Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Author's Note:: This is a sequel to my fic, Little Mercy, though it's not necessary to have read that first. This takes place about six weeks after the events of that story. Thank you to Anoriath for the beta, to Cairistiona for the cheerleading, and to Salvage for everything else.

Towers chiseled from marble gleamed in the sunlight, arching in until they seemed to meld with the mountainside itself. He had grown up among the fair valley of Imladris, where home blended the trees around it, but never had he seen such feats of stonework. The hooves of his horse clattered on cobblestones as he rode through the city, onto the second level and up to the citadel, the fields of the Pelennor stretched wide in the distance. At last, he reached the White Tower, the banners of Gondor flying proud, and a white tree stood before him, its bare branches stark against the growing twilight…

A booted foot landed somewhere in Aragorn’s middle, jolting him awake. A brief, sudden bout of nausea shot through him, and he curled in around himself with a groan, his heart still beating rapidly from the dream. His eyes focused to take in the soft, mud-encrusted leather still a hair’s breadth from his face, and he groaned once more.

“Valar’s sake, can you wake a man more gently?”

The owner of the boot was less than sympathetic. “You’ll sleep through the day otherwise, son of Arathorn. Rest will keep until we reach Cardolan.”

Aragorn groaned again and sat up to glare at Gandalf the Grey. A hint of amusement shone beneath bushy eyebrows, ruining an otherwise stern countenance that would have struck fear into the hearts of lesser Men. He’d traveled with the wizard for nearly six weeks now, and only recently felt he’d retained a grasp on the old man’s moods and riddles. Certainly he understood why his grandmother Adanel acted like she wanted to kill him half the time.

Satisfied Aragorn was awake, Gandalf let out a soft “hrmph” and turned his attention to the smoldering embers of last night’s fire. A small kettle sat among the hot coals, steam spurting out in pale gasps amongst the smoke. Aragorn inhaled the deep, pungent scent of burning kindling. Across the fire, he made out the broad figure of Halbarad packing their gear onto his horse, his long hair blowing in the wind. He turned and smirked at the sight of Aragorn.

“You’ll get no sympathy from me,” Halbarad remarked. “I should be on my way back to the Swanfleet now, in the arms of my beloved, rather than chasing ghosts with you two.”

“Think of the Halbarad that was,” Aragorn said with a wry smile. Goading his kinsman was almost too easy, and it never failed to bring him morning cheer. “The one who wanted nothing more than to adventure alongside a wizard and dwarves, as your mother tells it. Who would not stop until he’d made fireworks of his own…”

“Yes, and the Aragorn-that-was wanted to eat berry cakes made from mud. We all grew out of our fancies.”

“The business of wizards is more than pipe-weed and fireworks, young Dúnadan,” Gandalf grumbled. “Do you think the wights of the barrow-downs will scatter before clever party tricks?”

“Worth a try.” Halbarad shrugged.

Aragorn chuckled at the look on Gandalf’s face and busied himself with packing up his own gear.

The late autumn wind blew strands of hair across his face, and he pushed the dank locks aside impatiently before he wrapped his bedroll tight and strapped it to his pack. A small stream ran beside their camp, and he knelt before it to splash water on his sweat-soaked face, shivering a bit at the shock of cold. A great oak tree stood beside the stream, its bare branches spindling up towards the grey sky. Waiting for the others, Aragorn sat back against the trunk, still half in the world of his dreams. Sleep had not proven restful, these past days.

Halbarad came and knelt beside him, a friendly, concerned hand upon his shoulder.

“Dreams again?” Halbarad asked.

Aragorn sighed and nodded. “Since we left Tharbad. A white tower, its banners caught high in the wind. First I thought it was an echo of the city as it was, but now…”

“Minas Tirith,” Gandalf said. He’d put out the last of the fire and now carried a large covered mug of bright red wood, steam escaping through a small hole in the top. “And the banners of Gondor. Perhaps your dreams are trying to tell you something, Master Ranger.”

Halbarad glanced at Gandalf before he turned back to Aragorn, his expression thoughtful. “You should talk with our grandmother, when we return to the Angle. She understands the nature of foresight.”

“It is a simple enough message, is it not?” Gandalf asked. “The city of kings calls to our young heir. But one quest at a time, I should think. We have a long road ahead before any of us can turn east.”

Halbarad snorted in consternation, but Aragorn only sat back with a faint smile. He found speaking with Gandalf to be much like the Elves he’d known in childhood, who often answered his questions with riddles so complex that, by the time he’d sorted them out, he’d quite forgotten what he first asked. The memories came with a sorrowful tinge now, the long years he’d gone not knowing his true identity. But experience had long taught him silence was the best option. Better to listen and wait, and trust that the wizard’s intentions would reveal themselves in time.

Unfortunately, Halbarad had no such patience.

“I still do not understand why you would track the wights to Cardolan. The threat to the Angle is ended, hasn’t it? You didn’t even need Aragorn or me to banish the ones from Tharbad.”

“Hmph,” Gandalf snorted. “It is a poor warrior who overestimates his own strength. I am bound to guide, Halbarad, not lead. I cannot seek out houseless Maia without your swords bent towards them. Sauron gathers power in his fortress and Angmar rebuilds. It is past time the Dúnedain flushed out ancient evils before new ones descend upon us all.”

“Past ti—“ Halbarad sputtered in indignation and sprang to his feet. “What else do you think we Rangers do in the Wild but guard against evil, on little rest and pipe—“

“Peace, Master Ranger! You have more than fulfilled your charge. But you did not have me. Let us see if the three of us can help each other in this task.”

Gandalf took a long sip from his mug and let out a satisfied huff. He reached up to pat Halbarad’s shoulder as he passed, and Aragorn chuckled a bit at his cousin’s glower.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” Halbarad grumbled.

Aragorn hauled himself up to his feet, groaning a bit as he did so, and met Halbarad’s frank, skeptical gaze. When Aragorn asked him to abandon his winter furlough to join him and Gandalf on the hunt for barrow-wights he had not hesitated, only declared himself the Chieftain’s man and prepared his horse to ride. They’d grown as brothers together, in the years since Aragorn returned to the Dúnedain, and there was no one’s judgement he trusted more.

Under ordinary circumstances, Halbarad’s doubts would be more than enough to give him pause. But he could not banish the image of the wights that had risen from the Chieftains’ barrows, of his grandmother kneeling over the abandoned, wasted corpse that had once been Arathorn. Halbarad had been on patrol when the attack on the Angle happened, and the wights they’d fought at Tharbad threatened nothing but crumbling stone and scattered game. He had not seen the horror in Adanel’s eyes or the desecration of their people’s graves. Aragorn owed it to them to end the threat once and for all.

“You’ve said yourself, Halbarad. It is no good for our people to be constantly looking over our shoulders for fear of ruin—and these creatures have already caused enough. Why not press the advantage while we have it?”

Halbarad grunted and clapped him on the back. “I’ll hear it better from our Chieftain than from a wizard who cannot give a straight answer. I suppose you’ll be considering this nonsense about Gondor too?”

Aragorn frowned. He did not like to think of Gondor, of the heirlooms from that land that weighed heavy upon him. He placed a hand briefly over his jerkin, where the ring of Barahir lay tucked beneath on a chain around his neck, and cast his thoughts north to the Angle, where Narsil lay locked in the Chieftain’s house. So many years had passed since the day Elrond presented him with his birthright, and yet there were days he still felt barely worthy of it.

“Let us see what Cardolan holds.”

“Indeed.” Gandalf had already mounted his horse and pulled up beside them, his wide-brimmed hat hiding bushy eyebrows and a knowing smirk. “Be in good spirits, my friends. We will have the luxury of the Greenway for awhile longer.”

The two men in the center broke apart, raised their blunted swords in salute, and came together in a fierce embrace. The people surrounding the ring broke out into great cheers and whistles. Nethril applauded with the rest of the assembled Dúnedain, a practiced smile upon her lips. She had attended well over a dozen prize plays in her life, though never with quite this good a view. She stood close enough to the ring gate she could rest her hands on the splintered wood, the training master, Tirron, on her right side and Captain Meldroch on her left. Her fur-lined cloak protected her from the wind that cut through the training grounds, and a mithril-threaded circlet that belonged to Adanel sat heavy on her forehead, holding her hair in place in an elegant knot behind her. To those around her, she imagined she looked a younger counterpart of Arador’s widow—she would have to pray she could continue to act it, as well.

Eight young men stood at the far end of the ring, all in padded tunics and drenched in sweat, despite the chill in the air. One still panted from exertion, grinning as his comrades all pounded him on the back. Ranging in age from nineteen to twenty-six, most had already received field promotions to full Ranger well over a year before. Extended patrols and depleted resources kept them away from the Angle until this month, but today they fought for their stars in the old way; in single combat against members of the Grey Company. The tradition dated back to Valandil, as did a handful of the silver pins that sat in a box beside Nethril. Today, they would swear their oaths to her, in Aragorn’s absence, and to all the Dúnedain of the North. Knowledge of that last bit quieted her nerves somewhat, enough that she trusted her voice to keep steady when she took the box in her hands and stepped into the center of the ring.

The assembled audience quieted as she walked toward the young men, and the newly tested warriors came and knelt before her. She spoke in a clear voice, pitching her voice low enough so that it might mask her nervousness and carry so that even the smallest child in the back of the crowd might hear her.

“Though the shape of the world may change around us, the charge of the Dúnedain has always remained: to protect the lands of Middle-earth, preserve our heritage, and honor our forebears who sailed from Númenor in search of peace. No one knows that charge greater than the Rangers among us, those men who wander the wilds and hunt the servants of the enemy. It is more than duty, it is dedication and sacrifice, to the thanks of few—often none but our own people.”

She gripped the box tightly between her hands and opened the lid to reveal eight rayed stars nestled together atop a velvet cloth. Though the sun hid behind thick autumn clouds, they still glinted in the daylight. The sight brought a true smile out of Nethril as she gazed at the men kneeling before her, their own joy barely suppressed.

“You have trained your whole lives for a long and difficult road. You have fought hard, and now you have successfully challenged your brethren for the right to enter their ranks. Are you prepared to take the oath of the Dúnedain?”

“I am.” They called out as one, and Meldroch stepped forward with an ancient, gleaming broadsword that he thrust into the soft ground. She stepped forward to each man, pinned the star to his breast with practiced fingers, and spoke words she’d committed to memory long ago, when she’d watched her father teach them to her brother along the banks of the Hoarwell.

After the oaths were sworn and the cheers of the Dúnedain echoed into the sky, the Rangers gathered in the main hall of the Chieftain’s house, where Adanel and Faelhen served food and ale in celebration of their newly increased ranks. Too preoccupied with preparations to eat breakfast that morning, she wolfed down two large hunks of bread before the thought occurred to her that the men may be watching. This was the second official function she had presided over as acting Chieftain, and she was still not used to the scrutiny. Aragorn had left with Gandalf over a month and a half ago, with no telling of his return, and she had been left to preside over the captains’ council in October. In some ways, she’d found that easier than swearing in newly made Rangers. She was used to mediating disputes between the captains, and understood intimately the politics that would cause men along the Greenway to protest a transfer to Fornost.

But ceremonies such as this were different, and rare—they had not had the opportunity for a formal swearing-in such as this since Aragorn’s own nearly four years ago. Still, Nethril could not help but feel like a pale stand-in making grandiose speeches meant for Isildur’s heir, when the royal blood ran so thinly in her veins.

She gazed out over the dim, smoke-filled hall, and spotted Meldroch making his way toward her. She forced her expression into one of polite greeting as the acting commander of the Grey Company approached. The grizzled old Ranger gave her a brief, courteous bow, his normally dour face softened by the merriment around them.

“You bear it well.” He touched a hand to his brow in indication of the circlet around her own. “Leadership suits you.”

“Thank you, Captain.” She hoped she sounded gratified rather than surprised. “I only hope they were not too disappointed to swear to me instead of Lord Aragorn.”

