitting room at first light that morning to work on mending Estel’s clothes. Following the unexpected announcement the night before of his imminent departure, some emergency repair work had been called for on the items he travelled in and she had urgently needed to finish the shirt she was making for him.

    “Do you think he will like it?”

    Gilraen looked at the delicate workmanship that was far beyond her own skill, and refrained from commenting that her son would no doubt adore any gift made by the Elf maiden’s own hand. Instead she said: “Of course. He will be glad of it in the cold days ahead, I’m sure.”

   “Good, that is as I wished,” said Arwen as she added the shirt to the pile of clothes that Gilraen had already worked on. So many of the items had rips and tears in them, she idly wondered how Aragorn was going to manage out in the wilds with no one to repair them for him. But he would at least now be setting out with them all in a serviceable condition.

    She stooped to pick up the drab bundle of green and brown items.

    “Shall I take them to him now? That is all of them, is it not?” she asked.

    Gilraen did not reply; her thoughts at that moment were elsewhere and she was not listening. Her child was leaving home today and she knew with absolute certainty that a life of great hardship and danger lay ahead of him. It would take much more than a warm shirt to keep him safe.

   Arwen, guessing the direction of her thoughts, laid the bundle back down and came and sat beside the troubled woman.

   “He will cope, Gilraen, have no fear,” said she. “If all I hear is true, my brothers have taught him well. They speak most highly of his skills. Do not burden yourself with such fears. He is going to live with the Dúnedain is he not? They will protect him.”

   Gilraen knew her son was as well equipped as he could be for the life ahead of him but the thought brought her no comfort at all. Arathorn had been as capable a warrior as any among the Dúnedain but that had not earned him protection. And it was precisely the failure of the Dúnedain to keep their chieftains safe that had brought her and her child to Rivendell in the first place. No, she could not explain to Arwen that she would never know a moment’s peace while her son was away. She had little hope that she would see much of him again once he became caught up in the affairs of their people. She would just have to get used to the constant, never ending, fear and learn to live with it.

   “I will try not to worry too much,” she said, forcing a smile for the sake of the beautiful Elf maiden sitting beside her. She was the most exquisite creature Gilraen had even seen with her flawless ivory skin and her dark, raven hair. But, oh how she hoped Estel would meet a girl in one of the villages to divert his desires away from her. She feared greatly for her boy’s happiness if he persisted with his hopeless infatuation. Unfortunately she very much doubted there were any maidens among the Dúnedain who could compare favourably with Arwen’s beauty and allure.

   “And yes, we are all done here,” she quickly added, realising she had not answered Arwen’s earlier question. She secretly wanted to take the clothes to her son herself so she could fuss and mother him for a little while longer, but she could tell Arwen was eager to show off her own handiwork.

   “By all means take them to him,” she said.

   Arwen picked up the bundle again and made her way to Aragorn’s room.

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn was still absently oiling the Shards. He was taking them with him when he left. They might be of no use as a weapon, but they provided irrefutable prove of his identity, lest any should doubt his claim. He had also decided to take the ring of Barahir which he had recently taken to wearing on his finger.

   It had at last stopped raining so he would soon be on his way. Noon had been and gone and he wanted to place as many miles as he could between himself and home before nightfall. He was still unsure of what he was going to say to everybody when he left. A barrage of memories kept assaulting and distracting him as he struggled to formulate his farewells. There were so many memorable moments from his childhood, incidents both great and small that would remain with him, carved into his mind forever. He was, in fact, becoming rather emotional as he dwelt on them all. It did not help that mingling with his flood of memories, were his hopes and fears for the future. Although he was genuinely looking forward to returning to his people, the prospect of being chieftain terrified him now that the time had actually arrived. Elladan and Elrohir had offered to accompany him to find Dírhael and stay for a while to ease him into his new role, but Aragorn had been insistent, he did not need mothering. He could make his own way now.

  He was brought out of his day-dreams abruptly by a knock at the door. He bid whoever it was to enter and as Arwen walked through the door, he leapt to his feet in surprise, nearly cutting himself on a shard as he did so. He immediately felt his shyness descend upon him and he suspected he had just lost the ability to string a sentence together. He had not been alone with Arwen since the day he first met her under the silver birches months ago. He just prayed he could keep a cool composure in her presence.

   Arwen entered the room and smiled at him as she placed the bundle of clothing on his bed.

   “These are for you,” she said, as she started spreading the items out for him to admire more closely. “Your mother and I have worked all morning darning and repairing your clothes for you, so I hope you will take good care of them when you leave.”

   Aragorn slowly came and stood beside her, aware as he did so that he was trembling. He heard without listening as she showed him the meticulous care that had evidently gone into each item, holding them up one by one for him to examine. He smiled and mumbled his appreciation as Arwen happily chatted on. Then she picked up the shirt she had made and held it out in front of him, as if checking the fit.

   “And this one I made myself,” she said. “I started it weeks ago but I’ve rushed to finish it today since you seem so determined to leave all of a sudden.”

   Aragorn felt himself burn and he looked away from her laughing grey eyes, busying himself with examining the shirt.

   “You made this for me?” he heard himself say, as he reached out a shaky hand to feel the perfect weave of the fabric.

   “I did. Do you like it?”

   “I love it,” he managed to utter, before adding quickly: “And I thank you, my lady.”

   “You are most welcome,” said Arwen, as she handed him the shirt and turned to leave. But as she reached the door, she paused and a frown marred her beautiful face. She suddenly looked grave.

   “I will no doubt see you again before you go,” she said, “but promise me Estel; you will take care of yourself out in the wilds, won’t you?” She looked Aragorn straight in the eye as she spoke and to his surprise, he found he could return her gaze.

    “I will, I promise,” he said soberly. Then Arwen suddenly beamed him a smile so dazzling, it smote him to the very core of his being.

    “Good, I’m glad.”

   And then she was gone.

   Aragorn stared after her in wonder. He had never seen her smile like that at anyone before. Joy exploded within him, and his heart soared. He needed no more convincing; his imagination was not playing tricks with him. That smile was real and it spoke from the heart. Oh how he would cherish this moment forever!  The memory of it was the best gift he could possibly have to take with him into his new life.

    He stood there, clasping the shirt to him. His fingers tightened their hold as he realised it still held her scent. And then a slow smile lit up his face and a gentle warmth spread right through him.

   No, he would not abandon his hope completely, not just yet.

~oo0oo~

   Then Aragorn took leave lovingly of Elrond; and the next day he said farewell to his mother, and to the house of Elrond, and to Arwen, and he went out into the wild.

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                        The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 5: Chieftain of the Dúnedain

“He is Aragorn son of Arathorn,” said Elrond; “and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil’s son of Minas Ithil. He is the Chieftain of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk.”

The Council of Elrond                                                          The Fellowship of the Ring

   This looked as good a place as any. The heap of boulders had once been somebody’s home, but they might still be serviceable as a shelter for tonight. Aragorn picked his way carefully through the roofless space that had probably been the kitchen. The wide chimney breast still stood at one end, the last remnant of the house that was recognisably part of a dwelling. Looking up, he noticed a tangled mass of leaves and twigs protruding from the top of it. That was a good sign; nesting rooks had long ago made it water tight. In the fire place below, there was still a large blackened cauldron lying on its side. He knelt down and stretched his hand behind it, feeling for the rim. If he could remove the pot, the space where once a family had cooked its meals would do well enough as a bed chamber.

   The rain had started again as the afternoon had worn on and now he could feel its chill tentacles seeping through to those places where his cloak did not provide adequate protection. He knew he must find shelter. It had been drummed into him over and over that getting soaked through was akin to jumping in front of an orc.  The weather could be just as lethal as any blade. And the very last thing he wanted on his first night away from home was to be taken ill and have to return to Imladris for his father’s care. He would never be able to endure the humiliation.

  The pot was heavy, but he managed to twist it sideways. Suddenly a rat sprang out from inside it and ran across his arm, narrowly avoiding landing on top of him. Startled, Aragorn jumped backwards and let out a yelp like a frightened hound. He recovered quickly from the shock though he felt his face colour with embarrassment. Thankfully his brothers had not been there to witness his childish reaction, but he found himself grinning as he imagined the ribbing they would have given him. And justified it would have been too; a fine Ranger he made, afraid of an overgrown mouse. But he hesitated before touching the pot again. There might be a whole nest of them in there. He looked at it for a moment and then he had an idea. He unsheathed his sword and, wrapping the blade safely in his cloak, he used the hilt as a hook to drag the pot clear of the hearth. It was empty and, in spite of the unwelcome rodent, the empty space looked inviting enough. If nothing else, it would keep him dry until the rain stopped, although he knew he was never going to get a fire going until it did. But he would manage without; it would not be the first time he had eaten a cold supper.

   He removed his bed roll from his back and, spreading it on the bare earth, he crawled into his new bedroom. It was a little cramped, but he was pleased with himself for finding somewhere so suitable. Once he had settled down, his thoughts turned to food. Rivendell’s cook had not sent him off into the wilds empty-handed. He had ample provisions to see him through the next few days at least.  He sat in the entrance of his temporary home and opened his pack. Inside he found the pie that cook had carefully wrapped up for him that morning. He had eaten nothing since he had left home and so he tucked into the delicious pastry with relish.

   As he sat enjoying his supper, the last of the daylight fled and darkness descended. There were no stars to brighten the evening and the light of the moon struggled to penetrate the dense cover of the rain clouds. Shadows seemed to grow menacingly from every direction. There was no sound except the gentle patter of the rain falling on the stones around him. Aragorn suddenly felt very small and lonely amid the vast emptiness of Eriador. He had never felt this vulnerable at night when in the company of his brothers. If he got into difficulties there would be no one to help him now. He was completely alone. With that thought in mind, he very much doubted he would risk closing his eyes that night. In fact he rather wondered how any solitary Ranger ever found rest when out in the wilds.

   He was just beginning to convince himself there was nothing to worry about, when he heard a rustle in a thicket of hawthorns away to his left. Instantly, he dropped the pie and drew his sword as he leaped to his feet. He waited motionless as the moments passed. A fox sauntered into view and looked at him with distain before trotting off into the shadows. Aragorn breathed out and sheathed his sword, feeling a little foolish. He was getting wet again now, so he crawled back into his little den. He finished his meal and sat watching the darkness all around him. His nerves were taut and he jumped at every sound. In the end, he decided not to even attempt to sleep, though he knew he must at some point. He doubted he would manage to last out the week it would take to reach Dírhael without any rest at all.

   He was taking the East Road to Weathertop and from there, he planned to bear northwards until he came to the Dúnedain settlement on the edge of the North Downs. Here he hoped to find Dírhael before he set out on the winter patrols. He was looking forward to meeting up with the Rangers again, especially as this time he would not be the new recruit, though with his newfound status, he sincerely hoped he would not be expected to lead a patrol. He really did not feel ready to cope with that sort of responsibility; at least not yet. He knew he still had a lot to learn and he wanted time to find his feet first. The whole idea of giving orders, especially orders where men’s lives might depend upon the outcome, was a scary prospect. For the moment, he would be more than happy to simply follow Dírhael’s lead. In fact, he decided, he would be more than happy to follow Dírhael’s lead for the foreseeable future.

   The night dragged on and, as he kept his lonely vigil, his thoughts strayed back to Rivendell. He repeatedly reminded himself that he had made a conscious decision not to think of his home. That life was over; this was his life now; he was a Ranger, one of the Dúnedain, this was where he belonged.

   No, he would not think of his home.

   They would all be gathering in the hall of Fire by now, having enjoyed a hot, cooked meal washed down with fine wine. The fire would be blazing brightly. The room would be light and warm and dry. There would be singing and laughter, and dancing maybe. His family would all be there. And Arwen. He reached for his pack, and found the shirt that Arwen had given him earlier today. He held it to his face and buried his head in it, her scent filling his nostrils…

   He put it away. No, he would not think of his home. He would dwell on what was to be, not that which could never happen. He was going to live with his people. His mother had told him all she could about them, but he still had difficulty picturing in his mind what a Dúnedain village would be like. He imagined the great cities of Númenor that now lay under the sea to have been magnificent places though he had no such hopes for the Dúnedain dwellings of today. He had already seen some of the sad remains of their once great fortresses. But he knew the Dúnedain in the South still dwelt in the relative splendour of Minas Tirith, even if the domed city of Osgiliath had long since fallen into ruin. He wondered if he would ever get to see those far off cities. A sudden surge of excitement filled him as he thought of all the places he might be able to explore now that he had left home.  Middle-earth was a wondrous place, he thought as he noticed the stars shining for the first time that night. The rain had stopped and the clouds had drifted apart. The beauty of the night brought him an unexpected sense of peace. He was young; his whole life ahead of him and his heart was full of hope. He was more than ready to find adventure.

   Not once did he think of his home again that night.

~oo0oo~

   A week later a very tired young man was seen wandering, apparently aimlessly, towards the small Dúnedain village on the edge of the North Downs. He stopped a couple of miles away to the south and set up his camp. One of the scouts watching from up in the hills went at once to inform Dírhael.

   “Keep an eye on him tonight and then, in the morning, take his weapons and find out his business,” said Dírhael on hearing the news. Nobody ever wandered this way by chance; he wondered at the meaning of it. He did not care at all for strangers venturing this close to the settlement. That night he sent out more men than usual to guard the approaches.

   At dawn, the stranger showed no signs of moving on, so the scout drew his sword and cautiously approached the young man. It had not escaped his notice that the man carried a very long sword of his own. He stopped a distance away and called out: “Speak and declare yourself.”

   Aragorn was sitting dozing. He had been trying to summon the will to start his journey again but had succumbed, for a moment, to his body’s craving for sleep. He was desperately tired, he had barely slept since he left home and now he could hardly keep his eyes open. The muscles in his legs were painfully stiff from walking so many miles and his boots were pinching his feet. He did not hear the scout approach until he spoke. Instantly he leapt to his feet and his sword was in his hand. He had become rather adept at this manoeuvre in the last few days.

   “Declare yourself,” repeated the scout, hoping his companion was busy taking up his position on the man’s flank. He was very aware of the competent way the young man handled his sword and did not particularly want to tackle him on his own if he could avoid it.

   Suddenly there was a shout from up in the trees to the right, a cry that sounded like one of joy. Another scout came bursting into view.

   “There is no need for him to declare himself,” the scout cried as he ran towards the newcomer with a wide grin on his face. “I would know this sorry looking excuse for an Elf anywhere.”

   Aragorn, who had hesitated to reply as he was not sure quite how to introduce himself, watched the Ranger leaping down the hill towards him with a mixture of fear and amazement. Then he knew him and his heart leaped.

   “Halbarad!”

   “Aye, Estel, what a surprise,” said Halbarad as he bounded up to him and slapped him forcibly on the back before drawing him into a rough bear hug.

   “Whatever are you doing here? Are the sons of Elrond not with you?”

   Aragorn, grinning crazily now with relief at having stumbled across the Rangers, happily hugged Halbarad back.

   “No, they are not,” he said. “I am considered capable of managing on my own now.”

   Halbarad looked at the bags under his eyes and the tiredness all too clearly etched on his face and was rather doubtful, though he said nothing. Then he turned to his companion who stood watching with bemusement.

  “All is well, Radhruin. This is my friend, Estel, whom I told you about. He came on the patrol with us last winter.”

  Radhruin’s eyes opened wide and he stared at Estel before remembering to stretch out his hand in welcome.

   “I have heard a lot about you, Estel,” he said. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

   Aragorn took his hand and smiled.

   “I am pleased to meet you too,” he said.

   “You are a long way from home, my friend,” said Halbarad, “I am surprised at Lord Elrond allowing you to travel so far alone.”

   Aragorn looked about him before replying. “Are we anywhere near the village?” he asked.

   “Yes, it is but a couple of miles away.”

   “Then I am not so far from home as you suppose,” said Aragorn. “I do not dwell at the House of Elrond any more. I have come to take my place among my people. I am no longer known as Estel, Halbarad. I have taken my true name at last. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” He knew he probably sounded pompous, but it thrilled him to say those words.

   Halbarad hesitated for a moment, and then he did something that amazed Aragorn but also touched him deeply. He suddenly pulled out his sword and dropped to one knee. He took Aragorn’s hand and, pressing his fingers to his lips, he kissed it. “My lord, may I have the honour of being the first to do this?”

   Aragorn looked at him in confusion. “Do what, Halbarad?”

   “Swear fealty to my lord, of course.”

   Halbarad solemnly laid his sword at Aragorn’s feet and with his head bowed, he said his oath. “Here do I swear fealty and service to my lord Aragorn, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need and in plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. [1] So say I, Halbarad son of Barador.”

   Aragorn was greatly moved, though also rather taken aback, at Halbarad’s gesture. He had read of such actions in the great tales that he had so devoured as a child, but it never occurred to him that anyone would actually swear fealty to him.

   Rather embarrassed, he said simply.

   “Thank you, Halbarad, gratefully do I accept.” Then, not knowing what else to do, and being suddenly moved by a great love for his brother warrior, he pulled Halbarad to his feet and into a tight embrace.

   When they parted, Halbarad smiled at him and said: “Come, Aragorn son of Arathorn. It’s time you met your people.”

   Aragorn nodded, though now he felt rather apprehensive about doing so. He wondered if they would all fall at his feet as Halbarad had done.

    The two scouts helped him clear his camp and gather up his possessions. The Shards of Narsil clattered noisily as Halbarad stowed them roughly in his pack.

   “Whatever have you got in here?” he asked.

   Aragorn grinned at him.

   “Patience, Halbarad, I’ll show you later, if you like, but not now.” To his surprise, Halbarad accepted this without quibble. Aragorn was fairly certain the young Ranger he first met last winter would have insisted he open his pack there and then. Perhaps there was something to be said for being the Chieftain. But when the two Rangers attempted to carry his possessions for him, Aragorn decided this was taking subservience too far.

   “I may be Chieftain, but I am perfectly capable of carrying my own pack,” he said as he teasingly admonished them both. He would never have expected it to be otherwise.

   Halbarad bowed with a flourish. “As you wish, my lord!”

   Then, without further argument, he led the way over the ridge to the village beyond, Radhruin reluctantly remaining behind on watch duty.

~oo0oo~

   The ridge was little more than a gentle hill, but it was crowned with trees at the top. As Aragorn came closer, he saw that the trees in fact formed a dense line than grew all along the top of a steep bank which stood proud of the land behind. Before the bank, running parallel with it, was a wide ditch. It was only when he climbed up it and looked beyond, he could see that the bank and the ditch, in fact, formed part of a large ring, possibly as much as half a mile across, in the middle of which, was the village. To the west and north, it was naturally protected by the hills, but its earthen stockade afforded it some cover from the more open southeast.

    From his vantage point on the top of the mound, Aragorn paused for a moment to study the assortment of buildings laid out before him. The houses were simple in design, though their thick stone walls were constructed solidly. They had small, shuttered windows and sturdy black oak doors, but none showed any sign of affluence. The horses of Rivendell dwelt in finer accommodation. Adjoining most of the houses, and so forming small yards, were the barns and stores, many of them just built of timber. The land closest to the village was pasture where a few cows and sheep grazed among the more numerous horses. Beyond were the arable fields, empty now except for the stubble, the wheat for next year’s loaves of bread having already been harvested.

   In the very centre of the village was a large timber framed building which looked stronger and more sturdily built than any of the others.

   “What is that building for?” asked Aragorn as he pointed towards it.

   Halbarad followed the line of his finger.

   “That’s the Great Hall,” he said. “It is used as a meeting place. Sometimes we have festivities there, though more usually it is where council is taken. And in times of trouble is it a refuge. When the men are away, it is often safer for the women and children to sleep in there together at night.”

  “I see,” said Aragorn, wondering if it remotely resembled the Hall of Fire inside. “I should be interested to see it.”

   “I shall gladly give you a tour of the whole village,” said Halbarad, “but let’s go and find Dírhael first. Come on.” He effortlessly leapt down from the lip of the mound and together they made their way into the village.

   It was very early and there was hardly anyone about. Many of the houses did not even look lived in. Thick cobwebs drooped across the insides of long uncleaned windows. Gates stood propped up on broken hinges, weeds grew around untended doorways. Aragorn’s heart sank as he looked around him. The village did not look a welcoming place to stay.

   Suddenly Halbarad turned from the track and said: “Here we are; this is Dírhael’s house.” He led the way around the side of a stone dwelling to the rear entrance. It had a small well-tended garden out the back although, with winter approaching, most of the vegetables had already been gathered in. They found Dírhael working in the barn where he was busily forking out horse droppings from the stalls into a barrow. He stopped what he was doing immediately upon seeing Halbarad and Aragorn. His jaw dropped open and he stared unashamedly. Then, grinning from ear to ear, he rushed up to Aragorn, and, with words completely eluding him, he finally did what he had been desperate to do all last winter; he pulled his grandson into a fierce embrace and called him by his true name.

   At last he released him and, stepping back, he bowed his head. “My lord Aragorn,” he said. “I can not tell you what a joy it is to have you in our midst once again. It has been eighteen long years since last you dwelt in this village. Oh, what feasting there shall be tonight at your return. You can have no idea, my son, how much you have been missed and how overjoyed everyone will all be at your homecoming.”

    Aragorn smiled, a little surprised by all the rather overwhelming goodwill coming his way. He was grateful for Dírhael’s words, though he did not fail to notice the great weight of expectation that lay behind them.

    “Thank you Dírhael, I am humbled by your words of welcome, though I fear I am as yet very young and untried. I shall need your guidance and council for a long time hence if I am to be found worthy of the title of Chieftain.”

    Dírhael looked at him closely for a moment and smiled. “You will do,” he said, “and better than you imagine, I’m sure. Don’t fret, son, there will plenty who will be only too glad to aid you, myself included.”

    Aragorn was very relieved to hear it. “Thank you; I will do my very best.”

   “I don’t doubt that for a moment,” said Dírhael. “But now you must come and meet Ivorwen. Your grandmother will not believe this unless she sees you with her own eyes.”

   Aragorn grinned. “I am very much looking forward to meeting her, I have heard so much about her from my mother.”

   Dirhael suddenly looked wistful. “I want to hear all about my daughter,” he said. “But I’ll be patient a few more minutes so Ivorwen can hear your tale was well.” He then led Aragorn through into the house while Halbarad remained in the barn to finish caring for the horses.

    Ivorwen was in the kitchen, busy with the daily chores. Tubs of hot water steamed in front of the fire.

   “Ivorwen,” called Dírhael, as they came through the door. “We have a visitor.”

   “Well, don’t bring him in here; I haven’t washed the floor yet,” said Ivorwen, her voice coming from the pantry beyond.

   Dírhael winked at Aragorn. “Never mind the floor. I don’t think our Chieftain will be offended by a little bit of mud.”

   Ivorwen’s head shot around the door and she stood staring at Aragorn in much the same way her husband had done. She came through the doorway slowly, never taking her eyes off her grandson as she studied him closely. He was more Arathorn that Gilraen in appearance. He had Arathorn’s nose and chin. His hair was the same dark colour as that of both his parents, but his eyes; they were his own. Ivorwen had never seen a man with eyes that burned so. Suddenly she knew, for in that instance she saw it, that he was the one. Here was the living embodiment of that Hope that she had foreseen all those years ago. As Aragorn stood there, a quiet unassuming youth, Ivorwen saw instead a mighty man of great strength and wisdom. In his hand was the Sceptre of Annúminas; the broken sword, reforged, hung at his side, and adorning his brow, upon a slender filet of mithril, was the Elendilmir, its white light blazing forth. She did not doubt that standing before her was the future King of Arnor. The vision faded as quickly as it had come and Ivorwen once again saw a rather awkward young man, smiling at her shyly. She went to him and placed her hand on his cheek and looked into his eyes.

   “So Hope has returned to our people,” she said as she returned his quiet smile. “Welcome home, child. Yours will be a long road with much danger and hardship in the years ahead, but I sense that a great strength lies within you.  I believe you will see that road through to its end.” Then her sombreness left her just as quickly as it had come and she laughed gaily. “Don’t listen to this rambling old woman. You must be hungry; let me fix you something to eat. Tell me your favourite foods. Which would you rather, pork or eggs?”

~oo0oo~

   An hour later, after a breakfast of both pork and eggs that tasted as good as any meal Aragorn had ever had at Rivendell, he set out from Dírhael’s house to meet the other inhabitants of that small village. He was accompanied by both Dírhael and Halbarad, who had joined them again as soon as he finished seeing to the horses. In the next few hours, Aragorn met so many people whose names he had not a hope of remembering, the day remained forever a blur in his memory. He must have met every single member of that small community at least once. Most just took his arm, a few embraced him and a couple dropped to one knee as Halbarad had done and pledged their fealty. All were absolutely thrilled to meet him. He was invited into every home and by early afternoon, he had probably drunk at least a dozen cups of tea.

   One or two of the men he already knew from last winter’s patrol, but, having only ever known his mother, the women were a complete surprise to him. Sadly, all too many of them were widows, bravely raising their children only to sacrifice them to the harsh life of their fathers. But it was the children who moved him the most that day. Their optimism and zest for life touched him greatly. They were so small and precious, he wondered how their fathers could bare to be parted from them to spend so long on the patrols. He realised then they probably could not and he found himself considering his fellow Rangers with a new respect.

       At last they came to a stone house on the outskirts of the village. Although it looked no different from any other, neither Halbarad nor Dírhael needed to tell Aragorn whose home this was.

   “May I go in alone?” he asked. Dírhael nodded. “Of course, we’ll wait for you here.”

   There were roses growing around the doorway. They looked identical to those that framed the main entrance to Rivendell. Then he remembered, his mother had told him once that she planted them there to remind her of her old home. He felt ashamed to have forgotten. He hesitated at the door, almost reluctant to place his own hand upon the same latch that his parents had touched so often, as if by doing so he might break some spell. But knowing he would draw attention to himself if he stood there any longer, he forced himself to open the door and he stepped inside.

   All the shutters were drawn and the house lay in darkness. He fumbled with the catch on one of them and managed to pull it open enough to allow sufficient light to enter. The room was surprisingly clean, though Dirhael had told him Handir still kept an eye on the place. It was very sparsely furnished. There were two chairs by the hearth; the larger one he guessed must be his father’s. He reverently touched the woollen weave of the upholstered headrest, the very place where Arathorn’s head had leant when he sat by the fire in the evenings.

    As he took in very detail of this room where his parents had shared their married life, he was surprised to find that he felt so numb. The house held no memories for him at all. But he was shocked by how basic and impoverished it was. The boards were bare underfoot and the coverings on the chairs threadbare. He was not expecting there to be the fine tapestries and plush furnishings found at Rivendell, but he had thought that, as the lord of their people, his father might have possessed more of an outward display of the honour he held.

   He wandered through to the kitchen. It was so cold and draughty and, to his eyes, seemed very small and cramped. The dresser was plain and simple with none of the elaborate carving found on the furniture at home. On its shelves, proudly displayed, there still stood the tin-glazed pottery on which his mother had once served the meals she cooked for his father. The table in the centre of the room was no more than the four crude legs necessary to hold the scrubbed, slat top at the required height. There were various pots and tubs lying around but no sign of any indoor water supply.

    As he looked around the room, slowly he began to understand what Elrond and his mother had tried to tell him about the Dúnedain and why it was that so many people talked of him as their Hope. Unbidden, his father’s words came into his mind.

    A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin. [2]

    His people were already falling into darkness; he could see this with his own eyes. Their numbers were decreasing every year; the empty houses bore testimony to that unwelcome fact. For years beyond reckoning, Dúnedain children had been too few, a sad reflection of the number of warriors lost and widows made. Unlike lesser men, those widows, his own mother among them, would never take another, having faith as they did that their separation from their beloved husbands was but a temporary one. Unless peace came again to Eriador, in a few generations, the Dúnedain of the North would be no more. Was this then his task, as Chieftain, to save his people and restore them to their former glory? He would try, as Eru was his witness, while there was breath in his body, he would try. For the sake of the children he had met today, he would do everything in his power to provide them with a future. The lives of his people might be impoverished, but he knew only too well that their hearts were not. But confronted with the evidence of how diminished the Dúnedain had become, he could not even begin to hope that he would succeed.

   The house suddenly felt stifling; he needed fresh air. He quickly opened the back door and rushed out into the yard. The bright sunshine cheered him after the dimness inside and he fought hard to rein in the panic rising within him. He reminded himself, it was not as if he had to achieve all this by next week, or even next year. He took a deep breath and, feeling calmer, he looked around the courtyard. Like the house, it provided the bare necessities but nothing more. It comprised a barn with a couple of stables, an empty hayloft and a wood store. In the centre was the well. There was an ancient bucket still attached to its rope, no doubt the very one Gilraen had used to haul up the water for the house. It hurt to think of his gentle mother labouring out here in all weathers. His gaze went further afield. Beyond the yard was the meadow. It was very overgrown. A few scrawny sheep grazed among the abundant docks and thistles. There were no horses there now.

   Suddenly he heard the door open behind him and an elderly man walked though the doorway and came to join him. His hair was white and he was bent and shrunken, the skin on his face tough and puckered. Aragorn instinctively recoiled, though he chided himself for doing so. The ageing of men was still something that shocked him.

   The old man smiled at him.

   “I knew you would return one day,” he said. “There were those who doubted and said we would never see you again, but I always knew you would come back.”

   Aragorn smiled at him and hoped his shock had not been too evident.

   “You must be Handir,” he said, holding out his hand. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

   “And I you, son,” said Handir, taking his arm. “Now that you have returned, will you be coming to live in this house, do you think?”

    Aragorn shook his head, though he was loathed to disappoint the old man.

   “I think not, at least not just yet,” he replied. “I can not remain here long; there are other villages I must visit and the winter patrols will soon be underway. While I am here, I will probably dwell with my grandparents.”

   “Well, I shall have the place ready for you for whenever you have need of it,” said Handir.

   “Thank you,” said Aragorn. “And you also have my gratitude for all you have done here these long years.”

   “It’s been no trouble; I’ve always gladly tended the place for my lord and lady. Is she well, your mother? Might she be returning here now you are grown up?”

   “My mother is very well, but I’m afraid I do not know if she will ever return,” replied Aragorn. The eagerness with which the old man asked his questions saddened him.  He struggled to find something else to say.

   “Tell me, Handir, there were horses in this field when I was a child. I have the vaguest memories of a mare and foal. Do you know what became of them?” Almost immediately, he regretted asking the question; he could not help but feel it might be better not to know. He was finding the place depressing enough as it was and horses rarely met peaceful ends.

   “Let me think,” said Handir, rubbing his chin. “Old Brethil passed away years ago, but that last foal of hers, now that was a fine animal, fit for a king that one. As I recall, Halbarad’s father, Baranor took him on. He made a great warrior’s horse but he caught the wrong end of a poisoned orc arrow some years back. A great shame that was, to lose a fine horse like that.”

   Aragorn nodded. It was as he expected. He had seen enough horses lost to the Imladris scouts this way. It was a constant source of grief to the Elves.

   “Forgive me, Handir,” said Aragorn, “I must be on my way. But I will come and speak with you again before I leave.”

   “I would like that very much,” said Handir, smiling, “I would like that very much indeed.”

   Aragorn left the old man standing by the paddock railings and marched purposefully back through the house, deliberately not looking at anything as he went. He had not even been upstairs, but he knew he could not face that today. He was relieved to return to the front porch where he found Dírhael and Halbarad waiting for him.

   “Have you seen enough?” Dírhael asked. “You have not been gone very long.”

    “I have seen all I wish to for now,” said Aragorn.

    Dírhael nodded. He understood. “Now, I’m going to leave you in Halbarad’s capable hands for a while,” he said. “I must return to the Hall to see how the preparations for the feast are coming along. But if I might offer you a bit of advice, may I suggest you get a few hours rest before the festivities tonight? If you don’t mind my saying so, Aragorn, you look fit to drop.”

   Aragorn felt his embarrassment showing on his face. What must his grandfather think of his skills as a Ranger when a week on his own in the wild left him utterly exhausted?

   Dírhael smiled kindly. “It’s not easy at first, I know. We’ve all been through it. Halbarad, take him home and put him to bed. I’ll see you both later.” With a wave of his hand, he was gone, striding at great speed down the track towards the Great Hall.

   After he had gone, Aragorn said: “I confess I am very tired and I would hate to fall asleep during the feast tonight. It is very good of Dírhael to go to so much trouble. It is a shame I was unable to give him warning I was coming but I left home rather sooner than I intended.” Halbarad already knew Aragorn well enough to sense there was a story behind his words, but he also sensed now was not the time to pry.

   “It would have made no difference at all,” he said. “We shall have the best feast possible, I can assure you. It has been a fair harvest so the stores are well stocked. There are few enough occasions for making merry and it is not every day that our Chieftain returns to us. Come, I’ll take you home so you can sleep for a few hours, though I won’t let you lie too long; you wouldn’t want to miss any of the fun, especially as you’re the guest of honour. We’re going to have such a time tonight.” Halbarad was grinning expectantly now. “There must be at least one barrel of last year’s cider left in store and there should be a couple of pretty girls of the right age for us to dance with if we’re lucky; one for each of us; what do you say to that? Radhruin can wait his turn.”

   Aragorn did not entirely share Halbarad’s excitement about the forthcoming festivities. He had a horrible suspicion that he might be expected to make a speech. And as for dancing with strange girls, the thought terrified him.

~oo0oo~

    Later that evening, Aragorn had to admit he was enjoying himself enormously. He was beginning to think that perhaps being Chieftain might not be so bad after all.  The Great Hall did not remotely resemble the Hall of Fire, but there was a huge fire blazing brightly at one end and the room was warm and light and dry. The hot, cooked meal was delicious; he consumed plate after plate of the most wonderful food to the point where he could not swallow another mouthful. The drink, if not exactly Rivendell’s finest, had gone down without any difficulty.  He had survived dancing with a couple of girls and had sung songs and laughed happily with his many new friends; all the while, bolstered by the almost tangible goodwill that had enveloped him from the moment he first set foot in the village. What was more; he even had his family with him. 

  That night, he had no need to think of his home; he was home.     

[1]   ‘Minas Tirith’         The Return of the King

[2]    The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen        The Return of the King     

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 6:  “The Wizard’s Pupil”

 III  2956    Aragorn meets Gandalf and their friendship begins.

The Tale of Years, Appendix B                                                          The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   Gandalf found the hospitality of the Last Homely House did not disappoint. He was reclining in an extremely comfortable chair in the Hall of Fire, enjoying the delights of Elven music, following a feast the like of which he had not had in a very long while. As he sat back and relaxed, he considered the only short coming on the part of his hosts was their dislike of pipeweed. He really would like to indulge in some of that quite remarkable Longbottom he acquired from the Rangers at Tharbad on his way here. He wondered if anyone would mind if he lit his pipe and indulged in a discreet smoke. Perhaps no one would even notice; the room was very crowded and quite dark, the only light coming from the enormous fire.

   However it was then that he spotted Elrond rise from his chair and walk towards him.

   ‘Ah well, another time perhaps,’ he thought.

   “Gandalf, I wonder if I might have a word with you before you retire for the night,” said Elrond, stooping low so that he practically whispered into the wizard’s ear.

   “Of course, my friend,” Gandalf replied. “I expected there to be something of importance awaiting me upon my return to Eriador. Shall we go now? I must confess to beginning to feel a little drowsy following that very agreeable Dorwinion.”

   Elrond smiled. “Do they not have such vintages in Gondor, or is the Steward not forthcoming with them?”

   “That depends upon which Steward you are referring to,” said Gandalf. “Turgon always showed me lavish hospitality, but then he did not have the cares that his son Ecthelion inherited.”

   “Come, Gandalf,” said Elrond, “let us continue this conversation in my study.”

   Gandalf allowed himself to be helped to his feet; he was rather stiff after spending so many long hours in the saddle. He had arrived at Rivendell late in the afternoon after an arduous journey from the South and, in truth, all he wanted now was to collapse into bed. Dutifully though, he followed Elrond to his private rooms where he was pleased to see another roaring fire awaiting them.

   “I would offer you some more Dorwinion,” said Elrond, as he closed the door behind them. “However I do want your full attention for what I have to say, so forgive me if I offer you nothing more intoxicating than a glass of water.”

   “The pure water of the Bruinen is always most welcome.”

   “Good,” said Elrond, pouring him a glass. He then settled himself down on the opposite side of the fire from his old friend. “Now tell me more of the new Steward of Gondor. Sauron openly declaring himself in Mordor just two years before he took office must be a major trial for him.”

   “It is,” said Gandalf, “but Ecthelion is proving to be a wise leader and open to counsel. He is working hard to strengthen Gondor’s defences and encouraging all men of fighting age to enter his service. But I fear for Gondor, Elrond, as I fear for all Middle-earth. Now that Sauron has completed his fortress, all his evil designs will start to fall into place. Gondor is already feeling the presence of her new neighbour. There is still much to be done there, but I have been away from the North for too long; it was time I returned, at least for a while”

   Gandalf paused and put down his glass. He really could have done with that pipeweed.

   “I return now mainly to seek news of the Dúnedain,” he continued, “and to do all that I can to prepare them for the coming darkness. I have had no real word of them for nearly fifteen years. Arathorn had been slain some ten years then, I seem to remember, and Arador only three before that. Goodness knows who leads them now; they were, of course, as tight lipped as ever over any questions about an heir. I wish I could have spared more time for them when I last returned for the meeting of the White Council, but Gondor even then was very much my main concern. Tell me, Elrond, how do they fare? In spite of all my other cares, they have been much on my mind.”

   “The answer I think, Gandalf, in short, is not well and yet better than they did,” said Elrond. “It was in fact of the Dúnedain that I wished to speak to you and, more specifically, of one young Dúnadan in particular.”

   “Ah!” said Gandalf, giving Elrond a knowing smile, “Might I be so bold as to suggest this could be Isildur’s Heir?”

  “Yes, you might,” said Elrond; the terseness of his voice betraying his annoyance at the wizard’s easy assumption. “I might have known it would be impossible to conceal his existence from you.” Then the Elf-lord sighed and added: “And I hope you forgive me for trying, but I did not want it known to all those dwarves you brought here that time that there was a Man child living in this house. How did you guess?”

   “Oh, that was the easy part,” chuckled Gandalf, not at all repentant. “School books left in the library, wooden soldiers obviously pushed in a hurry into the most unlikely places. And of course the fact that no one would speak of the state of affairs among the Dúnedain. No, Elrond, my friend, I do not blame you for keeping him secret, even from me; they can ill afford to attract the attentions of Sauron, let alone lose another Chieftain.”

   He paused for a moment as he considered this news. “He must have been very young coming to live here,” he said. “Arathorn had only been married a few years when he died, had he not?”

   “Yes, his son was little more that a baby,” replied Elrond. “He was just two years old. His mother came with him, of course. In fact you met her tonight – the Lady Gilraen, a brave and noble woman if ever there was one.”

   “Ah yes, of course,” said Gandalf. “I noticed her immediately. And her son; is he here also?”

   “No, he has been gone some five years now,” said Elrond. “I have not seen him since he left this house, but Elladan and Elrohir still ride with the Dúnedain, and more so than ever now that Estel has joined them.”

   “Estel?” asked Gandalf. “An interesting choice of name; what became of the royal prefix?”

   “It remains, fear not,” said Elrond. “His true name is Aragorn, but when we hid his identify from the world outside, we also hid it from him. He was twenty years old before he knew who he really was. In all those years he was simply called Estel, Hope, for do not doubt, Gandalf, Hope is what he will have to be for his people. I see a long and difficult road ahead of him, although much of my foresight fails me where he is concerned. And yet of one thing I am certain; this Age will end in his lifetime. It will fall to him to either restore the fortunes of his house or see it descend into a darkness from which it may never return.”

   “You are sure of this?” asked Gandalf. “And does he know this?”

   “I am as sure as I can be given the ill chances that plague the lives of Men and their freedom to make their own choices. Estel knows there is a great expectation upon him, but it is still too remote to be a burden to him. We have trained him and prepared him in every way we can, but I fear, Gandalf, but it will not be enough. He still needs someone to guide him and teach him about all of Middle-earth, all its peoples and customs, not just the lore and skills that he has learned here.”

   Elrond looked Gandalf in the eye and hoped his voice did not sound too pleading when he asked his next question.

   “Please, my friend, will you find him and be that guide for him?”

   “Of course, of course I will. It will be a pleasure,” said Gandalf without the slightest hesitation. “But first, do tell me more about him.”

   Elrond smiled his gratitude. “Thank you, Gandalf. You have greatly eased my mind. You will like him, I think. He is an eager pupil and learns quickly. Elladan and Elrohir have taught him all they can of war and hunting, and he is well versed in the lore of Elves and Men. He has grown strong and fair and there is a light in his eyes that speaks of his inner nobility. He is patient and good-hearted and listens to counsel. Truly you will like him.” As Elrond spoke, Gandalf noticed the warmth in his voice and he smiled to himself.

   “I am pleased to learn he has such promising attributes if I am to spend so much time in his company,” said Gandalf with a grin. “But I fear, Elrond, you have not told me everything, have you?”

   Elrond looked at the wizard quizzically.

   “We have known each other for nearly two thousand years, my dear friend,” said Gandalf gently. “You can not hope to hide some things from me. You have not mentioned for instance how much you love this boy, have you?”

   Elrond sighed and smiled at Gandalf.

   “You are right, Estel is as a son to me. He may not be a child of my body, but he is a child of my heart. Elladan and Elrohir both call him brother.” Then he laughed suddenly: “We none of us realized the peril we were all in when he came to live with us. I have fostered fourteen heirs of my brother’s line before him. I have been fond of most of them, but, I confess, this is the only one that I have taken as my own.”

   Then he grew serious: “This one is different Gandalf. Of all the Heir’s of Isildur, he is the most like to Elendil himself. I see greatness within him even though he is still very young.”

   “Now you do have me intrigued,” said Gandalf. “I will make him my top priority. I take it he has gone to live with his people.”

   “Yes, he has,” said Elrond. “When he left here he went to take up his duties as Chieftain. I hear that he has settled into his new life remarkably well, though I confess to having been concerned for him at first. Discovering his true identity was quite a shock for him. Also,” he added with a grin, “a lonely camp fire on a winter’s night is a far cry from the comfort of Imladris.”

   Gandalf laughed and then he found himself yawning. His long ride was catching up with him and he felt sleep would soon overwhelm him. He made his excuses to Elrond and eagerly sought the room that was always made available to him on his visits to Rivendell. But as he made his way down the corridors, he was surprised to find he felt as if a great weight had been lifted from him suddenly.

   ‘So an heir of Isildur still lives,’ he thought to himself. ‘Well, well, that would certainly give the Dark Lord something to think about, should he get to hear of it. And Elrond named him Hope at that.’

   He was going to enjoy meeting this young man very much indeed.

~oo0oo~

   Gandalf stayed at Rivendell for a week, resting from his journeys and taking counsel with Elrond. They did not speak of Estel again until the night before Gandalf was due to depart. They were sitting once more in the Hall of Fire.

   “I have been giving some thought to the question of your young Dúnadan,” said Gandalf, shifting himself in his seat to face the full warmth of the flames. “When we meet, I think I should encourage him to travel with me for a bit; see a little more of the world. I agree with you, he can not learn all he must from among his own people alone. He needs to understand all men, the good as well as the evil. Also I think it would be beneficial for him to serve a foreign lord so he may learn to command larger numbers of men in battle if needs must. The Dúnedain are too few, and I expect too well disposed towards him, to give him that kind of experience. Do you not think so, Elrond?”

   Elrond was rather taken by surprise at this and so was silent for a while. The thought of his child leading a host to war chilled his heart. He shuddered slightly as he wondered to what end that army would beheading. Grown though he may be, the boy was still as a child to him. But he knew Estel had to follow the path that fate had chosen for him; he could not keep him safe at Rivendell, any more than he could prevent his own sons from pursuing their own doom.

   “You are right, Gandalf,” he said. “He needs experience beyond that which being Chieftain of the Dúnedain can provide. Where would you propose to take him? Gondor”

   “No, not at first,” said Gandalf. “I thought to make life a little easier for him than that. Perhaps Rohan would be a better place to start. The Rohirrim live more simply than the Gondorians; I think the adjustment needed would be less great. Also Thengel King is a kind man and he may be more forgiving of mistakes made in his service than perhaps would be so in Ecthelion’s more regimented host.”

   “You have a point, I am sure,” said Elrond, “though I hope we taught him better than to make too many mistakes.”

   “I am sure you have,” chuckled Gandalf, “but the boy is still very young. I think we can make the occasional allowance for that.”

   Elrond looked at Gandalf, the gratitude showing in his eyes, “I am very glad, Gandalf, that I asked this of you. You reassure me that you are the right person to guide him now.”

   Gandalf lent across to Elrond and placed his hand on his arm. “I will take good care of him, I promise,” he said softly.

   “Le hannon, mellon nîn,” said Elrond.

~oo0oo~

   Gandalf left early the next morning, bidding farewell to all who came to wave him off from the Last Homely House. The twin sons of Elrond had told him the most likely places where he would find Aragorn at this time of the year, so he made his way west into the empty lands of Eriador. He travelled the East Road to Weathertop and then turned north towards the ruins of Fornost. There was a permanent Ranger base to the north of the Weather Hills and Elladan had been quite certain that Aragorn would come this way soon as he had been visiting villages around the North Downs for the past couple of months.

   Gandalf approached the ruins of what had once been a thriving village at dusk on the fifth day since he left Rivendell. He rode forward with caution, ready to be challenged at any moment if there were Rangers in the camp. Sure enough, he had not got within a mile of the ruins when he was commanded to stop. He did as he was instructed and raised his hands away from his weapons.

   A voice from somewhere in the hills above him told him to dismount. Gandalf sighed, none too pleased. The voice sounded very young. This was not what he needed after a long day in the saddle. However he did not wish to fall foul of a raw recruit who was no doubt only too eager to earn his Star.

   “Very well, my young fellow,” he called out as he slowly swung his leg over the saddle, doubting as he did so if he would be able to mount again even if this young Ranger permitted it. He stood waiting for what seemed like an age before the voice spoke again. He was too tired for this; his patience was beginning to wear. He was well known among the Dúnedain and only expected to acknowledge the sentry and then be on his way.

   “What is your business here?” said the voice. It did not sound the same, as if its owner had moved his position, but Gandalf could not begin to guess where that position might be.

   “I have business with the Rangers,” said Gandalf rather stiffly, “the exact nature of which I am not about to reveal out here in the open.”

   Again there was a long pause. This really was too much.

   “Drop your weapons.” The voice spoke again.

   Gandalf bristled, but he did not care for the authoritative tone of this young man so he decided not to argue. He placed his sword and arrows on the ground.

   “You may continue on foot,” said the voice.

   “What of my weapons?” asked Gandalf.

   “I will take care of them and return them to you in the morning,” was the reply.

   Gandalf just nodded, thinking he would have a few words with this whelp when he did so.

   It was nearly dark when he approached the Ranger camp. Fortunately for him, he was recognised by the next person to challenge him. He was welcomed to the fire where supper was being prepared; the smell of something enticing, boiling in the pot, doing much to mellow his mood. It soon became apparent to him that he had timed his arrival well. The Rangers had only just arrived themselves and were not planning on staying long. They had had a difficult patrol in the north where wolves and orcs had become a big problem. However they were satisfied that most of these had been dealt with and they would soon be on their way to the borders of the Shire, for what they hoped would be an easier posting.

   There were maybe eighteen or nineteen men that Gandalf could see, so there would be another four or five on watch; a large patrol then. He turned to the man who had welcomed him, an older Ranger called Gunthor.

   “Tell me Gunthor, where is your captain for I very much wished to speak with him?” said Gandalf.

   “Oh, I’m afraid it’s the captain’s turn to be on watch,” replied Gunthor. “I should get some sleep if I were you as it will be hours before he returns.” Then he quickly added, “that is, of course, unless it is urgent, Gandalf; in which case I will send someone to relieve him right away.”

   “No, no, my good man,” said Gandalf, “There is no need for that. Tomorrow will be soon enough.” He did not mention to Gunthor the reason for his visit; the Dúnedain had not kept their chieftain a secret all these years only to have him the subject of camp fire gossip. Gandalf soon took his leave of the Rangers and settled himself down for the night in one of the old derelict houses which still worked well enough as a shelter.

~oo0oo~

   The morning dawned bright and fair, though this far north there was a keen bite to the wind. Gandalf pulled his blanket a little tighter around himself and waited until he could hear the sounds of breakfast being prepared before making a move. Slowly he emerged from his bed roll but, as he wrapped up his pack, he suddenly became aware of a tall young man standing in the broken doorway, scrutinizing him through keen grey eyes. Gandalf straightened, leaving his packing. There was something in the sharpness of that gaze that caught his attention. The young men smiled and bowed his head courteously.

  “Good morning sir,” he said, “I trust you are rested from your journey?” It was that voice again, though this time it was friendly and the question sincere, but, Gandalf noticed, that tone was still there.

   “I slept well enough, thank you,” he replied briskly. He wondered what, if anything, this young man would say about yesterday evening.

   “I am glad,” said the young man before holding out the sword and quiver he was carrying. “I have your weapons for you. I hope you will find them in order.”

   Gandalf raised his hands and took the proffered items without a word. He inspected them closely. The sword had been cleaned and oiled and the fletching repaired on several of the arrows.

   Gandalf grunted.  “Well I see you were true to your word. But tell me, do you make all your guests walk to their supper?”

   The young man flushed slightly, but the gaze remained level.

   “I am sorry,” he said, “I have yet to make the acquaintance of all our allies and I’m afraid caution must always prevail, but I am truly sorry to have treated you thus. I hope you will forgive me.” The boy was so genuinely guileless, Gandalf felt himself thaw towards him.

   “Think nothing of it,” he said with a smile. “You did what you had to.”

   The young man visibly relaxed. “Thank you,” he said, with just a trace of shyness in his voice. Then he straightened and said: “Gunthor tells me you wished to speak with me. How may I be of assistance to you?”

   Gandalf frowned in confusion. He was sure he had not mentioned his irritation with the guard to Gunthor, but he remembered he had asked to speak to their captain. But surely this lad could not be he? Even as the thought invaded Gandalf’s mind, he looked again at the young man, seeing him properly for the first time. He carried himself with an easy confidence and he was taller than any of the other men, and fairer; indeed he looked more like an Elf than any Man Gandalf had seen in a long time. And then there were those intense grey eyes that Gandalf was sure missed nothing. But he was very young. The Dúnedain were so few now that he thought he knew all their children, but Gandalf could not place this one. He had definitely been away too long.

   “Perhaps we could break our fast together,” he heard the young man say. “I would welcome hearing your news. Come, you have not yet eaten.”

   There was that tone again; scrupulously polite, courteous and yet totally in command. Suddenly realisation dawned on Gandalf and he beamed the lad a smile.

   “Thank you, my good fellow. I should like that very much indeed.”

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn leant back against the boulder and stretched out his long legs in front of him. He would be glad when his watch was over and he could return to the camp. After the day he had had his fingers longed to reach for his pipe but he did not dare light up on this exposed hill. Instead he attempted to chew on a piece of tasteless bread that he assumed must once have been edible but now had all the allure of the rock he lent against. There was a chill to the air that night; autumn had arrived and he had noticed how the nights were already drawing in. He shivered slightly and wrapped his cloak more tightly around him.

  He allowed himself to take his eyes away from the pass through the hills for a moment to gaze up at the stars. They always brought him comfort. He was very relieved to have brought his patrol through the winter without the loss of a single man. The summer had been a nightmare. The northern settlements had been plagued by orc attacks for months and his Rangers had been hard pressed to rout all the invaders. He was now as sure as he could be that the North Downs were free of them. That is, he thought ruefully, until the next time they invade from Mount Gundabad. He sighed in resignation. He had long ago learnt that he could only deal with the problems as they arose; he did not have enough men to achieve anything more.

   Although this patrol was over, when he returned to camp he would have to decide which of the men were to be sent back to their families and which would still have to be away for another couple of months on duty around the Shire. He planned to go there himself as he did not have a wife to disappoint and he could not in all good conscience ask this of his men if he was not prepared to go himself. The patrol would, hopefully, be a less arduous one, with no orcs or wolves to fight and there was always the possibility of a night at ‘The Prancing Pony’ when their travels took them near Bree.

   It would be November before he returned to the Angle and hopefully he would see his Elven brothers then; he knew they would be interested in all that had happened in the Downs. Certainly he felt Elrond should be told of the increase in orc numbers. A moment’s homesickness washed over him as he thought of his family. It was at times like this that he felt it most keenly; at the end of a patrol when the others were looking forward to going home. He was made very welcome whereever he stayed but it was not home. Arwen was not there.

   Aragorn stood up and pulled himself back to the present. He could not look back and it was not as if life was not treating him well. He felt at ease now in his position; that his command was earned and not merely granted him by virtue of his birth. He had from the day he returned to his people been a better swordsman than any of his men and none could best him in tracking and woodcraft. But most importantly of all now, he felt his people trusted him to make sound judgements and they accepted his commands unquestioningly, confident that his decisions were good. His status had not been easily won; there had been many moments when the problems threatened to overwhelm him, but he had always had the goodwill of the Dúnedain behind him and this had succoured him through those difficult times.

   Gazing ahead, Aragorn suddenly spotted a lone horse and rider, still far away and approaching slowly. The light was fading as he quickly scanned the horizon looking for more riders, but there were none. He silently moved to a better position lower down the hill and patiently awaited the stranger. As he drew nearer, Aragorn looked upon him in utter amazement; he had never since anyone like this before in his life. It was an old man who rode into view. He was wearing a grey cloak over long grey robes and on his head was a tall, pointed blue hat. He had thick bushy eyebrows and a beard that appeared to reach to his waist.

   Before he drew level with him, Aragorn called to the man to stop and when he did, he told him to dismount. This he did without question, but Aragorn was uneasy. He had some strange sense that this man was not all that he seemed; he wanted a closer look. Without a sound he moved nearer. He could tell the stranger was impatient to be on his way, but Aragorn was fascinated. He doubted the man posed much of a threat, although he was well armed. He decided to take his weapons. This would give him an opportunity to speak to the man in the morning without the need to directly confront him. A sentry could take liberties that a genial host could not.

   Once the stranger had been sent on his way and was out of sight, Aragorn scuttled down the hill and retrieved the sword and quiver. Returning to his hide-out, he examined them as best he could in the fading light. They were of Elvish make and design, he was sure and yet they were unlike anything he had seen before. Unable to solve the riddle, he carefully stowed them away while he finished his watch.

   Several hours later he returned to the camp having been relieved at his post. The remains of the stew congealing in the pot was only marginally more edible than the bread he had earlier, but it was hot and welcome. Gunthor, who was always left in charge of the camp when Aragorn took his turn on watch, came to sit with him while he ate. They talked of matters concerning the men and Aragorn assured Gunthor he would make all announcements on postings tomorrow. He was too tired tonight to face the protests and arguments that such details would inevitably bring; that could wait until morning. Finally he was able to ask the question he really wanted answered.

   “Gunthor, that old man who rode in here earlier this evening; where is he now?”

   “Sleeping,” said Gunthor. “He turned in about an hour ago. I think he went into that cot over there.” He gestured with his head towards the ruin where Gandalf had settled for the night.

   “What did he want?” asked Aragorn. “Did he say?”

   Gunthor, laughed. He was a man in his seventies and had met Gandalf several times.

   “When does Gandalf ever say what he wants? He did ask to speak to the captain, but he said it was not urgent.”

   Aragorn was shocked at the mention of the name ‘Gandalf’, but managed to hide it from Gunthor. Elrond had spoken of him, but somehow in his child’s mind, Aragorn had managed to place him as a figure from some distant legend, as remote as any that he learned about in his lessons. It shook him a little to think that he was here tonight in his camp.

  When he had finished his meal, he fetched the weapons he had taken from the old man and looked at them more closely. The blade of the sword was dull and there was fletching missing on several of the arrows in the quiver. By the last light of the fire that night, he carefully restored the arrows and oiled the blade, all the while trying to remember everything he had ever been taught about this Gandalf. He muttered to himself as he worked and fragments of memory came to him.

   ‘Olórin, a maia from Valinor; one of the five Istari sent to Middle-earth two thousand years ago: is considered great among the Wise and is a member of the White Council; is  known as Gandalf in the North,  Mithrandir by the Elves, Tharkûn by the Dwarves and Incánus in the South.’

   Surely he could remember more than that. No, it was too late and he was too tired; it would have to wait until morning.Putting aside the arrows, he wrapped himself in a blanket and cast himself upon the ground. But sleep did not come easily.

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn was up at dawn. The sun had not yet peaked over the hills and the camp was bathed in the dull grey of early morning. The Rangers were beginning to stir and it was time for the watch to be changed. Horses snorted in the picket lines as their feed bags were brought to them and someone was kindling the fire, ready to start breakfast. Today was to be a day of rest for the patrol. They had only set up camp yesterday afternoon and Aragorn had decided they all needed a quiet day for such mundane tasks as the repairing and cleaning of their kit. A number of the men had injuries, mostly not serious, but this was their first chance to get some proper rest. Also he knew the horses would benefit enormously from a day’s break.

   He went around the men now speaking to each in turn; some received the welcome news that they would soon be heading home, others that they still had a long patrol to face. He dealt with the thanks and the complaints equally, but all accepted his decisions. The Dúnedain were long used to unrewarded labour and they knew their captain pushed himself harder than anyone.

   Before he joined the men gathering around the fire, Aragorn sought out his guest, who, he noticed, had not yet emerged. Picking up the weapons, he walked over to the shelter and stood for a moment in the doorway watching as the old man rolled up his pack. He was somewhat embarrassed at not having known who he was; it had become apparent that everyone else on the patrol was well acquainted with him. It was, therefore, a rather nervous chieftain that wished the wizard a good morning. He could tell the old man was still irritated with him, though he hoped the restored weapons might placate him a little; he had no wish to get off on the wrong foot with him. Gandalf was, after all, not only a friend of his adar, but also a wise and respected ally of the Dúnedain. Aragorn would welcome his counsel.

   As the wizard offered his forgiveness, Aragorn’s relief was almost tangible and the warmth of the old man’s smile encouraged him enormously. Aragorn led the way to the fire and to breakfast which was a very meagre affair as supplies were fast running out. He motioned to Gandalf to sit a little apart from the others so they could talk privately.

   “It seems Gandalf that all my men have the advantage on me where you are concerned,” said Aragorn. “They all know you well. I hope I too shall soon have that privilege.”

   “As do I, as do I,” replied Gandalf, chewing slowly. The bread was quite tasteless and the dried meat unrecognizable. In his pack he still had succulent supplies brought from Rivendell which, he thought somewhat resignedly, he really should offer to these men for their next meal.

   “You said you wished to speak with me?” asked Aragorn, hugely curious as to why the wizard had come here.

  “Yes, now let me see, there were two things of importance,” said Gandalf. “First, I am eager for news of the Dúnedain. I have been away in the South for a long time and have heard very little for many years. I expect you can tell me what passes in Eriador as well as anyone.”

   Aragorn opened his mouth to reply but the wizard continued before he could speak.

   “However, I imagine that may be a very long conversation, so perhaps we could discuss my second reason first.” Aragorn just nodded.

   “I have come here directly from Imladris.” Gandalf noticed how the young man stiffened. “Master Elrond is a very dear friend of mine and we had much to discuss, but he had one piece of news which interested me more than any other. It is in truth the main reason I have ridden all this way. I came here hoping to meet you, young man. Does that surprise you?”

   “Yes and no,” said Aragorn when he had had a moment to consider the question. “If you have been to Rivendell, then it is perhaps no surprise that Master Elrond has spoken to you about me, but I am surprised and not a little concerned that you should need to find me with such haste. Is all well there; my family….?”

   “No, no! Do not concern yourself. I did not mean to alarm you; your family is well. Both your mother and Elrond send you their love. No, the haste was all down to my own curiosity, I’m afraid, such was my joy at finding that you even existed.”

   Aragorn looked at him in surprise.

   “I knew Arathorn well,” said Gandalf, lowering his voice. “I both liked and admired him. I was delighted to find that his son lived. You look very like him you know.”

   “So I have heard,” said Aragorn. In the five years since he had returned to the Dúnedain, he had lost count of the number of people who had spoken to him of the father he never knew, but he never grew tired of hearing about him. Each story made him a little more real in his mind; was a piece of the picture that to him was Arathorn.

   “I did not see him again after your grandfather died,” continued Gandalf, “but over the years we had talked together many times. I hoped I was able to ease his cares now and then. His life, like yours, I suspect, could be a lonely one at times. I have seen many things in my long years, Aragorn. I may not have all the answers, but I am always willing to share such wisdom as I have with those who are not too proud to listen.”

   Aragorn, sitting next to this extraordinary, ancient being, had gone very quiet. He realised he was being offered a great gift. Here was one of the Istari prepared to listen to his concerns and give him the benefit of his vast experience and wisdom. And yes, if he admitted it, his life could be lonely, even when surrounded by his men. They were all loyal to him, some of them he called friend, but he was always their Chieftain and that would forever set him apart.

  “I do not feel worthy of such an honour,” he said at last. Gandalf looked at him closely. He saw no false modesty; he was beginning to realise the boy always spoke from the heart.

   “Do not under estimate yourself,” said Gandalf. “You have achieved much already.” He put down his plate and cup and stood up. “Come, walk with me a little; this old man needs to stretch his legs. You can tell me all about this latest patrol of yours. It sounds as if evil stirs in the North as well as the South. There the state of affairs is perilous and I have much to tell you, but I would rather hear your news first.”

   Aragorn followed him out of the camp and up into the hills. There they spent most of the day in conversation, as they walked the gentle slopes of the North Downs. Gandalf found the young man to be everything Elrond said he would be. Meeting him lightened his heart no end. He could see that as Aragorn grew and matured he would become a valuable ally. He was most struck by his humility which was strangely at odds with the inner strength that he so obviously possessed. The North was already a stronger place under his influence.

   Aragorn, for his part, was hesitant at first. Secrecy had become such a way of life for him that talking to anyone was difficult. However, this strange old man made him feel safe, even as Elrond did, and once he started to speak, he found the trickle of words soon became a torrent. Gandalf offered gentle encouragement when he faltered and listened without judgement.

   But it was what Gandalf had to say to him that affected Aragorn most that day. As Gandalf spoke, he began to feel the weight of his destiny growing upon him. He began to see that being Chieftain of the Dúnedain was only a part of what it meant to be Isildur’s Heir. He had never given much thought to the lands beyond those that concerned his leadership, but he realised now he could ignore the wider world no longer. Somehow he knew that a new phase was about to begin in his life and that this meeting would prove to be a watershed. The prospect both frightened and excited him.

~oo0oo~

   The next day the Rangers broke camp to go their separate ways, some east to their homes, others south to the Shire. Gandalf was going south with Aragorn who, he discovered, had never actually met a hobbit. This Gandalf decided he would rectify at the earliest opportunity. He felt he should at least know something of the little people that he guarded so diligently. It would be the first step in introducing him to the other races of Middle-earth of whom, Gandalf thought, Aragorn’s knowledge was definitely lacking.

   The day dawned fair, and an hour after first light the Rangers were ready to leave. Farewells were said to kinsmen who would not be seen again for several months, and then two groups of horseman departed from the derelict village.

   As they rode out of the camp, Gandalf could not help but smile to himself at the prospect of Aragorn’s first encounter with the Shirefolk. He thought perhaps it was time to see if this earnest young man had a sense of humour and, as he turned to speak to Aragorn, there was a glint in his eye.

   “There really are one or two things I should warn you about before we reach the Shire,” he said in his most authoritative voice. “Now, concerning hobbits….”

 Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairstiona and Estelcontar I offer my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairstiona for the beta.

Chapter 7: The Horseman

  2957-80   Aragorn undertakes his great journeys and errantries. As Thorongil he serves in disguise both Thengel of Rohan and Ecthelion II….

The Tale of Years                                                                             The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

 Aragorn stared at the unfamiliar beam above his bed and struggled for a moment to remember where he was. Barely visible in the half light before the dawn, he could see that carved upon it were many galloping horses. Then he remembered, and groaned aloud in dismay. The wake up call had not yet been sounded, so he rolled over on his straw mattress to catch a few more minutes sleep and thus postpone for a little longer another day in this strange land.

   It was hard being the new recruit. He counted again exactly how many days he had spent in this land of the Horsemen; it was not even three weeks. Long enough, he thought, to discern that there was nothing more he particularly wanted to learn about this place. If he had found it difficult leaving Rivendell to dwell among the Dúnedain, it was as nothing compared to coming to Rohan to live as one of the Rohirrim. For one thing, he was not one of them and never would be. At least among his own people, not only did he belong, but as their chieftain, he had been afforded a certain amount of respect right from the beginning, just by virtue of his title and before he had even achieved anything to be considered worthy of that position. But here, he was accorded no such honour. Here, he was nobody at all. Here, he was the man who cleaned out the swine and the kine; not even the horses. That, he had learned, was an honour that needed to be bestowed by the king alone. He no longer even had the name that just a few years ago he had been so proud to learn was his.

     He wondered how long he must stay in this country before he could return to the North without shame. How ever long it was, it would seem too long. Why ever had he agreed to come here? He was chieftain after all; was he not allowed some scope to shape his own life? It had been Gandalf’s idea, if he recalled rightly, but he knew Elrond approved. Of course he knew and accepted all the arguments: he needed to learn the ways of all the peoples of Middle-earth, not just his own; he needed military experience; he needed to learn how to command men; he needed to grow in wisdom. But so far all he had learned was more than he could ever wish to know about pigs and cattle.

   The sun had not yet risen; but sleep eluded him again as it so often had of late, in spite of his constant tiredness. Instead he lay quietly, as motionless as he could. He had been shouted at enough times for tossing and turning and so disturbing the sleep of the other inhabitants of this hovel which he now called home. As he lay there brooding on the less than happy situation in which he found himself, he could hear the scuttling of rats in the corner of the hut and had to purposefully banish from his mind the memories of his comfortable room at Rivendell which persistently surfaced, unbidden, as if to taunt him further.

   But his childhood home had been much in his thoughts recently. He had returned there for a brief visit before coming south. He was beginning to wonder if that had been wise. After nearly six years on his own, he had carved a life for himself among the Dúnedain and had learned to cope well enough without his family. Seeing Arwen again had only unleashed within him all the frustrated emotions he had spent the intervening years so carefully locking away. Much as he had rejoiced at seeing her again, the image of her in his mind now served to torment him as much as it brought him comfort. 

~oo0oo~

   Gandalf had accompanied him when he rode from the North. Since he first made the wizards’s acquaintance over a year ago, he had already taken him on several journeys to strange and interesting places where he had met some rather strange and interesting people. But this was the first time he had come to Rohan.

   “You will love it there,” Gandalf had told him. “The Rohirrim are great warriors; a little rough around the edges perhaps, but good-hearted folk. They ride the finest horses; very swift and fiery they are. There will be lots of exciting things to do; just the job for a young man such as yourself.”

   He seemed to remember he had indeed been excited at the prospect of coming here and finding new adventures. As they had ridden to Edoras, he had looked with wide-eyed wonder at the vast, open plains of endless grassland and the huge herds of strong horses that roamed upon them. He wondered at the people who lived and worked in this land. He deemed they must be remarkably tough and resilient; their lives no doubt every bit as hard as those of his own people.

   They had arrived at Edoras at the turn of summer into autumn and, with Gandalf at his side, he had quickly gained an audience with King Thengel. Aragorn had only told the king he was a warrior from the North and that he sought an appropriate role for his skills. His true identify he kept secret. But it seemed he had timed his arrival badly. Only the king’s personal éored remained at Edoras at that time. Most of the Rohirrim were away, either patrolling the Westfold from their base at the Hornburg or riding to the watch upon the Anduin from their station at Aldburg in the east.

   However, on Gandalf’s recommendation, the king had been prepared to grant the young man gainful employment helping with the stock that was kept within the city fences. With the men abroad, it seemed there was need of assistance with such work. Aragorn, seeing no alternative, had reluctantly accepted the offer. Then the next day, to his utter dismay, Gandalf had ridden away and left him here alone. Now he feared he would all too easily be forgotten, doomed to remain a herdsman until such time as he could justify his departure.

   He had tried his hardest to make friends here, but he still felt very much an outsider. His looks did not help matters. His dark hair and pale face instantly marked him out as a foreigner. This unfortunately meant he had become an object of fascination and occasionally even ridicule with some of the folk, but since Queen Morwen had a somewhat similar look to her, no one dared make too much sport over his strange appearance.

   His biggest difficulty was that he found conversation to be almost impossible. He had so far only managed to pick up a few words of Rohirric as he found the language quite incomprehensible. The unfamiliar, hard sounds felt coarse to his ears, attuned as they were to the musical beauty of Sindarin. He would lie on his bed in the dead of night when wakefulness plagued him, and struggle to recall every new word he had heard that day. But it was a slow and frustrating task as few showed any inclination to speak to him in Westron so he had little means of gauging the accuracy of his translations. Depressingly, he knew from the frequent amused looks that greeted his attempts at forming whole sentences that his efforts were often wildly awry.

   And yet he felt that beneath the superficially unlearned outlook of these people, there were, as Gandalf had told him, sound hearts beating within. Although he was now just a lowly herdsman, he had still received many a kindness from these people since his arrival in the city. 

~oo0oo~

   He was finally drifting into sleep when a bell sounded and it was time for him to start another day. He dragged himself from his bed and made his way outside to tend his charges. As always the yards were filthy in the morning no matter how thoroughly he raked them the night before. There was much to do. Swill had to be carried from the cots and hay forked from the byres as well as bucket after bucket of water brought to the thirsty beasts from the well. It was, as usual, nearly mid-day before he could return to his hut for his bowl of porridge.

   His labours left him little time of his own. But such as he had, he spent walking the streets and markets trying to better understand these people. He was still a recent enough object of curiosity that he was stared at wherever he went and today he did not feel like tolerating this indignity. Instead, as soon as he was free to do so, he wandered over to the stables to talk to his mare. She was his one link with his former life and a welcome reminder to him that he only had to jump on her back and he could be gone.

   He arrived at the stables to find them surprisingly busy. An unusually large crowd of people was hovering about the entrance to the huge thatched barn that housed the horses of Thengel’s éored and where Aragorn’s horse was still temporarily stabled. But as he approached the doorway, his path was barred to him by a very large guardsman. The man spoke to him haughtily in words he did not understand. But Aragorn was determined to see his horse and so stood his ground and not back down. He met the man’s gaze and spoke forcibly, but politely in Westron.

   “I wish only to see my horse. I have leave of the king to do so,” he said in his most commanding voice. He had never had any difficulty gaining access before. The guard looked hard at the determined young man who towered over him and eventually gave way. He doubted the foreigner really posed a threat, but neither did he wish for an argument with the long sword that he seemed to carry with him everywhere he went.

  Once inside the stables, Aragorn was surprised to find the king and all his family, as well as many from his personal guard, gathered around a very fine looking grey horse. Aragorn unobtrusively made his way over to his chestnut mare, who called to him in welcome when she saw him. He fussed over her, rubbing her wide forehead and pulling her ears. From his tunic pockets he retrieved the apples he had earlier discreetly extracted from the pig swill and fed them to her, hoping no one would notice the giveaway juice dripping onto the floor.

   From the vantage point of her stall, he could see clearly what was happening. The grey horse looked to be in great distress, but she was been encouraged to walk up and down the row of stalls. It was obvious she was in considerable pain and Aragorn quickly surmised she was suffering from acute seizure of the gut. Forcing her to walk was a possible cure for this potentially fatal condition. As he watched and waited, it soon became apparent that this was no ordinary horse of the Mark, but one of the Mearas, and, judging by the attention she was receiving, a favourite mare of the king’s at that. How long she had been in this state, Aragorn could not tell, but the king’s children were becoming agitated and fearful at the lack of progress with curing her. Nine year old Théoden voiced this quite bluntly.

   “Is she going to die, Father?” he asked, sounding more curious than concerned, though one of his elder sisters looked close to tears at the prospect.

   “No, no,” said the king, reassuringly to his children. “Lightfoot will be well again in no time. We must be patient a while longer, that is all.” But the look he gave his wife told a different tale. Morwen understood and tried to persuade the children to come back to Meduseld. The two sisters willingly obliged, but Théoden resisted, far too fascinated by all that was going on to leave now. Thengel eventually relented and allowed his son to stay.

   Aragorn realised the horse’s condition was grave; he had seen this illness often enough before. He knew not what treatments the horsemen used; they were clearly skilled with their beasts, but he knew a thing or two of his own. Quietly, he slipped out from the stables, and made his way to the main gate of the city. Fortunately he had little difficulty explaining to the guards on duty what is was he wanted, and they let him through. Once beyond the wall, he walked purposefully along side the great hedge that encircled the whole of Edoras. As he went, he paid particular attention to any areas of long grass that he came upon. He sought one particular plant. He ought to be able to spot it well enough even among the ungrazed grasses and certainly its strong, pungent smell should lead him to it. At last he came across the tall plant he was seeking and, to his relief, the crowns of seeds were still intact. Hastily he gathered as many as he could, putting them safely into the pockets of his tunic, and made his way back to the stables, skilfully avoiding the zealous guard by mingling with the throng of onlookers.

   The mare if anything was worse. She was now continually trying to lie down so she could roll on the floor and so ease the searing pain in her belly. Aragorn knew she must not be allowed to do this as her distended guts could easily twist which would prove fatal. He watched with mounting sorrow, as the men were forced to beat her to keep her on her feet. She made a pitiful sight.

   Aragorn approached the king cautiously. He was very aware that the well-armed guards would not hesitate to run him through with their spears if they thought their lord was in even the slightest danger.  Fortunately Thengel noticed him and ordered the guards to let him through. The king, having lived for a time in Gondor, had none of his subjects’ prejudice against the foreigner.

   “What is it?” he asked tersely, not welcoming the distraction in the slightest.

   “My lord,” said Aragorn bowing respectfully, aware of some of the dark looks around him, “might I be permitted to offer counsel for the treatment of this horse?”

   “You wish to counsel me on horses?” asked Thengel, with studied patience. “And what do you think to teach the Men of the Mark about the Mearas?” He really could not bend his mind to dealing with this man right now.

   “Forgive me, my lord,” said Aragorn, undaunted and determined to be heard, “but the Men of the Mark are not the only people who know and love their horses. My own folk in the North have great skill with them, and the Elves…”

  “Elves!”

  Aragorn immediately realised his mistake as the guards closed in around him. Ignoring them, he persisted, and reached into his pockets for the seeds. Holding out his hand, he showed the king what he had gathered.

   “My lord, if you will permit it, I have a possible cure right here.”

   All around him he could hear murmurings. The word poison was mentioned. But Thengel was by now desperate enough to try anything. Not only did he not want to lose the horse, but he did not particularly want the mare to die in agony in front of his young son.

   “Tell me more,” he said. “What are these seeds you have there?”

   “They are from the pimpinella plant, my lord,” Aragorn said. “It is common in the hedgerows of my homeland around a little country called the Shire. We use the seeds to treat colic. I found these in the stockade beyond the gate; I went searching for them when I saw the urgency of the situation.”

  Thengel looked hard at the young man. He should have wondered about him before. What was Gandalf doing bringing such a man to serve him? It was a question he must bend his thought towards, however at this momnet, his only concern was for his horse.

  “The mare is too ill to eat,” he said. “What do you propose to do?”

   Aragorn briefly explained that he needed a pestle and a mortar and a jar of honey. These were immediately sent for and he quickly ground up the seeds and, with a little honey, made them into a paste.

   With Thengel’s permission, he then approached the now wild horse. He walked slowly towards the distressed mare, talking to her softly. Her grey coat was darkened with sweat and she trembled violently with the pain. In spite of this, at Aragorn’s murmurings, she stood and allowed him to approach. He stroked her nose for a moment before calmly slipping his hand into the mare’s mouth and administering the paste to the back of her tongue with practised ease. Then, taking hold of the rope on her halter, he quietly coaxed her forward, all the while, calming and soothing the mare, as he had seen the Elves do from his earliest years.

  As he slowly led the horse back and forth, he watched anxiously for any sign of improvement, but the minutes slipped away and there was no change.  He was suddenly aware of how precarious his position, if not his life, had just become. It was a big gamble he had taken. If the mare died, things could go very ill for him. It would be impossible to prove he had not poisoned the horse. Aragorn could feel the tension rising all around him; the murmurings grew louder. Any moment he expected many hands to seize him and haul him off to the dungeons.

    Then at last the mare’s trembling lessened and Aragorn dared to hope she might yet recover. He continued to lead her up and down the row of stalls and soon she was walking more easily. Aragorn felt a great rush of relief course through him. The mare was far from cured, but the imminent danger had passed. And soon the improvement was clear to all. Théoden, watching the proceedings with great interest, was the first to comment.

   “Lightfoot is going to get better, isn’t she?” he asked, smiling up at his father.

   Thengel looked across at Aragorn and replied: “I do believe she will.” He walked over to the mare, now standing quite calmly, and stroked her thoughtfully for a moment.

   “You have taught us all a lesson today, young man,” he said, “and I am not just talking about that herb you used. You have my gratitude; I would have lost a good horse.”

   Aragorn inclined his head. “I am glad I was able to be of service, my lord.”

   Thengel was then aware of an overpowering stench of farmyard wafting towards him from the young man and he remembered where he had sent his new recruit to labour. He made a snap decision. Some of his men might not like it, but, nonetheless, he would have his way in this.

   “I believe Lightfoot will need plenty of attention to see she recovers completely,” he said. “Do you think you might be spared from your other duties to care for her permanently?”

   His joy must have shown on Aragorn’s face for Thengel suddenly burst out laughing. “I see perhaps you might,” he said.

   “Thank you, my lord,” said Aragorn, smiling happily, delighted at this change in his fortune. It might not be the highest of promotions, but it was a welcome start. Certainly he looked forward to sleeping in the stables tonight; they would be a huge improvement on his present accommodation.

   Thengel gave him a long, thoughtful look. Yes, he really must find out more about this strange young man. He was beginning to find him rather intriguing.

   “I am going to keep my eye on you from now on, lad” he said. “Somehow I rather think you will go far in this life.” 

~oo0oo~

Then Aragorn lead the way, and such was the strength of his will in that hour that all the Dúnedain and their horses followed him. And indeed the love that the horses of the rangers bore for their riders was so great that they were willing to face even the terror of the door.

The Passing of the Grey Company                                                   The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 8:  “The Servant of the Steward”

   Ecthelion II, son of Turgon, was a man of wisdom…He encouraged all men of worth from near or far to enter his service, and to those that proved trustworthy he gave rank and reward. In much that he did he had the aid and advice of a great captain whom he loved above all. Thorongil men called him in Gondor, the Eagle of the Star, for he was swift and keen-eyed, and wore a silver star upon his cloak; but no one knew his true name nor in what land he was born.

Appendix A                                                                    The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn yawned sleepily. He had spent the night in a sheltered band of willows not far from the Anduin and had felt secure enough to risk a full night’s sleep. He awoke to a bitterly cold morning, the north wind rolling off the river suggesting snow. Reluctantly he threw back his blanket and got to his feet, pulling his cloak tightly about himself as the chill wind tore through him. He picked up his waterskins and made his way to the edge of the river to fill them in readiness for the day’s ride. He trod carefully as the bank was steep and the river wide and deep. He did not relish a ducking on such a morning as this. The skins filled, he returned to his little camp and sat down to eat the last of the food in his pack which was now no more than a crust of bread and a sliver of dried meat.

   He was unsure of how much further it was to Minas Tirith, but looking up at the deep grey clouds rolling across the sky, he sincerely hoped he would reach the city soon; that were surely a storm heading in his direction. Not for the first time, he wondered what the great Númenorean city would be like, though, in truth, he had little idea of what to expect. He had seen drawings in Imladris of some of the fine houses the Dunedain had dwelt in during the early Third Age but there was nothing remotely that splendid remaining for his people now. Nor did he quite know what sort of reception he himself might expect. Gandalf, when he had last seen him, had advised him that the time had come for him to seek to serve the Steward of Gondor. At first he had been reluctant to leave Rohan, but he had gradually overcome his initial apprehension about moving on and was now looking forward to visiting the ancient realm. He still, though, felt a deep sense of loss at leaving Thengel’s court. He had served the king loyally for eight years and, during that time, he had proved himself as a both a warrior and a leader of men. He had worked hard to earn the respect of the Rohirrim, and had made many friends whom he was going to miss terribly.

   But he knew in his heart that Gandalf was right and it was time to move on. With its long history and deep-rooted traditions, he imagined that court life in Gondor would be quite unlike that of Rohan. The realm was also in the front line of the West’s defences against Mordor and he was quite sure service there would present him with some very different challenges. He carried with him a letter of introduction from Thengel to Ecthelion the Steward of Gondor, who was a close ally and personal friend of Rohan’s king. This had so far ensured his safe passage through Gondor and, he hoped, would secure him a place in Ecthelion’s army.

   His breakfast finished, he packed up his few belongings and saddled his horse, a chestnut gelding and parting gift from Thengel. He was grateful for the company and talked quietly to the animal as he strapped his pack securely behind the saddle. With a final glance around to ensure he had left no trace of his stay, he swung himself up onto the horse’s back and set off steadily southwards, following the course of the Anduin as he went.

   He had not gone many miles when the storm clouds broke and man and horse were lashed by sleeting, driving rain. There was little shelter to be found though mercifully the wind was blowing from behind. Aragorn decided to press on with his journey. He had noted most of the landmarks he had been told to watch out for and so was sure it could not be much further to Minas Tirith. But the next few hours were a misery for horse and rider. Both hunched against the cold, and Aragorn was soon soaked to the skin as the penetrating rain found its way through his leathers and oilskins to his clothes beneath. He was shivering now and could barely hold the reins. He was about to stop and try and light a fire before the cold seeped into his very bones, when the rain suddenly stopped, and the sun came out, lighting the sky with a clear golden blaze.

   Then, as the clouds parted, far ahead, he saw it for the very first time, glimmering and sparkling in the washed clean air, the sun illuminating it like a jewel in the side of the mountain, its tall, white towers rising up to impossible heights, the banners of the Citadel seemingly reaching to the heavens: Minas Tirith, the Tower of the Setting Sun, the City of the Kings, in all its majesty. Aragorn halted his horse and stared in wonder. He could clearly see the seven circles of the city, each one smaller than the one below and all but the last, divided by the great buttress of rock jutting out from the mountain like the keel of a vast ship. Minas Tirith appeared to be carved out of the very mountain itself and Mindolluin’s towering presence dominated the city below. Aragorn had seen nothing to compare with it in all his days. But as he sat and marvelled at the wondrous beauty of the place, he became aware of a knot in his stomach and he suddenly felt afraid.

   He had kept his true identity hidden in Rohan and it had appalled him at times how easily had he lied and maintained that deception, but there was at least a kernel of truth to his story, as he was but a stranger in that land. In Gondor, however, the lie would be meant to deceive, for this was Elendil’s kingdom as much as was Arnor in the North. Gazing upon the legendary city, it hit him fully that, but for the quirks of fate in the tale of his forefathers, he would now be the king of this land which was still the most powerful of the free realms in Middle-earth. Doubt assailed him; he had to appear but a warrior from the North, nothing more. He had come here to fight the enemy, not to claim the crown of Gondor. Yet if, as Elrond believed, it may be his fate to one day do just that, then he knew that what happened in his time here now could have lasting consequences for him far in the future.

