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

In the fall of 2018, Dol Guldur was published in Stories of Arda. It was the tale of the expulsion of Sauron from Dol Guldur in T.A 2063. Gandalf, along with Ararnarth, first chieftain of the Dunedain, his son Arahael and others brought about the beginning of the Watchful Peace.

At the end of the tale, Arahael lays his father to rest and rides off to meet his young son Aranuir to patrol the lands as is their duty and destiny.

What of that life of the early chieftains? Little is written as there was quiet on the land and no great deeds to be done.

Days of the Dunedain tells us of those lives through a now very old Aranuir, his son Aravir, and grandson Aragorn I. A small slice of their days in the spring of T.A 2246 with some surprises, lessons learned, and futures accepted.

If this meets with your approval (or disapproval) leave a review at the end, if you are so inclined. Thankyou for reading.

The trees were thinning out. A few ragged firs struggled in the windswept mountain grass that clung to the slope. Farther up the grass yielded to rock and scree.

Aranuir paused, turned west for a last look at the southern reaches of the Ettendales and far beyond, the wild lands east of the Weather Hills. These were empty lands. The men west of the Misty Mountains would be found near Bree. He was headed east.

East to observe as he would cross an unnamed pass in the Misty mountains well above the Carrock and well below the expanding realm of the Eotheod along the Langwell.

He did not blend in. The appearance of an old man, white haired, a weathered face creased with the suns of scores of summers. His back was straight in the saddle, his build still fit and strong. One would think an old warrior of some sort, though there had been no wars since the Watchful Peace began.

Strangers, unless they bring trade or vital news, were viewed with suspicion in settled areas. They could be roughly escorted off the lands, or disappear entirely.

But much of the land above of the Carrrock was wild on the west side of the Anduin. It would be many hard leagues north before the first outlying farms of the Eothoed emerged from the forest. His concerns for the next several days would be finding game, wolves, trolls and orcs.

Aranuir’s grandfather, Aranarth, had tales to tell of wolves and trolls. The first chieftan had been a young man of 20 in driving the forces of Angmar to near extinction. The last trolls had fled to the stony ramparts of the upper Misty Mountains, living in icy caves, making occasional forays into the moor lands to capture unwary game or settle for wolf carrion.

He’d found little sign of them in the Ettendales. He was hoping for the same on the east side of the Misty Mountains, but he took nothing for granted. Though it was the time of the Watchful Peace for the Wise, he would travel the land to assure it was still the case.

He spurred his horse, Naron, upwards through the scree to the first patches of snow. It was half a league to the pass, a narrow saddle between two hulking peaks. The snow became continuous and deeper as the slope steepened. It was not pristine. Aranuir made out the footprints of snow hares and rock voles. And further up, the trail of something larger.

A young adult wolf had headed east over the pass at an easy lope. It had been at least two days ago judging by the softening of the edges of the great paw prints. Naron stopped, bent his head to the snow. He snorted, turned his head to glare at Aranuir.

No idle boast, Aranuir would say if asked. Naron was a dark chestnut the height of a man at the shoulder, powerfully muscled and smart as a fox. His flying hooves had crushed the skull of more than one wolf. He seemed to enjoy it.

In less than an hour they were at the pass. The snow was thigh deep to a man, getting wet and heavy as spring crept up from the distant valleys.

To the east the ramparts and flanks of the Misty Mountains reached out in ridges and valleys towards the Anduin, a fine silvery thread near the eastern horizon. Aranuir followed its course south, towards the realm of Gondor. To his left the river rushed from its sources to the far north, the Langwell and the Greylin. There he would find the Eotheod.

Turning in the saddle he scanned the lonely rough lands of the Ettendales to the west whence he came. To the southwest he spied the line of the East-West Road, wending west towards Bree.

All that within the bounds of the ancient lost kingdom of Arnor. It had been the task of his grandfather Aranarth to patrol it, a task then appointed to Arahael and in turn to him. And now his son Aravir took the mantle and in time his grandson Aragorn I would follow.

The land of the Eotheod, far up the Anduin valley to the remote Langwell and Greylin rivers had never been part of the kingdom of Arnor. Arguably he had no business there, but Aranuir made it is business to keep an eye on what went on just outside the borders of the old kingdom. In time the Watchful Peace might end in war and it would be prudent to know if one had friends or foes.

They were friends when last he visited, over a hundred forty years past with his father Arahael. The old chieftan, Hagar, welcomed them, setting a feast to celebrate old times he’d shared with Arahael in their journey to Dol Guldur.

Such tales were no doubt the stuff of legend and myth if they survived at all. None at that banquet now lived who would remember a young Dunedain, scarcely 20 summers, new to the wandering life.

He’d marked his northwards trek along the tree line, over stony ridges, down steep valleys swollen with freshets of snowmelt winding noisily through the firs.

A few hawks patrolled high above for a time, but wheeled east seeking better prospects. The boreal forest was silent. No large game found sustenance amidst the rocks and pine needles on the forest floor. Lichens, pine nuts and occasional tufts of mountain grass barely supported some dwarf squirrels.

Aranuir was well stocked. A deer kill several days back had yielded a hefty load of smoked meat. Dried apples and potatoes rounded out the fare.

It had been several uneventful days since he’d crossed the pass. A few more ridges and he’d see the Langwell emerge from the haze of distance. That would be tomorrow.

For now, the sun had fallen behind the Misty Mountains. It was getting chilly in their lengthening shadows. The mountain peaks would soon send a cold mistral to greet the dusk. He needed a campsite for tonight.

He looked across a narrow valley to the next ridge. There was a level spot where two side buttresses came in along the ridge. Room for a small pack tent. He’d fill his water skins in the valley.

Naron lifted his head, testing the air, staring at the campsite half a league away. He turned to Aranuir, a look of caution and concern in his eyes. His right hoof pawed at the ground. Aranuir knew the signals. A wolf had been in the area this day. It might still be.

Far to the south of Aranuir two men on horseback paused at the banks of the Gwathlo river.

“Yet in its day, Aragorn, Tharbad was once a great port. Mighty ships sailed up the Gwathlo to unload cargo. The Great Road passed through. Commerce once thrived between Arnor and Gondor”

“It is already dark, father, empty.” Aragorn swept his arm across from south to north

Aravir knew his words. They had been his decades past when his father, Aranuir had taken him to this very spot, the southern extremity of the lands they patrolled.

“And yet, who can say what will come, Aragorn. Whether in the fullness of time these lands may again flourish and our efforts and those yet born of the Dunedain will return to bring unity and prosperity to men.”

“Such are dreams, father. More likely our descendants will be like us, lone riders on the plains, shadows in the forests, names forgotten to time.”

“Perhaps. But I think fate has other plans. One yet named or even one who might take your namesake may chart a different course. Come, my dour chieftain to be, it is time we went north. It is long days ride over these wide plains to the edge of the Shire. There we will find more to cheer us”

“Indeed. Though we are thought suspect by some, I know where we can secure a flagon of ale and some good mutton. They are not long removed from Bree and do not cringe from the presence of men, however road weary.”

“Then lead on father. Mutton has been scarce at our table for many a fortnight”

An old man in a gray cloak sat at a corner table at the Prancing Pony. A lazy snake of smoke eased off the long pipe. A tankard of ale made company with bread and cheese and a pointy blue hat of unknown provenance.

Men of Bree, many of them regulars, caroused around the rough hewn bar. A few other men, travelers, were keeping to themselves at a table near the far wall. A pair of dwarves in traveling clothes drained a few tankards of ale, talking intently. Down from the Grey Mountains ,they were expecting counterparts from the small dwarf settlements in the Blue Mountains.

A smattering of hobbits bustled in from the hills above town, claiming a table facing the bar. One was celebrating a half birthday. They too were regulars and were celebrating the half birthday of one of their own. Another tankard and they would break into song.

The hobbits reminded him of the Shire, where he was bound, after long journeys to the east and south. It was his favorite part of Eriador and restored his spirit.

Truth be told he was tired. He was long in Gondor, from South Ithilien to the River Lefnui far to the west. The realm was at peace. Men could tend to their lands, bring in crops and livestock. The East was quiet.

He’d made his way back north up the Anduin with a stop at Rhosgobel, home of Radagast the Brown. They shared some of Radagast’s fine ale, fresh baked bread and clover honey and spoke of older days across the Great Sea.

As to current days, Gandalf could see that his fellow wizard continued to withdraw into the world of the forest and its inhabitants, closing off the wider world beyond. It was opposite that of Gandalf who roamed the limits of the lands, endlessly curious.

And he was now curious about the Shire. As in decades past, it would be a social visit. A certain family of OldBucks, led by Odofur OldBuck, would be where he paid call. Other Bucks might fancy by. Unlike some other hobbit families, the Bucks were indifferent to the disapproval of others for their eccentricities and guests from outside the Shire

His waterskins full, Aranuir had guided Naron up the steep valley slope. The ridge top was in sight its line now appearing between the sparse firs. Naron continued his heightened awareness. The scent of wolf had not diminished. Aranuir loosened his sword from its scabbard.