He cast her a sly smile. “Aragorn may be many things, Lady Nethril, but he is no great beauty to look upon. Few Rangers can claim they swore oaths to one as lovely as you.”

Nethril burst into laughter. She’d never considered herself particularly beautiful, and no man her age had ever shown so much as a passing interest in courting her. Either she frightened them with her closeness to Aragorn and her stubborn disposition, or they knew enough of her relationship with Isilmë to not try and interfere. The youngest generation, it seemed, had not yet been informed.

Nethril chuckled again, and gave Meldroch a sidelong glance. Though he was old enough to be her grandfather, he was as new to his position as she was to hers; an able captain of a small company, but unused to commanding the Rangers as a whole. She thought wistfully of Dírhael, on patrol near Fornost, and wished her grandfather would hurry his way home.

“Tirron tells me you have plenty of ideas for them build character. You plan to deploy Elros and Malbeth to Sarn Ford?”

“As soon as they’re able to ride. It’s a good first posting, enough for them to gain experience without too much danger. Captain Húrin knows how to command the young.”

“Aye.” She inclined her head and wondered how her next words would go over. “I’d have thought, after an attack within our borders, we’d want to keep more men close to the Angle.”

Meldroch pursed his lips, and she tensed, but he seemed more thoughtful than dismissive.

“I do not think we will be in danger of old ghosts again for quite some time,” he said. “Is that not the purpose of Aragorn’s mission? And the youth need to learn how manage the wild alone.”

“It’s not the barrow-wights that concern me. It’s been so long since the Angle has been breached we’ve forgotten what it takes to defend it. What if it’s wolves next time, or orcs?”

“Our walls stand unbroken for a reason, Lady Nethril. The same reason we teach every child to defend themselves, from Glamren to the Swanfleet settlements. You know how to wield a sword as well as I, as does any woman of the Dúnedain.”

“Do not flatter me, Captain,” though she smiled when she said it. “I’m not challenging you in the ring. If you send them to Sarn Ford, I want two men sent back in their place. If the danger is truly so little there, they can be spared.”

He considered her for a long time, his grey eyes narrowed, before he finally nodded and took a long swig from his mug of beer. “You have a tactical mind, I’ll grant you that. I’ll discuss it with Tirron.”

“That’s all I ask,” Nethril said, and let out a quiet sigh of relief when he bowed his head in farewell and moved on to where a small group of older men stood smoking their pipes beside the hearth.

Compromise had been the hardest thing for her to learn, these past weeks, conceding ground while keeping her authority intact. A game she’d have to play just a little while longer, until the men of her family returned home.

At last, the sun sank behind the trees, and the Chieftain’s house slowly emptied out as the revelers returned to their own homes from the evening meal. Nethril surveyed the mess of the main hall—benches scattered haphazardly across the floor, overturned mugs of ale on the tables, an uncleared platter that a barn cat was already tending to. She and Faelhen had already cleared away the rest of food, sending most home to families of the Angle. Nethril half-heartedly shooed the cat out of the house before she decided the rest could keep til morning. She retreated into the back common room, where Adanel already sat straight-backed at a spinning wheel,. She nodded to her old mentor before she collapsed into a cushioned chair and let out an exhausted groan.

“Valar spare me. I don’t understand how you managed as acting Chieftain for so many years.”

“It was more difficult in my day, too,” Adanel said primly, not taking her eyes off her spinning. “That stiff-necked Meldroch had no clue how to take orders from a woman with any sense of grace. It took nearly a decade for him to take my advice on its own merits, rather than being conveyed to him through Dírhael.”

Nethril covered her face with her hands and sank deeper into her chair. “Is that so?”

Nethril let out another mild groan, not in the mood to be admonished by the formidable old woman. Faelhen came in through the door and gave a Nethril conciliatory pat on the shoulder before she brought a steaming cup of tea to Adanel. The lady smiled warmly at Faelhen before she fixed her falcon’s gaze back on Nethril, and Nethril knew there was no way she was getting out of this conversation with any sort of dignity.

Adanel gave a curt nod in reply, but the corners of her mouth twitched in amusement, and Nethril suppressed a sigh. She supposed she should be glad that Adanel was somewhat in her old, cantankerous spirits. Ever since the attack on the barrows she’d been quiet and withdrawn, a shadow over her eyes that Nethril had never seen before. Nethril had been thoughtless in her words, she realized, for Adanel had managed as acting Chieftain only at great cost. It had rendered her hope brittle, easy for cracks to form, and under the weight of Arathorn’s unearthed corpse Nethril worried it might shatter completely.

But there was color in Adanel’s cheeks today, and Nethril allowed herself to close her eyes and remember the joy that suffused the main hall just an hour before. The crackling of the fire and the whirl of Adanel’s spinning wheel lulled her into a half doze. A loud knock jarred her from her reverie, echoing through the main hall and back into the sitting room. She sat upright and exchange a sharp look with Faelhen, who was already on her feet, but Nethril gestured for her to sit back down and strode for the door. Her footsteps echoed on the flagstones of the main hall, already chillier from the dying fire and absence of men. When she wrenched the great door open, Meldroch stood on the threshold, his expression troubled.

“Meldroch?” she said in some surprise. “Valars' sake, we can argue about Sarn Ford in the morning—“

But he pushed past her into the house, taking care to shut the door firmly behind him.

“The sentries spotted a man making his way up the hidden path, during the oath-taking, “ he said. “They didn’t think it worth disturbing the celebrations, but—it’s Brécharn. He’s returned from over the Hithaeglir.”

Aragorn had sent Brécharn on a scouting mission to Gondor over two years before, after the ruling Steward had died and Turgon’s son Ecthelion had risen in his place. The Dúnedain had little to do with their distant kin, but with Sauron newly declared in Mordor, Adanel and Dírhael had both counseled Aragorn to send a man south, to gain a measure of Ecthelion and how Gondor’s defenses stood against Barad-dûr. They’d had no word from him in over a year, and Nethril had, shamefully, put him out of her mind entirely, too consumed by more immediate fears to wonder if he’d met with death or worse.

“Tired, and in desperate need of a bath, but otherwise hale. Bursting with news. Shall I send him here?”

“No. He’s earned his rest, and time with his family,” she said, though she knew Brécharn remained unwed for much the same reason she had. “Have him report to me tomorrow at midday.”

“As you wish, my lady.” Meldroch gave another short bow and disappeared back into the night. Nethril watched him go until she shivered at a gust of wind. Brécharn home. The Valar watched over them at home, today. She could only pray they watched Aragorn, too, off with Gandalf in some hollow in the Wild. Whatever news came from the south, she could offer him counsel far better than she could offer leadership in his place.

Autumn was rapidly fading from the Angle. Bitter winds whipped the last leaves from the trees that framed the Chieftain’s house where it stood at the top of a little hill at the southern edge of the village. But the sun shone bright, even as it began to make its journey west. Nethril smiled widely at the sight of Brécharn walking up the path with Meldroch. She’d never known the Ranger particularly well, but he always had a joke on hand, and though she could never tell him why, she admired him fiercely. He and Hallor were an open secret among the Rangers, and their unspoken love had given her courage, when it came to matters with Isilmë. His cloak hung a bit loosely on him now, his belt tight from long weeks on the road, but he kept stride with Meldroch as he walked, his wild black hair hanging loose around his shoulders. He bowed low to greet her, but she allowed herself a rare drop in propriety and embraced him tightly.

“Welcome home, son of Belegor.” She drew back to hold him at arm’s length. “You’ve been missed.”

“So I’ve heard,” he said with an impish wink. “Seems they’ll let anyone act as Chieftain these days.”

From anyone else, she’d have bristled at the words, but Brécharn spoke them so amiably she could not help but grin back.

She led them through the main hall of the house and into the map room, and on impulse she threw open the shutters to allow the light to stream in. Adanel was already seated at the large table in the center of the room, her hands folded neatly behind a steaming pot of tea. Herbrow furrowed in disapproval when Nethril fastened the shutters in place. She ignored Adanel and took the pot of tea from beside her to pour out cups for both Meldroch and Brécharn. They nodded their thanks, and she settled into her seat at the head of the table. Her hands brushed the ink strokes that marked Belegaer on the great map before she closed them around her own clay cup and breathed in the strong, bitter scent of her mother’s tea.

“I am only sorry it took me so long to return,” Brecharn said, seating himself beside Meldroch. “It took some time to gain the measure of this new Steward, and of the threat in Mordor.”

Brécharn hesitated just a moment before he replied. “More or less. Sauron has rebuilt Barad-dûr. Fear permeates the streets of Minas Tirith—they are so close to Minas Morgul. But there has been no open war, no onslaught, and from all I can gather the servants of the Enemy do not seek the Heir of Elendil in the way they once did. It seems they believe the line died out with Arathorn.”

Nethril glanced toward Adanel at the words, but she only gripped her hands tighter together in a movement barely perceptible to the two Rangers at the table.

“And Gondor?” Adanel asked. “What work has the Steward’s line undertaken to combat the shadow?”

“Ecthelion is a good man,” Brecharn answered, “well liked by the people. He’s built up decent defenses with what he has, but his resources are limited. He’s encouraged men from far and wide to enter into his service. Not just Gondor—outsiders, foreigners. When I gained an audience with him, he asked me to tell this to the Dúnedain.”

“Outsiders and foreigners.” Adanel’s voice was dangerously soft. “He is aware we’re descended from the same line, yes?”

“I imagine he wasn’t referring to us,” Nethril said, suddenly wishing Adanel had not invited herself to this meeting. She was stubborn and proud, traits Nethril had long admired; traits that had let the Dúnedain survive in the years of Aragorn’s childhood. But it too often led to loss of temper these days, and she could not afford a scene in front of Meldroch. “Are they worth sparing the men for, Brécharn?”

“It is something to consider,” Brecharn spoke slowly. “We combat the same foe. And I’ve spent time amongst their soldiers. They’re stalwart and brave, but one good northern Ranger is worth ten of those from Ithilien.”

“But they have those ten,” Meldroch said. “We can barely keep the Greenway clear.”

“Not to mention our own lands,” Nethril added. “No doubt Meldroch told you of the attack this fall.”

Adanel’s face had gone tight with rage, and she let out a derisive snort. “The very gall they have, to come to our doorstep begging for help. As if Sauron didn’t fester and grow under their watch.”

“Don’t talk of things you’re too young to understand,” Adanel snapped. “No captain would ever consider sparing a man for Ecthelion of Gondor. It’s beneath us all.”

Nethril chose to ignore the gibe at her age, and took a breath to make sure her voice was steady when she answered. “It is not beneath us to consider all our options. As I’m sure Aragorn would say, if he were here.”

“I will not send men to fight and die for a lesser house. One that looks down on us with scorn, when they remember us at all—“

“Lady Adanel, this decision does not rest with you,” Nethril broke in firmly. “If you cannot respect that, I must ask you to leave us.”

Adanel’s eyes narrowed in a venomous glare, but she abruptly pushed her chair back from the table and strode for the door. She slammed it behind her, and Nethril let out a deep, shaking breath. She clenched her hands tightly together, praying the two men did not notice how unnerved she was, but when she looked up she saw she had no need to fear. Meldroch stared at the curved oak of the door, as though afraid it might suddenly grow teeth and snap at him too, and Brecharn gazed at her with newfound awe.

“I should start sleeping with a knife under my pillow,” she grumbled later in the healer’s cottage.

Poor Faelhen had been plagued by stomach cramps all morning, though now Nethril wondered if it was from her monthly cycle or from her mistress’s tempestuous mood. It seemed the least she could do to fetch some herbs from Ivorwen while the girl tried to rest, since she would have only Adanel for company when she awoke.

“Adanel’s bark has always been worse than her bite,” Ivorwen reassured her. “The two of you compliment each other that way.”

Nethril shot her grandmother a resigned look. “She’s being impossible. I love her, Nana, but I cannot live in that house on eggshells, not while I’m expected to rule. Ever since Gandalf and Aragorn departed, it’s been…”

“She misses him,” Ivorwen said simply. “Especially now. I wonder if he should have stayed.”