    Determinedly, he pushed such matters from his mind and he urged his horse forward. He headed straight for the vast gates in the lowest circle, but he was challenged by guards before he could reach them. Aragorn introduced himself as a man from Rohan, but he could tell the guards were eyeing him suspiciously. He could change his name and his speech, but he would never pass as a blond, blue eyed Rohirric warrior. One guard evidently went to seek a second opinion while the others kept their spears pointed towards him. Eventually the guard returned with one who appeared to be of more senior rank. This time Aragorn produced his letter, which had the seal of Thengel on it, and this gained him admittance to the city.

       He followed the guards through the streets and up the levels. The twisting roads that zig-zagged across the face of the mountain left him utterly bewildered as to where he was heading and, as they progressed ever upwards, Aragorn looked in amazement at the many white houses that lined the streets. The city was far more populous than Edoras and, from the well tended appearance of the dwellings, its people certainly seemed more prosperous. When they reached the Sixth Circle, Aragorn was told to leave his horse at the stables, before continuing on up to the seventh circle and the Citadel of the City. To Aragorn’s consternation, he realized he was being taken to the Steward himself. He had assumed that someone of lower rank would have questioned him. Instead he found himself been led across the Court of the Fountain to the main entrance of the Citadel.

   But suddenly he abruptly stopped in his tracks. There, standing before him, was a dead tree; its bare and lifeless branches, drooping sadly over the water of the fountain. It was being watched over by soldiers wearing the silver and black livery of the Citadel Guards who stood solemnly, performing this ancient duty that had long ceased to hold any meaning for them. But Aragorn, witnessing this for the very first time, found himself fighting his emotions. The significance of this symbol of the lost kingdom did not escape him and he stood for a moment wrapped in his thoughts, oblivious to all else around him.

   The guard walking beside him mistook his hesitancy for bemusement and started to explain.

    “The White Tree of Gondor will never thrive again,” he said, “not unless the king comes back, although, you understand, of course, none of us really believe a king ever will return, not now after all these years.”

   Aragorn knew the tree had been standing thus for over a hundred and fifty years, ever since its death at the end of the rule of Belechor II. It was decayed and rotting; its bark peeling away from its trunk like a giant decomposing corpse. It did not look as if it would bring forth new life ever again.

   It was surely dead.

   Aragorn simply nodded to the guard, not trusting himself to speak, and quickly walked on.

   He was brought at last to the great hall of the Citadel and ushered in by the guards on duty there, but not before they had taken his weapons. The hall was huge and on either side of it stood a row of tall, black marble pillars which met at the top forming two lines of arches. In each archway stood a great statue of a long dead king of the realm. Aragorn was aware of his feet echoing on the polished stone as he followed the guard through the vast chamber, but out of the corner of his eye, he observed with a growing feeling of awe the images of his distant kin that loomed above him as he went.

   At the far end of the hall upon a dais of many steps was a throne, and at the foot of the steps there sat an elderly man. A young man, not much older than Aragorn, stood beside him. Both were immaculately and richly dressed which suddenly made Aragorn acutely aware of his own appearance. He was still soaked from the freezing rain, his wet hair was stuck to his face and he was covered in mud. He felt at a distinct disadvantage and at that moment would have given anything for a change of clothes.

   The guard bowed to the two men and said, “This man has just arrived from Rohan, my lord Steward. He has a letter with him from King Thengel.”

   Aragorn bowed in similar fashion and waited to be spoken too. He could tell the two men were looking him up and down just as suspiciously as the guards had done. The older man voiced this quite plainly. “You are not of the Rohirrim,” he said. It was not a question. “What is your name and from where do you hail?”

   “My name is Thorongil and I am a traveller from the North, my lord,” Aragorn replied.

   “The North you say? That is a long way indeed,” said the Steward, “show me this letter that you carry.”

   Aragorn again fished out the letter from his pack and handed it to him. As he stood waiting for the Steward to finish reading it, he became very aware of the gaze of the younger man upon him. This, he surmised, was Denethor, son of Ecthelion. Denethor was indeed gazing hard at the stranger and after he had also read the letter, he gazed even more incredulously. Thengel had written glowingly of his captain. He had been sorry to see him go, but had accepted Thorongil’s reason that he wished to further his military experience in Gondor.

   Denethor looked at this bedraggled man standing quietly in front of him. His garb was plain and drab; the cloak that was steadily dripping water onto the floor, leaving small puddles around the man’s feet, had definitely seen better days. The strange, rayed brooch though, that clasped the sodden garment around the man’s shoulders, was bright and burnished and glittered in the sunlight streaming through the high windows. He was very tall, Denethor thought. In fact he did not think there could be any man taller in all Gondor. Curiously, with his dark hair and pale skin, he almost had a look of Númenor about him. He did not know such men existed in the North, which, in the South, was held to be a barren wasteland. In fact, so like was he to the men of Gondor, Denethor would have completely overlooked him had he passed him in the street, expect for one thing: those eyes, those keen, intense grey eyes. They looked directly at him now and Denethor was shocked to find it was he who needed to look away.

   “Thengel does indeed speak highly of you, young man,” said Ecthelion, handing the letter back to Aragorn. “But tell me, why should you wish to leave his service and enter mine?”

  “In short, my Lord Steward,” said Aragorn, “I think I have achieved all I can in Rohan. I have been there some eight years and all the while the Shadow in the East deepens. I believe I can be of greater service here.”

   “Do you now?” said Ecthelion, “and why is that?”

   Aragorn inwardly sighed. He hoped this interview would not take too long.  He was desperately trying not to shiver, but his soaked clothes had now chilled him to the marrow. 

   “I have learned much of war in the service of Thengel King,” he said, “but the fight is not yet on his border as it is yours. I was led to understand that you had need of men such as myself and that you rewarded them accordingly.”

    Aragorn winced silently as he said that. ‘Let them think me a mercenary if it will earn me my place,’ he thought.

   “So you are a fortune seeker,” said Denethor, speaking for the first time and with barely concealed distain in his voice.

   “I seek an honest crust in return for my skills,” replied Aragorn, evenly.

   Ecthelion eyed him shrewdly for a moment. He desperately needed good men and if this man was as capable as Thengel claimed, he would be glad to welcome him into his service.

   “You have a week’s trial,” he said.

   Then he spoke to the guard. “Take him away and get him some dry clothes before he freezes to death on the spot.” Turning again to Aragorn he added, not unkindly, “and I daresay a hot meal would not go amiss either, would it?”

   Aragorn bowed his head, “Thank you, my lord Steward, I confess it would not.”

   “Return here when you have eaten then, Thorongil,” said Ecthelion. “I would be pleased to hear news of all that passes in Rohan.”

   Aragorn inclined his head again and was led away by the guard, back through the hall and out into the Court. He was feeling just a little pleased with himself. So, he was now a soldier of Gondor and in the employ of the Steward. The guard took him down to a guard house on the Sixth Level and they entered a large room with several tables and benches, at which sat half a dozen men. They were chattering in a relaxed fashion, but stopped talking immediately as the guard and Aragorn came in. Aragorn felt searching eyes upon him, but the men soon lost interest and turned their attention back to their own matters.

   “This way,” said the guard, gesturing to Aragorn to follow him through the room. They went through a side door into a small room which contained several huge chests and little else.

   “Off with those wet things now,” said the guard. “I’m sure we will have something here to fit you.” He unlocked one of the chests and started rummaging through the contents.

   Aragorn peeled off his sodden layers of clothing one by one, wishing he could have a hot bath. He stood there shivering while the guard struggled to find gear to fit him. At last he produced several items of clothing all of an identical shade of brown. It was very plain and basic, the garb of the lowest ranked soldier in Gondor. Aragorn had been a captain in Thengel’s army. He was clearly going to start at the bottom in Ecthelion’s host.

   He gratefully accepted the dry clothes and once he was dressed, the guard led the way to the refectory where Aragorn was at last able to sate his hunger which had grown considerably in the last few hours.

   “Do you think you can find your way back to the Citadel on your own, lad?” asked the guard.

   “I believe so,” said Aragorn, with more confidence than he felt.

   “Good, for I must be returning to my post. Come back to the guard house when you are done with the Steward and we will find someone to show you around.”

   Aragorn thanked him and, when he had gone, he continued with his meal which really was very good indeed.

   His hunger satisfied, and feeling now more comfortable within himself, he returned to the Citadel and was again admitted to the Great Hall. This time it was empty. The guard led him on to another room where they found the Steward sitting behind an enormous desk in a rather austere study. Aragorn noticed the room had none of the homely, welcoming features of his father’s study at Rivendell. It was dominated by the harsh, grey stone that was everywhere in this city.   The Steward looked up from his work as he bade the two men to enter. He dismissed the guard and indicated to Aragorn to be seated.

   “I trust you are suitably refreshed, Thorongil,” he said. “You certainly look more the part now.”

   “Thank you,” said Aragorn with a smile, “I feel it.”

   “That is well,” said Ecthelion. “Now perhaps you will give me news of my old friend Thengel. It is a long time since the days when we rode together.”

   Aragorn dutifully obliged. There was much to tell. Orc numbers in the Misty Mountains were steadily increasing after being dramatically reduced following the Battle of the Five Armies and raids were not uncommon. The Dunlendings too held occasional forays across the Isen, so there was rarely a time when there was not an éored or two engaged in the pursuit of trouble somewhere within Rohan’s borders.

   Ecthelion allowed him to talk without undue interruptions and when Aragorn had finished, he looked at the young man with a new respect. Aragorn had not played up his part in any of his tales, but Ecthelion was a shrewd man and missed little. It was obvious to him that he could not waste his new recruit in the lower ranks.

   First, however, he wanted to watch his sword play. Thengel stated in his letter that there was none better in all of Rohan, but privately Ecthelion did not think this amounted to very much as he did not consider the Rohirrim to be masters of this particular skill.

   “Thengel says you a talented swordsman, Thorongil,” he said. “I should like to see this for myself if you do not mind.”

   “Of course,” said Aragorn. He was not surprised by the request.

   “Good, though I must warn you I have set up a formidable opponent for you,” said Ecthelion, a hint of a smile spreading across his face. “Do you feel up to a good workout?”

   Aragorn thought he might regret having eaten so well at lunch, but just replied: “Yes, my lord. I hope I shall live up to your expectation.”

   “As do I.” The Steward was not smiling now.

   Ecthelion rose and gestured for Aragorn to follow him. He led the way to a secluded courtyard, issuing instructions to a waiting servant as he did so. They were soon joined by two men carrying practice blades. They were followed by Denethor. Aragorn assumed he had come to witness the sparring, but, to his amazement, it soon became apparent that Denethor was to be his opponent. This was a complication he could well do without. He had been aware of the scrutinising he had received from the Steward’s son earlier, and of the aloofness of his manner towards him. Aragorn felt it might be diplomatic not to beat him and yet he knew if he did not perform well, he could be sweeping the barrack floors for weeks. But then a most unwelcome thought entered his head. For Denethor to put himself forward in this way, he must be an excellent swordsman and supremely confident of his success. A man in his position would not risk the humiliation of a defeat by a new recruit. Aragorn guessed Denethor had every intention of giving him a sound thrashing. This realisation made him suddenly very nervous and unsure of his own skill, an insecurity he had not felt since he was about seventeen.

   He was handed one of the blades; he quickly tried to assess the weight and feel of it for he noticed Denethor had already taken up his position on the other side of the court.

   “Gentlemen, when you are ready,” said the Steward as he backed out of harm’s way.

   Immediately Denethor lunged forward and struck, but Aragorn’s reflexes were battle-sharp and he instinctively blocked the blow. But out of nowhere, Denethor’s blade was instantly in front of him again. Once more Aragorn blocked his crushing attack; and then another; and another. Over and over, their blades engaged as Denethor maintained a ruthless offensive. Aragorn struggled to repel him as his opponent’s sword swung at him from every conceivable direction. But slowly Aragorn began to get the measure of him; he was strong, very strong, but Aragorn felt he was quicker. Time and time again he parried Denethor’s blows, the Steward’s son pressing him harder and harder. Aragorn could feel sweat trickling down his back in spite of the cold of the day. He had not fought a duel this hard and with such a skilled opponent in many a year. Before long he was giving ground and the wall was closing behind him.

   Denethor would soon have him beaten.

   But Aragorn was not ready to concede yet. Whatever thoughts had entered his mind earlier of a political surrender vanished as he forgot the identity of his opponent, forgot the watching Steward and forgot why he was doing this; he just focused all his strength and will on taking his foe. Three decisive, lightning-fast moves was all it took, and Denethor’s sword flew from his hand. In an instant, Aragorn kicked his legs from under him and there he had the heir of the Steward of Gondor on the ground, with his blade at his throat.

   “Do you yield?” he asked with his most commanding air, though his breathlessness betrayed the effort it have taken to claim his victory.

   “I yield,” said Denethor coldly, ignoring the proffered hand extended to help him rise. Aragorn suddenly realised what he had done. He had used this technique, taught to him by Elladan, so many times in the past that he had thought nothing of finishing his opponent with it now. Belatedly, he remembered just who that opponent was.

   “Well, well, Thorongil,” said Ecthelion, smiling as he walked towards the two men. “I congratulate you. There are not many in the city that can best my son and none, I think, who would dare to throw him like that.” He clapped Aragorn on the back, his light-hearted demeanour a sharp contrast to the dark mood of his son.

   “I am sorry, my Lord,” said Aragorn, looking anxiously from Ecthelion to Denethor. “I fear I have over stepped the mark in my eagerness to impress. I hope you will forgive me?

   Denethor opened his mouth to speak, but his words were cut off by his father.

   “Think nothing of it, son,” said Ecthelion, amiably. “You put on a good show.”

   “You did not learn to fight thus among the Rohirrim, did you?” asked Denethor, still dusting himself down, the bitterness of defeat only too apparent in his voice. “Tell me, where did you learn such moves?”

   Aragorn had anticipated he might be asked this question and had decided to answer as close to the truth as he could.

   “My older brothers, my lord,” he said quietly. “They taught me much.”

   Ecthelion laughed. “In that case, I shall very much look forward to discovering your other skills.”

   Aragorn bowed his head in acknowledgement.

   “Take the rest of the day to settle in,” said Ecthelion, “then report to me in the morning. I think I need a little time to decide how you may best serve me, Thorongil.”

   “Thank you, my lord,” said Aragorn, inclining his head again as he turned to leave. As he walked across the courtyard he did not need to turn around to know that the eyes of Denethor followed him as he went.

~oo0oo~

   He found his way back to the guard room and from there he was shown the barracks and allocated a bed. The warden told him a little of the daily routine and what would be expected of him. He also told him the basic passwords which would gain him admittance to most of the levels in the city. When he had finished, Aragorn was then free to spend the rest of the day as he pleased. First he made his way to the stables to check on his horse. Finding him well cared for, he set about exploring the city, as he knew he would have little spare time once he started properly in the service of the Steward.

   He aimlessly wandered the narrow streets. The lack of greenery made the city seem very stark in its white beauty, but it was clean and tidy and the people he met acknowledged him courteously. In fact he had never seen so many people in one place before; the market stalls were positively bustling with traders and buyers, everyone trying to make that good deal. It was all a little overwhelming.

   He found himself drawn back to the higher levels which were less crowded and from where he could fully appreciate the wondrous views they afforded. He stopped on a path in the Sixth Circle and, resting his arms on the surrounding wall, he gazed out across the plain which was so very far below him. There he could see little homesteads with barns and fields where sheep and cattle grazed. He could see husbandmen going about their daily chores; there was a farmer’s wife taking down her washing and children playing with a dog. Beyond was the Great River, slowly winding its way into the distance and beyond his sight. But as Aragorn watched, his eyes strayed to the East and there, far away and yet ominously close, was Mount Doom. He could see the red glow of the fire at its peak and the palls of black smoke which fouled the sky above it.

    He shuddered. The sight suddenly reminded him all too clearly of why he had come to Gondor. What mattered, what really mattered, was that some day, some how, the evil of Mordor was ended. It mattered not who or what he was. Whatever the future held for him was not his concern at this time. He had a job to do here and now. It was that simple. Then he suddenly knew he could play this part. He would guard his secret and dutifully serve the Steward in any way demanded of him.

   As he stood looking out across the Pelennor Fields, the sun dipped below the White Mountains and was gone. Aragorn yawned sleepily. He was ready for his bed; it had been a long day.

~oo0oo~

   He came to Ecthelion from Rohan, where he had served the King Thengel, but he was not one of the Rohirrim.

Appendix A                                                                                        The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

A/N  The idea of Denethor’s inquisitiveness about Thorongil’s lack of a lady-love only came to me after reading Raksha the Demon’s brilliant ‘The Eagles’s Gift’ which can be found at this site.

Chapter 9: The Rival

   Denethor was a proud man, tall, valiant, and more kingly than any man that had appeared in Gondor for many lives of men; and he was wise also and far-sighted, and learned in lore. Indeed he was as like to Thorongil as to one of nearest kin, and yet was ever placed second to the stranger in the hearts of men and the esteem of his father.

Appendix A                                                                                        The Return of the King

   Denethor strode the length of the Great Hall, casting a critical eye to his left as he went. When he reached the far end, he turned on his heel and retraced his steps, this time keeping his eyes firmly to his right. Three times he did this. Every now and then his eye would alight upon some item not quite as it should be and he would stop to straighten a fork or reposition a goblet.

   “These flowers will not do,” he barked suddenly, pointing to a particularly garish basket on the opposite side of the hall. A serving boy immediately ran to remove them.

   Satisfied at last that all was at it should be, Denethor surveyed the scene and smiled. He did not think the Merethrond had ever looked so magnificent. The tables were decorated with the finest silks and embroideries that could be found in all of Gondor. The flowers had been shipped in from the Ethir especially for tonight and the banquet awaiting his guests would be the finest consumed in this hall for many a long year. Indeed he could not remember there ever being a feast such as the one anticipated tonight. But then, never had there been an occasion to celebrate quite like there was now. Not even when he married his dear Finduilas had he been this consumed with joy.

  Today nobility from the whole of Gondor were gathering to celebrate the birth of his first son. Little Boromir was a month old, and immediately upon his birth, invitations had been sent to every corner of the realm for tonight’s banquet.

   And Denethor was going to enjoy it, for this was his day; the day when all the Lords of Gondor were coming to congratulate him. And he felt he would deserve their praise.

   ‘HaveI not secured the Steward’s line of succession for the next generation?’ he thought. If he was a little smug, he did not care. He had waited a long time for this.

   So often he had feared that Finduilas’s frailty would make bearing a child impossible, but now he could proudly show that this was not so. Boromir was as bonny a child as any and tonight he was going to make his first public appearance.

   There was only one blight on the day for Denethor. Captain Thorongil had returned to the city that very afternoon. He still could not quite believe the timing of this ill fortune.  Two months Thorongil had been away and yet he chose today, of all days, to return. Denethor could almost convince himself the captain had timed his arrival specifically for this purpose, though he knew Thorongil’s Company had, in truth, been due back at least a week ago. But with each day that passed and with still no sign of the captain, Denethor had begun to hope Thorongil would miss the banquet altogether. But earlier today, he heard the silver trumpets of the Citadel heralding the Company’s return, and that hope had been dashed. Apparently, the esteemed captain had completed yet another successful military campaign and now Denethor would have to endure the humiliation of publicly congratulating his rival at tonight’s feast.  

   Resignedly, he realised there was nothing to be done about it; he could hardly bar the man from attending. Instead, he reminded himself that he was the son of the Steward, and the captain nothing more than a hired blade of his father’s. He was quite determined not to allow the situation to spoil his evening.

   He cast one more critical look around the hall before leaving to return to his family and prepare for the night’s celebrations.

~oo0oo~

   Denethor took Finduilas’s arm and, smiling down at her and the babe nestled against her bosom, he led his wife and son into the Merethrond. Applause and cheers greeted their arrival and Denethor beamed with pride as he slowly walked the length of the hall to the top table. All bowed before him, and Denethor felt like a king as he swept his wife up to the high seat that raised them above so many great lords standing below them. He took his place beside his father, Ecthelion, and regally acknowledged the cheers from the assembled throng.

  At last the applause subsided and the Steward rose to his feet to deliver a speech of welcome to his guests.

   “Lords and ladies of the realm of Gondor,” he began in a booming voice that brought absolute silence to the hall. “It is with the greatest joy that I welcome you all to the Citadel to celebrate the safe arrival into the world of Boromir, my first grandson.”  Cheers erupted from the floor and several minutes passed before Ecthelion had a hope of making himself heard again. As the lords and ladies eventually quietened down, the Steward continued his speech in much the same vein but, all too quickly, the important matter of welcoming baby Boromir was completed and the Ecthelion turned his attention to other matters of State. Denethor soon realised he was only half listening to his father who could be very long-winded at times. To amuse himself, he surveyed the formal rows of gathered nobility, noting anything of interest in the demeanour of his guests that might tell a tale or two. It was not often that so many of Gondor’s lords were gathered together in one place and it intrigued him to observe the unspoken language of those present. If he learned nothing more than which of his guests appeared out of sorts with their wives, it might be worth the effort.

   The lord of Lossarnach, he noted, appeared particularly relaxed and pleased with himself; prosperous too if the increase in his girth since the last time he saw him was anything to judge by. The lord of the Anfalas, similarly, seemed to be expanding by the same proportion. But to Denethor’s disappointment, there was nothing particularly interesting to record about any of his guests. One or two of the younger sons seemed more intent on admiring the ladies than listening to their Steward, but that was only as things ever were.

    Denethor was about to abandon this one-sided parlour game, when his eye alighted upon Thorongil, arriving late, and discreetly taking a seat at the back of the hall. His eyes narrowed; he had still nurtured a hope that the captain might have missed the feast, but he should have known the people's favourite would not snub the Steward in that way. The man looked tired, exhausted even. Denethor had not had much opportunity today to hear all the details of Thorongil’s adventures, but he did not doubt that the captain’s victory had been hard won. He felt a tiny prick of guilt. Denethor himself should have taken that command, but with Finduilas’s confinement fast approaching, he had been only too relieved when his father had suggested he remain at home and permit another to handle the troublesome Easterlings. Unfortunately the replacement captain had been Thorongil who immediately volunteered for the posting, in spite of only having returned from the south three days earlier. It did not please Denethor in the least that he now had a double reason to extend his gratitude to him.

     As he watched Thorongil struggling to keep his eyes open, Denethor told himself not to be so belligerent. The man had after all worked miracles with Gondor’s defences and the morale of the troops had never been so high. To give him his due, nobody had shown more commitment to maintaining the security of Gondor’s borders than Thorongil. His dedication to his duty was becoming legendary.

   He was less than impressed though that Thorongil had not seen fit to shave for such a formal occasion and the state of his attire certainly left something to be desired. As he surreptitiously observed his rival, he noticed with amusement that the less than comely young daughter of the Lord of Lamedon, was quietly positioning herself opposite the captain and clearly could not take her eyes of him. What was even more amusing was that Thorongil seemed completely oblivious to the attention he was commanding. Denethor smiled to himself as he wondered if there might be some fun to be had with this later at the captain’s expense.

    At last Ecthelion finished his long monologue and, as he took his seat again, there was an almost audible sigh of relief from his guests before they broke into the customary round of applause. Finally, the minstrels began to play and first course of the banquet was served.

~oo0oo~

   Seven courses later, and the formalities over with, the guests slowly began to take to the floor, although all first made their way to the Steward and his son to offer their congratulations. Denethor found he was enjoying himself more than he had hoped, when he suddenly caught site of Thorongil making his way towards him. The man’s progress was slow for he was stopped at every turn by those eager to remark upon his latest victory. He was appalled when his own father embraced and kissed him.

   ‘By the Valar, am I the only man in this entire realm not bewitched by him?’ he thought as his hackles rose ridiculously at this public display of affection on the part of the Steward.

   But Denethor sighed in resignation and reined in his ire. He would not have it be said that the Steward’s heir was so petty as to be irked by the almost tangible love that he could not deny was felt throughout the city for the great captain.

   Thorongil eventually broke free of his admirers and stepped up to greet Denethor and his lady.

  “My lord, my lady,” he said, with a slight bow of his head. “May I extend my congratulations to you both on this most joyous of occasions.”

  “Thank you, captain,” said Denethor, forcing his face into what he hoped was a smile. “And I believe I must congratulate you upon another successful mission. We shall all be grateful for your efforts, I am sure.” There, he had said it.

  Thorongil merely inclined his head before turning back to Finduilas. He smiled warmly at her and then took her hand and kissed it.

   “You look truly beautiful tonight, if I might be permitted to say so,” he said. “Motherhood becomes you. May I greet your infant, my lady?”

   Finduilas smiled back at him. Denethor knew she was as much under Thorongil’s spell as anyone, although he appreciated that she did at least make an effort to remain cool towards the captain when in the presence of her husband. She held up her child and offered him to Thorongil. Denethor was about to protest, but stopped himself in time; it was not as if the captain would harm the infant after all.  

   Taking the child carefully in his arms, Thorongil went very quiet and thoughtful. Then, to Denethor’s amazement, he heard him say something barely audible in Elvish. It sounded like a chant of some sort, but he could not catch the words. His anger flared.

   ‘Is that a curse he is putting on my child?’

   But before Denethor could say anything in protest, Thorongil solemnly handed the child back to his mother and said to her: “May he be blessed with long life and great happiness.”

  “Thank you Thorongil,” said Finduilas as she settled her child safely in her arms again.

   Turning to Denethor, Thorongil said: “You are very fortunate, my lord.”

   The sentiment was sincere and Denethor was sure he detected a hint of sadness in the captain’s voice. He suddenly wondered if the man yearned for the joys of a family himself. Perhaps the devotion of the Steward, the army and an entire city was not enough for the great captain.

   “Thank you, I know very well how fortunate I am,” Denethor replied. “But tell me Thorongil, do you have no desire for a son of your own? You have been in this city, what is it now; over twelve years; I am surprised you have not taken a wife yourself. Come now, there must be a lady somewhere eagerly awaiting your return tonight. Who is she?”

   Denethor had never dared ask the question before, and he noticed with amusement the sudden set of the man’s jaw and the twitching of a muscle in his cheek. Could he possibly have hit a raw nerve, he wondered.  

   “No my lord, there is no one,” Thorongil said tightly.

    “Surely you are not going to tell me that none of our fair ladies has met with your approval? What about the delightful young daughter of the Lord of Lamedon? Did she not please you with her company tonight?”   Thorongil’s annoyance at this intrusion into his private life was now only too evident.

    “I have met many charming ladies in my time here.” Thorongil said; his voice indicating a measured calm and control, which was sharply at odds with the fire in his grey eyes. “I count the young lady of whom you speak, among them.”

    But to Denethor’s ears he now seemed hesitant, as if he was suddenly unsure how to reply.

    “But my heart is already given elsewhere,” he said at last.

     Denethor was surprised and not entirely sure he believed this.  He had certainly seen no evidence of any attachment with his own eyes, in spite of the matrons of the city thrusting their daughters in Thorongil’s direction at every opportunity. And he had sufficient people in his employ gathering details of this nature that he was sure he would have heard if Thorongil had been courting. But there had never even been any word of any indiscretions on the captain’s part. His behaviour, if anything, was always impeccable.

   “Is that so?” Denethor asked, keeping his tone light and conservational. “Might she be a lady with whom I am acquainted?”

    He was uncertain how far he could push the captain; he had never seen him so unsure of himself before, but he was too intrigued to let the matter drop now. He might not get such an opportunity again and he really was enjoying this far too much.

   “No, my lord, she is a lady of my acquaintance from the North.”

   If this was true, Denethor could not resist the thought that the sooner he went back to her the better.

  “Why then, captain, do you allow us to detain you in the South? Surely you have been away from the good lady long enough?”

   Again the captain hesitated as if searching for a plausible answer.

   “It is not that simple,” he finally mumbled, and Denethor noticed with satisfaction the mounting flush on his face.

   But then, to Denethor’s annoyance, the captain was spared further questioning by the arrival of Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth and father of Finduilas.

   “Captain Thorongil, I have been enjoying hearing of your latest adventures,” said Adrahil amiably, stepping up to join the gathering at the high table. “I so look forward to hearing the full account from your own lips. But first, tell me; what do you think of my grandson? Is he not the bonniest lad?”

   Thorongil smiled gratefully at his rescuer. “He is indeed, my lord. And Boromir is a noble name.”

   Adrahil admired his grandson a little longer before whisking Thorongil away. The campaign in the East was after all far more interesting.

   Denethor watched them disappear into the crowd. It frustrated him enormously that he could not get under the skin of Thorongil. Whenever he decided he had finally solved the riddle of him, the man would suddenly reveal something extraordinary about himself that made him defy categorising. There were too many mysteries surrounding him for Denethor’s peace of mind. His close friendship with Mithrandir he found particularly disturbing, especially as he had now persuaded his father to listen to Mithrandir’s council in preference to that of Saruman. No other, in the whole of the city, attracted the wizard’s attention the way Thorongil did.

   ‘Why does he take such an interest in him?’ he wondered.

   And yet Denethor knew he had no real grounds to be suspicious of Thorongil other than that his family background was rather vague. He had never been exactly forthcoming with any personal details. He had mentioned his older brothers, but he could not recall him ever speaking of any other kin. In fact he rarely talked of his life before he came to Gondor at all. There were certainly aspects of him that suggested high birth, such as his impeccable manners and his unrivalled knowledge of lore. Even the man’s fighting skills had a finesse to them that had not been learned in battle alone. Denethor had once been amazed when he discovered, quite by accident, that the captain could read Quenya. Few in Minas Tirith had such a skill.

   He had to admit to himself that Thorongil’s service to both his father and Gondor could not be faulted and the captain had never, to his knowledge, tried to reach above his station. But Denethor knew he felt threatened by the man, no matter how much he told himself it was ridiculous to be so.

   The nagging doubt remained and the higher Thorongil rose through the ranks, the more Denethor became suspicious of him. He was loathed to admit it, but it was not only his military success he envied. He knew the captain had found a special place in the hearts of the people of Gondor; they would never love him the way they did Thorongil. But the source of his most keenly felt jealousy, if he would but acknowledge it, was his own father’s regard for the man. He sought the captain’s council now in every matter of State, even those where once he would have only asked the advice of his son.

   But now there was this question of his woman. Denethor was intrigued that he had become so defensive and guarded at her mention. He had never before seen him so uncomfortable talking about himself as he had been tonight. Denethor considered the possible explanations with the same care as he would some military strategy.

   ‘Could it be the lady is wed to another? Maybe her father does not approve of him. Perhaps she does not approve of him!’

   He smiled at the thought.

   ‘Would that not be amusing? Here it seems he can have his pick of the ladies, but perhaps there is one elsewhere who spurns him.’

   He might never know the answer, though it would not be for a lack of trying on his part. All the same, he could not help feeling a little satisfied at having found some shortcoming in his rival’s life. It made him not quite the image of perfection he was so widely held to be and that was a very comforting thought indeed.

   Denethor turned his attention back to his beloved lady sitting beside him and the beautiful child in her arms. He felt the warm glow of happy contentment flow through him as he smiled at them both.

   ‘Yes, Thorongil, this is one joy you do not know.’

   He almost felt sorry for the good captain.

… indeed Thorongil had never himself vied with Denethor, nor held himself higher than the servant of his father.

Appendix A                                                                                    The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairstiona and Estelcontar I offer my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairstiona for the beta.

A/N  This story was one of the first tales I ever wrote; long before meckinock’s fabulous ‘Truce’ appeared at this site. Any similarity in plot is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 10:  The Ring of Barahir

Therefore later, when all was made clear, many believed the Denethor, who was subtle in mind, and looked further and deeper than other men of his day, had discovered who this stranger Thorongil in truth was, and suspected that he and Mithrandir designed to supplant him.

Appendix A                                                                                        The Return of the King

   Young Hallas stood nervously outside the door to the Citadel. He was rather afraid of the Steward’s son and wished he had not been given the task of bringing this message to him. Unfortunately, as the newest recruit to the Houses of Healing, he had been the obvious choice to run this errand as the healers were all very busy at the moment.

   “What do you want lad?” asked the guard, standing forbiddingly in the entrance.

   “I must take a message to the Lord Denethor,” said Hallas who, for all his tender years, was doing his best to sound important. “It is most urgent.”

   “The Lord Denethor is a very busy man, especially with his father being away. What is it about?”

   Hallas hesitated before telling the guard his business, but he feared he might be turned away if he did not speak up promptly.

   “It’s Captain Thorongil, sir,” he said at last. “He’s been hurt really badly.”

   “The Captain hurt? And badly, you say?” The guard was clearly dismayed, his tone mellowing immediately on hearing this news. “You had better come along at once, then.” He ushered Hallas through the Great Hall to the Steward’s study beyond.

   Hallas waited patiently outside until he was told to enter. Once inside the unwelcoming room, he stood nervously in front of Ecthelion’s huge desk with his head bowed before the Lord Denethor. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

   “You have a message for me, I understand,” said Denethor, without looking up from his work.

   Hallas struggled to find the right words now that he was standing before the man himself.

   “It’s Captain Thorongil, my lord. He’s been hurt,” he mumbled, “and badly at that. The Warden of the House has asked that you come.”

   Denethor’s eyes shot up in disbelief at the news. Then he cursed under his breath; something like this would happen now while his father was abroad. Still, he jumped up immediately. If the captain died, he did not want there to be any accusations that he had not done all he could for him.

  “All right, lad, you had better take me to him right away.”

  Hallas was only too relieved that his mission had been successfully accomplished. He briskly led the way back to the Houses of Healing and took the Steward’s son to a room which overlooked the gardens. It was quite small, with was just the one bed. Three people, including the Warden of the House, were busy tending the wounded man lying upon it.

   As Hallas and Denethor entered, the Warden glanced up from his patient.

    “My lord Denethor, thank you for coming so promptly,” he said, putting down the bowl of water he was carrying and bowing his head respectfully. “I felt sure you would wish to see for yourself the situation regarding Captain Thorongil.”

   Denethor nodded his acknowledgement and moved towards the bed.

   He was shocked by the sight that met him. He had become so accustomed to hearing of the captain’s exploits that he had, like just about every one else, almost begun to think of him as invincible. He had always appeared so hardy and strong and never seemed to have even a day’s sickness, that the sight of him lying there now, looking more like a corpse than any living man had a right to, rocked him to the core.

   Thorongil was deathly white, his dark hair slick with sweat, and he seemed to be barely breathing. He was only covered by a thin sheet and this was folded back to his waist as the healers continually bathed him in cold water to try to reduce the effects of the fever. There was a blood stained bandage on his shoulder, but other than that he was unmarked.

  Denethor unexpectedly found himself moved to pity at the sight of his rival brought to this. Without thinking he reached out and touched the man’s cheek with the back of his hand. Thorongil’s skin was on fire.

   “What happened?” he asked.

   “The Captain took an orc arrow in the shoulder two days ago, whilst scouting in the Ephel Dúath,” said the Warden. “Apparently it proved very difficult to remove in the field. There were none in his company other than himself with the skill to do this and he could hardly be expected to pull an arrow from his own shoulder. His men rode non-stop to get him here and although the wound in itself is not serious, I’m greatly afraid the dart was poisoned and the delay in getting him the proper treatment has allowed the poison to enter his body.”

   “Will he live?” Denethor was surprised at how strange his voice sounded.

   The Warden hesitated. “To be truthful, my lord, I do not know. He is very weak and his fever does not lessen.”

   Denethor felt sick. He did not know how he was going to break this to his father.

   “Is there anything you need?” he asked at last.

   “No, my lord, but thank you. It is really out of my hands now. We have done all we can.”

   “Well, let me know at once of any change in his condition,” said Denethor as he turned to leave.

   “Yes, my lord,” said the Warden, bowing his head.

   “Oh, there was one other thing,” the Warden suddenly added as he fumbled for something in his pocket. “When we removed his clothes, we found this ring on his person. It is most unusual and I expect dear to him, if not valuable. I would not wish for it to be mislaid so I wonder if I could ask you to hold it in your safe keeping.”

   “Of course,” said Denethor, holding out his hand to receive it. He stuffed the ring into his tunic and left the healers to their ministrations as he walked slowly back to his study.

~oo0oo~

   Shutting the door behind him, he slumped into the armchair by the fire and stared blankly at the flames. The sight of the stricken man filled his thoughts. For all his rivalry with the captain, he would never wish this upon him. He had never known any man to recover from as near death as Thorongil now appeared to be. If he died, and Denethor really failed to see how he could not, the effects would be felt throughout the city and far beyond. His father would be devastated; he would probably order an official day of mourning. Denethor absently wondered how they would inform the man’s kin when so little was known about him.

   Denethor sat on, alone, brooding on this unfortunate occurrence. After a while, he remembered the ring and retrieved it from his pocket. He gasped out loud at what he saw in his hand. The ring was unlike anything he had ever seen before. It glittered with the green of emeralds as its jewels caught the light of the fire. As he looked at it more closely, he realized the jewels were the eyes of serpents. There were two of them whose heads met below what appeared to be a crown of flowers carved out of gold. Denethor was sure it was Elvish and very, very old. He was also sure the Warden of the House was right about it being valuable. The piece of jewellery fascinated him in its own right, but what intrigued him even more was how Thorongil could possibly have come by it.  He had never seen him wear the ring, of that he was sure. That fact alone begged the question why.

   The shadows were lengthening in the room and Denethor suddenly remembered how much work he still had to get through. He put away the ring for now and concentrated on other tasks. He also sent a servant to find the men who had brought Thorongil back to the city as he felt he ought to get a full report on the events in the Ephel Dúath prepared for his father.

~oo0oo~

   The next day there was little change in Thorongil’s condition. The Warden was hopeful that the fever was slightly less and was encouraged that they had managed to get some water down the captain’s throat. Denethor popped in briefly to see him, but to his eyes, he looked as awful as he had the day before. Walking back to the Citadel, a thought suddenly struck him about Thorongil’s ring. Something that old and unusual might just be recorded somewhere in the archives. Someone might have seen it before in the long history of the city.

   He was less busy today, so he made his way down to the vaults of the Citadel where all the old parchments and scrolls were kept. He really did not have any idea where to begin and the entire vault was in something of a muddle. He fumbled aimlessly, thinking he really ought to employ someone to sort through all these papers; no one had been near them for years.

   In the end he decided to work methodically starting with the oldest scrolls first. There were copies of some of these, many of them made in the time of Minalcar. Even these were very brittle now and he handled them with great care. He found documents written by Anárion and Isildur, undeniably interesting in their own right, but not getting him anywhere. He was about to move on when a piece about Elendil caught his eye. The writing was indistinct and in places illegible, but it seemed to be a description of the great king made during one of his visits from the North kingdom. There was mention of a white jewel on his brow, the Elendilmir, and it said that he carried a huge sword, the name of which was now unreadable. It also said that he wore a ring on his left hand and there followed a brief description of it.

   ‘For this ring was like to twin serpents, whose eyes were emeralds, and their heads met beneath a crown of golden flowers, that the one upheld and the other devoured.’ [1]

   Denethor felt himself start to tremble and his face to flush. He took the ring out of his pocket and studied it carefully. It fitted the description perfectly. There could be no doubt; this was that ring, the ring worn by Elendil himself. It was a priceless heirloom of Gondor. He could not believe he was holding such a thing in his hand. He quickly turned back to the scroll to see if there was anything more written about it, but there was nothing. He would have liked to have known something of its history, such as how it came to Elendil and whether it was indeed Elvish as he guessed. Perhaps it had even come from Valinor itself.

   But right now he had a more pressing riddle to solve. What on earth was Thorongil doing with it? It was possible, he supposed, that he had come by it honestly; bought perhaps from someone who had no clue as to what it was they sold. He could have found it or even stolen it, although for all his distrust of the man, he did not think Thorongil was a thief.

    But deep down Denethor knew there was really only one explanation for why Thorongil had this ring. He kept denying it for he could not bring himself to confront this possibility, but too much fell into place if he allowed himself to believe the unthinkable. Reluctantly he began to accept the obvious answer.

   Thorongil was a descendent of Elendil and possibly even his heir.

   If Denethor was trembling before it was as nothing to the shake in his hands now. His blood chilled at the very idea. If this was true the implications were enormous. But could Thorongil claim the crown of Gondor? Denethor steadied himself for a moment, taking deep breaths as he tried to remember what he knew of the history of the North Kingdom. He was sure there had been no word of their northern kin for over a thousand years. Arvedui had been the last king and he recalled he had married Fíriel, the daughter of Ondoher. When Ondoher and both his sons were slain in the battle with the Wainriders, Arvedui had then tried to claim the crown of Gondor as well. It was Denethor’s own ancestor, Pelendur, who had thwarted his ambition, giving the crown instead to the victorious general, Earnil. When the Witch-king had invaded Eriador, Eärnil’s son, Eärnur, had gone to the aid of the North Kingdom but, although he had been the victor at the battle to retake Fornost, he had been too late to save Arvedui or the Kingdom.

   But Denethor could not remember if, when Eärnur eventually returned to Gondor, he ever recorded whether Arvedui had sons who survived the assault of the Witch-king. He had assumed, as he was sure all in Gondor had, that the line of Elendil and Isildur had just died out in time, and if any Dúnedain survived they were few in number and of no consequence. But this could change everything. If Arvedui had a son who was the ancestor of Thorongil, then Thorongil would be able to claim descent from Elendil both through Isildur in the North and through Anárion in the South.

   He could claim both crowns.

   Denethor was sweating. He turned the ring over in his hand again and again, his thoughts racing. He was suddenly afraid; the old certainties of his life had just vanished. If Thorongil decided to reveal his true self, Denethor had no doubt he would be welcomed, such was his popularity in the City.

   All the mysteries surrounding Thorongil, or whatever his name was, all suddenly made sense; his friendship with Mithrandir; his extraordinary skills; that air of Numenor that he had; the secrecy about himself. And there was something else about him that set him apart, that made him, Denethor had to admit, such a great leader of men; but it was less easily defined. It was almost as if the man had been chosen for a special purpose and everything in his life touched with grace. Life worked for Thorongil. Even now, he should be dead from his wound but, against all reason, he still lived.

   The thought drew Denethor out of his musings. He hurriedly packed up the scrolls and carefully returned them to the right place in the vaults before he hastened back to the Citadel. He never normally went to the vaults and he did not want questions asked, not now, not with this secret to conceal.

   For he had reached a decision; no one must know of this. Quite what he was going to do with his new found knowledge, he had yet to decide, but he would trust it with no other.

~oo0oo~

   The following day he returned to the Houses of Healing. To his surprise and relief, Thorongil was awake. He still looked awful, but at least he had regained consciousness. Hallas sat in a chair beside his bed. He had been assigned the task of watching over the captain as he slowly emerged from his fever. The young man felt it was a great honour and responsibility to care for this particular patient. He had met the captain a couple of times when he had come to the Houses to treat his injured men. Hallas liked him enormously as he had taken the time and trouble to explain to him all about the herbs he used, telling him of their various effects and uses. Now he had gladly sat beside him and held his hand as the last of the fever left him.

   Denethor immediately told Hallas to leave as he wanted his conversation with Thorongil to be a private one. As the lad closed the door behind him, Denethor sat down next to the injured man who was looking at him curiously through half opened eyes. The Steward’s son did not make visits to the Houses of Healing.

   “How do you feel?” Denethor asked, knowing it was a ridiculous question.

   “I have felt better,” said Thorongil, his voice hoarse, though he attempted a smile.

   Denethor could think of nothing else to say so he came straight to the point, producing the ring from his pocket. He noted how Thorongil’s eyes opened wide with alarm.

   “The Warden gave me this to keep safe for you,” said Denethor. “I thought perhaps you might be missing it by now.”

   Thorongil reached out a shaky hand and Denethor dropped the ring onto his palm.

   “Thank you,” said Thorongil, as he immediately enclosed the ring in a feebly clenched fist. He appeared most unhappy that Denethor had it in his possession.

   “It is a beautiful ring,” said Denethor, trying to keep his voice casual, “though I have never seen you wear it. Might I inquire about its history?”

   Thorongil was silent for many moments. He felt terrible. He had a raging headache; he was struggling to hold down the medicine he had just been given and now he had to deflect an inquisitive Denethor. He just wanted to escape into sleep. When he answered, he did as he always did and stayed as close to the truth as he could.

   “It belonged to my father,” he said, and trying to stop Denethor from questioning him any further, he added, “and to his father before that.”

   “I see,” said Denethor. “Do you know who made it?”

   At Denethor’s persistence, Thorongil became more alert.

   “I do not,” he said. It was the truth, after a fashion. It was made by a Noldor smith in Valinor, that he did know, but he did not know his name. He almost smiled at the absurdity of it all. The ring had been made at least seven thousand years ago. He doubted there was even anyone in Rivendell who could answer that question.

   “I thought it looked Elvish,” continued Denethor.

   Thorongil was by now seriously considering abandoning his efforts to hold down his medicine as his only means of getting rid of Denethor.

   “I believe it is,” he replied, wearily.

   Then he summoned what little strength he could muster and looked Denethor straight in the eye and Denethor suddenly saw that a light was kindled in the depths of his grey eyes. It was keen and commanding and Denethor knew it was a challenge.

   “Is there anything else you wish to know?” asked Thorongil.

   Denethor shook his head.

~oo0oo~

   There King Finrod Felagund would have been slain or taken, but Barahir came by with the bravest of his kin and rescued him, and made a wall of spears about him; and they cut their way out of the battle with great loss. Thus Felagund escaped, and returned to his deep fortress of Nargothrond; but he swore an oath of abiding friendship and aid in every need to Barahir and all his kin, and in token of his vow he gave to Barahir his ring.

Of the ruin of Beleriand                                                                               The Silmarillion

[1] Of Beren and Lúthien                                                                            The Silmarillion

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairstiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairstiona for the beta.

Chapter 11:  Flight of the Eagle

   Thorongil often counselled Ecthelion that the strength of the rebels in Umbar was a great peril to Gondor, and a threat to the fiefs of the south would prove deadly if Sauron moved to open war. At last he got leave to gather a small fleet….

Appendix A                                                                                       The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   “We must act soon, my lord; it would be folly to delay any longer.” Thorongil’s voice was rising as he stopped himself slamming his fist on the table in frustration. He and Ecthelion were studying the map laid out before them on the great desk in Ecthelion’s study, but it did not seem to the captain that he was any nearer persuading the Steward of the need for urgency in removing this threat to Gondor’s borders.

   “I know we have discussed this before, Thorongil,” said Ecthelion, “but I can not commit the forces that would be needed for such a mission as this, especially on what, I have to say, does seem the scantest evidence. We do not know the Corsairs are planning to attack Lebennin and the Ethir.”

   “We do not need to know, my lord,” said Thorongil, with rapidly waning patience; “it is enough, surely, that they could take these fiefs if they chose to do so? If Mordor assaulted our eastern border, we could not also defeat a fleet from Umbar in open battle; a campaign by stealth now is our best hope.”

   Ecthelion considered his captain’s plan again. It was audacious at the very least and undeniably risky; if it failed it was quite conceivable that none of the troops would return alive. He glanced at his captain standing beside him, his face slightly flushed, eyes blazing; daring him to deny him yet again. In the twelve years he had known Thorongil, he had come to trust him above all others. The man had never failed him and it was obvious how eagerly he wanted to do this. Any other captain, he would have refused outright, but if Thorongil really believed he could pull this off, then perhaps he was wrong to doubt him.

   At length he sighed and said: “If you can destroy the Corsair fleet at its moorings in Umbar with just half a dozen ships and three hundred men, then you have my blessing to undertake this venture.”

   Thorongil’s face lit up and he beamed at his Steward. “Thank you, my lord; I can be ready to leave in two days.” But as he prepared to take his leave, Ecthelion put out his hand to stop him.

 “Thorongil, if this goes ill, you realise you will be beyond my aid,” he said quietly. “Be careful, son.”

  Thorongil nodded. “I will, my lord, I promise,” he said, but as he left the Steward’s study, Ecthelion could not fail to notice how his eyes shone with excitement nor how eagerly he sough out his men to break the news to them. The Steward was still ill at ease with his decision, yet he could only hope, for the sake of his captain, he had made the right one.

~oo0oo~

   Thorongil had no difficulty attracting volunteers. None of his Company elected to remain behind. He immediately ensured preparations for the campaign were swiftly underway, although he demanded that all activity be kept as secret as possible; spies had been known to thwart excursions before. At such short notice, rations for only part of the ten day mission could be procured from within the city. The rest of the supplies would be taken on board when the ships docked briefly at Pelargir.

  The day after his conversation with Ecthelion, he was alone in his rooms on the Sixth Circle, when he recieved an unexpected visitor. Answering a knock at the door, he was confronted by a grey cloaked figure in a pointed hat, who smiled at him through a long, white beard.

   “Gandalf!” cried Thorongil, in delight at seeing his old friend again. “This is a surprise and a timely one at that, for I leave on the morrow.”

   “So I have heard,” said Gandalf, taking Thorongil’s hand. “But then arriving at precisely the right moment is something of a skill of mine.”

   Thorongil laughed, “So I have noticed. I can assume there is a good reason for your visit then. It has been over a year, my friend, since last you came this way.”

   “There is indeed a good reason for my visit,” said Gandalf, removing his hat and settling himself down by the fire in Thorongil’s rather sparsely decorated living room.

   “But all in good time. How about a bite to eat first? I have ridden a long way.”

   “Of course, I’m sure I can find you something,” said Thorongil, knowing he could never hurry the wizard, although, as always, he was hoping Gandalf brought news from Rivendell and the North.

   As Gandalf ate, he told Thorongil the news, such as it was. It seemed that little had changed with his foster family and the Dúnedain were much as they always were. It was a relief, as ever, to hear that his people were managing without him, but it did not prevent a wave of guilt assailing him as he was reminded once again that his prolonged absence would not be helping their situation in the slightest.

  When Gandalf had eaten his fill, he produced a pouch from under his robes and gave it to his friend. The wizard tried not to think of it as a peace offering, but he was very aware that what he had come to say would not be well received.

   Thorongil opened the small leather pouch and sniffed.

   “Longbottom, if I am not mistaken,” he said with a grin.

   “I’m glad your senses remain as sharp as ever,” said Gandalf, smiling back at him.

    Thorongil filled his pipe before offering the pouch back to Gandalf. They then sat together in companionable silence for many minutes enjoying their favourite pipeweed. As Gandalf drew on his pipe, he leant back in his chair and, out of the corner of his eye, he studied his pupil thoughtfully. He had definitely changed, he thought. Although he was still young, he was a boy no longer; it was a mature man that sat on the opposite side of the table to him now. Gandalf noticed how he carried himself with the confidence of one who has earned, through his own hard endeavours, the respect and admiration currently afforded him. He knew all about the captain’s reputation within the City and was well pleased with what he had achieved in his time here.

   At last the anticipation of trying to guess the reason for Gandalf’s visit became too much for Thorongil and he could contain his curiosity no longer.

   “All right, Gandalf, you had better tell me. What is this all about?”

   Gandalf put down his pipe and looked the man in the eye. “It’s about you, my dear boy,” he said, “and what you do next.”

   “You know that. I am leaving tomorrow for Umbar.”

   “And after that?” asked Gandalf. “You have been in this city over twelve years. That is a long time in the life of a Man. You have accomplished much and I know how respected you are here, but as long as you remain, you will only ever be the servant of the Steward.”

   Thorongil was shocked at the direction of Gandalf’s words and wondered where they were leading.

   And Gandalf knew what he had to say next would not be welcome.

   “It is time for you to leave.”

   He was quite right; this was not what Thorongil wished to hear. The Captain did not reply right away but took a few moments to carefully compose his argument.

   “My time here has been good,” he said at last. “I have laboured hard in the service of the Steward and I hope my efforts have gone some way to strengthen Gondor’s defences. Not only that, my position here and the regard in which I believe I’m held, perhaps behoves that the time may soon be right for me to reveal my true identity.”

   He hesitated momentarily as he saw Gandalf’s eyebrows shoot up, but he continued regardless. “Ecthelion is old now and Denethor must soon succeed him. While I have the Steward’s respect and friendship, it is not so with his son. Ecthelion might accept me as Isildur’s Heir, but Denethor never will. If it is indeed my fate to reclaim the kingship, I should act soon or it may well be too late. I might never have such a chance again.”

   Gandalf took a long drag on his pipe before replying. He had never advocated claiming the crown at this time and he suspected that a simple longing to remain in the city he had come to call home might be at the root of Thorongil’s desire to do so now.

   “The time is not right, although I can see how it might seem otherwise,” he said. “The army, I imagine, is yours for the taking and I suspect the people of the city would welcome you, especially if you had the blessing of the Steward, but this is a large realm and your name means little in some of the more remote regions. Would you risk civil unrest if your claim was not accepted by all? Would you be prepared to stretch the loyalty of the army to subdue those that opposed you? And there is another consideration. If you declare yourself now you risk bringing the wrath of Sauron down hard upon Gondor. He would surely want to crush a new king before he reached his full strength. Would you wish this upon these people? And, as you must know, if Gondor falls, there will then be none with the strength to stand against the Dark Lord.”

   Thorongil sighed, realising the validity of all those arguments for he had long considered them himself. “Of course I do not wish for any of these things and I can see the wisdom of your council. But if I am not to do this, then why do you say I should leave? There is work to do here.”

   “Of course there is,” said Gandalf. “But there is still much that needs to be done elsewhere and you have other duties to attend to that you should not neglect.”

   Anger flared in Thorongil at that, but he replied as civilly as he could. “Gandalf, I have spent the last thirty years in the service of others. I risk my neck almost daily to try to keep these lands safe and free from evil. What more would you have me do?”

   Gandalf immediately reached over and gripped his friend’s arm.

   “Forgive me, Aragorn,” he said softly. “I did not intend to imply criticism.”

   Thorongil softened at the use of his true name; a name hardly anyone but Gandalf ever called him. He had now been Thorongil for far longer than he had been Aragorn.

   “I can not see all ends,” continued Gandalf, “but I do not believe your time is yet come. Something forewarns me that you should wait, that a means unlooked for at present may yet reveal itself. I have spoken to Elrond of this and found that we are in agreement. Sauron would destroy you, Aragorn, if you made your existence known to him now.”

   Aragorn silently rose from his seat at the table and moved to the window that overlooked the Pelennor Fields. He loved standing there where he could watch the ordinary day-to-day happenings of the realm far below. It brought him a sense of purpose and fuelled his resolve to achieve what he did. Although he missed the North and knew he would return sometime, he was happy in this city; it had become his home.

   And yet he knew in his heart that Gandalf was right. He had already begun to reconsider his position here as the time when Denethor would succeed his father was fast approaching. He doubted he could serve this man. Although their rivalry had never openly surfaced, Aragorn strongly suspected that Denethor had guessed who he really was. That incident with his ring had played on his mind greatly. He was sure that once his father was dead, Denethor would find some way to dispense with his services. He had hoped this signalled that his time to reclaim the crown was drawing nigh. He had not yet given any serious consideration to leaving, but he could see now he had no choice.

   He turned back to face Gandalf.

   “What would you have me do?” he asked.

   “Travel into the East,” said Gandalf. “I have never been there and I can not go now; I am needed elsewhere, but you could go. The Dark Lord works his evil in many ways, but we do not know all that passes there. To know of his plots and devices would be a great aid in our fight against him. It will be dangerous, but I can trust this venture to no other.”

   Aragorn nodded. “Very well, it will be as you ask.”

   “Thank you,” said Gandalf, but it saddened him to see how grim the man had become suddenly.

  “I do not think you will need to stay too long,” he said, trying to bring him some cheer, “perhaps little more than a year would suffice for our needs, then I am sure the Dúnedain of the North would welcome seeing their Chieftain again.”

   He was rewarded with a smile, but Aragorn felt the now familiar twisting of his insides as his world collapsed around him again. But this time there was not even the consolation of having new places to visit and new adventures to look forward to.

   He had no wish to see Mordor and the adventures he knew he would find there held no appeal whatsoever.

~oo0oo~

  The next day dawned dull and overcast, reflecting the Captain’s sombre mood as he and his Company prepared to depart from the City. Aragorn had decided to say nothing to Ecthelion of his plans to leave. In part, he did not know how to break it to him, but neither was he sure his resolve would hold if Ecthelion asked him to stay. Also he feared the Steward might change his mind about the mission, and it was too important for that. Aragorn had already begun to think of it as his parting gift to him.

   He walked at the head of his troops as they crossed the Pelennor Fields and made their way to the small fleet awaiting them by the docks at the Harlond. Once on board ship, and sailing down Anduin, Aragorn stood alone on the quarter deck and could not forebear to look back for one last glimpse of Minas Tirith before she passed from his sight. The depth of his grief at leaving had caught him by surprise. There were people there whom he loved dearly who he would never see again. He fully realised how much he was going to miss the life he had made for himself in that beautiful city. His grief was made all the harder to bear as there was no certainty that he would ever return.

   At last he cast his eyes back to watching the Great River widen before them.  He hardened his heart and contemplated the task before him. Ecthelion had been right; it was an audacious plan and undeniably risky. And sailing right into the haven of your enemies and destroying their fleet at its moorings was not a manoeuvre to be undertaken by a captain with his mind preoccupied with other matters. The operation must command his full attention.

    By late the following morning the ships had sailed the forty-two leagues from the Harlond to Pelargir where they docked for a few hours to load supplies before continuing on down Anduin to the Bay of Belfalas. The sound of a vast multitude of gulls, filling the sky above, heralded their arrival at the coast and the sound remained with them as they sailed through the great estuary of the Ethir. Once the fleet was clear of Tolfalas, Aragorn ordered all sails to be unfurled and soon the ships were cutting their way through the ever growing waves of the open sea.

   His spirits rose as soon as he tasted the salt air. Sailing onboard ship had been a totally new and rather frightening experience for him when he first came to Gondor, but now he loved the motion of the vast hull beneath his feet and the illusion of freedom the remote horizon granted him. The sun was blazing overhead and the sea breeze was sufficient to lift the sails and allow the oarsmen a day of rest.

~oo0oo~

   It took four days to reach the narrow inlet in the coastline of Umbar that led to the Haven of the Corsairs. Darkness was descending as the ships dropped anchor a safe distance from the coast. A small rowing boat was lowered from near the stern of one of them and a group of select warriors climbed down into it, their mission to scale the cliffs and dispatch the enemy sentries in their look-outs Aragorn hated sending any of his men off without him, but he was in command of the fleet and that was where his main duty lay.

   He watched as his men battled their way through the waves to the cliffs that rose steeply before them. Then they disappeared from their captain’s sight. But they were not gone long, and as they rowed back into view, Aragorn could only assume they had been successful in their task. Once they were all safely returned to the ship, the small fleet made its way unobserved through the inlet.

   It was an overcast night, but with enough wind to dull any sound from the six great ships as they slid through the calm waters of the enclosed harbour. The sails were now furled and the ships were powered by the sweat of the oarsmen alone as, stroke by stroke, they pulled closer to the enemy stronghold. Half a league from the Haven, the signal was given to man the capstans and the anchors were dropped. Many rowing boats were lowered from the sides of the ships and most of the men descended into them, leaving only a skeleton crew behind to man each ship. It was now the depths of night and none marked their passage as the soldiers quietly rowed towards the distant lights of the harbour.

    At last the Men of Gondor had the fleet of the Corsairs in their sights. Very mighty it was; no less than fifty huge dromunds and an even greater number of smaller vessels. The rowing boats were brought stealthily along side the larger ships and as many of the smaller ones as their number allowed. Almost silently, the men climbed aboard the Corsair vessels, leaving just two men in each of the rowing boats to retreat with them to a safe distance.

   Aragorn deftly boarded the largest ship which was moored in the centre of the harbour. The attack had to be made as one and so he waited on deck, peering through the darkness to observe the progress of his men before giving the signal. When all were finally in position, he raised the white flag of the Steward of Gondor on the tallest mast among them. At this signal, the soldiers sprang into action, setting fires deep in the holds of the ships, before hastily leaping onto the quayside. There they drew their swords and readied themselves to engage the Corsairs and thus prevent them from rescuing their vessels. Aragorn stood at their head, his sword raised in front of him. His heart was already beating faster with the anticipation of the coming battle, and he noticed the familiar look of blended terror and mounting excitement on the faces of those around him as his men waited for the enemy to arrive.

   They did not have to wait long. All too suddenly the silence and peace of the night was shattered by shouting coming from the buildings along the waterfront. The alarm had been raised. Immediately there was a frantic ringing of bells and blowing of horns. Peopled started to appear in doorways, but many just stood and stared, shocked by the sight of the flame-engulfed ships.

  But in no time, the Garrison of the Harbour arrived and swiftly engaged the soldiers of Gondor in earnest. Their defence was vicious and intense, but woken from their sleep as they were and ill prepared for battle, their efforts were in disarray. Although outnumbered, Aragorn’s men fought valiantly and soon had the upper hand. He himself lent his sword wherever it was most needed and he quickly realized the worst fighting was in the centre of the quay.

   Springing into the fray, he was immediately engaged in a deadly duel with the Captain of the Haven himself. The man was an accomplished swordsman and he and the Captain from Gondor strove together on the water’s edge, locked in their own personal battle with neither able to gain the advantage. But for all the Corsair’s skill, he was not Elven trained and at last Aragorn felt his sword sheer through flesh and the commander fell dead at his feet.

   With their leader slain, the defence of the Corsair force fell apart and the few that survived the onslaught from Gondor soon retreated to the safety of the dark streets and alleyways behind the quay. By now the fleet was ablaze and beyond recovery.

   Aragorn raised to his lips the small horn he carried with him and blew the signal which ordered his men to make a swift departure and leave the deserting troops of their enemy to their flight. At this command, the rowing boats returned and the dead as well as the injured were quickly lowered into them. With a last look around the harbour for potential trouble, and seeing none, the soldiers followed their fallen comrades into the boats.

~oo0oo~

   The scene before the eyes of the Men of Gondor as they rowed back to their waiting ships was one of total carnage.  They themselves had suffered small loss, but the cries of the injured Corsairs, still lying where they fell, followed them pitifully across the water. Aragorn’s men had purposely spread the fires to the boatyards and barracks before they left, and these were now taking hold in the town itself. Screams of terror and pain filled the night air as slowly Aragorn and his soldiers pulled away from the horror they had created.

   It did not take long for the men to return to their own ships. The rowing boats carrying the injured were winched up onto the one vessel and once all were safely back onboard ship, the remaining boats were securely lashed to the sides of the ships and the anchors raised. With the oarsmen rowing at full stretch, the small fleet hastily retreated to the open sea.

   Aragorn sailed with the injured. He moved between them quickly, expertly assessing their wounds and prioritising their treatment. He and the fleet’s healers worked together through the remainder of the night tending the wounded. Fortunately there were few with life threatening injuries, but there were many slashed limbs that needed suturing. It was mid-day before Aragorn emerged from the healing rooms having done all he could for now. He was exhausted from his labours and staggered a little as he made his way to his cabin to snatch a few hours rest.

   But sleep eluded him as the images of the stricken men on the quayside replayed over and over in his mind. War still sickened him, no matter how often he went into battle. He could never get used to the sheer, mind-splitting brutality that always assailed him, wounding him almost as much as an actual blow. He had long ago learned how to hold his stomach at the sight of severed limbs and opened torsos. He had learned how to feign indifference to the suffering of his foes and callously walk away, delighting in the chalking up of another victory. But if he fooled those around him, he did not fool himself. In his heart he felt as much for those left lying on the quayside as he did his own injured men. Killing orcs was one thing, but these were soldiers, no different from his, save that they had been deceived by the Dark Lord and had come under his sway.

   Perhaps it was no bad thing after all that he was leaving. He was so tired of war.

~oo0oo~

   Four days later the fleet sailed into Pelargir. They rested there for some days while the wounded were taken ashore and the soldiers were granted some well earned leave. Aragorn wrote a formal message to the Steward, informing him of the outcome of the mission. But then he had the difficult task of composing a personal letter to the man who was not just his Steward but also his friend.

   “….Other tasks call me now lord, and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate….” [1]

   How he wished he could just tell him the truth. After all that Ecthelion had done for him, he deserved that much.

   But harder even than that was his farewell to his men. They trusted him with their lives. There was nothing they would not do for him if he asked it, and he now he was rewarding their loyalty by deserting them. They were dismayed, begging him to reconsider, and such was his longing to do so he truly considered abandoning the burden of his destiny. But not for nothing did the blood of Beren and Luthien flow in his veins. He could not that easily forsake his duty, and so at last he said his farewells, and with a heavy heart, he sailed across Anduin to face the harsh unknown of Mordor.

~oo0oo~

   Ecthelion sat at his great desk reading the letter from his captain over and over again as if with each reading he hoped to find some further clue to explain Thorongil’s inexplicable departure. Opposite him sat his son whom he had summoned to him in the hope that he might be able to enlighten him as to Thorongil’s motives. He knew of Denethor’s hostility to his captain and felt it was probable the answer lay with his son somewhere. But what Denethor knew or guessed he would not say, though he himself was wracked with uncertainty. Thorongil where he could watch him and, to a certain extent, control him, was one thing; Thorongil on the loose and beyond his reach was quite another.

   “I can not understand it,” said Ecthelion, still staring at the letter. “He could have had anything he desired; no honour would have been too great. I would have granted him anything.”

   “Are you quiet sure of this father?” asked Denethor. “Would you really have given him anything, anything at all?”……

~oo0oo~

    …...and he came to Umbar by night, and there burned a great part of the ships of the Corsairs. He himself overthrew the Captain of the Haven in battle upon the quays, and then he withdrew his fleet with small loss. But when they returned to Pelargir, to men’s grief and wonder, he would not return to Minas Tirith, where great honour awaited him.

Appendix A                                                                                       The Return of the King

[1]    Appendix A                                                                            The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 12:  The Spy

   Thus the hour of his victory, Aragorn passed out of the knowledge of Men of the West, and went alone far into the East and deep into the South, exploring the hearts of Men, both good and evil, and uncovering the plots and devices of the servants of Sauron.

Appendix A                                                                                        The Return of the King

   Heat, unbelievable heat; unrelenting, scorching, strength-sapping heat.

   Every movement became a torment. Leaden feet dragged his exhausted body through endless burning sand and over rocks that felt as if they had risen from the very centre of the earth. And thirst; his raw and agonized throat was screaming for water. But there was none; there was nothing but league upon league of empty formless, boiling land.

   He halted for a moment and glanced behind him, keen eyes piercing the distant hazy horizon. He must have lost his pursuers by now. No one surely would follow him into this furnace by choice.  They had chased him for miles; their raised sabres, glinting in the overhead sun, had told him as much. There were too many of them to stand against. And he had no doubts as to what they would do if they caught him.

   His searching gaze revealed nothing. He turned and slowly continued on his way.

~oo0oo~

   He had been foolish. He had asked too many questions, brought too much attention to himself. He should have known better. Desperate though he might be to finish his business here and leave these lands for good, he was more aware than most the dangers of unguarded talk. A tall, pale-skinned man in these parts was a rarity in itself. Few had seen his like before, and if such men were remembered at all it was only from legend.

    And not all those legends spoke kindly of the grey-eyed Men from over the Sea. His halting grasp of the language had further exposed his vulnerability. He was all too clearly a stranger here. There would be no one would mourn if he was slain for the few coins he carried. There were men aplenty who would kill him for less. But the threat of his bright sword had stayed them long enough for him to make his escape. Few would risk death on its lethal edge. But one had ventured so and paid the ultimate price for his folly.

   Now the dead man’s companions were bent on revenge.

   He had fled with nothing but his sword and the clothes he stood in.   His skin was raw and peeling beneath the thin cotton that covered him completely from head to toe. His pale eyes, hurting from the constant blinding sun, peered out through a narrow opening in the cloth that covered most of his face; the exposed skin blistered and weeping. He gazed around him into the endless yellow landscape where land and sky merged into one unending emptiness.

   And he despaired.

    He knew he could endure no more. He had run to the very end of his strength. He had not eaten for days and not a drop of water had passed his lips since the day before yesterday. He could not last long in this heat without more. And there was no hope of that. Death must soon find him. And it would come as a relief now; a relief to leave this arid wasteland for ever and never again have to struggle on under this burning, torturing sun. He had no fight left. The sand and the heat would soon conquer him.

      As the last of his strength drained away, he sank to his knees and bowed his head. He would never get up again. Not now. This was where his life would end. And then he would find rest. He sank further into the sand. It burnt him, but he no longer cared. He would not have to endure it for long. His blistered eyelids slowly drooped shut as his body toppled into the scorching sand, a low wince escaping from him as the heat seeped through his thin clothing. If he lingered a few more hours, it would be dusk and the searing heat would be replaced by the bitter cold of a cloudless night. He would shiver then in his meagre clothes and be unable to sleep in spite of his exhaustion. And the strange stars would bring him no comfort.

~oo0oo~

   As he lay there, his mind slowly abandoned its memories of endless days trudging the desert. The cruel sun receded to be replaced by a gentle, welcome one. The barren sand turned to a sea of grass and the deceitful images of trees on the horizon, always just beyond his reach, became firm, sturdy trunks with soft green leaves that shaded and protected him. Nearby there was a stream where flowed the coolest, sweetest water he had ever tasted. He could find rest here in this place. His cares he would abandon and he could at last be himself again. No longer would he need to maintain this pretence of being someone he was not. He would remain here and sleep and drink the cool water and nothing else would matter.

~oo0oo~

   The sound of goats bleating drifted into his unconsciousness. Bells rang and there were voices; quiet and whispering, yet nearby. Something cool touched his face and water dripped onto his lips. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were fused shut. Disjoined memories slowly came into his mind as he sought to make sense of where he was. But as his last coherent thoughts returned to him, he felt a strange disappointment. He had hoped that death would bring him peace and freedom from pain.

   But it was not so. He had neither.

   He tried to move his sore body, but as it slowly responded, unknown hands gently gripped his arms and restrained him. Slowly, little by little, his blistered eyelids parted and he found himself staring at white walls. A face suddenly appeared above him. It was dark and haggard, the skin as tough as aged leather. Two jet black eyes regarded him curiously as a gnarled hand brought an earthenware cup to his mouth. The water stung his cracked lips, but it tasted good; as good as water had ever tasted in all his life. It was only a sip; he wanted more and looked longingly at the cup, but the old man smiled at him and shook his head. Then nausea washed over him and the old man and his cup faded into darkness.

   How many days he lay in that room, he did not know. The old man tended him with kindness such as he had not known in all his time in that land. He applied balm to his sore skin and coaxed broth and water down his parched and swollen throat. Slowly he felt strength return to his tired limbs. Soon he was able to stand, and one cool evening, he staggered outside to glimpse the world he thought never to see again. To his surprise, he found a settlement of many small white houses. Children played games of chase between them while women washed clothes at the well, humming softly as they did so. Camels and goats wandered at will among them.

   Someone placed a chair under the shade of a palm tree for him to rest upon. There he sat and watched the simple lives, everyday lives going on around him. And he was suddenly smote with a deep longing for every place he had ever dwelt where carefree children played and women sang contentedly as they worked.

~oo0oo~

  He was welcome to stay until he was healed, he was told. He was grateful and he thanked them. But he knew he must leave as soon as he felt able. He had no desire to remain and when his strength returned he would be on his way. He yearned now for living lands and colours of blue and green and for fresh winds and clouds and rain. But most of all, he yearned for the people he loved whom he had not seen in so very many long years.

   It was time to go home.

   ‘I have crossed many mountains and many rivers, and trodden many plains, even into the far countries of Rhun and Harad where the stars are strange.’

 The Council of Elrond                                                              The Fellowship of the Ring

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 13:  King of Men

   “It came to pass that when Aragorn was nine and forty years of age he returned from perils on the dark confines of Mordor, where Sauron now dwelt again and was busy with evil. He was weary and wished to go back to Rivendell and rest there for a while ere he journeyed into the far countries; and on his way he came to the borders of Lórien and was admitted to the hidden land by the lady Galadriel.

   He did not know it, but Arwen Undómiel was also there, dwelling again for a time with the kin of her mother. She was little changed for the mortal years had passed her by; yet her face was more grave and her laughter now seldom was heard.”

 The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen.                                                                  The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   He was tired. He ached to his bones with weariness, but somehow he found the strength to keep placing one foot in front of the other, for mile after endless mile. His progress was slow; it had been over three months since he left Harad. It felt even longer, though he had been only too glad to leave those inhospitable, distant lands behind. His time in the far South had been more difficult and demanding than any he had previously known as most of the people who dwelt there had been openly hostile to this stranger from the North. More times than he cared to remember, a stray knife or flailing sabre had nearly claimed his life. And the constant distrust and suspicion that accompanied him where ever he travelled made him feel more of an outsider than ever.

   He was slowly making his way back to Rivendell where he hoped to find some much needed rest. Travelling alone was wearying. He could rarely relax his guard and sleep became a matter of brief lapses when utter exhaustion prevented him from keeping his eyelids open a moment longer. His feet were sore and his muscles ached, but, in truth, it was not only his body that needed to heal. He had been gone from the North for nearly half his life. During that time he had fought countless battles and had faced and survived dangers beyond those of even his wildest imaginings. He had learned to study the ways and hearts of men and had discovered the good as well as the evil that dwelt there, but he had also seen, and done, much that still haunted him. His efforts had earned him both honour and renown, but the optimistic and eager young man who had travelled with Gandalf to Rohan, to enlist in the service of Thengel, was no more.

   Now he longed only for the friendship of his own people and his home.

    Home!

    Happy memories of his years in Rivendell had succoured and strengthened him through many a hardship, but his childhood now felt distant and remote. He did not doubt the warmth of the welcome he would receive upon his return, but he was not the same man who had left there nearly thirty years ago. His greatest fear now was that he would feel an outsider in Rivendell too, and his joy in the one place closest to his heart would be gone forever.

   He did not even begin to allow his thoughts to stray to the possibility of meeting Arwen again. Barely a day passed when he did not think of her, but he knew he must guard his heart and curb his desire. To do otherwise would only bring him pain and he had no wish to renew his torment over Elrond’s daughter.

    But, in truth, he sought more from his homecoming than a break from his labours and the companionship of his old friends.  He needed to rekindle that unburdened sense of optimism that had come so easily to him as a youth but which rarely flared within him now. But he knew there were no certainties that by simply returning home, he would find what he was seeking.

    And if Rivendell could not restore the fire in his heart, where then could he possibly hope to find it?

   Not in Rohan, not in Gondor, and certainly not in the far South. Always he felt set apart by virtue of who he was and by the secret that he so carefully guarded. He was never able to allow himself to belong anywhere. Even among his own people in the North, who knew him as he truly was and loved him for himself, he could not find the fulfilment and peace for which he yearned. At his core was a loneliness that was slowly crushing his heart and his hope. It followed him relentlessly; and he feared that it mattered not where in all Middle-earth he dwelt, it would always be with him and he would have no choice but to learn to accept it.

~oo0oo~

   He was taking a gamble with his present route. He had left the plains of Rohan behind him and had entered the southern fringes of Lothlórien. He reasoned this was the quickest and probably the safest way to reach Rivendell, but if admittance to the Golden Wood was denied him, it would be a very long trek back to the Gap of Rohan. In part, it was curiosity that urged him to come this way. Here was his chance to see the legendary realm that he had heard so much about as a child. More importantly, if he was allowed into the guarded land, he would find some relief for his tired and aching muscles, if only for a while. He would be safe in the Elven realm and could recover his strength for the still considerable journey to Rivendell.

   Suddenly, out of nowhere, there were three Elves standing in front of him, and three arrows pointing straight at his chest. He stood motionless and waited. It was no surprise to him that he had been caught off guard. Such was their skill, the Elves would have taken him unawares even without this mind-numbing lethargy. As the piercing eyes of the Firstborn studied him searchingly, he became increasingly nervous, though he doubted he could be in any real danger. Perhaps he had dwelt in the company of Men for too long. Slowly he raised his hands; on his finger, worn openly, was the ring that had once belonged to the Lady’s brother.

   One of the Elves finally spoke. “It is not permitted for any to enter the Golden Wood without permission. Who are you?”

   Aragorn considered this question for a moment. Which of the names that accompanied his many guises should he use this time, he wondered. But he knew of no reason to conceal his identity here and so it was with a small surge of joy, that he spoke aloud the name he had kept silent for so long.

   “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, Lord of the Dúnedain,” he said, with all the dignity he could muster, given how down trodden he knew he must look. On hearing this, the Elves spoke softly among themselves, all the while keeping their arrows pointed straight at him. But then the three sentries suddenly lowered their bows and Aragorn’s fears proved groundless.

   “That is as we thought,” said the first Elf, with a low smile, “though we have seen none of your people in this realm for years beyond count. What brings you to our borders?”

   Relieved, Aragorn replied: “I seek only rest. I am journeying to Imladris, but I have already travelled from far to the South and I am weary.”

   The Elf nodded his understanding. “Give me your sword and we will not turn you away.”

   Aragorn unstrapped his sword belt and gave it to the Elf.

   “Come, it is a long way to the city, but we may yet reach it by nightfall,” he said.

~oo0oo~

   The Elves walked on in silence for most of the day, for which Aragorn was grateful; small talk was beyond him right now. But he was not so tired he failed to notice the beauty of the trees around him. The golden mallorn-trees were larger than any tree he had ever seen in all Middle-earth, and the sight of the huge silver trunks, topped by the golden canopy above, left him awed and enchanted. No wonder there were rumours in Rohan about this place, he thought, remembering the tales he had heard of a sorceress with strange powers who dwelt deep within the forest. He could feel that power; it was all around him, even within the very trees themselves. Already he was aware of his step lightening and some of the burden that increasingly had settled on his shoulders easing a little.

   After nearly a day’s march, they finally came to the city of Caras Galadhon, and hence to the dwelling of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. Aragorn found himself climbing a never ending ladder that rose to an impossible height into the largest of the mallorn-trees. Near the top he ascended onto a vast raised platform that reminded him of being on board ship. Here he was guided towards two central figures, who rose to their feet as he walked towards them. They were very tall and were dressed all in white; their heads, one of silver and one of gold, shimmered in the twilight. Familiar though he was with noble and lordly elves, he felt overwhelmed by the presence of these two legendary beings. Galadriel’s beauty was beyond compare and the aura that surrounded her held him entranced. However, he remembered his place and bowed low.

    “Welcome, lord of the Dúnedain,” said Celeborn. “You are far from your home and I see you are weary, but here you shall find rest and refuge whilst you desire it.”

   “Thank you, my lord, my lady,” said Aragorn, still standing meekly with his head bowed.

   Galadriel said nothing, but smiling, she stepped towards him and gently raised his chin with her fingertips so she could look into his eyes. She had heard much about this foster son of Elrond’s. Her grandsons loved him as their brother and could not speak of him highly enough. Looking at him intensely now, she could see the nobility in his lean, pale face. For sure the blood of Númenor coursed through this man’s veins. Even exhausted, there was no mistaking the strength of both his body and mind and yet, as she looked into his dull grey eyes, she wondered if what she saw was enough. He was the Hope of his People, and ever did he dutifully strive to fulfil the expectations laid upon him. But this had been a heavy burden to place upon a young man. She could see the toll it was taking on him. His bold and generous spirit was battered and bruised; he had seen many, maybe too many, of the evils of this world already. It was a hard and lonely road that he travelled and that road was still nowhere near its end. If he faltered the consequences could be terrible.

   He must not fail.

   She looked upon him with compassion and understanding. For him there was no ring of power to aid him; he was just a man and whatever strength he possessed, he needed to find from within himself. Galadriel knew it was time to give him some hope for his own future, something to encourage him in the years ahead when desperation and despair would at times threaten to defeat him. Yes, she could see why Elladan and Elrohir loved and respected him so, but it was what her granddaughter felt for this man that concerned her now.

~oo0oo~

   She decided not to detain him and bid his escort take him to find food and rest. And while Aragorn slept, Galadriel sought out her granddaughter. Arwen had spoken little of the young man, not much more than a boy, whom she had met under the silver birches in Rivendell nearly thirty years ago, but Galadriel had noticed the change in her over the years. Arwen probably had not acknowledged her awakening feelings even to herself. To do so would evoke for her an unenviable dilemma, but Galadriel knew Arwen’s heart would turn towards him now.

   Elrond would be grieved, she knew. But she was sure that in time he would understand, as she did, the importance of a union between Aragorn and Arwen in providing a legacy for all their long labours in Middle-Earth. Whatever the outcome of the approaching war, the Elves’ time in these lands was passing; there would be no victory for the Firstborn. Even if the power of Barad-dûr was destroyed, the future of Middle-earth would belong to Men. If he survived his trials, Aragorn would become king and, if Arwen became his wife, her descendents would have a crucial role in that future.

    Elrond knew this too. Was this not the main reason he had he stayed in Middle-earth these last five hundred years, to harbour and protect his brother’s heirs? He, after all, was free to leave and could have sailed with Celebrían had he chosen to do so. Elrond had waited a long time for this scion of Elros. And unlike the other Chieftains of the Dúnedain, Aragorn was the only one he had raised as his own son. Surely his love for him would temper some of his pain at being sundered from his daughter.

   Galadriel descended the steps to her garden, a favourite haunt of her granddaughter’s at this time in the evening. She knew meddling with the hearts of others could have disastrous consequences, but she was sure the seeds were already sown and nothing more was needed than gentle nurturing. The danger would lie in the reactions of others. She had long ago dwelt in Menegroth and had seen for herself the harm caused when an over protective Elf lord had tried to prevent his daughter from following her heart and marrying a mortal Man. If Elrond was furious, she would remind him to heed the tale of his own ancestors and remember the fate of Lúthien and Beren. But Arwen would make her own decision, and as for Aragorn, she could read his mortal heart so easily. He would never love another, but if Arwen returned his love, it would keep alive hope in his heart through all the dark and lonely paths that he still must tread.

~oo0oo~

   Galadriel found her granddaughter walking alone, aimlessly following the gentle stream that meandered through her garden. She accompanied her for a while. It was a beautiful tranquil evening and a simple joy to wander without purpose by the light of the stars. They talked of many things before she mentioned that an unexpected guest had arrived that evening.

   “We have a visitor in Lothlórien tonight, Arwen.”

   “Oh? Have you received word from Imladris?” Her grand daughter was ever eager for tidings from her father’s house.

   “No, it is not a messenger from beyond the mountains,” said Galadriel. “It is a man who rests within our borders. He has journeyed from the South.”

   “It has never been the custom to permit men to enter our realm,”

   “That is so, but I deemed it right to grant this privilege as he is no ordinary man,” replied Galadriel. “He is the lord of the Dúnedain. You know him as Estel, I believe.”

   “Estel! He is here!” said Arwen in surprise. But she said no more and, lifting her face to the stars, she was silent for a long moment. The gentle light fell softly about her and Galadriel noticed how her eyes shone. And she thought she had never before seen her grandchild looking so fair as she did in that instant.

    Turning back to face her grandmother, Arwen asked simply: “He is well?”

   “He is weary, but yes, well enough. I sent him to rest, but you may meet him in the morning, should you desire it.”

    Arwen was unsure how to reply. She was shaken, and not a little troubled, by the bewildering cascade of emotions that had swept through her at the mere mention of this man’s name. She needed more time to consider this offer.

    “Perhaps,” she said at last.

   Then she fell silent again and when she spoke next, it was of other matters.

   Galadriel smiled to herself. Her granddaughter may have responded lightly to the news, but she had seen the look in her eye and was glad.

~oo0oo~

   In the morning, after Aragorn had bathed and eaten, Galadriel sent a message to her guest requesting that he should visit her in her chamber. He complied immediately, leaving his lodging at once and quickly making his way to her.

