Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes, because the %&##$& Plot Bunny REFUSED to leave me alone and took over all remaining writing muses in my poor over-taxed brain, despite my yelling, whining, kicking, and various other forms of protest.  Curse you, Plot Bunny!  Curse you!!!  And Halbarad, who refuses to GO AWAY.  All recognized places and characters are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name. 

A/N:  I told the Plot Bunny to “Bite me,” and the phrase sort of backfired.   

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~ Chapter 1:  Not a Man ~

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Three cloaked figures rode swiftly through the summer night, the hooves of their mounts seeming to skim the pebbled trail.  Moonlight dappled the thickly forested hills as they journeyed northward; a lone owl’s triumphant hoot fluttered softly over darkened eaves.

The front-most rider was first to halt, tugging gently upon his reins and speaking in low musical tones to his steed.  He raised a slender hand, indicating his companions should follow his lead.

Aragorn reined in his steed and pushed back the hood of his brown cloak.  “What is it, Elladan?”  Though spoken softly, the young man’s words nonetheless disturbed the nighttime stillness.

The lead rider turned gracefully in the saddle, but did not remove his hood.  Aragorn still caught the bright flash of his eyes.

“We near the Dúnedain camp,” Elrohir answered for his twin, peering curiously into the surrounding forest.  The sons of Elrond had an odd habit of speaking for one another, a practice which confused those who did not know them well.  Aragorn suspected they took secret amusement in the misunderstandings it caused.  Thankfully, he was long accustomed to his foster brothers’ mannerisms—no matter how peculiar or aggravating they might be.

The dark-haired youth nodded and made pretense of scouring the shadowed woods.  He was not sure how he ought to react to the news.  One side of him leapt at the prospect of adventure and new beginnings, while the other was nearly terrified.  ‘Little does it avail me to worry over such things,’ he told himself.  ‘I can do naught but take it in stride.’  The words of Elrond* reverberated painfully in his head: “The years will bring what they will,” and were accompanied by an even stronger pang in his heart.  Their parting had been bittersweet, and Arwen…  By the Valar how he missed her.

‘Lovesick and downtrodden,’ Aragorn thought wryly.  ‘I shall make a fine first impression upon these Rangers of the North.’  

He started as a comforting hand was placed upon his shoulder.  Though Elrohir’s hood hid his face, Aragorn swore he saw the Elf smile.  “Do not fret, Estel.”  Elrohir’s grip tightened momentarily in reassuring squeeze.  “You will like these Rangers, I think.  They are good Men—strong in body and soul.” 

Aragorn nodded, though his heart sank as they drew upon the rustic Dúnedain encampment.  Angular tents, patched and sagging in the middle, were haphazardly placed within the clearing.  Dwindling campfires flickered weakly, and the few men hunched around them spoke in harsh, grating whispers.  The scent of Men, horses, and smoke was nearly overpowering.  It was a drab and weary encampment; Aragorn doubted it appeared much better during the day.

Elladan was first to enter the camp.  He dismounted with cat-like grace and proceeded to converse with several armed and suspicious guardsmen.  What they spoke of Aragorn did not know, for he caught only snatches of Elladan’s smooth phrases and the guards’ harsh replies.    

At his side, Elrohir suppressed a snicker.  “Our approach caught them unawares,” whispered the Elf, amusement evident in his voice.  “They did not hear us, and now believe we are of a suspicious nature.”

“I suppose they are not used to Elf-kind,” replied Aragorn.

Elrohir cocked his head to one side as though considering the possibility of such a thing.  “Perhaps…”

Aragorn glanced at the other with a raised eyebrow.  However, he was not given chance to ask Elrohir where the rest of his sentence went, as Elladan turned and called to him.  “Come, Estel.”  Elladan gestured towards the biggest tent in the encampment, which despite its size was in as sorry shape as the rest.  “We are to speak with the Dúnedain chief, Guttarion.”     

Aragorn ducked under the heavily oiled tent-flap after Elladan and Elrohir, pausing, as did the twins, to thank the Ranger who held it open.  The Ranger looked positively startled.  Aragorn wondered what would happen should he utter the word “please.”

Flint sparked as it was struck, and a small tinder lantern flared to life.  Aragorn blinked repeatedly until his eyes adjusted to the light.  The tent was close and somewhat clammy.  He resisted the urge to shudder, and supposed Elladan and Elrohir found the accommodations even less appealing.

“Welcome to the Wilds,” the Dúnedain chief said humorlessly.  His mouth twisted into an odd mockery of a smile; it was an expression he rarely used.  The man was tall and grizzled, with an air of strong will about him.  It was his face that captured Aragorn most—an old puckered scar ran from his cheek down to his jawbone, and there were lines and crags in places Aragorn didn’t think possible.  Guttarion was weathered and unkempt, though his pale grey eyes flickered with dangerous intensity.