“He left for her,” Nethril said, surprised at how instinctively she defended her cousin. “He wants the wights banished once and for all, so that she might have peace knowing they’re gone.”

“I know. But I wonder if she needs more for her grandson to be close. To cherish that time while we have it. We lost so many years…” she trailed off, and Nethril glanced at her in sudden concern. It was not like Ivorwen to lose herself in wistful wanting, and upon closer look she saw her grandmother appeared exhausted, dark circles under her eyes and hands that trembled a bit when she filled the pouch with herbs. Nethril reached out and took the pouch from Ivorwen.

Ivorwen stared at her for a moment, as if weighing how much to impart upon her granddaughter, but she only smiled and reached out to pat Nethril’s cheek in reassurance.

“It is only the sight, child, and the toll it always takes. But nothing worth worrying over. It will be easier when your grandfather returns.”

“Not soon enough,” Nethril murmured. Dírhael was not a commander by nature, but he could do it far better than she or Meldroch. She glanced at Ivorwen once more, tempted for a moment to ask what visions had entered into her foresight, but instinct held her back. The years had taught her that sometimes speaking the prophecies caused Ivorwen as much pain as seeing them. Instead, she gathered her cloak in her arms and kissed her grandmother in farewell, embracing her tightly before she turned to the door.

Ivorwen nodded, but her eyes held a protective concern Nethril knew too well. “You fret over so many, dear one. Do not add me to the list.”

Faelhen still lay in bed when Nethril returned to the Chieftain’s house, though she sat up now, looking far better than she had earlier in the afternoon.

“Thank you,” she groaned weakly, and took the brewed herbs from Nethril. Her face was still pale, but spots of color appeared on her cheeks when she took a careful sip and scowled at the taste. “I’m sorry I left you to manage things alone.”

“Don’t apologize. Better for you to rest until you’re well.” Nethril glanced toward the doorway of Faelhen’s small room, filled with sudden trepidation that Adanel might come storming in. “Is she—“

“She’s down in the common room,” Faelhen supplied. “Mending the holes in the cloth we use for feast days. I think she’s pretending it’s you.”

“Good to know,” Nethril said wryly. She turned to leave, but paused at the door and looked back at Faelhen, who now directed her intent gaze rather suspiciously at the brew resting between her palms. The girl had been eleven when she came into Adanel’s service, orphaned with no surviving relatives to take her in. She was nineteen now—not yet of age under Dúnedain law, but old enough to make her own way in the world, to pursue a life beyond that of a servant, if she wished. Certainly she deserved better than manage the impetuous heirs of Anárion.

“Faelhen, you know, I…I hope you know you’re not beholden to the struggles of this house. If you wished to leave, to seek your father’s kin in Círbann, none of us would begrudge you the chance.”

“She needs me,” she said fiercely. “She needs all of us. Sometimes I think I’m the only one here who remembers that.”

Nethril could only nod once, taken aback by the forcefulness of the girl’s words. Faelhen glared at her, her round, youthful face sharp with indignation, and Nethril wondered how much of the frustration was directed at her, or at Aragorn far away.

“Good.” Faelhen settled back against the pillows with a short sigh. “That will help far better than whatever orc draught this is.”

Nethril nodded and made her way carefully down the stairs, hitching her skirt up to avoid tripping in the darkness. The sun had gone down behind the trees, but twilight still shone dimly through the windows of the great hall, casting a long shadow as she walked to the common room in the back. A fire flickered in the hearth of the room. Adanel sat with her back to the door, her hands moving seamlessly as she stabbed at the tablecloth draped over her lap. Nethril took her seat in her usual chair and picked up her own mending basket, filled to the brim with winter hose and the skirt she’d torn open in her fight against the barrow-wights. She’d had her hands so full as acting Chieftain she’d neglected it for weeks now, and she ran her hands over the split fabric, a clean tear that ran nearly the full length of skirt. It had been neat work on her part, at least, a spot of clear-headedness in a day ruled by panic. A day that still cast a shadow over the two of them now.

Nethril spared a glance toward the woman beside her, her grey hair braided in a crown around her head, her mouth set in a thin line, but Adanel did not look up from her work or acknowledge her presence. Nethril pursed her lips with some frustration, but busied herself with pinning the tear closed and fishing needle and thread from her basket. She would not apologize for sending Adanel from the meeting, could not, if she wanted to prevent another occurrence like it in the future. And Adanel had no patience for platitudes or pity; a sentiment Nethril could certainly relate to, but now…

“If Hareth had behaved in such a way while Arador ruled, I would have banished her from the house.” Nethril started at the name of Argonui’s wife, and she looked up to see that Adanel’s hands had frozen in place, a humorless smile twisting her lips. “So I suppose I owe you my gratitude.”

“You are young still, Nethril, and you are not my kin, much as I may wish it, so you cannot tell me when I’m behaving like an ass. Grant me at least the privilege of saying it for you.”

Nethril flushed red, unable to deny her mentor’s words, and she looked back down at her sewing.

“I do not think you were wrong, if that means anything,” she said at last. “We have plenty to concern ourselves with right here without sending men to aid Gondor.”

“That is the very problem, isn’t it?” Adanel’s smile faded, and when she picked up her needle again her hand seemed almost limp. “Our struggles only multiply. The brothers Elrondion ought to haul themselves over there for a while instead—I’m sure they’d find enough orcs to last themselves a lifetime.”

Nethril let out a snort. Elladan and Elrhoir were currently in Fornost with Dírhael on one of their fabled orc-hunts, fighting an incursion that had come south from Mount Gram. “There’s a thought. Worth considering if we didn’t need their blades here.”

Adanel nodded in silence, a shadow still across her face, and Nethril sighed. There was no real answer to the question, at least none tonight, and it was past time they both found something to take their minds off the burdens that pressed upon the Dúnedain. She glanced at Adanel sidelong, a thought suddenly occurring to her, and she smiled slyly.

“Hmph. ” Adanel snorted impatiently. “I should think not. There are certain things grandmothers should not hear, and the Valar only know what bad habits they imparted on him.”

“I gather more it was the other way around,” Nethril said with a grin. She could never forget the harvest festival two years prior, when the peredhil kept them up with a bottle of brandy far into the night, their tales causing Aragorn to curse them steadily in Sindarin.

“They are impressionable, I’ll grant you that.” Adanel’s mouth twitched, and her eyes lit up with traces of mirth. “Did you know Elladan once smoked pipeweed on a dare from Arador?”

Nethril burst out laughing, the image too ridiculous for her to comprehend, and Adanel broke into a true smile, the first Nethril had seen in weeks.

They passed the time in easy chatter, tales from long ago and light gossip enough to thaw the air between them. Faelhen roused herself to join them in preparing supper, content to be fussed over by Adanel, and Nethril’s heart tightened from affection while she watched them, the aroma of stewed parsnips and chicken suffusing the air. She could do enough, she hoped, for Adanel to find peace in Aragorn’s absence, in this home of lonely women. Something told her it would be the three of them for awhile longer yet.

A cold hand grasped her shoulder, rousing her from sleep. Nethril groaned in an exhausted haze. Anxiety for the future clouded her dreams again, of failed harvests and Rangers felled by orcs, and she wondered for a moment if this was just a continuation of the not-quite-nightmare.

She opened bleary eyes to see that Adanel stood over her, her face shadowed in candlelight, the room pitch black behind her. Even through the flickering light, Nethril could make out the stricken expression on Adanel’s face, one well practiced in crisis and grief. She bolted upright in bed.

“Sentries spotted three horses, riding hard through the night. They’ll be at the gates within the hour.”

Nethril rubbed at her eyes to try and banish the groggy remnants of sleep. “Were they pursued?”

“Merciful Eru.” Dread hollowed out her stomach, and her heart hammered a bit faster in her chest. “Who? No one was supposed to be back for another fortnight at least.”

“The sentries couldn’t see. There were maybe two riders upon another horse, but they can’t say for sure.”

Nethril shoved herself out of bed, shivering against the cold, and flung open the trunk at the foot of her bed to try and find clothes to pull over her nightdress. She could see the outline of a broad-shouldered man in the doorway—Meldroch, she presumed—but she had no time to care before she hastily pulled on a worn pair of trousers and an old work shift. She turned to Adanel, suddenly unsure of where to go, what to do, and the old woman gripped her shoulder to steady her.

Nethril nodded once, gratitude briefly rushing through her, before she hurried past Meldroch and down the stairs to the main hall, pulling her cloak off its hook near the door. The night air chilled her when she stepped outside, her breath escaping her in a small cloud, and she looked up at a waxing moon hanging low in the east. She walked as quickly as she could across the field before the Chieftain’s house, before worry got the best of her and she broke into a run.

Valar, whoever they are, keep them safe, she prayed. Keep them safe until they’re home.

With the wights banished, the fog burned slowly away from the downs. The mist cleared until Aragorn could see slopes of dead grass and dark grey skies dimming to night.

Halbarad knelt on the other side of Gandalf, his eyes wide with fear. Aragorn gave his cousin a quick once-over—he bled freely from a cut on his shoulder, but nothing more—before he turned his attention back to Gandalf, the wizard’s eyes glassy and unfocused. Blood still seeped steadily through his robes, and Aragorn brought out his dagger to cut away the grey fabric. The gash spread the length of his ribcage, just deep enough he could see traces of white bone. He hissed in dismay; this was within his skill as a healer, but not at the edge of an abandoned barrow. He quickly unfastened his cloak and tore off a length of it with his dagger.

“Help me,” he grunted to Halbarad, who took the makeshift bandage and carefully slid the under Gandalf’s back. Aragorn tied it off as tight as he could, fear for the wizard rising steadily in his gut. “Everything’s back with the horses.”

“I can get them, bring them here. Or at least, get our gear back. It’s your healing kit you need, aye?”

“And water, any we have.”

Halbarad nodded, and took another strip of cloak fabric from Aragorn. He winced as he tied it around his arm, but when he moved it experimentally it seemed to hold well enough. “I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

“I’m…perfectly capable of walking there, you know.” Gandalf’s speech was slurred. The old man tried to sit up, but he fell back with a gasp of pain. Aragorn bit down on his lip and met Halbarad’s eyes, silently urging him to hurry. His cousin nodded once and sprinted away.

Aragorn turned back to look at Gandalf and took the wizard’s hand in his own. The skin was gnarled and marked with age, rough calluses beneath his palms that belied the feeble appearance of his body. Gandalf tried to sit up again, and this time Aragorn caught his shoulder so that when he fell back it was into Aragorn’s lap. His hat had fallen off. His long grey hair lay wild about his face and blood seeped into the ends of his beard.

“Rest, Gandalf.” Aragorn slipped into healer mode, a task he’d become all too practiced at, these past years, his voice as steady and comforting as he could make it. “You’ve been spending too much time amongst us Rangers to try and walk away from this.”

“My dear boy, I…do not spend nearly enough time with Rangers. Just ask your grandmother.”

“Adanel would say you’re making up for it now,” Aragorn looked down with a faint smile, one Gandalf tried to return before his head fell back. His face had gone white, his hand thrumming hot beneath Aragorn’s own, and Aragorn checked over him in sudden alarm. The wound to his ribcage was severe, but it was too soon for any infection or fever to set in. The blue of Gandalf’s eyes had faded to a watery sort of grey, but no new blood seeped into the makeshift bandage beside Aragorn’s left hand.

“You will find I am no ordinary patient, son of Arathorn,” Gandalf muttered. “No one will begrudge you, if I am beyond your care…”

“I am quite a good healer, you know,” Aragorn said, affecting indignation in a way he hoped would amuse the wizard. “Let’s wait for Halbarad before we make any pronouncements.”

The minutes seemed to stretch into eternity, but at last Halbarad came thundering down the narrow path atop a horse, leading Aragorn’s own Maebrôg behind him. He brought Aragorn his healer’s kit and a full waterskin. Aragorn slowly, carefully cleaned and stitched the wound closed. Gandalf remained silent throughout, beyond the occasional grunt of pain, a fact that worried Aragorn more than anything. His eyes closed by the time Aragorn finished, his breathing slow but steady, and Aragorn forced himself to his feet, his legs cramping from kneeling over his patient for too long.