   On his arrival, Galadriel was struck by how changed he was from the exhausted man she had met the evening before. The long night’s sleep had eased much of his weariness and many years had fallen from his face. He looked young and fair and, as he stood before her, she noticed how he carried himself with a quiet dignity. Now he seemed to her every inch Elendil’s heir, save for one thing; his travel-stained clothes.  He was dressed in rags, and filthy rags at that. He might be the heir of two kingdoms, but at the moment he clearly possessed nothing but the clothes he stood in.

   It was a small thing perhaps, but she could help him here. Rich and kingly garments, she knew, would not deceive her grand daughter for a moment; Arwen would judge the man beneath the clothes soon enough, but there was no harm in lending him a helping hand. She sent her maid to fetch some of Celeborn’s finest robes.

   She would dress this man as the king he might one day become.

   Turning her attention back to her guest, she asked: “I trust you slept well, Aragorn, son of Arathorn?”

   “Very well, thank you, my lady,” Aragorn replied. “I have not felt so refreshed in a long time.”

   Galadriel smiled a little sadly.

   “It pleases me then, to hear that you were able to find the rest you needed within our borders. I hope you will chose to remain with us for a time. You have been gone from your home for many years and you are, no doubt, eager to return, but, I’m sure, none would grudge you a short break from your labours.”

   Her maid swiftly returned, bearing robes of silver and white and a cloak of grey.

   “Will these do, my lady?” she asked, holding them up for her mistress to see.

   “They will do very well, thank you,” Galadriel replied as she took the clothes from her and laid them on a couch.

   Addressing Aragorn she said: “Your own clothes are very worn and in need of much attention. If you are to rest awhile within my domain, I would have you attired as your station deserves.”

   “My station?” asked Aragorn. “I am a traveller, nothing more; there is no need for you to trouble yourself on my behalf, I assure you.” 

   “If nothing else you are the lord of your people and whilst you are in my realm, I would have you dress as such.” She hoped he wasn’t going to make this difficult. “The needs of the times might require that you disguise your true self, but you have no need of such wiles here. I ask nothing more than to clad you as you would be in your father’s house.” She smiled at him, encouragingly.

  Aragorn had no more desire to argue than he had to be dressed as an elven prince so he bowed his head to signal his acquiescence. Galadriel and her maid then left him alone to change. After they had gone, he stood looking at the robes laid out on the couch. They were of the finest quality he had ever seen. In all his years at Rivendell, he could not recall ever seeing Elrond even dressed in such finery. He tentatively reached out a hand and felt the cloth. The silks were softer than any he had felt before. What grub had worked its magic to produce thread like this. And skilfully sewn into the weave of the silks were countless strands of mithril that glistened in the bright morning light. He knew he would feel uncomfortable, if not a little ridiculous dressed so, but he had no desire to insult the Lady and so he quickly shed his old clothes. He was reluctant to part with them. They were more like comfortable old friends to him now, having lived with him for so long and seen him through so many adventures. Laying them to one side, he carefully pulled on the scrupulously clean, sparkling robes. He was still adjusting the tunic when Galadriel returned.

   “Here, allow me,” she said, as she stepped towards him and helped him straighten it. Then she picked up the cloak and draped it around his shoulders before fastening it at his throat.

   “There, that is better, you look much changed, son of Arathorn,” she said, smiling. “But there are one or two details yet to set right, if you will permit me to attend you.” She pulled up a chair and motioned for him to sit.

   “Come, let me tidy your hair,” she said. “You still look like a vagabond who has stumbled upon another man’s clothes.”

   Aragorn smiled. “Forgive me, my lady, but that is precisely how I feel.”

   Galadriel laughed; a soft joyful sound that at once made Aragorn realise how much he had missed the company of Elves.

  “In that case, we must see what we can do to make you more comfortable,” she said, picking up a comb. Aragorn looked entirely unconvinced, but he sat obediently and allowed the Lady of the Golden Wood to tease the tangles from his hair. She was very gentle and as her long fingers worked systematically through each knotted lock, he had to admit the sensation relaxed and soothed him enormously. When Galadriel was satisfied he had not a hair out of place, she fished a filet from her robe and bound a gem to his brow. Finally she held up a mirror so he could admire the results of her efforts.

   “I look like a king!” Aragorn said in amazement at the regal reflection staring back at him.

   “So you do,” agreed Galadriel, hoping she sounded surprised.

   Then smiling her approval, she led him from her chamber and left him alone to wander under the great trees, where he slowly made his way to Arwen.

~oo0oo~

   “Galadriel bade him cast aside his way-worn raiment, and she clothed him in silver and white, with a cloak of elven- grey and a bright gem on his brow. Then more than any king of Men he appeared, and seemed rather an Elf-lord from the lsles of the West. And thus it was that Arwen first beheld him again after their long parting; and as he came walking towards her under the trees of Caras Galadhon laden with flowers of gold, her choice was made and her doom appointed.”

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                                  The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 14: Arwen

   “What you will see, if you leave the mirror free to work, I can not tell. For it shows things that were, and things that are, and things that yet may be. But which it is that he sees, even the wisest cannot always tell.”

The Mirror of Galadriel                                                                    Fellowship of the Ring

~oo0oo~

   It is nearly a week now since he left, since I last saw him, riding away through the golden canopy of the Mallorn-trees. He turned to smile at me before he disappeared from my view. That smile I have tried to imprint upon my mind, but as every new day passes, I find it slipping a little further from my memory. And yet I must not lose it.

   It is all I have.

   These last few days have been a torment, an oscillating delirium of boundless joy and fathomless despair and it is only my treasured memories of our times together that bring me any comfort at all, shallow reflections of those blissful times though they are. Never before have I known turmoil within me such as I am feeling now. My eyes long only to gaze into his, while my ears listen constantly for the sound of his voice, My arms ache for the feel of his body within them, my skin yearns for the touch of his fingers and my lips…..How ever will I endure our time apart?

   And yet I know it can be no other way. When first I beheld him again after so many years, I did not doubt I would cleave to him. As he walked towards me on that spring morning, I was powerless to change my fate. I have in truth known it from the day I first met him, when I heard him calling to me among the silver birches of Rivendell. He was only a boy then, yet still my heart warmed to him. But a choice such as mine is not lightly undertaken; I had to be sure.

   I have thought of him often and wondered how he fared. I was sure we would meet again some day, but then I was content to wait for that day. Now everything is changed. He is in my every waking thought. I can not breathe without thinking of him. My body will not be as peace again until I am near him.

   He has gone to Rivendell to talk to my father; our father. He left full of hope, but I know, for all that Elrond loves Estel, he will not permit our marriage. Not yet. The least of his reasons may be that Estel has yet to fulfil his destiny. My father has forbidden him to marry at all until he is proved worthy, though I can not help but ask; how worthy must he be? Has he not worked tirelessly and selflessly all his years? Does he not intend to do so still? In the three millennia of my life, I have had no shortage of suitors among the Eldar casting their eye in my direction. I heeded none of them, yet, had I done so, my father would have consented, though few could compare in ‘worthiness’ to Aragorn.

   No, I know the true reason my father will deny us our wish. I have tried to explain to Estel, but he is mortal; he can never truly understand. He does not really see the enormity of what he asks of my father. A separation until the end of Arda is something beyond the imagination of Men. They lead such fleeting lives within its bounds and then depart to a place that only Eru knows.

   I have chosen now to take that path with Estel. It is no small sacrifice, and the grief and pain I shall cause my family will be almost unbearable for any of us. And yet my grandmother, who would share this pain, has given us her blessing. More than that, she has encouraged our union. I do not doubt Captain Thorongil would have won my heart soon enough, but my grandmother ensured I met only a king.

   But such things are of small concern to me now. Estel is young and strong. He has his whole life ahead of him. Unless some ill chance befalls him, there are many years when we can hope to enjoy a life together, if we are only permitted to do so.

~oo0oo~

   I am roused from my thoughts by my grandmother who walks towards me across the lawn. Silently she comes and sits on the bench beside me.

   We do not talk for a long while. She knows only too well what ails me.

   After a time, she asks: “Would it ease your heart, child, to look into my mirror?”

   I have considered making just such a request, but I do not answer immediately for I know the mirror can deceive. My longing may cloud my judgment and the mirror may not bring the peace that I hope for.  But such is my unrest I decide to take that risk.

   “Yes, I believe it might,” I say at last.

   “Come then,” she says, holding out her hand to take mine. She leads me to the hollow within the enclosed garden where the basin stands. This she fills with water from the stream and, when it has settled, she breathes on it. We wait as the water slowly levels again.

    “Do not touch the surface,” she quietly reminds me.

   Tentatively I lean over the basin and gaze into its depths. I can see nothing at first; all is black. Gradually the darkness recedes and I see a vision of myself. I am standing beneath the great trees on a bright spring morning. They are at their most beautiful, leaden as they are with their bountiful golden flowers. The sun filters through their leaves, casting dappled patterns on the grass beneath my feet. And there walking towards me is Estel. I see him now as I did on that glorious morning when the course of my live changed forever. I knew him at once, greatly altered though he was. This was no bashful youth, but a man of great might and wisdom. And he was fair; fairer than any man I have ever seen. None of his forbearers caused my heart to lurch as mine did at that moment. Clad in silver and white, he walked towards me as some king from the distant realms beyond the sea.

   He bowed before me and, smiling, he took my hand in his and raised my fingers gently to his lips. A tremor, as I had never felt before, raced through me in that instant and I smile now as I recall how joyously alive I felt at his touch. Shyly, I lifted my eyes to his and there, in their depths, I saw, unveiled and unguarded, the full magnitude of his love for me. Openly trusting, he welcomed me into his heart. I sensed his pain and his loneliness, but the purity of his spirit touched something in mine and suddenly, and quite without warning, my own heart overflowed and I knew I was his. The vision fades, but the memory lingers and leaves me wrapped in my newfound joy and awash with tenderness for the man I love.

   But the mirror has not yet finished its work. The water remains dark, but then I realise it is a dark mound that I can see; it stands before an even darker sky. There are Men upon the hill, and held aloft are many banners. The largest among them is black and upon it is the emblem of a white tree. There are seven stars above it and in the centre is a crown. I know this is the standard of the King of Gondor. The men are in the midst of a great battle, but the battle does not go their way. They are fighting hard, but they are being slaughtered by a vast army that surrounds them; an endless mass of orcs and fell creatures. They are out numbered many times over. Suddenly, I see Estel standing in the centre. He looks defiant, but I see the sadness in his eyes. Beside him is a figure all in white; it is Mithrandir, but not as I know him. My brothers are there too, and the Dúnedain.

   There is no escape; they are all going to die.

   Gasping I step backwards, trembling with shock at the horror I have just witnessed. Is this how it is all going to end? Gondor will fall, her army destroyed and Sauron will have the victory. All our sacrifices will be for nothing. Why, oh why did I want to see this? My grandmother takes my arm and steadies me.

   “Look again,” she says, softly.

   I shake my head and back away. I do not want to see my beloved slain, hacked apart by those foul beasts. Or worse, captured and taken to the Dark Lord’s tower to endure unending torment for daring to defy him.

   “Trust me,” she says. “Look again.”

   Shaking, I reluctantly step towards the basin. I realise I cannot leave this unresolved. I have to know more, no matter how terrible it may be to witness. Once again the blackness recedes; this time though, it reveals a room, the walls of which are made of smooth, white stone. It is a bedchamber; my bedchamber I deem, for it is I who is lying there, but I do not know this place. I am exhausted and I know I have endured great pain, yet I feel only joy. A woman smiles at me and hands me a bundle. Wrapped within it is a newborn child. With great joy I realise it is mine and that I have given birth to a baby boy.

   Then Estel enters the room. He looks well, but tired, and a little older than he is now, for there are streaks of grey in his hair. He beams me a smile and bends to kiss me gently on the lips. I hand him the child, for, as the vision unfolds, I know without doubt the baby is his. Tears glisten in his eyes as he gazes at our son. Tentatively he kisses the child on the brow. On his face is a look of utter joy and complete happiness. Moved by my love for him, without thinking, I reach out my hand to him. As I do so, I break the surface of the water; the light goes out and the vision is gone.

   The mirror is black and lifeless again.

   As I turn away, I realise I am crying. The tears have been pouring down my face as I watched the images unfold. I look to my grandmother. “What am I to make of all this?” I ask pleadingly. “How shall I know which vision is true?”

   “Who is to say that both visions are not true?” she replies mysteriously, as is her way.

   “But how can they be?” I cry with rising despair. I need answers, not riddles. “Is it true then, that Estel and I are permitted to marry and we have a child together?  But if this is so, how shall I ever bear it if he goes to war and is killed?”

   “How do you know the battle does not come first? You did not see them fall.”

   I have to sit down; I should never have looked in the mirror; it has brought me no comfort at all. I put my head in my hands and sob. “I do not want to lose him,” I say between my tears. “I love him so very much.”

   My grandmother puts her arms around me and waits for my sobs to subside. “I do not think you will lose him, child,” she says. “I did not bring you two together to give you heartache. It may yet be a long while before you can wed, but in that you will have to be patient. Aragorn will find he still has a long road to travel before he can make you his wife, but I believe he will succeed in embracing his destiny. I think you know this yourself. You are his Hope now. He will need all his strength in the years ahead, and already he is stronger because of you. Watch over him, Arwen. Rejoice when you can spend time together, but be prepared for many years when those meetings will be rare.”

   I take a deep breathe, forcing my emotions to settle. I know I must be strong for Estel. I am normally so calm and self assured. Such feeble-mindedness does not become me. Yet still I look for reassurance.

   “Have I done wrong to bind myself to Estel?” I ask. “Adar is going to be very displeased with him, isn’t he?”

   “I do not think this will come as a great surprise to your father. He may well be deeply grieved at first, but I think, in time, he will accept it. Do not forget, he loves Aragorn as his own son. It is not as if you have taken up with just any dúnadan, is it?” she says, smiling.

   I smile back, a little shyly, but I am pleased by her gentle teasing.

   “He is a good man, is he not?” I ask. I have no doubt as to the answer, but I find myself desiring my grandmother’s approval nonetheless.

   She laughs, dismissing my fears. “He is indeed a good man and may yet become a great one. I have not had many dealings with the Dúnedain these last two Ages, but I remember well the courage and loyalty of Aragorn’s forbearers. He would be able to hold his head high in the company of any of them.” It is a joy to hear her words and I am reminded suddenly of how welcoming she was to Estel throughout his stay in her realm.

   “I have yet to thank you properly, daernaneth, for being so kind to Estel or for helping him the way you did. I still marvel that you encouraged him so, knowing as you must how Adar would feel.”

   “Why should I not welcome him? He is your father’s foster son, and I would not incur the wrath of the Lord of Imladris by turning away one whom he loves as his own,” says my grandmother, smiling. But then she grows serious. “As to encouraging him, I confess it was not an easy choice; you are my grandchild after all and I may one day have to account for my actions to my daughter. But the Dominion of Men will soon be with us, child, and Aragorn, because of who he is, will have a great part to play in this. He is not, I think, the Hope Unlooked for, but he is the Hope of his People. I see in him a great sense of duty; he labours tirelessly, though he does not seek power for his own ends. When he entered our borders, I was so aware of the terrible emptiness in his heart. He needed some hope for himself and it was at once very clear to me what he truly desired. And you, Arwen, have not always concealed your thoughts in this matter.  You needed little encouragement either as I recall!”

   I smile at that for I know how truthfully she speaks, but my heart can not yet find rest; the images I have seen still assault my mind. I have made my choice and I shall not waver, but beyond that I am powerless to determine my fate. I do not doubt Estel either; he will never forsake me, but now I can do nothing more than wait patiently and hope he returns one day.

   The years stretch ahead into a long and empty distance where every day we are apart is a torment to be endured. Nor is there any certainty we shall ever be together. Yet I must have hope. Without that, we are lost for sure. I will cling to the vision of the two of us sharing a time of great happiness and perhaps the days in between will become bearable.

   Resignedly, I begin to accept my doom.

   As I mull over my thoughts, I play with the ring, newly acquired, that sits upon my middle-finger. I recall to myself the tale of how my great uncle gave it to Estel’s distant forbearer. Strange that is should have been my great, great grandmother who then made the same choice as I so that she might wed his son, Beren. It brings me a small measure of comfort to be reminded that I am by no means the first of my line to tangle my fate with that of the Secondborn.

   A sigh escapes me as the emerald eyes of the two serpents seem to stare directly into mine. I smile at my daernaneth who still sits patiently beside me.

   “We have always had something of a fondness for Men in our family, haven’t we?”

~oo0oo~

 ………and when Aragorn was abroad, from afar she watched over him in thought.

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                       The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 15: Elrond’s Decision

   When Elrond learned the choice of his daughter, he was silent, though his heart was grieved and found the doom long feared none the easier to endure. But when Aragorn came again to Rivendell he called him to him.

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                       The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   It was a perfect summer’s afternoon; the hot July sun blazing high in the cloudless sky, yet the light wind drifting across the moors rendered the day no more than pleasantly warm. It was the kind of day that, no matter where Aragorn was or whatever he was doing, always recalled to him those far off days of the lost summers of his youth; days when he was so unburdened by care, he could while away many a happy hour lazing in the meadows, counting the dragonflies that hovered above the brooks and streams around his home.

     He had been riding since dawn, the magnificent Elven horse effortlessly eating the ground beneath him, but he was in no great hurry. His heart was full of hope and he was content to enjoy the simple pleasures of the sun on his face and the warm breeze in his hair.

   Never, in all his years, had he known such happiness.

   Arwen had finally returned his love. He could still scarcely believe it. The emptiness in his heart that for so long had gnawed at his hope had been replaced by a joy more fulfilling than he had ever dreamt possible. Those few blissful months in Lothlórien had changed his life forever. He glanced at the bare, white band of skin on his finger and smiled at the memory. His mind conjured up images of golden trees upon a green hill, alive with a myriad of tiny flowers. And in their midst was his beloved, her hand in his as he slipped his ring upon her finger. He remembered he had been undecided about taking the Ring of Barahir with him when he first departed from the North to undertake his long journeys. Even in his wildest dreams had he not expected to find such a good use for it.

   But after so many years abroad, he was looking forward to coming home again and meeting with his old friends from his childhood. The Misty Mountains finally lay behind him and gradually the land about took on a familiar appearance. Twenty-three years had passed since last he had ridden this way, yet with every league that brought him closer to Rivendell, those long years spent travelling in distant lands began to recede from his mind and were replaced by a barrage of happy memories from his boyhood. Riding steadily now at an unhurried canter, he could easily be once again a fresh-faced lad of seventeen, enjoying a carefree hunting trip with his brothers.

   Up ahead, the valley of Rivendell slowly revealed its secret presence.  As soon as he reached the borders of his father’s realm, he felt that familiar, but long forgotten, sense of peace and well being that always used to settle upon him whenever he came once more under the benevolent power of Vilya. At the entrance to the valley, he eased his horse back to a walk and began to descend the narrow, twisting path that wound its way beneath the shade of the mighty pine trees. Already, in the distance, he could hear the welcome sound of the cascading waterfalls, and as he breathed deeply of the cool refreshing airs, he caught a whiff of that unique fragrant blend of aromas which, for him, would forever be Rivendell, found as it was nowhere else in all of Middle-earth.

    It was good to be coming home.

~oo0oo~

   As he rode across the bridge, and The Last Homely House stood before him, he suddenly realized that beneath his feelings of excitement at his homecoming, there was a nagging fear that he found he could no longer ignore. He had felt it often of late; it had been hovering at the back of his mind ever since he and Arwen had bound their lives to each other. But so buoyed was he by his love for her, he had refused to acknowledge it and had driven it from his thought. Now it surfaced again and this time it could not be banished.

   His newfound happiness was not without cost. The reality of facing the consequences of his actions would soon be upon him.

   He had not dwelt overly upon his foster father’s possible reaction to his daughter’s choice. Galadriel had been so supportive and encouraging, he had allowed himself to believe Elrond might feel similarly. He was no longer the untried and unworldly youth he had been when they last spoke about Arwen. But deep down, Aragorn feared he would incur Elrond’s wrath for what he had done. Words spoken to him, nearly thirty years ago, returned to haunt him.

  You shall neither have wife, nor bind any woman to you in troth, until your time comes and you are found worthy of it. [1]

    He was quite sure that what, if anything, he had achieved in his life so far would not in Elrond’s eyes make him worthy, and he knew “his time” was nowhere near come. More than that, he had not just bound “any woman” to him, but he had taken in troth, the Lady Arwen Undómiel, the Evenstar of her people. Arwen’s choice was her own to make and she was free to make it. But he, on the other hand, and to his shame, had willfully disobeyed Elrond’s explicit command to him. A shiver ran through him as he remembered Elrond’s words. He wondered how he had ever convinced himself that Elrond would allow him to marry his daughter.

   He guessed Elrond would by now be well aware of the situation; such was the strength of the bond he shared with Arwen. She would conceal nothing from him. Certainly Aragorn was rather hoping he would be spared from making a grand announcement. But while he knew he might thus avoid Elrond’s initial anger, his foster father would, instead, have had ample time to reflect on the matter and consolidate whatever objections he might have to their betrothal.

   Arwen had tried to explain to him what those objections were likely to be. So intoxicated had he been by his love for her that he had paid little heed to them at the time, but now, pulled out of his daydreams by the imminent prospect of confronting cold, stark reality, the enormity of what he required of Elrond stuck him forcibly. Arwen may indeed be free to choose her fate, but by choosing a life with him, she would ultimately be sundered from her father and all her kin forever. That Arwen was prepared to do this, he did not doubt, but he now fully realized what a huge sacrifice he was asking of Elrond.

    Guilt surged unbidden within him to mingle uncomfortably with his rising fear. He was asking his foster family to pay a heavy price for his happiness. It was not for this that Elrond had welcomed him into his home and raised him so lovingly. He was acutely aware of the great personal debt he owed Elrond for his safekeeping during his childhood years. And Elrond had given him so much more than just a roof over his head and food on the table. Much as Aragorn fully embraced his identity as the son of Arathorn, it was Elrond who held the place of a father in his heart.

   But the possibility that his father would ban their union outright was something he had so far only vaguely contemplated. If this was indeed Elrond’s pronouncement, he had given insufficient thought as to what he would do. He did not know if he would he be able to find it in his heart to defy him and still take Arwen as his wife anyway.

  The house was fast approaching. He could delay pondering this question no longer. If it came to this, he wondered if Galadriel would permit Arwen to remain in Lothlórien, or would he have to take her to live among the Dúnedain. That was surely impossible. When he had first left Rivendell and gone to live among his people, he had been shocked to see the conditions in which they lived. He could not ask that of Arwen, who had only ever known the comfort and ease that her rank afforded. Neither, in truth, could he expect her to live estranged from her father in that way. But the thought of losing Arwen now after waiting and hoping all these years, was completely unimaginable for him. Suddenly he was shocked to feel a grip of fear in his stomach such as he had never felt before at the prospect of meeting his father.

    But all such speculation would now have to wait, for he had finally arrived at the courtyard of the house. One of the Elves who worked in the stable came to take his horse, but no one else appeared to greet him. As he dismounted, he nostalgically drank in the sights about him. The house looked just as he remembered it. The roses were in full bloom and the honeysuckle flowered around the porch. Watching the swallows diving in and out of the stable doors, all his years away suddenly melted to nothing. He could almost convince himself he was a young boy again returning from a quiet hack around the grounds on his pony. He half expected to see his mother standing in the doorway, waiting anxiously for his return.

   He took another long look about him, and then he sighed and slowly climbed the steps of the main entrance and made his way down the corridors to his old room. He was tired now from the journey and wished to rest and gather his thoughts before seeking out Elrond.

    He found his room exactly as he had left it; his few cherished possessions from his boyhood still sitting on the mantelpiece, foremost among them, his treasured wooden horses. The room was clean and tidy with freshly laundered linen on the bed and to his joy there was a steaming tub of warm water in front of the fire. On the chest that once contained his fine robes there was a platter of bread and cheese. Beside it, stood a flask of Rivendell’s finest wine. So his homecoming had not been ignored after all. 

   Feeling more at ease, he ripped off his clothes and, with a glass of wine in one hand and a chunk of fresh, crisp bread in the other, he sank gratefully into the tub. The hot water soon worked wonders on his stiff, saddle-sore muscles. He had not done much riding during his stay in Lothlórien and his body had complained bitterly about the long hours he had spent on a horse in the last few days. He closed his eyes and, in spite of his concerns, he began to relax, telling himself that perhaps he was worrying needlessly after all. He was clearly more tired than he realised as he almost immediately drifted into sleep.

   A knock at the door woke him with a start.

   “Come in,” he said, as he struggled for a moment to remember where he was.

    The door opened and Erestor stood it the doorway. “Welcome home, Estel,” he said with a smile. “It’s good to have you back. It has been a long time.”

   Aragorn returned his smile, warmly. As a boy, he had always been slightly scared of Elrond’s chief councilor, but he was genuinely pleased to see him now. “Thank you, it’s good to be back,” he said, truthfully.

   “You look well, child; you are no longer the gangling lad that I remember,” said Erestor as he laughingly took in the broad chest visible above the level of the bath water and the lean, muscular arm hanging over one side of the tub. “I’m sure all Imladris is looking forward to hearing of your adventures. I hope you will keep us entertained for many evenings in the Hall of Fire. But is there any thing else you require for the moment? I see you have found the food and drink I had sent up for you.”

   “This is more than sufficient, thank you,” replied Aragorn. “But I should be glad of news of my father. Is he well?”

   “Well enough, I believe” said Erestor, “though I have seen little of him these last few days. I do though have a message for you from him. When you are refreshed, Master Elrond will be waiting for you in his study.”

   Aragorn immediately started to rise, but Erestor added, “There’s no hurry; please, enjoy your bath first, I expect you are glad of it. We will speak properly later.” Then he closed the door again and was gone.

   Suddenly the bathwater felt very cold and Aragorn felt a chill swept through him. So he had been summoned. He immediately stepped out of the bath and wrapped himself in a towel. Dripping onto the rug, he grabbed a clean shirt from his pack and dressed quickly. Now that the moment had arrived, he wanted it over with.

   He made his way swiftly to Elrond’s study.

~oo0oo~

   Elrond dismissed the scout who had come to inform him that Aragorn was approaching the valley. He settled himself by the window in his study where he had a clear view of the path as it turned towards the house. Here he could watch for his son.  He was deeply saddened that Estel’s long awaited return should be over shadowed in this way. He had missed the boy dreadfully when he left and only the occasional visit from Gandalf had brought any news of him.

   But when he had learned of Arwen’s choice, he had been grieved to his very core. He felt as if his heart was being ripped from his body such was the pain that seized at that moment. That he had long feared this might happen did not make it any easier to endure. At first, he had been able to think of nothing beyond the ultimate sundering that her choice would inevitably bring. He knew only to well the torment that accompanied the Gift of Men. The short span of years given to the Secondborn was a constant source of grief to him. He had already lost his brother to this Doom and, although it was millennia ago, the pain had never left him. Since the destruction of Arthedain, many of Elros’s descendents had spent their declining years in Rivendell. The passing of each of them was a great sadness to all the Elves who dwelt there. And when he first bound Aragorn to his heart, it had cut him deeply that he would someday lose him too. But he had known this from the first, and the fate of Men was beyond his dominion. But to lose his daughter in this way was unbearable for him. Yet, he knew he was powerless to stop it. If he tried, he might drive them both away forever and that he could not bear. Arwen’s happiness positively flowed from her; he did not doubt that her love for Aragorn was real and enduring, but he only hoped it had not blinded her to its consequences. Quite apart from his own suffering, he would not willingly permit his beloved Undómiel to endure the heart break of a separation from all her kin until the very end of Arda.

    Galadriel had clearly given her blessing to their union. He could guess her motives perhaps; there was more at stake here than the personal happiness of his daughter and foster son. But Hope for the Dúnedain rested upon Aragorn fulfilling his destiny; nothing should deflect him from achieving that.

   Elrond had not discussed this matter with anyone, not even his sons. He needed to talk to Aragorn first; if nothing else, common courtesy dictated as much. His initial anger with his son had subsided, though he could not yet find it in his heart to forgive him completely. His own pain was still too raw for that. He was well aware that his son had already loved Arwen for nearly thirty years with little hope that she would one day return his love. Now that she finally did, his actions were perhaps understandable. But although Elrond loved Aragorn no less than he did his own sons, he knew his foster son’s love for his daughter would always now lie between them.

   Elrond was distracted from his thoughts by the sight of a chestnut horse suddenly coming into view; in the saddle, was the tall dark figure of the Ranger. He looked taller, broader than Elrond remembered. “He must have grown in mind as well as stature for Arwen to have turned her heart to him,” he thought, as he watched Aragorn dismount and pass the horse to the stable-hand.

   Elrond had told Erestor to make him comfortable and then send him to see him.

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn paused outside the door of his father’s study and took a deep breath before he knocked. He wished his heart was not pounding quite so fiercely. He reminded himself it was not some servant of Sauron’s beyond the door, but his beloved father. He refused to even entertain the thought that at this very moment it might actually be preferable to be confronting some minion of the Dark Lord. He heard Elrond bid him enter and he opened the door to find his father still sitting by the window. Elrond stood as Aragorn walked into the room and immediately opened his arms to his son.

   “Welcome home, Estel,” he said, smiling. “I have missed you so much.”

   “And I you, Master Elrond,” replied Aragorn, formally, but so grateful was he for his father’s words, that he almost ran across the room into his embrace. Those same strong arms that had comforted him on so many occasions in the past held him tightly now and Aragorn felt the tension drain out of him as he gladly absorbed the unspoken love and forgiveness of his father. He had not realised fully, until now, quite how much he had missed the fortifying compassion Elrond had always offered him so readily. Relieved to his core by the warmth of his welcome, and burdened by his overbearing guilt, he blurted out, “I am so sorry, Adar, I know how much I have grieved you and wish it could be otherwise…”

   But Elrond stopped him there. Before they discussed his daughter, he wanted to build anew his bond with his son, to strengthen it against the harm that he knew was about to befall it.

   “Later, my son,” he said, gently. “Come and sit with me and tell me of your time in the South. Gandalf brings some news, but I have heard nothing for a long while.” He led Aragorn to a seat by the fire and handed him a glass of wine before sitting in a chair beside him. Then he listened with great interest as Aragorn told his tale.

    Much of what he had to tell was new to him. Elrond could not fault his son’s endeavours; he had worked tirelessly and done all that could possibly have been asked of him. Gandalf had told Elrond something of the enormous respect and honour his son had earned in Gondor and Rohan, but still he was amazed at the tales Aragorn had to tell. And as he listened, Elrond looked at him and thought how changed he was. There was a confidence to him and an aura of power that had not been there before. Men already followed his lead and would risk their lives for him. He was fair and strong with all the vitality and vigour of youth, harnessed to a growing wisdom and maturity. It was little wonder that Arwen had been drawn to him.

   When Aragorn’s tale brought him to his arrival in Lothlorien, he hesitated and dropped his gaze, but Elrond motioned for him to continue. And so, for the first and only time, Aragorn talked openly to his foster father about his love for his daughter. Elrond noticed the light in his eyes and the passion, suppressed for so long, in his voice and his heart grieved for his son. He knew what he had to say would come as a bitter blow to him.

   As Aragorn finished his tale, he said, “Arwen’s love has brought me a joy I never expected to find, but the grief that I know our union shall bring you is a stain upon my happiness. I am not so foolish as to expect you to share our joy. Can you ever forgive me, adar, for what I have done?”

   Elrond looked at his son, his heart as open and trusting as when he was a child, and found the remnants of his anger dissolve to nothing. If Aragorn had been born as one of the Eldar, he would have been delighted to welcome him as a husband for his daughter. It was not his fault that Iluvatar, in his infinite wisdom, saw fit to grant differing fates to his Children. He must not blame his son for that which could never be his fault. But he had made his decision and he would not waver now.

   He was silent for a long moment before taking his son’s hand in his. He considered his words carefully.

   “My son, years come when hope will fade, and beyond them little is clear to me. And now a shadow lies between us. Maybe, it has been appointed so, that by my loss the kingship of Men may be restored. Therefore, though I love you, I say to you: Arwen Undomiel shall not diminish her life’s grace for less cause. She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor. To me then even our victory can bring only sorrow and parting – but to you hope of joy for a while. Alas, my son! I fear that to Arwen the Doom of Men may seem hard at the ending.”[2]

   He knew he deserved no better, but Aragorn was completely crushed by his father’s words. He might have asked him to remove a Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown, such was the enormity of the task he demanded of him. Bitter disappointment tore through him and it was as if all the newfound light and joy in his life had been cruelly extinguished.

   Arwen was beyond his reach once again.

   What hope was there now that they could ever be together? His father’s word’s reminded him of the bitter truth that he had been living nothing more than a dream during his time in Lothlórien. There he had been treated like a prince and cushioned from facing the harsh reality which Elrond had so succinctly elucidated. There was no escaping that there a vast chasm between the life he led, as a hired sword who possessed little more than the clothes on his back, and the life he should be leading, as the Ruler of most of Middle-earth. It was a truth he was already only too well aware of, but, in his happiness, had chosen to ignore; a brutal reminder that, for all his high lineage, he had nothing but a broken sword to his name.

    How could he ever hope to bridge the gulf between these two worlds? Surely the task Elrond was demanding of him was insurmountable; it had been beyond any of his forbearers. How could he possibly succeed where they had failed? It would take a greater man than he. At that moment he felt totally worthless and inadequate, and he despaired.

   Elrond, seeing what his decision had done to his son, gently squeezed his hand, but could find no words to bring him comfort. He knew how much he was expecting of him. Aragorn was but a mortal man; he did not have unlimited years to achieve this. If he failed, he would have no heir and there would be no return from the shadows for the Kings of Men. He would be the last of an unbroken line that stretched back through the Ages to the first lords of the Edain. And yet if he succeeded, he would sunder Elrond from his most treasured jewel for ever. Yes, the demand he was making of Aragorn was great, but so too was what he was asking of him.

   The stakes for the outcome of the war with Sauron had just risen dramatically for them both.

~oo0oo~

   They talked together for a while; Elrond asking polite questions about Lothlórien to which Aragorn manfully supplied suitable answers, though all the while doing his best to conceal his breaking heart. He would not burden Elrond with his own grief, any more than he knew Elrond would expose him to his. Soon there was nothing more to say and so he made his excuses and escaped. He fled to the gardens, far from the eyes of the house. He had no wish to speak to anyone, not even his brothers. He wanted only to be alone with his dismal thoughts. He needed time to find a way to live with this crippling blow that had left his dreams shattered and his hope adrift in a sea of despair.

   At length, he found himself wandering under the silver birches where he had first met Arwen on that fateful evening all those years ago. He sat on the grass beneath one of the trees and leant his head against the silver truck. There was a cold numbness in his heart blocking from his eyes the beauty of the summer’s afternoon. When he had left Arwen just a week ago, he had not known when he would see her again, but he had hoped it would only be months. Now all he could think of was that it could be many years, and that thought dismayed him completely. He closed his eyes and allowed his emotions to rage within him, unhindered. He knew he was wallowing in his grief, but, for once, he could not desist from doing so. Always he pushed his own suffering to one side for the sake of the tasks he must do, but this time, he was hurting far too much for that. He had given of himself all his adult life, working tirelessly and doing everything that was asked of him, and more, but now he felt he was fast approaching the bottom of the well. He no longer knew how to refill it.

   It was Arwen who had rekindled his hope. Without her, there was nothing.

   Tears of despair pricked his eyes, as he could not help but give in to the anguish devouring him. He buried his head in his hands as he felt the tears escape and flow down his cheeks as he wept openly. Try as he might, he could not find the strength to be brave and hold them back.

~oo0oo~

   The afternoon drifted into evening, and slowly his mind began to calm and he started to think more clearly. Any rebellious thoughts he had of running away with Arwen were gone. He could not defy his foster father. He knew in his heart that Elrond was right, however much he hated it. Until the Shadow in the East was defeated, there was no real hope for anyone in Middle-earth. It did not prevent other men marrying and raising families, but their efforts would come to nothing if Sauron claimed the West. He knew where his real enemy lay. It was not Elrond.

    Suddenly into his bleak thoughts came the memory of something Arwen had said to him not long before they had parted.

   “Dark is the shadow, and yet my heart rejoices; for you, Estel, shall be among the great whose valour will destroy it.” [3]

   The path by which this might be achieved was hidden from him, but he remembered saying to her that with her hope, he would hope. And there, under the silver birches, he felt it kindle within him once again; faint at first, but growing steadily stronger, slowly stirring his injured heart.

   Hope. It never left him for long.

   He had never given in to despair before and he would not do so now. Not when he had every reason to strive to succeed. Arwen’s hope would nourish him in the years ahead and for her, somehow, he would find a way to fulfill Elrond’s condition. Suddenly the full the meaning of Elrond’s words became clear.

    His father had left the door open for him.

    If he could reclaim the crown, then Arwen would be his. The road was going to be longer and harder than he had first thought, that was all. Yet somehow he knew that whatever challenges life threw at him in the future, however hard and lonely the years ahead, they would be easier to endure now he had Arwen’s love to succour him. He had no doubts that Arwen would wait for him; someday, he would see her again. And although there was still much left unsaid between Elrond and himself, his father still counted him as his son; he still had a home to return to.

   From that first tiny flicker of optimism, a groundswell of determination was steadily rising within him. Slowly, he got to his feet. Of one thing he was certain; he would never reclaim a kingdom sitting idly under a tree.

    He had work to do.

~oo0oo~

   So it stood afterwards between Elrond and Aragorn, and they spoke no more of this matter; but Aragorn went forth again to danger and toil.

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                        The Return of the King

[1], [2], [3] The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 16: Elf-Friend

   Only one Palantír remained in the North, the Elendil stone on Emyn Beraid, but this was one of special properties, and not employable in communications. Hereditary right to use it would no doubt still reside with the ‘heir of Isildur’. But it is not known whether any of them, including Aragorn, ever looked into it, desiring to gaze into the lost West.

The Palantíri                                                                                             Unfinished Tales

~oo0oo~

   “Well, Aragorn son of Arathorn,” said Círdan, looking knowingly at the man who had ridden alone into Mithlond earlier that morning. “It is many years since you last came this way. It was Olórin who brought you here then, as I recall.”

  “My lord Círdan,” said Aragorn, bowing respectfully. “It is indeed many years. I have been away from my people for a long time, fighting in the South.”

  “So I have heard,” replied the Elf lord. “But what brings you to this far land now, I wonder. We rarely see the Dúnedain in the Havens. Fortunately we have little need of your bright swords this far west.”

   Aragorn hesitated, aware that his request was a unique one.

   “I think perhaps, Heir of Isildur, I can guess your reason,” said Círdan, his eyes smiling under his bushy eyebrows. “I could not help but notice your interest in Elostirion when last you came here. Am I right in believing you wish to see the Palantír?”

   “You are quite right,” said Aragorn, smiling back at the venerable Elf who, with his long white beard and wise, sparkling eyes, reminded him enormously of Gandalf.

   “An unusual request,” remarked the Elf lord. “Few of your kin have expressed any interest in the Seeing Stone for years untold and it has stood in its tall tower, forgotten, for most of this Age. Only Elendil ever came here often. I think he always hoped for a glimpse of lost Númenor. The horror of that dreadful day never completely left him, I fear; so many of his friends perished. But he never found any trace of that land, not even the summit of the Meneltarma, though he always maintained he could see the far off Tower of Avallónë. And now, Dúnadan, you also wish to look towards the West. I wonder why?”

   “Perhaps it is nothing more than curiosity,” said Aragorn. “The Seeing Stones are part of my birthright; and it might perhaps be prudent to be familiar with them. I do not know for certain if all four of the remaining Stones still exist and no other is available to me. I am right in thinking, am I not, that this one, because of how it is set, should be quite safe to use.”

   “Yes, it should,” said Círdan, “and you do well to assume that the Minas Mogul Stone is in the hands of Sauron; it would certainly be unwise to hope that it has remained undiscovered all these years.”

   He rubbed his chin, looking thoughtfully at the young lord. “Is curiosity your only reason for coming, I wonder? If so, you have travelled a long way just to satisfy a whim.” He spoke, quietly, almost to himself.

   Then he added cheerfully: “It matters not. It is your right and gladly do I grant your request. I shall ride over with you to Emyn Beraid myself, this very afternoon. But come, share a meal with me before we set out and tell me the news from the South.”

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn let his horse loose to graze the well tended grass that surrounded the three white towers of Emyn Beraid. It was a bright and sunny summer afternoon with only a few high clouds in the otherwise blue sky above. A fresh breeze blew in from the distant sea bringing with it the sound of gulls and the clear, living airs from over the far waters. The three huge towers stood as lonely sentinels upon the wind swept hill, reaching far above the two visitors. The Warden of the Towers unlocked the outer door of Elostirion, which was the tallest of the three, and then Círdan left Aragorn alone to enter at his own pace.

   In the base of the tower there was a large circular room, its walls as cold and white inside as they were on the outside. The room had few furnishings, but was dominated by a vast spiral stair that arose from one side and then twisted away upwards, becoming ever tighter as it ascended the height of the mighty tower. Aragorn tilted his head back to gaze above him. It was a long climb to the top. But he was undaunted; the Steward of Gondor had once taken him to the top of the Tower of Ecthelion, although this tower was taller by far.

   Steadily he made his way up the winding stair. Every now and then there were narrow openings in the walls which afforded him a view of the ground as it dropped away below him. At length he reached the top and, using the key given to him by the Warden, he opened the great door that stood before him. It opened noiselessly. Inside was a small, circular room with wide windows all about it. On that clear day, the views were breathtaking and Aragorn stood and stared long in wonder at the distant sights stretching away from him in every direction.

   Then he turned his attention back to the room which was completely empty save for a large low table in the very centre. It appeared to be made of black marble and in the middle of it, covered by a black cloth, was a round shape, in size about as wide as a man’s foot is long. Aragorn approached it slowly. It was a humbling feeling to know he was standing where once Elendil had stood. The great tower had been built for the first king of Arnor by Gil-galad specifically to house the Palantír. It was all that now remained of the North Kingdom but the desolate land itself and its few surviving people who kept alive the memory of past glories. All the once great fortresses and palaces of that ancient realm were long destroyed, nothing more than grass-covered mounds, falling slowly back into the earth from which they were hewed. But for the care of the Elves, the three towers would long ago have suffered a similar fate.

   Aragorn reached to remove the cover from the Palantír and could not prevent his hand from trembling as he did so. He slowly withdrew the cloth and gazed at the smooth black sphere revealed beneath it. As he watched, colours emerged within and seemed to shift and change; now red, now blue. Tentatively he placed a shaking hand upon it. At once the stone seemed to spring to life.  Colours flashed through it, swirling; fragments of scenes from the world outside started to form within it, coming and going. Aragorn swayed in disorientation at first, thrown by the onslaught of images appearing before him. Slowly he steadied himself and, concentrating with all his might, he forced himself to remember what he had learned about the use of the Palantíri. He shifted his position so he was facing the West. Then he clasped the stone firmly with both hands, saying quietly to himself as he did so: I am the Heir of Isildur, I have the right to use this stone. It must bend to my will.

   At last the swirling images slowed and Aragorn began to see a world he recognised, places he had visited and knew. And as he continued to gaze into the depths of the stone, the land stretching away in the distance appeared to come closer and he felt as if he was moving over it at great speed towards some remote distant place. He started to sweat with fear at this strange sensation but he kept his concentration focused and, in spite of his fear, he marvelled at what he saw.

   The land gave way to the sea and then league upon league it seemed he travelled over it like a swift bird in flight. On and on he went until, to his horror, if was as if the sea fell away below him and all he could see about him was endless sky. He closed his eyes, unable to watch as he seemed to rise higher and higher above the very earth itself. But when he forced them open again, he was once more travelling over water and there was land ahead. White shores unfolded before him and, beyond the rapidly approaching lamplit quays, there stood a great white city. In the midst of the city was a tall tower, as tall as the one he stood in now and he knew it was the Tower of Avallónë on the isle Tol Eressëa. In its summit was placed the Master-stone.

   Wonder took him and he gazed long at the scenes before him. Here he beheld a vision of an idyllic land of great beauty and peace, where Elves could live their unending lives in tranquillity, free from the hardships and troubles of the Age. The city was fairer than any in Middle-earth. Even Lothlórien, where the power of Nenya had long kept that land fresh and unstained, was now revealed as only a pale image of the purity found in the West. Here, there was no sign of death or decay. Nothing withered in the deathless land; nowhere on that enchanted isle could he see the unrest and strife than so marred Middle-earth.

   All too quickly, the vision faded and the stone went black and still. Aragorn dropped to his knees, suddenly totally exhausted by the experience. He knelt there for a long time with his head in his hands, trying to remember all he had seen. But the images, wonderful though they were, had not brought him peace. Today he had seen a glimpse of the life that Arwen might have led had she not cleaved to him. She too could have dwelt in that beautiful land with her father and all her kin, living her long life released from fear and the suffering of Middle-earth.

   But she had forsaken all that for him.

   The scale of her sacrifice overwhelmed him. He did not feel worthy of it. He could as yet offer her nothing at all and, for her to have even a short period of happiness; he now had to achieve so much.  He suddenly felt a great fear for what might become of Arwen if he could never fulfil his father’s condition. Had her fate been sealed, the moment she bound herself to him or, if it came to pass that they never wed, would that life in Tol Eressëa still be available to her? He did not know.

   It had been a year since Elrond had given his pronouncement upon their engagement. Aragorn had returned to his people and resumed his duties as chieftain, but he was no nearer finding a way to meet Elrond’s demand. All manner of plans and schemes had entered his head as he sought a means by which he might reclaim the two crowns. The most feasible would have seen him openly declaring himself and seeking to forge alliances with the realms of Elves and Men friendly to the Dúnedain, but always it was the same problem that returned to thwart him. Their allies were too few and Sauron too strong.

   His frustration with his lack of progress had made him ever more fearful that the passing years would all too swiftly mount up and he would never find a solution. Yet his deepest fear, he kept firmly locked away. He did not want it to mar the joy he still felt at being so buoyed and succoured by Arwen’s love. Occasionally he would sense her fëa touching his and, for a few blissful moments, her love would caress and consume him, strengthening his hope and bolstering his determination. But today, after all he had observed in the Palantír, that fear burst into the forefront of his mind and he felt a sick weight settle in his stomach.

   What if, as time marched onwards and his remaining years dwindled, Arwen actually came to regret her choice? As more of her kin sailed, would the sea longing stir within her and cause her to wish she was still free to travel that road too and so depart to dwell in those idyllic lands herself? Might the day come when he would look upon her and see in her eyes bitter disappointment and even reproach for his failure? Would it then be possible for her repent and sail or would she have no choice but to remain and so suffer eternally for her folly of loving him?

   Why oh why had he come here today?

   Whatever had he hoped to achieve by looking in that Stone? Glimpsing the Undying Lands had only given his fears more substance, not less. He sank down to sit on the cold floor and, pulling his knees up to his chest, he buried his face in them. There were so many questions, so many uncertainties, so many fears, but no answers; why were there never any answers?

~oo0oo~

   So long did he sit on the floor that he failed to notice the sun slowly going down behind the Tower Hills. He was roused by Círdan who, in his concern, had come looking for him. The Elf lord crouched beside him.

   “Is all well?” he asked. “You have been here a time. The day passes.”

   Aragorn raised his head from his knees. “I am well enough. I just needed a while alone with my thoughts,” he said. He smiled, not wishing the Elf lord to see his despair. “Forgive me for detaining you so long.”

   “No matter,” said the Elf as he helped Aragorn slowly get to his feet. “You are tired, Dúnadan. The Seeing Stone seems always to have that effect upon its user.”

   Then Círdan succumbed to the curiosity he had been containing all afternoon as he waited patiently outside.  “So, might I ask, did you indeed glimpse the Undying Lands?”

   “I believe I did. I am sure it was Tol Eressëa that I saw and the city of Avallónë on the shore.”

   “That must be a wonderful sight to behold, one all my people yearn to see some day. You are very privileged, son of Arathorn, you alone of your race and mine has the right to look into that stone.”

      Aragorn nodded. “Yes, the city was fair beyond my imagining. It is not surprising that, as the days darken, so many now sail. Who would remain in Middle-earth when such a paradise awaits?” Who indeed, he thought ruefully? And yet others lingered here, though surely they would all leave in the end. For a moment he carefully considered this ancient Elf who stood beside him. He had dwelt as long as any in Middle-earth.

   “The Sea-longing must be very strong in all of you who dwell in the Havens. It is a wonder to me that more of you have not yet departed for the Blessed realm.”

   “It is indeed strong within us, and greatly have I ever desired to sail,” said Círdan, “even from the very first I desired this, but I will not leave yet, not until the last ship is ready to depart Middle-earth. My work here is still not done.”

   Círdan smiled that knowing smile of his. “As I believe neither is yours. Come, it is a long climb down and I would wish for us both to be back in Mithlond by nightfall.”

   Steadily they both descended the stairs and emerged into the late afternoon sun. The three Towers cast long shadows on the grass and Aragorn’s horse, having eaten his fill, stood beside that of Círdan, waiting patiently for his master. Man and Elf mounted up and rode back at a steady canter towards the Havens. Aragorn rode much of the way in silence, still lost in his bleak thoughts.

   After a time, they eased their horses back to a walk and Círdan asked: “So did you find the answers you were seeking, Dúnadan?”

   Aragorn smiled, feeling a little embarrassed at being so transparent. “Was it so obvious I was seeking something, my lord Círdan?”

   Círdan grinned at him. “Forgive me,” he said. “But you mortals are such open books. Something troubles you, that much is clear. Come, child, I have dwelt in Middle-earth since three ages before the first rising of the Sun. I have seen much and, while we Elves might sometimes be considered reluctant to give advice, such wisdom as I have, I would willingly share with an Elf-friend such as yourself who is loved as a son by my dear friend, Master Elrond.”

   Aragorn was touched by his concern and was suddenly reminded of how ancient this Elf was; he was far, far older than his father.

   “Thank you, I appreciate your kindness,” he said.  “And to answer your question, no, not entirely, though my curiosity about the Palantíri has been sated for now. I have long had a foreboding that I may one day have need to look into one again, but I fear that encounter may not be so pleasant. At least now I have some foreknowledge of what to expect.”

   He was silent again for a long while before continuing. The venerable Elf was so kind; it would be so easy to open his heart and allow all his hopes and fears to come tumbling out. But he was not at all certain of how many of his cares he should unburden. His father’s decision was very much a matter that he preferred to keep private. In the end, he said: “I have a huge task to accomplish, though I do not yet know how to achieve what I must. There are many reasons why I must succeed, but today I saw just how much it will cost my lady if I fail.”

   Círdan looked carefully at the tall man riding beside him, still so young and yet so weighed with care and found pity for him.

   “Do you wonder if the lady has made the right choice?” he asked.

   Aragorn was slightly taken back at the directness of the question and the accuracy with which the Elf lord had homed in upon his troubles.

   “I greatly fear she may come to regret that choice.” There, he had said it.

   “But I presume she made her decision freely,” asked Círdan.

   “Of course,” said Aragorn.

   “And she is wise?”

   Aragorn smiled to himself. “Yes, she is wise, far more so than I.”

   “Then perhaps you might consider the possibility that she believes you are worth the sacrifices she has to make. Life in Tol Eressëa may not be so tranquil if one’s heart remains in Middle-earth. Perhaps you should have as much faith in yourself as she obviously does, Dúnadan. I very much doubt your lady has made her choice lightly.”

   Aragorn had to admit he had not previously considered that life might have become unbearable for Arwen had she chosen to deny her feelings for him and instead sail with her father when his time came to leave Middle-earth at last. For his own part, he could not even being to imagine enduring the long Ages awaiting him beyond the Circles of the World without his beloved beside him. In his heart, he knew the Elf lord was right; of course Arwen felt the same way about him, and her hope had always been stronger than his.

   “There is another matter,” said Aragorn, emboldened now by the Elf lord’s evident understanding of his predicament. “My beloved and I are not yet free to wed as I have a condition to fulfil before I earn the right to her hand. I will do my utmost to succeed, yet I can not help but be fearful of what her ultimate fate will be if I fail.” He could not believe what a weight was lifted from him just in the saying of those words. He had not felt able to raise this matter with any of his foster family; nor even with Gandalf. Galadriel might have been able to help him, but he knew it would be most inappropriate for him to return to Lothlórien. Now here he was seeking advice from an Elf he barely knew.

   Círdan smiled at him again and Aragorn was struck by how he knew he could trust him implicitly. He was also quite sure the Elf knew exactly to what he was referring.

    “If it troubles you that your lady will not find passage, then fear not. I will not turn her away if she comes to take ship,” he said. “I hope that is one burden I can remove from your shoulders; one of many, too many perhaps, that I sense you carry. There is much you can do and much you must do, Aragorn, but there is far more that lies outside the scope of your hands to mould that will nonetheless play a huge part in determining the future of you both. Try not to let this doom lie too heavily upon you. You are still young, yet your time on this earth will pass so quickly. You can do no more than play your part to the full and be prepared to trust that others will play theirs similarly. Do not allow your fears to squeeze all joy from your heart.”

    Aragorn looked at Círdan who was watching him with smiling yet compassionate eyes and knew the truth of his words and felt immense gratitude towards him. The lord of the havens was as wise as any; his advice not to be lightly ignored. He would do his best to try and heed it.

   Then unexpectedly, Círdan laughed.

   “Put away your cares for tonight at least, son of Arathorn; is the sun not setting on a beautiful evening? Come, let us gallop; I will race you the last leagues to Mithlond! There are many in the Havens eager to meet you tonight, hoping for news from Imladris. We should not disappoint them by dawdling in the hills.”

   With a whoop that belied the millennia of his existence, Círdan urged his horse into a fast gallop. Aragorn’s mount sprang after him, heedless of his rider. Aragorn’s heart lightened as the thrill of the pace coursed through him and he once more felt as young as his years. He leant forward and whispered in his horse’s ear. The sturdy mount of the Dúnedain might be no match for the fleet-footed Elven steed, but his heart, like his rider’s, was a mighty one.

    They would give the Elf a run for his money!

~oo0oo~

   “Eight,” said Legolas. “Myself, four hobbits; and two men, one of whom, Aragorn, is an Elf-friend of the folk of Westernesse.”

Lothlórien                                                                                   The Fellowship of the Ring

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 17: Gandalf’s Request

   “…I called for the help of the Dunedain, and their watch was doubled; and I opened my heart to Aragorn, the heir of Isildur.”

The Council of Elrond                                                                The Fellowship of the Ring

~oo0oo~

 “I do not cheat,” said Halbarad,

   “I never implied that you did,” replied Aragorn, looking suitably hurt that his friend could even think such a thing of him. “I merely commented that you had an extraordinarily long run of good fortune. That is all. There was no need to be so affronted.”

   “I know perfectly well what you were implying and good fortune had nothing to do with it.”

   Aragorn shook his head.  Halbarad had kept up his niggling for much of their long walk back from Bree. This must be the fourth or was it the fifth time he had raised the matter. But whatever humour Aragorn had found in their banter at the beginning of their journey had long since ceased to be amusing. He had never imagined that Halbarad would take the incident quite so much to heart. He was clearly still not in any no mood to be reasonable or forgiving.

   It was just a pity he was quite so skilled with the dice. Although he, himself, might believe with all his heart that his right-hand man was as honest as the day is long, it had been his task to try and convince the Breelander who had foolishly wagered, and lost, his week’s pay of this fact.

   “Halbarad, that man must have been related to every Appledore and Heathertoes in the whole of Breeland. It would have been unwise for either of us to remain to labour the point.” The situation had very nearly got out of hand and it had taken all Aragorn’s diplomatic skills to extricate them both from The Prancing Pony without a battle breaking out with the man’s entire family. 

  “That point which you refused to labour was nothing of any consequence, of course; only the small matter of my honour. I expected better of you, that is all.”

   He could well understand Halbarad’s frustration. They had both been on duty patrolling the eastern border of the Shire for months now and the long watch was beginning to take its toll on their otherwise good humoured friendship. Neither did it ever raise any Ranger’s spirits to have his integrity questioned by the very people they were protecting. Worse still, this man was known to be a less than savoury character. But he was a native Breelander, unlike ‘them Rangers’, so his word held weight while Halbarad’s did not. It had ever been thus and Halbarad usually handled the suspicion and dark glances with the same resigned good grace they all did. Inevitably, the strain got to them all at times; Aragorn could not blame him for once in a while finding the derision too much to bear.

    “And as for demanding I return the money, what clearer sign could you give that I am but a common thief? I still can not believe you could shame me in that way!”

   Aragorn wished Halbarad would leave the incident alone; he was already feeling miserable enough that he had been unable to offer him the whole hearted support he knew he deserved. He had tried apologising almost to the point of grovelling, but that had so far not appeased him in the slightest. He made one last effort.

   “That was never my intention, you must know that. Be reasonable, Hal; I could not risk us being barred from the inn. The place is far too important a source of information. Surely you can see that?”

   “I see only that loyalty should be given as whole-heartedly as it is received. I saw precious little of that from you today.”

   Had it been anyone else, Aragorn would probably have taken him to task for his insolence. But Halbarad had a valid point and it grieved him that expediency should make such sacrifices necessary. He sighed and decided to remain silent and allow Halbarad time to acknowledge the complexities of the situation for himself. It was perhaps just as well that they would be at Sarn Ford before the end of the day and Halbarad would have the opportunity to bend someone else’s ear about his chieftain’s short-comings.

~oo0oo~

   It was raining lightly now; that soft rain that was more than mist but not quite drizzle. Both rangers pulled their hoods over their heads and trudged on in silence. They had put many miles behind them already that day and were confident of reaching their destination well before dusk. They were now following the course of the ever widening Baranduin, which was becoming a mighty river as it made its way towards the sea. At last they reached a familiar looking band of willows where they stopped and waited. Sure enough, there was the bird call. Halbarad replied and they continued on their way. After a few minutes, they walked into the Ranger post at Sarn Ford.

   It was well concealed; only the sharp-eyed would spot the wooden huts well back in the trees. Half a dozen, perhaps more, horses grazed near the river. An assortment of gear hung from a make-shift washing line between two sturdy oaks. There were few men to be seen. One was sitting on a tree stump, cleaning his sword, another was soaping down his saddle, two were preparing supper; the usual happenings in a Ranger camp. Nods and smiles acknowledged their arrival and Halbarad immediately left Aragorn’s side to take a closer look at what was cooking in the pot above the fire.

   Aragorn glanced around him, his eyes searching for whoever was in charge of the post. The sun had come out now so he took off his cloak and shook it vigorously.He would be glad for the chance to remove his sodden boots as well. A tall man approaching him with his hand out stretched.

   “Welcome, Aragorn. I trust you and Halbarad are well?”

   Aragorn clasped his hand. “Yes, Radhruin, we are well enough. A little weary and foot sore perhaps, nothing more.”

    “Good, I am relieved to hear it, and I hope your watch around the Shire has been more peaceful than the Minhiriath one.”

   Before Aragorn could ask him exactly what he meant by that, Halbarad, his curiosity satisfied, strode across to greet Radhruin as well, clapping his childhood friend heartily on the back. He was smiling cheerfully, his earlier sullenness gone, though Aragorn immediately detected the forced gaiety in his voice.

   “So what exciting tales have you for our entertainment tonight?” he asked. “Is Minhiriath over run with orcs, are the Dunlendlings about to invade Bree, have the Rohirrim declared war on Gondor; don’t tell me hostilities have broken out between Rivendell and Lothlórien?”

   Radhruin shook his head and laughed. “If you jest so, my friend, am I to assume your watch has been a peaceful one?”

   “On the contrary, the Battle of Bree was only narrowly averted thanks to the slick, mithril tongue of our captain, here.”

   Aragorn ignored him. “Tell me the news from the East Watch, Radhruin. It sounds as if there been trouble afoot.”

    “Yes, the report is not good, I fear. That patrol has had no end of skirmishes with orcs and some of them quite close to the Greenway at that. A couple of the men received injuries. Beldir was quite bad for a time, though he is on the mend now. Quite what the meaning of it all is, I wouldn’t like to say.”

   “This does not bode well,” said Aragorn. “We have seen no orcs in the Shire; perish the day when we do, but there have been more than the usual suspicious-looking Dunlendings about. The men have certainly been kept busier than I would have expected. Fortunately, other than that, the Shire seems to be ticking along much as it always has.”

   “Well, that is something, I suppose,” said Radhruin. “It will be a foul day indeed if orcs ever enter that peaceful land.”

   “Quite so, and I pray we may continue to ensure that day never comes. Now, is there anything else I should know about before I speak to the men?” Aragorn smiled ruefully. “Do you have any welcome news, perhaps?”

   “Well, Gandalf is here, so that might be good news, although more likely it is not,” said Radhruin. “He’s been waiting for you these last three days, so it must be something fairly important, not that he’s giving anything away, of course.”

   Aragorn cast his eyes around the camp again, this time spotting the grey cloaked figure who was sitting so still beside the riverbank he could easily be mistaken for a stone. Immediately Aragorn took his leave of Halbarad and Radhruin and went across to speak to him.

   “Gandalf!” he said, holding out his hand as he approached, “what a pleasant surprise. I am sorry you have had to wait for me so long. Radhruin says you have been here three days already.”

   “Ah Aragorn, my dear fellow,” said Gandalf, getting to his feet and taking Aragorn’s hand. “There is no need to apologise; the rest has done me good, I’m sure, and I always find that having nothing to do is wonderful for freeing the mind for thinking. And, believe me, I have needed to do plenty of that of late.”

   Aragorn frowned. The wizard looked tired and careworn even by his standards. And he knew only too well from long experience that when Gandalf had thinking to do, it would in due course almost certainly mean trouble for him.

   “Might I be correct in assuming that all this thought and contemplation is going to involve me at some stage?”

   “Of course; doesn’t everything?” said Gandalf with that glint in his eye that always left Aragorn certain as to the true meaning of his words. “But tell me of the Shire first. Is all well there?”

   “Yes, I suppose so; there is nothing in particular to report, expect that there have been some strange outsiders hovering around the Brandywine Bridge. We sent them on their way, but no doubt they will attempt to enter the Shire again at some stage. I have left instructions for the guard on the Bridge to be extra vigilant.”

   Gandalf rubbed his chin. “Umm. And Radhruin tells me there is trouble afoot elsewhere also. Come, and sit yonder with me. I do not wish for this conversation to be overheard.”

   Aragorn’s ears pricked up at that. Anything he could not share with his men was invariably bad news. Unquestioningly, he followed Gandalf to the edge of the ford. Here the shallow water babbled noisily over its stony bed. They settled on the grass bank beside the crossing where no one would overhear their conversation. Gandalf produced his pouch of pipeweed and offered some to Aragorn who gladly accepted. As he filled his pipe, he noticed how good it smelt and he wondered idly for a moment how it was that the wizard always seemed to have better weed in his possession than he did.

   As the two of them smoked their pipes, Gandalf began to explain, though he was initially as mysterious as ever.

   “Tell me what you know of Isildur.”

   Aragorn stared at him in disbelief; a dozen questions whirling through his mind at the meaning of this unusual request. But he knew that eventually Gandalf would get to the point, and there always was a point, so he dredged his mind for memories of his long ago history lessons. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the library at Rivendell and could almost smell that slight mustiness that accompanied the many ancient leather-bound tomes  that lined the shelves. He could hear his father placing up and down, with infinite patience, while he struggled to complete some exercise he had been given. It had been many years since he had given any thought to Isildur. When he dwelt in Gondor, he had become accustomed to seeing his image bearing down on him as he walked the length of the Great Hall in the citadel of Minas Tirith, but there had been no need otherwise for him to consider his forefather at all.

   “Isildur,” he said at last. “Well, as a child, he was quite a hero of mine. I remember thinking that daring solo raid of his to save a fruit of Nimloth from the court of Armenelos, an act which nearly cost him his life, raised him almost to the status of Beren as a hero in my childish understanding. He later shared the rule of Gondor with his brother Anárion and he built Minas Ithil where he dwelt. I believe he was a noble king, who fought bravely at the Daglorlad and the siege of Barad-dûr. He is best remembered, of course, for striking a blow to Sauron and so cutting his ring from his hand. But, Gandalf, surely you know all this?”

   “I do, but tell me of his death; what did Elrond teach you of the disaster at the Gladden Fields.”

   Aragorn sighed, wishing Gandalf would simply tell him what this was about. He drew on his pipe and gazed blankly at the busy water of the ford with unfocused eyes as he tried to remember. The massacre of two hundred Dúnedain warriors was a tragic tale that had always greatly moved him even before he knew that those were his own people who had been so brutally butchered.

   “Very little is known of that terrible slaughter as only three men ever returned to Rivendell to tell of it. Ohtar and his companion, were charged by Isildur to flee with the Shards of Narsil and so it was that they left the battle before Isildur fell. But Elendur’s squire was later found injured beneath his master’s body, and it is recorded that it was he who heard the last words spoken between the king and his heir. Thus it is known that it was Elendur who urged his father to attempt to save himself by putting on the ring and fleeing the battle. The Dúnedain were vastly out numbered and clearly doomed. Estelmo told how, in the end, Isildur reluctantly agreed when all hope was lost. I seem to recall it is also said that, later, all Isildur’s gear was found beside the riverbank by woodmen and so it is has long been assumed that this was where he perished. The loss of the king and his three elder sons was a terrible tragedy and it was a crippling blow to the North Kingdom that so many fine men never returned to Eriador.”

   “Yes, it was a great tragedy,” said Gandalf. “I understand the Dúnedain never recovered from this loss. After the War, Valandil did not even have enough men left to people all the places that Elendil had built.”

   For a moment, Man and Maia stared at the water flowing swiftly past their feet as they contemplated this first step in the long, sad decline of the Dúnedain of Arnor.

   “Elrond once told me you reminded him greatly of Elendur; did you know that?” asked Gandalf. “Apparently he was long considered the fairest of Elendil’s seed and would no doubt have made a very fine king.”

   Aragorn nodded. “Elrond told me that too. It was a few years ago, on a time when I returned to Rivendell laden with too many cares. I think he was trying to bolster my belief in myself.” He smiled suddenly. “I’m not sure it worked. I remember thinking it was a heavy expectation to live up to. But, Gandalf, you have still not told me what this is all about.”

   “Patience, my dear boy,” said Gandalf. “I was just coming to that. But I have not yet asked all my questions. Now, Aragorn, do you know what became of Isildur’s ring? Did Elrond tell you anything about that?”

   “I believe he said it was assumed to have been lost with him, most probably in the Anduin.”

   “That is my thought also,” said Gandalf. “At the last meeting of the White Council, Saruman was insistent that the ring had been washed out to sea, but, when pressed, he was unable to support this claim with any proof.”

   Gandalf suddenly fell silent, as if his attention was turned elsewhere and he appeared to be no longer aware of the presence of his companion or anything else about him. His thoughts had taken him deep into some other place and Aragorn could only wonder at what was passing through his mind. He sat and waited patiently for him to come back to him, all the while watching him closely. It was at moments like this that he was reminded that his friend was not the kindly, aged mortal man he so often seemed, but a  Maia of great power, a power the magnitude of which Aragorn had only ever really guessed at, so rare and fleeting were the moments when Gandalf revealed anything of his true self.

   At last Gandalf spoke. “As a child, did you ever hear the story of the hobbit and the thirteen dwarves?”

  Aragorn laughed out loud and then shook his head in disbelief. Whatever he was expecting the wizard to say, it was not that. “Ever do you speak in riddles, my friend. But, yes, it was one of my favourite bedtime stories. I never tired of hearing it.”

   “I wonder if the version Elrond told you included mention of the hobbit’s ring.”

   “Why yes, of course,” said Aragorn. “It was a crucial part of the tale, as I recall; the whole venture to bring about the demise of the dragon would not have come about without it.”

   “Umm, that is true,” said Gandalf. “Strange are the workings of Eä. But have you ever wondered about that ring, Aragorn; where it came from or how Gollum happened to have it in his possession?”

   “No, I confess I have not, though now that you mention it, and in almost the same breath as you speak of Isildur at that, such questions seem obvious.”

   Gandalf smiled at him. “Your mind has lost none of its sharpness, I see. I have spent many an hour in the last sixty years pondering such things. You may think I speak in riddles, but really, Aragorn, is that not a wonder as riddles are ever my lot. And this riddle has been much on my mind. I can’t help but wonder about this ring. It is so plain and simple in appearance and yet it confers invisibility upon its wearer. That is no small feat. The rings made by Celebrimbor were the greatest rings made by the Elves and yet none of these had such an effect. Those given to the dwarves did little more than enhance their lust for gold. Of the Three, it is suffice to say that they do not render their keepers invisible, and the Nine only conferred invisibility upon those who wore them after many years as they were gradually drawn further into the Shadow World. Theirs was certainly not the immediate, instantaneous invisibility that occurs with Bilbo’s ring. No, Aragorn, I sense Sauron in this. This is my fear. This may not be any ordinary ring of power made by the Elves, but THE Ring of Power, made by the Dark Lord himself.” Gandalf spoke those last words so quietly, Aragorn almost had to ask him to repeat them, so great was his shock that he could hardly believe what he was hearing.

   “But if you are right, what would this mean for those of us who oppose him? The Ring of Power is a terrible thing in the hand of its maker. Should he find it, what hope would there be?”

   “None, Aragorn, there would be none.”

   Aragorn’s heart was racing in time with his thoughts. He knew very little about the rings of power, even the Three. Elrond had once shown him Vilya and he had long ago guessed that Galadriel was the keeper of Nenya. He did not know who was the bearer of Narya, though he had his suspicions. He had seen for himself the force for good that could come of such rings when wielded by the hands of the Wise. And the Ring of Sauron would hold a power beyond any of them

   “If this is so, would there be no hope of using the Dark Lord’s own weapon against him? If its power is so much greater than the Three, might not some good come out of this if we could use it to our own advantage?”

   “No, Aragorn, I can think of nothing good that could possibly occur as a result of this, unless the ring could be destroyed, but that is a hope beyond hope. Remember this: although Isildur probably never attempted to master the ring, he was not able to wield it at need to defeat even an army of orcs from the Misty Mountains, much less the full might of Sauron. And the lasting effects that doing this might have upon its bearer are another matter again. I can not yet be entirely sure that this is the One Ring, but I think our best policy for now is secrecy. Fortunately Bilbo has kept his magic ring a secret all these years. Its presence in the Shire is known only to himself and his nephew, Frodo Baggins. We must continue to keep it secure and safe while I try and find some answers to these riddles. It is for this that I have need of your help, Aragorn. You and your kin already do a sterling job protecting the Shire, but I would be happier if the guard could be even more vigilant from now on. If you can possibly spare the men, twice as many on watch along the borders would ease my heart greatly.”

   Aragorn nodded thoughtfully. Guarding the Shire was not generally considered the most demanding of postings. The problem was usually more one of boredom on the part of his men and the fact that it diverted them from other, more dangerous watches. Fulfilling this request of Gandalf’s would place an even greater strain upon them. They were stretched too thinly as it was. The simple fact was there were just not enough of them to effectively patrol Eriador and keep evil at bay indefinitely. And if this conversation was to remain private, he anticipated there might be difficulties in convincing the men of the importance of this sudden need. Yet somehow it would have to be done.

   “It will not be easy, but it can be arranged,” he said at last.

   “Good. And thank you, my friend. My heart is eased enormously just in sharing this burden with you. I just wish I knew for certain how Gollum came by the ring.”

   “I suppose asking him is out of the question? What do you imagine became of him?”

   “He is probably dead, but if he is not, I suppose it is possible he might still be hunting for it. Quite how the ring’s power works, I do not yet know. I desperately need to learn more about it. My fear is that, if it is the One Ring, Sauron also will seek it. He must not find it, Aragorn. I can not stress that enough. You do understand, don’t you?”

   “I do. I realise all hope would be gone forever if this came to pass. But, surely, he could not know it is in the Shire?” Aragorn paused to think about this. “If Bilbo has kept it hidden, Sauron’s spies are very unlikely to have learned of this, so how would he possibly know it is there?”

   “He could not… unless…unless. Bilbo told Gollum his name! Aragorn, that creature knows who Bilbo is and where he lives.” Gandalf’s face coloured in alarm.

   “If he tries to reach the Shire, the Rangers will catch him, fear not.” Aragorn forced a reassurance he did not feel. Gandalf’s evident panic was frightening.

   “But what if he himself is captured by the enemy? Imagine what he could reveal. He could bring the Dark Lord’s servants straight here, straight to the Shire.”

   “Then we must find him. It is the only way. If he still lives, we must search for him and keep him secure from Sauron’s grasp. And I will help you in this, Gandalf. It is, after all, only through the folly of my ancestor that the ring survived when it should not. I am Isildur’s heir, it is only right that I should labour to repair the harm his choice may yet cause.”

   “No, Aragorn, you have no need to blame yourself for that moment of weakness of Isildur’s and you will be needed here. I can not drag you off on such a possibly fruitless hunt. The creature could be anywhere in all Middle-earth.”

   “Perhaps, but I would accompany you all the same. It would be safer if we do this together. My people can manage without me for a time. Please Gandalf, I feel I must insist on it.”

   Gandalf sighed. “Very well, my good fellow, as you wish. I confess I would be glad of your companionship, to say nothing of your hunting and tracking skills which I happily concede surpass my own. If you are sure of this, we might as well make a start in the morning.”

   “So be it, and I will speak with Halbarad at once as it will now fall to him to organise the additional patrols.”

   Aragorn rose from his seat by the ford, his mind in turmoil at all he had heard. The implications could be terrible and yet Aragorn had a growing suspicion that this might just be the key that he had been searching for, his means of unlocking the door to that secret path that could lead him to his destiny, a path that had so eluded him for over twenty years. As his thoughts ran away with him, he felt a mounting excitement at what all this might ultimately mean and yet, along side his hope, there arose also a great dread, for, in a flash of foresight, he saw, with absolute certainty, that this was the very beginning of a journey that would change his life forever. But whether it would be for good or ill, he could not tell.

   He walked back to the camp in a daze. He was not looking forward to breaking this news to his men. He found Halbarad deep in conversation with a group of Rangers who had gathered near the fire in anticipation of their evening meal.

   “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I would speak with you alone, Halbarad, for a moment, if I may,” he said. Halbarad grunted his compliance as Aragorn drew him to one side.

   “Radhruin was right, Hal, Gandalf did not come with good tidings. I’m afraid he and I shall be leaving at first light tomorrow and we may be gone some time.”

   “Why; whatever has happened?” said Halbarad in dismay at this news; his earlier niggling immediately put aside. “Aragorn, I am sorry. This has nothing to do with my being much a grouch the last few days, does it? All those names I called you, I didn’t mean any of them, well, not most of them; you do know that don’t you?”

   Aragorn grinned at him. “I only wish it was that simple. No, Hal, this is no devious plot on my part to escape from your miserable company for a time.”

   A look of relief crossed Halbarad’s face, to be quickly followed by one of resignation. The reasons for his chieftain’s travels were rarely explained; over the years he had come to accept his comings and goings without question.

   “Might I know where I can find you, if needs must?” he asked.

   “East at first, that is all I can say, for I know not myself,” replied Aragorn. “And I fear there is more I must ask of you. I can tell you nothing as to my reasons, but the guard on the Shire must be doubled with immediate effect.” Aragorn could see the incredulity written all too clearly on Halbarad’s face at this order. The Shire was the most peaceable part of their watch; its inhabitants of no interest to anyone but themselves. He almost smiled as he witnessed Halbarad visibly fighting the urge to question this command. But Halbarad resisted, knowing only too well that Aragorn would have his reasons and that he would tell him if he could.

   “Doubling the guard will be difficult,” he said. “The men are pushed to their limits already.”

   “I know, and, believe me, I would not ask this if it was not absolutely necessary, but there is no other way. It is imperative that no one suspicious crosses the borders. The spies must be kept out. I can not stress this too greatly; there is more at stake here than you realise. I’m afraid it will fall to you now to see this done, and done it must be.”

   Halbarad nodded. “I will see to it; I can assure you of that.”

   Aragorn placed a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry to ask this of you, but in all our years wandering the wilds together, I have never needed your strength and wisdom as much as I do now.  I know I could not leave Eriador in safer hands.” Halbarad, like any of his men, would gladly die for him, if he asked it. Their loyalty was never in doubt, but still he hated to have to keep asking for more and more from them. At that moment he felt the full loneliness of leadership and he wanted nothing more than to reach out to his friend and embrace him, to feel the comfort and strength of another heart beating beside his own. He was already grieving at the thought of leaving the North, of leaving his men, but he could not allow Gandalf to undertake this venture to find Gollum on his own. It might seem an impossible task, but it was one he was certain they should at least attempt.

   Halbarad must have sensed the turmoil within his chieftain for he reached up and pulled his head towards his and for a moment their foreheads touched.

   “Don’t worry about us, we will manage, as we always have,” he said softly. “Just be sure to return to us when you can, that’s all we ask of you.”

   “I will, I promise,” said Aragorn, not even attempting to keep the emotion from of his voice. “But will you promise me something too?”

   “Of course, anything; you have only to ask”

   “When you next visit Bree, stay away from the dice.”

~oo0oo~

   ‘And I,’ said Aragorn, ‘counselled that we should hunt for Gollum, too late though it may seem. And since it seemed fit that Isildur’s heir should labour to repair Isildur’s fault, I went with Gandalf on the long and hopeless search.’

The Council of Elrond                                                               The Fellowship of the Ring

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

A/N This chapter is one of my personal favourites and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

I wish to thank both Shirebound and Meckinock for the images in their wonderful stories of Bilbo tending an injured Aragorn as those inspired the beginning of this story.

Chapter 18: All That is Gold

I am Aragorn and those verses go with my name.

Strider                                                                                         The Fellowship of theRing

~oo0oo~

Aragorn slowly emerged from his dreamless sleep. It was dark, a shaft of moonbeam the only light penetrating the gloom around him. As his half open eyes tried to make sense of his surroundings, he wondered where he was. He furiously willed his mind to focus, but he could remember nothing. He realized he was no longer outside in the open, of that he was sure; beneath him he felt the rare sensation of a comfortable bed and against his skin was smooth linen. He opened his eyes further as a sound beside him alerted him that he was not alone; someone was in the room with him. But as he tried to move, pain assaulted every part of his body. He froze as he desperately tried to master it.

   Whatever could have happened to him?

   As the nauseating waves subsided, he once again tried to raise his head, but as he did so, a hand appeared on his shoulder, gently holding him to the bed.

   “Be still, child,” said a familiar voice. “Do not attempt to move, yet.”

   It was his father. Those few words conveyed such kindness and such love, that Aragorn immediately felt all his fear and uncertainly drain away. Elrond was here; he would take care of everything, as he always had. It no longer mattered what had befallen him. He was safe and he could rest. He closed his eyes and felt the comforting presence of his father’s hand on his forehead for a moment before that same hand slid under his neck and his head was gently tipped towards a cup. A not very pleasant liquid entered his mouth. He only managed a few sips as swallowing had suddenly become exhausting.  His eyes searched for Elrond as his head was lowered back onto the soft pillow, but his body abandoned the struggle to maintain consciousness and he drifted away into darkness again.

~oo0oo~

   The next time he woke the sun was streaming through the windows and birds were chattering noisily on the balcony outside. Remembering how he was punished for stirring the last time, Aragorn cautiously turned his head a fraction, expecting to see his foster father sitting in vigil beside him. Instead, to his complete surprise, he saw a middle-aged hobbit perched on a chair, quietly reading a book. His mind reeled at this unexpected vision. In his bewilderment, he began to wonder if Elrond had only been an illusion, conjured up by his mind in his time of need. But, glancing around the familiar room, there could be no doubt; he was definitely in his old bedroom at Rivendell.

   Suddenly the hobbit looked up and noticed the injured man’s eyes upon him. He immediately jumped down from his chair in surprise, dropping his book in his haste.

   “Oh goodness me, you’re awake!” he said as he cautiously approached the bed as if its occupant might bite him. “Oh my word, I wonder if I should fetch Master Elrond. No, wait a minute, now what was it I had to do? Oh yes! Water! Don’t move; I’ll fetch some right away.”

   He went to a low side table and poured a cup of water from the pitcher placed there. He returned to the bed and quite competently raised Aragorn’s head, allowing him just a few sips, as he had been instructed.

   “Is that better?” he asked anxiously as he returned the cup to the table. “How do you feel? Oh dear, you do look very ill you know; quite terrible in fact. Did the water not help at all?”

   Aragorn wondered briefly if he was supposed to answer all these questions. Instead he managed a trace of a smile for the little gentleman.

   “I am well enough,” he said, struggling to find his voice and still watching the hobbit in amazement. The halfling seemed to relax a little at that and once more came and stood beside the bed.

   “Good, I am very pleased to hear it,” he said, much relieved that Elrond’s patient was not about to do something disconcerting that might demand some action on his part. He really did not know what to think of this wild, dangerous looking man. He was very unkempt and scruffy; his shaggy hair appeared never to have seen a comb. He may be injured, but the hobbit had no doubt he could cause mischief if he chose to.

   Still, Elrond had been very concerned about him when he had been brought unconscious to the house late last night. And who was he to judge by appearances. The man was obviously in need of care and he was happy to help out and do his bit, though now that he had given him something to drink, he was not at all sure what else he could do. Nor did he know quite what to say to him. Perhaps he could simply start by asking him his name if it would not be considered forward to do so. Then in total dismay at his own lack of protocol, he realized he had been standing there staring at him, all the while having completely neglected to make his own introductions.

  “Oh forgive me, I am quite forgetting my manners; Mister Bilbo Baggins at your service and your family’s,” he said, bowing deeply.

  Aragorn managed to reply politely: “I am very pleased to meet you, Bilbo Baggins.” So this was the hobbit he had heard so much about. He hesitated for only the merest moment before adding: “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn.”

   “Well, Mister Aragorn, I am very pleased to meet you too, though I must say, you do seem to have got yourself into something of a pickle; falling down the side of a mountain by all accounts.”

   Aragorn frowned. He had no recollection of doing any such thing, but with throbbing aches and stabbing pains coming from every part of him, he could not deny that it was a distinct possibility.

   “I don’t remember,” he said weakly. “How long have I been here?”

   “Only since last night,” said Bilbo, trying his best to sound reassuring. “There was quite a commotion when you were carried in unconscious; everyone running around, this way and that, fetching and carrying. It was lucky the scouts came across you at all, you know.”

   “Do you know what happened?” asked Aragorn. His head was swimming violently now that he was trying to hold a conversation but it troubled him that he had no memory at all of the previous day’s events.

   “Well, it seems there was a land slide of sorts, up in the hills. All this recent rain brought on a rock-fall, or so the Elves are saying. Those who found you said you were quite a way below the path. Lucky really you weren’t killed, what with all those falling boulders crashing about. Quite terrible it must have been.”

   Aragorn closed his eyes and tried not to allow his thoughts to dwell too much on what had obviously been a narrow escape. Life after all was full of such ill chances. All the same, he realised he had been very fortunate.

   At that moment the door opened and Elrond walked in.

   “Oh, Master Elrond, I am so glad you have come,” said Bilbo. he smiled triumphantly at the Elf lord. “See, your patient is awake and has already drunk a little water. I was just beginning to wonder what to do with him next.”

   Elrond’s troubled face broke into a beaming smile at that news. He leant across the bed and placed a hand on Aragorn’s forehead. To his relief there was still no sign of fever. His foster son’s skin now felt comfortably warm and his face had lost its deathly pallor.