As if on cue, Elrohir and Elladan removed their hoods.  Their synchronism was unsettling, though Guttarion’s only indication of surprise was a slight twitch of the eye.  “I’ve been expecting you,” the Dúnedain chief continued, his voice as cold and flat as the very flint he yielded. 

“I apologize for any disturbance we may have caused,” said Elladan.  “In our haste, we had forgotten the sleeping customs of Men.”

“An understandable oversight,” Guttarion replied.  His gaze swept over Aragorn, eyes narrowing as he mentally weighed the young man.  “Much is spoken of your deeds within the company of the sons of Elrond, Aragorn son of Arathorn.”

Aragorn held the man’s gaze, though shifted in slight discomfort at mention of his true name.  “My brothers have taught me well, my lord,” he softly replied.  Elladan and Elrohir rewarded him with small smiles. 

“Mm.”  Guttarion crossed his arms over his chest.  “I do not doubt it.  You are skilled with the blade and already possess valuable combat experience, Heir of Isildur—all this I know.  But,” the grating harshness of his voice rubbed Aragorn unpleasantly, “you will need more than that are you to succeed here.  I see before me a soft-spoken youth, fair to look upon and bedecked in Elvish finery.” 

Elladan and Elrohir both raised an eyebrow at the comment, but held their tongues.  Aragorn flushed.

“Nay,” continued the Dúnedain chief, “you are not yet a Man, son of Arathorn.  Perhaps a warrior, but not a Man.”

“Pleasant fellow,” Elladan murmured as the trio exited the tent some time later.  “I do not like him.”

“Mayhap he is one who grows on you over time,” offered Elrohir, ever the optimist.

Aragorn grimaced.  “I do not think I want him growing anywhere near me.”

Elladan was of similar opinion.

Aragorn followed the two as they returned to their horses.  It would be harder to bid them farewell than he originally anticipated. 

Elladan wrapped him in strong embrace.  “Keep heart, Estel.  We shall not be parted long.”  Pulling back, the Elf fondly ruffled his young foster brother’s hair—an act he knew Aragorn loathed yet would find comforting nonetheless. 

Aragorn glowered, though the look held no malice.

Elrohir embraced him next.  “Look to our coming in ere the Autumn departs.  We wish to ride with these Rangers of the North.”

“To ride with ‘Men,’” added Elladan, managing to mimic Guttarion’s dire tone perfectly.  Aragorn could not help but laugh.

“Farewell, Estel!” the brothers called in soft unison as they leapt onto their mounts.  Aragorn stood watching the moon-blanched trail long after their departure, until he felt the nighttime chill nip at his very core and his eyes grew leaden in their weariness.      

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*the words of Elrond: "The years will bring what they will."  --Tolkien, J.R.R.  The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.  Appendix A (v) the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen, pg. 374.  Ballantine Books

Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

Oh WOW!  Thank you for the amazing reviews!!!  Please check the bottom of the page if you sent one.  :)

A/N: I think I managed to get most of this written before the all the sinus medication kicked in (is it legal to give a person three prescriptions???). Of fuzzy mindset and hey, it kind of feels like I’m floating.

I’m playing around with the style of this story, so it may seem dark at one moment and lighter at the next.  Yes, the meeting of Aragorn and Halbarad is direct text from ‘marinus stiria.’  It was the little side-plot that started it all…  

In which I ponder the word “company”:

 ‘…it chanced that [Aragorn] returned to Rivendell after great deeds in the company of the sons of Elrond…’  --Tolkien, J.R.R.  ‘The Lord of the Rings:  The Return of the King,’  Appendix A, (v), The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen.  Ballantine Books 2001 edition.

Company as in companionship, or company as in small army?  And who in their right mind would give the sons of Elrond a small army?  (I blame this on Celeborn, sneaky little Sindar lord.  By way of Galadriel.)

And last:  Why Does Glorfindel Put Bells On the Reins of His Horse?  Perhaps the orcs start to drool when they hear ringing, `a la Pavlov’s dogs…

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~ Chapter 2:  Company ~

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The parting from Aragorn was no less bittersweet for Elladan and Elrohir.  The two returned to their own camp the following noon, somber-faced and low in spirit.  It was an unassuming site, nestled safely within the confines of a wind-swept thicket.  Stretches of rolling field and copse lay before them, and a jagged stream tumbled cheerfully at their backs.

“Ai,” remarked Imdir, the company’s captain, “you two shall wilt the grass with such stricken looks.”