“How fast can we get to the Angle?” he asked Halbarad in a low voice. He suspected the answer, but his cousin knew the wilds of Eriador better than he.

“Four days, if we ride hard.” A great bruise had formed around Halbarad’s right eye, and he looked down at Gandalf in worry. “Can he take that?”

“He’ll have to,” Aragorn said grimly. “I’d take him to Rivendell if I thought he’d last that long. I fear the wights did more damage than by the blade.”

Halbarad nodded, and he turned a critical lieutenant’s eye to his Chieftain. “And you? What damage did they do to you?”

Aragorn shook out the last of the tingling in his legs and leaned over to grasp at his thighs, exhaustion suddenly sweeping over him. Adrenaline gone, the whole right half of his body ached from where the wight had tossed him across the barrow. His shoulder especially throbbed, but there was little that could be done for it beyond the stinking bruise balm Ivorwen made. At least he hadn’t dislocated it. He glanced back up at Halbarad, whose left sleeve had a growing stain of red, and scowled.

“Not as much as they did to you. Let’s close that gash with something better than a rag.”

***

They rode hard through the night and into the next day, stopping just long enough to rest the horses. Gandalf rode in front of Aragorn on Maebrôg, too weak to hold his own in the saddle. Aragorn’s arms soon ached from holding him in place to make sure he didn’t fall over. The wizard remained semiconscious as they rode across the plains, but he still burned hot to the touch, punctuated by strange flashes of cold when they stopped to rest.

“Foolish,” Gandalf muttered once. “Foolish to have done it. Trust hubris to…”

But he trailed off without finishing the sentence, and Aragorn could only murmur pointless reassurances into Gandalf’s ear.

Crossing the Hoarwell proved the tensest part of the journey, and Aragorn thanked the stars that there had been no recent storms to swell the river. The moon shone high above them, and the water ran calm enough they could ford it with little trouble, but leading the horses left him and Halbarad both soaked and shivering. Gandalf remained dry atop the horse, but he could no longer stay upright in the saddle. Moonlight illuminated the sheen of sweat on his face, and Aragorn glanced back up at the clear sky, the stars twinkling around the moon. Elbereth, guide us. Keep him safe. He only had to last another hour before they reached home.

The walls that protected the Angle were cleverly camouflaged within their surroundings. To an approaching stranger, it appeared as if the fields between the Hoarwell and Loudwater narrowed into impassable crags before they joined at their point. Only once bearing down upon them could one see that behind the rocks stood strong walls that guarded the settlement beyond.

Aragorn guided the horse carefully through the hidden path, gazing up at the top of the walls to see if he could spot any sentries. No light shone above, to guard against enemies, but he let out a low series of whistles, knowing they had likely been watched their whole approach.

The gates swung open just as Aragorn came up to them, illuminating a handful of Rangers carrying torches and Nethril at their center, a hood cast over sleep-tousled hair. Her face changed from relief upon seeing Aragorn to horror at the sight of Gandalf, before she masked it quickly with the businesslike expression he knew so well. A wild-haired Captain Meldroch came up to take the reins of the horse from Aragorn, and he dismounted as carefully as he could before he lowered Gandalf from the saddle.

“We’ve got to get him to the healer’s cottage. Is my grandmother awake?”

“Both of them.” Nethril came up and took Gandalf’s other arm, her face white. “Adanel went to fetch Ivorwen.”

Aragorn nodded to a stretcher that had been laid out on the ground. They maneuvered Gandalf onto it and brought him across the settlement to where the healer’s cottage stood, soft yellow light emanating from its windows. The sharp, clean scent of herbs overtook him when he crossed the threshold. Ivorwen stood in the main room beside a bed, her sleeves tied back and a headscarf over her greying curls. Her face fell at the sight of Gandalf, and she helped Aragorn maneuver him onto the bed.

“What happened?”

Aragorn explained as quickly as he could. “I stitched the wounds up as best I could, but something else plagues him. The blade may have been poisoned, or…”

“There are evils of this world beyond the healing powers of a Dúnadan.” Ivorwen’s voice quavered, but her hands were steady when she cut away the ruins of Gandalf’s robes and removed the bandage Aragorn had tied around his wound.

The massive gash appeared red and inflamed around the sutures, rendering the wizard’s breathing slow and labored. His chest rose and fell with each gasp, his filthy, sweat-soaked beard nearly reaching down to the wound, and Ivorwen pushed it aside. She crushed a sprig of athelas above a bowl of steaming water and the fresh, calming scent infused the room. Carefully, she cleaned away dirt from the road that still clung to Gandalf and reapplied a dressing to his wound.

Helplessness overtook Aragorn as he watched, and he shook from exhaustion and cold, his wet clothes clinging to him unpleasantly. He hardly cared, with Gandalf lying prone on the bed. He wished he could take over from Ivorwen to continue what he’d begun, but her experience far surpassed his own, her knowledge of herblore greater than any living Dúnadan. All he could do was stand and wait. A cold, soft hand slid into his own, and he looked to see that Adanel had joined them, her eyes hollow when she looked down at Gandalf. He intertwined his fingers with her own, her skin paper-thin over bones. She squeezed tightly, lifting their hands so she could kiss his roughened, bloodied knuckles.

At last, Ivorwen stood, splotches of blood on the apron of her dress. Her eyes appeared haggard when she met first Aragorn’s gaze, then Adanel’s. “He will live through the night. Tomorrow, I cannot say.”

The bottom dropped out of Aragorn’s stomach at the thought, and Adanel gripped his hand so tightly his fingers crushed together.

“How?” she rasped. “How, in Eru’s name, can a creature defeat such a man?”

“He is not a Man,” Aragorn murmured. “Nor were those wights. His power is greater than theirs, but not infallible.”

He ran a free hand through his tangled hair, sudden despair shooting through him at the memory of Gandalf’s collapse. If he had not been held by the wights’ cursed spell, if he had broken free from their voices just a moment sooner…

Ivorwen embraced him tightly, ignoring the damp state of his clothes. “You did well, Aragorn. Get yourself some dry clothes, and some rest. I will watch over him until morning.”

Aragorn opened his mouth to protest, but Adanel was already steering him towards the door, and he knew he could not battle both his grandmothers at once.

Outside, Nethril paced in agitation, her breath clouding in front of her from the chill night air, and when she saw them she threw her arms around Aragorn. Behind her, he saw Halbarad approached them slowly, grasping at his injured arm. His face held a wordless query for Aragorn, and then sagged in relief when he nodded.

“You’re soaking wet,” Nethril said in surprise, before she turned to hug her brother as well. “Both of you.”

“Went for a bit of a swim.” Halbarad’s mouth quirked upward in a smile, but he winced when he moved his arm to return Nethril’s embrace.

She murmured something inaudible, her face buried against his chest.

He ran a gentle hand over her hair before he kissed the top of her head. “We’re safe, little sister. Let that be enough.”

***

Dry clothes did little to warm Aragorn, chilled as he was to the bone. Though he spent the rest of the night in his own bed, a fire blazing in the hearth, sleep would not come. The softness of the mattress and the weight of blankets did little to quiet his restless mind, still halfway down the road at the healer’s cottage. He finally fell into a fitful doze just before dawn, but awoke after only a few hours from a dream of darkened barrows plagued by corpses holding the banner of Gondor.

When it was clear he’d get no further sleep, he rolled onto his back and stared at the dark timbers that supported the roof above him. Weak sunlight shone through the shutters, enough to illuminate the carvings on the beams, of eagles and ships and other glories of Númenor. He’d been born in this room, inherited it when he’d returned to his people, but he spent so much time in the Wild that after five years, it had only just begun to feel like home.

But home it was, and the thought gave him comfort against whatever grief he might face outside its sturdy walls. A basin of water stood on an end table near the hearth, and, rising, he splashed some water on his face before he made his way down the hidden stair that led from the Chieftain’s room into the kitchen.

Nethril and Adanel sat at an oaken table in the center of the kitchen, steaming bowls sitting untouched in front of them both. Aragorn’s stomach growled at the smell of porridge, and he headed straight for the pot that hung over the cookfire. Nethril pushed him a small jar of honey when he sat down, and he spooned some into his own bowl, the added sweetness a balm to his tongue after weeks on the road.

“How is he?” he asked.

Nethril shook her head. “No change. Ivorwen’s asked you to look in on him, when you have a moment.”

“A bath first, I should think,” Adanel said dryly. “One whiff of wild Ranger would send him straight to Mandos.”

I’m glad someone finds all this humorous, Aragorn thought with a dark scowl. He opened his mouth to give an irritated retort, but at a warning look from Nethril he fell silent. His grandmother had appeared as haunted as he’d felt, last night. He still could not banish the shattered look upon her face, the day they'd battled his father's reanimated corpse, and he knew better than most that her acerbic comments often masked great feeling.

Besides, he could not deny the appeal of getting clean, his brief plunge into the Hoarwell having done little to wash away the weeks of accumulated grime. Yet impatience nagged at him while he waited for the water to heat, and he rushed as fast as he could, rather than luxuriating in the warmth. His hair was not fully dry before he pulled on a clean tunic, jerkin, and breeches, and he hurried out the door back to the healer’s cottage.

Ivorwen, by the looks of it, had not slept. Dark circles formed under her eyes, her headscarf damp with sweat, and she trembled when she took his hand between her own. Aragorn had never known Ivorwen to falter—she had always been the pillar of his mother’s family—and he drew his arm around her shoulder to lend what strength he could. She led him back to Gandalf’s room, the scent of athelas sharper than it had been last night, and he stopped at the threshold to see the wizard lying asleep on the bed.

He looked almost comical, dressed in a long Dúnedain tunic rather than his grey robes, and it struck Aragorn once more how frail he looked, and how mortal. Stories of Gandalf stretched back to the first Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and it was almost impossible to fathom that after all that time, the wizard’s great deeds might end with him.

“I have done all I can,” Ivorwen said softly. “It is his own strength that will determine what happens now. I—“

Aragorn looked sharply at Ivorwen as her voice faded, her large brown eyes glinting bright with unshed tears. He took her face between his hands, sudden fear stabbing through him. “Is it the sight, Nana? Have you dreamed what is to come?”

“Not with him, dear one. I do not need foresight to know that if Gandalf the Grey dies, a shadow will extend upon these lands we may be powerless to face. All we can do now is hope.”

Aragorn started at the sound of his childhood name, and he wondered if Ivorwen’s use had been deliberate. The truth of her words weighed almost physically upon him, but he sent her to take some rest of her own while he stood watch over Gandalf. He stirred once or twice, his hands twitching feebly at his sides, but when Aragorn laid a hand upon his forehead it was still hot to the touch. He brewed him another potion for the fever and changed his bandages for good measure, though he knew it would do little good against whatever poison the houseless Maia had used upon him.

Despair crept up upon him, so great he could no longer bring himself to imagine a future where the wizard lived. There was only one person now who could possibly save Gandalf, and he was miles away, in the valley Aragorn had once called home.

Ivorwen came to relieve him after a few hours. The sun hung low on the horizon when Aragorn stepped out into the brisk air. A pall had settled over the Angle, as though even the smallest child knew what was at stake. Those few who were outside did not stop him or call greeting as he strode back towards the gates. Restless agitation overtook him once more, and when he climbed to the top of the ramparts he found Nethril standing there, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak with her hair whipping loose in the wind. She did not move when he came up beside her, and he followed her gaze out past the crags to the fields and forest beyond, the leaves nearly all stripped from the trees.

“Halbarad is better versed in sloth than you,” Nethril remarked. “He’s still a rock in that bed.”

“That cut to the arm weakened him, I think,” Aragorn said. “Stubborn idiot wouldn’t let me stitch it closed.”

“You two certainly are a pair. Nana Ivorwen still hasn’t forgotten that arrow wound of yours.”