And then Naron cantered over the lip of the ridge. They beheld an irregular region of rock and sparse grass, the union of three mountain buttresses. In the middle distance a small upthrust of stone formed a small semicircle. Naron froze. Aranuir saw it. A horse, standing, watching them. A dark smudge lay in front of him, unclear.

He scanned the near ground for movement and saw none. The distant horse made no move.

Aranuir eased forward slowly, but steadily, on heightened alert. The horse had not moved. The smudge resolved itself into the figure of a man, sprawled face down. Aranuir nudged Naron to speed, hooves clattering over the rocks as they quickly closed the gap. Aranuir drew his sword.

A hundred yards out the horse moved closer to the fallen man, pawing the ground in front of him. Aranuir noticed another shape now, 20 yards to the right of the man. It was black, fur covered and bloody, rent open by grievous wounds. And dead. Aranuir slowed Naron to a slow walk, then paused.

It was clear to him now. The wolf had surprised the man but he had fought back, hacking the beast to death with his sword before succumbing to his own injuries. The horse guarded him instinctively.

Aranuir dismounted and walked with open hands to the skittish horse. It too had wounds, raw gouges along its side. The wolf had leapt onto them from one of the rocks in the semicircle. He was close now, talking gently to the horse, trying to calm it. Naron edged closer, nodding his head, conveying safety to the trembling stallion.

The man on the ground had long blond hair, wore a finely crafted leather curiass, scored deeply with claw marks. Blood was seeping from his arm. Aranuir edged closer. The man’s hand twitched.

Heedless of the stallion looming over him, Aranuir rushed to his side, turned him over. His left arm was mangled by a wolf bite. The side of his young face was ripped, leaking blood. His forehead bore a darkening egg sized bruise.

Aranarth quickly opened his wound pouch. He applied a poultice of athelas to the ravaged face and arm. He wrapped the arm with a bandage, applying pressure, staunching the bleeding.

To the face, he gently pushed the ragged edges of the claw marks together, pressing the sides of each gouge together to hasten healing. A longer length of woven bandage he would around the man’s head, under chin and over forehead. The egg would diminish of its own accord in due time.

Naron by now had eased alongside the injured man’s horse and calmed it considerably. It was powerfully built, like Naron, but golden in color with a snowy mane.

Aranuir examined the young man more carefully. His limbs were still regular, no broken bones or dislocations. There was an embossment on his belt buckle, the figure of a many on a horse. Aranuir had seen it before, the insignia of the Eotheod. What was this horseman doing at distance from his homelands?

Aranuir stood, walked over to the carcass of the wolf and retrieved the horseman’s sword. A fine gleaming blade with a strong brass pommel and hilt engraved with the figure of the horseman once again. It was no common blade. One well born would carry this.

He brought water from his pack, splashed the man’s face. He groaned, then cried out as the pain tore through his emerging consciousness. Aranuir held the back of his head, gently eased the waterskin spout to his mouth. His thirst quickly took him, the skin half empty before he’d yet opened his eyes.

When he did he saw an old man before him, long haired and bearded with weathered skin and large shoulders.

“By the look of you, home is far away as well.” The young man managed to prop himself up with his elbows to a sitting position.

“A rite of passage. Two fortnights in the wild to show I am worthy to lead.”

“No doubt. But now you require rest and careful attention to your wounds, lest they fester. You have lost much blood. Many men would have died from such wounds. Two days, and you will be well enough to travel.”

Wulfric knew the old man was right. His body felt battered and sore. His mangled arm and torn face were bellowing with pain, despite Aranuir’s ministrations. Blood loss had left him faint and weak. Common sense overrode any youthful pride.

“I will heed your counsel. While I heal, perhaps you can tell me more of the world west of the mountains and what brings you here.”

Aranuir smiled. The young man was indeed a chieftain’s son, wondering about what might lie not far from his own realm and to what purpose a visitor might have.

“More tales than you might believe.” Aranuir replied, then set about organizing their camp, home for the next two days. He set up two pack tents, helped Wulfric into one, to rest on his bedroll. Then he rode Naron back into the valley, gathering firewood to last the night.

Upon his return, Wulfric had drifted into sleep. The sky was losing its bright blue as the sun waned in the west behind the mountains. Aranuir sparked his flint into some evergreen branches. Soon he was feeding a flame in the huddle of rocks that made a hearth.

Odofur Oldbuck felt it had been a fine spring so far. The family fields were celebrating with rows of bright green sprouts. Carrots, corn, beans, lettuce, potatoes and onions would grace his table. The apple orchard was in flower. The cows would calve and the sheep would bear both wool and lambs.

He, his two sons Merioc and Derioc, their wives and now grandchildren, had built a prosperous hobbit farm between the Stock to Rushy road and the west banks of the Baranduin. There would be a fair surplus to trade at market for fabric, stone, and finished goods. Odofur’s plans to expand the house would proceed apace.

It was a fine house as it stood. Built of fine Shire brick with a thatched roof, it commanded an enviable view of his farmland to the east and the woods on the east side of the Baranduin.

Odofur admired all that but was more fixated on his garden, or rather his wife Delfina’s garden which girdled the house with roses, hydrangeas, lilies and tulips along stone walking paths. The paths lead away from the house ending at a large open lawn with comfortable benches and a small pond. It was a perfect place to smoke some Longbottom leaf from a fine clay pipe.

It appeared that pipe would have to wait. It was his cousin Primadoc, Thain of the Shire. Odofur felt that Primadoc had become inflated and tiresome over his Thainship. It was after all largely a ceremonial role, presiding at festivals, resolving the occasional dispute, encouraging commerce and sharing information.

“Do not seek to mock me, fair cousin. I come with news. You are chosen as Master for the summer festival. A great honor. You have much to do. Good Luck!”

Primadoc bustled back down the lane towards the road to Stock. A quick wave and he was round the bend.

Odofur spluttered a bit, face reddening. Master was a big job. Much was expected. He would have little time to tend to his own business and the pursuit of Longbottoms’s finest pipe weed.

To make the Master whole for this inconvenience, a past Thain had decreed the market tithe. All those participating in the festival would make a donation to the Master’s fund should he sustain losses in the completion of his job.

Odofur in fact was quite pleased with the designation to which he considered himself an exemplary qualified choice. A well run festival benefited all in the East Farthing, himself included. He would show them a turn or two.

“Over Sarn Ford and then into the Shire.” Aravir had pointed to the northwest. Neither path was well tended, just a memory in the earth, an opening in occasional clumps of trees that spotted the rolling grasslands.

“We’ll cross at the Ford then hug the west bank of the Baranduin, the hobbits call it Brandywine. And at a certain point we will be on the doorstep of a hobbit who knows me well”

The crossing had been uneventful. They had not seen a soul on road since Tharbad. Aragorn had concluded rightly that there was no good reason for anyone to use it. There was no trade between the Shire and the almost empty lands to their South.

And this also meant that none knew they were here which is as they preferred. And here was a spot near the southern Fringe of the Shire, where they were about to depart the northbound trail and make their way overland up along the Baranduin.

It would be a few days of mixed woodland and grassland along the river, becoming increasingly forested as they approached the southeast extremity of the Shire. Aravir knew that would last but half a day until the trees gave way to the first farms. At that point the Baranduin carved a steeper bank as it wound almost due north. They would then stay out of sight along the base of those banks, not drawing attention until their destination.

It was quite pastoral and peaceful in fine early spring weather. Too quiet for Aragorn’s tastes, a young chieftain to be, thinking more of great deeds instead of golden dells.

“Be grateful your sword is sheathed, Aragorn” Aravir glanced his way, as if reading his thoughts. “The last war in these lands was the end of Arthedain, the scattering of our people, and the beginning of these journeys we take to keep war away. That is what war can do, and worse”

“Now as to the Halflings. They are industrious farmers, skilled and prosperous, content with the rhythm of their lives. Delight comes from a good ale, a song in the tavern, feasts and featherbeds. And we have the remit to let them live that life without threat”

It was a bright cold dawn high in the mountains. Hoarfrost rimed the scattered patches of grass. The breath of the horses lingered in the air. Aranuir knelt next to Wulfric, persuading him to take some broth. The young man’s forehead was warm, his breathing shallow. Infection might have set in.

Care was at over a day’s ride away to the nearest farm, further to Framsburg, the main settlement of the Eotheod.

Aranuir eased him onto his horse, barely conscious. Using a length of rope, he bound Wulfric to his stallion, tied secure as if he were baggage. There was already some extra baggage, a fine black wolfskin he could boast of if illness did not claim him.

All morning they picked their way down a long arm of the Misty Mountains, at times along the ridge, occasionally finding easier way in the valley. Not long after noon he stopped. Wulfirc was asleep in the saddle. Not necessarily bad if his body was fully occupied with recovery. Aranuir palmed his forehead. Still warm, but holding his own.