   “Welcome home, Estel,” he said, looking at Aragorn critically as he took his hand and felt for his pulse. “You gave us all quite a fright last night, but I’m pleased to see you are faring a little better today. Are you in much pain?”

   “It is bearable,” said Aragorn, not wishing to worry his father any more than he clearly had already. “I can’t remember anything of what happened, but I am sorry for all the trouble I have caused. It sounds as if I should have taken more care. Some of those ledges are unstable at the best of times. It might have been wiser to have taken a different route.” He knew Elrond would have been badly shaken by his being brought home in a coma and he much regretted all the anxiety he had obviously caused him.

   Elrond squeezed his hand. “I hardly think this was your fault, so there is no need to blame yourself. Fortunately I somehow do not think it is your fate to end your days under a landslide. I doubt your memory of the incident will ever return and perhaps that is as well.”

   He had, however, been extremely worried for his foster son. The Elves had heard rumour of trouble in the Trollshaws and scouts had been sent out immediately to investigate. Aragorn had been found unconscious and dangerously cold from exposure. Elrond doubted he would have survived until morning had he not been found.

   “Elrond, exactly how hurt am I?” asked Aragorn. He tried not to betray the fear in his voice, but he was actually in considerable pain and was beginning to fret a little as to what damage he had done to himself.

   “Nothing that rest and time will not heal,” said Elrond with all the reassurance of one who is well versed in such matters.

   He gently brushed the hair out of his son’s eyes with his fingertips, but then his tone changed and he spoke sternly: “You have three broken ribs and I suspect several muscles are severely damaged if not torn. You are very bruised and sore over much of your body and that is to say nothing of the bang on your head. It is only through immense good fortune that you do not appear to be more seriously injured than you are. It is to be hoped that you might perhaps begin to feel a little better in a few days; however, on no account are you to get out of this bed until I have given you permission to do so. Is that understood?”

   Aragorn nodded, not daring to disagree. He might be over seventy but Elrond could still make him feel like a little boy again when he adopted that tone. Then Elrond’s face softened and he smiled at him, saying: “I think perhaps I ought to get you something for that pain now; don’t you?”

   Aragorn managed to look slightly abashed at being caught out, but in truth he enjoyed being fussed over by Elrond. He felt safe and cherished in a way that, of late, he only ever felt when he was home again and under the care of the Elves.

   Elrond then turned to Bilbo who had been hovering close by.

   “Would you mind sitting with Estel for a little while longer, Bilbo, while I go and prepare a draught for him?”

   “Of course not, Elrond, it would be a pleasure,” said Bilbo, glad to still be of some use. He was becoming quite curious about this unexpected guest.

   When Elrond left, the strange-looking man closed his eyes. Bilbo guessed he needed to rest, so, with nothing else to do, he picked up his book and once again climbed up onto his chair, turning his attention back to the text. He had barely found his page again when a voice from the bed disturbed him.

   “What are you reading?”

   Bilbo looked up and saw the man watching him. He smiled his apologies for thinking he had fallen asleep.

   “It is an Elvish tale,” he said, expecting that to be the end of the conversation.

   “Might I ask which one?”

   “If you must know, it’s the Aldudénië’,’ said Bilbo. “I am trying to render it into the Common Speech. My Quenya is still not yet quite up to the mark, but I am getting better.”

   Aragorn was surprised. He had automatically addressed the hobbit in Westron and he had replied in kind. He knew of no other halflings who spoke even a few words of Sindarin, let alone Quenya. Certainly he had never come across any in Bree. But then he remembered that this was no ordinary hobbit.

   “It is a demanding poem,” said Aragorn sympathetically, “I remember struggling with it as a child.”

   Now it was Bilbo’s turn to be surprised. Apart from the Elves, he had had few dealings with the ‘big folk’ and the only men he had spent any time with were those from far away in Laketown and that had been many years ago. He had never heard them converse in anything but the Common Speech. But this man was obviously not from there. He was most likely a Ranger from the look of him. Bilbo had encountered one or two of these dour men when his journeys in the Shire had taken him close to the borders. They never had much to say and Bilbo, like everyone else in the Shire, was suspicious of them and not a little afraid too.

   “You read this as a child?” he asked, hoping some more information might solve this riddle.

   “Yes I did,” said Aragorn, “I seem to remember having to translate it from Quenya to Sindarin. It took me weeks as I recall. But I imagine creating a text in the Common Speech would be even more difficult.”

   “Well I am certainly finding it hard going, I must admit.”

   Aragorn shifted awkwardly on the bed as he tried to relieve the pain that persistently coursed through him. He knew he ought to be resting but he was too intrigued by his extraordinary attendant to let the conversation drop.

   “Then perhaps, Mister Baggins, I might be of assistance to you. It would seem I shall be remaining at Imladris for a while yet and I would gladly aid you in your task when I am well enough.”

   Bilbo considered this offer and found he was actually quite pleased with his suggestion. He often became stuck on a word or phrase and hated to pester the Elves too often for answers. They were all very kind to him in Rivendell, but sometimes he found living among the Firstborn a little overwhelming. They were all such great lords and so impossibly ancient, to say nothing of being extremely tall.  Perhaps this scruffy man, who it appeared could read two Elvish languages, might be the ideal person to help him. He seemed approachable enough and, while he was confined to his bed, he had nothing better to do. And in that position Bilbo would, at least for a while, have someone to talk to at his own level. 

   “I should be most appreciative of your assistance,” he said, grinning happily at the Ranger. “There are so many fascinating books and manuscripts in Master Elrond’s library that I hardly know where to begin.”

   They were then interrupted by Elrond bringing the draught for Aragorn who grimaced when he smelt the evil looking concoction his father had prepared for him. However he gulped it down dutifully. Elrond then released Bilbo from his vigil.

   “You have been a great help, Bilbo, but I need to sit with my patient myself for a while now,” he said.

   “Of course, Master Elrond,” said Bilbo, “but please ask me again, any time. I was quite beginning to enjoy our conversation.”

   “I am glad to hear it, and I shall be grateful for your assistance again very shortly,” said Elrond smiling at him. Bilbo picked up his book and turned to leave.

   “I will pop in again later then,” he said. “It’s been most interesting to meet you, Mister Aragorn, I’m sure.”

   “The pleasure has been all mine, and thank you,” said Aragorn.

   After Bilbo had gone, Elrond turned his attention to Aragorn’s injuries. He pulled the blankets back and frowned at what he saw. The mass of bruising on his son’s chest and abdomen had spread beyond the bandages and now discoloured much of his body. With the gentlest brush of his fingers, he traced the worst blackened patches, but as he did so, he was aware of Aragorn tensing at even this slight touch. He decided not to investigate further at the moment and instead he checked the many cuts and scrapes on Aragorn’s arms and legs. The previous night, it had been a long and difficult task removing all the dirt and grit from his wounds. He still looked terribly sore, but at least the cuts were clean.

   Satisfied there was nothing more to be done for now, Elrond retied the bandages and, pulling the bed clothes up to his chin, he told his son to rest. But Aragorn no longer felt particularly sleepy. Now that the draught was beginning to take effect and his pain was easing, his mind was turning to other matters.

   “How long has Bilbo been living here?” he asked. Gandalf had told him the hobbit had left the Shire and gone north to Erebor to visit the Dwarves, but was possibly intending to settle in Rivendell when he tired of travelling. As Aragorn’s mind slowly began to clear, he remembered he had been coming here specifically with the hope of meeting him.

   “It must be nearly six months,” said Elrond. “He seems very at home here now.”

   “It sounds as if he has taken up residence in your library. I had no idea hobbits had such interests.”

   “I think, Estel, you have a lot to learn about this particular hobbit,” said Elrond. “Don’t forget, I first met Bilbo when you were just a lad of ten summers. It was a pity you could not have met him then, but I considered it prudent to keep you hidden from all those Dwarves. By the time he returned here on his way back home, he had changed enormously.”

   Aragorn smiled. “I remember I was very disappointed at having missed such unusual visitors. Do you recall, adar, how suspicious I was for years afterwards whenever Elladan and Elrohir offered to take me on a camping trip? I was quite convinced all manner of exciting people would be coming here in our absence.”

   Elrond laughed as he remembered the fury in Estel’s eyes when he learned that, for the second year running, he had missed meeting a wizard and a hobbit whilst he was away in the woods with his big brothers. “I remember that well, Estel. I don’t think I have ever seen you so livid. I must confess we all found your indignation rather amusing. Unfortunately after that, we felt obliged to tell the story of the dragon and the treasure as often as you requested it, which was very often as I recall.”

   “It was one of my favourite bedtime tales,” said Aragorn, smiling fondly at the memories. “Bilbo certainly greatly influenced my impressions of hobbits. As a boy, I thought they must all be these intrepid, fearless warriors. I have since learned that many men in Bree still see hobbits as only funny, timid little creatures who think of nothing more important than where their next meal is coming from, but, thanks to Bilbo’s story, I know there is much more to them than meets the eye.”

   “Well it looks as if you will have the chance to hear more of that adventure, at least,” said Elrond.

   “I am greatly looking forward to hearing the tale straight from the horse’s mouth as I believe they say in the Shire,” said Aragorn, with a laugh, but the sudden movement caused pain to shoot through his tender chest and he gasped aloud.

   Elrond, who had been sitting in the chair beside the bed, immediately jumped to his feet, most concerned.

   “You really should rest now, my son, and let that draught do its work,” he said. “Then we will see if you are up to eating anything. I’m afraid the blows you took to your head may leave you nauseous for a while yet.”

   Aragorn sighed resignedly. He knew it was dangerous to take liberties with head injuries and, in truth, he was much too sore to contemplate doing anything other than rest for a good while yet.

~oo0oo~

   So he did indeed do as his foster father asked and slept for much of the next few days. His tired body was desperate for some proper rest. When travelling in the wild, he seemed to spend his life in a state of perpetual tiredness, unable to relax from his constant vigilance. It was only on his visits to Rivendell that he could completely drop his guard and indulge in some much needed deep, reviving sleep.

   Bilbo visited Aragorn often and, for the most part, he talked while the man listened. He told him amusing tales and anecdotes of the Shire; light, gentle stories which helped Aragorn take his mind off his troubles. Bilbo was quite fascinated by the Dúnadan, as he soon learned he was frequently called. He found himself strangely drawn to him and not just because he was the only other mortal in Imladris. Something about the man did not quite square with his wild ruffian appearance. He was obviously well known and respected here in Rivendell, and not least by Elrond himself.

   For his part, Aragorn began to look forward to the hobbit’s visits. He was glad Bilbo seemed content to do most of the talking, which made him an undemanding visitor. His tales of the Shire intrigued him enormously. He had spent long years guarding that land but, he realised with regret, had never actually spoken more than a few words to any of its inhabitants before now. Bilbo was an excellent story-teller and Aragorn delighted in hearing the simple but heart-warming tales he told so well.

~oo0oo~

   After a few days, Aragorn was allowed out of bed to sit on the balcony outside his window; a site which provided spectacular views across the whole valley. It was late in the year, but for a few hours each day, the weak winter sunshine was strong enough for him to sit outside and benefit from the sun’s warming rays without risk of a chill. The fresh air and the intoxicating fragrance that was uniquely Rivendell raised his spirits enormously and helped him shake off his sick bed stupor. His skin was a patchwork of black and purple bruises, but he was not as sore as he had been and he had learned how to breathe without disturbing his ribs more than necessary. His head still throbbed and he had a lump on the back of it the size of a goose egg but, for all that, he was enjoying being home and the constant care and attention being lavished upon him was something of a rare treat.

   On his mind however was his main reason for coming to Rivendell and a few days later he decided to broach the matter with Bilbo. He had seen more of the hobbit in the last day or so as he began to recover further. Bilbo had begun to bring his texts to Aragorn’s room and Aragorn tried to translate the occasional word Bilbo did not recognise or explain some point of interest about the Noldor or the Valar.

   That afternoon Aragorn had been home about a week and was feeling considerably better as his headache had gone at last. Bilbo had joined him on his balcony for a discreet smoke. The hobbit had been delighted to discover that the Ranger had a passion for pipeweed. Aragorn knew Elrond would be furious with him if he found out that Bilbo had been secretly supplying him with leaf, but the conspiracy made him feel young again even if he did pay for his foolishness when the smoke made him cough and the pain seared his ribs.

   As he and Bilbo sat side by side blowing smoke rings, Aragorn decided to launch straight into the matter he needed to discuss with him.

   “Bilbo, I need to speak to you about Gollum.” The abruptness of this statement caused Bilbo to cough and splutter in surprise.

  “Gollum?” he asked in alarm. “Whatever do you know about Gollum?”

  “Not enough it would seem,” said Aragorn. “I need your help to find him.”

  “Find him?” screeched Bilbo. “Why in the world would anyone want to find that miserable creature?”

  “Do not be alarmed,” said Aragorn, “but I believe it could be important that he is found. I know something of your adventure with the Dwarves from Gandalf as well as from what Elrond has told me, but it is your encounter with Gollum that I am most interested to hear about.”

   “I didn’t realise you knew Gandalf,” said Bilbo almost accusingly. He wondered what other business of his the wizard had told the man.

   “I have known Gandalf a very long time, though not as long as you have,” said Aragorn with a gentle smile. “A couple of years ago, he came to me asking for my help.” Bilbo’s eyes widened at that. Gandalf was the most resourceful person he knew and he wondered what help this man could possibly be to him. Then with an uneasy sense of foreboding he remembered his magic ring that had once belonged to Gollum.

   “This has something to do with my old ring; doesn’t it?” he asked.

   “Yes, I am very much afraid it does,” said Aragorn. “Gandalf has his suspicions about the nature and origins of that ring. I will not go into details now, but if he is proved right, the consequences for all of us could be very terrible.”

   Bilbo was shocked.

   “In what way?” he asked. He had been much attached to his ring and very reluctant to let it go. It was extremely beautiful and jolly handy for evading the likes of the Sackville-Bagginses, but it was hard to think of anything sinister surrounding it.

   “I can not say yet,” said Aragorn. “But it would be helpful to know how Gollum came by it. Also there is no knowing what trouble he might cause, especially if he ended up in the wrong company.”

   “What sort of trouble?” cried Bilbo, immediately thinking of his nephew. “Frodo! He has the ring now! Gandalf was very keen that I should pass it on to him. But is he in danger? Aragorn, you must tell me.”

   “You are getting ahead of yourself,” said Aragorn soothingly in an attempt to calm him. “The Shire is not as vulnerable as you may think. It is guarded night and day, and, at Gandalf’s request, I have doubled the number of Rangers watching it. Frodo will be safe enough.”

   “What guard on the Shire and what do you mean, you have doubled it?” Bilbo was becoming quite flustered at the turn of the conversation.

   Aragorn decided it was time to offer some explanations.

   “My kinsmen and I have long guarded the Shire from the many evil things that walk in the wilds. I know this surprises you,” he said at the look of wonder on Bilbo’s face. “And I do not expect you to know of this for we keep our movements secret from all except the Elves. In this way we have protected the little folk for many years and gladly have we done so.”

   Bilbo was quite speechless for a moment, but as he thought about it he realised it had to be. He alone of all the inhabitants of the Shire had travelled far and wide. He had a fairly sure grasp of what sort of evil creatures existed out there beyond the borders of their land. And odd though it seemed, he could understand the Rangers desire to do this task without the knowledge of the Shire’s inhabitants. Knowing little of the dangers beyond their cosy world, they would either not believe the necessity of a guard beyond that provided by their own Bounders or would worry themselves silly over the potential troubles, real and imagined. But it still came as something of a shock to Bilbo to discover that the happy, carefree existence they all enjoyed in the Shire was not theirs by right, but by courtesy of the vigilance of these strange men.

   “Well, I suppose I should offer you my gratitude,” said Bilbo, not feeling particularly grateful. “You are quite right; I had no idea. Tell me though; you said you doubled the guard. Am I to take it then that you are their leader?”

   “I am their chieftain.”

   “Oh!” Bilbo was both amazed and yet not by this revelation. It explained many of the anomalies about the man, but at the same time he could not help but wonder what sort of downtrodden people he led if he was their top man.

   Aragorn smiled, as if guessing his thoughts.

   “I do not much look like a leader of anything, I know,” he said. “If you like, I will tell you all about myself, if it will help you to trust me. But do not be too concerned for the Shire at the moment. Neither Gandalf nor I would see any harm come to its inhabitants. I’m sure your nephew will be quite safe. I would prefer it though if this creature was found. I would like to know how he came by the ring. You are the only person who has seen him, so anything you can tell me about your encounter with him could be of interest. Gandalf and I have already searched the area where you and the Dwarves were captured, in case he had returned to his old haunts, but the mine tunnels under the Mountain were deserted. We found no clues as to where he may have gone, but after sixty years that is not to be marvelled at. I would be grateful for anything you can tell me of him, Bilbo.”

   “I’m not at all sure I can tell you anything that will be a help, but here goes,” said Bilbo, taking a deep breath. He then told his tale from when he awoke, lost and alone, in a mine under the Misty Mountains, having somehow escaped from the orcs, and how, by chance, he came across his gold ring. He told of how he found the strange underground lake where Gollum lived on his little island and of their bizarre riddle contest which Bilbo won, and how, when Gollum failed to give him a prize, he instead showed him the way out of the labyrinth of tunnels that ran under the mountain.

   But now, unaccountably, Bilbo could no longer meet the Ranger’s gaze and he began to look decidedly uncomfortable. Aragorn noticed the change in the hobbit and wondered at its meaning, but made no comment. He listened carefully as Bilbo went on to describe Gollum in detail. He did not sound a very dangerous creature, being small and hobbit-like, though Aragorn knew better than to judge such things at face value.

   “That really is all I can tell you,” said Bilbo, coming to the end of his tale. “I am not surprised he left the orc tunnels. Without his ring he would be very vulnerable and I imagine he got out as soon as he could. As you say, that was sixty years ago. He could be anywhere by now.”

   “Yes he could, but thank you, Bilbo, for telling me all that,” said Aragorn. “We have so little to go on that every detail could be useful. As soon as I am able I will meet with Gandalf again and we will decide how best to resume our search.”

   Aragorn started to shift his blankets as if making to move back inside to his bedroom.

   “Aren’t you forgetting something?” said Bilbo, causing the Ranger to pause and look at him questioningly. “I have told you my tale, now I want to hear yours.”

   Aragorn groaned involuntarily.

   “Unless you are too tired of course,” said Bilbo quickly. “We could always save it for another day.”

   “Another time would be better if you do not mind,” said Aragorn. “Forgive me, Bilbo, but I am too tired now.”

   “Of course, there is no rush,” said Bilbo, jumping up to take the Ranger’s arm and steady him as he tentatively made his way back to bed.

~oo0oo~

   The next day was bitterly cold and Aragorn could not sit out on his balcony. Instead, with the aid of a stick that Erestor had found for him when Elrond pronounced him fit enough to take short walks within the house, he set off to potter slowly down the long corridors of the Last Homely House. His legs felt shaky and inadequate for the task after a week in bed and his chest complained at the activity, but he stubbornly persevered. He was not heading anywhere in particular, but he soon found himself in the kitchens, drawn without thought by the aroma of freshly baked bread. The cook was delighted to see him and fussed over him as he always had done since he was a boy. He chastised him for being too thin and made sure he did not leave until he had been suitably fed on several of his favourite pastries.

  Aragorn then resumed his tour of the house, vaguely wandering back to his room, but by a different route which took him past his father’s library. He was beginning to feel a little bored now with lying in bed and wanted to find something to read. The door was ajar and, as he approached, he could hear muttering coming from inside the room. He smiled as he recognized the voice. On entering he found the hobbit sitting at a table, pouring over a large tome while simultaneously frantically scribbling notes.

   He decided to retreat and leave Bilbo to his work, but the hobbit’s sharp ears picked up the rap of the stick on the stone floor.

   “Ah, Aragorn,” said Bilbo, looking up from his work. “I am so pleased you are up and about. You can help me with my latest project.”

   Aragorn smiled and came and sat beside him, lifting the cover of the book to see what he was reading.

   “The ‘Akallabêth’?” he said, surprised. “What happened to the ‘Aldudénië’? Did you finish it?”

   “I did indeed,” said Bilbo who obviously felt very pleased with himself for having done so. “What a tale that is too! And what a nasty piece of work that Melkor was! The Elves have certainly had their troubles, though I don’t mind saying, this Sauron in the ‘Akallabêth’ seems almost as bad. What a most dreadful sort of ruffian!”

   Aragorn laughed; only a hobbit could talk in such terms of the two most evil and feared beings in the whole history of Middle-earth.

   “And how are you finding the ‘Akallabêth’?” he asked. “‘The Downfall of Númenor’ is a tragic lesson to us all, is it not?”

   “It is a quite frightening tale really, I think,” said Bilbo. “Who after all would imagine that a whole island could just disappear under the waves like that; quite extraordinary, a whole race of people wiped out because of their disobedience. And yet it wasn’t really their fault, I don’t think; they were so egged on by Sauron and he, curse him, survived.”

   “He did unfortunately,” said Aragorn. “But not all the Númenoreans were deceived by Sauron and some of them survived the drowning of Númenor. Elendil, who wrote this tale, and both his sons, Isildur and Anárion, together with many of their people, were all able to sail to safety in Middle-earth.”

   “Yes, ‘The Faithful’ as I understand they were called,” said Bilbo. “Great Men they must have been to resist Sauron and remain true to the Valar the way they did. And to think they then came to Middle-earth and established their kingdoms here. It is such a tragedy the line of kings died out. We could do with some men like them now to stand against the Power rising in the East.”

   Aragorn hesitated before speaking up at this obvious opening for him to reveal his true nature. He had after all promised to tell Bilbo all about himself, but now, before he had even spoken, Bilbo had virtually voiced the expectations that would inevitably be laid upon him once he revealed who he was. And if he failed to deliver, Bilbo would be one more person for him to disappoint. However he now thought of the hobbit as a friend and knew he could not continue this conversation without telling him the truth.

   “Bilbo, the line of kings may have ended, but the line of Elendil still endures; it has survived from father to son through many generations.  The descendents of the Númenóreans have not completely died out either; there are still a few of us left, although we are now a secret, wandering people; the days of our glory long gone. The Dúnedain we are called, the ‘Men of the West’.”

   “Your people were originally from Númenor; the descendents of the Faithful?” asked Bilbo in wonder.

    Aragorn nodded.

    Of course, now that he thought on it, it was obvious. The strange men that guarded the Shire and roamed the wilds were not like other men. They looked different for one thing; they were taller and their faces were fairer. And perhaps they were not quite the ruffians they were widely believed to be if they were still selflessly protecting the innocent even though their kingdom had long since been destroyed.

   “And what of Elendil’s heirs; you say his line has survived, then just who are his descendents?” said Bilbo, but even as he asked the question, the answer came to him.

   “You! You are the chieftain! It has to be you!” Bilbo jumped up from his seat in his excitement. Aragorn smiled and nodded again.

   “Well of all the amazing unlooked for revelations, this has to take the biscuit. I knew there was something odd about you.”

   Aragorn laughed. “I don’t think I would have put it quite like that.”

   “But come now,” said Bilbo, suddenly intrigued. “You must tell your tale. I want to hear all about you. For one thing, what are you doing going about like some ragged down and out?”

   So Aragorn told his tale. He told of the death of his father and his upbringing in Imladris; he told of his time serving as a soldier in Rohan and Gondor, and of his many journeys throughout Middle-earth. He told of his most recent years leading the Dúnedain and of his lonely life as a Ranger. Bilbo was such an interested and sympathetic listener that he even found himself telling him of his visit, now over twenty years ago, to Lothlórien and his engagement to Arwen. He then could not help but tell of the condition Elrond had placed upon their marriage and his ongoing struggle to fulfil it.

   Bilbo listened in wonder at the tale he was hearing and found himself deeply moved by the man telling it. When Aragorn finished, Bilbo was silent for a moment and then he reached over and took his hand in his.

   “My dear Aragorn, what a life you have led,” he said quietly, “and it seems you still have a long road ahead of you. I take my hat off to you, I really do. Yours is not an easy path by any means. I do not envy you one bit, but I want you to know you have another friend in Rivendell now and anything I can do to help, well, you only have to ask.”

   Aragorn was enormously touched by Bilbo’s offer and thanked him sincerely. His heart was easier now that he had told him the truth and his burden felt no heavier as Bilbo had not, after all, placed any expectations upon him. He still looked upon him as just his friend, nothing more.

   All the talk however had tired him considerably and he was very glad of Bilbo’s shoulder to rest a hand upon on as he made his way back to his room.

~oo0oo~

   A couple of weeks later, Aragorn felt well and truly on the mend and started preparing to take up his life on the road again. To regain his fitness, he went riding with Elladan and Elrohir, and he sparred daily with Glorfindel. At last Elrond pronounced him fit to leave, but the weather then suddenly turned wintry and blizzards meant the path out of Rivendell was blocked. Bilbo was thrilled as it meant Aragorn was available for a while longer to help him with his translation of the ‘Narn i Hin Húrin’.

   The Dúnedain festival of Mettarë came and went. It was always celebrated by the Elves of Imladris when one of the Heirs of Isildur was in residence, but this year was Bilbo’s first experience of the feasts that marked the winter solstice and the start of the New Year as the Dúnedain accorded it in the King’s Reckoning. The food was a wonder, even for a hobbit, and the festivities such a joy that Bilbo at last felt he well and truly belonged in his new home.

   Eventually, two weeks after Mettarë, the snows thawed and Aragorn could delay his departure no longer. Having made up his mind to go, he decided to set out the very next morning. Much as he yearned to stay longer, he knew leaving would only become harder the more he postponed it. As it was, he still dreaded taking that first step that would set him on his way out into the wilds again where hardship and danger were his constant companions. He would head south to Sarn Ford and meet with the Rangers there. Hopefully they would have received some word of Gandalf. Once he had found him, he expected they would travel east together to continue their search for Gollum. It was going to be a bleak time tracking the elusive creature in the coming winter months. He really felt they had little hope of success.

   That evening the cook prepared one of his favourite meals in his honour and, by the time everyone retired to the Hall of Fire, Aragorn felt very sated and soporific. He struggled to stay awake as the Elves settled down to an evening of music-making. Soon the air was filled with the sound of their beautiful, clear singing voices and the strumming of their delicate harps and lyres.

   However Bilbo was sitting excitedly in a corner all by himself. He had decided to honour Aragorn in his own way and wished to use his departure as an opportunity to unveil the poem he had felt compelled to write about him. When there was a lull in the singing, Bilbo seized the moment. Jumping up on to a chair, he cleared his throat and addressed the gathering as loudly and clearly as he could.

   “May I have the attention of all of you,” he said. It took a few moments but eventually a hush descended. “I have written a little poem that I would like to present to you all tonight seeing as Aragorn is leaving us in the morning. I hope the sentiment expressed in it will cheer and encourage him somewhat as he returns to the life he must lead.”

   Elrond, sitting beside Aragorn, nudged his son to ensure he was awake and everyone waited expectantly for Bilbo to begin.

   “All that is gold does not glitter,

   Not all those who wander are lost;

   The old that is strong does not wither,

   Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

   From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

   A light from the shadows shall spring;

   Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

   The crownless again shall be king.” [2]

   As Bilbo finished, the Elves voiced their approval and Aragorn was nearly moved to tears. No one had written a poem about him before. And this one had such confidence in his success. So Bilbo had placed his expectations upon him after all, but he found, to his surprise, that they inspired and comforted him rather than burdened him. He rose from his seat and crossed the hall to embrace his friend and thank him.

   “Did you like it? Oh I hoped you would!” beamed Bilbo. “It describes you to a tee, doesn’t it? You won’t ever forget, will you, Aragorn, when you are out there all alone in the wilds, that you are never truly alone; there are those who care about you, and who love you.”

   Aragorn felt he could hardly speak for the emotion choking him. “Thank you, Bilbo, I shall try to remember that and now I have your poem to remind me. Will you recite it for me again before I leave so I can commit it to memory?”

   “Of course I will. But first though, if you don’t mind, I’d like to give you a bit of advice. You never can tell when good advice will come in handy,” said Bilbo. “We have a saying in the Shire which I very much doubt you’ll have heard before; I may even have been instrumental in introducing it, come to think of it. Remember, Aragorn, never laugh at live dragons [1]. I was one of the lucky ones who did just that and lived to tell the tale. Most wouldn’t get the chance to make that mistake twice.”

   Aragorn roared with laugher. “A most useful piece of advice that I will be sure to remember should I ever have the misfortune to stumble across any.” He marvelled at the funny little hobbit smiling up at him, with his round, cheerful face. He was the most unlikely looking hero he had ever met; no one would ever guess there was such a great heart beating within that small frame.

   “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Bilbo Baggins, it really has; I’m going to miss you very much, very much indeed.”

~oo0oo~

   ‘I made that up myself,’ Bilbo whispered to Frodo, ‘for the Dúnadan, a long time ago when he first told me about himself.’

‘The Council of Elrond’                                                           ‘The Fellowship of the Ring’  

[1]  Inside Information                                                                                  The Hobbit

[2] Strider                                                                                   The Fellowship of the Ring

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 19: The Storyteller

“…He is one of the wandering folk – Rangers we call them. He seldom talks: not but what he can tell a rare tale when he has the mind.”

‘At the Sign of the Prancing Pong’                                             The Fellowship of the Ring 

~oo0oo~

   Barliman Butterbur was not a happy man. The occasional heavy shower at this time of year was to be expected. April was after all renowned for them. But torrential downpours that lasted all day and continued well into the night were quite another matter altogether.

   It was bad for business for one thing. Who in their right mind would venture out on a night like this? And it was getting worse; the blustery wind had picked up so much it threatened to shake the windows of the Prancing Pony out of their very frames. And now the strengthening gusts were driving drenching rain in relentless waves across the open courtyard. The results of continuous rain since dawn were becoming only too apparent. The barrels collecting run-off from the roofs were overflowing and the yard was quickly becoming a lake. It was already impossible to reach the stables from the inn without having to paddle.

   ‘I shall need a boat if this goes on much longer,’ thought Barliman, miserably, as he stood at the back door of the inn watching raindrops the size of peas pelting down beyond the open doorway. As he watched for a moment he noticed they were actually rather pretty as they glittering in the glow of the lantern hanging on the outside wall.

   “Rather like many tiny stars,” thought Barliman, as he pulled the collar up on his shirt, though scant protection it offered him from the driving rain.

  “Well, I suppose there is an upside to every downside,” he said aloud to himself as he turned to go back indoors. “We might not get any new custom tonight, but the guests already here aren’t going anywhere either.” And looking at the rapidly expanding lake, he suddenly had another agreeable thought. “And none of them has horses to care for either”. There would be no wading through ankle deep water to tend beasts for Barliman tonight.

   He quickly closed the door, just in time to avoid another swell of water being blasted towards him by the powerful wind. He bolted the door and made his way back to the kitchen, calling out to his hobbit helper as he went.

   “Nob? Were are you? We’ll be needing more logs for the fire in the common room.”

   Somewhere from the depths of the inn, a voice could be heard acknowledging the request.

   Barliman then turned his attention to getting supper ready for his customers; too few in number though they may be. There were a couple of Dwarves taking a break from their return journey to the Blue Mountains from wherever it was that Dwarves went to when they took to wandering the way they did. They had planned to be on their way again that morning, but had delayed their departure for a day because of the inclement weather. There was old Bill Brockbank who should have gone home to his wife at lunchtime, but had fallen asleep in a corner and had only been discovered by Nob an hour ago. He still showed no sign of waking so there was no possibility of his going home tonight. And then there was that Ranger, Strider. Even he had delayed setting out on account of the heavy rain so, if that wasn’t an indicator of just how terrible the weather was, then nothing would be. Come snow storms and hail, he had never known anything waylay that particular Ranger before.

   So there were four guests to look after tonight; ‘not a complete washout,’ thought Barilman, smiling to himself at his little joke. It could have been worse and it did mean he wouldn’t be rushed off his feet all evening either. It might be rather pleasant even to sit by the fire and take it easy for a change. First though, there was supper to prepare. There was nothing like a bit of roast beef and dumplings on a wet and windy day like today. Fare like that had even been known to put a smile on old Strider’s face before now. The meal was soon coming along nicely. He had the taters and parsnips roasting in the range along side a joint of topside that had been slowly cooking for a couple of hours already.

   ‘Won’t be long now,’ he thought, as he bustled along to the common room to check on his customers. It was none too warm in there, so he carefully built up the fire with the logs Nob had brought and soon his guests began drawing themselves closer to its comforting flames.

  “Ah that’s better,” said one of the Dwarves, positioning himself so as to be practically sitting in the grate. “You can’t beat a roaring fire on a night like this.”

   “No indeed,” said his companion, moving closer to the hearth as he spoke. He was an older dwarf who had introduced himself by the name of Dori. His long coppery beard was turning white and he had bushy eyebrows of an identical shade. So bushy were they, that Barliman was extremely doubtful that the Dwarf could actually see anything at all from underneath them.

   As the Dwarves made themselves comfortable, Dori turned to address the tall gentleman who still sat apart from the other guests. “Are you quite warm enough there, if you don’t mind my asking?” he said. “Draw up your chair a little closer. You won’t get any of the benefit back there.”

   “Thank you, I should be glad to join you,” replied the tall man, politely. He was only wearing a thin shirt because, as the Dwarf had already discovered, his cloak and tunic were still hanging in Barliman’s kitchen where they had been drying since the previous evening.

   “Yes, do come a bit nearer, Strider,” said Barliman, indicating with a flourish of his arm where he considered the best place for the Ranger’s chair to be placed. “I’m afraid your clothes are still not yet dry and you don’t want to be catching a chill back there in that draught.” He hadn’t been particularly pleased at having the man’s clothes spread all over his kitchen, but he had decided it was preferable to having them adorning the common room. He really couldn’t be doing with complaints from the other customers in this weather. Strider dutifully drew up his chair to the spot where Barliman suggested and immediately sat down again, stretching out his long legs in front of him and returning the pipe he had been smoking to his lips.

   Dori continued to rub his hands enthusiastically before the flames. ““I shall be only too glad when we have returned to our halls. No one knows how to keep a fire burning quite like us Dwarves. It is something to behold Mr er Mr Strider, if I heard your name right; the blazing fires deep in the cities of the Dwarves of old were a sight to see. You will never have seen anything like it, I can tell you.”

   Strider removed his pipe from his mouth. ““On the contrary, Master Dwarf, I have been privileged to witness the hospitality of the Dwarves at first hand.”

   “Have you indeed?” said Dori in surprise. He considered this to be a most unlikely claim. Dwarves were not exactly renowned for extending invitations to outsiders. “Do tell me more; just where exactly was it that you enjoyed the comforts of our Dwarven halls?”

    Strider was again drawing on his pipe; there was a thoughtful look in his eye. He took a moment to answer.

   “Moria,” he said at last. “It was in Moria.”

   “Moria,” echoed Dori’s younger companion. “But no word has come from Moria in many a year. When was this?”

    Dori glared at the young dwarf, who suddenly realised he had spoken out of turn.

   “Oh, it was a few years ago now,” said Strider. “Fifteen at least, if I remember rightly; it was late in the year, as I recall; at the turn of autumn into winter.”

   “But that was when…” A nudge in the ribs from Dori once again silenced the young dwarf, who, as it turned out, was actually Dori’s nephew, Bori.

   “I would be most interested to hear your tale, Mr Strider,” said Dori. He was still convinced there would be little truth in it whatsoever, but if there was any news to be had of Moria, he would not pass up an opportunity to hear of it.

   Immediately upon hearing a story called for, Barliman pricked up his ears and drew up a chair beside his guests. He would not miss out on a tale, especially if old Strider was telling it. Vagabond he might be, and a rogue too for all he knew, but he could tell a damned good yarn when he put his mind to it. And he was quite confident Mrs Barliman could be trusted to ensure the supper did not burn in his absence.

   But the Ranger didn’t appear very eager to supply his tale, so Dori began prodding him with questions.

   “So were you travelling on your own, Mr Strider, when you visited Moria?”

   The tall man shifted uncomfortably in his too small chair.

   “No, I had a friend with me,” he said.

   “Would I know him?” butted in Barliman. He may not much like or trust the Rangers, but he always made it his business to find out all he could about them, including their names. He felt you never could tell when such information might come in handy, especially if there was trouble of any sort and blame needed to be apportioned.

   “I believe you might know him,” said Strider. “His name is Halbarad.”

    “Halbarad? Now, can I recall a Halbarad?” Barliman, rubbed his chin and stared at the ceiling as he tried to remember any Ranger by that name, but he could not. In truth they all looked much the same to him. They all wore these dark cloaks which they kept pulled over their heads, far more often than was really necessary, to his way of thinking.

   “I can’t place him,” he said at last.

   “Well, it is a small concern,” said Dori, becoming impatient now to hear the tale. “Tell me, through which door was it that you entered Moria?”

   “The East door,” said Strider. “We crossed the Redhorn Pass and came down by the Dimril Stair.”

   “Are you trying to tell me you passed over Barazinbar during the winter months?” Dori looked sceptical.

   “We did, but, as I said, it was early in the season so the snow had not yet blocked the Pass,” replied Strider who did not appear to be at all put out by the fact that the Dwarf clearly did not believe a word he said.

   “But how did you gain admittance?” asked Dori, thinking Balin would never allow such a disreputable looking character as this to enter his halls.

   The tall man hesitated. Dori was quite convinced he was composing his reply.

   “It was a night such as this if I recall rightly,” Strider said. “My companion was injured and we were both weary and in need. The Dwarves kindly invited us to rest in their halls until the weather improved and we had both recovered sufficiently to be on our way again.”

   “I’m sorry to hear your friend was hurt, Strider,” said Barliman. For all his suspicion of the Rangers, he did not like to see any man harmed. “What happened?”

   “We encountered a little trouble on the Pass, nothing of great consequence,” said Strider. “We ran into a couple of Stone-giants.”[1]

   “Stone-giants! Oh, my, who ever heard of such a thing?” Barliman was amazed and not a little scared. He sincerely hoped fearsome sounding beasts like that wouldn’t take it into their heads to come ambling down the East Road towards Bree any time soon.

   “Fear not, Barliman,” said Strider who grinned as if guessing the bartender’s thoughts. “They won’t be troubling you down these parts. They were limping off to their hideouts deep in the Misty Mountains, when last I saw them.”

   “You fought with them?” Barliman’s eyes were wide with wonder. Not for the first time, he considered the very long sword that seemed to be permanently strapped to the man’s side and he reminded himself once again of the importance of not falling foul of any of these dangerous men.

  “We argued the right to cross the Pass, yes,” said Strider. “They conceded in the end.”

   “This is all very well,” said Dori, whose patience was fast running out, “but what about Moria? Tell us more of what happened there.”

   “What happened? We were treated to the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves, my dear Dori,” said Strider, whose keen eyes were smiling at the continued look of disbelief on the old dwarf’s face. “They did indeed have roaring fires that burned all day long in huge grates which were large enough to roast an entire ox. We were well fed on food fit for the grandest feasts and afterwards we washed it down with the finest ales. A wondrous place is Khazad-dum. I have never seen anything like it before. The great chambers are truly magnificent to behold.”

   “I have never been beyond the Dimril Gate,” said Dori, his regret all too evident in his voice. “If you have truly seen the great Dwarven realm of Khazad-dum, then you are very privileged, my friend. But tell me, who was it that granted you permission to stay?” If this didn’t catch him out, nothing would.

   “Why Balin, of course,” said Strider. “He had not long returned to Moria and was already successfully re-establishing his realm. The Dwarves had reopened one of the old mine shafts and I understand it was proving productive.”

   “Balin is still there then?” asked Dori, who appeared to have suddenly abandoned all his previous suspicions. “Well that is good news, indeed.” He turned to his nephew. “This is glad tidings to take back home with us, Bori.”

   Bori nodded his agreement.

   “I would not be so sure the tidings are good,” said Strider, “as I said, this was a long time ago. Much could have happened in the intervening years.” He paused and his face suddenly looked troubled. “I have passed that way many times since, but I have not seen the Dwarves again.  It concerns me that you have clearly received no word from them either.” Strider stared at the flames, and a faraway look came into his eyes as he appeared lost in his own thoughts.

   “What is it?” asked Dori. “You know more than you are saying, I think. What else do you know? What happened while you were there?”

   Barilman was spellbound. He only hoped his wife was seeing to the roast. There was no way he was leaving his seat now.

   Strider was silent for a long time before continuing.

   “I don’t really know for sure what happened,” he said at last. “Balin was showing us the mining operations. The Dwarves had worked hard and long reopening the mines, but they had needed to tunnel deep into the mountain to reach the lowest veins where there were still rich deposits of mithril. I shall never forget the sight of these glistening walls. I could quite understand why the Dwarves had returned there. I would not even begin to guess at the value of the ores still to be found lining those tunnels.”

   Dori’s eyes were glowing by the light of the fire as he wistfully tried to picture all that mithril in his mind. Strider was drawing on his pipe again.

  “Go on. Go on, what happened next?” said Barliman.

   Strider removed his pipe and continued his story. “Quite suddenly there was a terrible roaring sound and it was as if the entire mountain trembled. The very ground beneath our feet felt as if it was going to give way. The roaring very quickly became deafening and then the tunnel behind us collapsed completely. Apparently, some of those mines had become quite unstable, having not been used in so many years. We were all thrown to the ground by the shock waves. I recall trying to protect my head from the rocks that fell from the roof of the tunnel. By then, all was dark as the torches had gone out.”

   “Weren’t you terribly scared?” asked Barliman, his eyes wide with wonder.

   “Yes, Barliman, I was very scared,” said Strider, a slight smile on his lips. “I have never known such complete blackness as I did in that tunnel. It was darker than any dark night. The Dwarves were frantically calling out the names of their companions as they tried to ensure everyone was accounted for.”

   “What about your friend, Halabad, how did he fare?”

   “Halbarad? He was unharmed, much to my relief. I was not so fortunate, but I could still walk. None of the dwarves were badly hurt. They make light of such disasters, but I have never forgotten the feeling of being unable to breathe in the total darkness. The dust was terrible and I felt as if I was being buried alive. It took a long time for the torches to be rekindled but thankfully the Dwarves were able to light them again eventually. Once all the injuries had been tended, we were able to move on but we could not return by the way we came. As a result, we ended up much deeper in the mountain than we had planned. It seemed to take forever for us to find our way out. The paths were narrow and treacherous as I recall. One false step would have sent us all tumbling into the depths of Arda. We had no food or water with us and we ended up in parts of the mountain that the Dwarves had not yet returned to so there was no help available along the way. It was a long and painful journey back to the upper levels. And all the while I had this strange feeling that I could sense something evil. It was a feeling I could not explain.”

   All eyes were fixed on the man, his audience devouring every word, but, quite unexpectedly, he abruptly ended his tale. “Eventually, we found our way out. That is all I can really say on the matter. It is not a place I would willingly return to.”

   “But you can’t stop there, Strider,” cried Barliman. “Why do you say you would not go back? I’ve heard tell there are monsters under the mountains. Is that what you could sense? Did you see any dragons?”

   “No, I saw no monsters,” said Strider, who appeared to be choosing his words carefully, “but I’m sure I felt a presence that I did not care for in the least. Both my companion and I were very relieved to see the light of day again.”

   “Bah,” said Dori, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You are a Man; how can you be expected to appreciate the things we Dwarves do? A Dwarf has no fear of the deep places of the world.”

   “I hope you are right, Master Dwarf,” said Strider. “I confess I have no love of such sunless paths. Perhaps that is all that it was; nothing more than a fear of the dark.”

   “But you must tell us more,” cried Barliman. He needed more than this if the tale was going to be worth retelling to his customers.

   “I’m sorry, Barliman,” said Strider. “I really can not tell you any more than I have.”

   “But what happened to you? Barliman persisted. “You said you were injured and Halabad was hurt too, wasn’t he?”

   “Ah, that is a long story,” said Strider with a grin, “and not one I’m inclined to tell, especially, as my stomach informs me it is time to eat. I wonder how that roast beef is coming along, Barliman.”

  Finally, disappointed that he could coax no more from the Ranger, a reluctant Barliman got to his feet and went to the kitchen to check on the progress of supper. Fortunately both his wife and Nob were hard at work and judging by the welcome aroma greeting his nostrils, the meal would soon be ready.

~oo0oo~

   The next day the rain had fortunately stopped, though there was still a blustery wind tugging at the branches of the trees and rattling the windows of the inn. The sun had broken through the clouds, though it was having little impact on the sodden world outside. But Barliman’s guests were all relieved to be on there way. At first light, Mrs Brockbank had come knocking on the door of the inn, demanding to have her husband returned to her and the Dwarves had set off not long after.

   There was only Strider the Ranger left now. He waited patiently in the common room while Barliman fetched his cloak and tunic from the kitchen.

   “There you are,” said Barliman, as he gladly returned the sorry garments to their owner.

   “Thank you, Barliman,” said Strider. “Your hospitality is much appreciated, as always.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of coins which he placed on the table.

   “You’re welcome,” said Barliman, picking up the pieces immediately and pocketing them. The Ranger’s coin was after all as good as anybody. “And where might you be heading on such a damp and windy morning, if you don’t mind my asking?”

   “East, I have business far in the East.”

   “Oh.” Barliman had no conception of what sort of business that could possibly be and the East sounded a very long way away. “So you’ll be heading over the Misty Mountains again then?”

   “I shall indeed,” said Strider, as he straightened his cloak and strapped his sword back around his waist.

   “Well, you keep an eye out for those Stone Giants,” said Barliman, “and make sure they don’t follow you when you head back this way.”

   Strider laughed. “Don’t worry, Barliman, I shall make sure no harm comes to you or the good citizens of Bree, on that you have my promise. Now, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way. Farewell.”

   And then the Ranger was gone, striding purposefully through the door on those long legs of his.

  As he went, Barliman couldn’t help wondering at the strange lives these Rangers led. Who in their right mind would go wandering off into the wilds like that, looking for trouble? Still, so long as their adventures made a good yarn to entertain his customers, and they didn’t bring their troubles to his door, he was happy enough to accommodate them now and then. Who knows, they might even come in handy if those stone-giants ever took to wandering down out of the mountains.

~oo0oo~

“I too once passed the Dimril Gate,” said Aragorn quietly; “but though I also came out again, the memory is very evil. I do not wish to enter Moria a second time.”

‘A Journey in the Dark’                                                              The Fellowship of the Ring

[1] ‘Over Hill and Under Hill’                                                  The Hobbit

  A/N Strider is being deliberately evasive with his story as his Moria adventure is a long WIP called ‘In the Dark Places’ and I don’t what him giving all the plot away just yet!

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 20:Gilraen

   Onen i-Estel Edain, u-chebin estel anim

   After a few years Gilraen took leave of Elrond and returned to her own people in Eriador, and lived alone; and she seldom saw he son again, for he spent many years in far countries. But on a time, when Aragorn had returned to the North, he came to her….

Appendix A                                                                                       The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   Somewhere a dog barked. It was an indignant, challenging bark that refused to be ignored. Gilraen’s heart lurched as it always did at such a sound. Anxiously, she opened the door of her cot to see what had so annoyed the animal. A cold draught immediately raced in through her front door, smothering the newly kindled fire in the grate. She cursed the hound under her breath, but the dog’s bark became even more insistent. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she stepped out into the yard to investigate.

   It was very early; a grey mist still clung to the valley and as yet no one stirred. Gilraen wandered down to the lane where the dog continued to voice its warning. She could see nothing that could have alarmed it so, but it was not usual for the dog to bark for no cause. She stood and listened, straining her ears to catch the slightest disturbance in the chill morning air. Her guts tightened as fear steadily grew within her. Any moment she expected to hear the sound she had spent almost every waking moment of her life dreading; the clatter of horses’ hooves approaching her house. Then, round the bend in the lane, would come the sons of Elrond, bringing with them the dread tidings that would shatter forever what little hope remained in her life.

    She was no stranger to such fears; she had grown up living with their unrelenting stranglehold on her happiness. She knew she was not alone. Every woman who ever held a man of war in her heart suffered a similar, unspoken burden. As a child, her greatest fear had been for her father who was absent more than he was at home. From her earliest years, she had come to know that haunted look on her mother’s face, no matter how she sought to conceal it. Then, when she was older, she fretted for her brothers who followed the same dangerous path as their father. When she married, her fear was for her husband. That nightmare had all too swiftly become a reality and although the depth of her sorrow had eroded with the mounting years, the torment of her loss had never left her completely. But for the last fifty years, all her cares had centred on her son. She saw him rarely; the needs of his life took him far from hers. His road was more treacherous than any among his kin in living memory and a day never dawned when he was not at the forefront of her thoughts.

   Seeing nothing but the deserted lane, Gilraen sighed and was about to return to her home and try once again to coax the damp wood to burn when she at last saw the object of the dog’s wrath. A tall man was walking up the path towards her. She narrowed her eyes to see the better through the early morning mist.

  Suddenly joy erupted within her. Emerging out of the grey light of dawn came her son, whole and well.

   Tears of relief welled in her eyes on seeing him again. She sent a silent pray of thanks for his safe keeping and, hitching up her skirts, she strode towards him. His grim, tired face broke into a smile as he suddenly knew her too. Gratefully, she tumbled against his chest. She stood clasping him to her, relishing the feel of his realness, and basking in the solid comfort of his body. For a few blissful moments she was able to forget that he would all too soon be leaving again.

   She felt his hand gently stroking her hair and she forced back her tears. Her son had not returned home to watch her weep. Reluctantly she withdrew from his strong embrace and Gilraen and her son walked back to her cot, her arm through his. She yearned to ask him questions. Where had he been; what had he been doing? But she knew better than that. He would tell her little. She must be content that he was home and safe; for now.

   “It is cold in here, naneth,” Aragorn said, admonishing her gently as he opened the door to the uninviting room. Once inside, he had the fire blazing in no time, and water for tea heating above it.

   Gilraen drew up a chair to the fire. “Rest, Estel, you must be tired,” she said.

    He smiled at her and sank heavily into the comfortable armchair. While he warmed his hands, she brought him bread and meats from her parlour. She sat across the hearth from him and, in silence, watched him eat, glad to see him enjoying his food. She had not failed to notice how his clothes hung too loosely on his gaunt frame. He had always pushed himself too hard. How long had he been gone this time; three years or was it four? Every time she saw him again he seemed to have aged more than he should. There were streaks of grey in his hair that had not been there before and the lines around his eyes betrayed his weariness. Would he ever know peace this side of his grave, she wondered sadly.

    “I would hear such tidings as you can tell me, my son,” she said when he had finally eaten his fill.

   Aragorn threw another log on to the fire and stretched out his long legs. There was little he could say. He had been far away, over the Misty Mountains, to places beyond Gilraen’s understanding.

   “I have been travelling to lands in the East once again,” he said. “I still hunt the same creature I mentioned when last I was here. Alas, my search has been in vain though I have been fortunate this time to have Gandalf with me for the most part.”

   That comforted Gilraen little; the wizard was always leading her son into danger.

   “I can see with my own eyes, Estel, that your burden is as heavy as ever. And no doubt will you be returning to this quest again when you leave?”

    Aragorn nodded, but he had clearly said all he wished to about his own business.  “I would rather hear your news, naneth, and learn how my people have fared in my absence.”

   “I have no tidings that will cheer you,” said Gilraen, reluctant to burden him further with the latest sorrows of his people. “There is nothing of any consequence that I can speak of, only gossip and trivia. If you wish to know who young Haleth is stepping out with or how many piglets old Boron’s sow produced, then I shall gladly tell you, but I’m sure you don’t want to hear of such things.”

   Aragorn looked at his mother long and hard; so hard, she even began to feel uncomfortable under his questioning gaze. At last he smiled, but the sadness expressed on his beloved face tore at Gilraen’s heart.

   “It is those things that often seem of the least worth that bring me the most cheer,” he said gently as he reached across and took her hand. “Speak, my mother, for I deem it will ease your heart to do so.”  

   Gilraen stared at his large hand cradled in hers; his strong fingers rough and chapped, the skin thickened from long years of toil. It seemed more than a lifetime since those same fingers had barely been able to wrap themselves around hers. She caressed them lovingly and knew she could not bring herself to tell him of the young mother who died in childbirth only last month or of the two infants that succumbed to the pox the winter before. Nor would she mention the widow in the homestead up the valley whose husband had been so cruelly butchered by orcs. He did not need to know these things; not yet.

   Instead she talked of the everyday happenings in this small village where she had lived since taking leave of Elrond’s household. When she had finally returned to her people, she had decided to make a home for herself here, in this settlement of some dozen houses, rather than in her former home where there were too many memories that she had spent too long forgetting. She had no desire to reawaken them. Here, she had tried to forget her cares and shut out the wider world, attempting to cocoon herself from the growing darkness. She knew she had failed and, as she told her tales, she purposefully kept her voice light in the hope of disguising the festering despair in her heart. She did her best to reassure her son that she was cared for well. As the widow of one chieftain and the mother of another, sufficient food was always brought to her door; her larder was never empty. She offered help to her neighbours where she could, but for the most part, she lived a quiet life. It was a stark contrast to her days at Rivendell.

   But she had not been talking long when she realised her son’s breathing had fallen into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. She watched him for a long moment, the dual aches of love and pain that had long since merged into one, slowly torturing her heart. Silently she rose and covered him with a blanket.

   In sleep he looked peaceful; perhaps hope still dwelt somewhere in the depths of his heart. But she knew it had long ago died in hers. She could see no hope of a light beyond the darkness and she had no wish to live on only to bury her son. The burden of a lifetime of cares would soon defeat her. 

    Gently she kissed her child and left him to his rest.

~oo0oo~

   …Aragorn went away heavy of heart. Gilraen died before the next spring.    

Appendix A                                                                                The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 21: Roheryn

   Their horses were strong and of proud bearing, but rough-haired; and one stood there without a rider, Aragorn’s own horse that they had brought from the North; Roheryn was his name.

The Passing of the Grey Company                                                   The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   Oh, he would be so glad to be home. This hunt for Gollum was beginning to feel as if it would never bear fruit.  Aragorn wondered how many more weary miles must he drag his aching feet before he finally admitted defeat. In his effort to find this creature, there could scarcely be a rock he had not peered behind or a mere into which he had not delved in all the vastness of Wilderland. Fifteen long years had passed since he and Gandalf first begun this venture. It felt as if they had walked the entire length and breadth of Middle-earth and yet this last trip had been as unrewarding as any previously. And even now, his return to the North was only to be a brief respite, nothing more. They would resume the hunt soon enough.

   “We will go South next time,” Gandalf had said when they parted. Somehow the wizard had managed to impart a measure of enthusiasm into his voice and still achieved a passable imitation of one who retained some hope that their quest may yet end in success. But undeniably, they were both rapidly losing heart. In spite of their long search, there was still no sign of their quarry.

    His long bouts away pursuing this creature had only been punctuated by a handful of brief return visits to Eriador. And, of late, Aragorn found that while absent on these long journeys abroad, he fretted far more about what was happening in his home lands than he had in the past when he was away. Then he had felt able to be gone for many long years without being burdened by the concerns of the North, but beyond the Misty Mountains now it was becoming increasing dangerous. There could be no doubt that the Enemy was on the move; chance encounters with orcs were ever more likely and all the signs were there that war was surely coming. It was a very sobering thought.

    Halbarad and the other captains did a marvellous job in his absence; he could not fault their endeavours in the slightest, but there was no denying the presence of the chieftain made a difference, hard to believe though it was at times. Somehow, it seemed, he still managed to put heart into his men even though, more often than not, he barely knew how to put heart into himself.

     But he would be bringing precious little in the way of comfort for the Dúnedain on this return visit. If he had been unable to persuade his own mother that he was any nearer reaching his goal, what words of hope could he possibly bring to those who still waited with seemingly infinite patience for that elusive light that was forever his charge to find.

    The last time he returned North he had visited the village where his mother had made her home in her final years. But he had not gone to the house.  He had stayed away, afraid to confront his memories and reopen the wound inflicted on his heart the moment he learned of her death. Somehow, he doubted he would be any braver this time. It still grieved him terribly that, for all his endeavours, in the end she had simply lost all hope. His failure to restore the kingdom in her lifetime was a grief and a shame he had no choice but to bear.

   But first he was going home to Rivendell. He was looking forward to the simple pleasures of spending a night in a comfortable bed and eating food he had not had to catch himself. As he trudged along the high moors that led to his father’s house, idly dreaming of warm rooms and cooked meals, he wondered if his brothers would be there and whether Bilbo had finished his translations yet.

   Suddenly, behind him on the path, he heard the gently jangling of many ringing bells. His head whipped round in surprise, but he smiled as he recognised the incongruous sound. He stepped to one side of the path and waited. Sure enough, there soon came into view a great Elven horse, loping along at an easy canter, his rider’s golden hair streaming out behind him. As he approached the lone walker, the horse came to a swift halt.

  “Mae govannen, Dúnadan,” said the rider. He smiled down at Aragorn who was certain the Elf was taking in the state of his attire which was even more dishevelled and mud-stained than usual. He had hunted for this creature in some very unpleasant places. “You have the weary look about you of one who has trudged many long miles by strange paths. Asfaloth, I am sure, would happily offer to carry you the rest of the way to Imladris.”

    The horse snorted as if indicating his agreement.

   “Your timing is appalling, Glorfindel,” laughed Aragorn, stepping forward to pat the horse’s neck. “Would that I had met you some thirty leagues back.”

   Glorfindel’s musical laugh filled the air. “You do not have to accept my offer. Neither of us shall be offended if you prefer to use your own legs to bring you home.”

   “I do not doubt it,” said Aragorn, “but, if Asfaloth will consent to bear me, then gladly do I accept.”

   “I rather thought you might,” smiled Glorfindel as he reached out his arm to aid Aragorn who, rather stiffly, swung up onto the horse’s back. It might not be the most comfortable position to ride, but Aragorn could not believe what a relief it was to take the weight off his tired feet. The horse trotted on at a steadier pace, but Asfaloth carried man and Elf with ease, his footfalls as light and unburdened as before.

   “And where have your travels taken you this time, might I ask?” said Glorfindel as he glanced back at Aragorn from over his shoulder.

   “East, far to the East again, even to beyond Mirkwood. Have you ever been to Rhovannion?”

   “I can not say that I have, nor have I any desire to travel to such inhospitable-sounding lands. Your ways are as strange as ever, Dúnadan. Is this the same business that occupied you the last time you were gone for so long?”

   “It is; and the time before, and the time before that.”

   “Ah! Do I perhaps detect a note of weariness in your voice, my friend?” Aragorn could tell the Elf was smiling, but he was too tired to even attempt to disguise his despair.

   “I fear you do. I can not pretend that my continued failure to find this creature does not sap both my strength and my heart.”

   “Oh, I should not worry unduly about a sapped heart,” said Glorfindel, rather too dismissively for Aragorn’s liking. Mysteriously, he then added: “I have a feeling a cure for that might be at hand.”

    Aragorn was sure he was smiling now. Even though he could only see the back of his head, he was certain that on his face would be that same self-satisfied smirk that always irked him so when they sparred together. It invariably meant Glorfindel had some stroke up his sleeve that he wished his pupil to know was coming but, infuriatingly, not when he was going to deliver it.

    “And as to your strength, Estel, I think you underestimate yourself. I believe you have deeper reserves than you yourself know.”

   Aragorn, with his sore feet and weary muscles, did not think he had any reserves left at all, hidden or otherwise. “I think you forget sometimes that I am not an Elf but a mortal man.” The eternal optimism of this Elf could be a little tiring at times, especially when he was struggling so hard to maintain his own

   “My point exactly,” said Glorfindel, cheerfully. “Do not forget, I was there, Estel, when the tireless men of Hithlum saved Turgon’s host at Rivil and remember, I knew and loved Tuor well. A mighty man was he and you no less so, I deem. It was not for nothing that I made my great sacrifice.”

   It was Aragorn who was smiling now. “You have never been one to turn a conversation to include your own achievements have you, Glorfindel?”

   “As you well know, Estel, barely a night passes when my adventures are not celebrated in the Hall of Fire. I would not wish to appear immodest.”

  Aragorn felt his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth at Glorfindel’s indignation. The jest was an old one and definitely wearing too thin to be as amusing as he found it, but somehow Glorfindel had always managed to raise his spirits. He could be a hard task master and had been a ruthless tutor, but nothing ever fazed him, which, Aragorn thought, was not to be wondered at in one who has been through death itself.

   Asfaloth’s long strides brought them to the house in seemingly no time at all. Aragorn jumped down when they reached the courtyard and thanked Glorfindel who continued on his way to the stables. It was June and the house looked as lovely and as welcoming as ever. The roses were in bloom and the swallows flitted around the eaves as they busied themselves catching insects for their chicks. Aragorn stood for a moment relishing the welcome illusion of the passing of unchanging years; it was one he felt far too infrequently these days.

   He shook himself back to the present and strode towards the main entrance of the house. As he did so, the door opened and a figure appeared in the doorway, pausing on the doorstep, as if hesitating to come forward to greet him.

   And it was then that he saw her, as she stood for a moment in the porch watching him, the bright sun shimmering on her dark hair, a cascade of light that fell about her shoulders and framed her beautiful face. He stopped, rooted to the spot in disbelief. He had to look again, so convinced was he that his eyes were deceiving him. Here before him was a vision of the unparalleled loveliness that was his Arwen; transformed from being no more than a memory that for so long had filled his waking dreams, into actual flesh and blood that moved and laughed and smiled at him.

   She raced towards him, her face ablaze with joy and her arms reaching for him. In an instant, Aragorn found that everything about him; the house; the courtyard, even the trees and the sky, simply faded away to nothing as everything else was forgotten. He thought his heart would burst out of his body and the rest of him would take flight at the explosion of joy inside him, though for some reason, his legs stubbornly refused to move. Somehow, he managed to open his arms and Arwen flew into them. She was laughing and crying all at the same time and he realized he was doing the same. He clung to her, as if she was a phantom that might vanish again at any moment. So tightly did he hold her, he suddenly feared she would be unable to breathe, but he did not release his grip and, to his absolute joy, beneath the cool silk of her gown, he could feel the real substance of a warm and living woman. Her hair swept against his face and her laughter filled his ears. How he remained standing he did not know; he was shaking so much. At last he stepped back for a moment to look at her properly, still scarcely able to believe she was truly here. Gently, he cupped her chin in his trembling hand.

   “Oh Arwen, my dearest, most beloved, Arwen; it is truly you.” 

   He could barely see her through his tears. She reached up a hand and brushed them lightly from his cheeks, her fingers soft against his weather-beaten skin. He so wanted to smother her in kisses, to taste her, to be totally and completely absorbed into her very being, but instead he was cautious. They had been apart for so long. To his eyes, she looked as lovely as ever, as radiant and as perfect as he had for so long remembered her to be. Yet he could only imagine how he must appear to her; weary, careworn, travel stained, and ageing, a shallow reflection of the man she fell in love with. But as his tears cleared, he gazed upon her lovely face and looked deep into her eyes, and there, in their depths, he saw everything he needed to know.

   Her love for him was as strong as ever.

   Caution abandoned, he did not hesitate. His mouth met hers and in that blissful moment, he poured into that kiss all his longing and his frustration and his love. Arwen met him just as passionately and, as he held her in his arms, a bolt of the purest joy surged through his quaking body.

   How long they stood there, he could not tell, but he was sure he could hear the sound of a throat being cleared behind him. At first, Aragorn ignored this unwelcome intrusion into his happiness. But eventually, he reluctantly looked up and, to his horror, saw Elrond standing there watching them both. Instantly, he was jolted back to reality and immediately began extracting himself from Arwen’s arms.

   “Master Elrond, adar, it is good to be home,” he said, quickly holding out his hand, his embarrassment, he knew, only too obvious as he felt his cheeks turning crimson. He doubted he had ever felt so ashamed in all his life.

   But Elrond smiled at him and accepted his out-stretched hand. “I am glad you are home, my son. Arwen has been here waiting for you these last three months.”

  Aragorn looked sadly at Arwen. “Three months? While I have been trudging the wilds? If I had but known.”

   Arwen took his other hand. “It can not be helped, my dearest,” she said. “Other duties have ever called you. But come, you are here now, let us not waste a moment of our time together.”

   She started to lead him away, but Aragorn was acutely aware of the weight of guilt that always seemed to settle upon him where Elrond was concerned and he hesitated.

   Elrond noticed and said, kindly: “Go, Estel, we can speak later.” But although he smiled, Aragorn did not fail to read the regret in his eyes and he still wavered. Elrond’s only response was to broaden his smile and, ushering them both away with his hands, he silently mouthed: ‘Go!”

   Unable to find any words that could possibly do justice to the whirling emotions inside him, Aragorn apologetically nodded his thanks and allowed Arwen to lead him across the courtyard towards the house.

   “The scouts told us you were on your way here so your bath should be ready by now,” she was saying.” I expect you’re hungry too. Oh Estel, I have waited so long to care for you.”

   Arwen was so excited, her eyes shining and brimming over with love for him, that he all too easily pushed thoughts of Elrond to the back of his mind and followed her into the house. She led him along the corridors and up the stairs to the door of his old room.

   “Go and enjoy your bath while I find you some clean clothes and see about getting you something to eat,” she said as she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I won’t be gone long.”

   She walked away and, as Aragorn reluctantly watched her go, he realised he had no wish to be parted from her again, not even for a moment. His head was still swimming that she was here at all, but he knew he could only stay in Rivendell for a few days before he would have to leave again. He began to wonder how he was ever going to endure another separation. But no sooner had the dismaying thoughts settled in his mind than he immediately admonished himself for indulging in such melancholy. No good would come of it. He could not stay; it was that simple. Instead, he told himself he was the luckiest man alive; he was going to spend a few days in the company of the woman he adored. What more could any man possibly desire?

   He opened the door to his room and there, as promised, was a steaming tub of hot water. He quickly stripped off his clothes and plunged in. The water was very hot, but he soon became accustomed to the heat and settled down for a good soak. He lay back in the tub and the warm water immediately began smoothing his sore muscles. He closed his eyes and thought of Arwen. He could still feel her kisses on his lips and her arms wrapped around his body. All thoughts of Gollum, and Gandalf and long endless miles, completely vanished from his mind. Right now, he wanted only to think of his beloved lady. But in spite of his excitement, the weariness of his body soon overwhelmed him and before long he drifted off to sleep. The next thing he knew, the door opened and Arwen’s head popped round it.

   “May I come in?” she asked. “I have your clean clothes for you.”

   Aragorn realised, to his pure delight, he had awoken from his dreams only to find he was living through one.

   “Of course,” he said, smiling happily.

   Arwen walked in and, putting the clothes on the chest, came and sat on a stool beside the tub. Suddenly Aragorn was unsure of what to say. They had been apart for thirty-six years, during which time he had dreamt of nothing more than the day he would see her again, but now that she was actually here, he felt a little shy and awkward.  Tentatively his fingers appeared over the rim of the tub and he gently hooked them around hers.

   “I can scarcely believe you are truly here,” he murmured quietly. “For so long have I waited for this moment.”

   She smiled at him sympathetically as her fingers tightened on his. “It will take time for us to find the right words, but, trust me, find them we shall.” Her voice was pure honey to his ears. “You are weary and in need of rest. This is more than enough.”

   He smiled his gratitude. He knew she would understand.

   Then he noticed her eyes had strayed to his hair which she was clearly studying with a certain amount of amusement.

   “I could perhaps do something about that bird’s nest on your head though, Estel,” she said. “Would you like me to help you wash your hair? I would gladly do so.”

   Aragorn could not think of many things he would enjoy more.

   “Thank you, I should like that very much,” he said politely.

   Arwen moved her stool so that she was positioned behind him and picking up the soap, began lathering his hair. She tried to run her fingers down the length of his locks but the strands matted as she did so.

   “Your hair is quite unbelievably tangled, Estel; do you never use a comb when out in the wilds?”

   Aragorn was enjoying the sensation of her fingers in his hair so much he could hardly speak. He found he had to concentrate hard on forming a coherent reply.

   “I confess I do not. When I first went to live in the Wilds, I made an effort to remain presentable, which for some reason amused Halbarad enormously. ‘Pampered Elven princeling’ he used to call me, so I soon abandoned such habits.”

   “He sounds very disrespectful, your Halbarad,” said Arwen who frowned as she encountered a particularly stubborn knot. “He shouldn’t have been so discouraging.”

   Aragorn wondered briefly what she would make of his second-in-command and the easy, comfortable friendship they had enjoyed for so long. He knew perfectly well what Halbarad would make of Arwen.

   He closed his eyes and lost himself to the delicious sensation of his scalp being massaged by the tender hands of his beloved. It was so different from when he was a child and his mother used to wash his hair. He smiled as he remembered the battles they had a bath time.

   “What amuses you so?”

   “I was just recalling how I used to hate having my hair washed as a child.”

   “I’m very relieved I didn’t know you when you were a small boy, Estel. I might not have become so besotted.”

  “So, you are besotted are you?” Aragorn tilted his head back to look at her, the tease in his eyes all too evident, yet Arwen also detected the insecurity underlining his question. She forbore to tease him back; she loved him too much to allow him to suffer for even a moment longer.

   “Yes, my beloved, I am besotted,” she smiled as she kissed the top of his head.

   That was all the encouragement he needed. Their years apart completely melted to nothing and Aragorn could no longer resist reaching up a soapy hand and drawing her closer to him. As their lips met, he said:  “You’re not the only one.”

~oo0oo~

   “I have a surprise for you.”

   “You mean other than you?”

   “Yes, would you like to see it?”

   Aragorn had finished his bath while Arwen prepared him a meal and now he was sitting beside her having lunch, rather formally, around the dining room table. They had been joined by Elrond and Glorfindel who was smirking quite unashamedly, though his pleasure at seeing such joy on the faces of his lord’s children was entirely genuine. The conversation had inevitably turned to the state of affairs in the North. Elladan and Elrohir were away meeting the Rangers at Sarn Ford and yet, as always, they kept their father well informed of events in Eriador. Elrond had just finished telling Aragorn such news as he had gathered about the Dúnedain, when Arwen made her sudden announcement.

   “Yes, of course, I would like to see it, at least I think I would, but will you not give me a clue as to what it is?”

   “No, I shall not. You must come and see with your own eyes. If you have finished, and, if adar will excuse us, we could go now, if you would care to.” She looked pleadingly at her father who smiled and waved them away.

   “Run along, my children,” he said as if they were only seven years old. In spite of his fears for them all, it warmed his heart greatly to see them both so happy.

   Aragorn and Arwen left the dining room together and Arwen led him through the house and out into the courtyard before turning towards the stables. As they walked side by side along the cobbled path, she reached across and took his hand.

   “It is permitted,” she said as she entwined her delicate fingers around his strong calloused ones. “Adar does understand, you know.”

   “I know he does,” said Aragorn sadly. His grief for Elrond had become almost inseparable from his own happiness. “But I would not cause him unnecessary pain or aggravate the wound with constant reminders.”

   “Neither would I,” said Arwen, “though I can not see how it can be otherwise. But perhaps we should decide here and now that while we are in the presence of adar, we shall be as family only, not troth-plighted. We shall not deceive him for a moment, but then we may at least have some hope that we’ll not hurt him any more than we must.”

   Aragorn nodded his agreement; it seemed the very least he could do for his father. But he was distracted from his sober thoughts by Arwen moving closer to him. She was giggling and playful.

   “But adar isn’t here now,” she said as she pecked him on the cheek. Aragorn grinned and tried to kiss her back, but she pulled away from him, laughing. “Come on, you still haven’t seen your surprise.”

   Aragorn had actually completely forgotten all about her gift and was intrigued to find they were nearing the stables. Arwen was obviously so excited about it that he decided not to ask any more questions. He had no wish to spoil her fun with an astute guess.

   “Here we are,” she said as she led him into the magnificent building that housed Rivendell’s horses. The stables were almost as spacious as the house and very nearly as splendid. Over the millennia, the masons of Imladris had carved every available surface. Wild horses galloped across mellow, honey coloured walls, and wrapped themselves around ornately carved columns. Towers and turrets rose from the roof and inside, the stalls were immaculate. The gangway was spotlessly clean and all the brass fittings were gleaming from endless polishing.

   As they entered, rows of noble heads appeared over half doors and alert ears turned towards them. Many of the horses tried to waylay the visitors as they passed, searching hopefully for apples and carrots. Asfaloth was determined not to allow Aragorn to pass at all without being rewarded for his earlier efforts.

   At last they came to an end stall.

   “In here,” said Arwen.

   Surely she was not giving him a horse? But as Aragorn approached the stall, he could hear the sound of a large beast turning through a thick straw bed and a handsome chiselled head appeared over the door. Arwen stood proudly beside a very fine looking steed.

   “He’s yours, Estel. I brought him all the way from Lothlórien just for you. Isn’t he beautiful?” Arwen was beaming and waiting eagerly for his reaction.

   “He is magnificent,” said Aragorn, awed and humbled that she had honoured him with such a fine gift. The horse was indeed beautiful and in fabulous condition. His rich, dark chestnut coat shone with health and vitality; he simply oozed power and presence. Aragorn had never owned a horse like this in his life. He reached up a hand to stroke the soft muzzle. The great horse regarded him with bright, intelligent eyes and his flared nostrils sniffed the man he had been told would be his. Aragorn’s hand moved slowly to the horse’s neck and rested upon the fine, velvet coat.

   “Would you like to ride him?” asked Arwen.

   “May I? But will he take a bit and a saddle. I can not ride Elf style.”

   “Oh Estel, do you think I would give you a horse you can not ride?” Awren laughed at him, teasingly. “I taught him myself to accept both. He also understands commands in both Sindarin and Westron so you will have no trouble explaining what you require him to do.”

   Arwen was so beautiful and flawless, he sometimes forgot that she was also an extremely capable woman. She fetched the saddle and together they tacked up the horse. He tightened the girth and adjusted the stirrups to a length comfortable for his long legs while Arwen saw to the bridle. She led the horse from his stall out into the yard, where Aragorn, whose muscles had been greatly eased by his long soak, leapt easily onto his back.

   “Are you not going to ride with me,” he asked as Arwen made no move to fetch a horse for herself.

   “No, you go on, I’ll catch you up.” Arwen opened the gate into the meadow and watched the horse and rider pass through.

   Aragorn set off at a steady trot, keen to get the measure of the horse before giving him free rein. This was no tired ranger horse, worn from long days and too short nights, but a fresh animal in his prime, corn fed and desperate to be given his head. The powerful beast arched his deep neck, his whole body taut and as pent up as a coiled spring of suppressed energy just waiting to be unleashed. But he submitted willingly to Aragorn’s gentle but firm hold on the reins, though his hind quarters occasionally swung from side to side as he tried to find release from the restraint imposed upon him. The horse was as magnificent to ride as he was on the eye and Aragorn delighted in his playful antics.

   “What is the matter, my beauty? Is this sedate pace not to your liking?”

   The horse snorted and tossed his head, almost ripping the reins from Aragorn’s hands.

  “Very well then, let’s see what you can do.” Aragorn opened his fingers by a mere fraction, only easing his hold on the reins by the tiniest amount, but the horse instantly read the signal and immediately surged forward, leaping away over the grass, his long, bounding strides effortlessly devouring the ground beneath him. Faster and faster they went. Aragorn whooped and laughed out loud for joy at the thrill the ride gave him. The wind caused his eyes to smart and soon he could barely see where they were going, but the great horse had eyes for them both and, in spite of his speed, he sure-footedly picked his way through the fields and the woods that surrounded the house. Aragorn managed to vaguely steer him in a circle and eventually headed back the way they had come though he felt as if the horse could have carried him all the way to Gondor there and then. At last he called a halt, hoping the horse would be as obliging as Arwen believed, for he was not at all sure he had the strength to haul him up by force. But his mount did not gainsay his new master and obediently broke back to a trot and then a walk. Arwen had taught him well.

   Aragorn leant forwards and patted the horse’s neck. He had not even broken into a sweat.

   “Le hannon, mellon nîn,” he said. The horse might not be sweating but Aragorn was glad for a chance to catch his breath. It had needed all his skill to master the animal, but he was delighted with his gift. The horse was everything he could have dreamt of, though he knew he was going to need to spend time with him to establish that easy rapport that only grew out of mutual trust and understanding between horse and rider.

   His eyes scanned the fields as he looked for Arwen and at last he spotted her in the distance, running swiftly to catch them up. He whispered in the horse’s ear.

   “Come, let us meet my lady, I would not have her tire herself so.”

   The horse was more settled now after his gallop and cantered steadily over to Arwen who stopped, puffing slightly and rosy cheeked as Aragorn halted the horse in front of her. She had no need to ask if Aragorn liked his gift. The grin on his face told her everything.

   “You are pleased with him then,” she said, smiling back at him.

   Aragorn jumped down from the saddle. “He is wonderful, Arwen. How can I ever thank you enough?” He took her hand and kissed it.

   Arwen was surprisingly thoughtful. “Well, you can use him wisely and so may he bring you more swiftly to my door. That would be all the thanks I require.”

   “Then that I shall endeavour to do, my lady,” said Aragorn, with an elaborate bow. “Come, let us take him back to his stall. Will you ride with me this time?”

   “Gladly; he will easily carry us both.”

  Aragorn helped steady Arwen as she positioned herself so as to be sitting sideways across the front of the saddle and then he climbed up behind her. The horse walked sensibly now on a loose rein as he sedately carried the two riders along the trails under the tall beech trees that bordered the meadows. The summer air was cooler in the shaded wood and Arwen slipped her arm around Aragorn’s waist and snuggled against him. Her other hand she placed on his as he held the reins. They rode on in silence for a bit, each relishing the unfamiliar closeness of each other’s bodies. Aragorn could not believe how his life had changed in just a few hours. Here he was, deliriously happy, holding his beloved Arwen in his arms where only this morning he had been fighting weariness and despair. As Arwen leaned against his chest and her hair brushed against his face, he could feel himself beginning to tremble; her body was so warm and inviting next to his. Oh sweet bliss, he had never known such delicious torture. He desperately struggled for something to say to distract himself from the tide of desire rapidly rising within him. He was terrified his secret needs would at any moment become all too obvious.

   “This is the second time I’ve ridden pillion today,” he said, quickly, “though Glorfindel did not smell as enticing as you.”

   “I’m very pleased to hear it,” laughed Arwen. “You don’t smell so bad yourself.”

   Aragorn was relieved he had taken such a long time over his bath.

   “What are you going to call your horse, Estel? He will need a name. You can not just refer to him as ‘my horse’.”

   “He will always remind me of you. What would you suggest?”

   “I shall suggest nothing. He belongs to you now; you should decide. But he wants a name don’t you, my beauty? ” Arwen stroked the horse’s neck. The great horse tossed his head and snorted.

   Aragorn realised he had better settle on something quickly. He did not want Arwen thinking he was not suitably appreciative of his gift, but with Arwen’s breath warm against his neck, he was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything so trivial. At last he had an idea.

   “As he is a gift from you, I think perhaps I shall call him ‘Roheryn’, the Horse of the Lady? What do you think of that?” [1]

   “Oh, that’s perfect, Estel. Don’t you think so, ‘Roheryn’?”

   The horse snorted again and that seemed to settle the matter. Roheryn he became.

   As they emerged from under the trees and came once more into the meadow, Roheryn began to jog, anticipating the faster pace that the open grassland would allow.

   “No, my beauty,” soothed Aragorn, laughingly, as he shifted his weigh backwards to try and ease the horse into a walk again. “I will not permit you to go any faster, not with my lady perched so precariously upon your back.” Roheryn seemed to understand and returned to a steady walk.

   “He is a fine horse, Arwen,” Aragorn said. “I could wish for none better.”

   “He is a horse worthy of a king. Why do you think I chose him for you? Even as a colt, there was something special about him. It has long been my hope, Estel, that he may bear you to your destiny and so at last to ours.”

   Aragorn felt his heart welling within him at this expression of Arwen’s continued faith in him, though he dearly wished he felt the same optimism. “The strength of your hope has ever succoured me and fuelled my own,” he said, “though, would that I could see as clearly as do you.” 

   “My hope has never wavered, Estel, nor have I ever doubted you, although I fear your path has become a weary one of late.”

   Oh, how Aragorn longed to open his heart to her, to share his fears and his hopes, to ease his loneliness, but he had no wish to burden her with his own cares. He fell silent for a moment, lost in his thoughts, but then, quite unexpectedly and to his absolute joy, he felt the touch of her mind on his and he realised he had no need to tell her anything. She already knew all that he could possibly say.

   “I wish I could do more to aid you, my love,” she said, her eyes filling with emotion, “but we must be patient a while longer. There is so much that is as yet uncertain. Even adar can not see what lies beyond this growing darkness. But you shall prevail. You must believe, as I do, that our hour will come. If we do not, our hope is doomed.”

   Her arm tightened around his waist and he was suddenly overwhelmed by his love for her.

   “Oh Arwen, I could not bear to lose you.” Aragorn’s voice was choked with emotion.

   She raised her hand to his face and gently stroked the rough stubble on his cheek.

   “I know what it is that you fear,” she said, softly, “but there is no need. I shall never break faith with you or regret my choice, no matter what may come to pass; we are as one now and always will be.”

   His heart soared at her reassurance. He clasped her hand and drew it to his lips, gently kissing her fingers. He took a deep breath and tried his best to settle his raging emotions before they unmanned him completely.

   “Good,” he said, managing to keep his voice deceptively light, “for I should hate to have to give you back this horse.”

   “Oh, Estel, now you are behaving like a brother,” said Arwen as she pulled her hand away. “That was worthy of Elladan and Elrohir.”

   Aragorn laughed with her, but then all humour left him as he spotted the gleam in her eye, a look he remembered only too well from Lothlórien. He felt her hand slide up his arm and around his neck. His head was pulled down so his lips met hers. He could feel her hands caressing his body. He was trembling so much he feared he might fall off the horse, but, as Roheryn plodded steadily on towards the stables, he found himself blissfully adrift in a sea of the purest pleasure.

   Had it been his fate to be called to Mandos’s Halls at that very moment, he could not have died a happier man.

~oo0oo~

3016 Elrond sends for Arwen and she returns to Rivendell; for the Misty Mountains and all lands to the east of them are becoming full of peril and threat of war.

The Tale of Years of the Third Age                                         The Peoples of Middle-earth

[1] Appendix The Silmarillion: Roheryn ‘horse of the lady’, Aragorn’s horse, which was so called because given to him by Arwen.

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 22: Deadly Perils

   “…messages came to me out of Lorien that Aragorn had passed that way, and that he had found the creature called Gollum. Therefore I went first to meet him and hear his tale. Into what deadly perils he had gone alone I dared not guess.”

   “There is little need to tell of them,” said Aragorn. “If a man must needs walk in sight of the Black Gate, or tread the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale, then perils he will have. I, too, despaired at last and I began my homeward journey.”

 “The Council of Elrond”                                                         The Fellowship of the Ring

~oo0oo~

  Aragorn could not sink any lower. He flattened his body onto the hard ground as far as he could, but it was no good. The scant vegetation was too short. They were surely going to find him; escape was impossible. He cursed his stupidity in allowing orcs to surround him, although he knew in truth there was little he could have done to prevent it. Travelling on his own this near to the territories of the Enemy was always going to be hazardous. It was too late now to consider he may have been foolish not to have returned with Gandalf when he had the chance. Having come this far, he had decided not to abandon the hunt without thoroughly scouring Ithilien, even as far south as the Morgul Vale. Too many years had been spent in pursuit of this Gollum already to not completely exhaust every possibility of finding the creature now.