Aragorn winced, recalling the injury four winters ago he’d tried in vain to push through, only to end up with an infection and six weeks abed. He’d been young and foolish, or so he said to justify himself, but something told him if it happened again he’d react in much the same fashion.

Nethril snorted at the expression on his face, before she sighed and turned to stare out at the horizon. “When this is over, one way or another, there’s things we need to discuss.”

Aragorn nodded. He had been so consumed with hunting the wights he had not yet given thought to how they might reorganize the Angle’s vastly depleted resources. The attack had exposed their weaknesses, but they could not afford to pull forces back from Fornost to the north or Swanfleet to the south, both having lost men to orc raids that summer. A year ago, they’d talked of abandoning the Swanfleet settlement, but they could not afford to pull forces back to the Angle if they wanted to keep the Greenway clear. Between orcs, wights, and wargs, Sauron’s forces only seemed to multiply.

“Brécharn is back from Gondor.” Nethril's voice broke through his dark thoughts, and he looked at her, startled.

"When?”

“Not two days ago. It’s a wonder you didn’t meet on the road. The news he brings from Ecthelion, Aragorn, I—“

A horn blast cut her off, and they both glanced startled at the sentry standing a few feet away. “Lone rider coming in from the northwest. Not one of ours.”

“Morgoth’s balls,” Nethril groaned. “What now?”

Aragorn followed the sentry’s gaze until he spotted the faint, tiny outline of a horse galloping towards the Angle, the rider’s long hair flying out behind him. He stared until the horse came into sharper view, and his suspicion grew as he took in the gait and lack of bridle around the head, as well as the fine white coat.

“That’s an elven rider,” he blurted. Nethril looked at him in surprise.

“Elladan or Elorhir? I’ve never known one to ride without the other…”

“They wouldn’t. Not unless the other was gravely injured or worse.”

A pang shot through his chest at the very thought, and he pushed it aside swiftly, forcing his tired mind to think. The twins were with Dírhael north of Fornost, and he’d bet his right eye that horse was Asfaloth. The rider was dark-haired, which meant Glorfindel had lent his precious horse to someone in great need, of even higher station than the great Elf-Lord. Which could only mean…

“Open the gates,” he commanded. “Now!”

He raced down the steps two at a time, practically tripping in the soft ground at the bottom of the wall. Nethril caught him by his jerkin to steady him. His heart pounded in his chest, and he stood motionless in front of the gate, watching while the guardsmen hauled the great doors open.

The white horse galloped through the gates—it was Asfaloth—and was brought to a sudden halt by the rider, who dismounted with a swift grace. Nethril drew in a sharp breath beside Aragorn when the rider cast back his hood, and Aragorn’s knees practically gave out at the sight of the fair Elven face with ancient eyes, their warmth and kindness hidden beneath the urgency of his look. Relief crashed over Aragorn, followed closely by shame and longing born of the long years away.

Aragorn bowed low, his right hand held to his heart in an instinctive gesture of respect and love. “Atarinya, ” he breathed.

“Estel,” Elrond murmured, and drew Aragorn into a tight embrace.

Aragorn breathed in the scent of pine and the river as he lay his head on Elrond’s shoulder, the strength of his love so familiar, as if they’d only been parted a few months instead of years. Elrond pulled back to grasp Aragorn firmly by both shoulders, his eyes bright with a father’s love, before he nodded in the direction of the village.

“Lead me to him, quickly.”

Aragorn led Elrond back down the well-worn path to the healer’s cottage, though his mind was still back in the kitchen with Nethril, his restless energy returned tenfold. When he'd sent Brécharn to Gondor two years ago, on Adanel's counsel, he'd thought of little beyond gaining a measure of the country's new Steward and its defenses against Sauron. But there seemed a hidden desperation behind Ecthelion's message, a fear that open war against the enemy would come sooner rather than later. The white tower of Minas Tirith still loomed in his dreams, the flames against the banner of the white tree clearer than ever. He thought he'd seen the Chieftain's house aflame, in the dream last night, but Valar only knew if that was more foresight or simply reality melding into the world of dreams. His people would not survive, if Sauron claimed victory against Gondor and turned west to Eriador. The evils that already gripped the barrow-downs and Fornost would spread deeper across the world, and the walls of the Angle would not be strong enough to keep them at bay.

He glanced sidelong at his foster father and chose his next words carefully. “A decision not to take lightly, Ada, but a decision nonetheless. Haven’t you always said foresight is not to be discounted?”

Elrond appeared mildly affronted. “I am not going to take your side in an argument with my host, Estel. Our primary concern is still Mithrandir. He is out of danger, for now, but will have a long road ahead.”

Aragorn nodded. They had barely spoken last night beyond brisk words in the service of healing, both of them so exhausted by the time they reached the Chieftain’s house Aragorn could not do more than lead him to his rooms and bid him goodnight. A thousand thoughts swirled through him now, things he’d longed to tell Elrond that he could not trust to letters. But when he turned to his father the words died on his lips, banished by the surreality of his foster father walking beside him. Elrond’s fine blue robes were a stark contrast to the plain, thatched cottages that made up much of the Angle, his beardless face so different from the rough bearing of most Dúnedain. Never before had Aragorn’s adopted family seemed so far apart from the family of his birth, not even in his first years among the Dúnedain, when he’d had to sternly train himself away from comparing the two.

“Aragorn! Aragorn!” He looked up the path to see three small children barreling towards him, two boys and a girl, their delighted shrieks punctuating the air. The fastest one, his young cousin Gilbarad, rushed toward him and collided solidly with his middle. “You’re back!”

“Ho there, little man!” With great effort, he lifted Gilbarad off the ground and tossed him into the air. His breath left him in a solid whumph when he caught the boy, and they both laughed when he set him down on the ground. The other two children followed after their friend and threw their arms around Aragorn, and he reached out to ruffle whatever hair he could reach.

“Oof. You’re getting too big for me to do that. Soon you’ll be as strong as Tulkas himself!”

“Swords first,” Aragorn answered with a grin. “Have you been practicing your footwork?”

“Yes,” Gilbarad said, “we all have. Mama’s been teaching us while Ada’s gone.”

“I see,” Aragorn said, and noticed a conspicuous absence of anyone watching the children. He looked around for his aunt Erendis, but she was nowhere to be seen. “And does your mother know where you are now?”

The children looked at each shiftily, guilt briefly crossing their faces, before they each assumed poor masks of innocence.

“We told her we’d be at my mama’s,” the little girl piped up. “But then—“

“You told me you’d be with Erendis.” A cross, harried-looking woman stalked out of a nearby cottage, a homespun shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and the children all froze at the sight. She levied a stern glare at them, though her eyes twinkled, before she turned and curtsied to Aragorn. “Welcome home, Lord Aragorn. I apologize to leave you wrangling these miscreants.”

He embraced the woman and kissed her on both cheeks. “’Tis the best homecoming I could have asked for, Nelean.”

“Just wait until you have children of your own.” Nelean’s smile faded as she looked past Aragorn to see Elrond standing a bit removed from them, an expression of mild amusement on his face. Her eyes widened in recognition, and she turned back to her daughter and her friends in consternation. “Where are your manners, all of you? Have you greeted Lord Elrond?”

“With great courtesy, Lady Nelean,” Elrond said smoothly, with the faintest wink for the children. Their eyes all widened. “They do the Dúnedain credit.”

Nelean blushed furiously, before she quickly recovered herself and sank into another curtsey. “It is an honor to meet you, my lord.”

Elrond bowed in return, and her blush deepened, before she rose and shooed the children back toward her cottage to whines and protests.

“Off with you, you scamps. I want that firewood pile as high as me before midday!”

They all groaned but obeyed. Gilbarad dove in for another brief hug to Aragorn before they ran off, Nelean following them with a resigned look.

Elrond watched the children, a smile widening on his face, and he waited til Nelean was out of earshot before he said to Aragorn, “If only shirking chores was all I had to contend with in your youth. My rose gardens would be flourishing by now.”

“And they never recovered.” Elrond’s eyes danced, and they continued down the path together, the stiffness between them softened. “It is not so long ago you were that size, the joy and terror of Imladris. And now here you stand, a lord among your people, beloved by them. You are a credit to your father’s memory, and to me.”

Aragorn flushed with pride, the warm, familiar feeling of Elrond’s praise sorely missed. “You did not see the years that led to this. It took time to grow into the Chieftainship.”

“But you did it, and you made it your own. I understand now why you have not wished to return to Rivendell.”

Aragorn stopped at the threshold of the cottage, embarrassment coursing through him. Elrond must know that his duties among the Angle were only part of what kept him away. “I am sorry, Ada. I would have come, but with things here, I did not know…

“Peace, my son. I did not mean anything by it.” Elrond met Aragorn’s gaze, his clear, ancient eyes filled with warmth, and he took Aragorn’s bearded face between his hands. “Only that I have missed you. Let us cherish the one blessing to come from all this.”

Ivorwen greeted them with relief at the healer’s cottage and led them back to Gandalf’s room, where he still slept soundly. Color had returned to his cheeks, and he was no longer hot to the touch when Aragorn when felt his forehead. Elrond took over the more thorough examination, and Aragorn took a seat in a chair near the door. Had circumstances been less grave, he’d have welcomed the chance to learn more of Elrond’s healing arts. He had left Rivendell with his training unfinished, and promised he’d return one day to complete it. Clearly, that day would be delayed for a little while yet.

At last, Gandalf stirred, his eyes bleary as they registered the Elven lord standing above him. “Am I…am I in Rivendell?”

“Say rather that Rivendell has come to you, my friend,” Elrond replied. “We knew you could not make it to the Valley in time. As it is, you are lucky you lasted until I reached the Angle.”

“Ah.” Slowly, Gandalf pushed himself up into a sitting position, but fell back against the pillows. He turned his head to face Aragorn, his face crinkling into a weary smile. “I have you to thank for that, my young friend. It is not often I find my life in such capable hands.”

“No indeed,” Elrond said, his voice clipped, and Aragorn tensed. He knew that tone, one that preceded the full wrath of the Lord of Imladris, and he suddenly wished he could excuse himself into the next room.

His examination finished, Elrond crossed over to an end table in the room, where an assortment of liquids and herbs stood. He poured several into a bowl, his motions practiced, and did not turn as he spoke.

“Tell me, Mithrandir. Do you recall, when you first learned of Aragorn’s existence, how you became greatly offended, and demanded to know why I had hidden him from you all those times you came to Rivendell?”

Elrond whirled around, his expression one of quiet fury, and he gestured forcefully back toward Aragorn.

“This is why. No sooner do you meet my son than you lead him on a reckless, pointless mission that could have gotten you both killed. Where would the fate of Men be, if Gandalf the Grey had lost his life in an empty barrow of the South Downs?”

“They would be hounded by houseless spirits, for one thing,” Gandalf answered with some consternation. “Reckless the mission may have been; pointless it was not. These creatures could not be left to expand their domain.”

“So you bring it to the White Council. Consult with me, Saruman if you must, before you go charging off, placing the sole surviving Heir of Elendil in harm’s way right along with you.”

“I am quite unharmed, Adar,” Aragorn said mildly, but he fell silent at the withering glare Elrond shot at him.

“The Chieftain of the Dúnedain cannot shy from danger, this we all know. I prepared you for the sword myself. But both of you should know better than to take unnecessary risks. Why did only three of you ride against such foul creatures, with no—“

“You cannot hide the boy away any longer, Elrond,” Gandalf interrupted. He groaned a bit as he propped himself up higher against the bed, and though sweat had begun to form on his brow he levied a stern glance at Elrond. “Indeed, he has not been a boy for many years. I brought him along because I wanted these lands in better order, before he left Eriador, and I wanted to test if he is ready. He is, more than either of you may realize.”

Gandalf smiled at him, a hint of wistfulness behind his eyes, before he turned back to Elrond. “Have we not longed for an heir with the mettle to reclaim the kingship in Gondor, to gain victory in the cause against Sauron? Have you not said yourself, many times, you believe Aragorn to be that man?”