 Elrohir sighed heavily as he dismounted his grey steed.  Their party numbered seven—six, now that Aragorn was gone.  The group seemed extraordinarily tiny without the young man’s presence, though the company of the sons of Elrond had always been small in number. 

Elrohir’s bright grey eyes traveled over the warriors, each face as familiar to him as his own.  ‘Imdir, Nanalor, Orofim, Belethil, Elladan, and myself.’  They had ridden together for countless years—since that first frantic chase after Celebrían’s captors and the twins’ ensuing retribution. 

They did not deceive themselves.  Their journeys were fueled by vengeance and rage.  Each had been wounded by the Enemy in some manner, and now they rode in defiance of the Shadow, seeking to wreck if only a small bit of their own pain and suffering.

Lord Elrond’s apparent complacency moved Elladan and Elrohir to perhaps even greater retaliation. The twins took personal offence to his habit of reaction as opposed to action.  “You do nothing!” Elrohir once accused him in a moment of heated tempers.  And perhaps the words rang true.

Elrond, gifted with foresight and already having witnessed much bloodshed, had made no attempt to stop his sons when they first gathered the revenge-bent company.  The Elf lord’s displeasure was apparent, but he spoke naught of it.  His silence, in turn, provoked the twins even further.  Often were their deeds of a rash and questionable nature. 

Aragorn’s father was victim of this carelessness.*  He had not been the first, nor was he the last.

“I liked them not.”  Elladan swung off his horse with inherent grace.  “The Dúnedain were not as I remember.”

Elrohir nodded.  “More brutish, they seemed.”

“And weary,” Elladan added.  “Weary and without hope.”

“Then it is good you have given them Hope,” called Nanalor, one of three Elves seated in a semi-circle.  He glanced up from the blade he was whetting.  “It would seem they need him more so than we.”

Elladan gratefully accepted a flask of sweetened water from Imdir.  “Perhaps,” he replied to the dark-haired warrior, “but I worry nonetheless.  I would not see Estel’s spirit diminished by their dour mannerisms.”

Nanalor gingerly tested the blade on his fingertip, smiling in satisfaction as he found its sharpness to his liking.    “Worry not for Estel.  He is neither fragile nor inexperienced.”

“There is truth to your words,” Elladan smiled briefly at some battle memory, “yet I find little comfort in them.”

“He chose to join the Dúnedain,” said Imdir.

Elladan grimaced, and did not miss Elrohir’s barely perceptible flinch.  Aragorn’s reasons for entering the wild were still a delicate subject.  Although Elrond had outright informed the young man he was in no way fit to marry Arwen, the sons of Elrond remained tight-lipped on the matter.  In truth, Elladan was not sure what their exact thoughts were.  They were understandably distraught, yet held fierce love for both sister and foster-brother.  Some things, Elladan reasoned, were best left alone.  

“Am I to believe you found nothing of great importance during our absence?” Elrohir asked, wishing to divert the conversation down pleasanter paths.  Blood and body counts were much more preferable to matters of the heart.

Imdir glanced at Orofim and Belethil, indicating the two brothers should report their finds.

“It is difficult to track the Enemy in these lands,” said Orofim, the more talkative of the two (though both did not favor speaking to any great length).  “The land seems to aid dark creatures…  Belethil and I find it strange.”      

The Wilderlands were oft said to be a strange and cruel domain: the forests more dark, the rivers more cunning, and the natives more terrible and fell.  And while perhaps this was so, the land’s ruthless beauty was not lost to Elladan and Elrohir.  There was something pleasing in its raw nature; some strange gratification found amongst the wild free-for-all.  Any self-respecting Noldor might call such attractions vulgar.  But the minute flow of Sindar blood within the sons of Elrond relished such lures, and the twins were without shame.  

“The land aids those that know its secrets,” responded Elrohir, exchanging wordless glance with Elladan.  “Have the Enemy appeared greater in number?”

Orofim, ever a careful warrior, pursed his lips.  “Again, it is difficult to tell in these lands.”

“I think,” interrupted Nanalor, “our enemies have been more active as of late.”

Elladan’s grey eyes sharpened.  He was about to question Nanalor when he felt Elrohir tense at his side.  He immediately turned to his brother.

“A rider approaches,” said Elrohir.  He narrowed his eyes, listening intently while the others instinctively reached for their weapons.  One slender eyebrow shot up in perplexity.  “It is an Elvish mount,” he announced in surprise.

The company loosened their weapons and drew back into the thicket.  All Elves were kin, but the Morquendi inhabiting the Wilderlands tended to be suspicious and easily provoked.  It was best to leave them be.     

They did not have long to wait, for soon a horse and rider accompanied the approaching drum of hoof beats. 