He took stock of their position. Up ahead there was a spur coming off the main ridge they had descended. The spur splayed out into the forested uplands that ran to the Anduin. With strong, experienced horses they would make good time. They would camp in the woods tonight and make way to Framsburg in the morning,

Aranuir mused on Wulfric’s luck. This trip over the Misty Mountains was not compelled by events. It was an old man’s remembrance, taking to the wild one last time over old paths, familiar lands from more than one hundred years of patrolling. His son Aravir had long taken over chieftain duties and was now training his own son, Aragorn.

So for the sake of memories he was there to save Wulfric from bleeding out on a rocky mountainside. Would that the young man live. Aranuir had no enthusiasm for arriving in Framsburg with the corpse of the chieftain’s son. They were a fierce people who might not grant his life the time to explain what had happened.

The hours passed. They descended off the last of the spur and rode into the forest, picking up a game trail. The firs had mixed with birch, poplar, aspen and oak, all brilliant in their first spring leaves. Late afternoon’s sun filled the air with a quiet glow. Birds chirped and chattered. Life was in the land.

Odofur Oldbuck had built it himself. The skills had been handed down. His ancient family tribe, the Stoors, had no apprehensions about water and considered themselves skilled fishermen and adept with a small boat.

His water craft was no balky rowboat or wobbling dory. It was still flat bottomed, but narrower and had a grace to it. It would glide through the water, but would be comfortable for sitting at a favored spot on a pond or marsh channel.

Its fishing prowess would go untested today as Odofur was determined solely to cross the river and poke around the forest on the other side. The river had been running low and the crossing would not be burdensome. He had packed second breakfast, lunch, and a mid-afternoon break of sweet cakes and nuts. His pipe was secured, along with some Longbottom leaf.

And just in case, a short sword and hunting knife. The former had been passed down from times before the Shire had been home, journeys from hazy origins along the Anduin, over mountain passes into Dunland then eventually to the Marish, his corner of the Shire. He had never used it though on occasion felt the need to take a swipe or two with it at some imagined adversary.

In the many hours he had watched the wooded eastern shore he had seen little, other than a curious buck staring back. Neither man nor hobbit made known any presence.

He launched the boat, sat at the oarlocks and made efficient work of the crossing. The western shore, his shore, receded. Odofur had tied a great swath of red cloth to a stout oak to mark his destination on the return trip. A wise move as the further he rowed from the western bank, the more all the trees lost their identity and merged into the river’s alluvial woods.

Soon he found the east shore. It was different than the west. There was a short strip of level ground near the river that quickly rose into steep bluff. Odofur dragged the boat up and out of the water. He tied a length of rope to the bow hole and pulled it up onto the land, securing it between two small willow trees.

He had a bit of a climb ahead of him, finding a manageable route up the bluffs some 100 feet above the river. He spent several minutes walking up and down the narrow riverbank. Then, there it was, a gully where a rainy day freshet wound down from the woodlands beyond the rim of the bluff. It had cut a narrow gash into the sandy cliff, enough of a passage for Odofur to scrabble up on a tolerable angle, grabbing roots along the way.

Suddenly he was at the top, out of breath, sweating. Looking back west the Baranduin glimmered in the late morning sun. Beyond, he could see his own ordered fields marching back to the farmhouse, a tiny box amidst flowers at this distance.

Very well, he thought to himself, you have crossed. Sightseeing can wait for the trip back. You are here to explore. Time to get to it. With that, he turned, faced east and marched into the forest.

It was not the first time the glade had seen the company of men. Aranuir paused at the edge of a small, grassy open space. In the center was a ring of small boulders, enclosing a makeshift hearth. Outside the ring were crude stone chairs each made of a thick flat stone for sitting and another longer thinner flat stone as the chair’s back.

The center of the hearth was thick with spring grass. There had not been fires here for many years. Aranuir speculated it could have been a hunting camp once used by the Eotheod, just a half day away.

In any event, it was what he needed, what Wulfric needed. Aranuir tied off the horses. He undid the knots holding Wulfric to his steed. The young man slumped to the ground. Aranuir dragged him over to one chair and propped him up, then loosely tied his torso the back of the chair.

Aranuir found ample kindling and deadfall. Within minutes he had a fire going and a kettle on the boil. From his saddle bag he drew a pouch of dried soup. Back at his homestead in the Angle, he spent time making bone broths from chicken and beef. Allowed to carefully boil dry, they were readily reconstituted, with whatever other herbs, roots or meat he had on hand.

It would just be broth today. He sprinkled some into a metal cup, added hot water and crouched next to Wulfric lifting the cup to his mouth. The fragrance of the broth brought Wulfric to a hazy consciousness. He took a small sip, then two more. His eyed opened a bit and he reached for the cup, then drained it.

Aranuir placed his palm on his head. Wulfric’s fever had eased. The wounds on the side of his face were no longer oozing. The bandage over his damaged arm showed no fresh blood. It had dried as he’d hoped. The arm now began a long healing process.

Wulfric was now munching on some dried apples and deer jerky. Aranuir smiled. The lad would live and live well. He proceeded to make a quick stew from more deer meat, potatoes and wild onions he spotted at the edge of the glade. A glance over to Wulfric, who was slowly untying the ropes supporting him and evidencing interest in Aranuir’s cooking.

“It appears you will yet live, Wulfric” Aranuir smiled, handing him a bowl of stew.

Wulfric took his first clear look at the old man who had saved his life. Tall, thick but still muscular despite his age. His hair was a long white mane, his face bronzed and lined with creases and wrinkles. His movements were deliberate, yet efficient and confident.

“A long life indeed with more of this stew” Wulfric held out his bowl for seconds.

Araniur scooped up a healthy helping and handed it back.

“We will reach Framsburg tomorrow afternoon. I will leave you with your people.”

“They will come out to greet us well before the burg. It is their way” Wulfric smiled. The old man would be startled by the muster of horsemen surrounding them at the first farm.

Aranuir knew their ways. He remembered the day he arrived with his father Arahael and grandfather Aranarth one hundred forty years ago.

That day they had emerged from the woods bordering the first farms. They had gone barely a furlong when they heard, and felt the thrum of many hooves. Soon thirty heavily armed horsemen had swept out from behind a copse of trees by a far corn field. They quickly advanced, encircling them, spears pointed.

Words had been exchanged with their patrol leader who cocked his head in surprise, then laughed out loud and announced their privileged escort to the chieftain’s hall in Framsburg.

That night, he had watched quietly as the three old warriors shared their adventures together over a massive feast and flagons of ale. Hagar’s three sons and fourteen grandchildren were there, sharing in the remembrance.

He had not been there since, choosing to observe the Eotheod from afar on distance ridges as was his plan this year. Now that was for naught.

As to his welcome today, they would no doubt appreciate his efforts to save Wulfric. They would also be suspicious of his intentions in the uninhabited forests to their south. He would have to explain himself before they would set free one who had seen their land and its defenses.

The north wind brought the scent of marshes.

“Overbourne Marsh, they call it, Aragorn”

“They may call it as they will provided we do not need to cross it”

“Just as well, the flies and midges would make short work of you, son”

Aragorn glared at him. His father had a habit of taunting him, challenging the teachings of his Elven fostering in Rivendell with the truths of life in the open land.

“We will soon approach the first farms in the South Farthing. It would be best if we kept just inside the marsh to avoid unnecessary contact and explanations. I have a salve that repels the worst of the flying misery though you will reek of boar fat and garlic for some days to come.”

Aravir tossed a jar of the salve to Aragorn. He took a quick whiff, snorted and tossed it back to his father.

“It is too foul. I will endure their miseries”

“Very well. Then let me provide you with the lay of the land in the Shire, as they call it. We pass through the South Farthing. It was settled by Stoors, an ancient tribe of Hobbits. They left the vales of the Anduin and crossed the Misty Mountains as the forest became threatening with the return of evil to Dol Guldur.”

“They settled in the north of Dunland, and above Tharbad from Swanfleet to the Angle.”

“Those lands are empty now” Aragorn interrupted

“Indeed. Other tribes, the Fallohides and Harfoots, had also migrated from the Anduin, westward over more northerly mountain passes, gradually settling in the area of Bree. Two brothers, Marco and Blanco, left Bree and journeyed west of the Baranduin during the time of Argeleb II of Arthedain. This king granted them use of the lands there which they called the Shire. The Stoors joined them thirty years later, leaving Dunland”

“Little of this was taught in Rivendell”

“Much can be learned in the taverns of Bree if one has some coin to buy ale for storytellers. And there is one old man who cares for the Halflings. Gandalf is his name, a wizard in a grey cloak and pointy blue hat. He will make your acquaintance some day as he has mine and those before me.”

“His name has been spoken in Rivendell, though my tutors did not pass any great time on his deeds or whereabouts”

“He does as we do, Aragorn. He roams the land. But his borders are beyond those of Arnor’s ancient bounds. Through Mirkwood and beyond. South to Gondor and along the coasts. And of course the Shire.”