A chill settled over Aragorn, and only with great effort could he bring himself to look at Elrond, who clutched at a bitter-smelling cup so tightly his knuckles turned white. They had not spoken of such things since the disastrous conversation about Arwen, on the eve of his departure from Rivendell, and even then the kingship had not been spoken of openly. Only, “to rise above the height of all your fathers,” words that weighed on Aragorn with every choice he made as Chieftain.

“’The test will be long and hard,’” Elrond said, in an echo of what he spoke to Aragorn the day he revealed his true name. “Many years will pass before anyone is in a position to defeat Sauron.”

“Precisely,” Gandalf agreed. “And what do we intend to do in those years, hmm? Sit in our halls and hope for the best? Or bring the fight to him?”

“It is what the Steward Ecthelion hopes to do,” Aragorn murmured, but then he fell silent. Somehow, Gandalf’s support threw his earlier resolve into disarray, the clarity of his future far more daunting than the abstract.

The shutters of the window were cracked open, and outside Aragorn could hear the faint laughter of children, likely Gilbarad and his little friends come to find him once more. He thought now of his men in the Swanfleet outpost, which had come perilously close to being overrun the year before, and of Gilbarad's father, his uncle Tarcil, who fought with Dírhael in Fornost against orcs who had come in from the north. Would aiding Ecthelion in Gondor lessen their peril? The image of Nethril in the kitchen swam in his mind’s eye, the distress so clear on her face, and despite all his words that morning he wondered at what kind of leader he was, that he would consider crossing the mountains so readily.

“You know the dreams that have plagued me, Gandalf, of Minas Tirith and beyond. But if I were to leave, what would become of my people?”

To this, Gandalf had no answer, and only looked down at his hands clasped before him. Silence pressed in upon the room, the only sound the crackle of logs in the hearth. It was Elrond who spoke at last, traces of grief in his eyes when he gazed at Aragorn.

“You are Chieftain of the Dúnedain, Estel, but your duties spread beyond them. Your father and great-grandfather before you both made great journeys abroad, in the service of their charge. Ever has it been for the descendants of Númenor.”

“That is has.” A soft woman’s voice agreed, and Aragorn turned to see Ivorwen staring in the doorway. Her greying curls framed the worn lines of her face, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “If you’ll pardon the interruption, my lords. I have something to say to my grandson.”

Gandalf bowed his head in acknowledgement, and Aragorn stood to face his grandmother. Ivorwen clasped his hands between her own, but he freed one to brush away a stray tear that had fallen down her cheek.

“You asked me about my foresight, child—this is what I have seen. I had hoped to find some quiet time for us to talk. But your destiny has always been greater than the Dúnedain. It is time for you to take your place in the wider world. Any grief it may cause your loved ones is simply a part of life. We will still be here, when you get back.”

“I should hope so,” Aragorn said, and he fought against the lump that formed in the back of his throat. “But I will not leave just yet. Not while Ada Dírhael is still abroad.”

Gandalf cleared his throat softly, though it quickly turned into a hacking cough. “I hope to depart over the Hithaeglir in the spring, son of Arathorn. It would do an old man good to have you ride alongside me.”

“If you’re well enough by spring,” Elrond said tartly, and he finally approached Gandalf with the foul-smelling brew in his hands. “Yesterday your spirit was one step from Mandos. Rest is what you need now, and a reminder of your own limitations.”

“I am not the one who started this argument,” Gandalf grumbled, but he drank the potion obediently and settled back against the pillows. “Your wisdom surpasses even the Lord of Imladris, Ivorwen Gilbaradiel.”

Ivorwen flushed at his words, and Aragorn led her quietly outside into the main room of the cottage. Elrond joined them soon after, looking a bit sheepish, and he placed a warm hand on Ivorwen’s shoulder.

“Mithrandir is a dreadful patient, but he is right in many things. Aragorn tells me you’ve continued to teach him in the healing arts?”

“I have,” Ivorwen answered, and her eyes danced in a way that made Aragorn nervous. “Though I imagine he’s been a much better student under me than he was you.”

Elrond laughed, a sound Aragorn had not heard in years, and he decided he would be most useful serving tea while his foster father and grandmother discovered new ways to torment him. They talked into midday, of herblore and history and nothing of the future, and Aragorn watched them together, his first teacher and his last. His heart tightened, wishing only that his mother was present, and he thought back to Rivendell, of the women he had left behind there and those he would leave behind here. He would need to make amends to them all, before leaving for Gondor.

In the following days, Nethril tried to ignore the strangeness of Elrond Half-Elven in her house, and set her sights on preparations for the long winter ahead. Things had been so chaotic that she still had not finished harvest inventories, and she spent a full day with Adanel and Faelhen scouring out the hearths and shaking out rugs to hang in the windows of the Chieftain’s house. She left Aragorn to finalize the winter patrols with Meldroch, but she took stock of those men who were home on leave and set them to work mending fences or repairing chicken coops.

Aragorn carefully avoided the subject of Gondor, and she refrained from asking. His presence bolstered her spirits, when he was not attending to his duties as healer or Chieftain, and at nights she sat before the hearth with Elrond and Aragorn, learning all she could of Rivendell and her cousin’s strange childhood.

One morning she woke up smelling snow in the air, and she spent the day on a final patrol of the village, checking to see if there were any dire tasks that needed to be done before the first winter storm hit. She found her brother on top of their mother’s cottage, repairing thatching on the roof, and as she approached she heard a steady stream of muttered curses. He knelt on the roof, clutching at his injured arm with the other hand, and he glared down at the roof as though it personally offended him. She glanced around to see if anyone else was nearby, before she called up to him in the manner she had since they were children.

“Get down from there, you idiot! Isn’t there a man without an infected gash who can do that job?”

Halbarad startled and nearly lost his balance, but when he saw it was his sister he only rolled his eyes. “Of course not. Mama is far too polite to mention it to anyone, and Ada Dírhael is not here to do it unasked.”

“Then you mention it to someone else. Brécharn is doing nothing but idling about drinking ale, and--”

“I’m not harassing Brécharn, sister. The man has earned his rest. This is just about done, anyhow.” He climbed down from the roof, his long hair billowing out behind him, and he enveloped her in a careful, one-armed embrace. “Come inside, won’t you? I can make tea, now.”

“Only took a lifetime,” she said, but she followed him inside their mother’s small, snug cottage.

The chair that Nethril had spent so many childhood nights in sat in its usual place before the hearth, a grey woolen blanket draped over it. The patterned rug she’d helped her mother make hung over the shuttered windows, and a pair of looms and a spinning wheel sat unattended in the corner. Baskets of thread and cloth were strewn haphazardly around the room, and Nethril frowned. Her mother was usually so meticulous about her housekeeping.

Halbarad noticed her look, and he attempted a lighthearted smile, though it did not mask the worry in his eyes. “I think it’s good I was banished here. I did not know Mama had been ill.”

“Oh. Oh, yes. Around harvest-time.” Finnael’s lung fever seemed a lifetime ago now, half forgotten in the midst of all the other crises that cropped up since. A brief pang of guilt stabbed through Nethril, and she ran a hand over the rough wood of the table before she sank into the chair she still thought of as hers. “Where is she now?”

“With Ivorwen and Lord Elrond. I think they’re all gossiping about Aunt Gilraen.” Halbarad knelt before the hearth, gathering bits of kindling alongside flint and steel. Small, sputtering flames curled up around the twigs, and he sat back on his heels in satisfaction. He glanced up at Nethril, a slow, wide grin lightening his features, and she made a face at him in turn.

“You look like a queen, little sister, with that crown around your head. Meldroch says no one could have led us better, in Aragorn’s absence.”

She flushed with pride and embarrassment, and she touched a hand briefly to the cool metal of Adanel’s circlet, the thin strand of mithril impossibly smooth within the silver. She’d worn it every day since Elrond’s arrival, and hardly felt the weight of it now.

“I’m glad to give that burden back to him. And only pray he keeps it awhile longer, rather than gallivanting off to Gondor.”

Halbarad hummed noncommittally. He rose and busied himself filling a kettle with water and removing mugs from the cabinet. She tried to catch his eye, but he ducked behind the chair to place the cups on the table. When she turned to face him, he continued to avoid her gaze, and she narrowed her eyes in suspicion.

He stood bent over the table, hands resting on the rough wooden surface, and he sighed. “I think it’s what he has to do, Nethril. Every night on the road he dreamed of Minas Tirith.”

“And suddenly we make our decisions based on dreams? Even Ivorwen would not counsel him such.”

It took a moment before the words truly sunk in, and when they did, cold fear washed over Nethril. All her careful arguments, silently marshaled, would be useless now. The fate of the Angle would rest on her vastly incapable shoulders, while Aragorn rode off wherever he fancied to chase an unknown dream. The thought crystallized her fear into anger, and she clenched her hands into fists.

“So it’s decided, then? He’s to go over the mountains for his own needs, with no thought to his people? And he’ll consult with you, and Nana, but not the woman he’s entrusted the Chieftainship to?”

Halbarad raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps because he feared you’d react this way.”

“Please. You men with your plotting, you don’t—“ she stopped herself before she said something cruel. Her brother did not deserve her rage. Not even Aragorn did, though she had to reason with herself quite carefully to stop herself from bursting out of the cottage right then to berate him herself.

She rose from her chair in agitation and paced before the hearth in an effort to calm her racing heart. This could not be the right decision. The Dúnedain needed Aragorn here far more than Gondor did, she could not face an indefinite stint as acting Chieftain, especially not when Adanel’s heart might shatter from the news…

Halbarad’s steady hands caught her by both shoulders, forcing her into stillness, and she looked up to meet his troubled gaze.

“Nethril, you were not there in the barrows, you did not see what he did. I don’t think he even realizes it himself. Those wights cast spells with their voices, I couldn’t move. But he…he broke free of them, kept their chief from destroying Gandalf. Not even Arathorn could have performed such a feat. He is destined to be greater than just Chieftain of the Dúnedain.”

“For what purpose, Hal?” Her eyes filled swiftly with tears, and she bit down on her lip in shame. “What becomes of the Dunedain, if our Chieftain chases something greater? You’ve seen how he lifts the people’s spirits, just by being here. There’s not a soul among us who can replace that, or lead as he does.”

“His leadership will matter little, if our enemies increase as they have. These wights out of Cardolan, orcs and worse out of Angmar, men from Dunland pressing north near Swanfleet. They will pick us apart until there’s nothing left, and even our Chieftain will be powerless to stop it. Unless he goes, and discovers a different path. The path of Isildur’s Heir.”

A trace of fear shone through his eyes, one she had never seen, and it shook her more deeply than anything she’d witnessed these past days. She could not deny the long, painful history of the Rangers' defense of Eriador, defenses that seemed to weaken no matter what they did. Isilmë's words from a year ago haunted her, that the Dúnedain fought and died for an uncertain future. If Aragorn had a chance to reclaim his birthright in Gondor, perhaps it would lead to better promise for them all. But the thought did little to banish the gnawing fear in her gut that it would instead lead their people to utter ruin. Left in her hands...

“The captains’ council nearly tore itself apart, those eighteen years without a Chieftain,” she said desperately. “We kept ourselves going by Adanel’s strength alone. That is spent now.”

“And instead we have yours,” Halbarad said, but she shook her head forcefully, the tears escaping now. She fell back into her chair, throat tight, and she covered her mouth with her hand to suppress a small sob.

“I’m so tired, Hal. I was not born to leadership, not the way Aragorn was. I do not have decades of marriage to a Chieftain, as Adanel did. These past few weeks ran me to the ground. I cannot do it for two years.”

“I think it will be longer,” Halbarad said softly, and Nethril moaned. “But you cannot tell me you’re not prepared for this. And you won’t be alone. Dírhael will return soon, and he’ll come off patrols, once he hears this news. Mellaer and I can move back from Swanfleet, if you want. Never let it be said the house of Aranarth cannot come together, when need drives us.”

Nethril snorted. “I’ve been trying to get to you to move back from Swanfleet since you left. Who would have thought it would take this.”