   He was on his homeward journey and had been travelling near to the foothills of the Ephel Dúath in the hope of avoiding detection by the Ranger patrols which regularly frequented the area. Being presented to Denethor as a spy was a distraction he did not particularly relish. But other hazards also lurked in the Mountains of Shadow. For some time now he had been aware of a small band of orcs up ahead, moving away to the east. He was down wind of them, so was not unduly worried by their presence, but, as the light began to fail, a much larger group had unexpectedly appeared behind him as they emerged from their daytime dens.

   Suddenly he was trapped.

   There was no cover that he could possibly reach in time. He would have no choice but to fight them, although he knew there was no chance for victory. A group of a dozen perhaps, with surprise in his favour, he might be able to handle, but there must be at least forty closing in on him now.

   He did not doubt he would either be captured or slain. But there was no time now to dwell upon either prospect. He pressed his chest and stomach down harder in the desperate hope that he would disappear from view. He could hear his heart beating faster as it thumped inside his chest. His breathing quickened and sweat broke on his back. His sword lay flat on the ground beside him. He tightened his grip on the hilt. Any moment now they would be upon him. He waited, willing his breathing to steady and his nerve to hold. If he was going to fall, the warrior in him would not allow his life to be lost cheaply; he would do his utmost to ensure he took as many of his foes with him as he possibly could.

  Suddenly a cry tore into his ears. He was found. He rolled quickly to one side, dodging the spear that flew to where he had been lying a second earlier. He was on his feet in an instant and ran through the first orc that came at him and immediately withdrew his sword in time to behead the second with a single, well-practised stroke. Orcs swarmed towards him, but the fervour of battle quickly surged in his veins and his mood turned fey. He roared as he lunged into his enemies and smote them where they stood. Time after time his sword rose and fell as he expertly dispatched the vile creatures, dispassionately moving swiftly from one stricken body to the next.

   But all too soon, he felt the weight of their numbers against him. He was attacking no longer. He twisted and turned and parried and deflected their blows, but it could not last; he knew any moment that fatal blow would come. But when it did, it was not a blade that felled him, but a cudgel at the back of his head. Stunned, he staggered sideways, unbalanced by the blow. Instantly the orcs grabbed their chance and seized him, knocking him to the ground, kicking and beating furiously at every part of him. He was soon completely in their power, but nonetheless they kept up their vicious assault for the pleasure it gave them. Aragorn tried to curl up to protect himself as best he could, but his arms were quickly yanked behind him and his hands tightly bound. He tried to stifle his cries as iron-shod feet blasted repeatedly into his ribs and back. More and more blows rained down on him; he could not survive much more. Finally a kick to his head brought merciful oblivion and, as his sight tunnelled, he escaped into darkness. 

~oo0oo~

   As he slowly surfaced, he rather wished he had remained in his state of oblivion. There was no part of him that was not in pain. He lay still as he furiously tried to recall how he came to be in such a mess. He was immediately aware of the stench of orc and groaned as his memory slowly returned. He cautiously tried to raise his head, but it felt as if it might explode if he did so. He was sure he was going to vomit, but as he fought to hold down the contents of his stomach, he realised breathing was agony. His ribs must be damaged, if not broken. His breath came in shallow pants as his chest seized in vice-like spasms. He felt he was being cut in two. He was also bleeding from the rough handling of many claws, and his limbs throbbed with the swelling of countless bruises.

   He had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but it was dark and the orcs about him appeared to be engaged in frantic activity. Coarse voices shouted and bellowed orders as many heavily booted feet passed perilously close to his head. But he had no time to gather his wits as almost immediately, rough hands grasped and jostled him. Involuntarily, he cried out as pain rocketed through his body, but his distress was greeted with shouts of derision from his captors. 

   Two huge Uruk-hai dragged him to his feet, and he was obviously expected to move, though his body stubbornly refused to comply. He stumbled to his knees as he struggled to overcome pain and nausea. One of the orcs pulled a bottle from its tunic, while the other yanked his head backwards by his hair. He gasped at the sudden pain inflicted on his injured scalp, but the orc jammed the bottle into his open mouth and poured into it a foul, sticky liquid. Aragorn coughed and gagged as he choked on the vile potion. But a huge, paw-like hand clamped his jaw shut, stopping him from spitting out the noxious fluid and forcing him to swallow. Whatever it was stung his throat and burned his insides as it reached his stomach, but almost at once the pain left his limbs. The orcs hauled him to his feet again and off they set. Aragorn meekly submitted to his captors as he knew there was no advantage to be had in provoking them and he doubted he could take another beating at this time. He had little choice but to do as they demanded as any hesitancy on his part was rewarded by a cruel lash of a whip to his legs. Calling on his deep reserves of will, he somehow forced his battered body to move.

    The orcs set a fast pace and it was clear he was required to keep up, though his body screamed in protest.The Uruk-hai ran on either side of him and dragged him up when he faltered, lifting him by his tethered arms which ached from the awkward position in which they were restrained. On and on, mile after mile they went. He stumbled often in the darkness and was punished brutally for it. His head was pounding and he thought his sides would rupture, but between gasping pants, he kept going, concentrating on nothing more than keeping one foot moving in front of the other.

~oo0oo~

   He could not understand why he was still alive. He had fully expected to be hacked to pieces before becoming the orcs’ next meal. But slowly, through the fog clouding his mind, he realised he was being taken somewhere. They were now heading east, into the western slopes of the Ephel Dúath. Horrified, he realised this could only mean they there making for the strong-holds of the Enemy, maybe Minas Morgul or even Barad-dûr itself. Panic surged in him. Dying on the field of battle was one thing, and something he had come to accept, having faced that eventuality many times in his life. But the prospect of being held captive by his Enemies and being completely at their mercy, terrified him in a way he had never experienced before. Constantly his mind turned to escape, but with mounting despair, he realised there was little likelihood of that.

   As the orcs continued on through the increasingly mountainous terrain, he dragged his reluctant body along with them, but all the while dread settled more and more in his heart.

~oo0oo~

   At last, as the first light of dawn appeared over the mountains, the troop finally stopped its long march. The orcs released their grip on their captive and Aragorn was dropped face down onto the rocky ground. Immediately, a rope was strapped around his feet, binding them together as tightly as his hands. He closed his eyes in an attempt to blot out all that was going on around him as he concentrated on trying to master the pain surging relentlessly through him. He gasped for air as he struggled to breathe without moving his agonised ribs. He felt sick from pain. His head throbbed, as much from lack of water as from his injuries, and there was an unrelenting ache in his shoulders and arms. His hands had long since gone numb but at least they no longer troubled him, though he would not help but wonder if he would ever regain the use of them.

   The orcs settled down nearby and drank from their waterskins and ate what food they carried with them, but they offered him nothing. His throat was on fire and his mouth was as parched as a desert in Harad, but he dared not ask for anything from his captors. He guessed they were deliberately depriving him to weaken him; a policy he ruefully had to admit was working only too well.

    He lay there for maybe an hour, escaping into his own mind, while the orcs left him unattended. Unable to do anything to help himself, he sought to conserve what little energy he had left and he attempted to rest, though he knew he would not sleep. But as he tried to relax his sore body the best he could, he slowly became aware of a presence encroaching on his solitude.His eyes shot open, but at first he could see nothing. But something approached, of that he was sure. He lifted his head and peered into the grey gloom of the early dawn.

    There, still a distance away, a shadowy shape slowly came into view. It was very tall and robed in black. It was walking towards him, and somehow Aragorn knew with absolute certainty that it was evil. Fear began to well within him. Then, to his absolute horror, he looked upon its dark head and saw that it was faceless. Instantly, terror gripped him. His heart lurched as his bowels shrivelled inside him. Sweat began to pour off him. He wanted to run like he had never run before, only he could not move; he was frozen with fear. The figure came closer. He could feel the power of this thing oozing from it as it closed in on him. He thought his heart would stop such was the terror and dread that seized him.

   There was only one thing in all Middle-earth it could possibly be: a Nazgûl.  And more than that, the crown on its faceless head marked it as their lord, the Witch-king of Angmar. Aragorn had never felt so vulnerable and exposed in all his life. He was completely helpless. He knew this thing’s power was overwhelming. It could crush him in an instant or enslave him in the torment of a living death for all time.  Trussed up as he was, it could do with him whatever it desired a fact which did nothing to curb his mounting terror. He was totally out of his depth. Nothing in all his long years had prepared him for such an encounter. He had no idea what to do, even if he could overcome his crippling terror.  He set his jaw to try and stop his body from trembling more than it was already. Manfully, he braced himself in anticipation of further physical torment, though it was what this thing might do to his mind that terrified him the most.

    It was right in front of him now. It leaned over him menacingly, silently, studying him. Instinctively he recoiled, and his whole body shook as he felt unseen eyes piercing him, as if boring through to his very flesh.

   But panic tore through him when he suddenly felt an icy tendril touch his mind; like some probe searching deep inside him. And when a thin voice spoke within his head, he could no longer prevent a scream of absolute terror escaping from his lips. The voice sounded as if it had come from the depths of a tomb and it demanding to know everything about him.

    Aragorn’s fear was now beyond anything he had ever known, yet with a last mighty surge of will that he somehow summoned from he knew not where, he desperately battled to control it as he sought to drive this thing out of his head. He knew he must close his mind to it and protect his thoughts, but he had never consciously banished anyone in this way before. Few had ever attempted to enter his mind, and those that had, had only done so with his consent, in their desire to aid or comfort him. The Nazgûl’s power to invade the mind of another would be greater than most and already he felt the full evil intent of it as it clawed at his memories, searching for his secrets. 

   He tried to speak, as if saying the words out loud would strengthen his command to this thing to be gone, but the words would not form in his mouth. The bizarre battle continued inside his head, but the stakes were raised dramatically when the Nazgûl drew out his sword and held it menacingly at Aragorn’s throat. As he felt the blade stroke his chin, Aragorn faltered and his terror surged uncontrollably once more. The unprecedented extent of his own fear terrified him; if it crippled him completely, his battle would be over.

   He had to get away. Suddenly it was all he could think about. He tried to dig his heels into the rocky ground to propel himself backwards. He turned away from the Wraith as he did so, unable to look upon it a moment longer. But an orc suddenly appeared behind him and clasped his head between its claws, forcing him to look at his interrogator.

   Aragorn could endure no more; panic was ripping through him in unstoppable waves. Any moment that Morgul blade could pierce him and he would be doomed. And any second his faltering will would fail, and his mind would be laid bare. He just had to escape any way he could. Bound as he was, he did the only thing left to him; he attempted to spit into the leering face of the orc above him. His mouth was too dry, but he was nonetheless rewarded with a blow to his mouth that split his lip, and a foot thrust down on his belly which knocked the wind out of him. Searing pain erupted right through him as his already broken chest was tortured further. But so agonising and all-consuming was his torment that it swamped and blocked his fear. At that moment, he forgot about the Nazgûl. He could think of nothing more than gulping in his next breath of air. And as his fear dispersed, his mind was suddenly his own again.

   The Witch-king was thwarted, for now. In his fury, the Nazgûl raised his sword to the orc, and Aragorn felt the spray of its blood on his face as the orc’s headless body fell away behind him. The Witch-king growled menacingly at his human victim, but to Aragorn’s amazement, he turned and left him.

   Aragorn barely had time to recover his breath before the orcs dragged him into the cave where they were stopping for the day. They dumped him in the entrance and mercifully left him alone. He tried to think of nothing but calming both his body and his mind. He could not stop shaking but he concentrated hard on just drawing each laboured breath. He took no comfort from his small victory; he knew only too well that the Nazgûl would certainly return and then he would break him for sure; he could not hope to escape a second time.

   Slowly his shudders subsided but he was in so much pain, and he was so cold. He closed his eyes in total misery as he realised that what little hope he had of surviving this encounter had gone. There would be no escape now. A cold despair began to appear within him that had not been present before. A chill gripped his heart and he felt darkness closing in around him. He had never felt so despairing in his entire life and yet he had known many a tight spot before now. Slowly, from the depths of his mind, he conjured up memories of things learned long ago about the Nazgul and their strange powers and he recognised that there was something not quite right about this sudden growing emptiness within him. Perhaps it was not of him at all, but connected, in some way, to that thing.

   Immediately, he struggled against it, fearing where his despair would take him. He must guard against losing his sense of purpose; the Nazgûl must not defeat him in this way. While there was breath in his body, he must still have hope.  He turned his thoughts to Arwen; to his people; to anything that would keep this coldness from his heart and banish the blackness that now threatened him. Slowly, he grew calmer and he felt more in control, though he could not shake off the shadow of despair completely. He tried his best to assess his predicament rationally. He knew he must take this dire situation he found himself in one step at a time and not look any further than the present. Right now, there was nothing he could do but find rest, which he knew he badly needed, though he was quite sure neither the pain in his body nor the dread in his heart would allow him to sleep.

   As he lay there, inevitably, he brooded on this latest turn of events. The Lord of the Nazgûl was his ancestral enemy. He was a figure from legend, of terrifying stories from his childhood. He had been ensnared by Sauron way back in the Second Age, but later, at Sauron’s bidding had waged relentless war on his people until the North Kingdom was lost and the Dúnedain nearly destroyed. Aragorn had learnt all about those times from Elrond. Glorfindel himself had led the Elven force from Rivendell that had finally driven the Witch-king from Eriador. That had been over a thousand years ago and Angmar had not been seen in the North since. But his lair now was Minas Morgul and Sauron’s power had grown since then. The Nazgûl were his most terrible and feared servants.

   Aragorn braved opening his eyes and looked on the hideous, cruel creatures that now slept all around him. The stench in that cave was nauseating. He knew no torment or depravity would be beyond them; the consequences of falling into the clutches of The Enemy would be terrible. He felt fresh sweat breaking on his brow as he knew they had yet to exact their revenge on him for slaying so many of their group. What he had suffered so far would seem as nothing to what must surely follow. And, if the Nazgûl discovered his true identity, the torture that Sauron would put him through was beyond his darkest fears. Sauron had hunted him all his life; ever seeking to find Isildur’s heir, but Aragorn had always successfully eluded him; until now.

   But in spite of his fears for himself, he knew there so much more at stake now than his own life and any part that he might play in the future. He was one of the few people who knew the One Ring had been found. More than that, he knew where it was, and the name of the person who possessed it. This he must never reveal, no matter what the cost to himself. He could not betray Frodo; he could not betray Middle-earth. Yet he did not doubt that in time the Enemy would break him; it would not matter how bravely he resisted. He knew then that wherever it was that the orcs were taking him, he must not arrive; it was that simple. Before they reached their destination, he must escape. As he lay shivering on the cold ground with his sweat-soaked clothes chilling him further, he wondered how in the name of the Valar could he do this when every bone and muscle ached and his heart was so weighed down with despair. And what if he failed?A pit opened in his stomach as he realised he would have no choice but to earn himself an arrow in the back or a knife at this throat.

~oo0oo~

   As the sun settled over the Vale of Anduin, the orcs began to stir. The rope was removed from Aragorn’s legs and he was hauled to his feet again, the night’s break having done nothing to ease either his body or his mind. There was no sign of the Nazgûl, but the dread Aragorn felt told him he was near.

   The orcs set off again; their pace mercifully slower as the rocky slopes of the Ephel Dúath became steeper. On and on, hour after hour, they clambered upwards through hidden paths deeper into the mountains. For Aragorn, the struggle to keep abreast of his captors was becoming almost impossible. He knew his strength was waning fast and his thirst was becoming unbearable. He must do something soon. The night was passing and no opportunity for escape had arisen. He was getting desperate.

   They were running now on a narrow ledge, wide enough for just two abreast. Somewhere below, Aragorn could clearly hear the sound of a cascading, tumbling stream which only served to intensify his desperate longing for water. He wondered briefly if it could be the Morgulduin. Since the orcs had left the easier terrain of Ithilien behind and taken to the mountains, he had completely lost track of exactly where he was. More likely the stream was a tributary of that polluted river, but whatever it was, it sounded as if it was flowing fast between its high banks.

   Aragorn did not have time to think about what he did next; he just knew he wanted to be in that water. Somehow, he had to seize this one chance. He suddenly deliberately dropped to one knee. Having already stumbled so many times during the night, he knew exactly what the orc beside him would do. Sure enough, it stopped to link its arm through his to try and raise him again. As it did so, Aragorn gathered what remaining strength he could muster and charged abruptly towards the edge of the shelf, launching both himself and the astonished orc over the top. He was by no means certain he would even survive the fall, but such was his dread of staying on the path before him that death had become a far preferable fate.

   Together he and the orc tumbled into the water below, the unfortunate creature breaking his fall. Aragorn braced himself for the shock of the cold water as they both shot to the bottom of the icy stream. The orc was badly injured but still very much alive and, as they both rode to the surface, tried to push Aragorn back under the water. Aragorn however was trying to do something similar to the orc, though with his hands bound and useless, it was anything but easy.

    He thrashed furiously with his legs as both he and the orc struggled to stay afloat as the fast flowing river took them further and further from the orcs above. Arrows rained down on them but, thankfully, the orcs did not seem inclined to jump in and follow. The stricken orc very soon began to sink as its injuries finally told on it. Aragorn kicked as vigorously as his diminished strength would allow in a desperate attempt to reach the opposite bank before the dying orc dragged them both down into the depths. He had nearly reached the river’s edge when the orc’s weighty gear finally pulled it under and, if there had still been any life left in it, there was no more.

   Free at least of its vice-like claws, Aragorn’s progress was unhampered, although his own boots felt like lead weights on his tired legs. The water was flowing more slowly now as the stream’s descent became shallower and the steep banks were replaced by a gentler sloping shore. Luck for once was on his side and the water suddenly became shallow enough for his feet to find the stony bottom and he half floated, half staggered towards the water’s edge. As he went, he gulped the water frantically. He expected it to be foul and polluted like the Morgulduin, but, although it smelt less than wholesome, to him, it tasted as good as any water he had ever drunk in all his life. He lay long at the river’s edge, drinking his fill.

   Once he ceased moving, the chill quickly began seeping into his bones; he needed to get out of the water soon as the cold would kill him as surely as any orc arrow. Neither had he any desire to be swept downstream all the way to the Morgul Vale. Using his last reserves of strength, he crawled out unto the rocky bank. He collapsed then; the effort of making his escape had finished him. He lay there for time unknowing, trembling uncontrollably as exhaustion overtook his injured body. He let his eyes close and he allowed his mind to go blank.

   He had escaped. That was all that mattered.

   At length the bitter cold aroused him. It was January and although he was far south, a cold wind still tore into his soaked clothing. The first hint of dawn was in the sky. As he roused himself, he realised he had to free his hands and escape further in the daylight. He had no way of knowing how enthusiastic the orcs would be in their pursuit of him. He cast his eyes around the shore, looking for anything that might sever the ropes, but there was nothing. All the rocks were smooth edged and rounded; useless for his purpose.

   The drowned orc, though, he knew, had carried a knife. If it had not been lost in the fall, it would now be barely six rangaraway from where he lay, if he could but bring himself to return to the water to retrieve it. He dreaded the thought of braving the cold river, but, unless he intended to die in this Valar-forsaken land, he knew he could not lie helpless indefinitely. He still felt completely shattered by his ordeal, but the drink of water had made him feel a little better and that encouraged him. So, summoning what courage he could, he struggled to his feet and waded out into the stream again. He stumbled more often than he stood, but at last he reached the corpse which was lying in shallow water; no more than waist height. He stood for a long time looking down at it through the water as the stream’s surface slowly settled again.

   The knife was still there. It was only loosely slotted into the orc’s belt. He might just be able to retrieve it. He took a deep breath and, dropping to his knees, he plunged his head below the surface. Somehow he would have to use his teeth to pull it from the belt. He grimaced at putting his face so close to the vile creature. He opened his mouth and clasped the blade between his teeth but, in the few seconds he had to do this, he was unable to move it even an inch. He quickly jerked his head out of the water, gasping for breath and was at once reminded of just how sore his chest muscles were. He waited for a few moments until he felt able to try again. But first, he nudged the orc slightly with his knee to shift its position before he dived down once more. This time the knife moved more easily and he was able to pull it clear. But retreating to the bank with it was considerably more difficult that he imagined; it was surprisingly heavy and Aragorn struggled to keep hold of it. But finally, wading through the water on his knees, he reached the safety of the bank.

    The effort of retrieving the knife had nearly finished him, but he feared to delay any longer. It took repeated, frustrating efforts, but he managed to wedge the knife between two rocks and then he gingerly backed onto the blade. His arms were as useful as lumps of wood, so, cautiously, he moved his whole body up and down against the knife’s edge. Luckily, the blade was razor sharp and, in spite of it sliding back and for and occasionally nearly falling out of its slot, he managed to slice through the ropes and with only a few minor nicks to his wrists.

   Slowly, and very cautiously, he drew his arms forward. As he guessed they would, his stiffened muscles cramped agonisingly as he did so. He wanted to scream, but he closed his eyes for a moment and clenched his jaw until the worse of the pain had passed. But when, at last, he opened his eyes again and looked at his hands, they made a depressing sight. They were a complete mess. His wrists, skinned raw from the over tight ropes, were seeping pus and blood, while his fingers were bloated and cold and lifeless. He could hardly bring himself to look at them. He bowed his head and closed his eyes in despair. His relief at being free was tempered by the realization that he was deep in the land of his enemies; he had no supplies and he was in very poor shape.

   He was still in deadly peril.

   He knew he must keep moving. With great difficulty, he hitched up the knife and clasped it to his side by wrapping his arms around his aching chest. He tucked his hands under his armpits in an attempt to warm them and, very awkwardly, he staggered to his feet. Bent with pain, he slowly started walking.

    His progress was hard and slow; the terrain in places impassable. The treacherous mountain paths made his progress tortuously difficult, but he kept slogging on. He was heading westwards and, as the sun came out and rode higher in the sky, his clothes began to dry and his shivers ceased. But there remained a cold chill in his heart that no day in the sun could thaw. The grief of his encounter with the Nazgul was slow to leave him. It was as if it had left a trace of itself in his mind that sapped his will and continued to devour his hope. The fear and despair lingered and was made all the worse by a certainty he felt that somewhere, someday, he would have to face him once again. 

~oo0oo~

   Eventually, as the morning wore on, away before him he could see the long leagues of the Vale of Anduin, stretching to a horizon too distant to see. It was a welcome sight, but there, surveying the vastness of Middle-earth, the depth of his loneliness hit him fully. It was at least a thousand miles to Rivendell and to Arwen who dwelt once again in her father’s house. But here, in this friendless country, he was completely alone.

   He sank to the ground, suddenly overwhelmed by the desperateness of his situation and the enormity of the struggle still facing him. He was in constant pain; every step he took was an act of courage and he was so desperately tired. How could he possibly manage to walk so many miles? He had no strength left to continue his hunt for Gollum and he had long since despaired of ever finding him. He was loathed to have to admit to Gandalf that he had failed, but he had scoured this land looking for the creature and found no sign. Probably, he was already in the clutches of the Dark Lord. Surely it could only be a matter of time before Sauron found that which was his and all hope would be lost forever.

   A shudder ran through him and the chill darkness returned, silently closing in around him. If he was ever going to make it home, he knew he must get to his feet and continue his long march, but at that moment, he just felt like lying down and never moving ever again. He was so terribly sore and weary; and defeated. It would be so easy to lie here and rest and leave all his cares behind for good. It would not take long to drift into oblivion. The crows could pick his bones and soon there would be nothing left of him but dust blowing in the wind.

   He sat there for a long time, looking at the view before him. Beyond this barren land, across the river, almost beyond his sight, were living lands that he knew well, some he had visited long ago in what now seemed like another lifetime. The bright sun bathed the Vale in its warm embrace and the beauty of it stirred something deep inside him where no icy finger of the Nazgul had touched and tainted him. He thought of the people who dwelt in those lands, good-hearted folk, hardy and stoic who had long kept their fearsome neighbour at bay. They lived their whole lives day in, day out in the Shadow of Mordor, and yet they were not defeated. He wondered what would become of them in the approaching war. Would they be among the first to be lost, brushed aside in the mighty onslaught from Mordor?

   He did not know. But he felt a sudden urge to ensure Sauron did not have everything his own way. The icy grip on his heart thawed a little as he realised that no matter what part was his to play, he still hoped his sword would leave its mark somewhere in the coming battles. Perhaps all was not lost yet. Maybe the Ring had not yet been found. He might still be needed and there were people relying on him whom he could not abandon.

   He must go on.

   With a great surge of will, he forced himself onto his feet and as he did so, he suddenly realised he was desperately hungry. Although his guts had long ago seized, his stomach was screaming for food. It was actually a good feeling. It told him his body still had hope even if his heart was faltering. But at this time of year wild food was scarce and he would find nothing in this empty land.  He had to reach Ithilien, where, hopefully, even now, there would be food of some sort in the Garden of Gondor. He might even chance upon some athelas and so rid himself entirely of the remnants of the Nazgul’s poison. And from Ithilien, he could skirt the Dead Marshes and finally make for home.

   He hitched up the knife again and on he trudged. He would keep going. He always had and somehow, in spite of his woes, he knew in his heart, he always would.

~oo0oo~   

    “They will come on you in the wild, in some dark place where there is no help. Do you wish them to find you? They are terrible.”

   The hobbits looked at him, and saw with surprise that his face was drawn as if in pain, and his hands clenched the arms of his chair. The room was very quiet and still, and the light seemed to have grown dim. For a while he sat with unseeing eyes as if walking in distant memory or listening to sounds in the Night far away.

   “There!” he cried after a moment, drawing his hand across his brow. “Perhaps I know more about the pursuers than you do. You fear them, but you do not fear them enough, yet.”

   “Strider” The Fellowship of the Ring.

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

A/N  My apologies for the length of this chapter, the longest in the whole story, but it was a very long journey!

Chapter 23: The Journey to Mirkwood

 And my search would have been in vain, but for the help that I had from a friend: Aragorn, the greatest huntsman and traveler in this age of the world.

The Shadow of the Past                                                             The Fellowship of the Ring

   Aragorn was beginning to think this was the most miserable journey he had ever undertaken. If there had ever been times in his past when he was more cold, hungry or weary, he could not recall them. His ribs were still sore from his treatment by the orcs and he was so desperate for a proper meal he could happily have devoured an entire Oliphant. But it was at least some consolation that, for the most part, his injuries had healed and he was finally on his way home, though it brought him little cheer that he was returning to the North empty handed. He purposefully steered his thoughts from dwelling on the wasted years he had devoted to this fruitless chase. The hunt for Gollum was finally over. If he had ever been in these parts, there was no sign of him now.

   His progress on his return journey had been painfully slow at first, but once he reached Ithilien, he had at last found enough food to take the edge off his hunger. There were berries and wild tubers still growing where once there had been the homesteads of men. Although the roots were not particularly palatable, they were sufficient to sustain him even if they did not bring satisfaction to a sorely deprived stomach. He was inordinately grateful that he had brought the orc knife with him. With it, he had managed to fashion short lengths of rope from the coarser stems of vines and so had created simple snares. The occasional rabbit had supplemented his meagre diet most agreeably. And even more fortuitously, he had stumbled upon a few athelas plants. The healing power of the leaves had finally driven the lingering shadow of the Nazgul from his heart. And, as the diminishing outline of the Ephel Dúath receded into the distance, his evil memories of his time there began to fade from his waking mind, even if they still frequently returned to haunt his dreams.

   But now he had left Ithilien behind and for some days had been skirting the Dead Marshes on their north-eastern border. It was the first day of February and the mist over the desolate land hung cold and dank. There was little breeze, but nevertheless the chill from that bleak, dreary place was seeping into the very marrow of his bones. Aragorn had managed to find scant food there, and hunger gnawed at him constantly. He was walking slowly and with great care for the marshes were treacherous for the unwary. One badly judged step could see him fall into one of the many deep meres that threatened to swallow him at every turn. But Aragorn had long ago perfected the skill of watching where he placed his feet while never taking an eye off his surroundings. 

   Suddenly, quite without warning, his eye alighted upon small footprints beside a muddy pool. They were certainly not big enough to be those of a man. He stooped to examine them more closely, reaching out his hand to lightly trace their outline with his finger. They were unmistakably hobbit-like spoors and his mind raced as he realised they might even belong to the very creature he sought. He could feel his heart beating faster with excitement at this unexpected find.  Scarcely able to believe this sudden change in his fortune, he followed the trail with the utmost care, desperate not to lose it now. All that afternoon under the pale winter sky, Aragorn carefully and stealthily pursued his quarry, skilfully picking his way though the boggy marshes. At last, as evening fell, he saw a small figure lurking by a stagnant mere, peering motionless into the murky water. At first he thought it was an animal of some sort, starving and down on its luck, but as he risked stepping nearer, with a sudden revulsion, he realised that the vile looking creature fitted perfectly the description Bilbo had given him.

   This must be Gollum. 

   Silently Aragorn crept towards him. The creature appeared heedless, intent upon its own business. Aragorn waited, assessing his best strategy for capturing him. When at last he made his move, he took the creature completely unawares. He pounced and caught his prey deftly, but Gollum was covered in green slime and as slippery as a fish. He thrashed and twisted and almost wriggled free from the man’s grasp. His writhings were accompanied by the most screeching, piercing cries, but Aragorn hung on desperately as he struggled to improve his grasp. The creature was unaccountably strong. There was nothing to him, but he still put up a spirited fight. Aragorn, however, had endured far too much on his behalf to lose him now and quickly had a noose around his neck. But he nearly dropped the rope when he felt searing pain shoot up his arm.

   Gollum had bitten him savagely on the hand. That was too much for the normally patient Ranger. His right fist connected mercilessly with Gollum’s face and the creature felt the full force of the man’s wrath. He quickly tightened the crudely made noose and knelt heavily on the creature’s body in an attemp to pin it to the ground. The screams intensified and Aragorn felt small fists pummelling him as he fumbled to secure them with his pieces of rope.

   “Be still you miserable little wretch!” cried the exasperated Ranger as he at last, grabbed hold of Gollum’s hands and lashed them together securely as fast as he could.

   Finally, bound, gagged and on a halter, Gollum was at last restrained, though far from subdued. He hissed curses through his teeth, which Aragorn ignored completely while he tended his injured hand. There were three or four deep punctures which were bleeding profusely. With nothing else available, he wrapped his hand in his cloak and nursed it until the bleeding slowed. He still had some athelas leaves with him, and these he strapped over the wounds using a strip of cloth torn from his shirt. The injury really needed cleaning, but he would leave bathing it properly until he reached the Anduin. He did not trust the marsh waters and he most certainly could do without an infected wound with such a long trek ahead of him.  Satisfied he had tended it as well as he could, he sat back for a moment to study his strange captive and consider what he was going to do with him. He felt incredibly pleased with himself and aglow with the delicious elation that accompanies hard won success. He was also not a little relieved to have finally got the potentially troublesome Gollum safely out of harm’s way.

   It was an extraordinary creature he had caught. Even though Bilbo had described his quarry vividly, he was still shocked by the sight of Gollum in the flesh. He looked haggard and ancient and totally emaciated; Aragorn could easily have counted all his ribs. He was scarcely clad in any sort of clothing at all and was filthy with slime and mud. And he stank. It took a great leap of imagination to think of him as anything other than a beast. His only resemblance to a hobbit was his diminutive size and Aragorn could discern nothing within him to suggest the presence of any humanity. Also there was an evil look in his eye that the Ranger did not care for in the slightest. He had no doubt his prisoner could prove troublesome if he put his mind to it.

   Gollum’s frenzied shrieks and screams had finally subsided to a miserable whimper now that he was well and truly beaten. He sat hunched up, all the while glowering darkly at his captor. The Ranger tried to reassure him that he meant him no harm, but Gollum had retreated into a sulk and was clearly not listening. Aragorn could scarcely blame him. He had been less than gentle in his treatment of him and was not at all surprised to see the creature glaring at him with evident hatred in his huge, pale eyes.

~oo0oo~

   Glancing across at the low winter sun now settling on the hills, Aragorn realized he was not going to get very far with his journey that evening. Instead, he decided to lead Gollum to a sheltered spot away from the marshes and settle down for the night. Gollum however proved extremely difficult to move. He lurched in all directions trying to free himself; cursing and hissing through the gag as he did so. He lashed out every time Aragorn came anywhere close to him. Aragorn began to realize travelling with the creature was not going to be as straightforward as he had hoped. In desperation, he picked up the longest piece of rope he had and threatened to beat him with it. Only then did Gollum belligerently comply. 

   They were not far from the foothills of the Emyn Muir and here among the rocks, Aragorn found a suitable place to rest. Having searched for so long for the creature, he was impatient to begin questioning Gollum about his movements, so, he cautiously attempted to remove the gag. But Gollum immediately shrank away from him and began whimpering once more.

   “There is no need to be afraid, I will not hurt you,” said Aragorn, trying his best to sound kind and trustworthy though he guessed he had forfeited any chance of ever gaining the creature’s trust. Gollum continued to squirm and cringe so, in the end, Aragorn had no option but to simply reach out and grab him. Unfortunately the only way he could keep Gollum still was to grasp him by the throat which only served to frighten and anger the creature even more. Immediately the gag was removed, Aragorn sat back on his heels and raised his hands in the air.

   “See? There is nothing to fear.”

   Gollum’s eyes flashed with a mixture of terror and fury. “Nothing to fear, it says, precious. Oh no, nothing at all, only beatings and lashings; nasty, hateful manses. We hates, him, precious; yes, we hates him.” Gollum continued to ramble on in a similar vein for several minutes. Aragorn had been forewarned by Bilbo about the nature of Gollum’s chatter. Had it not been that he really needed to know if Gollum had ever been to Mordor, he would not have bothered to talk to him at all. He was not particularly hopeful of getting any sense out of him.

   “What were you doing down here in the Dead Marshes, Gollum? Have you been to see Him?” Aragorn decided to come straight to the point as he did not relish attempting a long interrogation.

   “What’s it mean, precious; ‘him’? Speak plainly it must. Gollum doesn’t like riddles. Nasty hobbit tricks us with them, it does.”

   Aragorn sighed. This was clearly going to be hard work. “You know of whom I speak,” he said, sternly. If picking the creature up and giving it a good shaking would have helped, he would have done so. His only reply was to receive more nonsensical ramblings.

   He tried again.

   “Have you seen the Dark Lord, Gollum? Have you ever been to Mordor?”

  Instantly a look of terror came into Gollum’s pale yellow eyes at the mere mention of that land. He screamed and buried his head in his arms, and absolutely refused to even look at Aragorn.

   Aragorn persisted for a time, but eventually he had to give up. Gollum clearly had no intention of answering any of his questions. But his main concern for the present was simply to prevent the creature from escaping and getting up to more mischief than he most likely had already. He could wait for answers, though somehow he had to stop that dreadful screaming. He gagged Gollum again, though he was very wary of his teeth. This at least reduced his protests to less audible hisses. It was dark now, and Aragorn would gladly have found some rest, but he did not allow himself any sleep at all that night; he never once took his eyes off his captive.

   In the morning, he was up and on his way before the dawn, driving the reluctant Gollum before him.

~oo0oo~

      Aragorn was heading north; his destination, by arrangement, was the hall of Thranduil in the north of Mirkwood. It was a journey of some nine hundred miles; no mean feat with a prisoner in tow, especially one that had possibly escaped from Barad-dûr and might yet bring Sauron’s hoards down upon his head. Realising he was potentially in great danger, he went to great pains to keep out of sight and avoid detection by Sauron’s spies. To this end, he intended to travel as westerly as he could, keeping close to the cover of the Misty Mountains.

   First, however, he had to cross the northern slopes of the Emyn Muir. The maze of razor sharp rocks would be difficult enough to negotiate even without the uncooperative Gollum at his heels. Days he laboured, seeking a way through the hills. It seemed as if every turn he took brought him to either a dead end or an impassable ravine.

   But at last he succeeded and he emerged from the Emyn Muir at a point to the north of the rapids at Sarn Gebir. Here, the Anduin flowed fast towards the dangerous waters above Nen Hithoel. Encumbered by Gollum, Aragorn could not hope to get across without aid of some sort. Fortunately on the east bank of the river driftwood tended to accumulate. Mostly it was just twigs and leaves, but there were a few larger branches among them. Wading out into the water with Gollum still tethered to his wrist, Aragorn sorted through the debris washed up there until he found a branch of suitable size for his purpose. He floated it back to the bank and, dragging Gollum towards him, he strapped him securely onto it. He then pushed the branch back out into the river and, swimming beside it, he guided it to the opposite shore.

   It was hard work for the river was wide and flowing fast, being engorged with the water from the heavy winter rains. He was breathless by the time he reached the other side and his sore chest ached, but he could not rest until he was out of sight of the river. Untying Gollum, he immediately drove him some distance from the west bank into a thicket of trees that lay beyond.

   There, hidden from prying eyes, he rested for a while. He very much wanted to light a fire, but decided against it. He suspected Sauron’s spies watched at least as far west as the Anduin and probably much further than that. There were pockets of sunlight breaking through the canopy above and under these he laid some of his sodden clothing in an attempt to dry them while he sat hunched up and shivering. Gollum, though, seemed completely unperturbed by his trip over the water, but he remained totally uncooperative and would not respond to even the simplest commands from his captor.

   That day, Aragorn did not feed Gollum as he was becoming rather tried of his troublesome antics. He had little enough food to spare as it was, so he decided to keep his prisoner on short rations to see if that would subdue him. Water he also restricted, being only too aware of how he himself had been weakened by the combined effect of these deprivations while he was held captive by the orcs. Hopefully, he could tame Gollum by similar means, though he doubted anything would stem the flow of mutterings and curses that issued incessantly from his mouth, in spite of the gag.

   As the shadows lengthened in the late afternoon, Aragorn gathered up his few belongings and prepared to continue on his way. He was heading north-west across the open plains of Rohan towards Fangorn forest. He wanted to complete this part of his journey as quickly as possible as he felt very vulnerable in the open with only a knife as a weapon.

   His attempts at haste, though, were thwarted by Gollum’s stubborn refusal to walk under sunlight. Although he offered no explanation, Gollum made such a fuss and commotion that Aragorn had no choice but to hide up under whatever shelter was available when the sun shone brightly in the middle of the day. He wanted to avoid travelling with Gollum in the dark for fear Sauron’s servants might attempt to rescue him, but it meant they could only proceed with their journey for a few hours at dawn and dusk each day. This made their progress frustratingly slow and, for the long striding Ranger, the constant halting and stalling of Gollum’s erratic gait was an added trial.

   Fortunately the Eastemnet appeared to be deserted. Aragorn met no one and saw no signs of habitation at all in the ten days it took him to reach the skirts of Fangorn.

   Here, he gladly walked under the cover of the trees, although he did not venture far into the forest itself. He had never, in all his long travels, walked among the ancient trees and he felt it would be unwise to do so now with the troublesome Gollum in tow. If, as he had heard tell in Gondor, the forest held some strange secret, he was of no mind to discover it at this time. Instead, he turned towards the north, keeping the forest to the west of him, where its towering presence afforded him some protection from prying eyes.

   Squirrels and rabbits abounded in the skirts of the forest and, thanks to his supply of snares, Aragorn kept himself and Gollum from starving, though his yearning for a decent meal grew with each day that passed. But hunting took time and Gollum had to be left unattended while he was away. As it was, Aragorn was setting as fast a pace as he possibly could with the unwilling creature hampering him with every stride.

~oo0oo~

  A few days later, he reached the River Limlight which, fortunately, was shallow enough for him to wade through. He needed to carry Gollum, though, so he bound his arms and legs securely and strode across with him on his back. As he waded through the clear water, he noticed it was teeming with many brightly coloured trout which swam heedlessly around his feet. Upon reaching the other side, Aragorn tethered Gollum to a tree and returned to the river to catch their supper. Tickling trout was a skill he had learned from his brothers as a child and, standing quietly in the shallows, he soon had half a dozen fish lined up on the river bank. That evening, he risked a fire to dry his soaked clothing and cook their supper. Even Gollum’s eyes lit up at the sight of the fish, though as Aragorn tossed a couple in his direction, he heard grumblings about how they were spoiled and ruined. But he could not help but smile to himself when he noticed that Gollum had nonetheless eaten the lot.

   Soon they were in open country again, heading towards the western eaves of Lothlórien. Aragorn’s heart soared with joy as he came under the golden canopy of the Mallorn-trees. Having come this far, he was ever more hopeful of reaching his destination, and, as he walked beneath the trees, treasured memories of his own most special time in that land filled his mind. He was once again a young man, walking through dappled summer sunlight on flower strewn emerald lawns, hand in hand with his beloved.

    He was approaching the stream of Nimrodel, when a commanding voice filtered through the trees ahead, pulling him abruptly from his daydreams.

   “Daro!”

   Gollum immediately started whimpering and pulled on his leash fearfully, but Aragorn stood still, waiting patiently. He could hear soft laughter up ahead and soon two Elves came into view.

   “We thought it was you, Estel,” said one, addressing him in Sindarin. “But we were unsure what to make of your companion. We wondered if you had taken to keeping a pet, though we had heard tell that it is customary for men to only keep curs on leashes.”

   Aragorn laughed aloud with joy at seeing familiar faces again after so long on his own. He could happily have rushed forward and embraced both of them.

   “Rúmil, Orophin! Mae govannen,” he said, grinning wildly. “I was hoping I would soon be discovered by the wardens.”

   “We are most surprised to see you here, Estel,” said Rumil.  “As you know, you are welcome to return to Lothlórien at anytime, but we can not allow you to bring this creature any further into the Golden Wood.”

   “That is only as I expected,” said Aragorn. “I seek only rest and food for a day. I have had little of either in a long time and am beyond weary.”

   Orophin, looking the gaunt Ranger up and down with sympathetic eyes, said: “This we can plainly see for ourselves. Here you can find both rest and sustenance. My brother and I shall willingly guard this strange beast while you sleep.” He looked questioningly at Gollum who hid his face from the intense stare of the Elf. “I feel sure there must be quite a story behind your bringing such a strange creature here. We would gladly hear as much of your tale as you are able to tell us.”

   “I fear I can tell you very little,” said Aragorn, “only that it is imperative I reach Thranduil’s halls in Mirkwood as soon as I possibly can.”

   The Elves both nodded, though they understood only the need for secrecy. They asked no further questions.

   That night, under the protection of the wardens, Aragorn enjoyed his first proper meal since he could not remember when, and then he slept long in safety, high above the ground on a talon in the trees. Gollum was tethered below and guarded by the Elves, though he cowered from them and refused to eat their food. Aragorn rested there in that corner of the Enchanted Realm for a whole day before continuing on northwards. Rúmil and Orophin helped him cross the Silverlode and, before he left, they presented him with a parcel of food to take with him.

   “I can not thank you enough,” said Aragorn as he gratefully took his leave of the brothers and bade them farewell. “But be sure to tell Mithrandir, should he pass this way, that you have seen me and that I am not alone.”

   “We shall, Estel,” said Rúmil. “And you be sure to bring greetings from us to our kin in the Greenwood.”

   “And don’t forget to give our regards to our beloved Evenstar, when next you see her,” added Orophin.

   Aragorn smiled a little wistfully. “That day can not come soon enough, Orophin, but I shall gladly remember you both to her when I at last return to Imladris.”

   Aragorn waved goodbye to the Elves as they stood watching him leave. He felt greatly refreshed by his brief stay in the wood, but he was eager to be on his way again. The sooner he could be rid of his companion and on his way back to Eriador, the happier he would be.

~oo0oo~

   He was now travelling through the rugged terrain of the foothills of the Misty Mountains, but as he drew near the Dimrill Gate, he gave it a wide berth. The Elves had warned him there might be orcs in the region of Moria and he wanted to avoid these at all cost. Rúmil had given him a longer blade, so he no longer felt quite so defenceless, but he knew he could not tackle many of these creatures on his own.

   On he strode through the vales of the Anduin, ever heading north, though he stayed as westerly and as close to the feet of the mountains as he could. It was now noticeably colder. The icy wind blowing down from the Northern Waste cut him to the core and keeping warm became his main preoccupation. He might be the hardiest of men, but even he struggled when the weather was this raw. It did not help that his cloak was ripped and torn from his rough handling by the orcs and no longer provided the protection it should.

      He was still too close to Moria to risk a fire so his meals were miserable affairs. The supplies the Elves gave him were soon eaten, as were the strips of meat he had dried and saved from hunting further south. Where the ground was not frozen, he could dig up roots to gnaw on and stave off his hunger, but this was hard work for slim reward. He still managed to catch the occasional squirrel, but without a fire, he was soon faced with no choice but to eat raw flesh. Gollum, remarkably, seemed to survive on very little. Aragorn became increasingly concerned for him as the atrocious weather continued and yet, although he shivered, he appeared remarkably unaffected by the cold, something at which Aragorn marvelled.

   On he trudged on his seemingly never ending journey until he reached the River Gladden. Even near its source close to the mountains, the river still presented a considerable crossing and Aragorn dreaded submerging himself in the icy water. But there was no other way, so, with Gollum once again strapped to his back, he waded into the river. The cold hit him like a physical blow, and every step was a momentous effort as even breathing became a trial. He floundered often, yet eventually he made it across to the north bank.  But, as he emerged from his freezing dip, he felt light-headed from the cold and he knew that, no matter what the dangers, he would have to light a fire; and quickly. His teeth would not stop chattering and his whole body shook as he sat huddled beside the slow, reluctant flames, as he desperately tried to thaw out. After a time, his clothing dried and he stopped shaking, though he was anything but warm. Ruefully, he remembered he still had to face crossing back over the Anduin when he reached the Carrock.

   But before he reached that river, he had another long, gruelling march north; a trek which was made all the more difficult by the fact it had started to snow heavily. If the weather had been raw before, it had at least been crisp and dry, and the weak winter sun had, if only for a few hours each day, provided some relief from the bitter cold. But, as the first snowfalls descended, the temperature dropped dramatically. The soft flakes, so seemingly harmless and innocuous, found their way into every slash and tear in Aragorn’s clothing and, as they melted, they sucked the last vestiges of warmth from his body.

   As he felt his fingers beginning to go numb, he quickly secured Gollum’s leash to his wrist. He was not going to lose his prisoner now. And then he determinedly plodded on with his journey. But the snow rapidly grew deeper and deeper until the blizzard finally made any progress impossible. Snowdrifts blocked his path and his eyes struggled to make sense of the formless white landscape that now completely surrounded him. His feet and hands felt as if they had turned to lumps of ice, and, as the wind picked up and the storm intensified, he could scarcely see anything at all through the blinding flakes that stung his eyes and clung to his beard. He stopped for a moment and attempted to look about him, but even his own footprints had already disappeared under the densely falling snow. He was quickly becoming disorientated and, as darkness threatened to fall, in real danger of losing his way.

   He glanced at Gollum. He stood hunched up, his legs hidden in the snow, whimpering pathetically on his leash. He too was shivering and looked utterly wretched. Aragorn tried to speak words of encouragement to him, but they were immediately ripped from his mouth by the blistering wind. There was no prospect of making a fire and, with no food, he wondered how much more either of them could endure.

 Somehow he must find shelter before the storm claimed them both.

~oo0oo~

  But where could he possibly hope to find any when he could barely see further than a few feet in front of him? Aragorn was so cold, he was beginning to have difficulty thinking clearly. He closed his eyes and forced his mind to focus; this was not the first time he had been trapped in a blizzard. His seemingly desperate situation still provided him with a choice and he had a decision to make, though neither option was particularly hopeful. He could either stay where he was and dig into the snow until the blizzard passed or keep moving and seek shelter. Settling down for the night in deep snow out in the bitter wind did not appeal greatly so he decided to press on the best he could.

   While Aragorn was no longer entirely sure of their exact location, he knew they were somewhere in the foothills of the mountains. Here, abundant clusters of fir trees grew on the shallow slopes. Surely if he ploughed on in a straight line in any direction, he would stumble into a copse sooner or later. This simple logic cheered him. He glanced down at Gollum, who looked a vision of abject misery. In order to speak to him, Aragorn slowly bent his frozen limbs so that his words might reach his captive’s ear before the wind blew them into the wastes.

   “What say you and I find somewhere to rest away from this accursed weather, hey Gollum?” He had almost given up expecting any sort of reply from the creature, but he occasionally persevered with his attempts at communication. For once, the accusing stare had left Gollum’s eye, but, even in the straits in which he found himself, he stubbornly refused to answer. Aragorn sighed and simply tugged on the leash. Gollum was forced to follow as Aragorn pushed himself to keep moving, his shoulders hunched and bent against the howling wind as he trudged onwards. How many laboured and impossible strides he managed to complete, he could not remember, yet he continued to battle his way through the steadily rising drifts.

   He was beginning to feel giddy from cold and hunger, his soaked clothes now offering him little protection from the fearsome elements. He was fast reaching the end of his endurance when, suddenly, he was aware of there being something very large standing in front of him, blocking his path. It was a tree, a huge, towering fir tree that stood tall and proud against the buffeting winds and driving snow. Aragorn sank to his knees with relief and, on his hands and knees, crawled through the snow piled high in front of it before sliding under the branches onto a thick layer of fallen needles. Sheltered beneath the tree’s dense boughs, the needles had remained dry and now provided a welcome bed for the frozen Ranger and his companion. Snuggled against the trunk, Aragorn was at last cocooned from the worst of the weather by the comforting branches of the tree, which reached almost to the ground like a tent all about him.

   He pulled Gollum into his den and there they sat, side by side, protected from the storm while they waited for the blizzard to blow itself out. Aragorn desperately wanted to sleep. Exhaustion was almost as big a problem for him as hunger and cold. Throughout his long journey, he had never risked taking his eyes off Gollum for long, and the constant threat of attack meant he could scarcely find any rest. He almost smiled at the irony of his situation. Gollum was going nowhere in this weather and none of his enemies would be abroad either, and yet he still could not sleep because the cold would claim him if he did. He sat with his knees drawn up in front of him and his arms wrapped around his chest. He shivered incessantly but he knew that to be a good sign. He thought no further than surviving this one night. There was no sense in dwelling on the long leagues he still had to travel if he was ever to reach Mirkwood. He had no illusions about just how difficult a journey still lay ahead of him, but at this moment, none of that mattered. His only concern was to still be alive in the morning.

   All night, while the wind blew and the snow fell, he sat hunched up, his head periodically dropping to his chin as sleep threatened to overcome him. But always he jerked himself back to wakefulness in time. Whenever his eyes closed, he thought of Arwen. Now that she had returned to Rivendell, she filled his thoughts even more vividly than when she was but a receding memory. He tried to conjure up her face as she had appeared to him the last time he had seen her. He remembered her eyes had shone as she smiled at him and her hair had been caught by the wind as she stood watching him slowly disappear from her sight. For a moment, that image of her was all the sustenance he needed. He was able to forget the cold and his tortured stomach as the memory of her standing there waving to him filled his heart. But when he opened his eyes again he saw only Gollum, sitting looking at him with a scowl on his face.

     At last dawn broke far away in the east and Aragorn’s thoughts turned to the day ahead. The wind had dropped and the sky was bright and clear. Much as he dreaded leaving his little sanctuary, he knew he had to keep moving as he must eat that day. Gollum sat apart from him now. With his hands secured in front of him, he was able to root around in the dank bed of needles. Every now and then, he raised his hands to his mouth and swallowed something. Aragorn tried not to look too closely at what he was eating. Whatever nourishment Gollum was finding, he was not yet so desperate as to join him in his morning snack. Instead, he pushed his way through the snow that had piled against the outer branches of the tree and ventured forth once more into the white wilderness.

   The landscape had changed completely during the night. Drifts, taller than he, fenced the land about him. Finding his route once more looked to be an impossible task. Gazing about him, he realized he had spent the night on the edge of what appeared to be a sizable woodland. Dragging a reluctant Gollum from their hideout, he set off into the woods and soon found himself wandering under beech and oak as well as pines and furs. There was less snow under the trees so the going was much easier. He knew if he was to find any food at all, it would have to be here among the trees.

   He had not gone far when his hunter’s eye spotted a small hole in a low branch of a tree which was chewed and gnawed all around the opening. A little further along, he noticed a similar hole. He was far too hungry to feel any regret over what he was about to do. He placed a corner of his cloak over the one opening and poked the end of the orc blade into the other. The small, furry occupant of the hollow branch was soon dislodged from its nest and trapped in the cloak as it tried to make its escape. Aragorn grabbed it, and, with a skilful twist of the frantically wriggling body, he broke the squirrel’s neck in one well practised movement. At last he had caught his breakfast and, as the sun was beginning to shed its warming rays upon the frozen land, he decided to build a fire and roast it. The damp leaves were slow to catch and his numb fingers fumbled clumsily with his flint, but eventually a few sparks found a hold on the kindling and Aragorn had his fire. As he prepared and roasted his meal, he tethered Gollum to a tree where he was able to continue rooting for whatever it was that so fascinated him in the leaf litter.

   Finally, thawed only a little, but fed, Aragorn and his captive, set off once more on their long journey. As he emerged from the shade of the trees, the brightness of the snow, glistening like silver under the rising sun, hurt his eyes. He squinted and shaded his eyes with his hand as he looked about him, trying to gather his bearings. He set his path northwards by the sun and continued on his way. The drifts were deep and their progress laboured but on Aragorn strode, always driving the reluctant Gollum before him.

~oo0oo~

   Eventually, after many days of toil in freezing conditions, he found his way to the Old Forest Road. There he remained hidden, watching, for a long while before he dared to come forth and cross over it. This was just the sort of place he expected there to be spies. He saw none, but by now he was fairly sure his passage north would have been marked. There was nothing though he could do about it, but, as he continued on northwards, he became even more watchful and cautious.

   Good fortune was with him, though, when two days later he reached the Anduin at the Carrock and there, to his overwhelming relief, he was met by the Beornings. Gandalf had once introduced him to these people many years ago and, remembering him, Grimbeorn and his kin gladly aided him now.

   Immediately, as Grimbeorn walked towards the shivering Ranger, he removed his own cloak and wrapped it around Aragorn’s shoulders. “You look half starved, as well as freezing to death, man,” he said as he drew Aragorn into a warming hug. Aragorn was grateful for the comfort, but he was also embarrassed at how relieved he was when Grimbeorn released him again. He had never forgotten Bilbo’s tale of Beorn’s ability to transform into a bear and somehow he half expected this descendent of his to suddenly sprout fur and claws in front of his very eyes. 

 “Come eat, Aragorn. Honeycakes and fresh baked bread with lashings of cream is what you need by the look of you. That should put some fat on your bones.” Grimbeorn slapped him on the back and threw back his head, roaring with laughter. Aragorn was far too tired to fully participate in any joviality, but he gladly joined Grimbeorn and his men for their supper.

   The Beornings, though, were understandably curious about his companion.

   “Is it a dwarf?” asked Grimbeorn, stroking his beard, thoughtfully. “Or is it one of those little people; oh what where they called now? Beorn met one, once upon a time.”

   “I believe the name you are searching for is ‘hobbit’,” said Aragorn, smiling at the bemused looks on the faces around him.

   “Well, hobbit, then,” said Grimbeorn rather doubtfully. “He doesn’t look at all as I imagined that folk would. What does he eat? He’s welcome to join us, but he doesn’t appear very friendly.”

   “He eats very little,” said Aragorn, “though he likes fish best of all when I can catch it, but I have been unable to provide much of that. I would leave him to his own company. He’ll not willingly join us or appreciate your efforts at friendship.”

   So Gollum remained tethered while the men ate. He scowled at them with evident dislike and they soon lost interest in him. He was nonetheless provided with a generous meal of honeycakes, which he scarcely touched.

   Aragorn, however, gratefully ate his fill and the honeycakes he found particularly agreeable. Their syrupy sweetness was especially welcome after a diet of nothing but roots and meat. Also, they recalled to him happy memories of distant days in the nursery when his mother would bake them for him. The mead was excellent and no sooner had he downed one jar than his cup was filled again. Eventually, he began to feel warm again for the first time since he left Lothlórien.

   Aragorn spent a couple of very pleasant days with the Beornings where he was able to indulge in the rest he so desperately needed. The cheerful company of these good men raised his spirits enormously as he prepared to set off on the potentially most dangerous part of his journey.  When he was at last fit to leave, Grimbeorn and his men helped him ford the Great River before sending him on his way with an ample supply of food.

~oo0oo~

   North of the Carrock, Aragorn came to the Forest Gate and, leaving the sunlit vales of Anduin behind, he entered into the dark and dangerous forest of Mirkwood. He was taking the Elf-path that would eventually bring him to the Elven realm in the east of the forest, but little did he like the prospect of dragging Gollum all that way through the oppressive gloom of that menacing place. He had rarely travelled this way before and then he usually had Gandalf for company.

   It was dark even in the day in that forest, but the nights he found to be far worse as the dark was so intense, he could see absolutely nothing, not even his hand in front of his face. He strapped up Gollum more tightly than ever, afraid of losing him now so close to his destination. He had been warned by Gandalf against the dangers of straying from the path but, as the Beornings had given him sufficient food and water to see them both through this last stage of their journey, he was hopeful that he would not need to.

   He anticipated his first real problem would come at the Enchanted Stream which he would have to cross without touching the water. Hopefully, the boat would be there, but if it was not, he had not really considered what he would do. However, luck, if that is what it could be called, was with him once again and when he reached the bank he found a small boat tethered as if waiting for him. He bundled Gollum into it without mishap and swiftly rowed across the stream before continuing on his way. But the further he went into the forest, the more depressing and menacing it seemed to become. It was impossible to shake off the feeling of being watched.

   That night Aragorn struggled to stay awake. He had not slept for four nights and was intending not to sleep at all until he was safely within the underground halls of Thranduil’s palace. But he was now very weary and sleep kept catching up with him, if only for a few moments at a time.

   Suddenly, he awoke with a start as a scream pierced his consciousness. It was Gollum. Aragorn froze. In the pitch black of night, he strained all his senses to try and deduce what was happening before he sprang into action. Gollum was tied to his waist and was tugging on the leash with all his might. Aragorn could hear movement all about him; the sound of twigs and leaves being trampled as something approached. Whatever it was that was out there seemed very large and was nearly upon them.

   Then something brushed against his leg and tried to grab him. He jumped in shock, but instantly the blade that was always in his hand, even as he rested, slashed at the darkness and at once struck flesh. There was a cry, a deep cold cry, and whatever it was retreated. But only a pace or two; Aragorn sensed it had not gone far and he knew it was not alone. Using the rope tied between them, he guided himself to Gollum, who for once did not pull away, but remained close beside him. The noises around them intensified and Aragorn prepared to attack, though he had little doubt that their situation was perilous. All at once the creatures charged. Aragorn flailed his weapons desperately in every direction, fighting completely blind and lashing out randomly as many long legs assaulted him.

   The noise was deafening, but above the screams of Gollum and the screeching and hissing of the huge beasts, Aragorn suddenly heard a hunting horn somewhere up ahead of them on the road. Then dimly, there came the lights of torches and he could hear the sound of voices coming towards him. He allowed himself to breathe again as he realized the Elves were heading his way. As the lights approached, they illuminated his attackers and Aragorn’s blades were at last able to find their mark. He was surrounded by three giant spiders, which lunged at him in a final attempt to snatch their easy meal before the Elves arrived. Gollum squealed even louder at the sight of the enormous arachnids and cowered behind Aragorn who battled with renewed vigour now that hope had returned. He determinedly maintained his defence until help finally arrived.

   Now it was the spiders that were beset. As arrows started to fly past his head, Aragorn dropped to the ground, pulling Gollum down with him. Soon the hideous beasts were fleeing and the Elves were in their midst. There were a dozen or more green clad Wood Elves in the group, each with an arrow in his bow, now walking towards Aragorn and Gollum. Aragorn got to his feet and slowly raised his hands as they approached, but then a grin spread across his face.

   “Mae govannen, Legolas!” he said. “That was a most timely arrival!”

   “Aragorn of the Dúnedain?” said the lead Elf in amazement. “What brings you to these parts? We have not seen you for many a year. But tell me first, what is that?” He pointed incredulously at Gollum who was crouched behind Aragorn and peeping out from behind his leg. Much as he loathed this hateful man, Gollum hated the Elves even more.

   “That, mellon nîn, is a long story,” said Aragorn, laughing with relief now that the trials of his journey were finally over. “I will tell you my tale when we have reached your father’s halls, for that is where we are heading.” 

   “This is not the creature that Mithrandir told us of, is it?” asked Legolas. “He does not look very dangerous.”

   “Do not be deceived by his small size, Legolas," Aragorn said as he held up his still bandaged hand for the Elf to see. "But I will speak no more of him until we are safely away from prying eyes and ears.” 

   Legolas nodded his agreement. “You look weary. It may yet take us another two days and nights to reach the Causeway. Rest a while, if you can. It is still a few hours before the dawn.”

   Aragorn smiled his gratitude. Sleep could not come a moment to soon. Even the fervour of battle which so often kept him from resting once the fight was over, could not keep him from sleep now. He gladly sank to the ground where he stood and curled up on the path, pulling what remained of his cloak around him. Gollum stayed close beside him, cringing from the Elves. But Aragorn paid him little heed as he slid into the welcoming arms of sleep. The last thing he remembered was someone laying a cloak over him. And as he slept, the Elves maintained a silent vigil.

   In the morning, Legolas offered to relieve Aragorn of his prisoner. “Others can lead him for you now, if you wish,” he said. But Aragorn hesitated, even though he would be only too delighted never to lay eyes on the miserable creature ever again.

   “Thank you, Legolas,” he said, dipping his head, respectfully. “But I shall not ask that of you. I have driven him many, many miles; I will see him to the very end of my journey.”

   “As you wish,” said Legolas who seemed relieved not to have to take responsibility for the strange looking creature just yet.

   Soon the Company of Elven warriors was ready to depart and Aragorn set off with his escort.   He was relieved beyond measure to have their assistance on the last stage of his journey. Suddenly Mirkwood was not remotely as dark or oppressive as it had been and Aragorn found his tired limbs walked with more purpose now that he was no longer alone though the last miles still took a determined effort to complete. Without the hindrance of Gollum, the Elves moved more swiftly than he, but after a couple of days, they at last reached the halls of the Elvenking. They passed over the great Causeway and through the magic doors that secured the entrance to the underground chambers where many of this ancient people lived, safe from the evil within the forest.

    The Silvan Elves had dwelt in the Greenwood since before the First Age, while others, like their leader Thranduil and his father Oropher before him, had joined them following the destruction of Beleriand. But when Sauron made his abode in the south of the forest on Amon Lanc, the Elves had retreated north. Although Sauron had, in recent years, been driven back to Mordor, many of his servants still dwelt within the forest and life for the Elves was never easy.

   They were suspicious of most strangers, but Aragorn had first come there as a young man with Gandalf many years ago and was accepted for who he was. He found having an Elven upbringing was sometimes extremely useful, although he inevitably did not feel as at home around these Elves as he did those of Imladris. However, Thranduil and his son had always been welcoming enough on his rare visits to the Woodland Realm

   It was with enormous relief that Aragorn was at last able to rid himself of the presence of Gollum. He held out his hand so one of the Elves could cut the rope from his wrist and, as it fell away, it felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Gollum was taken to the dungeons, squealing in protest, while Legolas showed Aragorn to a pleasant room where he was able to bathe before being taken to meet Thranduil. The Silvan Elves had none of the wealth of the Noldor and their quarters were sparse in comparison to the sumptuousness of Rivendell, but after fifty-five days in the company of Gollum and travelling some nine hundred miles with him across difficult terrain, the Elvenking’s halls felt as grand as any palace Aragorn could ever hope to dwell in.

   Legolas was a thoughtful host and had food and wine brought up to his guest as he languished in a warm bath. Slowly, he soaked the knots and cramps from his muscles, though the warm, soapy water stung his chapped fingers and toes which still sported many open sores from the relentless cold. He had trodden more paths in his long life than he really cared to remember at that moment, but few of his journeys had been as arduous as this latest one. But for all his weariness, he did feel a certain grim satisfaction at having accomplished his mission. Gollum was securely locked away; even Sauron could not reach him here and that was a most welcome and comforting thought. He stretched out his long legs and lay back as far as his bath would allow and relaxed.

   These unburden moments were as treasured jewels in his increasingly uncertain life. He had not made any plans beyond arriving in Thranduil’s realm. Now that he was here, he ought to consider his next movements. He needed to find Gandalf; then they could take counsel together. If Gandalf could solve the riddle of this ring of Bilbo’s, then he might perhaps be able to map out his plans for the coming months. As it was, his immediate future was a blank page and he was far from certain of where the path of his life might lead him in the next year or so.

~oo0oo~

    At length, bathed and fed, though still attired in his ragged travelling clothes, Aragorn was escorted to Thranduil in his great hall. He always thought the Elvenking a very regal lord and he found him now, sitting on his wooden throne, his autumn crown of leaves and berries upon his head, scrutinising the ranger as he was bought before him. Not for the first time in his life, Aragorn felt acutely aware of his still very dishevelled, appearance. It would take more than one bath to turn him into a King of Men, he thought, smiling ruefully to himself. He must ask Legolas for a change of clothes. A fine robe or too would have boosted his confidence hugely.

   He halted in front of the king and bowed.

   “So, Aragorn, Lord of the Dúnedain, you have finally brought this creature here,” said Thranduil. “It is many years since Mithrandir asked me if I could accommodate him within my halls. Has he proved so very difficult to find?”

   “He has indeed, my lord king,” said Aragorn. “Mithrandir and I have spent many years searching for him. He was far down in the south, near Mordor, when I at last came across him.”

   “You have had a very long journey then. But Mithrandir is not with you now?” asked Thranduil.

   “He had another errand, my lord, and had to abandon the hunt.”

   “Well, he has told me all about this Gollum and why he believes he should be constrained. Let’s hope you were not too late in achieving your task, and the damage has not already been done.”

   “Yes, my lord,” said Aragorn, not really appreciating this blunt appraisal of his long and painful efforts. 

   “I will send scouts out in the morning to leave messages for Mithrandir beyond the Forest. No doubt it would please him to know the creature has been found at last.”

   “Thank you, I’m sure he would greatly appreciate being told of this,” said Aragorn

   “And perhaps, now that you are here, you might bring me news of Imladris,” said Thranduil, gesturing to Aragorn to be seated. “How is Elrond Halfelven these days?”

   Aragorn obediently sat in front of the king and when he had told him all the news he could, Thranduil at last sent him to his rest.

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn slept for nearly a whole day and night, such was his weariness. He awoke feeling ravenous and was grateful to the Elves for their generous hospitality. Thranduil, for all his brusqueness, appreciated what the mortal had been through to achieve his feat and ensured he was more than adequately cared for.  A plentiful supply of the finest foods was constantly brought to his room and Aragorn had no compunction about eating his fill. Bread and pastries he consumed by the plateful, though he was less keen on the squirrel, no matter how beautifully prepared and presented.

   As he happily tucked into yet another helping of apple pie, he grinned at his own gluttony. ‘I’ve spent too long guarding the Shire,’ he thought, ‘I’m turning into a hobbit.’

   When Aragorn had finally sated himself on food and sleep, he sought Legolas to inquire about Gollum. He still felt the creature was his responsibility and, although he was sure the Elves would care for him well, he wanted to satisfy himself that Gollum was reasonably comfortable.

   “He is locked up,” said Legolas, “but, I assure you, we are doing all we can for him.”  At Aragorn’s insistence, he led the way through the long passages that were lit only with the red light of many torches until they came to the dungeons. Aragorn found Gollum housed in an agreeable enough cell. It was small and sparse but he was receiving regular meals and the guards were obviously treating him kindly. Yet he was squatting on the floor and seemed very on edge. He jumped as Aragorn approached the bars. Aragorn could only imagine that he was anticipating being tortured.

   “Hello, Gollum, there is nothing to fear,” he said with a friendliness he certainly did not feel. “It is I, Strider.”

Gollum raised his head and glared at Aragorn with evident hatred before continuing to mumble to himself.  “Poor, Gollum, what’s to become of us, now, precious? We can’t find it again locked in here, can we, oh no. Nasty manses keeps us from it, he does. We hates him, precious, we hates him.”

   Aragorn listened to him for a while, but then, with mounting revulsion at the smell he had tolerated for so long, he found he had no desire to endure Gollum’s presence a moment longer.

   “I’ve seen enough,” he said to Legolas and, turning on his heel, he strode from the dungeons.

~oo0oo~

   The next day, to Aragorn’s great joy, Gandalf arrived, having ridden with great haste through the forest.

   “My dear Aragorn, how are you?” said Gandalf, embracing his friend before stepping back to cast a concerned eye over him. “What a time you have had! I am so relieved to see you still in one piece. You must tell me the whole story. I know you have been to Lórien for I received messages from there telling me you had passed that way. I chased after you at once, fearing what deadly perils you had endured on your own. Come sit with me and tell me of your adventures.”

   Aragorn recounted his tale from the time he parted from Gandalf far to the south in the Morgul Vale. Gandalf was most concerned to learn of Aragorn’s capture by the orcs and he was particularly disturbed to hear that the Lord of the Nazgûl was wandering in that land. He greatly feared the meaning of it. However, he could not dwell on this problem now, and bringing his thoughts back to Gollum, he asked: “Has he said anything to you that may be helpful to us; has he given any sort of account of himself at all?”

   “He has said nothing,” said Aragorn, shaking his head. “He has completely refused to answer any of my questions. I’m afraid I did not start in friendship with him and he has not let me forget that. I do know that he is very fearful of the name of Mordor and I suspect he has been there. I sense great malice within him. I can only hope you have more success with him than I did.”

   “Well, I will try, but I can promise nothing. If he was indeed in possession of the One Ring for a great many years, then his heart, I suspect, is black from that time. But we shall see. Perhaps you could take me to him now,” said Gandalf as he got to his feet. 

   “Of course,” said Aragorn, “but will you not tell me first if your visit to Minas Tirith bore fruit? Did you find anything that might be of use to us in the vaults?”

   “Yes, I believe I did,” said Gandalf, sitting back down again. “Denethor was very reluctant to allow me access to the archives, but he agreed in the end. Did you know, Aragorn, there are scrolls there that have been unread for centuries?”

   “No, I did not,” said Aragorn, “but it would not surprise me; the archives were much neglected in Ecthelion’s day.”

   “Well, it took me a while, but I eventually found Isildur’s own account of the finding of the Ring. It made very interesting reading. I learned of a test I can try to see if this is the One Ring, but I will not be able to do that until I return to the Shire. But let me see what Gollum can tell us first before we jump to too many conclusions.”

   Aragorn nodded his agreement and then led the way to the dungeons.

~oo0oo~

   Gandalf patiently sat with the creature for days, slowly coaxing his tale out of him. At length, he felt he had learned all he could and so reported back to Aragorn.

   “Well, I hope I never have to sit and listen to such a lot of nonsense ever again,” said Gandalf. “He really is enough to try the temper of the most patient man.”

   Aragorn laughed: “And you, my dear friend, could hardly be called that.”

   Gandalf scowled at him good-humouredly.

   “First, I had to get past all the self-pity and the interminable curses, most of which were directed at you, I have to say,” said Gandalf, raising an eyebrow at Aragorn. “Eventually, he started to open up a little. I still had to discount most of what he said, but a few things were quite telling and some very important. For instance, I learned that he found the Ring near the Gladden, not far from where Isildur most likely lost it. Also it would appear that he found it a very long time ago and that possession of the Ring has therefore considerably lengthened his life. His story of how he himself came to lose it also tied in with what Bilbo told me; the later version that is. However most disturbingly, it would seem Gollum was, as we guessed, taken captive in Mordor. There, under torment, he revealed both the names of ‘Baggins’ and ‘the Shire’ to the servants of the Dark Lord.”

  “Oh no, this is the most evil of tidings!”

   “I know, my friend, it could not be worse,” said Gandalf. “Gollum believes he escaped, but I suspect he was released which is far more disturbing. It is all most grievous news. I doubt Sauron had ever heard of the Shire before, though I do not expect it will take him long to find it now. I must return there at once and warn Frodo.”

   “This is all just as I feared,” said Aragorn frowning. “I will travel west with you. The Dúnedain should be told at least something of the possible dangers and the guard on the Shire increased accordingly.”

   “Yes, yes, that would be as well. There will be much to do.” Gandalf nodded his agreement. But then he looked hard at the Ranger sitting beside him and he became quiet and thoughtful. He pulled out his pipeweed and offered some to the Man.

   “It’s the finest in the Southfarthing,” he said with a smile.  Aragorn accepted the weed with thanks, but he knew Gandalf well enough to immediately understand that his friend probably had something of importance he wished to say to him.

   When they had both lit their pipes and taken a drag or two, Gandalf continued.

   “Aragorn, I am as certain as I can be, for now, that Gollum’s ring is the One Ring of the Dark Lord, found again after being lost for over three thousand years. You do know what this means don’t you?”

   “If you mean, do I know the peril we will all be in should Sauron find it again, then, yes, I know,” said Aragorn, thinking this was surely obvious.

   Gandalf smiled at him, fondly.

   “No, my dear fellow, I meant for you personally. It has long been Elrond’s belief, has it not, that when the Ring of the Enemy is found then the Sword of Elendil will be reforged. And with that sword you may well be called upon to accomplish the great deeds that Elrond once predicted you might achieve. I foresee a terrible final battle looming before us. If we are successful, you may at last gain all you desire, but if we fail, then those who survive will be condemned to endure life without hope under the rule of Sauron. Your hour is coming Aragorn. Your long labour will soon be over, but much will be asked of you before the end. You must be ready.”

   Aragorn said nothing for a while. He knew events were moving rapidly towards that confrontation and that his final trial would soon be upon him. He knew also it would be a test he must not fail, and hearing Gandalf speak of it brought the day that much nearer in his mind. Long had he waited and prepared for this and he did not doubt he would need all his courage and skill to see this through, though there were no sureties that they would be enough. He was very aware that the price of failure would have far reaching implications for all of Middle-earth, as well as being the end of his own hopes and dreams. But in that moment whatever fears and doubts lay within him, by the strength of his will he banished them from his heart and determinedly replaced them with grim resolve.

   “I am ready,” he said at last. 

                                                                                                          ~o00o~

  …He will never love me I fear; for he bit me, and I was not gentle. Nothing more did I ever get from his mouth than the marks of his teeth. I deemed it the worst part of my journey, the road back, watching him night and day, making him walk before me with a halter on his neck, gagged, until he was tamed by lack of food and drink, driving him ever towards Mirkwood….

 “The Council of Elrond”                                                      “The Fellowship of the Ring”

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 24: Strider

   “..It was the Elven-folk of Gildor that told me this; and later they told me that you had left your home; but there was no news of your leaving Buckland. I have been watching the East Road anxiously.”

 Strider                                                                                        The Fellowship of the Ring

~oo0oo~

     ‘Oh Roheryn, would that you were with me now,’ thought Aragorn as he broke into a jog. This was no time for his horse to be languishing in a stall in Rivendell. He needed him now like he never had before. In all his years journeying the length and breadth of Middle-earth, he could not remember ever having more need of haste than he did on this particular September night.

   He must find a hobbit called Frodo Baggins; and quickly at that. But hobbits could be almost as elusive as Elves when they chose and every bit as impossible to find on a dark night if they did not wish for their movements to be noted. Frodo and his companions could be holed up, hiding, under any hedge or tree and he would never know if he had passed them or not. He strained his eyes as he peered into every black hole that bordered the path, but there was no sign. And it was not only hobbits whose movements he sought that evening. As he ran, he constantly kept an ear cocked in fear of catching the sound of hoof-beats approaching fast behind him. He certainly did not relish been caught on the road in the depths of the night by a Ringwraith.

   Earlier that evening, he had learned from the Elves that Frodo Baggins had left his home in Hobbiton and was now somewhere in the wilds with only his kinsmen for company. He had been totally dismayed at these tidings as he was quite sure that whatever Gandalf had intended for the hobbit, it was not this. Twice now, in a matter of days, Aragorn had met the Elven-folk of Gildor. Both times the news had been ill. He first encountered their Company in the Green Hills as he cut through the Shire on his way to Sarn Ford. The news then, that Gandalf was missing and black horsemen had been seen in the Shire, was disturbing enough. But it was potentially disastrous that Frodo was abroad without guidance.

  He had been fanatically searching for further news of both Gandalf and the Black Riders when he had come upon Gildor and the Elves once again as they emerged from the trees above Woodhall.

  “Hail, Dúnadan,” said Gildor as the company halted and waited for the jogging ranger to catch up with them. “The good people of Bree should have named you Trotter not Strider. What a pace you are setting this night. Will you not walk with us a while; I have tidings you should hear.”

   Aragorn smiled grimly. “I no longer have the leisure to stride, Gildor, but gladly will I walk with you awhile and hear your tidings, though I hope you bring me more cheer than at our last meeting. Might I dare hope that you have heard something of Gandalf?”

   “No, I fear we have not,” replied Gildor. “I was rather hoping you might have been bringing word from him yourself.”

   His hopes dashed, Aragorn shook his head. “No, I have heard nothing either.”

   “This must surely bode ill,” said Gildor, a frown marring his fair face. “And I fear I must further add to your troubles. Two nights ago, Aragorn, we encountered three hobbits on the road. They were wandering alone without a guide of any sort, trying to make their way to Bree. One of them may be known to you, or at the very least, I deem you know his kinsmen. Frodo Baggins was his name and he was carrying a great burden.”

   “What! This is ill tidings indeed! And with Black Riders about as well! Which way were they heading, Gildor?  I must find them at once.” 

   “They were intending to make their way towards Buckland when we left them.”

   “Then I must set off after them at once,” said Aragorn as his mind raced through the implications of this latest development. “If you would aid me further, Glidor, could I ask you to send messages to my men? They should be told of this.”

   “Fear not, messages have already been sent to the Wandering Companies. If they can be found, they will learn of this.”

   “Thank you,” said Aragorn, who was still feeling utterly dismayed by this news. “You have been a great help, but now I must be on my way at once. Valar willing, we may yet all meet again at Imladris.”

   With that, he was gone, moving swiftly into the night. 

   After so many years of watching and waiting and seemingly achieving very little, events were suddenly moving very fast indeed. Too fast; the danger from the Black Riders could not be greater. He shuddered at the thought of those creatures wandering at will among the defenceless hobbits. Frodo would have no chance if they found him. How many had entered the Shire, he wondered. Were all nine here already? He had so far been unable to trace all their movements. Nor did he know how they had passed over the border. He had Rangers stationed at both the Brandywine Bridge and Sarn Ford. The Bucklebury Ferry was the only other means of crossing the river.

   He was desperately afraid for his men. If there were Black Riders in the Shire, then there was every likelihood that some of them had already succumbed to the Wraith’s evil power. And if the Rangers had been confronted by all nine, could they possibly have held any of them back? He knew the terror of facing even one of these things. He doubted he had enough men stationed at either post to mount a sufficiently strong defence to repel any of the Wraiths if they were determined to enter. 

   He quickened his pace. He was heading for the Brandywine Bridge, where, if his men were still at their posts, hopefully he would receive news. But, with a heavy heart, he realised that at that moment there was nothing he could do for the Rangers at Sarn Ford. He had to concentrate his all efforts on finding these hobbits.

~oo0oo~

   He ran as lightly as he could, making his way quietly through Buckland in the dead of night. He wondered once again whatever could have befallen Gandalf. That he was missing was most troubling. He had never known the wizard to disappear without leaving word somewhere. It could at times be difficult to find him, and he had spent many a frustrating day struggling to do just that, but Gandalf was never gone completely for long.  

   They had travelled west together from Mirkwood in the spring, but he had not seen him since they parted company at Sarn Ford at the beginning of May. Gandalf had been staying with Bilbo’s nephew and had interrupted his visit to meet him there. He seemed happy enough with the state of affairs in the Shire then. So much so, that Aragorn had taken the opportunity to journey north to visit his people. He had only returned a few days ago to be greeted by Gildor and his ill news. Now he very much regretted not having stayed close to the Shire all summer; he should have guessed Gandalf might have had need of him.

   For the moment, he pushed the wild thoughts of what might have become of his friend out of his mind. His only concern now was finding Frodo Baggins and keeping him from harm.

   No one stirred in Buckland. All seemed quiet and peaceful, as it ever was. And as he approached the Bridge, it appeared deserted. Nonetheless he crossed cautiously. This may be the Shire but these were queer times. He had not gone far when, to his relief, he was challenged.

   “Halt, and speak your name.” A commanding voice rang out from behind the trees ahead.

   “It is I, Aragorn,” he whispered in reply, loud enough for the sentry to hear, but not, he hoped, anyone else who may be lurking nearby.

   “Captain?” a quiet voice answered him, and a dark figure emerged from the cover of the trees.

   “Yes, but tell me quickly what passes here?” asked Aragorn, as two more men appeared out of the shadows. His trained eye spotted the three others who remained at their posts. In his haste, questions tumbled from his lips. “Have any strangers come this way in the last few days; have black horsemen tried to enter the Shire? And hobbits; have any left Buckland?”

  “No one has crossed the bridge,” replied the Ranger without any hesitation. “Nor have we seen anything out of the ordinary and we have not left this post in many days.”

   His solid reply gave Aragorn hope. If the Black Riders had not come this way then there was a chance Frodo could reach the bridge before them, though it troubled him that he had not yet done so.

   “Well, all may not yet be lost,” he said, more to himself than to the Rangers who stood looking at him rather bemusedly. He chose not burden his men with his fears for the safety of their kinsmen at Sarn Ford.

   But where was Frodo? He really should have been here by now.

   A thought suddenly struck him. What if Frodo had been forced off the road and had taken cover in the Old Forest? It was not a very comforting thought, but it was the only explanation, beyond the unthinkable, to explain the hobbit’s disappearance. He knew it would be hopeless to pursue him through the menacing trees. He himself had ventured into the forest’s dark depths but rarely and he could not help fearing how a hobbit might fare in such a place, even one that he had been led to believe was as tenacious as Frodo Baggins.

   His train of thought was interrupted by a welcome offer of supper. “Will you not have something to eat, Captain? I’m sure you could do with it,” asked the Ranger, a seasoned campaigner in his late fifties called Brandir.

   “I can not stop long,” said Aragorn. “But I will gladly take a bite with me to eat on the road.”

   Brandir gestured to one of the men to fetch something for their chieftain from their campsite.

   “I wish I could stay and help you defend the Bridge,” said Aragorn, “but I must find three hobbits who were last seen wandering towards Buckland. What has become of them I do not know, but if by chance they come this way, then I beseeched you to aid them all you can and protect them from every danger.”

   He looked from one to the other of his men. “And with your lives if needs must,” he added gravely.

   The men nodded. They had long since become resigned to not understanding their lengthy guardianship of this seemingly irrelevant folk.

  “Aye, captain, but where should we take them for safe keeping if they do come to the Bridge?” asked Brandir.

   Aragorn thought for a moment. He little liked the idea of leading them from the relative safety of the Shire into the empty lands surrounding Bree, but clearly the Ring could not now remain here. Somehow, it and the hobbits must be got to Rivendell. With Gandalf missing, Elrond was his only hope.

   “Should they come here, then I would bid you accompany them along the East Road towards Bree,” he said at last. “I’m going to watch for them there in case, by some chance, they’ve found another way out of the Shire. This is all a most wretched business, Brandir. Take the greatest care all of you. These Black Riders are more dangerous than they appear.”

   As Aragorn was speaking, one of the men thrust a cup of hot broth into his hand and offered him a slice of bread and dried meat which Aragorn gratefully accepted. He downed the broth in one swig and, handing the cup back to the Ranger, he bid them a hasty farewell.