Elrohir’s smooth brow furrowed as the rider drew near.  “Elladan, that cannot be—”

“But it is!”  The elder twin could scarcely contain his disbelief.  “For my eyes see the same.”  He quickly left the thicket’s tangle and stood in the clearing, one slender hand raised in greeting.  The rider lifted a hand in turn.

“My Lord Glorfindel.”  Elladan’s words came out in a tone of utter bewilderment.  Upon finding himself staring at the other, he gathered himself and bowed to the golden-haired Elf lord.  The rest of the party followed suit.  None could recall the Imladris captain setting foot beyond Imladris’ borders in at least two hundred years.  His sudden appearance was shocking, to say the least.  “A star shines on the hour of our meeting.  What brings you to these lands?” 

The Captain of Imladris politely inclined his head in return, though did not dismount.  His ageless face, which normally bore a calm smile, appeared unusually grave.  “I bear only ill news, I am afraid.”  His mount stamped impatiently, and Elladan’s ears caught the distinct jingle of bells.

Elrohir arched an eyebrow in curiosity.  “My Lord, there are bells upon your reins.”

Glorfindel paused and blinked.  “Ah, yes.  My travels took me through Mirkwood.”  The golden-haired Elf grimaced.  “I was forewarned Thranduil’s kin have habit of shooting first, and then pondering the sagacity of their actions.”

“And what of those not of Thranduil’s kin?”

Peril gleamed in Glorfindel’s ancient eyes.  “If fell creatures are foolish enough to cross my path…”  The golden-haired captain shrugged gracefully.  “Who am I to deny them swift death?”

Elrohir’s second eyebrow rose to join the first.  He had not seen Glorfindel in action since the fall of Dol Guldur—and that had been he and Elladan’s very first battle.  It had also been the only time he had ever seen his father lift a blade.  For some reason it was very easy to forget Glorfindel was a fierce and battle-hardened warrior.  ‘And yet,’ thought Elrohir, ‘seeing him armed and atop a steed is strangely fitting as well.’

“I was not aware Thranduil’s realm still existed,” said Elladan, returning the conversation to more important matters.  “I thought perhaps they had all journeyed West, as there has been no word from our Wood-Elf kindred in years.”

“Nay, they remain still, but are pushed to further corners of Mirkwood.”  Unfamiliar lines of tension furrowed Glorfindel’s brow and the corners of his mouth.  “Dol Guldur breeds foulness yet again—it is occupied by three of the Nazgûl.”

All motioned ceased at his words.  A sickening silence blanketed the small encampment.

“Your father bids me tell you of these tidings,” Glorfindel continued, his face growing more shadowed, “and I have seen much with mine own eyes.  Sauron has openly declared himself.  Mordor crawls with fell beasts, and Barad-dûr stands once more.”

Choked murmurs of disbelief rippled through the thicket.  “How can this be?” cried Elladan.  “How did the Wise remain blind to its coming?”

“Barad-dûr could not have been rebuilt in a day,” added Elrohir, fists clenched in distress.

Glorfindel sighed wearily.  “The wise cannot see all.  Well do you know this.  Your father’s attention has been drawn elsewhere as of late, and even Saruman the White was misled.”  He shook his head as both twins’ mouths opened in protest.  “I leave the matter at that.  But come, I was charged to summon you to Imladris.  Our time grows short; we must make haste.” 

“But what of Estel?” asked Elrohir.  “We will not abandon him.”

Elladan glowered at Glorfindel in agreement.

“Aragorn,” Glorfindel pointedly replied, “now walks his own path.  You are not to interfere.”  

*          *            *

“What are you doing?”

Aragorn spun around and flushed, embarrassed at having been caught dancing.  He was supposed to be adjusting Foliar’s tack; the Rangers’ journey would be a long one this day.  But the morning sun had been so pleasant and the birdsong so sweet…  What started as humming the simple tune Elladan taught him grew into full-blown choreography.

Shamefaced, Aragorn went back to tightening the saddle strap.  “It was nothing,” he quietly replied, glancing at the tousle-haired Ranger before him.  Noting the other’s cocky stance and youthful face, which lacked the dark glower and tense lines of veteran Rangers, Aragorn decided they were of similar ages.

The young man nonchalantly pushed aside his steed’s head as the horse nudged him.  “Did the Elves teach you that?”

Aragorn nodded stiffly.  He was unused to residing solely in the company of Men, and a scant two days in the Dúnedain camp had done nothing to quell his discomfort.  Men lacked the elegance and soft-spoken ways of the Elder.  Their voices were harsher, their movements less controlled, and their emotions more jagged and raw.  Loud, scruffy, and brutish they seemed. 