“Isilmë, too,” Halbarad said, and warm relief curled through Nethril at the name of her love. They’d endured their separation for the past year through letters and promises, but it had made it no easier to bear. “Things will change when he’s gone. Perhaps not all in ways that cause grief.”

The kettle whistled from its hook on the hearth, and she rose to lift it carefully before pouring water into the cups Halbarad had set out. He smiled when she pushed a cup towards him, and she sat opposite him, noting that they still took the same places at the table they’d occupied every day as children. Steam dampened his whiskers when he brought the mug to his lips, and a sudden, hopeful thought came to her as she watched him.

“If you move back, they’ll push for you to serve as acting Chieftain instead. You’re the eldest, and a man.”

Halbarad shuddered and shook his head. “They’d wish they’d appointed a cave troll. I serve best as a lieutenant, not even Meldroch can deny that. I’ll be yours, readily.”

She groaned in disappointment, but knew that he was right. He looked at her now with fierce resolve, and she gave him a rueful smile.

"The Angle in the hands of Dirlaeg's children," she murmured. "If only he could see it."

He reached across the table to take her face between his hands, warm from their contact with the teacup. He half-stood to kiss her gently on the forehead, and when he settled back onto the bench she saw just how much strength he lent her, and how much she’d missed him.

With Gandalf out of danger and the future somewhat in order, a sense of calm settled over Aragorn, one he had not felt since before the barrow-wights first came upon the Angle. The sense of urgency had passed, knowing his journey over the mountains would come. Sometimes, as Ivorwen and Elrond both reminded him, the wisest choice was to wait.

And so he gladly shouldered the tasks of a Chieftain at home, reorganizing patrols with Meldroch and helping his aunts ready their gardens for winter. Gilbarad and his older sister Haleth hung on to his every word, and he took great joy in introducing Elrond to the rest of his extended family. He’d missed the quiet mirth of his foster father more than he could ever say aloud.

They avoided the topic of Arwen, and though Aragorn longed to clear the air, he could not bear to shatter the peace his father’s presence brought to him. Though his yearning for Arwen never dimmed, he knew he had no hope of appearing worthy in her eyes, and any candle he held for her was not worth the pain it caused Elrond. Better for him to think Aragorn’s love five years before was merely youthful infatuation, now ignored and forgotten. Content to leave the matter be, they quickly regained their old, easy way about each other, and Aragorn counted it a blessing.

But the family member he most longed to spend time with was the one he could not see. Adanel made polite conversation with him at mealtimes, but otherwise she studiously avoided both him and Elrond. Aragorn wondered if Nethril had not somehow arranged for her to be separated from Elrond, knowing his grandmother’s dislike for the Lord of Imladris, but decided his cousin was not so politic. Even so, he could not help but feel defensive in the face of his grandmother’s attitude, and protective of his foster father.

“I will never understand it,” Aragorn grumbled. They sat in the healer’s cottage with Ivorwen, helping her mix poultices, and he saw Elrond and Ivorwen exchange a knowing glance. “Before last week, she’d never even met you. What right does she have to cast judgement?”

“I understand it,” Elrond said lightly. “I remind her of what she lost, when she sent you to Imladris. And there are other matters that have not endeared me to her.”

Aragorn sighed. His return to the Dúnedain had been so fragile at times, his reintroduction to his blood relatives equal parts joy and pain. How fiercely they all missed him, those years away, while he never knew of their existence. And so he tried to let pointed words against Rivendell roll off his back, a feat that was somehow easier five years ago than it was now.

“It will be easier when I return to Rivendell,” Elrond said, “and I wish to do it soon. Gandalf is well enough by now.”

Indeed, the wizard had finally progressed to taking short walks outside the healer’s cottage, though he still leaned heavily on his staff. Ivorwen suggested it might do him good to dine in the Chieftain’s house that evening, and Aragorn left for the house himself, to let Nethril know and make good on his promise to aid with supper some evening.

He found his cousin alone in the kitchen, a pot of soup already simmering on the hearth. The warm, aromatic smell of stewing meat made his mouth water, and he spied small, round loaves of bread ready to go into the oven.

“Do we have room for one more?” he asked. “Gandalf is well enough to leave the healer’s cottage.”

Nethril turned to see Aragorn, her expression carefully guarded, and his heart sank at the shuttered look in her eyes. He had not yet told her of his decision, and he realized suddenly what an awful mistake that had been. Without her, the Angle would likely have fallen apart in his absence.

“Good.” He nodded, and then steeled himself. “Nethril, I…I know we have not spoken of Gondor yet, but…”

Silently cursing his gossiping family members, Aragorn bowed his head in an apology. “I am sorry I haven’t spoken with you about it. I do not want to leave you unprepared, if you do not think—“

But she shook her head, and stepped forward to take his hands between hers. She drew in a deep breath, as if carefully considering her words, but when she met his gaze, her eyes held acceptance. “You are my liege lord, and my reckless little cousin. I could not ask you to do anything different. If you trust me, my sword is yours, my Chieftain—though let us both pray I never have to use it.”

Her words washed over him in relief, and he raised Nethril’s hands to kiss them both. Then he gave her a sly grin. “I don’t know. Meldroch says you threatened to challenge him in the ring.”

“He’s a liar. Please tell me you’ll send him to Swanfleet in Halbarad’s place.”

“There’s an idea.” Aragorn laughed and hugged her briefly. “It will not be til spring. I want to make sure things are in order here, before undertaking such a journey.”

“That should be enough time for Adanel to accept it,” Nethril said, and the chill returned to Aragorn’s gut once more. “I take it you haven’t told her?”

Nethril grimaced and nodded. “Have wine on hand, as well. A lesson I learned from Faelhen.”

Soon, the yeasty smell of baking bread wafted through the kitchen along with the smell of soup, and Aragorn helped Nethril to set places for six in the little room just off the kitchen. Adanel and Faelhen joined them both just as they started ladling out soup into bowls, and Elrond escorted Gandalf in through the doorway, the wizard still leaning heavily on his staff. Adanel’s eyes narrowed briefly at the sight of Gandalf, but she composed herself so quickly Argaorn wondered if he imagined it. Nethril had outdone herself with the cooking, the stewed mutton soft and flavorful in his mouth. The taste reminded him of Rivendell, with just a hint of saffron, and he wondered if Elrond had brought some spices with him from the valley.

“This is a grand occasion,” Adanel commented. Her left hand loosely cradled a glass of golden wine. “I cannot recall the last time Gandalf the Grey dined with the Chieftain of the Dúnedain.”

“It was midsummer,” Gandalf said, his eyes distant from memory. “Arathorn had just wed Gilraen. Arador sat where you sit now—“ he gestured to Aragorn’s place at the head of the table— “and he appeared prouder than any man I’ve ever known. You, dear lady, kept him from serenading us all after the last round of ale.”

“As it always was.” Adanel smiled, but it was one of a wolf about to pounce. Aragorn watched her warily. “How quickly our fortunes change. You alerted him to the trolls up north that visit, didn’t you? Only, when the time came to hunt them, you were nowhere to be found.”

Silence descended upon the room. Nethril’s face turned white, and under the table, Aragorn placed a hand on hers to still her.

“The troll fells are an old hurt, my lady,” Nethril said. “Many of us lost loved ones that day. It does little good to assign blame now.”

“No, no blame,” Adanel said. “I am merely pointing out that when our grey-robed friend becomes involved, chaos often descends. Something some of us could stand to remember before following him over the mountains.”

She looked directly at Aragorn, and it was his turn to bite down the first, cutting retort that came to his lips. He paused, taking another deliberate bite of stew before he answered, and met his grandmother’s leveling stare.

“No, you do not know. You do not know what happened to Arador, or your father. His sons do.” She gestured towards Elrond with bitter laughter. “They brought my son back with an arrow through his eye and took you to become a child of Elven lords, in a land where great quests and destinies matter more than your own people.”

“I care little for destiny,” Aragorn said, even as he wondered if that was true. “I care that Sauron builds power in Mordor, that orc incursions grow by the year, and there is a man over the mountains who’s offered forces to command.”

“Are those incursions anything more than dots on a map to you? These great lords may sit in their halls and make pronouncements of battles to be fought, but they care little for those they leave behind. They do not know hunger from untended harvests, they do not know sickness, they do not know the sight of blood washing through the river. You’ve known these things for five short years, and now you would abandon it? Have you seen your fill of death?”

It would have been better if she’d slapped him. He stared at her, speechless, and her eyes burned bright with anger. Her wineglass still sat forgotten in her hand, though it shook violently now, and the wedding ring around her finger glinted in the candlelight.

“I raised your grandson to value death as well as life, Lady Adanel.” Elrond’s soft voice echoed through the room. “Nothing less than need would drive him from the Dúnedain now.”

“You raised him.” She repeated the words slowly, and turned to face him. “Tell me, Lord Elrond, did you weep when my son died? Or did you simply remove his piece from the board, and put Aragorn’s in his place?”

Adanel slammed her glass down on the table. Wine spilled over her hand with the jolt, and she stared down at it as if transfixed.

She pushed her chair back from the table and stalked from the room. Aragorn stared after her, his jaw open in disbelief and hurt, and he quickly rose to follow her. But a hand on his arm stopped him, and when he looked back at Nethril his cousin’s face appeared carven from stone.

“Do not look at me,” Nethril said quietly. “I rather think she’s right.”

The rest of the meal finished in an awful, awkward silence. Elrond appeared as serene as ever, but a shadow passed over his eyes Aragorn knew well, and Gandalf looked deeply abashed. Faelhen’s glare cut across all three of them. Aragorn forced himself to finish his bowl of stew, though his appetite had utterly deserted him. At last, when Elrond volunteered to help Nethril clear the dishes, Aragorn slipped out of the room as quietly as he could and stole across the main hall until he reached the stairs. Adanel’s door was closed, but candlelight flickered beneath the crack, and he thought he heard a muffled sob through the thick oaken door. He knocked once, and when there was no answer he pushed the door gently open.

A blast of cold air chilled him when he stepped inside. Adanel stood beside an open window, staring out to where the barrows arose near the crags, where the Hoarwell and the Bruinen joined into the great river beyond. Snow swirled fiercely in the night sky, and the whistling wind blew flurries inside to dust the dark brown fabric of Adanel’s dress.

“Valar, it’s freezing in here.” Aragorn hugged himself against the cold and shut the door quickly behind him. He moved to close the shutters, but he stopped at the sight of Adanel. Her long hair had come free of its knot and cascaded in grey waves down her back. Her hand gripped the windowsill, and tears fell freely down her cheeks, her eyes cast out toward the barrows. Fresh guilt and sorrow tore through him—he had never seen her so vulnerable before.

“It’s so quiet when it snows,” Adanel murmured. “Sometimes I think it’s the only time the Angle truly knows peace.”

“There will be little peace here if you catch cold, and Ivorwen hears why.” Aragorn attempted a lighthearted smile, and took her icy hand within his own. She stiffened, but did not pull away, and she allowed him to lead her slowly back to the bed. She perched on the end of it, and he hurriedly closed the shutters against the final chilling gust of wind. He sat down beside her but could not bring himself to meet her gaze, and stared at his hands like a child instead.

“I am sorry,” he said at last. “I wish I knew what to say, to make things right.”

She shook her head, and a stray tear fell onto her lap. “You are so like your father. More than anything, he hated causing pain to those he loved. But a Chieftain must act no matter the cost. Did I not teach you that?”

“You did.” Aragorn drew in a deep breath and looked up to meet her red-rimmed eyes. “But you also taught me to trust those closest to me. Nana, I would not leave while things stand this way between us. You deserve so much more.”

She sniffed and looked back down at her lap. “I thought that name was for Ivorwen.”

“It is for both of my grandmothers, whom I could not do without. I have taken that for granted, as of late.”

“So men do, as they wander far from home. Do not think I have forgotten the burdens you carry.”

Aragorn nodded, but no further words would come to him. Adanel reached for a handkerchief to wipe at her eyes, and she shivered against the cold. Aragorn took a blanket folded at the end of the bed to drape around her shoulders, and they sat in silence together, the shutters rattling against the wind.