   He set off on the road to Bree where he hoped he might yet encounter the hobbits if they had indeed left the Shire by the Old Forest. He pace was slower as his guard was raised. He had not gone far when it began to rain heavily. Aragorn wrapped his cloak tightly round himself as he sought shelter under a clump of hawthorns. The rain persisted all night and for much of the next day. Aragorn began to wish he had remained with the Rangers as he was achieving nothing cooped up like this, sheltering against the weather. But the next day, the sun broke through the clouds and the rain stopped. The air smelt fresh and clean and Aragorn was swiftly on his way again.

  The rain had turned the road to mud and he splashed through many puddles as he made his way steadily along the East Road. But he was becoming ever more anxious with each day that passed and there was still no sign of the hobbits. At last he came within sight of Bree, so he settled himself down under a hedge on the outskirts of the village and waited. There was nothing else he could do. He could only hope that his men had encountered the hobbits after all. He peered anxiously down the East Road, hoping beyond hope that any moment he would see Brandir and his men approaching, bringing the hobbits along the road towards him. But he saw nothing except the empty road, stretching away into the distance.

    He had no idea if he was even doing the right thing by waiting here. How long should he continue to sit here idly, he wondered. If the hobbits did not appear soon, he would have to resume has search. But where; what if they were enmeshed in some peril within the forest? How could he hope to find them in there? He knew beyond any doubt that if the Riders found them first then it was all over; there would be nothing he or anyone else could do. The Ring would be on its way back to Sauron and any chance they might have had of a victory would be gone. He tried hard not to dwell on such a thought as he sat huddled beside the road, keeping his lonely vigil.

    But at last his patience was rewarded and, to his joy, four hobbits rode into view, accompanied by Tom Bombadil of all people. Aragorn marvelled at the good fortune that had led them to chance upon the Master, but that mattered little know. He listened carefully to their parting words. With great relief, he heard the name Baggins mentioned; these were the hobbits he was waiting for.

   “Fare thee well now with good heart and ride on ‘til dark without halting [1],” Aragorn heard Tom say to them as they made their farewells.

   Tom turned to mount his pony and as he did so, he caught Aragorn’s eye. The Master’s face broke into a broad grin as he spotted the Ranger crouched behind the hedge, but he said nothing. He simply tossed his hat onto his head and leaped onto his pony’s back before riding away up the bank, singing as he went. The hobbits scrabbled up after him and stood watching until he had disappeared from their sight.

   When they at last set off down the road to Bree, Aragorn followed them at a discrete distance. He remained hidden, watching them intently, ready to spring to their defence at any moment as they sought admittance to the village through the West Gate. As the gate opened and the hobbits disappeared through it, he crept forward and jumped over unseen behind them before disappearing into the shadows and quietly following them to the Prancing Pony….

~oo0oo~

   “Few now remember them,” Tom murmured, “yet still some go wandering, sons of forgotten kings walking in loneliness, guarding from evil things folk that are heedless.”

Fog on the Barrow Downs                                                          The Fellowship of the Ring

[1] Fog on the Barrow Downs                                                   The Fellowship of the Ring

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 25: Isildur’s Bane

   In the early night Frodo woke from deep sleep, suddenly, as if some sound or presence had disturbed him. He saw that Strider was sitting alert in his chair: his eyes gleaming in the light of the fire, which had been tended and was burning brightly; but he made no sign or movement.

A Knife in the Dark                                                                    The Fellowship of the Ring                                

~oo0oo~

   The fire was burning low. Fortunately Nob had left a plentiful supply of logs stacked neatly to one side of the chimney breast; enough to ensure the fire could continue to blaze through until morning if properly tended. Aragorn carefully picked his way around the row of sleepy hobbits lying side by side in front of the hearth. Briefly, he studied the assortment of instruments propped against the chimney before selecting a suitable poker to stir the charred, but still glowing, timbers in the grate. Immediately they sprang to life. And as the fire strengthened its grip, he pulled a couple of logs from Nob’s tidy stack and threw them into the grate. The newly kindled flames spluttered and dimmed before finding a hold on the fresh timber and the small fire roar fiercely once again.

   Aragorn returned to his chair and pressed it tightly against the door before sitting on the simple wooden seat. His four charges had now ceased their chatter and were wrapped up snugly in their blankets, their woolly feet pointing towards the fire. Slowly, they settled down for the night, though Pippin continued to wriggle as he sought a more comfortable spot on the hard floor. Frodo, Aragorn observed, was wedged securely between Sam and Merry. One by one they dropped off to sleep. But Aragorn would not be joining them in slumber this night. Instead he sat wide awake, listening to every sound beyond the walls of the small parlour that was to be their sanctuary until morning. His alert ears caught the slam of an outside door being shut and a few light footsteps hastily retreating down the corridor. There was no sound coming from the common room. But then it was getting late; the guests had most likely retired for the night.

   Soon all was quiet and Aragorn could hear nothing but the soft sound of the hobbits breathing and the occasional hiss or crackle from the grate, though once in a while, the shutters on the windows would clatter noisily as the wind toyed with them. Somewhere in the village a vixen cried, her ear-splitting bark shattering the silence. The eerie sound made the Ranger jump. He breathed out slowly and would have smiled at his foolishness, only he knew he would be very fortunate if he heard nothing more sinister the entire night. According to Merry, at least one Black Rider had arrived in Bree already and, from the hobbit’s account of events earlier that evening, Aragorn had to assume the Wraith would by now know of their presence at the inn.

   The Nazgûl would soon be upon them.

   Sitting here alone, guarding these four hobbits, one of whom carried the Enemy’s Ring, Aragorn felt exceptionally vulnerable. From what he knew of the Ringwraiths, he doubted they would attack the inn that night; it was not their way, but he was by no means certain of this. There was no telling how desperate they would be by now to find the Ring. But of one thing he was certain. Whatever happened tonight beyond that door, and whatever terror permeated through it, nothing must get passed him; he must holdfast, no matter the cost to himself.

   His stomach tightened at the prospect of confronting even one of these creatures, but more than one would come, that he did not doubt. He must expect the worst and assume all nine would be here by morning. A nauseating wave of fear swept over him and refused to subside. He wondered how could he possibly hope to keep the Ring from falling into their hands if they all attacked the inn together. The answer was terrifyingly simple. He could not. He would do everything in his power to drive them off, but he knew, in his heart, he would be unlikely to even survive such an encounter.  

   He wiped his now sweaty palms on his cloak and took a deep breath. He told himself it was not inevitable this would happen. He must have faith that his plan would work and that, come the morning, they would all escape safely and in secret. Right now that was his best hope. In truth, it was his only hope. Barliman, Bob and Nob were the only ones who knew that the hobbits were not in their rooms. If they all laid low and remained silent, maybe, just maybe, they had a chance of eluding their terrible pursuers.

~oo0oo~

   Slowly the minutes ticked by.

   Aragorn looked at the four sleeping forms stretched out in front of the fire. He had never before had such charges in his care. They were so unworldly and innocent; he wondered if they fully understood what is was they carried. They really had behaved quite ridiculously in the early part of the evening, and yet, already he sensed hidden strengths within them. Bilbo had told him something of his nephew and he knew both he and Gandalf held Frodo in the highest regard.  But how they would cope out in the wilds, he did not know.

   Hobbits he understood to be capable enough creatures when needs must, but they were well known for liking their home comforts. It would not be very comfortable where he was going to take them. But they had no choice and neither did he. Somehow he had to guide them safely through all the long, empty leagues to Rivendell. He knew without a doubt that this was the most difficult and yet the most important task he had ever faced in his entire life; the final chapter in the long war with Sauron had begun. But he had no wish, at that moment, to dwell on the larger picture. It did his taut nerves no good whatsoever to contemplate exactly how much rested on what happened here, in this very inn, in the next few hours.

    The fire was burning low again. In total silence Aragorn got to his feet and, picking up the poker, he gently stirred the fading logs.  Once the fire showed renewed signs of life, he purposely selected the drier logs which were less likely to spit and placed them gently on the embers.   Aragorn knew if he achieved nothing else this night, he had to keep the fire going; Glorfindel had told him, on more than one occasion, that fire was his best weapon against the Ringwraiths. It did not seem nearly enough. He would much prefer an enemy that could be vanquished by the sword. Then he might feel some confidence in his chances of defeating them. It would be far preferable to go forth and challenge these Wraiths, openly and swiftly, than sit here in the shadows, hiding, with fear and dread rising within him. But he knew it was not possible to slay these things in such a manner. The Shards of Narsil, cherished though they were, would be of no help to him against the terrible foe that was drawing nearer with every moment that passed.

   He crept back to his chair and put his ear to the door. Hearing nothing, he sat back down again.  It was still early in the night, so he made himself as comfortable as he could and resumed his lonely vigil.

  He could not be sure how much time had passed when he suddenly heard a noise that appeared to come from somewhere within the inn. His heart lurched, but he sat very still, and, straining his ears in every direction, he listened intently. He was sure he had heard a crash and what was more, it was coming from the direction of the hobbit-rooms.

   There it was again. It sounded as if the bed was being moved. Someone, or something, was searching for the hobbits.

   His heart was racing now. Had the Wraiths come here after all, or was it their accomplices, the likes of Bill Ferny and his squint-eyed friend? He could not tell. He made no move, but continued to focus all his senses on whatever was out there. He gripped the arms of the chair; his knuckles turning white from the tension within him. As he listened, he slowly became aware of Frodo’s eyes resting upon him. The minutes passed, but he heard no more and at length the night seemed as silent as it had before. It was probably too much to hope that there would be no further trouble, but, for the moment, it seemed any immediate danger had passed. He noticed Frodo had already drifted off to sleep again. Wiping sweat from his brow, he let out a long breath, yet he remained as alert as ever.

It was going to be a long night.

~oo0oo~

   It was a strange feeling to know the One Ring was in this very room. He had only seen it briefly; that quick glimpse when Frodo removed it from his finger. He had not heeded it at all after that. There had been so much to discuss earlier that it had not even crossed his mind.

   Until now.

   The thought took shape at last; the Ring of Power lay within his grasp.

   It was a startling realisation. The same ring that Isildur had claimed all those years ago now lay but a few feet from him. He and his men had guarded it for years without the thought of him taking it for himself ever remotely entering his head. But it would be such an easy thing to do. All that stood between him and the Ring was a defenceless hobbit. He had to wonder sometimes what Gandalf had been thinking of in allowing something this important to remain in the hands of someone so weak. The Ring was clearly a burden to Frodo. There would be no need for violence. If he explained their predicament to them fully, the hobbits would probably be glad to be rid of it; they might be grateful even. And, now that he thought about it, it would be quite proper for him to have it. He, after all, was Isildur’s Heir. Arguably it was his by right. Had not Isildur kept it as wergild for his father? Certainly he had more claim to it than any other.

   Suddenly, wild visions of himself commanding a vast and powerful army formed before this eyes. He was no longer ‘Strider’, the despised Ranger, but a great captain and leader of men. If he took the Ring, the people of Middle-earth could unite behind his banner, Sauron would be defeated, the crown of Gondor would be assured and Arwen would be his. Everything he ever desired would come to pass.

    It was all so obvious to him now; it would be better by far that he should have it than for it fall into the hands of the Wraiths. And, trapped here as they were, there was every possibility that would happen. More than that, with Gandalf missing, their hope was already diminished. No one would blame him in the slightest. If he took it now, he might not even need to use it at all. He had only to take it away, far from the Wraiths; take it anywhere, anywhere at all, but here, in this room, with those things closing in on him. Any moment they would be at the door. He had only to reach out his hand. He must act quickly ….….

   Aragorn sat rigid in his chair; his hands had clenched into fists as the thoughts raced through his mind and his breathing quickened. He stared vacantly at the flames. He was sure he could feel it calling to him. He could hear no sound, but it was there, in his head, playing on his weaknesses and his fears, offering him a solution to all his problems.

   Then a grim smile formed on his troubled face. Yes, it might well be that simple, but he had not the slightest intention of doing this. He bent all his will against the voice and banished it forcefully and completely. The turmoil that had so swiftly arisen within him dissipated just as quickly and he felt a strange peace settle upon him. Slowly his fists relaxed and his breathing settled. He knew he had just defeated the greatest enemy he would ever face in his entire life; himself.

    He closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer of thanks that his blindness had not prevailed. And, as the moment passed, he felt furious with himself, and not a little ashamed, for listening to that voice at all, even though the temptation had persisted for only the most fleeting moment. Both Gandalf and Elrond had instructed him often enough on the dangers of doing anything so foolish. He knew very well that, as a mortal man, he would not have the strength to withhold it from Sauron if he came to take back what was his. It he had claimed it, his victory over Mordor would have needed to be swift and total if he was to avoid that torment, but, in any case, he knew, in his humility, he did not possess the strength to wield this thing and that, if he attempted to do so, it would utterly corrupt and destroy him. A descent into evil would be his only reward, no matter how it might appear otherwise or how noble his intentions at the outset. Isildur, in his pride, had paid a terrible price for his folly. He would not make the same mistake.

   The Ring fell silent; it did not speak to him now. He would never listen to it again.   No, he knew his duty. He had sworn to save the hobbits and give his life, if need be, in doing so. He did not take such oaths lightly.

    Isildur’s Bane would not claim Isildur’s Heir.

   Aragorn looked across at Frodo who was sleeping peacefully. He was glad that he was resting; the hobbit would need all his strength in the weeks ahead. He marvelled that the hobbits all managed to remain so untouched by the presence of the Ring. He realised he actually knew very little about them, in spite of his friendship with Bilbo. Gandalf clearly had a far greater understanding of the Shire folk than he did. Not for the first time in his life, he felt enormous gratitude at being the beneficiary of the guidance and counsel of such a wise friend as the Wizard. 

~oo0oo~

   The night dragged on. It seemed unending; the longest night he could remember in many a year. The hard, wooden seat of his chair was becoming uncomfortable now. He stretched one leg at a time to earn a few minutes relief from contact with the unyielding elm beneath his thighs.

   As the night slowly passed, his hopes began to rise, and his thoughts turned to the morning. He ought to make plans. Getting the hobbits to Rivendell was going to be anything but easy. They had ponies of their own; that was something. They would need to carry a plentiful supply of provisions, enough for the entire journey, though quite how long it would take to get there with the Black riders about, he could not be sure. He would try and get an early start and take the twisting paths out of Bree in the hope of losing any pursuit in the woods. He knew those paths well, so he was fairly optimistic that ploy would succeed. But beyond that, the terrain became far more difficult and he greatly feared the hobbits would be easy prey for the Wraiths.

   He sighed and reined in his depressing thoughts. He was getting ahead of himself. They still had to survive the rest of the night. There was no point in worrying unduly about all the days ahead. He must take this journey one small step at a time.

   The pile of logs was getting smaller, but still the fire burned brightly. There would be enough to keep it blazing until morning. He heard a cock crow in the yard. Quietly he got to his feet and stepped softly over to the window. He opened the shutter a fraction. The welcome first light of dawn was already breaking in the sky.

   This long night would soon be over.

~oo0oo~

   In that hour I looked on Aragorn and thought how great and terrible a Lord he might have become in the strength of his will, had he taken the Ring to himself. “Not for naught does Mordor fear him,” thought Legolas. “But nobler is his spirit than the understanding of Sauron; for is he not of the Children of Lúthien?...”

The Last Debate                                                                                The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 26: The Sons of Elrond

To his surprise Frodo saw that Aragorn stood beside her; his dark cloak was thrown back, and he seemed to be clad in elven-mail, and a star shone on his breast.  

Many Meetings                                                                           The Fellowship of the Ring

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn looked at the garments laid out carefully on his bed. The Elven-mail was ancient; it had probably seen battle in the Second Age, if not the First, but in the pale light of early evening, its mithril rings glistened as brightly as if it had been made but lately. He ran his fingers over the intricately woven metal; the craftsmanship was unbelievable. Beside it lay a shirt made from the finest soft leather. It too was centuries old, but it was still supple and pliant from meticulous oiling and care. The tunic was newly made; the collar and cuffs decorated with exquisite embroidery, stitched he knew, entirely by the hand of his beloved.

   Arwen had been most insistent that he dress according to his status for the feast tonight. He had declined to argue that in his travelling gear he felt he did just that. He was Chieftain of the Dúnedain, nothing more. As a child he had often been attired as an Elven princeling, as befitted a foster son of the Lord of Imladris. But after so many years as a humble Ranger, he was far more comfortable in the plain browns and greens that enabled him to blend unseen into the landscape of Middle-earth than the finery preferred by the Elves. Nowadays it was only his boots that betrayed his Elvish connections. The cobbler of Rivendell kept him well shod and, on his long journeys, he was ever grateful for the comfort of his well fitting leather boots.

   With a sigh of acceptance, he shed his robe and reached for the leather shirt that was worn next to his skin. It fitted him perfectly. Next he donned the tunic. It was unlike anything he had worn in a long time, but he esteemed it the most, knowing the affection that had gone into every stitch. He then struggled into the mail, but once it was secured, he found it to be surprisingly light and easy to wear. Finally, to his breast, he pinned his silver brooch, the Star of the Dúnedain, the sole concession to his own heritage.

   Suitably dressed for the evening, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. The Elven-warrior looking back at him was a stranger. Arwen, in the four days he had been home, had tidied him up considerably. His hair was now combed and cut, and his beard neatly trimmed. Cleaned, and refreshed from some much needed sleep, he barely recognised the man gazing back at him. He wondered, rather fancifully, if kings were always expected to dress in such a manner or would the lord of the realm be permitted to wear whatever he desired.

   He smiled at himself for allowing his thoughts to run away with him. He was not a king yet and no good would come of indulging in day dreams; not when such a seemingly hopeless task still lay before him.

   He turned away from the mirror. He was actually rather looking forward to tonight’s feast. Thoughts of the fare awaiting him at Rivendell had sustained him on many a bleak journey and this latest one had been no exception. For a few hours tonight he intended to put away his cares. The Hobbits and the Ring were safe within the bounds of the Elven refuge and, at least for the moment, they were not his responsibility. He still shudderedwhen he thought how close they had all come to disaster. Without that fortuitous meeting with Glorfindel, they would never have reached the Ford in time.  Even so, Frodo’s condition had still caused grave concern for several more days, but now, thankfully, he seemed to be recovering from his wound well enough.

   Aragorn’s relief at this encouraging turn of events left him feeling more hopeful than he had been for some time. Since arriving in Rivendell, he had also managed to spend a few happy hours in the company of Arwen, cherishing as ever the short time they had together, her presence succouring and restoring him like that of no other. But a major factor contributing hugely to his more relaxed mood was that Gandalf had been waiting for them when they arrived. Aragorn’s burden was eased enormously on finding his old friend safe and well.

  Although he expected to leave again tomorrow, following Elrond’s meeting, for tonight, at least, he intended to celebrate and enjoy the delights of his father’s table. He was for once planning to sit openly beside his lady among the lords of Imladris and the many guests who had been arriving in Rivendell over the past few days. Dwarves from Erebor had arrived that very afternoon; Bilbo had already introduced him to the legendary Gloin. Also there were Elves from the Havens; emissaries of Círdan, as well as King Thranduil’s son, Legolas, who had come all the way from Mirkwood.

   He was looking forward to a pleasant evening meeting old friends and making new ones.

   He was about to leave his room and make his way to the feasting hall when a message was brought to him; Elladan and Elrohir had returned from the wilds and wished to speak with him at once. Aragorn was relieved to hear they were back. When Elrond had sent out his greatest warriors against the Nine, his sons had elected to head south-west to strengthen the defences of the Dúnedain guarding the southern border of the Shire. Aragorn was hoping they would have some news of his men stationed at Sarn Ford. They were never far from his mind and he was very aware that he would have joined them had it not been for the necessity of urgently searching for the Ringbearer.

   Aragorn grabbed his old cloak and went looking for the twin brothers. He found them walking up the path on their way back from the stables and embraced them both in joy that they looked well and were clearly unharmed.

   “You have impeccable timing, my brothers,” he said, grinning at them both. “A great feast is about to begin. If you hurry you will not miss the first course. I forget exactly what it is; Arwen did regale me with the full menu earlier this afternoon, but I’m sure you would not wish to miss any of it.”

   “I am sure we would not, Estel,” said Elladan levelly, but something in the tone of his voice caught Aragorn’s attention. He suddenly remembered the urgency in the message and immediately he felt a dull stab of fear in the pit of his stomach as he anticipated bad news.

   “What is it?” he asked. “You wished to speak with me. What has happened?”

   “Come inside to father’s study,” said Elrohir, taking his arm and guiding him towards the door of the house. “We bring news you may wish to hear at once.”

   All thoughts of his supper forgotten, Aragorn was willingly led back inside.

   “But tell us of yourself first,” said Elladan as they climbed the steps to the main entrance. “We have so far only gathered the sparest details of all that has happened in our absence. We understand the Ringbearer is here, but injured. That is all we know.”

   “Well then let me put your minds at rest at once,” said Aragorn. “The Ringbearer is recovering from his wound, thanks to Elrond’s skill, though it was very nearly too late by the time we arrived here. The Black Riders pursued us from Bree. Five of them attacked our camp at Weathertop where Frodo was stabbed.”

   “What!” Elladan stopped in his tracks, his horror plainly written on his face. “You mean to tell me you confronted five of the Nazgûl alone?”

   “No, Elladan, I was not alone. I had four hobbits with me.” Aragorn was impatient to hear what news the twins so urgently bought and had no desire at all to dwell on the events of that terrible night.

   “The hobbits no doubt were a great comfort, but Estel, you could all have been killed,” said Elrohir. “However did you evade them?”

   Realising he was never going to hear their tidings until he had told his tale, Aragorn sighed and gave the briefest account he felt he could get away with.

   “You obviously know even less of hobbits than I,” he said. “I don’t believe the Wraiths expected to be resisted so strongly. Even Frodo stabbed at the Witch-king though he only succeeded in cutting his cloak.” Aragorn watched with satisfaction as his brothers’ eyebrows shot up. “The Wraiths then withdrew and in the morning we were able to evade them.”

   “However did you manage that?” asked Elladan. “Surely you didn’t bring the hobbits all the way from Weathertop along the East Road?”

   “No, we would have been caught for sure,” said Aragorn with rapidly waning patience. “I took them south and cut through the Wilderness.”

   “With five Wraith’s on your tail?” asked Elrohir in amazement. “That can not have been easy!”

    “It was not. I have never cared much for that barren place at the best of times,” said Aragorn as he thought of the long stretches of wasteland where they could easily have been attacked as they made their way from one clump of stunted trees to the next. “It was a miserable journey.”

    Aragorn really did not want to recall that first day after Weathertop. He had been beside himself with worry for Frodo and fear that the Ringwraiths would at any moment be upon them again. He had done his best to keep his own terror from his small charges lest it undo them completely, but the events of the night before had left them all feeling defeated and heavy hearted. They were all desperately tired that morning and the hobbits had been exceptionally quiet all day. All he could remember was the sound of rhythmic thud of the pony’s hooves as he plodded along steadily behind him. Frodo had barely been able to stand so they had put him up on Bill. He had sat hunched up with his eyes closed for much of the way, his face grey and drawn. Rivendell and Elrond’s care had seemed an impossibly long way away. The only glimmer of hope that had kept him going was the possibility that Gandalf had been at Weathertop before them and might at that very moment have been trying to bring them aid.

   Aragorn suddenly realised both the twins were staring at him intensely. He knew exactly what they were searching for.

   “No,” he shook his head. “I have been pronounced free of any sign of the Black Breath, so you have no need to concern yourselves about my well being. I travelled many miles the night after the attack, both searching for athelas and for signs of the Nazgûl. Fortunately, I found the one and not the other. Even so, I was unable to do much to ease the Ringbearer’s suffering.”

   Still the twins stated at him as if fully expecting him to elaborate so he hurriedly finished his tale. “It was a difficult journey, but we eventually reached the Last Bridge. We would though have been caught on the Road had we not been saved from disaster by Glorfindel who, no doubt, will provide you with a full and detailed account of his involvement in the matter. Now, if you don’t mind, I believe you have urgent news that I should hear at once.”

   He had shamelessly used his ‘Chieftain of the Dúnedain’ voice to halt any further questioning. He never ceased to be amazed by how remarkably effective it always was. Satisfied that the discussion had well and truly ended, he strode on purposefully down the corridor to Elrond’s study. As he opened the door, he turned and gave his foster brothers a small apologetic smile as he disappeared inside.

   The room was empty as all the inhabitants of the Last Homely House were at the feast, but, nonetheless, a fire burned welcomingly in the grate. The sons of Elrond entered the room right behind Aragorn and immediately strode towards the fire and began warming their hands. Aragorn stood in the middle of the room and waited anxiously for them to speak.

   At last, Elladan turned to face him. “Estel, we have been with the Rangers at Sarn Ford.”  His fair face looked grim and Aragorn at once saw the sadness in his eyes.

   Dread settled like a weight in his stomach. He had seen that look on far too many faces and on far too many occasions in the past.

   “Tell me,” he commanded.

   “I’m afraid we arrived too late to be of any help to them. The Nazgûl had already been there.”

   Aragorn gasped and felt as if he had been punched in the chest.

   “What happened?” The question caught in his throat; he was sure he already knew the answer.

   It was Elrohir who broke the news. “Apparently, they were confronted by all nine of the Ringwraiths at once. The Rangers made as brave a defence as they could, but they were unable to withstand such an attack. It must have been terrible for them.” He hesitated for a moment as horror appeared on Aragorn’s face. “I am sorry, Estel, but three of them did not survive.”

   “Who?” asked Aragorn simply, his voice tight with the effort of suppressing the sudden pain that always seized him on hearing of the deaths of any of his people.

   “Halmir was the first to fall. It was he who challenged them. Then Dagnir and Baragund were slain with him as they came to his aid. But such was the dread the Nine unleashed, eventually the remainder fled in terror. Had they stood their ground, they would have fallen also. The Ringwraiths can not be gainsaid.”

   It was as he had dreaded, but Aragorn was still stunned with grief. “I should have been with them,” he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. “They knew not what they faced.”

  Elladan came to stand beside him and placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. He spoke gently. “Estel, I doubt it would have made any difference if you were there or not. The Rangers stood between the Nazgûl and the Shire. They were determined to enter at any cost and would have slain to the last man any who stood in their way. Had you been there, you would have fared no better and who then would have come to the aid of the Ringbearer?”

   Aragorn bowed his head for a moment and closed his eyes. He loved his men, each and every one of them. The deaths of any of his Rangers cut him to the core. He could well imagine the horror they had endured. He had been fortunate when he had faced the five Wraiths on Weathertop. They had retreated because they believed their work to be done; the Ringbearer was wounded and they could bide their time. But the Nazgûl would have been totally ruthless against his Rangers. The faces of the slain men stared at him in his mind; he could picture their wives and families and in great sorrow, he imagined them learning the fates of their loved ones.

    But he could not dwell on this loss now. Long ago he had learned how to contain his grief; to stow it away for the right time and place when he could take it out again and mourn properly, as his aching heart desired. Now was not the right time; there was still too much that demanded his full attention, too much was still at stake and many more lives would be lost before the coming war was over. He raised his head and, in a voice devoid of emotion, he asked: “Do you have any other news?”

   Elladan squeezed his shoulder and the look on his face confirmed his understanding. Stepping back to the fire, he said: “Yes, there was one other matter of some urgency that we thought you would wish to hear about at once.” He paused to accept a goblet of wine from Elrohir who then offered one to their foster brother also.

   “As we returned home tonight, we met a couple of our scouts just beyond our border. They had a strange tale to tell for they had with them a man from Gondor. He had travelled from that land seeking Imladris, but he had no knowledge of where it lay. The scouts came across him wandering aimlessly and offered to accompany him the rest of the way here. It was fortunate for him perhaps that the guard on the valley is so intense at the moment or he might have searched in vain for days before being found. They were making camp on the far side of the Bruinen when we left them. They will not come here now until first light in the morning.”

   “Who is this man? Did you ask his name?” asked Aragorn. There were so many strangers here, he was not unduly surprised that one should come from Gondor, but he was curious as to who it might be.

   “The man is called Boromir. He is the son of the Steward of Gondor.”

   “Boromir?” exclaimed Aragorn in wonder. “Denethor’s son has come here in person! Did he speak of his reasons for doing so?”

   “Yes, he did,” said Elladan, “though he was reluctant at first and we had to press him. It would seem he is seeking the answer to a riddle that once came to him in a dream. Correct me if I am wrong, Elrohir, but as I recall it went something like this:

“Seek for the sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul spells.

There shall be shown a token

That doom is near at hand,

For Isildur’s bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.” [1]

   “Well remembered,” said Elrohir with a smile as he acknowledged his brother’s word perfect recital. Then speaking to Aragorn, he said: “Apparently there were no masters of lore in Minas Tirith who could interpret the meaning of the rhyme. He has had a long and hard journey looking for Imladris and he knows nothing of a broken sword or of Isildur’s bane. The name Halfling he recognises only as a term from legend.”

   Aragorn was shaken by this news. The rhyme was uncannily accurate. What ancient power had caused Denethor’s son to dream so vividly of this? It was the first line of the riddle, though, that stayed in his head and intrigued him the most.

   “Seek for the sword that was broken,” he repeated to himself. “Why is that do you think? It is almost as if it is a summons.”

   “That is what we thought also,” said Elladan. “But whatever its meaning, we thought you would wish to hear of this as soon as possible.”

   “Yes indeed,” said Aragorn absently, as his mind raced over the implications of this unexpected development. The Steward’s elder son was only a baby when he last saw him, some forty years ago. But if Boromir was coming here tomorrow, and to Elrond’s meeting, then he must be prepared and decide this very night what to say to him. The man may be looking for a broken sword, but Aragorn very much doubted that he knew the sword came with an owner. The line of Isildur was believed in Minas Tirith to have died out long ago and little was now remembered among the men of Gondor of their Northern kin. Now might be the time to shatter that belief. But he would need to build his case carefully. If the son was anything like his father, he would be both shrewd and proud. Aragorn doubted he would react with joy to the revelation that his position as the heir to the ruler of Gondor might be challenged. Even though he always suspected Denethor had guessed who Thorongil really was, he doubted he would have revealed that information to anyone, not even his heir.

   Tomorrow it might perhaps be prudent to carry the Shards of Narsil with him. The sword, after all, had been placed in his hands by Elrond himself; there could be no denying its lineage. Soon the time would come when it would be reforged.

   Was it then his fate to go with this man to the aid of Minas Tirith?

   “Estel?” asked Elrohir.

   Aragorn came out of his musings and found his brothers looking at him curiously. A trace of embarrassment appeared on his face at having been so wrapped up in his own concerns.

   “Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere, but I thank you for telling me all this,” he said. “I assume you did not provide the man with any answers?”

   “Of course not,” said Elladan, “but if he attends tomorrow’s meeting he shall no doubt hear some. How much do you propose to tell him?”

   “That I may need more time to consider,” replied Aragorn. Somehow he had a feeling he might be awake well into the night considering that very question.

   At that moment there was a knock at the door and a servant entered.

   “Forgive the intrusion, my lords,” he said with a dip of his head, “but I am seeking the Dúnadan.”

    As his eyes alighted upon Aragorn, he said: “And I see I have found him, at last. Your presence, lord, is requested in the Hall of Fire by Master Elrond. I believe Bilbo Baggins has need of your skills in completing his poem.”

   Aragorn smiled as he thought of Bilbo and his passion for poetry. “Please assure Master Elrond that I will attend to Mister Baggins shortly.”

  As the servant left, Elladan said: “Go Estel, we have detained you too long already; I’m sure our sister will be wondering what has become of you.”

   “Arwen will be most distressed at my missing the feast. However I shall not hesitate to inform her that the blame is entirely yours.”

   Elrohir laughed. “Very well, blame us if you must. After all, we have far more practice at placating Arwen than you.” Then, as if noticing for the first time how Aragorn was dressed, he added: “I must say, Estel, you look very regal tonight. I guess this is Arwen’s doing.”

   “Indeed it is,” replied Aragorn, drawing back his cloak to better reveal the mail beneath. “Arwen was most insistent that I dress appropriately. It would appear that my usual attire is far too rustic for such a grand occasion.”

   “Quite so,” said Elladan, “but that probably means we are unacceptably dressed also. The feast will most likely be over by now, so perhaps Elrohir and I will wander over to the kitchens instead to see if we can salvage anything from tonight’s celebrations.”

   “Well if you do, remember me,” said Aragorn. “I would have enjoyed a five course dinner tonight if it were not for your untimely intervention.”

   “Very well, little brother, we will not forget you,” said Elladan. “Come and join us later and we will see you don’t go hungry.

  Smiling his gratitude, Aragorn left them to join the gathering in the Hall of Fire. His mind was still reeling from all he had heard that evening. As he made his way down the long corridors, he knew he should be concentrating on the matters likely to be discussed at the meeting tomorrow, but all he could thing of were his slain friends and how terrible their last few moments must have been. Finally, unable to string together a single coherent idea, and not wishing to be weighed with grief, he turned his thoughts to Frodo. The feast had been in his honour after all and he hoped, more than anything, that he had enjoyed himself tonight. He would do his best not to sully his evening with a dour face.

    And hopefully there would still be time before the sun rose too high in the sky tomorrow for him to consider carefully the words he would speak at Elrond’s Council.

~oo0oo~

“Where have you been, my friend? Why weren’t you at the feast? The Lady Arwen was there.”

   Strider looked down at Bilbo gravely. “I know,” he said. “But often I must put mirth aside. Elladan and Elrohir have returned out of the Wild un-looked for, and they had tidings that I wished to hear at once.”

Many Meetings                                                                           The Fellowship of the Ring

[1] The Council of Elrond                                                         The Fellowship of the Ring                                                  

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

A/N This chapter is the very first fic I ever wrote! It was that scene in TTT [the movie] where Elrond bullies Aragorn into leaving Arwen which drove me to write, what I hope, it a more faithful interpretation of their parting words.

Chapter 27: The Foster Son

Aragorn sat with his head bowed to his knees; only Elrond knew fully what this hour meant to him.

“The Ring Goes South”                                                                     Fellowship of the Ring

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn opened the door that led to the balcony of his bedroom and took a deep breath of the cool breeze that came rushing in to meet him. He wanted to remember this moment. Nowhere in all Middle-earth did the air taste as clear and fragrant as it did in Imladris. He stood for a moment drinking in the scene before him. It was a cold, grey, winter’s day; the late December gloom disturbed only by the gentle tinkle of water from somewhere below and the sound of the east wind still blowing noisily through the valley as it had been since early morning. Dusk was beginning to fall and the outlines of the leafless trees were barely visible against the growing darkness of the sky.

   The air filling his lungs, though, had never smelt sweeter. Even after so many years away, this would always be his home and he wanted to take this memory with him when he left tonight for what would likely be the very last time. He was very aware that whatever happened on the road ahead, he would never again behold this enchanted valley that he loved so much while it was succoured by the renewing power of Vilya.

   The moment for the Company to leave was fast approaching. He was nearly ready; he was just sorting through a few essential items to take with him and ensuring his pack was in order. He was surprised at how strangely detached he felt considering the enormity of the task that lay ahead of him. All his long years of toil and preparation were culminating in this one quest. He had done all he could in readiness and he could only hope he would rise to the challenges awaiting him on this his final test. The rewards for his success would he great; he would have everything he had ever desired. But if he failed, he would surely find death. There could be nothing in between.

   As he stood there, listening to the waterfall, his mind drifted back to all the lonely roads he had travelled. He thought of the many places he had visited, the wars and battles he had fought and the people he had met until finally the road had brought him to this last chapter in his long journey. At times the hardship and the danger and the sheer futility of it all had nearly caused him to despair but he had always kept going, as he would keep going now. But he was weary of that life and he knew it was nearly over. Whatever the outcome of the coming war, nothing would ever be the same again.

   Half an hour ago he had said his goodbyes to Arwen. It was almost a relief to know he would never have to go through the agony of saying farewell ever again. It never got any easier. He had seen more of her these last few years than at any time since they plighted their troth. She was always so strong at their parting, yet he knew how hard it was for her. While he was living through the dangers he faced, she could only wait anxiously, wondering how he fared and watching the years slowly pass by. Her faith in him never faltered though and her belief always strengthened him and gave him hope. But the torment and the longing were always renewed afresh whenever he saw her again, yet the pain at parting almost more than either of them could bear. One way or another, this quest would finally decide their fate.

   With one last glance at the valley, he reluctantly turned his attention back to his pack. They were all meeting in the Hall of Fire shortly for the formal farewells and he wanted a chance to say his goodbyes to the rest of the household.

~oo0oo~

   It was going to be a strange company. He was relieved beyond measure that he would have Gandalf with him to share the burden of keeping the Ringbearer from harm. He was only too aware that this quest would not be happening at all if it were not for the long labours of his old friend and mentor and he would be glad of his guidance more than ever in the weeks ahead. 

    Legolas he was sure would be a loyal ally and with him to the end. His keen eye and skill with a bow would be invaluable. He had no doubts about Gimli either. In the years since Bilbo had come to live at Rivendell and their friendship had grown, he had heard the tale of Bilbo’s adventures with the Dwarves many times. Bilbo had assured him that any son of Gloin’s would indeed be a worthy member of the Company.

   Bilbo was truly unlike any other hobbit he had ever met and already he could tell that Frodo came from the same stock. Aragorn did not envy him his task in the slightest and felt only enormous sympathy for him. The hobbit’s gentle heart and quiet courage would be pushed to the limits by the trials they were sure to find, but this only strengthened his own resolve to do whatever it took to protect him and see this quest through to the end. He particularly admired the loyalty Frodo inspired in his friends, which, as a leader himself, told him much about the hobbit’s character. He could not prevent a smile from breaking on his face as he remembered that he had already been on the receiving end of Sam’s passionate protectiveness.

    He was less sure about the younger hobbits. He had, in truth, been disappointed that Elrond had not chosen his foster brothers to fill the last two places in the company. Not only did he value their skills as warriors, he would have been grateful for their companionship on the uncertain road ahead. But the determination of Merry and Pippin to go on the quest could not be doubted and maybe their innocent optimism would cheer them all in the dark days ahead. They had no concept of the horrors they were likely to meet on this journey, while he on the other hand, he thought with a weary sigh, knew them only too well.

   Boromir troubled him. He was undoubtedly a capable warrior and should be a great asset to the Company, but he was a proud and ambitious man and Aragorn knew he would treat him with caution. He felt he had made some progress with pressing his own claim at Elrond’s Council, but Boromir’s father, Denethor, would be a different matter altogether. He could not see how this situation with his old rival could possibly resolve itself. Denethor would never willingly stand down as Steward.

   But Aragorn stopped his train of thought right there. He could not allow himself to be weighed down with these problems now. Minas Tirith was a long way away and much could happen on their long road there. His first priority was to Frodo and the success of this quest. His own affairs must wait.

   His pack sorted, he turned to pick up Anduril and felt his mood lighten immediately. It was only a few days since it had been reforged and it thrilled him to hold it; Elendil’s sword, remade, the light on the blade and in his hand. It strengthened his hope. This sword had defeated Sauron once before; just maybe it could do so again. He marvelled again at how long it was; his ancestor had indeed been tall. Moving to the centre of the room, he practised a few moves with it, accustoming himself to the unfamiliar weight and balance of the blade.

   At that moment there was a knock on the door and, to Aragorn’s surprise, Elrond entered. A slightly bemused look appeared on the Elf lord’s face when he saw what Aragorn was doing. It was not a Ranger he saw standing before him, but a small boy on his fifth birthday. The lad, he recalled, had been given a wooden sword by Glorfindel. Elrond remembered he had then tested the patience of the entire household by relentlessly pursuing the staff up and down the long corridors with it. Gradually a slow smile emerged on Aragorn’s face; he remembered too.

   “Forgive me for disturbing you,” said Elrond as he came further into the room. “But I wanted to talk to you alone, Aragorn, before you left.”

    Instinctively Aragorn stiffened, not at all sure what was coming. Ever since he and Arwen had plighted their troth and his foster father had placed his condition on their marriage, there had remained a cautiousness in his dealings with Elrond. They had not spoken of it since that day and while Elrond always welcomed him home most warmly when his travels brought him this way, there was nonetheless a distance between them that had not been present before. The situation had become more tense when Arwen returned to Rivendell, although Aragorn always took great care to ensure they were both very formal together when in Elrond’s company. He had no desire at all to aggravate the pain he knew he had caused his foster father.

   Elrond considered for a moment the tall, lean man standing before him. His careworn, noble face was grim and determined, and in those keen grey eyes was strength and wisdom. And although Elrond saw his sadness too, the hope in his kind and generous heart was still there and Elrond prayed nothing would ever extinguish it. The boy he had loved as his own was long gone, but the love had remained. There were however unresolved matters between them and Elrond was very aware he should have spoken to his son of them a long time ago. Now might be his last chance. He walked towards him and took his hands in his and spoke softly.

   “Aragorn, this final journey is sure to prove more dangerous and demanding than anything even you have endured. You will need all your strength and skill for the task ahead and I could not let you leave with any trace of a shadow in your heart. I cannot pretend Arwen’s choice has been easy for me to accept, not because I doubt you, but for the doom this choice places upon her. And yet I accept, and have long accepted, that this may yet be her fate, and the destiny of my line, that through this sacrifice, new hope shall be borne for Middle-Earth. You have toiled long and hard, Aragorn, for this day and when your hour comes; none could deserve it more.

   “Do not then, Estel, have any feelings of guilt burdening you on this dark road that you must take; there is no shadow between us. When you leave tonight, go knowing you are still my son and I love you as much as ever.”

   Elrond drew Aragorn to him and put his arms around him, holding him in a tight embrace which Aragorn gratefully returned.

   “Be safe my son and may the Valar protect you.”

   Aragorn was thrown completely by what Elrond had said yet he could have wept with relief. He had yearned to hear those words for so many years, but he had not expected his father to speak them now.

   “Thank you, Adar,” was all Aragorn managed to mumble as he struggled to contain the tumult of emotions coursing through him. Yet there was so much he wanted to say. Beyond this hour, he might never see his foster father again. If he did not open his heart to him now, he might never have the chance again. But how could he adequately express all that he needed to say? He owed Elrond so much. Had it not been for Elrond’s care, he might never even have survived to manhood and yet here he was, standing on the threshold of undertaking the most important task he would ever attempt in his life, which, should it prove successful, would rob Elrond of everything that he held dear.

   In spite of Elrond’s reassurances, all his old pain and guilt flared within him and the words simply failed to come. But, as he clung to his foster father, scarcely able to believe he might never feel his comforting arms around him ever again, he gradually became aware of the touch of his mind on his. Elrond held nothing back and Aragorn knew then with certainty that he apportioned no blame; his heart held only understanding and acceptance, bitter though it was.

   At last Aragorn reluctantly drew away.

   “May the Valar protect you too, my father,” he said. “If this is indeed our last parting, may the Straight Road bring you safely to your home.” The words caught in his throat as the enormity of the moment overwhelmed him.

  Elrond lightly stroked his son’s hair and kissed his brow. Then with only a smile of farewell, they parted.

   Aragorn sat for a few minutes on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands; he felt tears prick his eyes as the turmoil surging within him threatened to undo him completely. It broke his heart that all the chances in the coming war would only bring grief to Elrond and he knew he would never completely be at ease with his own part in this. Yet, in spite of his sadness, he recognised the truth in what Elrond had said. His own hope was tied to that of Middle-earth. He must not allow his regret at the passing of the Eldar Days to burden him on the road ahead. The healing of such hurts was beyond any of their skills.

   He raised his head from his hands. He really must be on his way, but tonight, more than ever before, it was going to take all his strength of will to walk out of the door and up the winding path to whatever fortune, good or ill, awaited him. Yet, as he glanced around the room one last time, he was suddenly aware of a greater feeling of peace having settled upon him than he had known in many a year, and he realised that he once more he had reason to be thankful for the boundless love of his foster father.

   Slowly he got to his feet and took a deep breath. He sheathed Anduril and picked up his pack. Then, without looking back, he made his way to the Hall of Fire.

~oo0oo~

…and he loved him no less than his sons.

The Making of Appendix A                                                     The Peoples of Middle-earth

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 28: The Doubter

      At the water-side Aragorn remained, watching the bier, while Legolas and Gimli hastened back on foot to Parth Galen. It was a mile or more, and it was some time before they came back, paddling two boats swiftly along the shore.

The Departure of Boromir                                                                         The Two Towers

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn stood on the bank beside the Great River with his head bowed, staring vacantly at the ground between his feet. His usual alert attentiveness to his surroundings had deserted him. He had no need to watch for their enemies now. The danger had passed. The Orcs had already done their foul deeds; done them and gone. As a result, one of their Company lay dead and the four hobbits were missing, most likely captives of the Orcs. The Fellowship was in ruins. Surely now the Ring must be discovered. At this moment though, the full consequences of that utter failure were too unbearable to dwell upon.

   Especially as everything that had gone wrong that day was entirely his fault.

   Gandalf’s trust in him had proved grossly misguided. He had failed everyone who had placed their hopes in him: Elrond, Arwen, Bilbo, the Dúnedain, his companions. It was a long list. But most bitterly of all, he had failed Frodo. Of all the members of the Fellowship, it was he who should have protected the Ringbearer. He knew the strain Frodo was under; he should have helped him decide upon his course, not allow him to wander in the woods alone, struggling to make the choice himself. He might have lifted some of the burden from the hobbit’s small shoulders if he had told him sooner that he was prepared to change his own plans and would not abandon him. He should have made his decision days ago and not left it until the final hour.

   He had been dithering over their course even before they left Lothlórien. What ever had he been thinking of; had it really been that difficult a choice? Surely the only thing that truly mattered was the destruction of the Ring. To his shame, he began to wonder if he had been too eager to press his own advantage by believing it was his fate to bring Andúril to the aid of Minas Tirith. He stared almost accusingly at the exquisite Elven sheath hanging from his belt.

   “The blade that is drawn from this sheath shall not be stained or broken even in defeat,” [1] Galadriel had told him. Well he was defeated now and the lady was right; the blade was unsullied, but then that was not to be wondered when it had remained impotently by his side while others had fought the battle without him. His sword had been badly needed here today, but he had been elsewhere at the time and his companions had paid bitterly for his absence.

   Overwhelmed by grief and guilt, he continued to flay himself relentlessly. He was the leader of the Company after all; Gandalf had handed that mantle to him just before he had been so cruelly taken from them and it was only too obvious to him that he could have averted all the disasters that had befallen them that day if he had only done things differently.

   Why, oh why had he not been paying more attention and noticed earlier that Boromir was missing?  If he had prevented him from seeking out Frodo, the man may not have tried to take the ring, and Frodo need not have fled. If he had stopped the younger hobbits from racing off like they did, they also might still be here instead of in the hands of the Enemy and no doubt facing torment and death. If he had not been so eager to run to the top of Amon Hen and sit in that high seat, wasting precious time, then maybe he would have been at hand to protect the hobbits himself. And if he had fought alongside Boromir, the man may not have met his doom so tragically.

   Aragorn groaned out loud as he recalled over and over in his mind the list of things he had done wrong that day.   This was not how the Quest was meant to end. Not for the first time did he wish with all his heart that Gandalf was still here to guide him. Gandalf would know what to do. His grief for the loss of his dear friend and mentor was still an open wound within him that he doubted would ever heal. But at that moment he felt the rawness of it more keenly than in all the days since Gandalf fell.  He missed his friend. He missed his sharp humour and his subtle wisdom; he missed his steadfast courage and his gentle kindness. But most of all he missed his optimism. Gandalf would have known how to raise him out of this terrible, dark place where all hope flounders; he would have found the right words to lift him and given him some reason to have cheer.

   As he stood deep in miserable thought on the bank of the river, the low winter sun broke free from the clouds and suddenly pierced the jewel pinned to his breast. Its green light blazed brightly over his heart. He immediately pulled his cloak over it, smothering its rays. He did not need further reminding of how wanting he had been at the test or of how much his failure would cost him and every one he loved. He had been so honoured when Galadriel had presented the stone to him. The Elessar, borne away so long ago to the Undying Lands by his distant kin yet brought back to Middle-earth by none other than Gandalf himself with the sole intent that it should pass to him when his time came. Elessar: that was his true name, the name by which he would rule, or so she had told him. Such faith the Wise had in him. Such faith Arwen had to leave it in Lothlórien and know that it would find him eventually. He knew he should be encouraged by their trust and even take new strength from it, but at that moment all he could think of was how deceived they had all been and how bitter would be their disappointment in him.

   Such was Aragorn’s despair, he even began to doubt the wisdom of their entire strategy. Had it really been wise to even attempt to send the Ring deep into the land of the Enemy? Elrond thought so, and Gandalf, but there were others who doubted this course and would have sought a different solution. It had after all only taken one Orc attack for the Fellowship to fall into disarray. What madness had led them to believe they could possibly hope to cross Mordor through the endless leagues of their Enemies and reach Mount Doom without further disasters?

   But as Aragorn’s eyes turned to the byre beside him, where lay his fallen comrade, those doubts evaporated. Boromir had been sorely tried by the temptation of the Ring and the effects of its evil were plain to see. He looked at the sad, tortured body lying at his feet and his heart grieved; Boromir was a good man who had fought valiantly at the end. He could perhaps guess something of the exchange between the mighty warrior and the seemingly weak Halfling and understand some of the torment Boromir had suffered. He decided there and then not reveal the man’s dying words to any lest he be judged unfairly by those who knew not the nature of his trial.

   But it was unlikely he would come to Minas Tirth now. And if he did, it would not be as he had intended. With Boromir at his side, he might have been welcomed as the Heir of Isildur, a mighty warrior, come to deliver Gondor in her hour of need. But how would he be received as the bearer of the news that the Steward’s elder son was dead? Denethor would be heartbroken. He briefly spared a moment’s pity for his former rival. Politics hardly mattered any more, not when hope had died for all of them. Minas Tirith would surely fall soon enough. Once the Dark Lord reclaimed what was his and his power became unbreakable, his forces would swiftly overrun the City along with the rest of Middle-earth.

   Aragorn raised his head and looked out across the wide water. The sun was already well past noon; the day was fast disappearing. He had no desire for food, but he slowly climbed down the bank to the water’s edge and cupping his hand, he drank from the cool, fast flowing river before returning to his vigil.

   He knew in his heart it was no good berating himself and self pity would achieve nothing. The harm was done. He must gather his wits and decide their course. There may be little point in continuing when hope had fled, but never in all his years had he allowed despair to become his master and he would not allow it to now. While he, and those who remained, still had breath in their bodies, they must go on. They had lost a battle here today but not yet the war.

   As soon as Legolas and Gimli returned with the boats, they would send Boromir on his final journey into the swell of the Great River. Then he had to find Frodo. That must surely be his task now. If only Boromir had been able to answer his final question, he might know if the Orcs had captured all four of the hobbits. If, when he searched the area more thoroughly, there were no other signs of Frodo, then he must assume that to be his fate. The remaining three members of the Fellowship must then pursue the Orcs with all speed, although they would now be far ahead of them and there seemed little hope they could be overtaken. It pained him terribly to think of the hobbits, his friends, in the hands of such brutes. He had become very fond of all of them in the two months since them left Rivendell. He would do all he possibly could to rescue them.

   But what if Frodo had not been taken by the Orcs; what if Legolas and Gimli brought different tidings?

   Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of two boats approaching swiftly on the river. His companions were returning. Soon he must decide their course for the next stage of their journey. In spite of his shortcomings, the others would still look to him for leadership. He closed his eyes for a moment and sent a silent plea to Elbereth to guide him now towards the right choice and so might he salvage something from this wreckage of all their hopes.

   He knew he could ill afford to make another mistake.

~oo0oo~

“My heart speaks clearly at last: the fate of the Bearer is in my hands no longer. The Company has played its part. Yet we that remain cannot forsake our companions while we have strength left.”

The Departure of Boromir                                                                         The Two Towers

[1]  Farewell to Lothlórien                                                         The Fellowship of the Ring

A/N  Unfinished Tales provides several different origins of the Elessar, but it is perhaps significant that, when Strider helped Bilbo with his poem about Eärendil, the only contribution he made, was to insist he included mention of a green jewel.

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And special thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 29:  The Palantír

I am the lawful master of the stone, and I had both the right and the strength to use it, or so I judged. The right cannot be doubted. The strength was enough – barely.

The Passing of the Grey Company                                                    The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn collapsed in a heap on the floor of the Hornburg, Andúril falling noisily beside him. As he broke contact with the Stone, the daggers jabbing mercilessly into his head and eyes lessened their agonising assault, but he could scarcely breathe for the searing pain raging through him. He held his hands to his face, shielding his eyes as he instinctively raised his knees protectively in front of him, curling his body into a ball.

   Halbarad immediately was at his side, his face white with terror. In his panic, he grabbed his chieftain and flung his arms around him. He knew not what else to do. Aragorn was shaking violently and gasping for air. He muttered nonsense to himself and seemed not to heed Halbarad at all. Sweat poured down his face and his clothes were drenched.

   “Aragorn! Aragorn!”

   Halbarad was terrified. Frantically, he tried to rouse his kinsman. He pulled Aragorn’s hands away from his face so as to look into his eyes. He stared anxiously into the half open lids for many moments, searching for any sign that Aragorn knew him. Eventually, to his relief, the wild eyes slowly focused upon him.

   “I am all right,” Aragorn managed to croak in a voice barely above a whisper. “But I feel so weak.”

   Halbarad considered for a moment that he had never seen him looking less all right in his entire life.

 “Aragorn, what happened? Tell me, please,” he cried, but all he got from his chieftain was a request for water. Halbarad reached for a skin and, removing the bung with his teeth, guided the lip to Aragorn’s mouth. He gulped thirstily. Once he had drunk his fill, his eyes closed again and Halbarad continued to hold him as he drifted in and out of consciousness.  Gradually Aragorn’s shaking lessened, but now he felt cold to the touch as his sweat began to chill him. Halbarad removed his own cloak and wrapped it around him before taking him back into his arms. He was desperately worried though, for Aragorn’s sake, he did his best to squash his rising panic and remain outwardly calm. He wondered if he should call for the Sons of Elrond, but he doubted anyone would hear him and he had no intention of leaving Aragorn alone even for a moment. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, Aragorn spoke again.

   “I have no strength left, Halbarad, I must rest,” he said, though he struggled to force out his words out. “But only for a few minutes. Please, promise me, you’ll not let me lie here beyond that. I have much to think upon and choices need to be made before we depart tomorrow.”

   Halbarad nodded though, from Aragorn’s fragile state, he did not think a mere few minutes would be anything like sufficient rest.

   “Very well, my friend,” he said gently though his throat seized with emotion as he spoke. “I will be right here, should you need me.”

   He carefully eased his chieftain down onto the stone floor and pulled his cloak tighter around him. When he was satisfied Aragorn was as comfortable as he could make him, he sat down beside him and leant back, resting his head against the stone wall of the chamber. But he kept his eyes firmly fixed upon Aragorn, carefully watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as his breathing slowly returned to normal.

   He did not even attempt to seek rest himself. He was far too shaken by all that he had witnessed. He could feel his own heart pounding in his chest and sweat had broken on his brow in spite of the chill of the night air up in that high tower. As he sought to calm his own fraught nerves, he struggled to made sense of all that had happened.

    Less than an hour ago, he had dutifully stood, watching, as Aragorn had uncovered the Palantir and, with one hand clasping Andúril to his chest, had laid the other upon the stone. With mounting horror, he had watched helplessly as Aragorn became removed from him, and disappeared into a trance where he seemingly did battle with an unseen foe. His face had twisted and contorted as one suffering unspeakable agony.  Halbarad had screamed at him, calling his name, but Aragorn had been beyond hearing anything. As his torment had increased, Halbarad had been at a complete loss as to what to do. In the end, he had done nothing and now he wonder if perhaps he should have attempted to separate him from that accursed stone. Aragorn had told him earlier he might need him to do just that. But had that been the need of which he spoke? He did not know. Aragorn was dabbling in things outside his reckoning. Eventually he had managed to wrench himself away and break free of whatever it was that had seized him so cruelly. But if any lasting injury had befallen him, Halbarad could not yet tell. Thankfully he seemed peaceful enough at the moment.

   He reached out and gently laid his hand on the quiet form beside him. That was good; he was resting now. Perhaps when he had shaken off some of this crippling fatigue, he would speak more of the strange and dreadful experience he had just endured. Halbarad could not begin to guess what choices had to be made in the morning, but right now he could think of nothing beyond the wellbeing of his chieftain.

   He had to marvel at the bravery of his lord in attempting to do this thing. Challenging the might of Sauron was an act of courage greater than any of the noble deeds he had witnessed from Aragorn over the years. Even without the presence of the evil eye, the prospect of looking into the Palantír alone would be enough to deter most men.  Earlier, as they had climbed the steps to that high chamber, Halbarad had argued forcibly against indulging in such a foolish action. He now rather regretted not having protested more vehemently. But Aragorn had been adamant he knew what he was doing.

   “The Stone is rightfully mine, Hal,” he had said. “Did not all seven of the Palantíri once belong to Elendil; gifts to his father from the Elves of Tol Eressëa? As his heir, this Stone is mine by right. If any has a hope of bending it to his will, then it is I.” But Halbarad had not failed to notice how he hesitated before adding in a quiet voice: “I only hope my strength will prove to be enough.”

   Halbarad had remained unconvinced. He had already heard that one of the hobbits had attempted to look in this thing and had narrowly avoided disaster. “But Aragorn, are you quite sure this is wise?” he had said. “I don’t mean to doubt you, my friend, but it is a huge risk you are taking.”

      “I am not being feckless,” Aragorn had replied, using that tone which always served to remain Halbarad exactly which of them was the chieftain. “Our need is great; such risks I must take.”

   “But you don’t know how to use it?” Halbarad had countered, quite undaunted. “Sauron may not have the right, as such, to use the stone in his possession, but, from what you have discovered about Saruman, it would seem he has been using it for a considerable time. Surely, that will count for much in any battle of wills with him.”

  “It might aid him, yes,” Aragorn had conceded before rather pointedly adding: “but, as you may recall, Halbarad, many years ago, I did once travel to Emyn Beraid with the intent of learning just this skill.”

   Halbarad might have smiled at this example of the meticulous dedication to his preparations that Aragorn had lent to all his efforts during his long years in waiting had it not been that he was so troubled by what Aragorn was proposing to do.

   “And as I recall, you spoke very little about that visit upon your return.” Halbarad had not forgotten that the experience had obviously troubled him. Privately though, he did concede that if anyone could bend the Seeing Stone to his will, it would be his chieftain. He resorted to a different argument.

  “Did you not tell me earlier that even Gandalf cautioned you against using it? And when, in all the years you have known the Wizard, have you ever ignored his council?”

   A flicker of doubt had appeared on Aragorn’s face and Halbarad had felt triumphant, but his success proved short-lived as almost immediately it was replaced by the same steely determination of before.

   “Never have I gone against Gandalf’s advice. I value his wisdom above that of any other, as you well know, but in this I believe I am right and that the Stone has come to me now for just such a purpose.”

   He had suddenly looked rather incredulous.

   “Gandalf bowed to me, Hal, as he presented it, and he called me ‘lord’. Never has he done that before.” But then his face had hardened into a grim smile and there was a deadly cold gleam in his eye that scared even his closest friend. “No, I will heed my own council in this. I do not seek the Dark Lord willingly, but I deem the time has at last come to reveal to him my true nature and so may the sword of Elendil strike fear into his black heart.”

~oo0oo~

       Time passed. How much, Halbarad could not tell; half an hour perhaps, no more. He so wanted to allow Aragorn to rest, but he know he would be less than pleased if he ignored his instruction to not let him lie for long. Halbarad gently rocked what he supposed was Aragorn’s arm through the blanket. Immediately his chieftain was awake. He rolled over onto his back and stared at Halbarad blankly for a moment.

   “I had an awful dream,” he said. “At least I had hoped it was a dream, but, now that I wake, I fear it was not.”

   “What was this dream?” Halbarad wished with his all his heart that what Aragorn had just experienced was truly only that.

   Aragorn did not answer, but pushed himself up onto his elbows. He looked about him, frowning. “The Palantír: where is it?” he asked.

   “Over there,” said Halbarad, pointing to the large sphere across the room covered by Aragorn’s cloak which he had roughly thrown over it to hide the terrible fire within.

   Aragorn sighed and sat up properly, drawing his knees to his chest before burying his head in his hands. He sat there motionless for so long, Halbarad began to worry again. He picked up the waterskin and offered it to him.

   “Drink?”

   Slowly Aragorn pulled his hands from his face and took the skin. Halbarad was shaken by how badly they trembled. While Aragorn drank, he got to his feet and folded back the shutters; the bleak room seemed very gloomy suddenly and dawn must have broken hours ago. Suddenly, in the bright light, he could see Aragorn’s face clearly and he was shocked by what he saw. He looked exhausted, ill even. Overnight he had aged decades. He was as haggard as an old man. His skin was grey and dull and his eyes sunken into their sockets.

   “Aragorn,” he said softly. “What has happened to you, my friend? You look terrible.”

   Aragorn managed a trace of a smile. “I feel terrible,” he said, shakily. “Oh, Hal, that was not like the last time, but still it could have been worse.” And then he did smile. “I did at least survive, though never would I willingly do that again.”

   “I’m relieved to hear it,” said Halbarad forcing a laugh, “but may I ask what precisely it was you saw in that thing?” He was not at all sure he wanted to hear the answer. He was quite convinced he was going to have nightmares about this night as it was.

   “Too much,” said Aragorn as he put down the water skin and covered his face once again. It seemed an age before he removed his hands and continued his tale. “I saw the Dark Lord standing there before me and he was terrible to behold. At first I tried to pull away, but I could not. I could hear his voice in my head though he spoke no words, and the pain; oh, Hal, never have I under rated the Enemy, but the Dark Lord’s evil is boundless. He must not have the victory, he really must not. He would devour and destroy everything that we hold dear.”

   Aragorn’s words were a chilling reminder to Halbarad of all that was at stake, but at that moment, he was far more concerned about what had passed between these two vastly different lords as they had strived for the mastery of the Stone.

   “But did he know who you were?” Halbarad had to know. After a lifetime of keeping his chieftain secret he still could not quite believe Aragorn had acted so rashly.

   “Yes, he knew me,” said Aragorn and that same cold gleam Halbarad had seen earlier appeared in his eyes again. “And I left him in no doubt that I ride to Minas Tirith to challenge him.”

   Halbarad sat for a moment in stunned silence as he absorbed this statement. At last he found his voice. “Just so I fully grasp your meaning,” he said slowly, wanting to be absolutely certain he understood aright though still holding out a hope that he might be mistaken. “He now knows you to be who exactly?”

   “Why Isildur’s Heir, of course.”

   “Of course,” said Halbarad as he struggled to find the right words to fully express his shock and consternation at this turn of events. However the deadly gaze in Aragorn’s eye caused him to refrain from expressing an opinion on his chieftain’s wisdom in revealing this rather important piece of information to the Enemy.

   “No doubt you had your reasons,” was all he actually said, though as Aragorn looked so dreadful he hoped he had not lost his senses.

   But Aragorn smiled at him. “It’s all right Hal, my doing this was not without thought. I have given him reason to be troubled and that may yet prove advantageous to our cause. Mighty he undoubtedly is, but I felt his fear, Hal, I actually felt it. Now he will not hesitate to bring his full strength swiftly to where he deems it will hurt me the most.”

   Halbarad’s shock was rapidly turning to panic. “And you deem this to be a good thing?” He was genuinely concerned about Aragorn’s sanity now.

   “You forget, Hal, what I told you earlier of the Halflings. Even now, Frodo and his servant are slowly making their way towards Mordor with the One Ring of the Enemy which they intend to destroy in the flames of Mount Doom. The Dark Lord knows the Ring has been found and I deem it may not harm our cause for him to believe it is I who now possesses it. He will greatly fear that I may yet attempt to wield its terrible power. It is my hope that in attempting to destroy me, he will be blind to his true peril. He will not expect any to be crossing his land with the intent of destroying his ring. And so may we deceive him.”

   “I see,” said Halbarad, not greatly comforted by any of this reasoning, much less the prospect of becoming a decoy.

   But then the steely gaze left Aragorn’s eye and Halbarad noticed he looked troubled.

   “But we must move swiftly to counter him,” he said. “I saw more than just the face of the Enemy in that Stone. At last I managed to wrest control of it from him, though the battle has left me more weary than I have ever known. But once I had the mastery of it, I used it to my advantage though I confess, what it revealed has greatly disturbed me. I saw in the Stone that a vast fleet of enemy ships is preparing to descend upon Minas Tirith. Even now, the fleet sails for Pelargir and will be the demise of Gondor if it is not stopped.”

   “But if I understand things aright, there are none who could stop it,” cried Halbarad in dismay. “The Rohirrim ride for Minas Tirith, that much we know, but will they be there in time to engage such an army? Could you tell, Aragorn, when this fleet will arrive?”

  “Soon, very soon, days even.”

  “But we’ll never get there in time and even if we were to race like the wind ahead of the host of Rohan, what good would thirty men be against such a force?”

   “None, my friend, none at all,” said Aragorn, shaking his head. “But we are Gondor’s only hope and there may yet be a way, though it fills me with dread to even think of it.”

   Halbarad stifled a groan and he felt a sick weight settle in his stomach. He had long ago learned to expect the unexpected where his chieftain was concerned, but he had a sinking feeling about what was coming. He had still only loosely pieced together all that had been happening since he last saw Aragorn late in November at Sarn Ford. Then he had told him something of what was a foot, wondrous though it was and at last he had come to fully understand the reasons for their long watch on the Shire. Aragorn had told him he intended to travel to Minas Tirith with the son of the Steward and so aid the City in the coming war. Halbarad had been almost beside himself with worry at the thought of their Chieftain going into war without any of his people at his side.

   And things had evidently not gone to plan. The Steward’s son had been slain, as had Gandalf, though he had miraculously been restored to them, and the hobbit who bore the Enemy’s Ring was lost, presumed to be somewhere in the waste lands of Southern Gondor though no one knew this for sure. This land of the horsemen had apparently already seen war and Aragorn had obviously been in the thick of it. And as if all this was not disturbing enough, it seemed Fangorn Forest had woken up and the great fortress of Isengard had been destroyed by walking trees. His mind had reeled as he had tried to absorb all the extraordinary events that had been happening in the last few of months. After everything he had learned that night, he now felt perfectly justified in being rather apprehensive about what was coming next.

   More than that, he was still weary from his own exhausting race to Rohan in search of Aragorn. When word had come from Rivendell that all the Dúnedain fit and able to ride to war were to assemble there as swiftly as they could because Aragorn had need of his kin, all manner of terrible possibilities had raced through his mind as he wondered what had befallen him. It had been his task to gather together as many men as possible and they had then ridden as hard and fast as they could to Rohan, desperately seeking their Chieftain.

   He really felt nothing Aragorn had to say could possibly surprise him.

   Aragorn reached over and grabbed the waterskin again. Halbarad did not think he had ever seen him looking so ill. Even when he had been injured and close to death he had looked healthier than he did right at this moment.

   “You should eat,” he said. “I‘ll willingly go and fetch you something.”

   Aragorn shook his head. “Thank you, Hal, but I could stomach nothing right now.”

   Halbarad took a deep breath. “Well you had better well me the worst then. What exactly do you have in mind?”

   Aragorn took another long swig of water before setting the skin back on the floor. “The summons you received, to come to Rivendell, it is my belief Galadriel of Lothlórien sent it. So often on this road, Hal, I have dearly wished that you and some of my men were with me; and when first the Company arrived in Lothlórien, the Lady read all our hearts and learned of each of our desires.”

   Halbarad smiled. “Well, we are here now, too few though we be. But I do not see your meaning.”

   “Galadriel is a very wise lady and I have been fortunate that she has long had my best interests at heart,” said Aragorn. “She also sent another message, this time with Gandalf. In this there was mention of the ride of the Grey Company, but there was more as well and now I think perhaps I begin to understand. The last two lines of the message went thus:

   But dark is the path appointed for thee:

   The Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea. [1]

   “And now the Sons of Elrond have also come with a message, from our father, reminding me of the words of the Seer, Malbeth. You may even remember this poem, Hal.

   Who shall call them from the grey twilight, the forgotten people?

   The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.

   From the North shall he come, need shall drive him:

   he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead. [2]”

   “I can’t say I do remember this,” said Halbarad, “but then I didn’t have the benefit of having Lord Elrond as a tutor.”

   Aragorn appeared not to hear him.

   “But don’t you see Hal? To whom else could this refer but me? Those words were spoken over a thousand years ago in the reign of the last king, something incidentally Malbeth also predicted correctly.”

    Aragorn ran his hands through his hair. The weariness etched on his face spoke of his many cares. “There is a road which leads through one of the mountains, the Dwimorberg. Legend has it in Rohan that dead men dwell within and the living may not pass the door. The last to venture on this path was Baldor, the son of the second king of Edoras. He was never seen again. Yet I believe this may now be my path.”

    Halbarad looked at him in horror. “You would risk all to go through a haunted mountain rather than round it? Forgive me, Aragorn, but I think this device has addled your mind. What foolishness is this? We would save a day or two at the most.”

   Aragorn gave him a weary smile. “I assure you, Hal, my wits are as keen as ever. It is not merely a matter of saving time. The dead men who dwell in the mountain can not find rest as they failed to honour their oath to fight for Isildur at the end of the last Age. In his fury at their betrayal, Isildur cursed them. Yet he knew they would be called upon once again to fulfil their oath before the war with Sauron was finally over. I fear there can be little doubt it is I who is destined to summon them. I must seek the allegiance of this host and lead them to Pelargir where, Eru willing, they will finally fulfil the vow they made to Isildur all those years ago and fight for our cause.”

   Halbarad let out a long breath and stared at Aragorn in astonished disbelief. Whatever audacious plan he had anticipated, it was not this. Already he could feel his guts tightening at the very thought of seeking out an army of ghosts in the depths of a mountain. By the Valar, when he swore his allegiance to his chieftain, he never expected to be called upon to do anything as terrible as this.

   Aragorn must have guessed his thoughts. “I ask none to come with me, Hal. If needs must, I shall take this path alone.”

   Halbarad did not doubt that for a moment. Aragorn had after all been venturing into danger on his own for much of his adult life. But this time he vowed it would be different. Whether Aragorn was right in his reasoning or not, it mattered little to him. Now that he had made his choice, there could be only one choice for Halbarad: to never leave his side; not while this war lasted. Whatever happened, wherever Aragorn went, he would follow him, no matter what terrors awaited them in the mountain. His chieftain would not suffer this alone.

   Yet such was his dread of the path Aragorn proposed, he still made one last attempt to change his mind.

   “Do you not think it might be prudent to speak to Theoden of this first? Rohan is a large realm, its people mighty warriors; it will be a great host that he musters. Might it not be that you worry needlessly. Perhaps there are men enough to fight this battle without these dead men. And you do not yet know how many days it will take him to gather his men. It might yet be sooner than you think.”

   Aragorn gave him a sympathetic smile. “I will not take this road unless I have no other choice. I assure you, Hal, I do not consider it lightly. But I will nonetheless speak with Theoden before I finally decide my path.”

   He gazed up at the sun which now shone brightly through the open window. “He will soon be on his way. Come, I must meet with him before he departs.”

   Somehow he staggered to his feet, but he slumped against the wall as he tried to walk. Halbarad was instantly beside him, steadying him. “You do not look capable of standing on your own two feet, Aragorn, let alone riding all the way to Pelargir. It is hundreds of miles, is it not?”

   Aragorn lent against his kinsmen for a moment while his strength slowly returned.

   “This weariness is not as bad as you fear, Halbarad,” he said. “I remember I was very tired after my last experience of using a Palantír, though I confess this is far worse. I will be well enough in a few minutes.”

   Halbarad looked at him extremely doubtfully but held his tongue. Aragorn did not have strength to waste on banter. He realised though he could, perhaps lift one of his cares.

   “If it is your fate to take this path, you do know, don’t you, that you will not be venturing it alone?”

   Aragorn looked at him for a long moment and his grey and haggard face broke into a sudden grin. “I never thought that for a moment, Hal. Come let us hear what Theoden has to say.”

~oo0oo~

He went hither some hours ago, saying he must take thought, and only his kinsman, Halbarad, went with him; but his dark doubt or care sits on him.

The Passing of the Grey Company                                                  The Return of the King

[1]  The White Rider                                                                             The Two Towers

[2] The Passing of the Grey Company                                             The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 30: Eowyn

      “….Few other griefs amid the ill chances of this world have more shame and bitterness for a man’s heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned….”  Aragorn

The Houses of Healing                                                                     The Return of the King

   In the early morning you came unlooked for to the gate of our city. With you rode Gandalf Greyhame, an Elf and a Dwarf; strange company it is that you keep. I noticed you not when first you arrived at our door; hidden as you were in the dim light of the hall, and all our eyes were for Gandalf alone.

    You could not know of the despair in this household into which you walked. My uncle had long ago ceased to rule as he should, listening to and believing the twisted words of Wormtongue. For days beyond number I had endured this ‘counsellor’s’ presence. My skin crawled when he entered a room and ever were his eyes upon me as I tended my failing king. There seemed no escape from this torment. But then Gandalf broke the spell, and a tiny flicker of light entered the darkness of my world.

  And so it was that I saw you at last; really saw you. I have never before laid eyes upon the like of such a man. Very tall and commanding you were; a man of Mundburg I would guess; for sure you are a noble lord from some far land. There is strength within you and in your sharp eyes I see a depth of wisdom earned by long and hard ways.  I deem you are a valiant warrior, but I feel there is much more besides. What hidden depths are there to you; what power do you conceal beneath your grey cloak? Such a man could do much for my people.

   But secretly, and to my shame, I find myself wanting more than that. What could you not do for me, I ask? My heart skips as it has never done before; I could come to love a man such as you. And as a lord of high birth, you are a sound match for the grand daughter of a king. The first flush of youth may have long since passed you by, but your face is still fair to behold. And from your body would come worthy sons for the line of Eorl.

   I greatly desired to learn more, but there was no time. With my uncle healed and Wormtongue driven back to his true master, much else occurred that day to give us hope. Just hours after you arrived, you rode away to defend our realm; you and all the warriors of Edoras. And I waited behind as I always do; as I always must; for I am a woman and it is my duty.

~oo0oo~

   Last night you returned and brought news of a great victory at the Hornburg. With you came many men like to yourself; strong fighting men, a gift in our time of need.  My heart rejoiced, for it seemed you brought us new hope.

   But it was not so. My joy proved short-lived. Now I am in despair once again and this time it is more bitter than before.

   You said you are leaving at dawn to take the Paths of the Dead. What madness has driven you to this?  This is complete folly; none can walk that path and live. Do you seek death? You assured me that is not so and only through great need do you venture upon this road. The waste of such a good man is unbearable to me.  I tried to reason with you further. If you care not for yourself, then what of the senseless loss of the men who, I know, will follow you. I would follow you too, if you would but permit it, though I fear you see me as feckless, for you talked to me of duty. But am I not now free of my duties as a nursemaid? It matters not; I failed to turn you from your path. As you went to your rest, my only hope was that my words might sear your sleep. Would that you might heed them in the morning.

~oo0oo~

     It is first light and I see now I have left you unmoved. You are preparing to leave and ride towards that dreadful mountain. I feel desperate; I have to stop you somehow. My heart is screaming: no! You go to your death! I try one last time to bring you to your senses. You heed me not. Seeing I have failed, I beg you to take me with you. I would rather die at your side than stay here alone, even at the charge of abandoning my people. You will not relent. Some fey mood is upon you; what must I do to reach you? Do you not care for me at all? In despair, I throw myself at your feet. Gently, you raise me and kiss my hand, but then you are gone, riding away to face what horror I do not know.

   Stricken, I watch you go; you do not even look back. My tears flow wildly as my grief undoes me. All hope is lost. I would sooner you had never ridden to my door than bring me to this. ‘Heir of Kings’ was the title the door warden brought to us that bright morning in Meduseld when first you came. I wondered then how such a man would be; one that had seemingly stepped out of some distant legend. Would he be true and bring us real hope or would he be but a ghost, a shadow of a man to tease and then wither and fade at the test. With all my heart I wanted you to save my people; to save me. Now it seems you were no better than a phantom after all. But to my shame, you torment me still, for with you on your evil path, you have taken my heart.

    What am I to do now? I have no wish to live the life that must surely follow our defeat. Yet I am a shieldmaiden of Rohan. I shall not wait here, helpless and afraid. I am of the House of Eorl. I can ride a horse as well as any man; I can wield a sword; I can fight.

 And so may I find death and a release from the intolerable pain of loving thee.

  Then he kissed her hand, and sprang into the saddle, and rode away, and did not look back; and only those who knew him well and were near to him saw the pain that he bore.

The Passing of the Grey Company                                                  The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 31: Isildur’s Heir

   Then Aragorn led the way, and such was the strength of his will in that hour that all the Dúnedain and their horses followed him

The Passing of the Grey Company                                                   The Return of the King

   It stands before me now, a gaping black chasm in the mountain that towers sheer above us. As a gateway to a tomb it feels, and a tomb I greatly fear it may become. Would that there was any other way, I never would have come to this place. But I am the only one who can hope to accomplish what I must now attempt; no other can summon those that lie within and bring them to our aid. And without that aid, Minas Tirith will surely fall. If I am to have any hope of defeating our Enemy, I have to pass this door, though it fills me with dread to do so.

   I look behind me at the familiar faces of my men, my friends, who have ridden far and hard to be at my side. Here too are my Elven brothers and the remaining members of our Fellowship, Legolas and Gimli. I love them all, and I know it is only out of love for me that they have ventured to this terrible mountain. I glance at Halbarad who stands beside me. He has told me his death lies beyond this door and yet he does not quail. He returns my gaze and I see in his eyes he is resolute, in spite of his fear. He will follow where I lead. And yet I am only too aware that if I continue on this path I may lead them to their deaths.

   Yet continue I must.

   The horses are nervous. Some are trembling and sweating as they sense the fear that emanates from this awful place. Arod is in a pitiful state, but Legolas sings to him quietly, and his trembling lessens. We all talk soothingly to our mounts; calloused hands gently stroke soft winter furs. Each horse knows and trusts his rider. Years spent in silent companionship have forged the bonds that will hold them to their masters when all their instincts scream for them to flee. If my men hold fast, their mounts will too. My men will hold fast, if I do.

    My own heart is pounding at the thought of where I must go. I feel sweat break upon my brow beneath my helm; my hands are not as steady as I would wish them to be. But I must not show my fear. As I stand here on the threshold of this cornerstone of my life, I snatch a moment to curb my doubt and crush the mounting wave of terror that rises within me. I swallow hard and clench my jaw.

     I must do this.

     I reach out to Roheryn, my hand this time is as still as the rock before us. I face my men; the look I give them, I know, shows my determination. I have used this face often enough in my past to galvanise those who follow me. But in all the long years I have toiled, never has more been asked of me than this. Ahead is my hardest test.  Beyond this door is my destiny. If I fail, those years will all have been for nothing. I take a deep breath and fill my lungs with clean mountain air. I can do this. Everything I have ever desired lies on the other side of this haunted mountain.

    Now is my time to claim it.

    And so I take that first step along this path. My horse and I walk forwards and pass beneath the grotesquely carved archway above us. And as I plunge into the darkness, I hear my men follow.

   My eyes slowly adjust to the dark. Cold, hard rock lines our route on either side. But the path ahead is clear and the torches I brought from Dunharrow light the way. At first, there is no sound but the horses’ hooves as they dance nervously on the rocky ground and the gentle murmurings of the men as they whisper soothingly to them. But the dread that at once settles upon me is oppressive. Every step that carries me further into this place becomes a supreme act of courage. I feel an unseen presence all about me. But I keep walking; carrying aloft one of the torches, I stride ever deeper into the mountain. I have no way of knowing how long it will take to reach the other side or if the path will even lead us into daylight ever again. If it does not, then I know with absolute certainty, this is where we shall all meet our doom.

   Steadily we make our way.

   The path is wide and our passage unhindered. We have not gone far when I am sure I can hear the sound of unfamiliar voices. I call a halt and listen. Ghostly whispers break the silence all around us. We are being watched. My blood chills to the marrow and a bolt of terror shoots through me, but I keep my eyes to the front and stride forth again with purpose. Shadows may surround me, but I shall not slink in them. As the whisperings increase, I glance behind to check on the progress of my men. They are with me still; their faces grim and determined, but their eyes betray their fear. Elladan brings up the rear, holding aloft the other torch. It comforts me more than I can say to have my brothers near. I know that it is for my sake, more than any desire to go to war, that has brought them here. I spare a thought for our father at home in Rivendell, waiting and wondering anxiously how his sons fare. And Arwen, my dearest beloved, who is ever in the forefront of my mind, would that I could reach across all the vast leagues that divide us and behold you again, if only for a moment. Keep me secure in your thoughts as you are ever in mine.

   The path leads straight before us.

   The voices of the Shadow Men grow louder. To thwart my fear, I turn my thoughts elsewhere; to anywhere but this dreadful place. I wonder as to the fate of the Ringbearer, as I have done constantly since that day at Parth Galen. I know only too well our efforts will come to nought if he fails. My heart goes out to Frodo and his faithful friend. What perils are they being forced to endure? Is their road proving as dark as this one, or is it even darker still? I can do no more than send a silent prayer to the Valar for their safe keeping. In spite of Gandalf’s reassurances, I still feel guilt that two such gentle souls, who should be in my care, now have to face their trials alone.

   Ah guilt; I carried enough with me before ever I started on this quest. As if the pain I have long given my foster family is not sufficient to torment me, now, it seems, I add to that list of those I have failed at every stage of this journey. Gandalf, at least, is restored to us. But not Boromir. I was not with him in his hour of need; for him there will be no return. Merry and Pippin, I can only hope are safe for now. There is nothing more I can for them.

   No, the guilt eating at me now is for a beautiful, golden haired maiden, whose pale face I see before me in my mind’s eye with every step I take. I see her cheeks, glistening with tears as she begs me on her knees not to take this path without her. Would that I could have brought her with me, rather than leave her there in such despair. My failure to understand her brings me shame. Could I not have explained more kindly why it is that I am not free to return the love she so desperately desired? I have hurt her grievously, unwittingly maybe, but the guilt is still mine. Through all my fear on this dreadful path, none is greater than my fear of what may become of her. If I live through these terrible days, I shall never forget the vision of her standing there in the grey light of dawn, watching us leave, so proud, yet so utterly broken. And yet I turned away and abandoned her.

   Suddenly the walls are gone and the space about us is wide.

   Ahead something glitters in the torchlight. In spite of my fear, I can not pass by without looking closer. Lying before a closed door are the remains of a Rohan warrior. From his garb, I deem he is of high rank. Could this be Baldor son of Brego who took this path so many years ago, never to return? Elladan comes and stands with me and takes my torch.  I kneel beside the dead man, moved to sudden pity for one who has lain untended in such a place for so long. I perceive there is some mystery here, one to which I shall never learn the answer, for, as the whisperings grow louder, I know I can not linger; I have an errand to accomplish.

   The Dead are right behind us. Now, I deem, the time has come to issue my challenge. I have no wish for any of us to meet the same end as this unfortunate warrior.