Aragorn wondered if his kin—‘Nay,’ he corrected himself, ‘the Elves’—saw him in a similar manner.

“Did they teach you to stare like that as well?”

Aragorn blinked.  “I beg your pardon?”

“If your gaze turns any more severe, I fear you shall burn holes into my head.”

Aragorn placed one hand over his heart and bowed.  “I apologize, Master Ranger.  It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

The young man’s lips curled into an amused smirk.  “And polite, too!”  He absently ran a hand through his dark and tousled hair.  “If I had but half the manners you possess, my mother would be reduced to tears.”

Aragorn frowned.  “You would rather I be rude?”

The other peered over the shoulder of his mount and blinked.  “I did not say that.”

“But you implied such a wish.”

“Did I?”

Aragorn nodded.

“That was not my intention,” replied the young Ranger.  “And that is well, for I do not think you would be any good at it.”  He shook his head in exasperation.  “You have an odd way of manipulating the words of others.”

Aragorn stiffened.  “I do not seek to manipulate others.”

“See!  You are doing it again.”

“You are mistaken.  If I truly sought to—“

The young Ranger crossed his arms over his chest and snorted.  “Poor soul.  You argue like an Elf.  What did they do to you?”

Aragorn paused, wondering if he ought to take offense to the remark.  Men were sometimes so blunt it was painful—this Man in particular.  And how did this one know of his association with Elves?  “You speak of the Elves,” Aragorn began, approaching the topic of his upbringing with caution.

“Indeed I do.”  The Ranger moved to help Aragorn tie his bedroll to the back Foliar’s saddle.  He craned his neck over the horse’s back, a mischievous light in his grey eyes.  Aragorn was vaguely alarmed.  Such looks never played out to his favor when Elladan and Elrohir were involved.

“I know who you are,” the Ranger whispered furtively.  “Aragorn son of Arathorn—Heir of Isildur!”

Aragorn drew in a sharp breath and snapped upright to glare at the man.  His hand instinctively went to his sword.  “How do you know of my name?  I have told no one but the chief of our order.”  Was this Ranger a spy?

The tousle-haired Ranger took several steps backward, somewhat alarmed by Aragorn’s reaction.  He held up his hands in submission.  “Calm yourself!  I spoke of it to no one, nor is it my intention to do so.”  The self-assured smirk Aragorn had begun to associate with the man again flickered over his face.  “I passed by old Guttarion’s tent the night you and the Elves arrived.”  He winked cheekily.  “And I happen to have very good ears, you know.”

“Do you?”  Aragorn shook his head in exasperation, smiling in spite of himself.  He was not sure which left him more amusingly perplexed:  the fact the young man referred to the Dúnedain chief as “old Guttarion,” or that he openly admitted to eavesdropping.  Aragorn could very well grow to like him. 

The Ranger grinned and stuck out his hand.  “Halbarad.”

Aragorn, upon remembering the customary warriors’ greeting among Men, grasped the other’s forearm.  “Well met, Halbarad.”

Halbarad clapped him on the back in delight.  “Come, I smell breakfast sausage.”  He sniffed the morning air appreciatively.  “If I am not mistaken, Malthus will be calling us to eat in a moment or two.”

As if on cue, a gruff shout to join the morning meal echoed throughout the glen.  Halbarad turned to Aragorn, mouth quirking as though to say, “See, I told you so.”

Trained to obey commands the moment they were received, Aragorn immediately turned towards the Dúnedain camp.

“O for love of the Valar!”

Aragorn stopped abruptly and glanced over his shoulder at Halbarad’s oath.

“Aragorn, you must not walk in that manner.”

The Heir of Isildur turned, brow furrowing in confusion.  “What is wrong with the way I walk?  I have always walked as thus.”

Halbarad washed a hand over his face and groaned.  “You shall need some work.”  He shook his head and pulled a face.  “Elves may be able to walk in that manner, but Rangers, my friend, do not prance.”

“I do not prance.”

Halbarad snorted.  “If you say so.  Come along, Strider.  I do not wish to miss breakfast.”

“I do NOT prance!”

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*Aragorn's father took an arrow to the throat while riding in the company of Elrohir and Elladan.  I don't doubt the twins feel some guilt over that.  Maybe that's how Aragorn ended up in Rivendell in the first place.  (Oh look, there goes a plot bunny...) ;)

*E2's first battle: "Third Age 2063:  Gandalf goes to Dol Guldur.  Sauron retreats and hides in the East.  The Watchful Peace begins..."  Tolkien, J.R.R.  The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.  Appendix B: 'The Tale of Years (Chronology of the Westlands).'  pg 406.  Ballantine Books, 2001 edition.