“To what end, father?”

“I cannot say. Though he appears as an old man, he does not age and may live long as an elf. Yet he is no elf. His full measure of capability is not known to me though I sense it is considerable. Clouded remains his purpose, though his intent seems kind, and protective as a shepherd. Ask your grandfather to tell you tales of his grandfather who journeyed with Gandalf to Dol Guldur. Then make your own decision”

Ahead of them the forest appeared to brighten. It was a sign that the trees were thinning out. As the two horsemen navigated between the oaks they saw the sudden edge of the forest, and beyond a tilled field of potatoes in the bright spring sun. They had reached the first of the hobbit farms.

Aragorn stilled his mount and paused at the edge of the forest. Dressed in woolen cloak and woodland traveling leathers and boots, he felt out of place with the quiet farmers who had settled purpose.

“They will live their entire lives here.”

“And may they be peaceful, Aragorn. Come, we need to get out of sight, take our mark in the forest again, then navigate the edge of the marshes further north.”

They rode off quietly, the footfalls of their horses unheard as the sought the eaves of the forest once again.

It was his one hundred and fifty seventh red ribbon.

Odofur had tied one every 50 paces since he’d entered the forest. It wouldn’t do to get lost on the way back.

The route from the river had been relatively easy. The woods were not overly dense or plagued with brambles and thorns. Occasional glades let light in. The terrain was gently rolling, slightly uphill moving east. It had been an altogether pleasant hike.

For company he’d had forest birds, chirping approval for the fine spring day. Twice his sharp eye caught a deer in the distance peering at him from behind a tree.

Now he paused at the edge of another glade, found a flat rock in the rough grass and opened his meal pouch. Was it second breakfast or lunch? By the looks of it both and he was ready. Sausages, fresh baked bread, dried apples, hard boiled eggs, butter and some sliced lamb were dispatched in short order.

There was something different in the air at this glade. The birds had grown largely silent, as if their cheery banter was something behind him, to the west, but absent to the east. The air seemed stiller, heavier. And ahead the forest was darker, more pressed together.

Odofur moved forward a little slower, but more alert. He could sense a growing tenseness in the wood, a feeling that he was not altogether welcome. As he progressed the trees themselves began to take on a different aspect. First just a few outliers among the larches and poplars, the occasional thick, almost squat, old oak with deeply weathered bark, a relic.

There had been rumors of an old wood. In Bree one could hear tales of the old kings of Cardolan and their haunted graves in the Barrow Downs. Few tales as regards the forest. Just an unease, a feeling that it too was haunted in a different way, that it had its own spirit, and not a friendly one by sense and feel.

A few ribbons later the old wizened oaks became dominant. Their trunks, twisted and wide, filled the forest spaces. Less light reached the forest floor, empty save for struggling coarse bushes and patchy thickets of brambles.

Odofur stopped. Though his plan was to go east, his sense of direction spoke to southeast as the forest was not granting an eastward passage. He felt somewhat tired, light headed. The air was still, heavy. Well above him he could here the leafy branches whispering in the wind. Except there was no wind, none he could feel.

There was a pull on him to continue, explore down the dark corridors, embrace the forest and forget his farm and family. Almost as if there was a voice beckoning, drawing him deeper and deeper.

Then he tripped over a root and fell, scratching his face on brambles as he thudded to the forest floor. The sharp sting of pain cut through his dreamy state. He scrambled to his feet and walked, then trotted, then ran towards the lighter glow of the forest well to the west. It was flight and Odofur yielded to the fear he felt, ignoring his plan of red ribbons. Just west, go west. Those were his thoughts as he tripped over another root and fell headlong into an ash tree, unconscious as a stone.

The chieftain’s son was groggy in the morning, but without fever. His body was focusing its strength on repair, not wakefulness and conversation. Still, it meant for his safety that Aranuir would once again tie him in the saddle. This time he fashioned a makeshift brace from saplings to support Wulfric in a sitting position. It would not do to arrive at the doorstep of the Eotheod with such a passenger strapped over his horse like so much game.

He estimated a league and a half from their campsite to the first farm. Little more than an hour.

After half an hour he sensed they were being watched. A flicker of movement perhaps well back into the trees, something that could have been a deer…or a man on horseback? Naron gave little sign. Perhaps he sensed the presence of many horses, his blood brothers, and welcomed what might come of it. Despite their years together, much of Naron was inscrutable.

It was beginning to brighten up ahead. The first farm fields were not far off. Aranuir glanced over at Wulfric. His long blond hair was matted with blood. He swayed in the saddle, snoring lightly, half awake. The wolf carcass was prominently draped over the back of his horse, testament that the animal, not Aranuir, had caused the wounds.

They wove between the last few trees. Ahead he could see three small fields, recently plowed and planted. Beyond them a small thatched farm house watched cautiously, a wisp of smoke coming from the chimney.

But it was what stood in the fields that had his attention. From left to right across the earthy expanse were a score of heavily armed horsemen. They were motionless, quietly alert, demonstrating the futility of either retreat or combat. Aranuir drew Naron to a halt and turned in the saddle towards Wulfric.

“Your horsemen await you. Give them a wave lest they become impatient and skewer us with their lances.”

Wulfric roused himself to muster a light wave. One of the horsemen broke ranks and came forward at a trot. Blond like Wulfric, he was also outfitted in field leathers with an added coat of chain mail.

Aranuir suspected he would be somewhat baffled by the sight of the chieftain’s son, somewhat worse for wear, in the company of an old man dressed for survival in the wild.

“I found him far to the south of here. He had slain a wolf but suffered grievous wounds. I bound them, gave him food and broth and have brought him home. He is yours now.”

Araniur made to turn Naron around to leave, but the rider would have none of it.

“You will come with us. The wolf carcass proves your story. What it does not prove is where you come from and why you are here. You can tell the chieftain yourself.”

They had navigated their way around the Overbourne Marsh, keeping to trails in the thicker vegetation that made a border between the farm fields and the deeper bogs and fens to the east. A west wind had blessed them, pulling the worst of the biting flies and midges away towards the Baranduin.

Now they crossed the Shirebourne River at a low point and headed east on its course towards the Baranduin. They were now in the East Farthing, which for hobbits passed as the frontier. The largely flat bottom land was still well tilled but the houses were becoming occasional sturdy brick homes with thatch roofs, not the hobbit holes seen more often in the rest of the Shire.

This, their occasional contact with visitors from Bree or outright visits to Bree, made the East Farthing hobbits, Oldbucks notably, regarded as eccentric by other more staid hobbits to the west.

They stayed close to the Shirebourne, picking their way through a strip of riverine woodland that hugged its course a good thirty feet below the fields, affording them concealment. It was not a long ride to its confluence with the Baranduin.

“A good place to rest the horses. They’re been picking their way since dawn.” Aravir gestured to Aragorn, pointing out a small glade in the wooded bottom land where the two rivers met.

They found a ring of lichen-covered stones in the clearing, a campsite of unknown vintage.

“By the look of it, I would venture this an outlier campsite of old Cardolan.” Aragorn mused, finding a spot in the ring where he could lean his back against a flat stone.

“Or a spot where several families of Stoors made temporary settlement on their journey from Dunland some six hundred years past.” Aravir countered.

“They are thriving. Cardolan is long lost, naught but ghosts on the Barrow Downs. Arthedain is gone from the living memory of men.”

“Such men and kingdoms that fought Angmar preserved the safety of hobbits, father. I wish hobbits no ill, but they have not tasted battle and thrive because others have.”

“And continue to do so because of the Watchful Peace, which your grandfather’s grandfather had a part, nearly two hundred years past. And for our efforts to see that peace continues. Would that all of the land west of the Misty Mountains be under plow and swords rusting away in cellars.”

Aragorn knew his father spoke truly. He actually envied the hobbits to a degree, secure in their land and their ways, prosperous, building homes and families while he led the life of a traveler much of the year.

After a short rest of less than an hour, they resumed their trek north, now along the west bank of the Baranduin. There was more room along the banks of this larger river. The deer trails were more distinct, making for easier passage.

“We are close Aragorn. His farm lies up the slope to the left. We can wait til dusk as not to attract attention.”

“Father, look. On the far shore of the river.” Aragorn pointed at an object half concealed in some trees near the water’s edge. They rode to the edge of the river for a better look.

“A boat, Aragorn. And by the looks of the grass and brush it was dragged down the hill from the farm above”

Aragorn followed a track of flattened weeds from the riverbank back up the hill to the farm where his father planned to meet the hobbit he had saved from drowning years past. But what was a hobbit doing rowing across the Baranduin to the woods on the other side. Aravir had the same question in his own mind.

“Odofur Oldbuck does have some Stoorish bloodline in him and is not averse to the water or watercraft. And some Fallohide as well, a spark of adventure. Aragorn, it has been an uncommon dry spring and the river is low. We can make ford here on horseback and see if my old friend is safe and secure”

Aragorn’s eyes lit up at the thought. A bit of pursuit, a minor mystery. Just what he needed after dreary leagues in Dunland and more yet near the swamps this morning. His father beckoned he lead the way.