   I turn and cry aloud into the blackness to those unseen faces: ‘Keep your hordes and your secrets hidden in the Accursed Years! Speed only we ask. Let us pass and then come! I summon you to the Stone of Erech!'  [1]

   Silence follows. We all wait, motionless and with mounting dread. Then I receive my reply. A chilling gust of wind blasts into the chamber and extinguishes the touches. A darkness beyond that of any starless night immediately descends and surrounds us. I fumble for my flint; I must relight the flares, and quickly. This path is terrible enough with light; without it, it is unthinkable. But neither Elladan nor I succeed with our task. To what end this pertains I do not know, but I greatly fear it does not bode well. We now have no choice; in darkness we must go on. But the dark is deeper than the blackness of any forest I have ever known in all my life. I do not believe any pit of Morgoth’s could be worse to endure than this. My eyes involuntarily strain into the dark, seeking the merest spark to guide me in this void. But there is none. My men call to each other in the pitch black; I hear the fear in their voices.  I talk boldly to them, girding them.

    “Hold fast my friends. Do not waver now! In darkness we must go forth. Follow, and trust we shall come to light once again.”

   I take care that they do not hear the terror in my own voice for the whisperings are now all around us. I feel I could reach out my hand and touch whatever it is that is that surrounds us. But now I must go on. Elladan and Halbarad are right beside me. I silently offer them my thanks for their unspoken support. I unsheathe Andúril and the dry air echoes with the welcome sound. The comfort of Elendil’s sword in my hand hardens my will and thus strengthened, I continue on into the terrifying blackness.

   I walk cautiously and, behind me, I hear my men slowly follow. I have never known such terror. I would rather face an army of flesh and blood orcs, alone, than endure a moment longer the company of this haunting host. The urge to flee swells within me constantly, but I do not let it surface. I remind myself I am Isildur’s heir, the blood of Tuor and Beren flows in my veins. I will not cower before the ghosts of traitors such as these.

   They will let me pass.

   On and on we go. The path seems endless. I can not help but wonder if I will ever emerge into daylight again. I am weary now. This has been the hardest of many hard days lately and I am still not recovered from my struggle with the Dark Lord of two nights ago. I have no wish to dwell on that encounter, not here, not in this accursed place. But images plague my mind in the darkness. Over and over they invade my consciousness as if tormenting me the once was not enough. To have felt his eyes upon me and all his will bent on my destruction twas a hard thing to bear. My skin crawls at the memory, but I know too that he did not defeat me and from that I draw great strength.

   There is hope yet.

   At last another sound invades the darkness. Water flows up ahead and, oh joy, there is light. We pass another gateway into a narrow ravine and there above us is a dark sky, lit with many bright stars. Never in all my life have I beheld them with such joy as I do now. With relief beyond reckoning, we can mount our horses again. We ride steadily on this narrow path, but then a wide valley opens out before us; a sight more welcome I have never known. It is a place of green fields and clear streams and living people.

   The first stage of my test is done; I have walked the Paths of the Dead.

   And we still live and what is more, the Dead follow. This much is accomplished, but my joy is hollow. I am still floundering in the foothills of this mountain that is mine to climb. There is still so much to achieve. We have such a very long way to go and so little time to get there. We can not delay for rest or food, much as I would wish to for the sake of my men. We are all bent from the effort of battling our fear, but I have to ask yet more of my companions.

   “Friends, forget your weariness! Ride now, ride! We must come to the Stone of Erech ere this day passes, and long still is the way.” [2]

   Even as I speak, I urge Roheryn into a gallop. He springs forward, as relieved as I am to put the mountain behind him. We set a great pace; league upon league, we devour the ground, but eventually I feel him begin to tire. He stumbles as his hooves struggle to keep their hold, but still I push him mercilessly.

   Just before midnight, we come at last to the Hill of Erech and to the great unearthly black stone than stands there. Here it is almost as dark as it was in the mountain itself and as we halt, I can hear the murmurings of the Shadow host behind us. They have followed us this far at least. My hope rises that they will do as I bid. I dismount and stand beside Isildur’s stone as Elrohir brings to me a silver horn. I wonder at it for a moment as I have never seen it before, but then I put it to my lips and blow. There is an answer, seemingly distant and far away, but the Shadows have replied.

   I stand up tall and erect. At last the time has come. As Isildur’s heir, I must now be revealed. I speak loud and clear, my voice firm and commanding.

   “Oathbreakers, why have ye come?”  [3]

   A remote voice supplies the answer I so desire. They will fulfil their oath. To this I reply: “The hour is come at last. Now I go to Pelargir upon Anduin, and ye shall come after me. And when all this land is clean of the servants of Sauron, I will hold the oath fulfilled, and ye shall have peace and depart for ever. For I am Elessar, Isildur’s heir of Gondor.”  [4]

   Then Halbarad steps up beside me and unfurls the banner he has carried so stalwartly for so far. In the deep blackness on that hillside, no device can be seen upon it, but in the morning, as the sun rises over the Morthond Vale, I see it clearly for the very first time.

   It is sable and upon it is a White Tree that thrives and flowers, and above are Seven Stars wrought of sparkling gems, but over them all, glistening silver and gold in the light of this new dawn, is the crown of Elendil. I feel tears prick my eyes as I gaze with wonder at this fulfilment of my beloved’s long labour. What hope and longing, and love has gone into every stitch as hour upon hour she sat in her workroom and made this for me? I feel humbled to receive such a gift. This is indeed a standard worthy of a king. I reach out my hand and gently trace the emblems with my fingers, lightly touching the precious jewels that form them. And for just a moment, the White Mountains and the black stone of Isildur disappear, and I am back in Rivendell again. I am standing in my father’s garden beneath the silver birches, and it is the fair face of my beloved that my fingertips caress so gently.

   Oh Arwen! What hope is there still for us to ever be together?

   But I am abruptly bought back to the cold hill of Erech by the stirring of my men in the camp. We must be swiftly on our way. War awaits us now. But no longer am I Strider the Ranger. Now I am Isildur’s Heir and from henceforth all shall know me as such. I know not what battles must still be fought and won before I can claim my inheritance. But this is my hour.

   And for you, my beloved, I shall not fail.

   I see shapes of Men and of horses, and pale banners like shreds of clouds, and spears like winter-thickets on a misty night. The Dead are following.

The Passing of the Grey Company                                                   The Return of the King

[1] [2] [3] [4]  The Passing of the grey Company                            The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And especial thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 32: The Black Ships

But when the dawn came, cold and pale, Aragorn rose at once, and led the Company forth upon the journey of greatest haste and weariness that any among them had known, save he alone, and only his will held them to go on.

The Passing of the Grey Company                                                  The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

    Calembel was deserted.

    There was no sign of life to be seen anywhere in the small, but thriving, market town which straddled the banks of the River Ciril as it made its hasty decent through Lamedon to the open sea beyond. It was late in the evening when the Grey Company passed through the main street, the horses’ hooves echoing eerily on the cobbled path. Doors gaped open and baskets of groceries lay abandoned on the empty pavements; the inhabitants had seemingly left in a great hurry.

   “Where do you suppose everyone has gone?” asked Gimli, looking about the deserted road. “A pint or two of ale and bite of supper at one of these fine looking inns wouldn’t have gone amiss after the day we’ve had.”

   Aragorn riding beside him, smiled grimly. “I doubt we will find many on this journey who will be prepared to stand and welcome us,” he said.

   “Well, I can’t say I blame them,” replied Gimli who was still casting his eyes around the empty dwellings in the hope of espying someone who might be prepared to offer them more enticing fare than the stale rations they carried with them. “It wouldn’t take much for me to be off myself with that bunch of rogues at our heels.”

   Aragorn said nothing. He too preferred not to glance behind at the Shadow Host more than was necessary. The long ride from the Stone of Erech with an army of dead men in their wake had left them all with ragged nerves. His men were weary and in need of a decent meal. But they would find none here. Instead they rode on through the cheerless streets until they crossed the river at the ford. Once they were clear of the town, Aragorn called a halt.

   “We will rest a while here,” he shouted. The Grey Company dismounted at once, grateful that their long day in the saddle was over. They immediately began their usual evening routine of setting up camp and caring for the horses, but all the while the Shadow host hovered a little apart. Aragorn could not help but notice how the men kept their eyes averted and their backs turned as they went about their tasks.

   Yet it was a beautiful evening, the sky a blaze of colour as the sun set like a red fire behind the Pinnath Gelin. It was a welcome sight, boding a fine day for the morrow if a cold night ahead. They had covered a reasonable distance that day and Aragorn felt he owned his men at least one night’s sleep after the wakeful and wretched one they had spent at Erech. A rest would serve them all better in the long run than pressing on with their journey into the night. He himself had barely slept for days and he had yet to completely shake off the weariness that had gripped him ever since his encounter with the Palantír. He stood for a moment rubbing fatigue from his eyes. None needed a respite more than he.

   “Estel? I would care for Roheryn for you, if you would permit it.”

   Aragorn opened his eyes to see Elrohir standing in front of him with a hand on his horse’s bridle.

   He was about to decline, not particularly wishing to appear as exhausted as he felt, but he was suddenly aware that Halbarad was kneeling on the ground a little apart from the others. He was silhouetted against the flaming sun but Aragorn could see the great banner laid out flat in front of him. He was furling it with extraordinary precision. Something about the meticulousness of his movements sparked a warning note in Aragorn’s mind and he decided to accept the offer after all.

   “Thank you, my brother; your offer is timely as I wish to speak with Halbarad.”

   As Elrohir led the horse away, Aragorn watched Halbarad for a moment longer, noticing the considered attention than his kinsman put into every cease and fold of the cloth. Before each turn of the staff, he carefully smoothed the jewels into place with his hand before winding the banner by another half turn. He would then pause and smooth the next section to his satisfaction before continuing.

   The sight unexpectedly pierced Aragorn’s heart. He could almost feel the reverence that went into every one of Halbarad’s movements and he realised the banner was very bit as much a symbol of hope for Halbarad as it was for himself. He wondered if all the men felt the same way. Ever since Halbarad had handed it to him on the plains of Rohan, he had hoped with every fibre of his being that one day they would all see the symbols of the  king flying from the top of the tower of Ecthelion, and with it would come a new era of prosperity for their people. But so much now rested on what he must achieve in the next few days and weeks if there was to be any hope of that ever coming to pass. The weight of expectation became almost crippling if he allowed himself to dwell upon such matters.

   He walked across to his kinsman and stood over him as he worked.

   “I never asked you, Hal,” he said. “Is the banner very wearying on the arms to hold loft? I wondered if you tired of carrying it.”

   Halbarad immediately shook his head though he did not look up. “Nay, it is not a burden in the slightest,” he said firmly as he continued with what he was doing. The banner was fully furled now and he was securing the thongs that bound it to the staff.

   “And I would have no other carry it for you.”

   The job done, he got to his feet and looked Aragorn fully in the eye.

   “As long as I live and breathe, I would do this for you. You surely know that?”

   Aragorn was surprised by the passion in his old friend’s voice.

   “Hal, I would not even consider any other for this task.”

   But there was a strange look in Halbarad’s eye that Aragorn had not seen before and it troubled him. It was more one of sadness and regret than of fear. Suddenly, the words he had spoken as they stood on the threshold of the terrible door that led into the mountain returned to him.

   My death lies beyond it, he had said. Halbarad was not greatly given to foresight, as far as he knew, and at the time Aragorn had taken his words to be nothing more than the thoughts running through all their minds as they stood poised to enter that dreadful hole. Yet, as he thought of them now, he felt a sudden frisson of fear and had to resist the urge to draw Halbarad into his embrace.  

   Instead, he stared at him uncomfortably, wondering what, if anything, he should say, but then Halbarad’s face broke into a grin and the moment passed.

   “Well you might have had some foolish idea of asking one of your brothers to relieve me of it for a while.”

   But Aragorn was not so easily distracted and did not return his smile.

   “No, I would not do that,” he said, sensing that this mattered greatly to Halbarad. “Arwen asked you to bring this standard to me, not my brothers. She would have done that with good reason. This standard, if it is ever borne into battle, will herald the coming of the Northern Dúnedain to the South and I deem it is right that one of the Dúnedain, and a dúnadan alone, should bear it.”

   But Halbarad merely laughed, dismissing his concerns. “She is wise, your lady,” he said as he clapped Aragorn on the back. “Come, let us find something to eat,” and, as he strode off to where the men were setting up camp in search of supper, Aragorn let the matter drop.

~oo0oo~

   “What is all this do you suppose, Aragorn?” asked Gimli, looking up at the deep, unearthly darkness that filled the Eastern sky. There was no sign of the dawn, and the dense blackness creeping steadily towards them seemed to swallow the very night itself.

   “Even underground a Dwarf can tell the hour of the day and this Dwarf knows the sun should have risen by now.”

   “I believe you are right,” said Aragorn as he came to stand beside him, a cup of tea in his hand. “This darkness is not the natural dark of the World. Something is surely amiss.”

   “Well we can make a sound guess as to who is behind this,” said Gimli. Without thinking, his hands reached for his axe as if the culprit was standing right before him. “But I for one don’t care for it.”

  Aragorn stood considered this disturbing development for a moment. “Neither do I, Gimli, but perhaps it does not bode as ill as we fear,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “If the Enemy is moving then this is only as we hoped. But if this is so then so must we, and with all haste.” He poured the dregs of his tea into the grass and stashed his mug in his pack.

  “Come, we must be on our way at once,” he said as he picked up his few belongings and strode towards the horses which were picketed a little away from the camp.

   “We do not wait for the dawn,” Aragorn cried to his men as he went. Immediately the camp was a hive of activity as the men quickly rolled up blankets and doused the fire. Gimli followed him and waited beside Arod for Legolas.

   The men were soon ready to leave and tacking up their horses. Aragorn threw the saddle onto Roheryn and secured the girth.

   “I am sorry, my friend,” he said softly to the horse as he paused for a moment to pull his ears affectionately and scratch his forehead. “We have another hard ride in front of us today.”

   And the day after and the day after that, he thought ruefully to himself but there was no need to trouble the horse with what yet lay ahead. His pack securely in place, he risked a glance at the Shadow Host which had assembled nearer to them as they prepared to break camp. He did not relish riding all the way to Pelargir in this darkness with that ghostly hoard on their heels but it would appear they had no choice. It was ninety three leagues from Erech to Pelargir. In their first day’s ride from the Black Stone, they had not yet covered a quarter of that distance.

   In a matter of minutes, all were ready to depart and Aragorn leaped on to Roheryn’s back, though with noticeably less athleticism than he had two days ago. And immediately the Company set off at a steady trot into the grim darkness, his muscles began to complain at the renewed contact with the saddle.

      They continued steadily on their way through the uplands of Lamedon as they headed south-west towards the river Ringlo.   As soon as the going underfoot allowed, Aragorn eased Roheryn into a canter. Halbarad’s rode beside him, holding aloft the standard. Behind him were Legolas and Gimli, followed by the rest of the men. His brothers brought up the rear, and after them came the Shadow Host which appeared little more than a grey mist in the darkness yet none could forget their presence for a single moment.

   The terrain was rough and uneven, difficult for the horses to travel over at anything more than a steady canter. They picked their way as best they could under the black sky but they would have little opportunity for greater speed until they reached the lowlands. Then Aragorn knew he would need to take the horses and the men to the limits of their endurance if they were to reach Minas Tirith in time to prevent the city’s utter destruction.

   On they rode, for hour after endless hour. They passed small hamlets as well as sizeable villages but they saw no one. Few words passed between any of the men yet the tension in the air was almost palpable.   The Dead men made no sound as they drifted along effortlessly behind them. The Grey Company maintained their steady pace all morning until, as mid day approached, Aragorn allowed the horses a breather. But as they broke back to a walk, he suddenly became aware of a grey mist creeping forwards and swirling about him as if a sudden fog had descended. He heard shouts from some of the men and looked behind quickly.

    The Shadow host was overtaking the Grey Company.

    The Army of Dead men had grown stronger and even more terrible since they left Erech. None of the Dúnedain looked upon them if they could avoid it. Even by the light of day, the ghostly shapes of long dead warriors were terrifying enough. By this darkness of Mordor it was almost enough to send even the bravest man screaming into the cover of the hills. But Aragorn could not allow the dead to overtake the living. It was vital that he had complete command of them if they were to do their part. As the ghostly host continued to surge forward, he turned Roheryn to face them and cried in a great voice.

   “Wait, Men of the Mountain, I bid you do as Isildur’s Heir commands. Do not come forward until such time as you are summoned to honour your oath.”

   Behind him, his men immediately pulled up their horses. Then after a few agonising moments, and to Aragorn’s overwhelming relief, the Shadow host halted too. They were dreadful to behold close up. Their hollow faces were fell and terrible. They shook their spears and waved their swords but they did as they were commanded. It was a crucial moment and Aragorn silently let out a long breath.

   They might yet fulfil his need.

   “Ride on,” he cried to his Men over his shoulder as he circled Roheryn back to their path. And as they continued on their way, he noticed, with grim satisfaction, that the Host remained firmly at the rear and did not attempt to surge forward again.

~oo0oo~

   All day they rode on under the oppressive darkness which deepened as the day progressed. Aragorn was relentless in leading them all forward as fast as their horses could carry them. Late in the afternoon they stopped briefly for a few minutes when they reached the Ringlo. Here they refilled the water skins and allowed the horses to drink their fill. They were lathering badly in their thick winter coats and appreciated the chance to cool down as they waded through the deep water. As the Company emerged onto the far bank of the river, Halbarad rode up closer beside Aragorn and kept his voice low.

   “The men can not take much more of this,” he said. “We must stop, if only for a little while. It will soon be dusk by my reckoning and my stomach tells me it’s time to eat.”

   Aragorn looked behind him at the tired faces of his men. Their willingness to suffer so on his behalf stung his heart.

   “We can not rest yet, Hal,” he said. “I am sorry, but we must press on. Bear with me a few more hours yet; then we shall rest a while, I promise.”

   Halbarad did not argue and Aragorn felt even worse than if he had. For the rest of that day and well into the night, they pressed on through the foothills of the White Mountains, but when one of the horses stumbled throwing his rider, Aragorn finally decided to allow a break though too brief would the rest likely be. That night, the sons of Elrond kept watch while the men slept. Aragorn had tried to argue that they too must take their turn at finding rest but his objections had been soundly quashed.

   “Estel, if we have to sit on you and pin you to the ground for the rest of the night, you are not taking a turn on watch. Is that understood?” Elladan could still very effectively play the big brother when he chose to and in the end Aragorn gave up. On any other road he might have been tempted to remind Elladan of the difficulties he would encounter should he attempt to do any such thing, but he had no strength to spare on such foolish arguments now. Even so, half a night was all he would allow and at an hour well before a dawn that might have heralded a bright spring day, the Grey Company was swiftly on its way again.

   The unrelenting darkness was disorientating. It was impossible to say quite when they reached Linhir, the sprawling town that had grown up along either side of the fords on the river Gilrain, though it was sometime on that third day since leaving Erech. They had put the Uplands behind them and had been able to cover more ground now that the going was easier for the horses. But as they rode towards the town, they found the place in total uproar.

   An advance host from Umbar and Harad had sailed up the river and was engaging the men of Lamedon in battle. The fighting was fierce as the enemy was a sizable host and things looked to be going ill for the men of Gondor. But as the Grey Company approached with the Army of the Dead hard at their rear, all gave up the battle and fled in terror.

   “Ah, these dead men have their uses, I’ll grant them that,” said Gimli, grinning at the sight of so many fighting men reduced to whimpering fops by the terror of the approaching Shadow Host.  The men of Linhir found sanctuary within the town while the Haradrim, denied a retreat to their vessels, took flight across the ford and began the long road back to Pelargir. Only one stout hearted man found the courage to stand and face them. He stood proudly in the middle of the main street, waiting for the newcomers to approach, his sword held high and defiant.

   “Name yourselves,” he cried boldly, though the rift of terror in his voice was unmistakable.

   Aragorn immediately jumped down from Roheryn and raised a hand in a sign of peace.

   “Stay your sword and have no fear,” he said. “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn and Isildur’s Heir of Gondor.  I ride from the North with all speed to Pelargir to deliver her from our enemies.”

   He may have intended his words to ease the man’s heart, but they did no such thing. The man sank to his knees, shaking with uncontrollable fear which he felt as keenly for this strange man and his wild claim as for his unearthly companions. Yet his grip on his sword remained as strong as ever.

    “Isildur’s Heir? Did you say Isildur’s Heir?”

   Aragorn walked towards him and smiled.

  “Yes, my good man, you heard aright,” he said softly as he raised the trembling man to his feet. “Pray, tell me your name.”

   The man stood staring at him in amazement yet he managed to mumble: “Angbor is my name. I am the lord of Lamedon.”

  “Then, Angbor, lord of Lamedon, I bid you gather to you all men who can fight and come after us. I shall have need of every sword and every axe that Gondor can raise.”

   But the lord of Lamedon could not take his eyes of the Shadow Host. “But, but, what of the ghosts? None will follow the likes of them. And what of you, are you real, or are you some ghost yourself stepped out of some ancient legend?”

   “Oh, I am real enough,” said Aragorn with a gentle smile as he turned and walked back to his men. “And as for the ghosts, only the enemies of Gondor need fear them. Follow at a safe distance if it eases your fear but I beseech you to heed my call.” He paused to pick up Roheryn’s reins. “At Pelargir the Heir of Isildur will have need of you.” [1]

  Then he swung himself up into the saddle and with a wave of his hand, his Company departed across the ford, and the dead men swept after them.

   Angbor stood watching them go in stunned disbelief. “The Heir of Isildur will have need of you,” he said aloud to himself as the words slowly started to sink in. “The Heir of Isildur? Oh my word, the Heir of Isildur. Did you hear that?” He was practically screaming now. “Everyone, get out here and stop skulking. We’ve a war to go to!”

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn rode hard and fast through Lebennin. He spared neither man nor beast. Before them fled the invading host from Umbar as the Grey Company ruthlessly drove them back from hence they came. For the rest of that day, if they came upon their enemy, they engaged them in battle, but, for the most part, the terror of the men from Umbar was such that their passage to Pelargir was even swifter than that of the Grey Company.

   That night the Dúnedain were exhausted from their long day and the trials of many skirmishes and Aragorn allowed them a few hours rest. But while the men slept, he himself was restless and tossed and turned in his blanket on the ground. In spite of his tiredness, he woke often and his dreams were filled with terrible and vivid visions. Minas Tirith was besieged by a host so vast, the eye of a man could not see to the end of it. Great rolling weapons, drawn by unspeakable beasts bred by the Dark Lord for just this purpose, rained balls of fire down upon the beleaguered City. Minas Tirith was ablaze and hope was slowly dying for all those trapped within her walls.

   Aragorn suddenly sat upright in bed, shaken to wakefulness by the horror filling his mind. Gradually, as sleep left him, he realised the images had only been a dream but he had long ago learned that foresight had strange ways of revealing its message. His dreams had an unnerving habit of coming true.

   He looked about him in the grey gloom that could be either day or night. Legolas was on watch. The Elf had elected to remain awake that night which had earned him the gratitude of many an exhausted member of the Grey Company. Aragorn sensed it was not yet dawn but the images of the burning city would not leave his mind.

   They could rest no longer. They must not stop again until they reached Pelargir.

   He gently booted Halbarad. “Hal, help me wake the men, we must be on our way. Already Minas Tirith is assailed. I fear that it will fall ere we come to its aid.” [2]

   As the men emerged from their sleep, he was greeted by mumblings of disbelief that the far too brief respite was over, but in short time, the Dúnedain were all on their feet and back in the saddle. Aragorn pushed the horses even harder than before. He was convinced now that everything rested upon reaching Pelargir before the enemy had a chance to sail for Minas Tirith. If they did not, they would fail utterly. That they might arrive in battle practically on their knees with weariness preyed on his mind constantly. It went against all his military training to hamper his men’s fighting abilities in this way. Tactically, he knew he should hold something in reserve, but it was an uncomfortable truth he could ill afford to ignore that they must arrive in time, no matter their condition.

   Rested but late would be too late.

   They were heading due east, making directly for Pelargir now. Aragorn had vague recollections of having been in this land once before though it was many years ago. He urged Roheryn even faster as he stared ahead; grim-faced and resolute. Sheer, ruthless determination drove him onwards, though he was so tired he stayed in the saddle by instinct alone. His legs felt like wood and his muscles burned; he doubted he would even be able to stand upright when he finally dismounted, but on he rode. Every now and then he shouted encouragement to those behind but he did not dare turn around and look upon the faces of his men. He knew he was pushing them to their limits and beyond. None of them had ever endured a journey as unrelentingly hard as this. Even his brothers had not and he himself had but rarely. Quite how much more he could ask of any of them, he did not know. He hoped they would all remain with him to the end though he was stretching old loyalties to new lengths. Yet in spite of his dire need, still he would command none to continue who would rather turn aside.

    Roheryn stumbled for the third time in an hour. Aragorn leant forward and briefly stroked the horse’s neck, speaking softly to him as he did so. The horse’s red coat was white with lather and Aragorn knew he was nearing the end. They would never reach Pelargir if their horses dropped dead beneath them.

   He risked a quick glance behind, careful not to catch the eyes of any of his men. They followed but they were clearly exhausted. Halbarad was right behind him, still stalwartly holding aloft the banner. But his tired eyes met his for a moment. The mixture of fear and pain lurking behind them pricked Aragorn’s conscience. Four days and nights now they had ridden hard with barely any rest. Yet, much as it pained him to drive them so, he knew he had no choice; there was simply no time to spare. He could not allow them to stop, not yet.

   All night they continued to pursue their enemies, driving them ever before them like stampeding cattle until, when it felt as if they could not endure another moment in the saddle, ahead they saw the great expanse of the Anduin. In the strange darkness, the Great River loomed in front of them like some huge grey monster wallowing in the lush pastures of Lebennin. The sound of a multitude of gulls taking flight filled the air as they charged toward it.

   And on its banks, stood the port of Pelargir. Even on the brink of exhaustion, Aragorn felt a great surge of joy at seeing the ancient city once more. But this was far more than mere relief that the long road from Erech had finally reached its end.  Forty years had passed since Aragorn had led his fleet back to this very harbour following his victory over the Corsairs; now at last he was back in the Gondor he knew and loved and while there was still strength in his arm to raise his sword, he would do his utmost to defend her.

   He withdrew Andúril from its scabbard and behind him, he heard the clear ring of many swords being similarly unsheathed.

   “Ride, my friends, ride hard. Battle is before us, but Valar willing, we shall have victory and with it, may we find new hope.” It stirred his heart to hear the Grey Company quicken their pace at his words and as one they charged forward, raised swords held aloft.

   The outer ramparts of the port were guarded but none held to their posts as the Shadow Host drew near. Aragorn led the charge as they passed under the abandoned gateway; the horses’ hooves like thunder on the ancient stones. The Grey Company galloped headlong down the twisting streets and raced towards the quay. Before them ran the last of the fleeing invaders and on their heels, right behind them, was the Army of the Dead. And in their wake, still trailing a safe distance behind, came Angbor with a great host gathered from the valleys of Lamedon and Lebennin.

   They arrived at the harbour not a moment too soon. An entire fleet of fifty or more Black Ships was moored along the quay and the garrison of the port was struggling against the full might of Umbar. The invading host had the upper hand and now that they were joined by the remnants from the battle at Linhir, they vastly outnumbered the defenders. But the fleeing host brought with it rumour of an unspeakable terror that had hunted them all the way from the Uplands. Many of the Haradrim took flight at these tidings and several ships had already left the harbour as they tried to escape to the far side of the Anduin. But when those who remained could retreat no further, the enemy turned to face their pursuers. With their backs to the sea, the Haradrim were fearsome to look upon. Their long sabres were poised ready to severe heads from bodies of those who had pushed them to the brink. But as the Grey Company came face to face with their enemy, they unexpectedly heard the sound of laugher. It rang menacingly in the ears of the Dúnedain as they realised how puny an army they must seem in the eyes of their foe. Enheartened, the Haradrim prepared their deadly strike.

   But Aragorn cast aside his weariness and halted defiantly in front of them. If he had any doubts that the Shadow Host would finally fulfil their vow, not a flicker of uncertainty showed on his stern face. He sat up tall and straight on his great horse and in a loud and commanding voice, he cried: “Come now! By the Black Stone I call you!” [3]

   Silence descended on the harbour as the Haradrim waited in wonder, and then, from out of the shadows, swept the Army of the Dead.

   The grey mist surged forward and the Dead Men held aloft their ghostly swords as they charged towards the enemies of Gondor. Whether their blades had bite or not, it no longer mattered. The hearts of the Haradrim quailed before such an unearthly foe and none stood against them as terror swiftly unmanned the offensive of Umbar. The Shadow men swarmed along the harbour and up into every ship. The wide expanse of the Anduin was no barrier to them either as they raced across the river to halt the retreat of those ships already on the open water.

   The host of Umbar was completely routed. Many leapt into the river to escape their terrifying foe and were drowned. Others fled south and those that attempted to seek refuge in the town, were driven back mercilessly by Aragorn and his men. Finally, as the day drew to an end, the Haradrim were utterly defeated.   The fleet was taken and the battle over. Some of the ships were ablaze but most of the enemy fleet was now in the hands of Aragorn and his men.

   Yet as their enemies fled, screams of terror could be heard coming from the holds of the ships.

   “Slaves!”

   Aragorn turned to his men. “All of you, go now, one to each of these ships, and comfort the poor wretches shackled within. Bid them have no fear, but persuade them, if you can, to continue to do their work willingly for a while longer. We have need of them now if we are to reach Minas Tirith before all is lost.” He would not compel the slaves to remain at the oars but handling the Black Ships would be far from easy without them.

   Aragorn looked about the quay. Few but the dead and the injured remained. Most of the people of Pelargir had fled when the terrible army had arrived. Aragorn jumped down from Roheryn, a blast of agony shooting through his sore limbs as his feet landed heavily on the hard cobbles. He quickly realised he would need the assistance of the townsfolk to deal with the carnage of the battle but he knew he would receive little aid from the living while the dead remained in their midst.

   And he had a vow to honour.

   The fleeing Haradrim had departed in such haste they had even abandoned their trumpets and their bugles. Some of his men had returned from their task of freeing the slaves and Aragorn instructed them to sound as many trumpets as could be found. The clear notes soared above all other noise and a hush quickly descended on the harbour. Not a sound was heard from the ships or the shore as the Shadow Host began assembling on the quay. The few living that remained swiftly retreated to the safety of nearby buildings as the grey mist swelled along the waterfront. The Dead men were barely visible though their eyes gleamed red in the light of the burning ships ablaze in the harbour. Only their shadowy swords could still be clearly seen as they held them aloft. They were waiting for Isildur’s Heir. They had played their part and now were owed their due.

   Aragorn climbed up into the largest of the ships and there he stood on the deck, Andúril in his hand, his hair flying in the wind, as tall and mighty as any great King that had sailed across the sea in an earlier Age of the world.

    He looked down upon the Army of the Dead and addressed them in a great voice.

  “Hear now the words of the Heir of Isildur! Your oath is fulfilled. Go back and trouble not the valleys ever again! Depart and be at rest!” [4]

   He was greeted by silence, but then the King of the Dead stepped forward and broke his spear and bowed. Almost immediately, the grey mist faded to nothing and was gone. And the harbour was empty, save for the horses of the Dúnedain and Legolas and Gimli who had remained with them.

     Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment and said a silent prayer of thanks that they had arrived in time to avert this threat to Gondor’s border. Achieving this goal had so consumed his thoughts for days now he could scarcely believe the task had actually been accomplished. But as the fervour of battle slowly drained out of him, he suddenly felt the mounting weariness which threaten to finally overwhelm him. He had given his all to arrive in Pelargir and he could have dropped to the deck of the ship and slept for a week there and then.

   ‘We have to rest tonight,’ he thought.

~oo0oo~

   Slowly, people started arriving on the quay, cautiously at first, creeping forward; their eyes scanning the harbour fearfully as they searched for signs of the ghosts. Aragorn was glad to see them. He now had a great fleet at his command yet he needed fighting men to fill the vessels if he was to succour Minas Tirith in her hour of need. Once it was clear that the ghostly mist had departed for good, the harbour quickly became a riot of activity. Many of the slaves began disembarking from the ships, wandered aimlessly about the harbour as if in a daze.  Some were men of Gondor captured by the Haradrim near their homes along the coast; others were foreigners from farther south, now far from their native lands.

   Then, amid the mounting confusion, Angbor arrived with a great company from Lamedon. Their numbers had been swelled further on their journey by those eager to hear more of the Heir of Isildur. Rumour of that name had spread like wildfire through the lowlands and, behind them, many others followed, their curiosity overcoming their fear.

    Aragorn looked at the men arriving at the harbour and felt his strength surging again. There must be hundreds, thousands even, converging on the port. Now that the Black fleet has been defeated, even more would come. All the forces from the Southern fiefs had nothing to hinder their coming to the aid of Minas Tirith. Not all the men could be described as soldiers, yet they were hale and hearty and carried with them weapons of sorts.

   The ships of the enemy would arrive in Minas Tirith carrying men of Gondor after all.

   Suddenly there was much to do yet many hands to do it. Angbor immediately came seeking the Heir of Isildur and climbed up into the great ship to speak with him. He bowed his knee as he stood before him.

   “My lord, I am yours to command,” he said.

   “Angbor, my good man, whom I shall name the fearless,” said Aragorn, “it gladdens my heart to see you. First, the injured need to be cared for and the dead removed. But there are others who can do that. Rather I would bid you assemble all those able to fight, here, in this harbour. Scour the port and the ships for weapons and supplies. The ships must be made ready to carry an army by tomorrow morning at the very latest. Then, I shall set sail for Minas Tirith with as many men as these vessels can hold. But I think perhaps there are already far more men gathering here than that.”

   “There are indeed my lord,” said Angbor, obviously rather pleased with his success in this matter. “I gathered behind me all that I could on our march here, just as my lord requested. Most are on foot but there are many horsemen as well.”

   “You have done well, Angbor,” said Aragorn, smiling at him. “This then I ask of you. Once the fleet has sailed, come after us with all the men that remain. Those that can find craft should make their way up river with all speed. And of the rest, I ask you to take the road through Lossarnach and follow with all the haste you can.”

   Angbor bowed. “It will be my pleasure, my lord,” he said as he left.

   Aragorn watched for a moment as Angbor immediately began to bring order to the harbour and was encouraged by what he saw. ‘With men like that commanding the fiefs, there is good reason to have hope for Gondor,’ he thought.

   He looked about him at the frantic activity in the quay. and the many men already busily rolling out supplies from the harbour stores. Everything appeared to be well in hand and it was clear he was not really needed. Suddenly he felt very hungry and he was quite sure his men would be as glad of a rest and a cooked meal as he. He was about to return to the quay to find Halbarad and see what they could organise, when he suddenly spotted his brothers crossing the gang plank and boarding his ship. As they came before him, Aragorn did not think he had ever seen them looking so weary. Without thought, he opened his arms to them, as glad to receive comfort as to offer it. They embraced him together but, as they pulled back, neither of them spoke for many moments but looked at Aragorn almost as if they were seeing him properly for the very first time. There was a solemnity in their baring, a reverence even, that Aragorn had, in the past, detected in their demeanour to others but never before to him. Elladan was the first to speak.

   “I no longer see the Chieftain of the Dúnedain standing before me, but a man worthy of the title of Isildur’s Heir. You have achieved much, Estel. Your hour has come at last. Just look at all these men awaiting your command. As we walked among them we could almost feel their excitement that the Heir of Isildur has come to them now in their most dire need. Already there is talk of the return of the king and as a king you must be to them. They will expect no less.” He smiled warmly and added: “Adar would be so proud of you. You have come a long way for a man who even a fortnight ago, had only Legolas and Gimli as comrades.”

   Aragorn laughed. “Yes, much has happened very quickly, but I do not desire any to call me a king yet. There is still much to be accomplished before any may truly do that.”

   “This is true, Estel,” said Elrohir. “But as a king you may appear, nonetheless, whether you will it or not.” He paused for a moment to pull a pouch from his tunic. He opened it and inside was a small roll of velvet. “I have something for you that we brought from Rivendell. This was placed in our care by our father who thought you might have need of it when you at last arrive at Minas Tirith.”  He carefully unfolded the velvet cloth and inside was a filet of mithril, in the centre of which was a great white crystal that blazed brightly as the light touched its perfect surfaces.

   “The Elendilmir!”

   Aragorn gasped in wonder as he tentatively reached out his hand to take it from his brother. He had not laid eyes upon it for many a year. It was his by right, but Elrond had long kept in safe at Rivendell and the occasions for its use were rare. Arathorn, so he had been told, had worn it at his wedding and at the short, bitter ceremony that hailed him as chieftain on Arador’s death. But Aragorn had never yet had occasion to wear it himself. He marvelled at the beauty of it, though he knew it did not have the potency of the original that had been lost with Isildur. At Elrond’s behest, this one had been made nearly three thousand years ago as a replacement, yet it was an ancient relic of the lost kingdom in its own right.

   “But I wonder that Elrond sent it now,” he said. “I would not have expected it to come to me without the Sceptre and I know I shall not receive that unless we have the victory against Sauron.”

   “Adar told us he sent it as a gesture of his belief in you and as proof, should any be needed, of your right to your claim on the throne. It is the token of the King of Arnor, Estel. We thought you might wish to wear it when we arrive in battle at Minas Tirith.”

   Aragorn was unsure of what to say. This same fillet had been worn by all his ancestors as far back as Valandil. It had sat on the noblest of brows and soon it would rest on his. In the last few weeks, as each day had passed, he had slowly become ever more aware of the mantle of kingship settling about his shoulders. He had felt it only moments ago when he had stood and surveyed the scene in the harbour, watching his own men working along side the men of Gondor. He had suddenly realised these where all his people now. Whether he commanded them or not, it made no difference; they were already following his lead. Now that he had openly proclaimed himself as Isildur’s Heir to Gondor’s living, as well as her dead, there could be no return to the anonymity of before. There was no way back. All would look to him now to fulfil the role of the monarch and he knew he must deliver.

   And yet he felt more than ready to follow in the footsteps of his forbearers. As Elladan had said, even a fortnight ago, it would have taken a leap of faith for most to picture him as a king. But not any more. He had passed tests more severe and more rigorous than he could ever have imagined in coming even thus far. He had risen to all the challenges asked of him, as he hoped he would rise to those that must surely yet be demanded of him in the days ahead. A battle may have been won that day but the war most certainly was not.

   “Estel? Will you wear it?” Elrohir was looking at him.

   Aragorn stared at the beautiful jewel in his hand; the prospect of wearing it both thrilling and humbling. Finally he said: “I would be honoured to wear the Star of Elendil when I come before the City of Kings.”

   His gaze turned to the North, as it so often had when he lived in Gondor in his youth. But now he was not dreaming wistfully of Eriador or Rivendell. His thoughts were of Minas Tirith and how she fared. Was there any hope that they would arrive in time, he wondered. He thought of Gandalf and Pippin, trapped within her walls as the city burned all about them, waiting for the ramparts to be breeched and the butchers of Mordor to come pouring through them. He shuddered as his imagination got the better of him. They must arrive in time, they simply must. But he knew he could do nothing more until the fleet was ready to sail.

  “Come, my brothers,” he said, clasping them both on their shoulders. “Tonight, we must eat and find what rest we can while the ships are made ready and in the morning we shall depart. At last we sail for Minas Tirith and if the city is not already lost, may it be our swords that drive the Dark Lord’s vile hordes from Gondor’s soil for good.”

~oo0oo~

  Mighty indeed was Aragorn that day. All the black fleet was in his hands; and he chose the greatest ship to be his own.

The Last debate                                                                                       Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And special thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 33: Halbarad

This is an evil door and my death lies beyond it.

The Passing of the Grey Company                                                         Return of the King

   As I wait on the prow of this Black Ship, I feel my guts twist as they never have before. The oarsmen labour tirelessly at full stretch to haul this mighty dromund to war with all speed. The harbour fast approaches as the wind that has been strengthening behind us aids them in their task, carrying us swiftly to our doom. We can clearly see the battle awaiting us now and it is terrible; the might of our enemies beyond our greatest fears. I clasp the black staff tightly as if to crush my fear beneath my bloodless knuckles.

   We arrive not a moment too soon. Now I understand the need that compelled you to drive us to the very brink of exhaustion on our long road here. You were right to do so. Had this fleet sailing behind us been filled with the swords of our enemies, all hope would now be lost. Instead the men within the hulls are but the vanguard of those who rallied to your banner. With them rides our only hope of turning the tide that waxes against Gondor even as we prepare to enter the fray.

   But I do not believe we are finished yet. It fills all our hearts to see the Men of Gondor and the Dúnedain of Arnor united once more and standing shoulder to shoulder as we prepare to challenge the might of Mordor. We have tasted victory once already and, although the greater battle looms before us, I feel in my heart you will not be defeated.   Hope has ever been your companion and it will not desert you today. Even now, if my eyes do not deceive me, the sky lightens above us. The foul air of Mordor will not prevail; already it takes flight at our coming.

    I can not tell you how much it lifts my troubled heart to see the sun striving for the mastery of the skies. When we took that terrible road through the mountain, I feared we would never live to see the sun again. As it was, when we emerged from that path, we had but one day only before the start of this oppressive blackness. But as my mind drifts back to that last clear evening, and the beauty of the sky as the sun set behind the White Mountains, I forebode then that I would never see its like again. The walls of the White City are nearly before us and when all the battle is raging in our midst, then, I shall meet my doom. Long have I felt that I shall not live to enjoy the peace that our victory may yet bring. But I would change nothing. Ever would I be at your side and I shall not falter as I ride into battle with you now.

~oo0oo~

   It is seventy years, my friend, since first we met. You were but a lad then, excited about joining your first proper patrol. Your Elven brothers were with you as I recall. We all knew whose son you were though you, of course, did not. You were free of all cares then, your only concern not to disappoint. You did not see the knowing looks that passed among us. Glad we were and proud that our chieftain showed such promise, though you heard none of the praise levelled at you.

   That day our hope returned.

   And when you at last learned of your inheritance and left the sanctuary of Rivendell, we rejoiced to have our young chieftain finally living among us again. I regretted then the years of our youth that we had not shared. Had you been other than Arathorn’s son we would have played together as small boys and got into trouble as young lads do. I took you to my heart from the very first, although at times I could not resist a tease over your Elvish ways.

   You grew quickly into your new role and impressed us all with your valour and your skill. Soon none would dare to tease you. Nor was it long before you captured the hearts of all our people and even the dourest old campaigners came to love you. But in too short time, it seemed, you left us again and were gone for many long years. I can not pretend any of us wished to see you leave only to serve a foreign lord, and some, I am sure, despaired that you would ever return. I had more faith in you than that and trusted to your wisdom. Long did we patiently await you and when at last you came North again, it was clear to all how much you had grown. How mighty you had become, a great leader of men and we followed you gladly.  Now when you are abroad, as you too often are, it is I who has the duty of leading our people in your absence and I am honoured by the trust you have so often placed in me.

   Long years we have spent on the road together and many a cold, wet campsite have we shared as we trudged the wilds of Eriador. But when we at length returned to our homes, my heart always grieved that it was not your fate to find a wife among the Dúnedain. I have my own beloved and my dear sons to bring me succour in my lonely life, but you, my cousin, have no one to ease your cares and comfort your body. Hard are our lives, but harder still is yours. You push yourself unceasingly to achieve what you must. Only you understand what truly drives you, but your people know the purity of your heart and we will always stand beside you, whatever you ask of us.

   When lately we had word that you were in need of your kin, all who heeded the call came gladly to your aid, though we could not have known then how terrible was the path that you would lead us upon. On the day we left Rivendell in search for you, I was humbled that it was I whom your lady asked to carry the Standard of the King, made, she told me, with her own fair hand. No greater honour could she have bestowed upon me, yet I feared we would never find you as we rode through those empty plains of endless grassland. Great was our joy when we at last met on the fields of Rohan.

   Dark and long have been our days lately, but I count standing beside you in that bleak tower in the Hornburg as the darkest. That day, I knew more fear than at any time in all my years. What you went through in that encounter I can only guess, but you emerged the victor and now the Dark Lord knows his foe and he fears you.

    And so at last you can throw away your disguise and as a king you will ride to the White City, though you have ever been a king to those of us who know and love you. Aboard this Black Fleet, a great army sails under your command as finally we come to war. The City burns, as you long feared, but the day is yet young. We can still rout this spawn of Mordor.

    As the ships dock at the Harlond, I prepare to unfurl the banner of my lord. I can not prevent the tremble in my fingers as I untie the thongs that bind it tight around the staff. I have only to release it, and the White Tree of Gondor and the Crown of Elendil will once more fly free in the wind before the City of Kings.    

    I glance across at you as you stand beside your horse; your face grim and fell, your eyes ablaze; never have I seen their light burn so keenly as they do now as you await your destiny. On your brow is the Star of Elendil, in your hand is his sword, reforged and aflame, and on your breast, the Elessar.

    How great a lord have you become; my heart soars to behold you thus and I am suddenly overcome. I feel unworthy of the honour you have granted me. Without thought, I drop to one knee and, taking your hand in mine, I press your fingers to my lips. But gently you raise me to my feet. You smile and suddenly it is my companion of old I see before me once again. In your eyes now I see only love and I know without doubt that you would sacrifice your very life for me, as you would for any one of us.

    I shall offer no less.

    This is your hour, my friend; soon all shall behold the return of the king. You have laboured long and hard for this day and now may you find victory. I shall be there beside you, holding high the great black standard, and together we shall ride into battle. And if it is indeed my fate to give my life for you then it could not be given for greater cause.

   For you, my brother, there can be no higher honour.

~oo0oo~

Thus came Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elessar, Isildur’s heir, out of the Paths of the Dead, borne upon a wind from the Sea to the kingdom of Gondor… There came Legolas, and Gimli wielding his axe, Halbarad with the standard, Elladan and Elrohir with stars on their brow, and the dour-headed Dunedain, Rangers of the North, leading a great valour of the folk of… the South. But before all went Aragorn with the Flame of the West, Andúril like a new fire kindled, Narsil re-forged as deadly as of old; and upon his brow was the Star of Elendil.

The Battle of the Pelennor Fields                                                     The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And special thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 34: The Hands of the King

   Aragorn stood beneath his banner, silent and stern, as one lost in thought of things long past or far away; but his eyes gleamed like stars that shine the brighter as the night deepens.

The Field of Cormallen                                                                    The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

 Aragorn looked upon the endless faces of the Enemy swarming through the Black Gate and hope finally died in his heart.The battle became even more intense as reinforcements swelled the Dark Lord’s forces and the host of the West fought on valiantly. But Aragorn now knew they could not win this war. Sauron would yet have the victory. Minas Tirith may have been saved but his efforts had earned Gondor a respite, nothing more. It could not be long now before each and every one of them would fall to the overwhelming might of Mordor.

   He had expected no less.  He and the other Captains had led the courageous remnant of the hosts of Gondor and Rohan to the very stronghold of their foes to challenge Sauron to this one final battle. They were all well aware they would be outnumbered many times over. Victory with arms had never been their hope. Their role was one of decoy, blinding Sauron to his real peril. It had been a bitter last gamble; their only real hope had lain with Frodo.

     Yet as Aragorn gazed upon the battle, he stood with the grim determination that only comes from one facing certain death but who will yet remain defiant to the end. He took some comfort in knowing he had played his part to the full; as they all had, but in the end it had not been enough. And as he saw the hopes and dreams of a lifetime turn to dust before his eyes, for one last time, he allowed his thoughts to drift far away to the North and to Arwen, his fear for what would become of her almost unbearable.

   But then suddenly it seemed to him that the seething hordes of the Enemy hesitated. They were advancing no longer but looking around them wildly in dismay. And to Aragorn’s amazement, the hovering menace of the Nazgûl turned and fled into the darkness. Why they had gone, he could not guess. Some distant call from their Master had summoned them, perhaps. Then, without warning, the skies belonged to the Eagles of the North. A huge gathering of the great birds majestically swept over the battle and, at the sight of them, the first kernel of hope returned to Aragorn’s heart.

    Incredible though it seemed, the hosts of Mordor were faltering.

    At this floundering of their foe, the Host of Gondor drove against the enemy with renewed vigour. And as they did so, it was as if a great thunder blasted through the skies above them and the very ground beneath their feet rumbled in answer. But, then, to the absolute wonder of all, the Towers of the Black Gate began to crumble at their very foundations. The ramparts that had appeared so impregnable, crashed to the ground as timbers split and boulders burst asunder. And out of the darkness of Mordor, there rose a great shadow filling the sky, crowned with fire and terrible to behold. And from it, came the hand of Sauron, disembodied, yet reaching over them all as if the Dark Lord had only to stoop and pluck any one of them up into the airs above and toy with them as a cat with a mouse. For a moment, terror gripped Aragorn’s heart as he watched in horror, scarcely able to believe his eyes. He felt his flesh shudder as if Sauron’s evil fingers were pointing menacingly towards him and him alone. What foul witchcraft was this, he wondered. Could Sauron still claim them now, just when it seemed that all might not be lost after all?

   But suddenly both the hand and the shadow were gone, as if they were nothing more than a cloud of dust, blown away by a sudden gust of wind. Beyond all hope, Sauron was vanquished and his forces were in disarray.

   And then it was as if time had stood still. Every man, orc and beast waited in stunned silence, the shock of this incredible turn of events felt as keenly by the Host of the West as the Forces of Mordor. To the Enemy, there came the cold grip of fear and despair, tearing the heart from them, but to the Men of the West, there slowly came joy, where only moments before all had seemed lost.

      Far in the distance, a great fire could be seen spewing out of Mount Doom and Aragorn gradually realised that somewhere up in that distant peak, there were two little hobbits who had achieved a feat beyond that of any of the Great among them.

   Frodo must have destroyed the Ring and so ended the rule of Sauron.

   Aragorn stood and stared in utter, stunned astonishment. He had fought and laboured nearly all his life to achieve this end. He had endured great hardship and suffered personal deprivation in the faint hope that one day this incredible event would come to pass. That it finally had was almost too much to for his mind to absorb. The tumult of joy and shock and relief surging through him was completely overwhelming.

   He had lived through the last month, hour by hour, minute by minute; progressing from one seeming insurmountable challenge to another, until they had all come at last to this dread and lifeless place where he had fully expected the final end to come. Victory had seemed so remote, so unlikely; he had hardly dared to hope that any of them would live to see another dawn. But somehow, against all reason, Frodo and Sam had completed their unenviable quest. The full impact of the consequences of this had yet to fully permeate his mind, when he suddenly realised, with mounting horror, that the hobbits themselves would now be in terrible peril from the savagery of Mount Doom. 

   Frodo and Sam might not survive to see anything of the world they had just saved.

   Then, it was as if time started again as abruptly as it had stopped. The fighting was continuing; the orcs and creatures of Mordor might be rudderless without their lord, but the men from the South and East, driven by their deep hatred of the West, fought on regardless.

   Gandalf stood beside Aragorn, watching the unfolding of these extraordinary events. His thoughts had clearly run in a similar same vein for he turned to him, and said: “If Gwaihir will consent to bear me, I will depart with all haste to search for Frodo and Sam. The command of the battle, I leave now to you.”

   Aragorn nodded. “Bring them to me as swiftly as you are able, Gandalf, I greatly fear the ills they will have received.”

   Gandalf did not answer, but his face was grim. He then called in a great voice and Gwaihir descended from far above to land beside him. Aragorn watched as Gandalf climbed on to the Eagle’s back and at once they soared into the sky, racing south with more speed than the wind itself. He wished he could have gone with him though he knew he was no longer free to depart at will. Yet, his heart went out to Frodo and Sam; he could only imagine what tortuous trials they had endured to achieve what they had. He sent a silent prayer to the Valar that Gandalf should find them in time.

   He stood on the heap of slag for a moment longer, staring at the scene of devastation before him.  He was still in a daze, yet he knew he must bring his mind back to the conflict before him. There was a battle to be fought and won before thoughts could truly turn to victory.

   To Mordor, Aragorn sent the larger part of the troops to pursue the remnant of Sauron’s forces deep into that land, even to the ruin of Barad-dur itself if needs be. To others, he gave the task of guarding the many Easterlings and Southrons who had surrendered, while a small division he instructed to retreat to the edge of the slag heaps where they made a camp to care for the many who were injured.

   The fighting continued to rage on for the rest of that day, but once all military matters were in hand, Aragorn turned his attention to saving lives. While order was brought to the camp, he set about tending wounds. The number of casualties was appalling. Many more were suffering from the Black Breath.  But he had not been working long when a messenger came running to find him.

   “Pardon me, my lord,” said the soldier, “but you are needed outside urgently. Mithrandir is most insistent that it is you and you alone who can be of any help.”

   Aragorn handed the care of his patient to another and raced from the tent. He found three Eagles had arrived in their midst. Gandalf had returned and was gently relieving the great birds of their burdens. Aragorn could see at once it was two hobbits that they carried.

   “Gandalf, do they yet live?” he cried as he ran towards them.

   “Barely, they are at the brink of death. We reached them none too soon.”

   Aragorn knelt beside one small person lying on the ground. It was Frodo, but not as he remembered him. He was barely recognizable as the hobbit he had last seen at Parth Galen only a month ago. He had wasted to little more than half the weight he had been then. He appeared to be in desperate need of water and there were burns to his face and hands. He was filthy with the grime of weeks of toil as well as the more recent ash and dust from the exploding mountain. What cuts and bruises lay concealed under all that dirt, Aragorn could only guess. The most obvious wound was a missing finger which was still bleeding profusely.

   Without pausing to examine him further, Aragorn bundled Frodo into his arms. Gandalf stooped to pick up Sam and together they brought the two hobbits into a tent and laid them on the make-shift beds.

   “Gandalf, how fairs Samwise?” asked Aragorn, glancing up at the hobbit being placed on the bed next to Frodo.

   “Better than Frodo, I think,” replied Gandalf, “but that is not to say much.”

   The healers quickly gathering around, eager to assist with caring for the hobbits and begin the long task of cleaning and tending their wounds, but Aragorn suddenly stayed their efforts. He sensed the fragility of the hobbits’ hold on life itself and knew he had to put forth all his skills with the greatest of haste.

   He asked for hot water to be brought to him immediately. He then opened a small leather pouch which he kept strapped to his belt at all times and removed two leaves of athelas. He had gathered all he could of this plant in Minas Tirith before he left the city. Never again, he had vowed, would he be found without this herb which was by far the most potent in his armoury as a healer. He breathed on the two leaves and dropped them into the water. The air instantly freshened and Aragorn himself felt calmed and eased as he prepared to do what he must.

      ‘I pray I have the strength to do his,’ he thought. He had managed to recall Faramir, Eowyn, Merry and countless others that night after the battle on the Pelennor, but none had endured what Frodo had. Oh, how he wished that Elrond with his greater skill could be there with him. The task before him now was beyond anything he had ever attempted before. He breathed deeply again of the athelas. He must do this. He would not lose his dear friends, not while he had any hope at all they could be saved.

   He went first to Frodo, whose condition he deemed to be the most critical. Not only had he suffered the most physically, but Aragorn could not know what darkness still lay within him from his possession of the Ring.  He knelt by the side of the bed and took Frodo’s hand in his and gently laid his other hand upon his forehead. He closed his eyes and allowed his mind to empty of everything save the memory of Frodo’s face. He called Frodo’s name over and over, each time more loudly to his own hearing and slowly he felt himself sliding into that other place where Frodo had gone and he must now follow.

   It was very dark and, as he groped his way forward, he could see nothing at all. He continued to call Frodo’s name as he stumbled on, searching desperately through the dense blackness. He sensed Frodo’s presence but, frustratingly, he could not find him.   Still he called, but there was no reply and, as time passed, he became increasingly fearful. He knew that the further he himself went into this place, the harder it would be for him to find his own way back. Very quickly he was becoming weary; he felt as if he had walked for league after endless league through this unyielding darkness. Every movement of his feet now required a monumental effort. It was as if he was not welcome where he was going and some unseen presence was hindering him, encouraging him to retreat.

   But he would not turn back, not yet. Still he kept steadily searching the empty space about him. He held out his hands in front of him as he went in the hope of finding anything solid and real in this void. But there was nothing; no wind, no air even, no ground beneath his feet, nothing. He felt neither hot nor cold; there was only this silent, empty, nothingness.  

      Then, just as he began to fear he would be too late and Frodo would already be beyond recall, he suddenly saw a light. It was only quite dim, yet in this dread place it was warm and welcoming and it beckoned to him. But he did not trust it. He averted his eyes as it grew brighter, yet he knew he must approach it if he was to have any hope of finding Frodo. Slowly, he staggered towards it; his strength fading fast. But then, when he knew he could go no further, far ahead of him, and to his great joy, he saw his friend. Frodo was walking very slowly along a stony path towards a plain wooden gate. It was a simple, rustic gate of the sort found in every farmyard in the Shire. It was exactly what Aragorn would have expected to find awaiting a hobbit, but he knew, with absolute certainty, that once Frodo passed through it, he would be lost to him forever.

   He had to stop him before he reached it.

   He called as loudly as he could, his voice as frantic as he felt, and this time Frodo paused and turned to look at him.

   ‘Frodo, wait!’ Aragorn cried again. “Come back! I’ve come to find you and I can lead you from this place if you will but let me.” He held out his hand and looked straight into the hobbit’s eyes, willing him to do as he bid.

   Frodo hesitated. For a moment it seemed he was turning away as if to carry on walking, but then he looked back and said: ‘Aragorn, is that you? I didn’t know you were here too.’

   ‘Yes, Frodo, it is I, and I have come to take you home.’ Aragorn was still holding out his hand, silently pleading with Frodo to heed him.

    But Frodo remained where he was and did not come. He looked exhausted and ready to drop from weariness.

   ‘I do not want to go back, Aragorn,” he said. “I am tired; I will rest here awhile, in peace.’

   Then he turned and carried on walking.  

   ‘Frodo! Frodo!” Aragorn was desperate. “There is nothing to fear. You can rest here also. I will care for you now. Come to me, Frodo, please, I beg you.” His heart was in his mouth as Frodo approached the gate; he knew not what else to say to persuade him to turn back. Finally, in one last attempt, he cried: “Sam is here too, Frodo. You would not want to leave Sam, would you?’

   Frodo seemed to consider this for a long moment. He was very unsteady on his feet and swayed alarmingly. Aragorn knew time was fast running out, but he could do nothing more. Agonizing moments passed. Still Aragorn waited. Then at last Frodo started to walk towards him. He smiled and took Aragorn’s outstretched hand.

 ‘No, I would not want to leave Sam. I will come back with you now.’

~oo0oo~

   Gandalf had stood very still, watching, as Aragorn seemed to slip away from him. So removed had he become that the wizard began to fear for his friend. It was several minutes before Aragorn opened his eyes again. He suddenly looked grey and worn, but he smiled at Frodo, who Gandalf noticed was breathing more deeply.

   At length Aragorn stood, swaying slightly as he did so and Gandalf saw the enormous relief on his face.

   “He will sleep peacefully now,” Aragorn said softly. He then gestured to the healers who stood quietly watching. “You may begin to tend him, but I will treat his wounds myself shortly.”

   Aragorn then turned his attention to Sam. Again he broke two athelas leaves and laid his hands upon the stricken hobbit. He took a deep breath and prayed his strength would see him through a second journey into the void. As he closed his eyes and felt the darkness surround him, his weariness descended upon him more quickly that it had before. Immediately his feet felt laden as he struggled to make his way through the emptiness but this time the blackness was not as deep. He did not think he would have the strength to travel as deeply into this place as he had to find Frodo. He could only hope Sam would be easier to reach. And to his relief, he had not gone far when he came upon Sam sitting on the same path that Frodo had walked upon, but the light was only a dim flicker like a candle away in the distance. Sam had his head was in his hands and Aragorn could tell he had been crying.

   He went and sat beside him.

   “Hello, Sam,” he said. “I was hoping to find you here.”

   Sam’s head shot out of his hands.

   “Strider! Well who would have thought it!” The hobbit smiled, but then his face looked troubled and full of sorrow. “I’ve lost him and I can’t find him anywhere,” he said as tears welled in his eyes. “One minute we were there together and I was holding his hand... oh, his poor hand, you should see what that Gollum did, Strider... but then he was gone and I’ve searched and searched and I’ve lost him.” Then Sam began to weep. Aragorn put his arm around him and tried to comfort him.

   “Perhaps I can help you find Frodo, if you will but come with me,” he said as he stood and began walking back the way he had come. Somehow he had a feeling that calling Sam back was not going to be as straight forward as he had first hoped. And the doubtful look on Sam’s face rather confirmed his fears.

   “Begging your pardon, but I don’t think you’ll be able to find him going that way. He’s up ahead of me; I know that, for sure, though I don’t know why I do, I just do. But I’m so tired, I can’t go any further just at this minute.” Sam put his head back into his hands.

   “You don’t have to go on, Sam. Please, come with me; I’ve come here to help you both.” Aragorn held out his hand to Sam, but Sam stubbornly insisted he must follow his master.

   ‘I know you mean well, Strider, but I can’t leave Mr Frodo. I promised Gildor and a promise is a promise and I can’t break it.’

   ‘I know that well, Sam,’ said Aragorn, ‘and I would not ask you to do so, but Frodo is no longer where you are heading. He is here with me and waiting for you. Trust me, Sam; I will take you to him.’

   Sam sat pondering Strider’s words, frowning deeply. It was not that he doubted the man, he had proved himself often enough, but Sam had spent so long relying totally on his own instincts to keep himself and Frodo alive, he could not yet easily place the care of him into the hands of another. But as he looked at Strider, he saw the love and compassion in his eyes and he knew he spoke truthfully. Yes, of course he could trust Strider to lead him to Frodo. Sam slowly got to his feet and walked towards him. He took his hand and allowed himself to be led far away from the entrance to the Halls of Mandos.

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn opened his eyes to find Sam sleeping peacefully. He smiled at him and gently brushed a lock of filthy hair from his eyes. Now that the hobbits had come this far, he was hopeful that they would yet recover completely. But there was still much to be done.

   “I will tend their wounds now,” he said to Gandalf, but as he tried to stand, his legs gave way and he fell to his knees. The Wizard was immediately beside him, his arms about him.

   “My dear boy, you’re quite spent,” he said, his voice full of concern. “You should rest a while yourself.”

   “Nay, Gandalf, I am well enough,” Aragorn protested as he struggled to his feet, “a few minutes to regain my strength is all I need. I must tend to Frodo and Sam as soon as I am able.”

   Gandalf looked at him very doubtfully, but said no more. He pulled out the flask of Miruvor Elrohir had given him before the battle and handed it to Aragorn.

   “At least have a few sips of this, first,” he said. “Frodo and Sam are through the worst, now.”

   Aragorn did as he was told and, when his weariness had eased, he then worked tirelessly with the other healers. As the hobbits slept, he painstakingly treated every sore and burn on their two little bodies. Frodo’s finger he stitched and the evil sting of Shelob’s he thoroughly cleansed with the water from the athelas leaves. Finally, satisfied he had done all he could, Aragorn gently guided their minds towards the welcoming arms of long, healing sleep.

   That night, after he had laboured long, tending the many injured from the battle, he and Gandalf stood together for a while, gazing with wonder at the sleeping hobbits.

   “I still marvel that they found the strength to see the task through to the bitter end,” said Aragorn. “They have certainly repaid your faith in them many times over.”

   “I confess they surpassed even my expectations,” said Gandalf. “But then that is hobbits for you, Aragorn. As I have often told you, they really are the most amazing creatures.”

~oo0oo~

   “The hands of the King are the hands of healing, dear friends,” Gandalf said. “But you went to the very brink of death ere he recalled you, putting forth all his power, and sent you into the sweet forgetfulness of sleep.”

The Field of Cormallen                                                                     The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 35: The White Tree

   And Aragorn planted the new tree in the court by the fountain, and swiftly and gladly it began to grow; and when the month of June entered in it was laden with blossom.

The Steward and the King                                                                 The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   Very fair it looked today. Its white flowers glistened in the bright afternoon sun and beneath it the water of the fountain echoed its shimmering silver light.

   The White Tree was thriving.

   Aragorn was sure it had grown even in the short time it had been in its new home. It was his firm belief that the tree recognised it was in its rightful place at last and that was why it flourished so. After he had found it, high up near the snows of Mindolluin, he had carried it down from the mountain and carefully planted it himself where the dead tree had stood for so long. Every day since then he had come to gaze at it, to see how it fared; in truth to ensure that it still lived.

   The new king had escaped for a time from his many unfamiliar duties to spend a few precious minutes alone outside in the fresh air. For one so accustomed to solitude, the demands of his new life could at times leave him a little overwhelmed. He had met an enormous number of people in the last few weeks, many of whom looked to him to resolve matters of great importance. They all required a judgement of some sort on his part and he only hoped he made his choices wisely. Such were the needs of the times, there had been no easing him into his new role. He was king now and expected to deal with anything brought before him. So it was good to steal a little time between one duty and the next, to just enjoy the sun and be alone with his thoughts.

   It was a perfect afternoon. High above the plain, the Citadel caught the cool airs softly sweeping down the slopes of Mindolluin, gently mellowing the heat of the midsummer sun. Aragorn sat lazily on the edge of the fountain with his legs stretched out before him, listening to the birds singing and watching the tree grow.

   It was such a symbol of hope for him. In his heart, he was sure this was the sign he had been waiting for and the more the tree thrived and blossomed, the more also did his belief that Arwen was on her way to him. He reached out a hand to gently cup one of the clusters of white flowers. Each one was perfectly formed and beautiful, their delicate fragrance a pure delight. He still marvelled that this was an actual, real ‘White Tree’, a living scion of Galathilion, itself an image of Telperion, a line that had survived from the depths of Ages past. In Minas Tirith, the emblem of the White Tree was to be seen everywhere; on every heraldic device; on every suit of armour; above every doorway in the citadel, as well as above his own throne, but no one in the city had ever seen an actual, living White Tree before.

   But so much was changing now. The war against Sauron was finally over; all around him people were still rejoicing at the newly won victory. Some had found it hard to believe at first that the defeat and occupation they had so long feared and dreaded would not now come to pass. He wondered himself sometimes just how he had lived through those endlessly gruelling days of the war. But although he too had joined in many a celebration and within himself there was now a sense of peace such as he had not known since his childhood, he knew his days as king would be long and empty if the one reward he truly desired was denied him.

   ‘Any day now,’ he thought, ‘any day she will come.’

   He closed his eyes and relaxed. There was no urgency today; whatever he ought to be doing could wait a little while longer. He knew he had so much to be thankful for that he was almost ashamed to ask for anything more. If nothing else, at least he lived and was still whole and unharmed; many others were not so fortunate.

   Numbers beyond reckoning had died; he grieved for them all; the people he knew, as well as the faceless others whom he did not. Most of all he missed Halbarad. Even now, it took only the merest unguarded thought for a lump to form in his throat and that terrible moment when Halbarad’s horse had been cut from beneath him would once again flash before his eyes. In whatever years remained of his life, he knew he would never forget his terror as he raced to his friend’s side. But his memories of Halbarad’s last moments were still far too agonisingly raw for him to dwell upon them, and it was not as if he was the only one who had suffered such loss. There were so many gone; Theoden and Denethor the most lamented among them.

   Countless more had been injured; many would be scarred for life. He had worked alongside the healers in the days following the battle at the Morannon, bringing such aid as his skills allowed. But of all those maimed, it was Frodo who troubled him most. He feared he might never fully recover from his hurts. His were no ordinary battle scars; Aragorn did not know what deeper harm had been inflicted by the burden he had carried so bravely for so long. He owed his dear friend so much he would do anything in his power to ease his suffering, if only he knew how.

   Yes, he was very fortunate. He had come through his many battles unscathed and so he had been spared to enjoy this new Age. And strange and daunting though his new role was at times, it nonetheless felt right. It was after all his birthright. It was what he had long prepared for and had spent all his adult life working towards. The rewards for his long years of hardship would be great; he had every reason to have hope for the future.

    But still he yearned for more.

   In his mind he could picture Arwen as she had been on that grey winter’s evening when he left Rivendell for the last time. Although weighed with care, she was still as young and fair as on the day he first met her. He smiled at the treasured memories of that encounter under the silver birches of so long ago; they were still as vivid in his memory as if it had been just yesterday. The tumult of emotions that coursed through him on that momentous day had seared the images into his mind for ever.

   And after they plighted their troth in Lothlórien, he knew Arwen had never wavered in her love for him. In the thirty long years they had spent apart, he had often been plagued with fears that she may come to regret her choice. But when she had at last returned to Rivendell, those worries had proved quite groundless. He knew he had no reason to doubt her now. Nor in his heart did he doubt Elrond. He had after all, achieved everything that Elrond had demanded of him, impossible though it had seemed at the time. Elrond would honour his promise if, at the last, his daughter was still willing. 

    Aragorn laid a hand on the smooth white bark of the tree’s slender stem. He could almost believe it was warm such was the sensation of life surging within it. The feel of it brought him joy. The line of trees had suffered at the hand of Sauron, much as his own ancestors had done. Yet Nimloth’s line had survived; he could only wait patiently to know the fate of Elendil’s.

~oo0oo~

  The afternoon was slipping away, he must soon return to his duties. There was much to do; there were new alliances to forge and old ones to reaffirm. The Third Age was ending and the Fourth about to begin; with it would come many new challenges. But he was more than ready to meet them. After Sauron, no enemy could daunt him now. There were still battles to be fought and order to be brought to a war torn world, but he knew in time all would be achieved and the new Age would bring an era of peace and prosperity. But in spite of his joy that all this would come to pass, it saddened him that much would also be lost. The passing of the Firstborn into the West grieved him terribly; so many would sail; Elrond; Galadriel; people from Rivendell that he had grown up with and thought of as his family. And then there was Gandalf.

   Aragorn sighed and got to his feet. It was too lovely a day to dwell upon all the friends he was going to miss. He was about to make his way back to the Citadel, when he saw his Steward walking purposefully across the court towards him. Faramir bowed as he came before his king.

  “My lord king, please forgive my disturbing you,” he said.

   “You are not disturbing me, Faramir,” said Aragorn with a wave of his hand as if to dismiss his apology. “It is time I returned to my duties. I have idled here in the sunshine long enough.”

   “I’m sure such idling can be forgiven on as glorious a day as this though, my lord,” said Faramir as he raised his face to the fresh breeze. “There are no matters of such urgency that I can not deal with myself, should you wish to remain here a while longer.”

   Aragorn smiled. He liked Faramir. The young man was the very embodiment of the finest qualities of his Southern kin. He had the same easy, straightforward manner as Ecthelion, yet his wits were as sharp as his own. And his sense of duty to his office and his devotion to Gondor were unquestionable.

  “Nay, I have tasks I should not neglect for too long,” he replied, “but thank you all the same. Tell me though, Faramir, do you not think the tree looks very well in the sunlight today?”

   Faramir studied it for a moment. Aragorn wondered if his Steward had any leisure to spend on such trifles as gazing at the tree. He appeared to have laboured tirelessly at his side ever since his coronation.

   “It does look very well, my lord,” Faramir said at last. “It never fails to bring joy to my heart. Ever did I hope for the return of the King but I never expected such a thing to come to pass in my lifetime.”

    He suddenly looked a little abashed at having spoken so, but Aragorn smiled sympathetically. “I am truly glad it brings you such joy, Faramir; it fills my heart also. And if it is any comfort to you, over the years there were more times than I care to remember when I too doubted the king would ever return. In those far off days when I served your grandfather, it always saddened me greatly to see the dead tree standing thus.”

   The two men contemplated the tree for a moment longer, before Aragorn said: “But I am sure you have not come out here to discuss the White tree. What can I do for you?”

   “Actually, my lord, I have tidings I believe you may wish to hear at once,” replied Faramir. “I have just received word from the look-outs on the walls of the Rammas Echor that a great company of Elven folk is riding from Amon Din towards the city.”

   At last! At last!!

   They were on their way! Aragorn nearly embraced his Steward as a tumult of joy and relief surged through him. 

   “Thank you, Faramir, this is great tidings indeed,” he said, struggling to maintain a calm he most certainly did not feel. “Come, there is much to do; all must be made ready. We shall have many guests to entertain in the city tonight.”

  Then, his face a beacon of joy, the new king cast a last grateful glance at the tree, before leaving to await the arrival of his queen.

~oo0oo~

   “Come and see; there is something I must show you.”

    Aragorn was smiling as he took his new bride’s hand in his and led her quietly away from the dancing and singing in the Merethrond. He hoped no one noticed as they slipped under the great arched doorway that opened into the Court of the Fountain. Outside, the night air was warm and still, a welcome relief from the noisy celebrations in the great hall.

   It was a perfect evening. The court was bathed in soft moonlight and the clear sky was lit by countless glittering stars.

   “Estel, where are we going,” Arwen whispered conspiratorially as if they were children playing truant, though she completely failed to suppress the giggles bubbling up inside her. “Should we really be leaving this early? Our absence will be noticed.”

   Aragorn grinned, feeling rather like a naughty child himself. “There are those who would no doubt agree with the king that he has waited long enough already for his desire and would not grudge him his impatience,” he said as he drew Arwen nearer to him and softly kissed her shoulder. “But I can be patient for a few more hours yet. No, my beloved, my intention is otherwise; I have something I wish you to see tonight.”

   “You are being very mysterious. Is it a wedding gift?”

   “Yes, I think perhaps it is,” said Aragorn as he led Arwen through the moonlight towards the great fountain in the centre of the courtyard.

   Since she had arrived in the city earlier that evening, Aragorn had not a single moment alone with his beloved; there had been so many people to welcome and entertain and court formalities had needed to be strictly observed. His head was still spinning from all that had happened that day and he was glad for a chance to catch his breath. He was deliriously happy and still felt as if he was floating in a whirlwind of pure delight. He had not known it was even possible to feel such joy.

   Earlier that evening, Elrond had presented him with both the Sceptre of Annúminas and the hand of his daughter. Everything he had longed for and dreamed of since he was twenty years old had finally come to pass and it was almost overwhelming. He desperately needed a moment or two away from all the celebrations and well wishers to be alone with his bride and actually convince himself that he was not still dreaming and that he would not at any moment wake and find himself cold and alone by a dying fire somewhere in the wilderness of Middle-earth. 

   Aragorn halted as they came before the sapling and quickly dismissed the guards. Once they were alone, he brought his hand to rest upon the slim truck of the small tree.

   “I wanted to show you this,” he said.

   Arwen stood and gazed at the youthful sapling, its white blossoms glinting silver in the moonlight. “It is a lovely tree, Estel.”

   Aragorn smiled at her bemused expression. “It is no ordinary tree, Arwen, but a White Tree, a descendent of Nimloth no less. Unknown to any, it was growing high up on the side of the mountain. The seed must have lain dormant all these years only to bring forth life now as the return of the king approached. I still wonder at the timing of it.”

   “Oh Estel, a living White Tree, this is indeed wondrous,” cried Arwen as she suddenly understood. She too reached out a hand to feel the smooth bark and lightly touch the delicate flowers. “I never thought to see such a thing. It looks well and I can see with my own eyes it is already thriving. This surely bodes well for the future. Oh I am so glad you showed this to me. May we now be blessed with long years to dwell in this place and watch it grow and flourish into a great and fruitful tree.”

   “I truly believe in my heart that we shall be so blessed,” said Aragorn, softly, squeezing her hand. “The life of the Tree and that of the King shall be entwined forever, just as they always were in the past. My hope soared when I first beheld it. I knew then that you were on your way to me, though I confess I had feared that at the last you would not forebear to leave Elrond.”

   “I can not deny it does not break my heart to do so,” said Arwen, quietly. The grief that passed across her face was only fleeting, but still it tore at Aragorn’s heart. In spite of his joy, the sundering of father and daughter would forever cause him sorrow.

   But Arwen smiled, her sadness put away. “You are my entire life now, Estel; I have made my choice and I shall never regret it.” She spoke firmly and with great assurance.

   “Do you remember all those years ago when first you won my love, you came before me as a king? That day I glimpsed a promise of what you would yet become.”

   Aragorn coloured slightly at the memory of how he was attired on that morning.

   “I felt ridiculously over dressed, Arwen, yet even in Galadriel’s finest weaves, still not worthy of the Evenstar.”

   “You were worthy, Estel, even then, so can you begin to imagine how great now is my joy at beholding the fulfilment of that promise? Our long wait is finally over and it gladdens my heart to see your face so free of care and your smile so lit with joy. Do not allow guilt over Elrond to mar your delight. He would be the very last to wish it so.”

   Aragorn nodded. “I do know, truly I do,” he said. He had been over this a thousand times in his mind; he had always known hearts would be broken, whatever Arwen’s choice. From the moment he first laid eyes upon her under the silver birches and his heart was lost forever, the doom of all three of them was made.

   But then he frowned suddenly as he remembered his most immediate concern. “I have not yet had a chance to ask you if you think you will be happy here in this city,” he asked. It was his dearest wish that she should be, but he was greatly afraid that she would not. “How do you find Minas Tirith, my dearest? This city of stone is not Imladris or Lothlórien.”

   Arwen’s fingers tightened around his, “No, it is not, but it is the home of my beloved and so it is my home. I shall be happy anywhere in Middle-earth if you are beside me, Estel. But this is a fine place. I shall be well content to make this my home and here we shall raise our children.”

   Aragorn smiled, relieved. “I’m glad. And we shall return to the North again one day, as soon as my duties allow it, I promise.”

  As Arwen stood beside him, her pale skin flawless in the moonlight, her long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders, he suddenly could not prevent his hand from rising to touch her perfect face. His fingers trembled as they traced the exquisite line of her cheek and lightly trickled over her throat. Her eyes shone with joy and, to his delight, he saw the same longing and desire within them that he knew was mirrored in his own eyes. She was so lovely, the most perfect of all Eru’s creations. And she was his. Anticipation was rapidly rising within him and he suddenly found he could hardly breathe any more, let alone speak.

   “I can scarce believe this day has finally come and we are truly together at last,” he said, his voice breaking with the flood of emotions cascading through him.

   And the love glowing on Arwen’s face almost undid him completely. “You are my Beren, Estel, and we shall not be sundered again.”

   Tears of pure joy welled in Aragorn’s eyes. He could only choke the words: “And you have ever been my Lúthien.”

   She gently captured his fingers in hers and raised them to her lips, kissing them softly.

   A tremor ran through him as he drew her close and suddenly his lips met hers. Somehow, he knew not how, his hands found their own way to her hips and he could feel her quivering against him with the same uncertain tremor that coursed through his own body.

   “Oh Arwen,” he murmured into her hair. He felt her arms around him and her hands, warm and caressing, exploring him gently. An explosion of delight rampaged through him at her touch. He held her tighter; his heart was pounding now, his kisses urgent and unstoppable. The rest of the world was swiftly fading to nothing as all his senses were filled entirely with the woman he adored. For a fleeting moment, Aragorn thought they should perhaps be returning to the celebrations. They would soon be missed. But he had waited all the years of his manhood for this moment; and right now there was nothing and no one in all Arda with a greater claim on his attention. This night belonged to him and his beloved alone.

   And so it was that, beside the youthful tree and under the ancient stars, he gave himself completely and joyfully to fulfilling the love that had for so many long years been denied him.

~oo0oo~

   “Now not day only shall be beloved, but night too shall be beautiful and blessed and all its fear pass away!”      Frodo

The Steward and the King                                                                 The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 36: Elrond

None saw her last meeting with Elrond her father, for they went up into the hills and there spoke long together, and bitter was their parting than should endure beyond the ends of the world.

Many Partings                                                                                  The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

                                                                                       21^st August 3019         Dol Baran

   Tomorrow, my son, we say goodbye. This time it will be forever for there can be no reunion for you and I in the Blessed Realm. I shall not linger long in these lands now that my work here is done. With each day that passes, increasingly I find I yearn only to sail from Middle-earth and seek again my beloved Celebrían who awaits me beyond the Sea. Yet parting from those I must leave behind is a grief almost more than I can bear. Already I feel my heart has been torn asunder by my last farewell to my daughter. I fear this wound will never heal and the torment of my loss shall be mine to endure through all the long Ages yet to come.

   And now, my son, my fractured heart must receive a further blow as the moment fast approaches when I must take my leave of you.

   The hour is late; the sun a red haze behind the White Mountains. As I seek my rest for the night, it is no surprise that our imminent farewell consumes my thoughts. Of course, I have always known that as a mortal man, your time here would be brief; I have never truly learned to accept the swift passing of the lives of Men. Yet the greatest sadness has ever been that your long home lies beyond the reach of the Firstborn.  It is a grief I have borne reluctantly for millennia, ever since my brother chose a different fate from mine. Throughout this Age, I have known, and liked, most of his line. Many of his descendents became good friends and all were valued allies. But sorrow has ever been my unwelcome companion as one by one I lost them all to the Gift. You are the last of my brother’s kin and the very last for whom I shall grieve. Yet our parting tomorrow will lie more heavily upon my heart than any previous farewell to your many forbearers.

   For you, Aragorn, are different.

   Your achievements alone bear testimony to this. That Sauron is defeated is in no small part due to your wisdom and your valour. You have restored the line of kings to Gondor and by this, you renew the dignity of your kindred. But it is not for these feats alone that I say that you are different, great achievements though they are. You, Estel, have been touched by a grace granted to very few and, of all your ancestors, yours has proved the greatest heart. Even when first you came into my life as a small child all those years ago, I sensed that a special light had been kindled within you. Then it was only a small, uncertain flicker that could so easily have been snuffed out and lost forever, yet I did not doubt it had been lit by the hand of Eru himself.

   I remember the day when first you came to Imladris as if it were just a couple of seasons that have passed. You were tired from your journey but I still recall the awe and wonder in your eyes at all you beheld. Even from the first, I bound you to my heart. You embraced your new life completely and enchanted us all with your eager innocence and your generous and loving spirit. All that I gave to you in those early years when you were learning and growing was bestowed freely and willingly and you have rewarded my patience and care many fold. None of your forbearers ever captured my heart as completely as did you.

    And as you grew into manhood, I deemed I saw in you an image of Elendil reborn, such was your nobility and your stature. The many faces you were forced to adopt to deceive the treacherous could not conceal the true nature of the man from those with the eyes to look beyond the disguise.

   Throughout your life, your dedication to your duty has been faultless, though I know how hard and lonely your ways have often been. Yet through all your many trials, you lost neither hope nor humanity, and in all your years of sacrifice and service, you never once allowed your goal to become your master. I never feared the power of the Ring would overcome you; so great now is your wisdom and yet slim remains your pride. And even as your long road neared its end, you did not falter. Without thought of your own ends, you would have accompanied Frodo into Mordor, even at the abandonment of all your hopes and dreams. And when the Crown of Gondor was finally within your grasp, still you did not waver in your duty, but rode with little hope to the Black Gate and that dreadful final battle.

   For sure the spirit of Lúthien waxes strong in you, my son.

   And now you have all you have ever desired. None could be more deserving and I rejoice that you shall live to enjoy the peace that you fought so hard and long to win. But for all the trappings and fineries of your new station, I know there has only ever been one treasure for which your heart truly yearned: my Evenstar.

   Oh Aragorn, I can not pretend this has been easy to accept. Perhaps I knew, even before you arrived in our lives that such would be her fate. Why else did none of us speak of her in your presence whilst you were a child? Had she not returned to Imladris when she did, your paths may not have crossed for many years. Perhaps then her fate would have been otherwise; but so too might yours. And so it is that even though the torment of parting from my daughter will burn inside me forever, I can not find it in my heart to wish that your union had never been.

   The joy you have brought to my beloved Arwen is clear for all to see and I rejoice at the happiness you have found together. My heart overflows to behold you thus, even as I grieve for the swift passing of your years. But more importantly, I know that from the short time you enjoy on this earth, fruit shall come forth that will endure down the Ages of Men, eclipsing and surpassing even the long Ages of the Eldar and yet providing a living memorial to their time in Middle-earth.