--There is no specific mention of a battle taking place.  However, I'm willing to bet Gandalf didn't just meander up to the front gates and go, "BOO."

*     *     *

THANK YOU

fliewatuet-  You're an Aragorn fangirl?  Really?  Oh well he'll get plenty of stage time in this story.  :)   *lol*  I was thinking of the old tan-colored tents they used to throw us in at Girl Scouts camp.  They always seemed musty and damp.  It's great to hear from you again!  Thank you for the review!!!  :)

Elemmire-  Ummm, well, there will be a little humor, too...  But all in good fun.  Halbarad can be a real trouble-maker, you know.  ;)  Thank you for the review!

Miriel-  *lol*  I was told I wasn't allowed to start a new story, but this one just wouldn't go away.  And it's not going to be horribly long, so I decided I might as well write it.  Hmm, yes, Halbarad and the dress...  ;)  Thank you for the review!!

daw the minstrel-  This one has been bugging me for a while, so I finally gave into it (and it's not going to be that long).  Thank you for the review! :)

Miss Aranel-  I warn you in advance--I'm a notoriously slow updater (all the other stories were completed when I posted them).  Once a week is near-record pace for me.  *lol*  Thank you for the review! :)

Sphinx-  *lol*  Oh I like the "How do you do?"  The poor Ranger would probably be so surprised he'd faint.  Maybe Aragorn can teach them all some manners... ("Now hold your pinky up, and sip... You there!  I said SIP!")  Thank you for the review!!!  :)

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  I'm humbled and awed by the amazing response.  I hope you continue to enjoy reading this chapter as well!  :)  Thank you from the bottom of my heart to those who reviewed.  You guys are incredible!  Wow!  I apologize profusely for the delays--I've been ridiculously busy and my health hasn't been cooperating as of late.  But on to the chapter...  Happy Reading!  :)

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~Chapter 3:  And So It Begins ~

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Summer had reached its zenith in the Wild.  Stretches of hilly grassland turned greenish-brown as the heat lounged sullenly upon them, its lethargy broken on occasion by surprisingly cool winds from the westward mountain peaks.  The forests were thick and deep green, leafy boughs providing welcome respite from the scorching sun.

The young Dúnedain were pushed tirelessly by veteran Rangers.  Long summer days revolved around combat, field reconnaissance, and the art of surviving a life that promised nothing more than harsh conditions and loneliness.  “We Rangers of the North,” the Dúnedain chief Guttarion barked, “roam Eriador, which lies over the mountains and to the West.  Seldom do we travel in groups.  The land’s inhabitants do not look upon us kindly—they hold us in suspicion, and you should hold them likewise.  We are Eriador’s protectors and its watchers.  Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Sounds enchanting,” Halbarad had murmured out of the corner of his mouth to Aragorn.  “When do we leave?”

*          *            *

Aragorn pushed back several locks of wet hair from his sweat-drenched forehead and willed his breathing to slow.  Settling instinctively into proper stance, he angled his blade and beckoned Halbarad to advance.

Halbarad, his tousled hair limp with sweat and panting even heavier than Aragorn, merely threw back his head and groaned.  “I tire of these matches.  Surely we have sparred enough for today?”

Aragorn gave his sword an experimental swing.  It was odd, the weight of the blade.  For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why Men, in possession of less strength than their Elven counterparts, favored heavier weapons.  “We have not yet been called to halt,” he replied, giving the blade a second swing.  “Come, ready yourself.”

Halbarad wiped a sweaty palm across the front of his tunic.  He was dusty and disheveled, having already been knocked from his feet several times by Aragorn.  “I do not think you need any more practice.”

Aragorn stared pointedly at the other.  Halbarad scowled.  “We are all in need of practice,” Aragorn replied.  “Without use, even our greatest skills will whither and fade.”

“Morgoth’s Void!  We are not blinking flowers, and cease staring at me like that—Elvish snob.  You are the best swordsman here, and everyone knows it.”

Aragorn barely disguised his flinch.  Halbarad was right, he was the best swordsman in camp.  Actually, he was best in almost all manner of weaponry and none could ride better—Lord Glorfindel and the sons of Elrond had been strict and relentless in their teaching.  And while the other novices were awed by his finely honed skills, the elder trainees and veteran Dúnedain seemed to take offence.  In fact, Aragorn received the distinct impression some downright hated him. 

“I only speak what is clearly visible to all,” Halbarad added in subdued tones, sensing the other’s discomfort. 