Though almost belly high to the horses, crossing the Baranduin was a manageable task for their experienced horses. They emerged from the water and stood dripping while Aravir and Aragorn inspected the rowboat.

“Look, father, tracks in the river mud, some broken twigs going up the bluff. That would be our hobbit”

They had ridden silently for two hours. Ahead Aranuir could see the path widening as it approached Framsburg.

With a practiced eye he measured it at five streets square. Two story houses next to shops of skilled tradesmen, a market square, and taverns lined the main dirt road. Off to the left the land rose. Atop a hill overlooking the village was a large great house and meeting hall. It would be the chieftain’s residence.

As they approached, the dirt path was replaced with laid stone, making a wide sweep across the face of the hill as it rose to the top. Aranuir glanced up. A tall, powerfully built man with long dark blond hair watched him impassively from a railing outside the great house.

There was movement amongst his group. Several riders escorted Wulfric off to a long one story building on the side of the hill below the road. Others turned and headed back to Framsburg for a tavern visit prior to resuming their patrols. The rest took formation tightly around Aranuir as the rounded the curve in the stone path and approached the great house.

The man on the rail was there, on a stone patio outside the house. He had company. Three armed guards and a white haired wizened old man. Aranuir’s escort halted, the patrol leader gestured that he should dismount and walk to the chieftain.

Aranuir slowly eased out of the saddle, then stood next to Naron and paused, staring at the patrol leader.

The voice came not from the leader, but clear and resonant from across the patio. It was Cenulf, the chieftain.

Aranuir released the reins and began to walk the 50 paces that separated him from Cenulf. He was indeed a large man, Aranuir considered appraisingly. He was a broad and tall as Aranuir had been in his prime, which was a head taller than most men of that day. But much the same could be said of many of the men of the Eotheod.

“Welcome to Framsburg, traveler. And accept my gratitude for tending to my son in his test of the wild.”

Aranuir clasped his hand, two calloused, rough palms held together in a cordial but wary shake of welcome and appreciation.

Cenulf looked at him, weathered, wrinkled, long white hair of shoulder length. An old man, but one still sufficiently hale to brave the wild on his own. Efficiently attired in worn but serviceable light leather armor and wool cloak.

Aranuir in turn appraised his host. His leather tunic was of more recent vintage, worn over a white shirt. The leather breeches were well crafted and not for work in the fields or riding patrol. Over top the tunic was a light fur jacket. Penetrating blue eyes stared out from under light brown brows.

“Come then, sit with me and my great uncle. Tell us this tale.” Cenulf beckoned to a table with three chairs. A very old man was already sitting, sipping ale from a well wrought metal cup. Aranuir sat next to him, staring across the table at Cenulf.

“I am Cenulf, chieftain of the Eotheod. This is my great uncle Aldhelm who has seen 90 summers in his long life

“I am Aranuir, son of Arahael. I passed through the Misty Mountains near a fortnight ago, having journeyed from west and south of Bree.”

“You ride alone. Your baggage says you are ready for a fight but do not seek one. Sacks and pouches of food for you and your mount suggest plans for many days in the wild. But you carry no tools of permanence to dig a cellar, prepare a foundation. You are always on the move.”

Aranuir considered his words. Cenulf was indeed a shrewd observer. But he was also asking the question, who are you? Aranuir decided to be direct and honest, always a risk.

“This is not my first visit to your lands. Most, I have seen from afar, atop a high ridge of the mountains to the south, marking the growth of your realm, its farms and fields. But my first visit was long ago, when this great house was new and the chieftain was old.”

“His name was Hagar, though his son had taken over many of his duties at that time”

Cenulf’s eyes widened. Hagar had been dead well over a century. Aldhelm spoke softly to Cenulf in another tongue, not the Common Speech.

“No, I was a young man in the company of my father, Arahael, and my grandfather Aranarth. They had traveled with Hagar into Mirkwood on a fearsome task with others long ago. It was a reunion and time for old tales.”

“It was not in battle with man nor beast. Hagar’s grandchildren were a lively sort, too lively at times. One lad named Rolf hurled a tankard of ale at his brother who had teased him. The aim was wide and struck me in the head. A bleeder as they say which was sown up on the spot and the drinking resumed.”

“That lad Rolf was my grandfather. He told me the tale of that night when I was barely ten summers. So, it is true, then”

“That would make you over one hundred and fifty.” Cenulf commented, somewhat awed.

“Those of my line have long life. My grandfather, Aranarth was the son of Arvedui the last king of Arthedain. He claimed descent from Elendil.”

“The line of the old kings of Gondor and Arnor. Then you are of the Dunedain.”

“I am. Gondor’s lineage is no more, a realm ruled by Stewards. Arnor and Arthedain are no more. The line survives but the northern kingdoms have vanished.”

Cenulf was quiet for a moment, absorbing the presence of what was living history at his table.

“There is much that I would know. But it would be remiss of me to ask without providing food and ale to an honored guest.” Cenulf signaled someone inside the great house. Soon two lads came out bearing trays of ale, bread, meat and cheese. The three men drank deeply.

He was in a dream, or so it seemed. Clutched tight to a tree trunk by a lacery of branches. A whisper of leaves and twigs overhead shifted in a breeze that did not reach his face. In the distance he could hear the creak of great branches. There was the sound of a bee briefly buzzing in his ear, then it was gone.

Odofur Oldbuck slowly emerged to consciousness. His head throbbed from a tender lump where he had made sharp contact with a tree. He remembered his flight from the woods to the east. A pang of panic seized him as he realized he had not ventured far. But his was restrained from escape by the bondage of branches. It was no dream.

His movements to free himself only resulted in tighter bound captivity. The tree had no intentions of letting him go. Odofur took the logical step of going limp to spare further discomfort. Around him were other trees whose branches seemed to reach out towards him, as if begging for a share of his imprisonment.

“Well Odofur Oldbuck, you have put yourself in a predicament with your foolish curiosity” he said out loud to no one in particular.

It was mid afternoon, soon to be teatime. He would be missed. His sons would commence a search, but they would find little trace. He had informed no one and his little dory was hidden in the brush on the far shore of the Baranduin.

His stomach was still comfortably full from the large lunch he had packed. But soon he would be hungry, thirsty as well. He did not relish the thought of slowly wasting away in the arms of this hostile tree, leaving bones and belt buckle as the only measure of his passage.

He decided he had little to lose by calling out for help, though he doubted any would hear him, half a league east of the river in an uninhabited woods of uncertain enchantment.

“We’ll let the horses rest. They will give us scarce better time than on foot through these woods.”

“If it is our hobbit, he is a clever one, marking his trail so he would not be lost upon return.” Aravir commented.

They left the horses behind and strode into the forest. Soon they spied another ribbon. Their quarry was headed due east. Aravir could make out occasional footprints in some of the grassy areas in small glades.

A small squadron of ants marked the spot where Odofur had eaten his lunch, leaving crumbs and bits that were swiftly removed.

“He was here not long ago. His lunch was taken this day. It is mid afternoon. I would expect he would be returning along his ribbon path by this time.”

“It is old, father, what little is left of great seas of woodlands from the coasts to the mountains, taken for shipbuilding by Numenor. None venture in its eaves as it may not let them leave.

“There is one who dwells there, Aragorn. Tom Bombadil. Neither man nor Elf. Little more is known, other than that he has been there in time before any now living in Middle Earth.

“Neither. His power is not known, but he is unaffected by trees of that angry forest”

“We are still on lands near the river that were cut for lumber, now regrown. The Old Forest still lies ahead. I fear our hobbit has run afoul of it.” Aravir replied.

Thirst had been quenched. Aranuir made a large dent in the platter of food. He could sense their continuing curiosity. No doubt it was many a year between contact outside their own lands. Cenulf set his tankard down and leaned towards Aranuir, across the table.

“We are a settled people, yet you roam the land as if there was still a kingdom, a realm to which you were bound.”

“Those of us feel the duty. We have been raised in Rivendell as boys, taught the ways of Elves and Men, the tales of the Ages and skills to survive the wild or battle. We patrol and wander, taking care that this Watchful Peace we enjoy is not at risk. Someone must see if the orcs have returned to the mountains or the trolls to the Ettenmoors.

“To what end. You cannot summon an army in the face of peril. Only Gondor is so armed and they are fortnights away.”

“The Enemy will strike at the strongest point, seeking to crush it, then make swift work of what is left. Gondor is that point. We are fortunate they serve as our shield.”

“We know little of the goings on outside our lands, Aranuir. Elves do not find us of interest. Of dwarves we have no commerce, an old enmity remains from the days of Fram. The Anduin separates us from the woodmen of the forest some now call Mirkwood.

“There is one who visits, but half the life of a man may pass ‘ere he is seen again. Gandalf is his name, grey cloak, pointy hat. Tells us of what he has seen. Like you he wanders. A wizard he is but what magic he works we have not seen.”