    From that I take great comfort.

    And please forgive me if it seemed to you at times that I used your love for Arwen as a lure to hold you to your destiny. I confess that this was partly so and, cruel though it may have seemed, I am quite certain that the desire that has always driven you onwards, played its part in our victory. But understand, my son, I acted out of love for you both for only now can you truly make the life together that you so deserve.

   I shall leave then in your care, Estel, my most precious jewel and I trust that you will cherish and adore her all the days of your life together.

   Tomorrow, I shall take my leave of the King of the West. You will make a great king, Aragorn, both wise and just; a man your people will respect and love. In your skilled hands the scars of these war weary lands will be healed. And my heart rejoices that your people will at last emerge from the Shadows and may they now once again be hailed the Kings of Men.

   And then I shall take leave of my son. I shall wrap you in my embrace and hold you to me one last time. I shall wish you great joy and happiness and hope your life may be long and blessed. But this parting, I know, will break my heart for you are as dear to me as any child of my flesh.

   Finally my Estel, I shall bid you farewell. And perhaps, bitter though this separation might be, by the will of Eru, we may yet all meet again at the ending of the World.

~oo0oo~

    I do not look forward to the morrow. Amid all the newfound joy in my life, I have long known this day would come and it saddens me more than I can find the words to say. Tomorrow, I must part from so many of my friends, most of whom I may never see again. But of all the painful separations to be endured, I shall feel none more keenly than my last farewell to you, my father.

    The hobbits at least, I hope, will pass this way again some day and we shall remain good friends throughout our lives. I wish them all great joy and long life in their beloved Shire. Eru knows they have earned it.  Frodo’s fate though is less certain. You have confided in me that you doubt his wound will ever truly heal and I am greatly grieved by this news. If any deserve to enjoy the peaceful days ahead, it is he.

    And for all the joy of our victory and the defeat of Sauron, my heart grieves at the departure of the Firstborn. Middle-earth shall ever be the poorer for your sailing. The Ages yet to come will not recall the wonder of your fair and timeless faces nor the beauty of your lyrical voices. I have so many friends among the Eldar to whom I must bid farewell tomorrow. Many from Lothlórien will sail with Galadriel and how many more, I wonder, will depart from Imladris. Too few, I fear, will remain without their lord. It is my hope that your sons might linger a while yet. Selfish this is of me, yes, as I know how much it will ease Arwen’s heart to have her brothers remain a little longer.

   Ah, Arwen. Of all the innumerable reasons I have to extend my gratitude to you, the hand of your daughter is the one for which I am most thankful even though, for so many years, our love has long cast and impenetrable shadow between us.

   But I get ahead of myself, though I hardly know how I shall begin to express all that I would.

    I probably owe you my very existence. Not only did you generously provide sanctuary for me in my tender years, but had you not fostered all my kin this last millennia, the line of kings would surely have perished long ago. Bereft of leadership and hope, my people would have long since become nothing more than a memory, their distant days of glory remembered only by their allies in Imladris. And without their guardianship, all the valour of the little folk would have been vain.

   For that I thank you.

  But you not only took me into your house and fed and clothed me - you also welcomed me into your heart and as a father you have always been to me. With the greatest skill and care, you raised me every bit as lovingly as I know Arathorn would have done had he lived to do so. And when my travels would bring me once again to your door, unfailingly have you provided a welcome haven and comforting arms for my weary and lonely heart. You taught me so much and it is in no small part due to your guidance that I grew into a man with the confidence and the wisdom to travel the tortuous distance on the long and uncertain road that brought me to my destiny.

   For that I love you.

  And as if all that were not enough, you then gave to me the greatest gift I could ask of any man and at great cost to yourself. Receiving the hand of your daughter in marriage has brought me the greatest joy I could ever know and yet bitter has been the price that you have paid for my happiness.

   For that I grieve for you.

   I take some comfort though in knowing you do not depart these shores alone. Most of all I am glad that Gandalf leaves for the Blessed Realm with you. Oh, how I shall miss him too. I have been amazingly blessed throughout my life to have the guidance and love of some extraordinary beings. I shall greatly feel the loss of you both in the years ahead. But I am not without allies in my new life. Henceforth, I must work with Men for the enhancement of Middle-earth, though it will become but a pale shadow of the land where the Eldar graced it with their presence.

   Be assured though, my father, I will care for the Evenstar all the days of my life. Together we shall raise fine children, though it fills us both with great sadness that you will not be here to watch them grow. May it be a comfort to you that, through them, the lines of both Earendil’s sons will long remain in Middle-earth and so may you still have a hand in the shaping of these lands in the Ages yet to come.

   And in your new life, it is my greatest wish that you may find the peace with your own beloved which you forsook for so long while you nurtured and protected your brother’s line. I only pray I shall prove worthy of your selflessness.

   I have but a small gift, a mere token, to give to you after all the many gifts you have bestowed upon me. When you come to Mithlond, ask Círdan for the Palantír that rests in the tall tower at Emyn Beraid. Take it with you to Tol Eressëa and use it as you will to glimpse again the land than has been your home for so long. And as you do so, remember your kin, whose blood flows in your veins and who dwell here still. Be proud, Adar, of the many sacrifices you have made for us all and know that as long as the House of Telcontar endures, you will never be forgotten.

~oo0oo~

   With that they parted, and it was then the time of sunset; and when after a while they turned and looked back, they saw the King of the West sitting upon his horse with his knights all about him; and the falling Sun shone upon them and made all their harness to gleam like red gold, and the white mantle of Aragorn was turned to a flame.

Many Partings                                                                                  The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And special thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 37: The King of Gondor

   In his time the City was made more fair than it had ever been, even in the days of its first glory; and it was filled with trees and with fountains…

The Steward and the King                                                                The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

Aragorn Elessar Telcontar strode from the Merethrond as fast as he deemed dignified for the High King of the Reunited Kingdom.  The festivities were still in full swing, the band showed no sign of winding down for the evening and many of his guests looked set to dance the night away. But as soon as the King was out of sight of the Great Hall, he began shedding his kingly robes as quickly as his fingers could undo the many clasps and hooks that held them in place.

   It was not that he disliked official feasts. This one had been particularly enjoyable as it happened and rather special at that. Nearly ten years had passed since the downfall of Sauron and the return of the King and the people of Gondor were still extremely grateful to their lord. It was on occasions such as this, the tradition Mettarë celebrations of mid-winter, that his subjects had the opportunity to express their appreciation for the peace and prosperity he had brought. There had been no shortage of people singing his praises and proposing yet another toast to his Majesty’s health and happiness. The King had been moved and touched by the sentiments expressed and rather abashed in truth. He was, after all, a humble man at heart and he considered it no more than his duty to do the very best he could for his people.

    His Queen had already made her excuses and left the celebrations early, taking their son with her. Their twin daughters were only a few months old and she still found the demands of motherhood tiring. Eldarion, on the other hand, a fast growing lad of eight, seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of energy and Aragorn was quite sure his over excited son would be having difficulty sleeping, in spite of the lateness of the hour.

   Yet, Aragorn Elessar’s unusual haste was due to more than just the prospect of spending the remainder of the evening alone with his beloved wife and children, treasured though these most precious moments were. While he had been carrying out his kingly duties in the Merethrond, he had received a message informing him that the two visitors he had been expecting from Rivendell had finally arrived. He had not seen Elladan and Elrohir since Eldarion was a baby and had been overjoyed when they sent word that they were intending to visit Gondor for the Mettarë festivities.  So delighted was he that they were finally here, it had taken all his famed will-power to prevent him leaping from his throne and racing out to greet his guests in person there and then. He realized, of course, that he could not readily abandon the celebrations without it appearing most peculiar, so instead, he immediately issued an invitation for his visitors to join him at the festivities. Unfortunately the feast was by then virtually over and the two brothers had elected to rest from their journey and await the king in his private rooms.

   As soon as he was free of his duties and he deemed it diplomatically acceptable, Aragorn had escaped. He leapt up the stairs to his family’s quarters, three at a time, his unfortunate guards struggling to keep pace with him. He tore off his robes as he went and thrust these and his crown to a waiting footman before bursting into his parlour.

   And as he flung the door open, he was treated to a scene the like of which he had so often yearned for in his long years as a Ranger, but had always feared would never become a reality. Arwen was seated by the fire, glowing in its gentle light and looking as beautiful as he had ever seen her. In her arms, sleeping peacefully, was one of their daughters. The other was cradled, rather more awkwardly Aragorn noticed, in the arms of Elladan who sat beside her, while Elrohir was animatedly telling a spellbound Eldarion some long story about something or another.

   But Aragorn did not have long to savour the moment as immediately upon seeing him, the room was filled with yelps of delight from his foster brothers as they jumped up to greet him.

   “Estel!” they cried in unison as they rushing towards him, Elladan having the good sense to return his niece to her mother first.

   “It is so good to see you. And you look so well,” said Elrohir, as both he and his brother crushed the King in a tight embrace.

   Aragorn had his arms around both of them at once; wallowing in that unchanging, almost tangible love that had so succoured and warmed him from his earliest years.

   “I have missed you,” he said, to no brother in particular. “I have missed you so much.”

   “And we you,” said Elladan, drawing back and kissing him affectionately on the brow. Then he gently took Aragorn’s face between his hands and looked long and searchingly into his eyes. Aragorn met his gaze, trusting him totally. After a few moments Elladan released him and smiled.

   “I see all is well,” he said quietly. Then he laughed, a sound that brought pure joy to Aragorn’s heart: “I must say, Estel, being a king suits you little brother. You really look the part, you know.”

   Aragorn just smiled and hugged them both again. He suddenly felt his grip on his overwhelmed emotions slipping perilously, and, not wishing to shame himself, he quickly deflected attention onto his daughters.

   “Now tell me, my dear brothers, are these not the two most beautiful baby girls you have ever seen?”

    “With our sister as their mother how could they be anything other than beautiful,” said Elrohir. “I can see little likeness to you though, Estel.”

   Aragorn laughed happily. “I expected no less from you, Elrohir. Is it not quite remarkable though that yet another generation of twins has been born into your family? I was shocked and rather concerned, in truth, when Arwen told me she was going to give birth to two babes, but fortunately there were no problems at all.”

   “Estel is a typical Man where child birth is concerned,” chipped in Arwen from the fireside. “When my time came, he was far more fearful than I.”

   “They are adorable,” agreed Elladan. “And we very much approve of your choice of names. I am sure, Estel, that our mother and yours would be honoured.”

   “I am glad you think so,” said Aragorn, “for that was our wish.”

   The twin brothers continued to admire their two nieces, but while they did so, their young nephew grew increasingly impatient for the remainder of Elrohir’s story. To Eldarion, it seemed, the grown-ups intended to talk forever and he soon became restless and began fidgeting in his seat. He knew very well that at any moment his adar would tell him to behave but he could scarcely contain his excitement as he anticipated all the things he was hoping to do with his uncles. He just knew it was all going to be so interesting and such fun. Even as a toddler, his favourite tales had always been those told to him by his father of when he himself was a child and had done all manner of exciting things in the company of his big brothers. Now that these same big brothers had come to visit, Eldarion was desperately hoping to have similar adventures of his own.

   However, much to his annoyance, he was soon bundled off to bed.

   “But, Adar, please, might I not say a little longer?” pleaded Eldarion.

   “No, my son,” said the King sternly. “A good Ranger must learn to obey orders.”

   Eldarion looked for support from his new family, but knew it was hopeless from the start. He had long ago learnt that when your father was the King no one was going to take your side against his.

   Arwen decided to retire for the night as well and took all three of her children to their beds, leaving Aragorn telling Elladan and Elrohir all about his recent successful military campaigns.

   “But we have had peace this year at last,” he was saying. “Eomer has been the staunchest ally and has ever accompanied me into battle, but the continued unrest in the East and South has been a drain on both our realms. He is as relieved as I that these troubles are finally over.”

   “You have not known peace since you were a child,” said Elladan. “I wonder how you will find life with no battles to fight.”

   “No battles?” laughed Aragorn, incredulously. “You should attend some of the meetings of the Council of Gondor, my brother. They have not yet ended in bloodshed, but they still demand all my wits I can assure you.”

   “You have a faithful Steward though, do you not?” asked Elrohir.

   “Oh yes, Faramir is a most excellent Steward and a good friend too,” said Aragorn. “I do not know how I would manage without him. It is a great comfort to me that I can leave Gondor in such capable hands in my absence.”

   “And your realm is clearly thriving, Estel,” said Elladan. “The lands have changed much since our last visit. New homesteads have appeared where once the land was desolate, and the city itself is a sight to behold. I never thought to see it look so fair. Even an Elf could be content to dwell within its stark walls now.”

   “I have Legolas and Gimli to thank for all that,” said Aragorn. “They have both worked tirelessly to transform Minas Tirith into the living city you see today. Arwen has always reassured me that an Elf could find happiness here, but it gladdens my heart to know that you feel the same.”

      But Aragorn was eager for news from the North. He fretted a little that the demands of the South had kept him from his home lands for so long. He had not managed to return to Eriador at all since the War of the Ring and, although messengers were sent regularly between the two kingdoms and, at need, he had the Orthanc Stone, he longed to return to the North in person to check on the welfare of his people for himself. There was still much to do there to ensure the King’s Peace was secure and lasting. And more than anything he wished to see his people released from the hardships they had endured for so long. He had been hampered, partly, by the ongoing troubles beyond Gondor’s borders which demanded much of his attention, and also by the difficulties imposed upon him by his position. He no longer had the liberty to simply throw on his Ranger cloak and quietly disappear for a few months to deal with a situation single-handedly. A large entourage accompanied him now whenever he travelled.

   Elladan, however, assured him that the lives of the people in Arnor were steadily improving. He and Elrohir still rode with the Dúnedain, but their patrols were now far less dangerous and all the Rangers could spend more time tending their homesteads and raising their families.

   “We travelled to Lake Nenuial in the summer, Estel,” continued Elladan. “You would be astounded to see the work being done there. The walls of your new home have been built and already it is possible to see how glorious the restored Annúminas will be. It should all be completed in a few more years and then you will finally be able to take up the full kingship of Arnor, and we hope stay for a long while.”

   “I truly look forward to that time,” said Aragorn a little wistfully. “There are so many good friends in the North whom I miss and not least my dear friends in the Shire. Have you any news from there?”

   “Yes, we have,” said Elrohir. “We not only have news, but letters and an extraordinary assortment of gifts for you as well. There are so many, at one point I was afraid we might need a second pack horse to carry them all. We will retrieve them from our luggage for you later.”

   Aragorn was delighted. He enjoyed his correspondence from the Shire enormously and found that he had become quite hooked on the doings and happenings of the Four Farthings. Sam, he was not at all surprised to learn, was proving a most capable Mayor and he, as well as Merry and Pippin, wrote to their king often.

   Finally, and with some reticence, he asked for tidings from Rivendell. It still saddened him greatly to think of the Last Homely House without Elrond, and he found it hard to picture the Valley of Imladris without the power of Vilya sustaining it. He had, in truth, been surprised that his brothers had not sailed with their father and often wondered how long they would remain in Middle-earth.

   “I can not pretend it is as it used to be,” said Elrohir, “but neither of us is ready to leave just yet.”

   “For one thing we need to keep an eye on you to see that you raise this family of yours properly,” said Elladan, grinning at the scowl that immediately appeared on Aragorn’s face. “Tell us of your son, Estel. He looks to be growing into a fine lad.”

   “He is indeed and is a credit to his mother’s care, although swords and horses seem to interest him rather more than his studies.”

   “That is hardly to be wondered at,” smiled Elladan. “He seems very determined that we should take him hunting in the White Mountains. In fact, he reminds me very much of a boy I used to know, over ninety years ago it would be now. He was always pestering us to be taken on hunting trips as I recall.”

   Aragorn smiled fondly at the same memories.

   “He is very like me in that I must confess,” he said. “I too had all the comforts of a safe home, but longed only to be out in the wild having adventures. Of course as soon as I had no choice but to live that way I wished only for a home again, but I can not expect him to appreciate that at his age.”

   Then he grew thoughtful for a moment as he contemplating his son’s request.

  “There are many things I wish Eldarion to learn and not all can be taught in the school room,” he said. “I think he is perhaps old enough to face the rigours of a winter hunting trip.”

   “And when were you proposing to have this trip?” asked Elrohir, purposefully catching Elladan’s eye.

   The look did not go unnoticed by Aragorn.

   “Perhaps sooner than I intended,” he said with a resigned sigh.

   “Good,” said Elladan, “for we can then come too. You have no experience, Estel, of training a young adan, whereas we have tutored seem fifteen future Chieftains of the Dúnedain and know precisely how it should be done.”

   Aragorn was about to protest that he was perfectly capable of teaching his son all he needed to know about woodcraft, but before the words left his lips, he realized he actually relished the prospect of going hunting with his brothers. It would be so good to escape to the mountains for a few days and, he generously conceded, they might just be of some assistance in tutoring Eldarion.

~oo0oo~

   The three sons of Elrond remained chatting by the fireside for many hours, catching up with each other’s news as well as reminiscing about times past. It was the grey hour before the dawn when they finally retired for the night. Aragorn crept quietly into his bedchamber so as not to disturb Arwen or the two babies asleep in the cot beside her. But Arwen was awake and dealing with one restless child.

  “Who is it?” whispered Aragorn, coming quitely to her side.

  “It is Gilraen,” replied his wife. “She has been very wakeful these last couple of nights.”

  “Let me have her.”

  Arwen gladly handed her fractious baby to Aragorn. Within moments of being placed in her father’s arms, little Gilraen was sound asleep. After a few minutes, Aragorn gently laid his daughter back in the cot beside Celebrían and climbed into bed next to his wife.

   “I still marvel at how you do that,” said Arwen, as she nestled against her husband. “It never seems to fail.”

   “Oh, but it does,” smiled Aragorn, as he slid his arms around his wife.   

   “It is such a joy to see Elladan and Elrohir again, is it not?” said Arwen. “You, my dear, have certainly talked the night away. All of you will be good for nothing in the morning.”

   “Hopefully, with tomorrow officially being a day of rest, no one will make any demands of me,” replied Aragorn with a yawn. “I shall, of course, ascend to the Hallow in the morning. Come what may, I must still offer my traditional thanks to Eru, but then I hope we will all enjoy a quiet day together and Eldarion can get to know his uncles. They wish to accompany him on that hunting trip he has been begging me for.”

   “Oh, he will be thrilled by that,” said Arwen, “and the break from your duties will be good for you too.” She then fell silent for a few moments and Aragorn, wondering at her thoughts, was surprised when she asked:  “Estel, do you ever miss your former life?”

   “Whatever makes you ask such a question?”  

   “Well, there must have been times when you enjoyed just being a Ranger; times when the weather was kind and it was pleasant to walk or ride under the Sun. In those days you had the freedom to go wherever you pleased. Being King places such restrictions upon you, and so many people have need of your wisdom and council. You now have so little time for yourself that a hunting trip with Elladan and Elrohir is a rare treat for you.”

  Aragorn considered her words for a moment. It was a long time since he had given any thought at all to his Ranger days. “I do not remember being that free,” he said at last. “I seem to recall my movements were dictated by need most of the time. Of course there were some happy times and I do miss my fellow Rangers. It is also true Middle-earth can be very beautiful and full of wonder for the traveller, but I was often very lonely and faced constant danger and hardship. There are the occasional days, I confess, when it can be a little stifling in this stone city, but the demands of my position are a small sacrifice to make to have you by my side, vanimelda. In all those long years in the wild, I can say with all my heart, I yearned only for the day when we could at least be together.”

   He gently drew her closer to him and he kissed her tenderly. She was so beautiful and, if anything, even more desirable now than on that midsummer’s eve when they had wed.

   “I am so very blessed,” he said softly, his voice breaking as love welled within him. “I have you and the children and the cares of my life are not as they were. Even after ten years, there are times when I can scarcely believe how fortunate I am.”

   Arwen smiled at him, lovingly, her adoration shining as the night stars in the depths of her wise eyes. Not for a single moment in those years had she ever regretted her decision to cleave with this most exceptional man.

   “No, most beloved, it is I who is fortunate.”

~oo0oo~

   As Queen of Elves and Men she dwelt with Aragorn for six-score years in great glory and bliss.

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                       The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 38: The Star of the Dúnedain

   1436 King Elessar rides north, and dwells for a while by Lake Evendim. He comes to the Brandywine Bridge, and there greets his friends…

Appendix B                                                                                       The Return of the King  

~oo0oo~

    Sam had never seen such a big tent. He stood on the Brandywine Bridge, staring in wonder at the enormous pavilion before him. ‘You could fit five, if not six, whole hobbit houses into it,’ he thought.

   “Why, Rose,” he said to his wife standing beside him, “it’s even bigger than the one old Mr Bilbo had for his hundred and eleventy-first birthday party. And that was big enough to hold an oliphant.” Rose, however, was not paying the slightest bit of attention to her husband. She was far too worried about her dress. It was her best frock and usually she loved it, but today she was not at all sure it would do. Sam of course had reassured her that she looked lovely, but that had done little to calm her mounting nerves. She doubted he had any more idea than she of what a mayor’s wife ought to wear to greet a king. So for what felt like the hundredth time already that day, she took a deep breath and did her best to ignore the butterflies fluttering away in her tummy, even though they had been steadily growing more agitated all morning.

   ‘It’s quite understandable I’m so nervous,’ she told herself, sternly. ‘After all, it’s not everyday you get to sit down at the top table with the King and Queen, even if they do happen to be old friends of your husband.’

   She had fretted about what to wear for weeks, ever since the messengers had arrived from Gondor with the news that the King was intending to visit the Shire. Sam and the children had been thrilled at the tidings and had been counting the days until the Royal Company arrived, but Rose had been consumed with anxiety from the outset. She had, nonetheless, thrown herself into the preparations whole-heartedly as there had been so much to do and organise, but she had not given a huge amount of thought to actually meeting the High King Elessar of Gondor and Arnor until today. Goodness, it was such a mouthful even to say his name. What, she wondered, could she possibly find to talk about with such an important man.

   She sighed, and told herself for the umpteenth time that all that really mattered was that she didn’t let Sam down. Her children, she was pleased to see, had no such worries, not even Elanor, who at fifteen was quite a young lady now. She was bursting with excitement at the prospect of meeting a real king and queen, and happily chatting away to any one and everyone. Rose watched her daughter for a moment and felt her mother’s heart swell with pride. Elanor was as pretty as a picture with her golden hair tied up in her best blue ribbons and proudly wearing her new dress that she had made all by herself. Not for the first time, she wondered quite how she had come to give birth to such a beautiful child.

   The Gamgees, like the Tooks, had stayed at Brandy Hall with the Master of Buckland the last few nights in readiness for the arrival of the Company from Gondor. Work on the celebrations had been underway all week, but the last few days had seen feverish activity on everyone’s part as the final plans were brought to bear. Not only was there the Grand Reception to organise, but Sam, Merry and Pippin, as Counsellors of the North Kingdom, were going to travel with the Royal Company for the official opening of the King’s new residence at Annúminas. Their families were to accompany them and this had inevitably required a huge amount of preparation on the part of their wives.

   But many hands had soon made short work of tidying up this corner of the Shire. Anything that could be cleaned was brushed and scrubbed, and anything that could be painted was given a fresh coat. None in living memory had ever seen the Brandywine Bridge looking so well. Sam had, of course, invited the King to come across and enter the Shire, but he had not been at all surprised when Aragorn had declined, choosing not to break his own law.

    Now the much anticipated day had finally arrived. All was ready at last and look-outs had been posted beyond the river to watch for the arrival of the Royal Company. Seemingly half the inhabitants of the Shire had gathered on the Bridge in the hope of meeting the King and those who could not squeeze between the railings had spilled out into the fields round about.

   As the appointed hour drew near, everyone was waiting most expectantly. It was a bright spring afternoon, the sun high above in the cloudless sky, yet the nip in the early April air ensured everyone remained comfortably cool. Nobody wanted to be sweating under a blazing sun whilst trying to remain calm and dignified in the presence of such a renowned man as the King.

   In other words, it was a perfect day.

  Sam was wearing his chain of office, but Merry and Pippin, in honour of the King, had dressed in their uniforms as knights of Rohan and Gondor. Everyone was dressed in their very smartest clothes, no small number of new outfits having been hastily stitched together in the last few weeks.

  Suddenly a shout went up and a pony raced into view, at full gallop.

   “They’re coming! They’re coming!” shouted the rider. Cries of excitement immediately greeted this announcement and everyone hurried into their positions; all present knew exactly who was to stand where, having rehearsed this moment often enough over the last few weeks. Soon the jingle of harness on many horses could be heard and at last, round the bend in the road, a great company of grand lords and ladies rode into view.

   They made a quite wondrous sight, for among the many fair lords riding in the Company were several from Rivendell, including the twin sons of Elrond, who dwelt there still. The waiting hobbits gasped in awe at the splendour of the knights with their shining armour and mighty weapons.Most were wearing the same silver and black livery of the Citadel Guard as Pippin, but their high, winged helms rendering them very tall, and even rather frightening, in the hobbits’ eyes. At the front of the procession rode a lone knight who held aloft the great sable standard of the King, its many gems glittering in the bright sunshine.

   But riding at the head of them all, on a great horse, came King Elessar himself. Most of the hobbits had never seen bigfolk before, let alone a king, but whatever they were expecting they were not remotely disappointed.

   Aragorn knew well the importance of doing things properly in the Shire so he had brought with him his most kingly raiment. On his grey horse, he looked magnificent in his gleaming armour and fine robes and on his head, rather than the Crown of Gondor, he wore just a single fillet on his brow, in the centre of which was the Elendilmir, as was the tradition for the king of Arnor. This was the jewel he had worn when he stormed into battle at the Pelennor fields, but the original Elendilmir, now recovered from Saruman’s hoard in Orthanc, he would not wear until he reached Annúminas and he formally took up the kingship of the North. Yet the light of the jewel blazed forth like a flame, bringing gasps of delight and astonishment from the crowd.

   As the Company approached the bridge, a lone trumpeter heralded the arrival of the king and the procession came to a halt. Aragorn jumped down from his horse and went to the aid of his queen, lifting her with ease from her side-saddle. Then together, hand in hand, they walked towards the gathering. A little behind the royal couple, flanked by the Peredhil, there walked a lad who looked to be only just in his teens. ‘The same age, as Frodo Lad,’ thought Sam, though he marvelled at how tall the boy was compared with his own lad. His too-long limbs were gangly like those of a young colt that had yet to fulfil his promise. He was the image of Aragorn, yet in his youthful face, Sam could see much of the beauty of his mother.

    Everyone was feeling a little nervous about meeting such a great lord as the King, but as he walked towards them smiling, Sam, Merry and Pippin were relieved to see it was still their old friend who came to greet them. He looked just the same as when they had last seen him, though as he stood before them, Sam was sure he noticed a sense of peace and contentment about him that he had not been aware of before and was glad. Then, in front of the assembled hobbits and to the amazement of all those who did not know him, Aragorn dropped to one knee and embraced each of his three friends in turn.

   “My dear friends,” he said softly, just for the ears of those beside him. “This reunion has been too long in coming, yet what joy it brings me now to see you all again.”

   In this happy moment, Sam even fancied he saw a tear in the King’s eye, but then it could have been in his own. And when Queen Arwen stooped to kiss him, Sam knew he was blushing. She was after all the most beautiful lady in the whole world and such loveliness rather had that effect on him.

   As Mayor, Sam was then called upon to officially greet the King and say a few words of welcome. He was in his second term of office now but he still found public speaking a bit of an ordeal. Today he was understandably especially nervous, in spite of constantly reminding himself it was only old Strider he was addressing. He was nonetheless dreading letting the King down,

   “Your Majesties King Elessar and Queen Arwen, great lords and ladies of the Reunited Kingdom, it is my great honour to bid you all welcome,” he began in his most mayor-like voice, before proceeding to tell the King and Queen how delighted everyone was to have their Royal highnesses visiting the Shire.

   But his eldest daughter did not hear a word. Elanor was peeking out from behind her parents trying to get a better look at the Queen. She had heard so much about her from her father, but she was still stunned by quite how beautiful she was in person. And her gown was something the like of which she had never seen before. She would not have believed it possible to create such finery or produce such skilled needlework had she not seen it with her own eyes. She wondered if she would be able to summon up the courage to ask her about it, should she be granted an opportunity to speak to her later.

   When her father finished his speech, the King, in a loud, clear voice replied in kind, and then it was time for the formal introductions to be made.

   “And this, my lord, is my dear wife, Rose,” said Sam, pushing Rose forward. Rose curtsied shyly before the King and Queen and turned scarlet as she did so, much to her own annoyance.

   “Rose Cotton, what a great pleasure it is to finally meet you,” said Aragorn, smiling at her. “And this delightful young lady must be your daughter, Elanor. Why, Sam, she is as fair as any Elf-maiden I have ever known.” He flashed the young girl his most winning smile and Elanor, who had become very shy in the presence of such a great and famous man, at once forgot her shyness and thought him wonderful. The Queen too was thoroughly enchanted by this lovely hobbit lass and chatted to her for far longer than propriety demanded. Rose, although overjoyed for her daughter, could not help but fret that those queuing behind would be growing impatient.

   After the Mayor’s family had all been properly presented, the Thrain and his were next in line. Pippin proudly introduced his wife, Diamond, and his young son, little Faramir.

   “Don’t you think though, Aragorn,” he said, “that as a Knight of the Citadel, I really should be on duty?” Pippin was quite sure that even though he may be Thrain, in the presence of the King, this should be his priority.

   “Thank you, Pippin; gladly do I accept your offer,” said the King, graciously. Perhaps though because he was now a married man himself, he refused to allow Pippin to take up his place until after the forthcoming celebrations, something for which Diamond was no doubt most grateful.

   Next to greet the King was the Master of Buckland. Merry, standing with his wife, Estella, could not help but notice the horse Aragorn was riding. It was a mighty beast, whose grey coat glistened silver in the sun. He looked very proud and wilful.  

   “Is that a horse of Rohan, Aragorn?” he asked. “He reminds me rather of Shadowfax.”

   “He is indeed a horse of that realm,” replied Aragorn. “He was a gift from Eomer and there is no finer animal in my stable. But although he is kin to the Mearas, I doubt we will ever see another like Shadowfax.” 

    Sam, meanwhile, was busy ushering forward all the important hobbits who were lined up waiting to meet the Royal couple. He very much hoped he was presenting everyone in an acceptable order and had not omitted anyone likely to be offended. When all the introductions were finally over, the King and Queen were invited to a feast in their honour in the pavilion. Many of the worthy folk of the Shire were also attending so it was to be a sizable gathering. Sam, Merry and Pippin, along with their families, accompanied the Royal Family to the huge pavilion where they were escorted to the top table. When everyone had found their places, all present stood for the Standing Silence and then at last the festivities began. The King was treated to the finest food and drink the Shire could produce and he was not at all surprised to learn there was plenty for second and even third helpings should he desire it.

   Sam, at the King’s request, came and sat next to him, for Aragorn wished to hear the tidings from this corner of his Realm.

  “Well, I don’t rightly have much to tell in the way of tidings,” said Sam, “nothing out of the ordinary ever happens now, though you could likely say that’s a good thing.”

   Aragorn smiled. “I agree, Sam, that sounds a very good thing to me too. I hope that banning men from the Shire has made it a safer place for you all.”

   “Oh yes,” said Sam. “Certainly now the big-folk don’t come here any more, we don’t have trouble of the kind we had before. Tis a shame though that the respectable big-folks, like yourself and your lovely lady, can’t come and see all the good that has come from Galadriel’s gift. The Mallorn is a fine young tree now and the wonder of the Three Farthings. That is a sight to see, is that, I don’t mind telling you.”

   “I would not seek favour from my office, any more than I know you would from yours,” replied the King, “but it warms my heart to think of the Shire being touched by a little of the enchantment of the Golden Wood.”

   Throughout the seven course meal, King and Mayor continued to chatter away happily together, discussing the joys of their respective families as well as the demands and duties of both their public roles. Aragorn particularly wanted to discuss with Sam his hopes for the North Kingdom and for Annúminas in particular.

     “It brings me such joy that the city has been rebuilt,” he said. “I have dreamed of this day for a very long time. Of all that we have achieved since the War, the restoration of Annúminas for my people in the North is the closest to my heart. I am sure, Sam, we shall all greatly enjoy our stay there; Lake Nenuial I have always thought a very fair place.”

   As Sam sat and talked with the King, he was pleased to find that, beneath the robes and the finery, the man himself was unchanged. ‘But all the same,’ Sam thought, ‘he’s more like a proper king now, so to speak. After all, he had been very new to the job when we last saw him, still learning the ropes as you might say.  Not that he’s high and mighty, mind you. King he may be, but he talks just as friendly as if he’s enjoying a pint with us down the Green Dragon.’

   But Aragorn also had another reason for wishing to speak with Sam.

   “I have brought gifts for you all,” he said, “but there is something I would like to give to you now, Sam, if I may.” He opened a small pouch that he had brought with him to the table. From it he pulled out a silver brooch. It was the rayed star that he had worn on his cloak in his days as a Ranger.

   “I would like you to have this as a token of my regard for you and all that you did,” he said. “Sam, without your steadfastness and courage, we would not have had victory and none would have lived to enjoy occasions such as today. We have spoken of such things before, I know, and there is no honour I can bestow upon you that is too great or any gift I can give that is too much. But I would especially like you to have this as it is a very personal gift from me; being one of the few things I called my own in the time before I came into my inheritance. As such it has the greater value and I would give it to one whom I could esteem no higher.”

   He handed the brooch to Sam who took it, but did not speak at first as he looked at the beautiful thing in his hand. He had never really understood this need to keep offering him praise. He had after all simply done what he needed to do to look after Mr. Frodo. Oh how he wished with all his heart that his master could be with him now; he would have so enjoyed a day like today. Sam’s fingers idly traced the edges of the star. It was a lovely thing and he was very touched that the King should give it to him of all people. But greatly honoured though he was, Sam could not allow Strider to give him all the credit for the victory of the West.

   “Thank you very much; this means an awful lot to me,” he said, “but if you don’t mind my saying so, Sir, you did have quite a part to play in it all yourself, as I recall.”

~oo0oo~

…..He gives the Star of the Dúnedain to Master Samwise, and Elanor is made a maid of honour to Queen Arwen.

Appendix B                                                                                      The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 39: The King of Arnor

Elessar took it up with reverence, and when he returned to the North and took up again the full kingship of Arnor Arwen bound it upon his brow, and men were silent in amaze to see its splendour.

Disaster of the Gladden Fields                                                                  Unfinished Tales

~oo0oo~

  The early morning sun was no more than a sliver of gold crowning the highest of the North Downs and the village nestled in the lee of the hills was still shrouded in mist. Only a few of the villagers were abroad to note the small group of riders who rode along the cobbled road. Several paused for a moment from going about their daily chores to look up and wonder at the strangers, but none recognised the cloaked and hooded figures of their King and Queen.

   The small party rode on through the village and halted their horses before a cot at the end of the lane. Aragorn swiftly dismounted and went to the aid of his queen who slid gracefully from her saddle.  Together they walked up the path towards the humble dwelling. Neither spoke, but as they reached the door, the Queen slipped her hand into that of her husband and he, in turn, gripped hers tightly.

    The Royal Company had been travelling north from the Shire at a leisurely pace, steadily following the meanders of the Baranduin towards its source at Lake Evendim.  The King had called at one or two of the villages along the way, but for the most part, the Company had encountered few of the people of Eriador. He had, however, insisted they visit this particular village. He had not been in these parts for over twenty years and, when he had come here then, he had not done what he felt he should.

   The door to the cot was unlocked. Aragorn hesitated for a moment before raising the latch and walking inside; Arwen followed close behind. The air that greeted them was cold and dank; the house musty from being uninhabited for a long time. By the light of the open doorway, Aragorn glanced around the small, uninviting room. His mother’s chair was still drawn up before the hearth, although it had been many years since a fire had provided any comforting warmth from the grate. The same low table stood beside it that had been there the last time he visited.

   “It is completely unchanged from how I remember it,” he murmured as he looked about him at the few pieces of dusty furniture. Green mould was feeding on what had once been polished wood. Cobwebs hung from every surface.

   “It must have been a cosy room with the fire blazing,” said Arwen coming to stand beside him. Aragorn smiled at her, thanking her for her attempt at cheering him. He knew perfectly well the fire had not blazed as often as it should. The house made a depressing sight. Although he had dwelt for many years in the comfort of the Citadel in Minas Tirith, never, for a moment, had he forgotten how his people lived, but even so, this was not a fitting final home for the mother of a king.

   He wandered through to the kitchen. It was as cheerless as the living room. He had not expected to find any comfort here, but he was unprepared for quite how much it hurt to find the few personal items that remained. There was his mother’s shawl draped over the back of a chair, on a shelf by the dim window, one or two books which he recognised as having come from Rivendell. A cloak hung on the back of the door, a few treasured pieces of crockery still adorned the dresser. All the sadness he had long felt over his mother’s despair welled within him again. He remembered now why he had stayed away all those years ago.

   “I could not persuade her,” he said sadly, more to himself than to his wife. “If I could have given her hope, she might have borne to endure a while longer and perhaps she would have been here now, waiting to travel with us to Annúminas. What joy that would have brought her.”

   “She does know though, Estel, you must believe that she knows.” Arwen took his hand and squeezed it.

   Aragorn nodded. “Little does it matter now. We must all look to the future. My mother gave all her hope for mine. At least, in a few days, I shall finally do honour to her sacrifice.”

   “She would have been so proud of you, Estel. She was so proud of you.”

   “I trust it is so,” he said softly. He stood for a few more moments gazing around the room. He walked over to the window and idly picked up one of the books. It was a collection of poems that his mother had been rather fond of. He smiled at the memory of her reading some of them to him. He put it down and picked up the other, much larger tome. It was a beautiful book, bound in red leather. He opened the cover. There was an inscription on the first page. He immediately recognised the elegant hand of his foster father. His heart raced as he read the words written so many years ago.

   ‘My dearest Gilraen,

   I hope you find this a suitable parting gift. The text within this cover is one of two copies I have had made of ‘A History of the North Kingdom,’ a work painstakingly prepared from various manuscripts in my safekeeping. I deem it fitting that one should go with you now as you return to your people. The long tale of my brother’s line is one of great trial yet I never fail to be moved by the forbearance and dignity of his descendents. Hope has ever dwelt in their hearts and may it be that the Hope we have raised between us will yet find a way to bring light to the Dúnedain in the dark days to come.

   Elrond

   The book was identical to the one Elrond had given to him when he came to Minas Tirth. The original, he knew, was now in The Undying Lands, but he had never known that his mother had a copy. Aragorn turned the pages. It was all there: the glory of Elendil’s great kingdom, the victory of the Last Alliance, the loss of Isildur, the breaking of the Dúnedain into petty tribes, the war with the Witch-king culminating in the death of Arvedui and the demise of the Kingdom. And the struggles of Aranarth to rebuild the war-ravaged land he inherited, no more than a mere foot note in the long descent of his people into the secret, wandering folk they had become.

   It was a beautiful gift and he treasured his own copy, but it was a stark reminder of all that his people had suffered throughout the Third Age. Lost in his thoughts, he continued to flick through the pages, and as he did so, he began to consider that perhaps the wonder was less that his mother had despaired than that he had not. She could not have known with certainty that he would prevail. All the evidence was to the contrary and foresight was often lacking where it was most needed. Who could have foretold that a hobbit would be the salvation of them all? He knew very well that all his own endeavours would have come to nought without Frodo’s sacrifice. And his mother knew nothing of the tenacity of hobbits. But then he had been blessed with the promise of Arwen to drive him ever onwards. If Arathorn had lived, Gilraen’s life might have been vastly different too.

   He sighed and picked up both the books, carefully wrapping them in the shawl that would forever remind him of his mother. He knew he could not change the past and, thanks to that past, the future was one of hope for all the people of Middle-earth. He must be thankful for that and not dwell on what might have been.

   “I will take these with me,” he said before grabbing Arwen’s hand and leading her swiftly across the room and through the open doorway to the guards waiting beyond.

   There was nothing more he needed from that house.

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn savoured the cool airs of the North with unexpected pleasure as he inhaled deeply of the gusts sweeping across the North Downs. There was something quite different about the air in the North that had ever lifted him when he returned there from the far corners of Middle-earth. His homecoming now was no exception. Much as he loved Gondor and Minas Tirith, there was no denying where his heart truly lay.

   He had been gone a long time. Much had happened for the good and the evidence of that was all about him. In places, he hardly recognised the path they were travelling upon. What had once been a rough trodden track was now a broad cobbled road. Occasionally they passed farms and homesteads where there had been none before. He no longer needed to keep an eye trained on the hills for danger though the habits of a lifetime would never leave him. He might have a company of skilled guards about him, but his keen eyes remained as sharp as ever and his hand was never far from Andúril. His lady and his family rode beside him. He would never fail to defend them.

   The journey north had been an exceptionally pleasant one. Aragorn delighted in the companionship of his friends from the Shire and was greatly enjoying getting to know their families. His evenings had become noisy affairs as the harmonious singing of his Elven brothers was often followed by hearty renditions of the tavern songs so beloved by hobbits.  But at last, the Royal Company finally approached Lake Evendim. It was dusk and in the deep grey of evening, Aragorn could only discern a tantalising outline of many buildings away in the distance. He would have to wait until tomorrow to finally see the rebuilt city of Annúminas.

   The Company halted a good furlong from the main gates and the King’s men immediately began setting up the camp. On their long journey from Minas Tirith they had become rather proficient at this task. The Company would remain here tonight so that the King and his family could rest from their journey and prepare to enter the city in the morning. The pavilions were swiftly raised and messengers were sent on ahead with the news that the King had finally arrived.

   The tables had barely been set for dinner when a couple of riders approached the camp from the direction of the city. One was Dírhael. For a man of advancing years, he was still hale, the blood of Aranarth belying his long years as a Ranger. Immediately, Aragorn came out to greet him. Dírhael dismounted and stared in wonder at the man he saw before him.

   So overwhelmed was he by the sight of his grandson as a mighty king that he completely forgot that it was customary to bend a knee when greeting a sovereign. Instead, he grabbed Aragorn into his embrace and held him as if, at any moment, he might vanish into the night and be gone again for more years than he remotely cared to consider.

   After many moments, Aragorn held his grandfather at arm’s length and looked at him kindly. The man had tears in his eyes and Aragorn felt his own emotions welling. He could only guess at the enormity of what this moment meant to Dírhael. His grandfather had assumed command of the Dúnedain on the death of Arathorn and to him had fallen the unenviable role of holding together the failing remnants of their People while he had been nurtured in Rivendell. He had taken up the reins again when Aragorn was absent on his long errantry abroad.  Much of the responsibility for the well being of his people had been carried by this man. He owed him a great deal, yet Dírhael was the one expressing his gratitude.

   “I can scarcely believe you are here, at last,” he said. “For so long, so very long, have I dreamt of this day…” But his words were lost in his throat as he gulped back his emotions.

   Aragorn held him again, tears filling his own eyes. “I know Dírhael, I know. I have missed the North so very much and now that I am back, I shall not leave for a long time.”

   Dírhael, sniffed and wiped his eyes. “Well, I shall hold you to your word and…” But, as he spotted his great grand children standing shyly behind their father, the composure he was so manfully struggling to maintain threatened to leave him completely.

   Aragorn smiled at him with understanding. “Come my friend, let me introduce you to your family and then we have much to talk about.” But as he turned to lead the way into his pavilion, he suddenly noticed the young man who had ridden from the city with Dírhael. There was something very familiar about him.

   “But will you not first introduce me to your companion?”

   “Of course, forgive me,” said Dirhael. “This is Haladan, Halbarad’s eldest son. He works beside me at all times now; in truth, I don’t know what I should do without him.”

   Aragorn felt his heart lurch at this sudden reminder of his dear friend. Yes, he could see the similarity now. He had the same set of his jaw, the same cheekbones and he was very tall like his father, almost as tall as he. Aragorn had not seen Halbarad’s boy since he was a youth, so long had he been away. Even before the War, he had been absent for lengthy periods whilst hunting for Gollum and had missed seeing the families of many of his men growing up.

   Aragorn reached out his hand. “I am honoured to meet you,” he said. The young man looked taken aback at being so approached by his King, but he took Aragorn’s hand and bowed his head.

   “The honour is all mine, my Lord King,” he said. Aragorn looked at him a moment longer. He was so like his old friend, it was quite unsettling.

   “Come, both of you,” he said smiling, and ushering the men towards his tent, “this is going to be an evening to remember and I am eager to hear all the news that you can tell me.”

~oo0oo~

   The news was good.

   The work at Annúminas was progressing well. The King’s Palace had been completed as planned and already the city was thriving. The land about was beginning to prosper again too. Farmers and drovers had returned to the North Downs and the people lived there in peace and without fear. Aragorn was greatly encouraged; it all boded well for the future.

   “And what of my dear grandmother,” he asked at last. “How does she fair?”

   “In truth, not well,” said Dírhael, “but Ivorwen is as stubborn as ever and you would never know that her time draws nigh. She would not have missed your return for all the world so there was no way in all Arda that she was going in the ground while you were yet to formally take up the Sceptre. She’ll be there tomorrow, cheering louder than anyone, you can be sure of that.”

   Aragorn smiled. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I very much look forward to seeing her again.” Turning to Haladan, he said: “And what can you tell me of yourself, Haladan son of Halbarad? According to Dírhael your counsel has been invaluable to him.”

   “I do my best, my lord,” replied the young man. “Dírhael has taught me much but the challenges before us now are different from whose we faced in the past. Yes, we have peace and we are all thankful for it, but with it comes a greater need for order. I sometimes think life was simpler when the rule of law was enforced by the end of a sword, though never would I return to those times.”

   “Nor would I,” agreed Aragorn, “and I very much look forward to hearing more about your work here.”

   Dírhael and Haladan dined with the King that night. Aragorn was fascinated to learn the detail of the functioning of the temporary Council that had managed Arnor’s affairs since the War. It would need to be reordered now that he was taking up residence for a prolonged period. For one thing, Sam, Merry and Pippin would all be taking up their seats on the Council, but nonetheless there was much that he would retain.

   “This Councillor thing, Aragorn,” Pippin had asked over dinner, “what is it exactly that we will be required to do?”

   “Why no more than provide us with the benefit of your great wisdom and vast experience, my dear Peregrin,” Aragorn replied. He smiled to himself at the doubtful look that suddenly appeared on the hobbit’s face though he himself had no doubts about the contribution that all three of his friends from the Shire would make to the governing of the North Kingdom.

   It was a joyful gathering that night. Elladan and Elrohir also had much to discuss with Dírhael, though the elderly man was far more interested in meeting the King’s children.

   “You are blessed with a delightful family, Aragorn,” he said after all three of them had been sent reluctantly to their beds. “Little Gilraen and Celebrían are both the image of their mother, though, I confess, they so remind me of my own Gilraen when she was that age. And Eldarion is a fine lad; I see much of you in him. You must be very proud of them all.”

   Aragorn beamed. “I am, and a day never passes when I do not thank Eru for the gifts he has bestowed upon Arwen and myself.”

   “It truly gladdens my heart to see you so blessed at last,” said Dirhael. “You have waited a long time for the rewards of your labours.”

   Eventually, the two men returned to the city. Apparently all had been made ready for the King’s arrival in the morning, but neither Dírhael nor Haladan was leaving anything to chance. After his guests had left, and the rest of the party had retired for the night, Aragorn sat on alone for a time, quietly enjoying his pipe.

   Dírhael had provided him with plenty to think upon but he had been greatly encouraged by all that he heard. And he had been particularly impressed by young Haladan. He appeared every bit as level headed as his father and completely committed to the continued restoration of Arnor. In the years ahead, he would be glad to have such a man serving on the Council. Lately, he had been giving much thought to the ordering of his Realm and he had decided he needed someone in Arnor to fulfil the role that Faramir performed in Gondor. Already he was beginning to wonder if Haladan might just be the right choice for Chief Councillor. He was young, certainly, but no more so than Faramir when he became Steward or Eomer when he became King. As Aragorn sat enjoying the excellent Longbottom that Sam had given him, he found himself warming to the idea.

   But meeting the son inevitably drew his thoughts back to the father. Halbarad had been much on his mind recently. In part, it was the country they rode through. Every craggy rock, every stream, and every wood seemed to hold some memory of him. Aragorn had not thought to still be so moved after so long, but the dull ache of his loss had unexpectedly returned and that evening, his old friend filled his thoughts.

   He knew that someday he must talk to Haladan of that awful day on the Pelennor. It was not a conversation he particularly looked forward to. He would have to choose his time to broach the matter and then select his words carefully.  He did not know how much the son already knew of his father’s last moments. Someone was sure to have spoken to him. He himself had written to Halbarad’s widow. His words had seemed woefully inadequate and he had omitted most of the detail. She had not needed to know of the pain her husband had endured or of the fear that had filled his eyes.

   Even now, Aragorn was unsure if he could bring himself to tell this young man about everything that had happened; the full wretched horror of how the orcs had butchered his father as they dragged him to the ground while he still valiantly clutched the Standard.  It had only taken moments for Aragorn to be at his side and for the orcs to feel the desperate fury of Andúril, but there had been nothing he could do to help his friend. Immediately he realised that his wounds were too deep and that Halbarad’s remaining time on Arda would only be counted in moments. Aragorn had cradled him in his arms and talked to him as his life had slipped away. What had he said? He could not now recall; nothing of any consequence, of that he was sure; certainly nothing he should have said; there was simply not the time. For a brief moment Halbarad had tried to return the grip on Aragorn’s hand but the effort had proved too much. He had desperately struggled to speak, his eyes pleading with Aragorn to understand, but his words had died with him.

   Aragorn felt tears fill his eyes. He blinked them away. One day he knew he must tell Halbarad’s son all about his father’s last moments. One day, but perhaps not just yet.  

~oo0oo~

   The next morning there was an autumnal chill in the air at first light. The Royal Family rose exceptionally early as there was much to do in readiness for the King’s investiture and for the grand opening ceremony of Annúminas. Aragorn’s daughters could barely contain their excitement and were busily trying to decide which of their dresses were most suitable for the occasion. Arwen gratefully handed over the entertainment of them to their nanny. She herself dressed quickly; glad, today especially, for the assistance of young Elanor Gamgee. The hobbit-lass was rapidly making herself thoroughly indispensable.

   Eldarion however, unlike his sisters, was being very serious and grown up and insisted upon aiding his father as he donned his ceremonial robes and armour.

   “Are you going to wear all the heirlooms of the Dúnedain today, Adar,” asked Eldarion as he peered into the specially made chest which held his father’s most prized treasures. Aragorn had told him the tales behind how they all came into his possession many times, but now that his father was actually going to wear them all and at such a grand occasion at that, Eldarion suddenly found them quite fascinating.

   “Yes, of course,” replied Aragorn as he struggled into his black mail. “This is a very special day, one of the most important since I became king. Today I formally take up the kingship of the North Kingdom. It will be expected that the King should look the part.”

   “But what about your ring? Will Naneth still wear that?” asked Eldarion, as he went to help his father ease the cumbersome mail over his shoulders.

   Aragorn glanced across at his wife who had now joined them and was carefully unfolding his white cloak. He had put that ring on her finger all those years ago and he had no intention of ever removing it.

   “No, my son, the ring of Barahir remains on the hand of your mother.”

  “Oh,” said Eldarion, clearly a little disappointed, “but you’ll wear the Elessar, though, and the Elendilmir too. You must wear that. Are you really going to wear the one you found in Orthanc?” The prospect evidently excited the boy. A few years ago he had gone through a magpie stage when he had collected anything and everything, and he had been intrigued by the tale of the wicked wizard secretly gathering items of great worth, and hiding them in his tower, foremost among them Isildur’s great jewel.

   “May I be permitted to see it, Adar?”

  The shirt in place, Aragorn agreed and delved into the chest. He was glad to see his son showing such interest in the Kingdoms he would one day inherit. There had been a time when it seemed he was interested in absolutely everything except the role that would one day be his.

   Aragorn picked up the small mithril case that Gimli had made for the Elendilmir soon after they had found it in Saruman’s hoard. He carefully removed the great crystal and held it out on its mithril fillet for his son to see. The great jewel blazed with a brilliant light and Eldarion gasped in wonder.

   “It is so much brighter than the other one,” he cried. “May I hold it?”

   “You may,” said Aragorn, smiling at his son. “But handle it with care. It is not for nought that I have yet to wear it myself.”

   “Oh, Adar, you are going to look like a true king of old when you are all dressed up in your finery,” Eldarion’s face was a picture of wonder. In the Citadel at home there was a painting hanging in the Council Chambers of his father standing before the walls of Minas Tirith. It depicted the moment after he had received the winged crown from Gandalf and Frodo. Eldarion had always been awed by how stern and mighty a man his father seemed in that picture. He did not remotely resemble the loving father who played games with him and told him wonderful stories. He had seen his father attired in kingly raiment on many a state occasion, but a coronation was undoubtedly something very special.

   Aragorn returned the jewel to its case and, with Eldarion’s help, finally finished strapping on the black mail.  

   Once it was fully secured, the Queen came and clasped the white cloak about Aragorn’s throat.

   “This cloak really has seen better days, Estel,” she said as she smoothed it over his shoulders. “You really should have permitted me to make you a new one.”

   “And I would have treasured it,” said Aragorn, “but this one served the Kings of Gondor well enough in the past. Had one this fine survived from the North kingdom, I would have worn that in preference on an occasion such as this, but sadly none remains.”

   “It looks very well on you,” said Arwen with a reassuring smile. She then took the Elessar from the chest and pinned the great brooch to his breast.

   “You look truly magnificent, my dearest,” she said softly as she lightly kissed his cheek. Aragorn caught her hand and raised her fingers to his lips; his eyes glowed with the special smile he reserved only for her.

   “Oh, Adar, what about your silver rod?” asked Eldarion, excitedly. “You must have that. May I fetch it?” The lad returned to the chest and carefully lifted out a long velvet roll, inside of which was the Sceptre of Annúminas. He had only ever seen it a few times and knew his father esteemed it very highly.

   Eldarion unwrapped the exquisite Sceptre and breathed out a long low whistle of appreciation. “It is very beautiful,” he said as he admired the delicately sculptured mithril. “It is very old, isn’t it? But I wonder, Adar, it is the oldest of your heirlooms; or would that be the Elendilmir; do you know?”

   Aragorn came and stood beside his son. The boy was growing tall yet he still seemed very young for a fifteen year old, far younger than he had been at that age. But then, neither he nor Arwen had been quite sure of how quickly any of their children would mature, given their unique parentage.

   He considered his son’s question. It was not something he had thought on before but he found he was intrigued.

   “In fact, my son, it is neither,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “I do believe the ring of Barahir to be by far the oldest for it was made for Finrod Felagund while he still dwelt in Valinor. It may be about the same age as the Palantíri which were also made in the long Ages before the Noldor departed from the Blessed Realm. Fëanor himself, no less, crafted them in his workshop.”

   “That really is extremely old,” said Eldarion in wonder, “far older even than Naneth. But surely the Sceptre must be the next oldest. Have I not heard tell in my lessons that it is the oldest work of the hands of Men?”

   “Yes, my son, you have learnt your lessons well,” said Aragorn, smiling at the youthful face that looked up at him; so young and innocent, and so very beloved. “And of the works of Men I do indeed believe it to be the most ancient, made as it was for Valandil, the first lord of Andúnië. But the Elendilmir, I deem to be older as it was made for Valandil’s mother, Silmariën.”

   “I see,” said Eldarion, thoughtfully. “So who was it who made the Elendilmir then?” Aragorn considered this for a moment and realised he did not know.

   “I’m not sure,” he said. “The kings of Númenor were good friends of the Elves on Tol Eressëa in those days so it may well have been a gift from them. The replacement Elendilmir was made at Imladris at the biding of your grandfather. I think it likely only the skill of the Elves could make such a thing.”

   “You could be right, Adar,” said Eldarion. He was frowning and Aragorn smiled to himself as he wondered what was coming next. Instructing his son in his family history was proving to be an unexpected bonus of coming North.

   “After all,” continued Eldarion, with the same considered expression on his face, “it was the Elves who made the Elessar, was it not?”

   “It was indeed,” replied Aragorn. “And that was long ago, before the fall of Gondolin even.”

   “I know exactly when that was,” said Eldarion proudly. “It was in the year five hundred and ten of the First Age. Eärendil was only seven years old at the time and I know he was born in five hundred and three. That’s how I remember.”

   Aragorn laughed. “Well, so long as you don’t forget when Eärendil was born, you will do well enough then!”

   “Oh I know everything Eärendil,” boasted Eldarion. “He is Naneth’s grandfather and she has told me all about him.”

   “Well that is good,” said Aragorn. “You will know then that the Elessar was made for Eärendil’s mother, Idril.”

   “By Enerdhil, the most talented Smith in all Gondolin.” Eldarion beamed as he proudly displayed his knowledge.

   “I see you have been paying more attention to your lessons than your tutors have led me to believe,” said Aragorn, greatly pleased. “So tell me then, my son, if Eärendil sailed to the Blessed Realm with the Elessar in the First Age, how comes it to be in my possession in the Fourth?” Aragorn was very aware that the hour was passing and that the rest of the Company would probably be ready to leave by now, but he was greatly enjoying this conversation with his son.

   “Oh that’s an easy one,” laughed Eldarion. “Gandalf brought it with him from Valinor and gave it to Great Grandmother Galadriel who gave it to her daughter who gave it to Naneth who gave it back to Galadriel who gave it to you.” Eldarion frowned as if pondering this extraordinary chain of ownership. “Would it not have been simpler, Adar, for Great Grandmother Galadriel to have just kept it and given it to you herself?”

   Aragorn smiled at his son’s perfectly reasonable logic and briefly wondered what the Lady of the Wood would have thought of being given such a title. Then Eldarion unexpectedly added. “I wish I could have known Gandalf.”

   “I wish you could have known him too, my son,” said Aragorn. “You would have learnt a great deal from him and he would have adored you.” In all the years he had known the wizard, he had rarely talked of his longing for a son, but Gandalf had known how much this had meant to him and it saddened him that his friend would never know Eldarion.

   Suddenly Eldarion strode over to the doorway to pick up the sword that rested just inside.

  “You mustn’t forget Andúril, Adar. Will you allow me to clasp it to you?” he asked.

   “You may, my son,” said Aragorn. “I would be most honoured.”

   Eldarion carefully carried the sword to his father and took a time to position the sheath just so. He was becoming quite a proficient swordsman himself so he handled this particular sword with great reverence.

   Aragorn waited for the inevitable questions but when none were forthcoming, he said: “Is there nothing you wish to ask me about Andúril?”

   “No, I don’t think so,” said Eldarion as he made sure the famous sword was settled comfortably on his father’s hips. “I know there is nothing much to tell.”

   “How do you mean?” asked Aragorn.

   “Well, I know all about the Shards of Narsil, of course, and how they were reforged to become Andúril. And I know that Narsil was made in the First Age by a Dwarf called Telchar, but no one knows any more than that, do they? I’ve asked you about it before and all you could tell me was that it came into the possession of the lords of Andúnië at some time in the Second Age. It’s not even known who the sword was made for originally.”

   Aragorn had almost forgotten that conversation with his son of some years ago. He remembered feeling as if he had disappointed the boy by not being able to provide a more detailed history of the sword.

   “Well who do you suppose might have been the first owner of Narsil?” he asked.

   Eldarion considered this question most carefully. “Well it is a very long sword so it was not made for a Dwarf or a Hobbit.”

   Aragorn caught his wife’s eye and noticed she was having the same difficulty as he at suppressing her mirth over their son’s reasoning. He had clearly not yet absorbed the fact that hobbits did not feature in any of the tales of the earlier Ages.

   Working hard at keeping a straight face, Aragorn solemnly agreed. “But who then might it have been if not a Dwarf or a Hobbit?”

   “Well obviously, Adar, that only leaves Elves and Men,” said Eldarion as if unable to believe his father could ask such a silly question. His face though was study of concentration. “I wonder if it might not have been an Elf.  Did not Telchar also make the knife that Beren used to cut the Silmaril from Morgoth’s crown?”

   “He did,” said Aragorn. “Curufin son of Fëanor was the previous owner of that blade. Might it be possible then, do you think, that Telchar made Narsil for one of his people?”

   “If he did, it must have been someone very important,” mused Eldarion. “It is no ordinary sword after all.”

   “That it is not,” agreed Aragorn. “But even if this was so, I’m afraid we will never know how it came to be an heirloom of Elendil’s line. There are none who could answer this question for us now.”

   Arwen, who had been listening to the exchange with a measure of amusement, helpfully suggested: “Perhaps the sword was in the possession of some of Curufin’s people in Nargothrond who then brought it with them when they fled to Doriath. From there, the survivors would have taken it with them to the Havens.”

   Grateful for his wife’s assistance, Aragorn added: “it is quite possible that at some point during the War of Wrath it then came into the hands of the Edain who would have taken it with then to Númenor.” He very much hoped this explanation would satisfy his son.

   “But we will still never know for sure?” asked Eldarion, his disappointed still clearly written on his face. “It will remain a mystery for ever.”

   “It will,” said Aragorn with regret, “but it is still the finest sword in all Middle-earth. We must be content with that.”

   Aragorn was suddenly aware of his wife calling to his daughters and realised the hour appointed for their departure to Annúminas  had come.

   “Estel, we really should be on our way,” said Arwen.

   Both girls quickly came bounding in, proudly showing off their finest gowns. They were bubbling with excitement, yet they came rather shyly before of their father. In his severe black armour and his long white cloak, he made an intimidating figure, little did he resemble the man they knew and loved. But as he grinned at them and held out his hands, they raced towards him and playfully leapt into his arms which caused Arwen to admonish them for their unladylike behaviour.

  Aragorn laughed and was totally unrepentant. “Can I help it, my dear, if my daughters are Rangers at heart? Though I confess, I have never seen Rangers this fair or as beautifully attired as my two little treasures here.” As the girls scrambled all over him, he smothered them both in kisses and sent them into fits of giggles.

   “Well, if we are all ready,” said Arwen as she tried unsuccessfully to straighten the girls’ gowns, “perhaps I should send someone to find my brothers.”

   A guard was send swiftly to the pavilion where the Peredhil slept but almost immediately the sons of Elrond popped their heads through the doorway.

   “Estel, we are all waiting for you,” said Elladan.

   “Come in, my brothers. I am nearly ready,” said Aragorn as he gently deposited his daughters on the ground. But as he stood up straight and tall, all levity left him and he became very serious and solemn. He picked up the mithril case containing the great white jewel and handed it to his Queen.

   “Will you, my beloved, do me the great honour of placing the Elendilmir upon my brow?”

   Aragorn knelt as Arwen removed the jewel from its case and came and stood before him There were no trumpets, no fanfares, no cheering crowds to acknowledge the moment when Arwen finally bound the great jewel to the forehead of the King, but Aragorn felt his flesh shiver with the incomparable honour of finally wearing the Star of Elendil upon his brow. This was the moment, every bit as much as wedding Arwen, that he had strived for all his life; a glorious moment surpassing any of those already awarded him. Today, at last, he would come before his own people, in the land of his birth, not as merely their Chieftain, but as their King. Now, Eru willing, may he finally fulfil the role of Envinyatar and renew and restore his people to the honour and the glory they so deserved but of which they had for too long been bereft.

    As he majestically rose to his feet, the jewel flared as a white flame and those present gasped at the wonder of it. Arwen then handed Aragorn the Sceptre of Annúminas, and if Elendil, or any great king from the Eldar days, had ever looked more magnificent than King Elessar did at that moment, none has ever recorded it.

    “Arathorn would have been so proud,” said Elladan in wonder, and Elrohir added: “Today you do great honour to both your fathers, Estel.”

   “Then come, let us make our way to Annúminas,” said the King.

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn and his family emerged from their pavilion into a fair morning. It was an hour passed the dawn and although the bright sun promised a glorious late summer’s day, a cool mist still lingered above the clear waters of Nenuial. The vast lake stretched almost as far as the eye could see and was surrounded by heather topped hills which shimmered purple and gold in the soft morning light. Along the gentle shore, grew many great trees, their leaves just beginning to turn auburn on their tips. Summer was departing more swiftly this far north but Aragorn did not think he had ever seen the place looking more beautiful. He had always loved to come here. The lake teemed with fish and, whenever his travels permitted, it had ever been a joy to him to sit for a time beside the pure mountain waters with a line in his hand. He understood very well why Elendil had chosen to make his home here. Long had he felt there was nowhere more beautiful in all Middle-earth.

   And as the royal party walked along the newly laid road, the full splendour of the new city gradually unfolded before them. Aragorn gasped in amaze. Whatever he had been expecting did not begin to compare with the wonder revealed before him. Even Minas Tirith, rebuilt from the aftermath of war, was but a pale imitation of the glory of Annúminas restored. There, glistening silver in the Northern light, was the rebuilt Palace of the King, every bit as splendid and glorious as it had been in the days of Elendil. The marble for the sheer walls had been hewed from the Blue Mountains by the Dwarves. The Elves of Lindon had lent their skills to the design and sculpturing of the innumerable columns which rose far into the sky. Many banners flew from their masts and there, flying highest of them all, was the Standard of the King, the crown and the seven stars sparkling in the newly risen sun.

   Aragorn was struck dumb with wonder. He had seen the plans, approved the work, secured the funds and received regular progress reports, but nothing could have prepared him for the magnificence of the vision before him. Even Elladan and Elrohir, who had visited Elendil’s palace in their youth, were awed by the incomparable beauty of the new city.

   Dírhael was at the forefront of the reception party as the King walked slowly towards the great mithril gates. A cacophony of trumpets heralded his arrival and as Aragorn came before him, Dírhael bowed and remembered to bend his knee. Aragorn gently raised the elderly man him to his feet. .

   Dírhael’s wide smile reflecting the great joy in his heart as he said: “come, my lord, your people await you.”

    He stood to one side as the King, his family and friends proceeded to walk through the great gates and into the court beyond. A vast sea of faces greeted them. There were people everywhere, looking out of every window, standing on any available ledge, even up on the roofs. Aragorn had no idea there were this many people even living in the North.

   ‘Eriador must be deserted,’ he thought. He had been expecting a solemn ceremony, perhaps with Dírhael saying a few words rather along the lines of those spoken by Faramir before the walls of Minas Tirith. Instead, as the gates opened and he entered into the city, the crowd erupted with joy. Aragorn’s ears rang with the cheering of his people. On and on they cried their approval. Trumpets sounded and the band played but they were completely drowned by the joyful voices of the Dúnedain celebrating the return of their King. Rose petals fluttered down on Aragorn from the very sky itself. He turned to smile at Arwen in amazement.

   Slowly, the Royal procession made its way towards the Palace. Many guards stood solemnly on duty in front of the massed crowds, but as Aragorn walked passed them, he suddenly realised he recognised many of their faces. Here were his fellow Rangers, attired now in the livery of Elendil and honouring their lord. But to Aragorn these were his friends, people who had shared many a danger with him, some had even been members of the Grey Company and had ridden with him on that terrible road through the mountain. They were people he knew and loved. And, for all that he conducted himself with the dignity of his office, as he came before them, he could not resist reaching out a hand or drawing them into his embrace.

    There were women in the crowd also; many were known to him. Some had provided him with a roof over his head in an hour of need, many were mothers and wives of his men, all were cheering their joy, though for some, he noticed, the smiles were mingled were tears. And the children; there were so many youngsters. They cheered and called and waved flags. Theirs were faces unmarked by fear and loss, the true hope of his people and Aragorn’s heart rejoiced to see them. Tears of joy were pouring down his own cheeks now but he did not care. No one cared, their King had come among them and Aragorn was swept along by the great outpouring of love felt for him by every man, woman and child who dwelt in that ancient Realm.

    And somewhere, high in the Palace of the King, an elderly lady gazed down upon the splendour of her dearly beloved grandson. Here was the child she had held in his arms at his naming, now the mightiest and wisest of men in all Middle-earth, a great and renowned King. And, upon his breast, there blazed the green stone that she had seen all those years ago. Her heart bursting with pride and love, she watched as he walked slowly through the city and into the welcoming arms of a People who adored him.

~oo0oo~

…and the might of the Dúnedain was lifted up and their glory renewed.

Of the Rings of Power                                                                                 The Silmarillion

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 40: The Gift of Men

   The hour is indeed hard, yet it was made even in that day when we met under the white birches in the garden of Elrond where none now walk.

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                       The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   The stars are beautiful tonight.

   I can see so many old friends shining in the sky above me. There, very clear and bright, are the seven stars of the Sickle of the Valar and there also is mighty Menelvagor, the Swordsman of the Sky, a reminder that even now in this time of peace, there is at least one more battle yet to be fought. But brightest of all is Eärendil, the Evening Star, blazing in the night sky, his path lit as ever by the light of the Silmaril. On nights beyond recall in years gone by, the stars were often my only companions; my constant guides by whose light I gratefully found my way as I travelled many a long, lonely road. Now I come to offer my thanks to them all, one last time.  

   It is cold this evening on the embrasure; there is a sharp wind gusting over the White Mountains. Or perhaps it is just that I am old and I feel these things more keenly. But I would not have missed this sunset or my last view of my realm, lost now from my sight in the fading light. As the sun finally sinks below the mountains, a mass of twinkling lights from countless windows are kindled one by one below me, piercing the darkness of the Pelennor Fields. I am the only Man left in Gondor who remembers the great battle that was fought there so long ago. The days of the War of the Ring all seem very distant to me now, as if they happened in another lifetime. The children of the men who fought and died, like my own, have grown up enjoying a world of peace and for that I give thanks. I too have become used to a life of ease and it is my dearest hope that Middle-earth never again faces a peril like that of old.

    But if evil does arise again, it will not be I who fights it now. The long tale of my years is rapidly drawing to a close; my son, Eldarion, will take up the rule of my kingdom after I am gone. I have taught him all I can and he has learned his lessons well. In him, the mighty blood of Númenor is blended with the noble blood of the Firstborn; he is a worthy heir of both our Peoples. To him do I now entrust my legacy and the safe keeping of my realm.

    Tomorrow is the first day of Gwaeron, the day of my birth. I shall be two hundred and ten years old. It is a good age, even for one of Númenorean descent. I feel greatly blessed to have been granted such a long and fruitful time on this earth. But now, with every new day, I feel my strength waning and I know the time has come at last for me to depart from this life and to pass beyond the Circles of the World. I have made up my mind; I shall not linger. It seems only fitting that I choose the same day that I was born into this life to be reborn into my new existence. Tomorrow I shall lay myself down as the kings of old used to do, long ago in an earlier Age of this world. I shall relinquish my life and accept the Gift of Men. I hope I find the strength to do this willingly and without fear, but trusting in the love of Eru, into whose hands I place my doom. I have endeavoured to lead a life worthy of the grace I have been granted and so I trust that I shall not be forsaken now. This will be the last of the many trials I have faced in my long years and I pray I shall not fail at the final test. But this test may prove the hardest of them all and the most bitter to endure. Although I step upon this final road with my heart full of hope for that which is yet to come, still I must bear the pain of leaving behind so many whom I love. Most grievous of all, I must be sundered from my dearest lady, my most beloved.

   Oh Arwen, when I have gone, you and I shall once more be apart. How I will find the strength to leave you I do not know; I feel my heart breaking even as I think on it, but leave you I must.

   The Doom of Men, as Elrond once foresaw, will, I am certain, prove hard for you to bear. But do not grieve for me unduly. Have we not been blessed with great happiness and enjoyed a life together beyond even our own dreams and expectations when we plighted our troth under the golden trees of Cerin Amroth so long ago?   What joy you have given me. You are the light in my life, my wife and lover, and my greatest source of strength. To you I have often looked for counsel and, with your great wisdom, you have ruled dutifully by my side all the years of my reign.

    My dear Arwen, I owe you so very much, I would spare you this if I could. You were my beacon of hope in those empty years when I wandered alone in the Wilds; your love and faith succoured and nourished me when my own hope faltered. For you, I kept struggling on when my feet were sore and weary and I yearned to turn aside from my path, if only for a time. In my darkest hours, it was always your face that I conjured before my eyes to sustain me and carry me through those bleak times. Without your love, I doubt I would ever have accomplished all that I did. Your own sacrifices have also been many, but still our love has not been without cost and now it is time for us to pay.

   And so I must leave you for a time as I go to my long rest, but I shall await you in that place where the Secondborn find their true home. Be strong, my beloved, and do not despair; there is a light for us still beyond our parting. I believe, with all my heart, that a time will come when we shall be together again and then we shall be sundered no more. Follow me, my love, and trust that I shall lead you to a place where we may yet walk hand in hand beneath the stars at twilight once again; a place where the bliss that we have shared in this life shall be ours for ever more, even unto the very end of Days.

~oo0oo~

 ....and with that even as he took her hand and kissed it, he fell into sleep. Then a great beauty was revealed in him, so that all who after came there looked on him in wonder; for they saw that the grace of his youth, and the valour of his manhood, and the wisdom and majesty of his age were blended together. And long there he lay, an image of the splendour of the Kings of Men in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world.

The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen                                                       The Return of the King

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And especial thanks to Cairistiona for the beta

A/N  This is the final chapter of ‘Aspects of Aragorn.’ The support and encouragement I’ve received for this story has been simply fantastic so I would like to say a huge thank you to everyone who has been reading, particularly those who have stuck with it to the bitter end! And of course my special thanks go to all those who have been kind enough to leave so many lovely reviews. I’ve truly appreciated every single one of them.

It’s been quite a marathon! I began writing this tale nearly fours years ago simply for my own satisfaction. As my first attempt at writing fiction, it started very tentatively and I never intended it to become what it did and I most certainly had no intention of ever making it public. However, as I soon discovered, these things take on a life of their own and what initially was no more than an interesting exercise to try and define Aragorn’s life in as plausible and faithful a manner as I could from the clues that Tolkien provided, eventually evolved into this 180,000 word epic! Even so, it is only thanks to my wonderful beta, Cairistiona, that this story ever got to see the light of day. Her assistance has been absolutely invaluable and I can never thank her enough for all the help she gave so generously or for finally persuading me to post this story! My thanks also go to Estelcontar, whose long love of Aragorn predates my own and who, as my test reader, offered constant reassurance about the validity of my interpretation of our great hero. I’m most grateful to both of them for all their help since the pleasure of sharing this story with so many has proved a privilege and a joy I never remotely expected when I first put pen to paper. Thank you.

Epilogue: The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

                                                                                                       Minas Tirith  IV Age

   Barahir put down his quill and carefully blotted the last words he had written on the final page of the manuscript. He sat back in his chair and waited a moment for the ink to dry. The work had been a long labour, requiring much painstaking research, but it was at last complete. The pages would yet be properly bound and the lettering of the title would definitely be improved once the gilders had done their part, but it was still hugely satisfying to finally be able to hold the finished item in his hands.

   All that was needed now was the approval of the King.

   He had been greatly honoured when his Majesty had asked him, in person, to write the piece, though at the outset it had seemed a most daunting undertaking. But the more he had delved into the records and researched his subjects, the more he had come to realise what a rare privilege he had been granted. The matter, though, was very close to the King’s heart and he dearly hoped he would not be disappointed by his efforts.

   He was due to attend an audience with his sovereign that very afternoon. There was no other particularly pressing business requiring their attention; he was only delivering a routine report on the work in the archives, so this would certainly be an appropriate moment to present his work. His majesty had enquired after its progress when last they met and Barahir had assured him it would not be long before it was completed. A few minor details had required some further perusing in the archives, but the ever reliable Thain’s Book had provided the answers he sought. There really was no need to delay seeking the King’s endorsement.

   Barahir meticulously checked the pages were all arranged in the correct order before carefully placing them in a folder which he then secured by tying together the ribbons attached to the hard outer covers. Tucking the folder under his arm, he immediately left his comfortable little house on the Sixth Level, and made his way to the Citadel. It was nearly mid-day but he gave no thought to pausing for lunch. He was both far too nervous and far too buoyed by the joy of accomplishment to consider eating even a morsel.

   It was only a short walk to the King’s residence. He had become a regular visitor there these last few months so he was very familiar with the protocol involved. Usually he was welcomed by his elder brother, the Steward, but he was not in attendance at this time, being busy with his own affairs at Emyn Arnen. Instead he was greeted by the King’s secretary who ushered him though to an ante room where he was expected to await his majesty’s pleasure.

    It was a comfortable room and Barahir waited patently as the minutes slowly ticked by, though it soon became very apparent he had arrived far too early.

   ‘Eager fool,’ he chided himself.

   He tugged at the too tight collar of his tunic. It was a warm June day and he was quickly becoming uncomfortably hot in his stiff formal attire, in spite of the room being kept pleasantly cool by the smooth white marble which lined the floor and walls.

   In truth, he had a tendency to be rather nervous in the company of the King and the longer he had to wait, the more he could feel his anxiety rising. He was, after all, only a humble man of letters, not a politician like his brother. Books and scrolls were his usual companions, the simple, uncomplicated tools by which he plied his trade.

   He forced himself to stop pacing and sit quietly. He was considering leaving and returning again at the due time when suddenly the door opened, and to his surprise, the King himself came forward to greet him. He was dressed casually in loose fitting robes, yet, no matter what his attire, his Majesty never appeared anything less than the mighty and powerful lord that he was, so noble was his fair face and wise his deep, grey eyes.

   “Barahir, how good of you to come,” said the King, smiling. “I do hope you’re here on the matter we’ve been discussing. Let us go outside into the garden; it is far too beautiful a day to remain indoors.”

   Barahir immediately jumped to his feet and bowed his head.

   “Thank you, my Lord King, that would be most agreeable,” he said, hoping he did not sound as anxious as he felt.

   The King was effortlessly regal in his manner and yet was every bit as approachable as his great father was reputed to have been. His welcoming smile always immediately put Barahir at his ease and once he got into his stride with their meetings, he never could remember why he became so nervous beforehand.

   He followed the King through doors that seemed to miraculously open as they approached, and they eventually emerged from the Citadel into in the Fountain Gardens.

   It was an enchanting place, having been designed and nurtured by the Elves in the early days of the Fourth Age when the Firstborn were still regular visitors to the city. Orange blossoms and roses lined the arched walkways, their soft fragrances blending harmoniously with the warm summer air. King and servant meandered slowly down the paths. As they went, the King enquired about the wellbeing of Barahir’s family, particularly his children who were all very young.  Barahir sometimes wondered why so great and important a man should trouble himself with such trifles, yet the King always appeared so genuinely interested that, before he knew it, he always found himself happily telling his sovereign all about the day to day happenings of his household.

   No matter which direction a visitor walked in the Fountain Gardens, all paths eventually converged on the great White Tree that towered above everything else that grew in that place.  Barahir had seen the Tree many times in his life but, every time he beheld it anew, its magnificence still took his breath away. Proud and erect it stood beside the fountain, the living symbol of the United Realms which continued to flourish and prosper under the sure and just rule of their King. Its tall trunk stretched far above them into the clear sky, and its countless white leaves shimmered silver in the bright sunshine, showering the water of the fountain with a myriad of glittering jewels.

    “So, Barahir, is it finished?” asked the King as he and the historian took their seats on the edge of the fountain.

   “I believe it is, my lord,” said Barahir, unable to conceal the fear in his voice as he handed the folder to the King. “I have researched the contents thoroughly and am as confident as I can be of their accuracy, but of course, I defer to your majesty in this.”

   “I don’t doubt the validity of your work,” said the King, “and I’m greatly looking forward to reading it.”

   But the King did not open the folder, nor did he say anything more about the manuscript. Instead, they spent a few minutes talking briefly of other matters concerning the archives. Everything was clearly well in hand there; the Great King during his long life had seen to it that order was brought to all the records and documents in the Realm and so the work of the historians was not as arduous as it had been in the past.

   Yet Barahir could not help but notice that the King often glanced down at the folder in his hands and it was quite apparent to him that his sovereign’s mind was elsewhere. He could only guess that the King was actually more eager to read the work of his scribe than he appeared. And indeed not many minutes had passed before the King brought the audience to an end. Barahir rose and bowed politely before leaving. He was not looking forward to the next few days in the slightest. He would be on tenterhooks the whole time as he anxiously waited to learn whether or not his efforts had brought satisfaction.

~oo0oo~

   After Barahir had left, the King remained seated by the fountain for a long time. He wanted to be alone when he read the work and he knew none in his household, not even his family, would disturb him when he sought solitude beside the White Tree. He stared at the folder lying on his lap. The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen it said on the cover. For a number of years now he had greatly desired that this work be written. Yet suddenly he was reluctant to open the folder.  There was a part of him that longed only to plunge in and devour every word, so that he might once again feel close to the mother and father whom he had loved so much but who were now no longer with him. Yet he was cautious, apprehensive even. He was quite sure that some of the passages awaiting him within the pages of this document would prove very painful to read and the work would inevitable open old wounds in his heart which, even with the ever mounting years, had never completely healed and he was quite sure never would. .

   In his lifetime, the late king had talked to him often of his earlier years which had been so vastly different from his own. He had told him of his long travels and the hardships he had endured. He had talked of the battles he had fought and the many dangers he had faced, as well as the constant fear of living in the shadow of a tyrant like Sauron. It had all been very difficult to imagine for a man who knew none of those things. He himself had grown up in the safety of the Citadel and had never even raised a weapon in anger. His father, on the other hand, had, of necessity, lived by the sword. Yet, in spite of his father’s many tales, the lives of his parents were still a wonder to him. That his mother had accepted a mortal life so as to wed his father was a truly inspirational tale of love and sacrifice. And, as he began to feel his own mortality, he still marvelled at how his father had succeeded in returning the Gift at the end of his days. His mother had told him how greatly at peace his father had been when he departed, as one would have hoped for a man who had lived his life with such honour and dignity. But his mother’s suffering after his death had been heart breaking to witness. Eventually, in his despair, he had acceded to her request to return to Lothlórien. There, she had hoped to find the courage to relinquish her life and so be finally reunited with the man whom she had loved so much. With all his heart, he prayed that this had come to pass.

   During the long years of the Great King’s reign, much had been written about him. He was the greatest hero of the Age, beloved by his people. Songs were still sung celebrating his achievements and the history books were full of the accounts of his great deeds. But the new King had sought something more than this as an epitaph by which future generations might remember his father.  He wanted something that touched upon the inner core of the man, something that would evoke the very essence of this truly remarkable Dúnadan for those who came after, those for whom the Great King would be nothing more than just another figure from the past to be studied in the school room. He wanted words that would make his father live and breathe again in the minds of those who would read of his deeds in the long Ages yet to come so that all might discover for themselves the beating of his great heart. They might better know his courage and the strength of his will that drove him on when others would have long despaired; they might judge for themselves the clarity of his wisdom and their own hearts might be touched by his boundless compassion and selflessness. And at the very heart of his father’s extraordinary life, they might then fully understand the depth of his love for his mother and how, because of that love, he accomplished all that he did and played to the full his part in restoring Middle-earth to the fair and wondrous place it had become.

   The writing of such a work was no simple task, though the King had every confidence that Barahir would pen a worthy memorial. Yet still his hands trembled slightly as he slowly untied the ribbons and opened the folder. He carefully removed the manuscript and, turning to the first page, he began to read.

   ‘Arador was the grandfather of the King…….’

The full tale is stated to have been written by Barahir, grandson of the Steward Faramir, some time after the passing of the King.

Prologue                                                                                    The Fellowship of the Ring

A/N The full version of The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen has never been published.