Aragorn’s lips quirked into small grin in spite of himself.  Halbarad was becoming quite adept at catching subtleties.  One month ago he would have barely registered the onset of a rainstorm.  “I may not need the practice,” Aragorn replied, deciding to test his boasting abilities.  After all, that is what Men did.  Quite a bit.  “But you, my friend, are in dire need of it.  And,” his grin broadened, “I rather enjoy seeing you put into place, amongst the dust where you belong.” 

He would have been disturbed to know how closely his smile resembled Halbarad’s characteristic smirk.

“I might remind you I am the only one in camp still willing to spar with you.”  Halbarad adopted a stance similar to Aragorn’s. 

After their first match several weeks ago, the Heir of Isildur had taken it upon himself to coach the other.  While Halbarad undoubtedly had talent with the blade, his lack of technique was blatantly apparent.  His swings were reckless and wild, and his footwork…  it was atrocious enough to give even the oldest weapon master fits.  The young Ranger was nearly as dangerous to friend as he was to foe.  Aragorn decided someone must have thrust a sword into Halbarad’s hands and said, “Kill.”   

The two lifted their blades in salute.    Aragorn’s fingers tightened reflexively over the sword handle as he watched Halbarad tense and sidle to the right.  Sweat trickled down his back.  “Good, remember to stay on the balls of your feet.”

Halbarad’s face broke into cheeky smirk and he seemed to coil into himself.  “Prepare to greet the dirt, nancing Elvish snob.”  He darted forward, thrusting the blade at Aragorn’s midsection then quickly sweeping upward towards Aragorn’s shoulder.

Aragorn pivoted and swiftly lifted his own blade.  Steel reverberated sweetly as he deflected Halbarad’s blow, catching the other at the sword base where the impact would be most felt.  Halbarad yelped as his hand and forearm took the brunt of the blow, and involuntarily released the sword.  Feeling a flash of sympathy for the other—for he was well acquainted with the bone jarring pain such strikes caused—Aragorn grabbed Halbarad’s shoulder and kicked the Ranger’s feet out from under him.  Halbarad met the Wilderland dirt for the fifth time that day with a solid thud and a vile oath.

Aragorn stood over the other, sword tip hovering just above Halbarad’s throat.  Halbarad tentatively raised his hands in defeat.  “You lost concentration,” Aragorn began, wiping a forearm across his dripping face, “the moment you—”

Where, exactly, Halbarad managed to produce a knife from was utterly lost on Aragorn.  Taken by surprise, he jerked back as it hummed angrily past his ear and embedded itself into an unfortunate sapling.  Halbarad rolled aside and sprang to his feet.

“And who has lapsed in concentration now?”  He crossed his arms and adopted the cocky stance Aragorn knew all too well.  Covered in sweat and dust, the young Ranger had taken on the tawny hues of Wilderland dirt.  “Strider of the Dúnedain, I introduce you to my faithful hunting knife Aigithil.”  He indicated to the still quivering blade with a flourish.

Aragorn glanced at the knife and then back to his friend.  “That was a Corsair’s tactic.”

“It was a Huntsman’s tactic.”  Halbarad smirked in retort.  “And you fell for it.” 

Aragorn had the strangest desire to punch him.

Clapping Aragorn heartily on the shoulder, Halbarad threw back his head and laughed.  “Peace, my friend.  Peace!  Come, even you must admit we have done enough today.  At this moment I desire nothing more than a quick bathe in the creek and a good meal.”  He looped an arm over Aragorn’s shoulders and drew him into a headlock.

“Aaargh!”  Aragorn twisted violently in the other’s grasp.  “You thick-headed lout!  I have a sword in my hand!”

Halbarad merely snickered gleefully and tightened his hold.  “Behold!  The mighty Heir of Isildur is felled by lowly Halbarad of Tharbad!”

“Halbarad!  Bloody Eru—will you STOP shouting my name to all of Arda and LET GO?”

Halbarad released a loud whoop and tousled Aragorn’s hair with a grimy hand.  “Listen to the mouth on our sweet Ranger!  There is hope for you yet!”

Aragorn’s reply came in the shape of an elbow to the gut.

*          *            *

Several hours later, the two lounged amiably around the main fire with the rest of the camp.  Though Aragorn was not liked by many, Halbarad was liked by all.  The tousle-haired youth of Tharbad was reckless, impulsive, quick to smile—even if it was more of a smirk, and prone to wild exaggerations.  He somehow managed to get away with almost everything, be it a smart retort to a superior officer or nipping a third helping of dinner.  Aragorn had no idea how he did it. 

“Here.” 

Aragorn started at Halbarad’s call. 

The young Ranger winked and tossed him a second bread roll.  “Malthus is being generous tonight.”  He plopped down next to Aragorn and took a large bite out of his own roll.