“We have met. He went to Dol Guldur with my father and grandfather. A few years ago we shared news of our travels at the Prancing Pony in Bree the last town of men west of the Misty Mountains. You are well served by his visits”

“Indeed we are” Cenulf replied. “Wizard he may be, but his best magic are seeds of new grains to plant or ways to grow things that feed our growing realm. He has spoken of the Dunedain, goings on in Gondor, and of hobbits who dwell in the Shire, west of Bree. We have not seen hobbits.”

“Nor is it likely you will. They are content with their lands, farms and good lives and see no purpose in travel.”

Ananuir was interrupted by men talking as they emerged from the great hall to the patio where he sat. One walked forward, leaving others behind. He was bandaged around the head and arm and bore a slight limp as he approached the table.

“Across the Misty Mountains, Wulfric. Yes we have so learned.” Cenulf interrupted. “Come, sit with us, tell us of your encounter with the wolf and your time with Aranuir.”

A servant brought Wulfric a tankard of cool ale. Wulfric took a seat and told his tale.

“I was two days ride south of here. High upon the mountainside I saw a flat rocky area above the trees. It backed up to an arc of jumbled stones and large boulders. It also provided a wolf with an ambush. The beast leapt from above, tore my face open and sunk its teeth in my forearm.”

“The speed of its attack knocked me from my horse. It too was splayed on the ground, but quickly got to its feet for a killing lunge. I drew my sword and slashed its belly open as it leapt towards me with its jaws open to finish me. But its body still hurled into me, crashing me flat on a rock again. Then all was black until I saw the face of Aranuir.”

“The wolf was gutted when I found them. In its death throes it had crawled a few paces away. Wulfric was on his back with a fierce bump on the head and lacerations from the wolf’s attack. He would have bled out had I not chanced on his camp.”

“We are in your debt. Please, stay with us as my guest. Just for a few days. We will resupply you, tend to your horse. We would know more of your travels and the ways of men outside our remote realm here in the north.”

Aranuir was grateful as well. The journey had taxed him and he was feeling his age. It would be his last of such distance. He would use the time to learn more of the Eotheod and set plans so others could visit.”

“I accept. We have much more to learn from each other, Cenulf. The world will not always be at peace and our descendants must not be strangers to each other when that day comes.”

Wulfric too was pleased. In his secret heart he longed for adventure beyond his childhood borders. Tales of kingdoms old and new lit the flame of his curiosity. And before him was a living descendant of kings. He had more questions than blades of grass on the high meadows.

Odofur woke up, blinking his eyes, seeking out the source of the scrap of song he just heard. Someone was coming. He could hear those boots tromping along. Then another verse rang out, much closer now.

And suddenly there he was. Larger than a hobbit, smaller than a man. A ruddy lined face with a full brown beard. He indeed had a blue jacket and bright yellow boots. A tall hat with a feather sat on his head. He reached for a branch of the ash.

“I am Tom Bombadil, Master of the forest, trying to free you from old ash’s clutches. Better asked, who are you and what are you doing in my forest, young hobbit?”

“That you can see from the other side just as well I would think. But never mind, let’s get you out.”

Tom whispered something to the ash, rubbed its branches vigorously then gave the bigger ones a squeeze. Slowly they drew away from Odofur, rising up until they were sticking out sideways like branches should in the forest. Odofur eased up to his feet and backed away from the tree.

“I am in your debt, Master Bombadil. I am a simple farmer and have no treasure to share. But I would welcome you to dinner across the river, a feast of thanks if you will. There’s room in the boat for two.”

“Very well, then. I won’t keep you, but I am still in your debt, nonetheless.”

At that moment, there was a commotion just to the west of them. Two large men with swords suddenly emerged from the woods.

“Separating him from the clutches of this old ash and sending him on his way. What is your business in my forest. A bit off the road for two men with swords. No ordinary men I would venture. Your countenance bears resemblance to the kings of old who felled the forests to build their great fleets and the princes of lesser kingdoms who haunt the South Downs.’

“It is true. We are descendants of Elendil the Tall, and he through the line of Elros before Numenor was destroyed.” Aravir replied

“Then take care not to stray into my forest. The trees bear enmity for the destruction of your ancestors and will gladly snare you as they have this daring hobbit. An angry tree will make swift work of you and your swords.”

The figure before them bowed, removing his hat, then righted himself suddenly and burst into song.

“Did I not just say that? And who else would I be, young Dunedain?” Tom replied in a huff.

“But trespass you have. Shall I turn you into a toad? Your son as a wood mouse?”

“We had simply come to call on Odofur Oldbuck to reminisce on old times when he was young and not so skilled with a boat as he is now.” Aravir added

“It is and this is my son Aragorn who is learning the lands and ways of men in Bree, hobbits of the Shire, and whatsoever else dwells in between.”

“Well you seem to be in safe hands, young hobbit.”, Tom commented. “The forest is getting much too crowded for my tastes. I will be off.”

And with that, Tom Bombadil stomped off into the forest, headed east towards his home.

And then he was gone. The two Dunedain stood there with drawn swords in front of a slightly astonished hobbit who had in the space of an afternoon more adventure than he cared to have in a lifetime.

“You do, and we shall ride alongside you to the other side.” Aragorn replied

“I am most grateful. Tom has declined my offer of dinner. Can I host you both, for your generous service in returning me to where I belong?”

“Provided we get a full account of your time in the woods and your encounter with Tom Bombadil” Aravir smiled

He had enjoyed his stay in Framsburg. Young Wulfric had taken him on a tour of the countryside. Their farms prospered. Horse stables were full with new foals. It reminded him of hobbits, removed from the world in the Shire. Save they were not the warrior tillers of the earth that these men were.

“We thrive in part because of our distance from the affairs of Middle Earth” Wulfric had commented.

“And you do not possess a hoard of gold like dwarves or crafted marvels as elves may have wrought. Only the earth itself and the labor you put in it. Such does not first attract a conqueror in this Age.” Aranuir had added.

“It is my fate to be chieftain of my people. To live here, raise a family and a successor, and die.”

“But you are young and see yourself at the lead of horsemen, triumphant in battle against a desperate foe. Mind you that I was young once, my grandfather the son of a king, tested by war. I thought much as you. But my life has been spent roaming the land in large measure, taking stock, watchful for the return of evil. My son and grandson will do the same. In that we have our fate as well. Yes, we see much of the land over your horizon, but we do not call it home as you do.”

Aranuir remembered the look on Wulfric’s face. It had begun to dawn on him that life choices involve both gaining and giving up and that he was gaining much compared to many others. His people would indeed ride in battle, but that was many lives of men yet to come.

They had kept their promise to resupply him. His saddlebags were packed, waterskins full. They also included a skin of a fiery drink they brewed for cold nights and icy mornings.

That had been some days past now. He had been content to have built a bond with the young man who would no doubt live another fifty years and might welcome another visit from the outside. That legacy would benefit men on both sides of the Misty Mountains.

His journey back over the pass in the Misty Mountains had been uneventful. He had wound his way southwest through the lower Ettendales and emerged on the East West Road headed for Bree.

Now he was standing outside the Prancing Pony, looking forward to a meal and a night’s sleep on a bed not made of boughs and blankets. He gave the reins of Naron to the stable hand and walked in.

The tavern room was loud and boisterous. Two tables of hobbits were celebrating something involving a great deal of ale and food. Men crowded around the bar, some travelers, some local Bree men.

Aranuir edged his way through the press of men and hobbits. None paid attention to him, a husky white haired old man in from the road. The road delivered up much in the way of variety in Bree. He had a favorite table in a little cul de sac in the corner of the great room.

As he got closer he could see it was occupied. Well, there was room for two, though he would have relished a solitary ale without need of conversation. There was something familiar about the occupant, though. Perhaps conversation would be in order after all.

Aranuir smiled. Gandalf the grey was never mistaken. At least not in Aranuir’s experience.

“You are not.” Aranuir eased himself into the chair opposite Gandalf. “And what is a wizard doing in the Prancing Pony, sipping ale?”

“And what is the heir of Isildur doing in the upper marches of the Anduin with the horsemen of the north?”

How he had come by this information, Aranuir knew not. But no matter, he would share his recent journey north. There were few in Middle Earth who cared much beyond what they could see in the morning. Gandalf was one and Aranuir sensed that he would always put it to good use.

Ananuir took a sip of his ale. “I saved the future ruler of the Eotheod from death in the wild”

Aranuir continued with his tale of healing Wulfric’s grievous wounds, his welcome in Framsburg and the state of the population of horsemen farmers.

“They are a bold and fearless people. Their skill with horses is almost matched by their talents in the fields and in livestock. In time they will fill the northern valleys with their numbers. Should the peace we now enjoy leave us, they would be valued allies. It is well you have maintained some contact.”

“Every generation perhaps. My travels take me to many parts of Middle Earth. It may be years between visits for some, but none are neglected. In fact I am overdue at the home of a friend in a land west of here. Perhaps you would care to accompany me. I can vouch for the mutton.”