“I am selfish,” Adanel said at last. “I do not want you to leave because I cannot bear to lose you again. You will be gone longer than you think, and I grow tired of carrying my hope.”

“The house of Aranarth is steeped in sacrifice. I can endure one more. But I ask no less of you.” She took his face between her cold hands, her intense gaze one that had always demanded the best from him. “I need to know, Aragorn, that if you leave you do it for your people, and not chasing dreams of glory or renown. For that has ever been the downfall of kings.”

He stared into her grey eyes, so like his own, and tried to put aside the dreams that had haunted him for weeks. To put aside Gandalf, Arwen, even Elrond, and anchor his choice in the members of his house.

“When I was young, even before I knew my name, my mother would tell stories of her people. How they fought and struggled, with little thanks and little hope, to keep their lands free of darkness. How they diminish through the ages, visited by sorrows uncounted. Our grief will only increase, Nana, each year Sauron gains power. I called for the Swanfleet settlements in hope of renewal, but they are one raid away from ruin. If we are to defeat this enemy, we must do more than what we’ve done for centuries. I do not know what I can accomplish in the east, but…if Eru wills it, and Gondor receives the Heir of Elendil, perhaps one day the Angle will know peace. What can I do, but try?”

Her eyes filled with tears once more, but she nodded. He embraced her tightly, and she rested her chin on his shoulder, a quiet sob escaping her. He ran a comforting hand over her hair, but she only let out an impatient huff.

“Arador once said I might be less rigid, if I gave way more to tears. Now, it seems I do nothing but weep. Too much sorrow, all these years of your life.”

“I wish you would talk with Elrond. He knows more of sorrow than you think.”

Pity for his mother filled Aragorn, along with a sudden longing for her warm, familiar presence. He would need to visit Rivendell one last time, and see if he could try and persuade her once more to return to the Angle. Perhaps Elrond might aid him there.

“He is no happier with my decision than you are. Truly, you may find common ground.”

A faint trace of a smile lightened Adanel’s features. “I have little interest in finding common ground with the mighty son of Eärendil. But for you, grandson, I will try.”

“Even the most rigid of us can bend, Aragorn. It will be good to remember that, if you are to have that wizard by your side.”

They descended the stairs together, Adanel grasping Aragorn’s arm for support, and they found everyone settled in the common room. Faelhen and Gandalf sat over a box of dice, Faelhen’s expression dangerously vindictive, and Nethril and Elrond spoke quietly together beside the fire. They all looked up at the sound of the door opening, and Nethril visibly tensed at the sight of Adanel.

“Not at all.” Nethril shook her head. “Master Elrond and I were simply discussing the finer points of the Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth. ”

“How fitting,” Adanel remarked, and she drew in a deep breath. “May I have a word, my lord?”

Elrond nodded graciously, and rose to follow Adanel out the door and into the map room. Nethril stared after them both, her jaw hanging open, and looked at Aragorn with faint alarm.

Aragorn shook his head and took the seat Elrond had vacated. “It’s all right, cousin. You have done more than your part to keep the peace, these past days.”

She shot him a gratified smile before she buried her face in her hands and let out an exhausted sort of groan. He patted her shoulder in consolation before he settled back into his chair, staring into the fire that blazed in the hearth.

The flames danced merrily before them, and Nethril soon took her father’s lute from where it sat in the corner. She plucked absently at the strings, her fingers moving slowly to trace out a familiar tune, and Aragorn hummed along, not bothering to try and remember the words. Nights like this were precious for their rarity.

A sharp curse from Gandalf broke them out of their tune, and they glanced over to see Faelhen pocketing a handful of coins in silent triumph. Gandalf shook his head, clearly put out, and levered himself to his feet with his staff. Faelhen murmured something about quitting while ahead and said her goodnights, exchanging a satisfied smile with Nethril before she swept from the room. Gandalf lingered, groaning as he lowered himself into a chair beside Aragorn.

“The women of this house could charm a balrog out of its flame, and never let you know they play dice better than the Pinesman in Bree.”

Nethril snorted, and Aragorn arched an eyebrow. “I will not ask what she won from you.”

“My pride, certainly. I will have to win the rest back, if we hope to stay at any inns next spring.”

Aragorn chuckled. Nethril resumed her playing, losing herself in a long, complicated ballad, and Gandalf leaned over to speak quietly in his ear. “I hope you know, my dear boy, that I see you as much more than a piece on the board.”

“I never doubted that,” Aragorn said mildly. “It is my grandmother you must convince.”

“Yes, I will talk with her in the morning.” Gandalf frowned. “I stayed away from the Dúnedain too long. A mistake I will take care not to repeat in the coming years, no matter how far east we may go.”

Aragorn nodded, and glanced sidelong at Gandalf. He still appeared weak and frail, dark circles under his eyes and his grey robes hanging loosely on his frame. But the spark had returned to his eyes, the one he recalled so vividly from their first meeting, and curiosity surged through him at the memory.

“You said you wanted to test if I was ready,” he asked. “How did you know to test me at all? You had no idea the kind of man I was, when you followed the wights to the Angle.”

“Oh, I had an inkling,” Gandalf said. “Did you know they call me the Grey Pilgrim, in some lands? Ever to wander the west, with no lasting home of my own. It is much the same with you, is it not?”

Aragorn opened his mouth to deny it, but stopped when he glanced out at the common room, which bore more signs of Nethril and Adanel than it ever would him. His grandmother’s spinning wheel lay tucked in the corner atop a rug Nethril had carefully picked out that lay across the flagstones. The haunting melody of her lute echoed in his ears, an instrument he could never hope to learn. A tapestry from Rivendell, depicting Elendil’s arrival at Lindon, was his only mark on the room, woven by his mother and given as a gift when he learned of his name. An ache stabbed at Aragorn, that he must leave this place in the same way he had Imladris, that it would fade as home the same way his childhood had.

“It is a lonely man who wanders unknown paths and calls the stars his home. Even those will be strangers to you before the end,” Gandalf said. “I would have you walk beside a friend, for a time. One who understands where you come from, and what you have still to do. ”

Somewhere in the next room, his grandmother and his foster father talked their way towards understanding, through their hope that rested in him. He could not fathom what it might take to live up to what they expected of him, to his own impossible standards he had promised himself long ago. But Gandalf’s hand gripped his tight, renewed vitality soaring through him, and Aragorn took it as a promise to them both. He would find the strength within him to meet the days to come.

The sun shone through the fading stormclouds, glinting off the fresh layer of snow that blanketed the Angle, and Nethril shaded her eyes with her hand when she looked out at the barrows. Buried in white, they somehow appeared less foreboding, as if winter finally granted the dead leave to rest. Aragorn knelt a few feet ahead of her before Arathorn’s barrow, unaware of her presence, and he murmured soft words she tried not to hear. At last he caught sight of her shadow and stood, a rueful smile lightening his face when he turned.

“I had not been here since we reinterred the bodies. I thought he should know, what it is I set out to do.”

She nodded and came up beside him, taking his gloved hand with her own. To the right of the barrow, a great stone stood covered in snow, hiding the names of the Dúnedain who had fallen far from home. She knelt and brushed the snow off the worn obsidian, looking until she found her father’s name carved two places over from Arador’s. She traced her finger over the Tengwar script and allowed the old ache to fill her. His name was the only true memory she had of him, when he echoed the Ranger’s oath for her and Halbarard before riding north with his Chieftain. In some ways, she still chased that memory a lifetime later, to try and grasp what she’d never known.

“The sentries reported in just after you left,” she said at last. “Dírhael’s men crossed the Hoarwell. They’ll be here by midday.”

He sucked in his breath and searched her face for ill news. “No casualties?”

“No casualties.” A blessing that grew ever rarer. He sighed in relief and enveloped her in a tight embrace, one she returned fiercely. Her head barely came up to his shoulder, and she rested it on his chest, taking comfort in his solid presence while she still could. “We will have cause for joy, this winter.”

“So long as Uncle Tarcil didn’t bring Gilbarad back an axe,” he said wryly.

“Winter in the Angle, and Rivendell before we cross the mountains.” Aragorn sighed. “I wish you could see it, Nethril, know it as you’ve known Adar these past days. The waterfalls misting in the sunset, the lays sung in the Hall of Fire…”

“Someday,” Nethril said softly. She could not tempt herself with the hospitality of Lord Elrond, not when she would only compare it to her own rough stone halls, the home she’d built between her mother’s cottage and the Chieftain’s house. “For now, my place is here. Adanel should go, though.”

“Elrond has extended an invitation to her. I hope she will accept. She may find healing there that none of us can grant here.”

“Poor Gilraen,” Nethril said. Aragorn gave a bleak sort of laugh, and Nethril shook her head. Her aunt’s gentle countenance fared poorly beside Adanel’s sharp tongue, and she could not imagine the fabled stillness of Rivendell would last for long. Not least when Adanel heard her grandson called Estel by all who’d known him in youth…

The thought jarred another one loose in her, and she glanced back at her cousin. “You will need a new name, when you cross the Hithaeglir. I don’t like that you use ‘Aragorn’ outside the Angle as it is.”

“I have thought of that. Did Halbarad tell you they call me ‘Strider’ in Bree, now?”

She rolled her eyes. “That will not do, either. Strider is no commander of men.”

“So say the Breelanders.” He chuckled, and then fell back into silence, his face pensive. He folded his arms tight across his chest as he stared back at the barrow.

“I would honor my parents,” he said at last. “So that I may carry them with me, no matter where I go. How does Thorongil sound, to your tongue?”

“Eagle of the star,” she murmured. “I think it suits. And honors Elrond, too, after a fashion.”

A great horn blast rent the air, one that signaled clear victory and triumphant return. Nethril and Aragorn looked at each other in surprise, and she broke into a wide, uncontrollable grin.

Not waiting for Aragorn, she sprinted back to the Angle as best she could, doing her best not to trip over her skirts or slip on the new-fallen snow. Aragorn caught her by the elbow when she nearly fell into a snowbank, and laughing, they both ran the mile and a half from the barrows to the gate.

A small crowd had already gathered before the gates, made up of the wives and children of returning Rangers. Elrond stood removed to the side, a fine velvet mantle draped atop his shoulders. Nethril skidded to a stop beside him, breathless and red in the face, hardly caring that she acted far too undignified for a lady of the Chieftain’s house. She made her way towards her aunt and young cousins, who stood beside Halbarad staring at the gate. She took his hand in her own and bounced anxiously on the balls of her feet as the gates opened and a dozen horses rode through.

Dírhael rode at the head of the column, Elladan and Elrohir just behind him, their shining black hair a stark contrast to her grandfather’s wild greying locks. The twins’ eyes widened at the sight of their father, and they dismounted quickly to embrace him, showering him with questions in Sindarin. Dírhael surveyed the scene with some bemusement, but he quickly collected himself and dismounted.

Propriety gone, Nethril ran forward and threw her arms around her grandfather, squeezing her eyes tight to hold back her tears. He swung her off her feet in a tight embrace, and she laughed as he set her down and kissed her on both cheeks.

“Here now, what’s all this for an old man?” He reached out and cupped her cheek with his battle-scarred hand. “We’re back, safe as ever.”

“There was never any doubt of that,” Nethril smiled and hugged him again. “Only—oh, how you’ve been missed at home.”

“I can see that,” he said, eyebrows raised. He gently detached himself from Nethril to greet Halbarad and Aragorn, who both stood beside them grinning. He clapped his grandsons both on the shoulders, and surveyed the three of them together with a mock-stern glance. “What sort of trouble have you all gotten into?”

Author's Note: This story is dedicated to the members of my authorial family tree, both in Tolkien fandom and elsewhere, who have long shaped how I write and whose stories I long to give voice to. Thank you for sharing your works with the world; I have needed them more than ever this year.

And thank you, dear reader, for following along with this story! Returning to Middle-earth is always a gift, and I'm grateful to have shared it with y'all.

Hand and Heart by Saelind