“A friend of yours I would count as one as well. As for mutton, it has been too long off my menu.”

“Then its settled. We depart at dawn. In two days we will arrive for dinner.”

They headed west along the East-West road. There was little traffic to take note of what appeared to be two old men on horseback. One white haired and weatherbeaten, the other clad in a gray cloak and pointy had.

They had made a quick camp for the night, finding a spot off the road where the trees provided some privacy and a scattering of stones bespoke a makeshift hearth from some travelers in the past.

Gandalf had brewed some tea over the small fire. A little warmth was welcome as the spring sun had yielded to a night still bearing a brush of frost.

“Aravir is taking him on his first journey of the lands, introducing him to his tasks as future chieftain” Aranuir replied.

“I remember another young man. Heading out with his father, well over a century ago, ready to prove himself.”

“My father, Arahael, was a taskmaster. One who had joined you and others on the journey to Dol Guldur to secure the peace we have. And then his sword went quiet as he assumed the duties he taught me long ago.”

“You and your sons are all the north has. Your journeys provide at least a thin thread of connection between the scattered settlements of men. And a sharp eye to any signs that evil might be returning. I cannot be everywhere and would be sadly constrained without the eyes and ears of the Dunedain.”

“You will be without mine and soon, Gandalf. I am more than 150 and feeling my age. This is my last journey. I will retire to our little settlement in the Angle, where the Hoarwell and Loudwater meet.”

“I appreciate Lord Elrond’s generosity and kindness. It was shown to my grandfather, Aranarth, the first chieftain, who lived there when I was young. He shared much of his life with me as he wrote his Testament.”

“My father, Arahael, never revealed the exact location of his burial. Along with his two brothers, they were the sons of Arvedui, the last king of Arthedain. Long ago and now I am old. How long will this line continue and to what end, Gandalf. How many grandsons must turn into old men, telling tales to their grandsons.”

“All of them Aranuir. And amongst them perhaps one may find himself on the cusp of great deeds. Dictated by the times in which he lives, and the gifts he has to lead, he will defend the people and try to make a just peace. Even then, the statues to such greatness will wear smooth over time of wind and storm. Palaces may tumble into decline. The scrolls of deeds may crumble into dust. At the end, we can only do the good we can in the present. Let that be the fullness of whatever cup we hold on any given day. As you have done recently in the land of the Eotheod with Wulfric, the chieftain’s son”

Aranuir quietly sighed with relief. He had indeed fulfilled his life mission, the task to which he had been appointed by birth. Saving Wulfric was part of it. It had preserved the future for that young man, his place in the history of his people. It was exactly what he was supposed to do, part of what he had done for more than 100 years.

“May you cross paths with my grandson, and his future grandson with such words some day.”

As to the rest of the reason he was here, Aranuir knew not. Only that he represented something good. That was well enough for him.

He finished his tea and walked off into the trees to bed for the night. Gandalf remained, staring into the fire, sending smoke rings from his pipe sailing over the flickering flames.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were on the road again at dawn. Ground fog enveloped them, waiting on the strong spring sun to scatter the wisps that clung and swirled about their horses. They rode in silence, each in his own thoughts.

They crossed the bridge over the Baranduin just after mid-day. The sun had emerged in force, brilliant in the deep blue sky, igniting the emerald green countryside. Gandalf led them left on the lane to Stock and Rushy. They could see hobbit farmers in the distance on occasion, planting, weeding, plowing and stopping to wonder what brought two of the big folk to the East Farthing.

“Hobbits are social, Aranuir, though mostly keep with their own kin and company. Still I wave, make myself known as a regular traveler. Some wave back and with a few, some friendship develops.”

“They are less familiar to me. Just what I have seen from the East West Road passing through the Shire. But I have asked Aravir to give them more heed and guide Aragorn as well.”

“Then you will be for a treat. We are soon to reach the path towards my friend in the East Farthing. He will put us up for the night, sets a fine table and we can catch up on goings on in the Shire.”

It was time they did as the afternoon was beginning to wane and Aranuir had developed an appetite for the mutton Gandalf had mentioned in the Prancing Pony two days ago.

They had made their way back to the banks of the Baranduin. Odofur had insisted rowing his boat across the river on his own while the Aravir and Aragorn eased their horses through the channels and shoals of the river.

They reached the west bank well before Odofur. Waiting patiently, they watched him huff and puff, digging the oars into the current, slogging along.

After a while he reached shore. He leapt out of the boat with a splash and dragged it up the bank, grunting with effort.

“Well, there! A nice afternoon for a boat ride. And good to meet an old friend at a time of need. Now I’d like to tie the boat off on that low ledge there”

Odofur pointed to a rock outcrop next to the path up the riverbank. Not that far of a climb, but well above high water. Odofur tied a section of rope to the bow then chugged up the hill. At the ledge he dragged the craft to the flat rock and tied the rope to a tree. He tied a second rope section to the stern and secured it to another tree.

“There! Away from the water yet close enough if another trip is warranted. Now, let’s head up the bank, through the fields to the house. Delfina will be excited to see you. My sons were just boys the last time you were here. We will set a feast to celebrate this reunion!”

They made their way up the rest of the riverbank path, emerging from the shady riverside forest to a bright sun warming carefully tilled fields. Odofur led the way on a narrow track between fields of potatoes and corn. In the distance they could see his house, and to the side a fenced pasture where sheep roamed.

“You thrive Master Odofur. Such bounty in the fields and lamb on the hoof. Market day will welcome you indeed.”

“The soil is good, Aravir. We all work hard. And the concerns of the rest of the world seem to have forgotten us. Let it continue to be so.”

Aragorn reached out to lightly touch Aravir’s arm, then pointed ahead to something past Odofur’s house in the distance.

“It may not continue long, my friend. It seems the outside world may soon be at your doorstep. You have guests.”

“Guests? I’m not expecting anyone. It’s not my cousin Primadoc again is it? On ruse of sharing important news but angling for dinner no doubt”

“No, two of the big folk as you call them. What business can they have with you?”

“None that I can think of. Good you are here once more! Help me get to the bottom of this.”

They continued at a measured pace, steadily closing the gap to the two intruders whose form and countenances were not yet clear. Aravir and Aragorn loosened their swords in their scabbards.

“Unless my old eyes deceive me, there is one hobbit with two horsemen riding in the fields”

“Is your hobbit friend in the habit of sharing his carrot growing skills with men?”

“No…but perhaps these are not ordinary men” Gandalf was beginning to smile

“Pointy hat?’ Odofur piped up. “I know someone with a pointy hat. Traveling wizard. Stops by to share good pipe weed and stories.”

“Gandalf” Aravir spoke out loud, recognizing the wizard who he had met scarcely thrice in as many decades.

“Well I think he’s come to share some of that pipeweed with you Odofur.” Aravir observed, “But he seems to have a guest with him, a rather solid fellow with snow white hair”

“No, Odofur, it’s…grandfather!” Aragorn almost shouted, finally closing the gap enough so his young eyes could clear the puzzle.

“It’s Aranuir, my father and Aragorn’s grandfather. I haven’t seen him in some time. What would bring him to your door. Odofur?”

“Whatever the reason it is cause for celebration. A family reunion! It is a fine day indeed!. We will set up the pavilion in the back yard. Food for all! Hearty ales! Fine wines!”

Odofur dashed ahead of his companions to meet Gandalf and Aranuir at his front door.

“Gandalf. What a surprise and you have a guest as well.” Odofur stood in front of them, hands on his hips, ready to host regardless of the suddenness of the company.

“So very good to see you Odofur. I have a guest indeed. Aranuir, great grandson of the last king of Arthedain, hopes you will provide him some welcome with your much renowned Oldbuck hospitality.”

“If he likes mutton, he will be pleased with his stay. And some cheese, and ale, lovely dried apples sliced thin, cream, honey…well you will not be disappointed. Now please let my sons take your horses to the barns for a nice feeding and grooming. Merioc! Derioc!” Odofur called and the front door sprang open.

Two bustling young hobbits emerged. Gandalf and Aranuir dismounted and Odofur’s sons whisked the horses away.

Indeed even as those words left Odofur’s mouth, Aravir and Aragorn arrived and eased off their horses. Aravir walked forward

Who at that moment joined them in a fierce hug. Three men who shared the same bloodline and the same roles as chieftains.

“What strange fate brings us together at a hobbit home in the East Farthing?” Aravir stepped back to appraise his father, someone he regarded as nearly indestructible.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! It is I who will provide!” Odofur exclaimed, “Please, come ‘round back with me. Delfina and the ladies have set up benches for you and a rough table. The pavilion is up. Libations will soon follow then as much mutton as you can eat!”

Odofur was in his element as host, for which he was well regarded in the East Farthing. Little bothered by the fact that a wizard and three Dunedain were his guests. If anything, this would enhance his reputation.

The three Dunedain found benches in the back yard. Set in the shape of a triangle around a circular table, the benches were stout wooden planks set on wooden posts. Each post was raised or lowered by shifting the spot of the post plug. Odofur had fashioned them to make the apple harvest easier than ladders for lower hanging fruit. Now they made dinner easier.

Gandalf wandered off to talk to Odofur and savor the aromas Delfina was teasing out of herbs, root vegetables and mutton. The grandchildren merrily raced through the kitchen tugging mischievously at Gandalf’s grey cloak. Merioc and Derioc stood in the doorway to the kitchen with their young wives, laughing at the children along with Gandalf.

Outside it was quieter. The men had made inroads into some ale and cheese, taking measure of each other while feeling a deep sense of pride and fellowship. Aranuir broke the ice.

“So, Aragorn, you roam the lands as chieftain to be. What strikes you so far?”

“The emptiness, grandfather. Often leagues go by without seeing another soul, whether man, elf, dwarf or hobbit.”

“It was never a full land, even in my grandfather’s youth.” Aranuir replied. Now men dwell in Dunland, some in Bree, others scattered.”

“Gandalf says Gondor prospers though they are ever vigilant. The Woodmen go about their business in Mirkwood’s northern eaves. The horsemen who are known as the Eotheod expand their realm in the far north of the Anduin. On this I have direct news to share later.”

“The hobbits of the Shire have grown and prospered, though. We see them expanding into empty lands, raising crops and families.” Aravir commented.

“For one, they do not make war amongst each other. They are skilled at growing things, living orderly lives.” Aranuir replied

“And they quietly benefit from our vigilance in their lands. I begrudge them not. Odofur and his family have wrested much from the land.” Aravir added.

“Well Odofur is my first hobbit. More adventurous than hobbits as taught to me. A fine steward of the land.”

“He was my first hobbit as well, Aragorn.” Aravir replied. “Years ago he nearly met his end in a boat. His bold nature far exceeded his water skills in those days. Not so now. Fortunately on that day I chanced to be there. Chance seems to be toying with us again today with our arrivals.”

“Chance too played a part in my journey north. Picking my way along the high ridges of the east side of the Misty Mountains, I came upon the future chieftain of the Eotheod, grievously wounded by a wolf.”

Aranuir told the rest of the story. Restoring Wulfric to health. Being escorted to his father, the chieftain. Enjoying their hospitality and trying to establish a sense of shared interest. He shared his hopes that Aravir and Aragorn might attempt to keep alive in years to come.

“Perhaps. Though in time they may see little purpose in our visit as we add little to their lives save the one chance which favored you to their welcome. That will be of their choice.” Aravir concluded.

Gandalf stepped away from the bustle of the kitchen area and stood quietly outside, smoking his pipe, leaning against the brick facing of Odofur’s house. He watched the three Dunedain in earnest conversation. They were all dressed similarly. Boots, dark deerskin pants, woven tunic, light leather curiass and grey hooded cloak pinned with a rayed star clasp.

But one was white haired, skin deeply tanned and lined. The second man had dark brown hair, streaks of grey. His noble face bore lines around the mouth, a crease or two in his forehead. His expression was outwardly austere, though he was quietly generous with his strength and kindness.

Next to him the youngest, Aragorn. A full head of dark brown hair over a face that strikingly resembled a younger version of his father. His expression was that of curiosity, taking in for the first time the world his father and grandfather had guarded for long years. And an eager face as well, anxious to prove himself, be deemed worthy.

Gandalf had seen it before when Aranuir was a youth. No doubt he would see it again. It was part of his duty to insure that he would see it again, that the line would continue. He did doubt he would see three generations of Dunedain around one table again. The coincidence was a little unsettling. Such things he should know or be the reason for their occurrence. He would inquire with Elrond as to his thoughts the next time he paid a visit to Rivendell.

“Bombadil?” Gandalf said out loud, surprised to hear the name. He walked towards the Dunedain.

“Bombadil?” he said again, now close to them. “What do you know of him?”

“He rescued Odofur from the clutches of an unfriendly ash tree. We knew him not upon first encounter and drew our swords, unsure if he was helping or hurting our hobbit friend.” Aragorn replied.

“Well you sheathed them back, young man. Bombadil is old. Older than the elves, older than the trees. He lives a simple life with Goldberry but do not think him a forest bumpkin. For all the wars across the ages, the raising of mountains, the sinking of entire realms, he has shrugged them off as mere distractions. He is unique, with unique strengths still to be tested.”

“Long ago when time was young. Now it is getting old. Tom stays put, bides his time. The rest of us seem in motion as our destiny. One day when my tasks are less pressing I should like to pay a call on Tom. But I cannot yet see that day.”

Gandalf’s words hung in the air for a moment. They were soon swept aside by the sound of clattering dishes, cups and cutlery approaching from the house.

First was a bowl of steaming vegetable soup served with crusty bread. After the last drop left their spoons the bowls were whisked away. A minor course followed, slices of spiced dried apple and cheese.

Then the main event, mutton with a savory gravy, carrots, potatoes and mushrooms. Small children dashed out with fresh loaves of bread to keep up with the appetites of the Big Folk. Flagons of ale were refreshed. Conversation had long ceased as the repast set by Delfina Oldbuck had them all absorbed in the bounty of the land.

At last they eased back from the table where they’d had their fill. The table was cleared.

Before they could utter a word, Delfina came out with a large tray laden with spice cakes, apple tarts, and cookies.

“My, Mrs. Oldbuck, you do set a fine table indeed.” Gandalf intoned while reaching for a spice cake and two cookies.

Grunts of agreement came from the Dunedain who were quickly grabbing their share of dessert.

Odofur Oldbuck was immensely pleased with himself. He had ventured across the river, encountered a rogue tree, saved by someone named Bombadil, accompanied home by descendants of the first king of Arnor, then visited by a wizard with another Dunedain. And they were all here, guests of his for dinner. All in one day.

The sun was beginning to set. The air was cooling. Arrangements had been made for overnight.

“Ah, gentlemen. We sadly do not have room for you in the main house. Our beds and spaces are much too small. If you care, we have made beds for you in the barn. Fine hay topped with layers of warm blankets. It is not the Prancing Pony, but what we can do this unexpected evening.”

“It will do well, Odofur.”, said Gandalf, “Hobbit hospitality is well known and you are an exemplary example. We accept your invitation and will sleep well tonight.”

Odofur beamed. A most successful evening. He bowed to the gathering then turned and went back into the house where Delfina and the grandchildren were cleaning the cutlery. Behind him Aravir and Aragon had started a fire in the outdoor hearth. The Dunedain would be up late.

It was just before dawn. Light mist wreathed the fields. Odofur left footprints in the dew as he made way to the barn.

As he suspected, it was empty. The Big Folk had been gone an hour already. Whether together or acting alone, he knew not. Of the four, he would most likely see Gandalf again, as he made rounds in the Shire every now and then.

The three men were a different story. They seemed quiet, taciturn, preferring to be hidden. Yet beneath that he knew they meant no ill and in fact were seeing to the safety of the Shire as silent marshals. They would be less frequent in visits, though he and Aravir shared something in common as it pertained to rescuing hobbits.

Odofur walked back to the house, the door to the kitchen open, the smell of sugar cakes and freshly brewed tea beckoning to him. What would today bring? Less, he hoped, one excitement being enough for at least a fortnight.

Gandalf went west, taking a leisurely course towards Hobbiton, renewing a few friendships, making a few more. Aranuir had returned to the East West road, making for the western foothills of the Misty Mountains. There he would head south to the Angle. Many of the Dunedain dwelled there with their families between the Hoarwell and the Loudwater rivers, taking up farming and hunting, those who were not roaming the land. Save perhaps a last visit to Rivendell, he expected this to be a permanent return.

Aravir and Aragorn decided to return to the Baranduin, cross it as before and then make their way north along the high bluffs on the east side of the river. They would keep a respectful distance from the eaves of the Old Forest, seeking not to tempt neither tree nor Tom Bombadil to take notice of their passage.

When they reached the East-West Road they went west towards Hobbiton. They would continue to Waymeet, then turn south, skirt Tookland and take the Stock Road through the Green Hill country.

Aragorn would accompany his father for five years, but less so each year and more on his own. He would become full chieftain in 2319 with the death of his father. But he would be felled by wolves in 2327, life cut short at 100. His son Araglas would become chieftain, roaming the land in the Watchful Peace much as his ancestors had.

As to hobbits, Gorhendad Oldbuck, a distant descendant of Odofur Oldbuck made the decision in 2340 to resign the Thainship and settle in the lands across the Baranduin. Work began on the great smials of Brandy Hall that year. Gorhendad then changed the family name to Brandybuck, the river to Brandywine, and became the first Master of Buckland.

Later in years the Watchful Peace would come undone. The shadow of evil would return. Their life of roaming the land would no longer be a quiet one for the Dunedain as the Third Age slowly made its way towards a final, desperate confrontation between good and evil.

Days of the Dunedain by Arnakhor