“Thank you,” Aragorn murmured.  The evening sky flared brightly in the sun’s waning moments.  Stars were just beginning to flicker, and a sweet breeze tumbled softly from the West.  Aragorn had never felt so homesick in his life.  He missed Rivendell.  Missed Arwen, his brothers, his mother, Lord Elrond… 

Halbarad nudged him.  “Do not make me beat the melancholy out of you, Strider.”  Bringing the last piece of bread to his mouth, Halbarad paused midway and sniffed.  Disgust flashed across his face and he glared accusingly at Aragorn.

“What is it?  Why do you look at me so?”  Aragorn tore his roll half-heartedly.

“Lavender.”

“What?”

“Aragorn, you smell of lavender.”  Halbarad rolled his eyes towards the heavens and shook his head, silently beseeching the Valar to have pity upon his hapless companion.  “Please tell me you are not still using that threaded soap.”

“My apologies you find my choice of soap so offensive,” Aragorn tersely replied.  “And it is a rope.  Soap on a rope—not a thread.”  He angrily threw a piece of bread into the leaping campfire.

“I do not care what it is,” answered Halbarad.  “Rangers, my friend, do not smell of lavender.  We have discussed this before.”  He wagged a finger at Aragorn in reprimand.  “No flowery scents, no shaving and bathing every day…  Oh, and if I even think you have begun folding your clothes again—”

Aragorn stood abruptly.  “Then mayhap I do not wish to be a Ranger!”  Grey eyes flashing, he threw the remaining bread into the fire and then disappeared into the darkening forest.      

Halbarad’s brow furrowed in concern.  Aragorn was not prone to outbursts.

Muffled laughter carried across the campfire.  “Halbarad,” called a voice, the slightly nasal accent belonging to that of a Hollin native.  “Looks as though you have upset Middle-earth’s savior!”  Several snickers followed.

Halbarad rose to his feet, smiling sweetly at the dark-haired speaker.  “Crow, my hunting knife has the strangest habit of ending up in the throats of those who refuse to mind their own business.  I trust you will guard your tongue more carefully?”  Halbarad’s smile did not reach his eyes.

Crow—it wasn’t his real name but no one could remember what it was, and the man didn’t seem to mind—lowered his head and mumbled in reply.

“I thought so,” Halbarad called cheerfully over his shoulder as he entered the shadowed eaves.

He found Aragorn leaning against a weathered beech tree, arms folded protectively across his chest and head bowed.  Unsure of whether or not his company was welcome, Halbarad loudly cleared his throat.

Aragorn lifted his head, a wry smile flitting across his face.  “I apologize.  I should not have snapped at you so.”

Halbarad cautiously leaned against a neighboring tree.  “No, you should not have.  But,” his lips quirked, “it is good to see some temper lies within.  I had begun to think you rather dull.”

Aragorn snorted.

Wind pattered softly over bough and leaf blade, and a comfortable silence settled between the two.  Halbarad promptly broke it, reminding Aragorn yet again that Men were different than Elves.  Very few Men realized that silence often carried more meaning than words; Elves could stretch it for hours if they chose to.

“Why did you snap at me?”

Aragorn sighed heavily.  “Homesickness, I suppose.  Or mayhap I am tired of trying to be that which I am not.”

Halbarad arched an eyebrow.  “Strider, I hate to be the bearer of ill news, but you are not an Elf.”

“Neither am I the savior of Middle-earth!”

Halbarad winced.  “I did not know you heard that.”

Aragorn did not reply.

“Well.”  Halbarad drew himself upright and straightened his tunic with a forceful tug.  “I suppose the task falls unto me, then.”

He was rewarded with a glance from Aragorn.  “What task?”

“Savior of Middle-earth.  You may refuse, but I will not pass by such opportunity.”

 “Valar save us all!”  Laughter bubbled from deep within Aragorn’s stomach.  It felt good.  “You shall lead Middle-earth straight to ruin!”

Halbarad grinned.  “And what an adventure it will be!”

Aragorn shook his head in exasperation, his laughter slowly fading and replaced by a good-natured smile.  “Halbarad?”  He stared curiously at the other.

“Yes?” 

“Why on Arda did you choose to befriend me?  I am despised by nearly everyone here.”

Halbarad shrugged.  “Because no one likes you.  So I do.”

It was quite possibly the most illogical answer Aragorn had ever received in his life.  But at the moment he could have cared less.  He had a found a friend.  ‘And,’ he thought, ‘I could not ask for a better friend than Halbarad.’      

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Next up, Chapter 4!  Elrohir and Elladan attempt to convince Glorfindel treason is the way to go...  The Slayer of Balrogs is not amused.

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Thank You!!

Kal (the Magnificent)-  *lol*  Glorfindel wasn’t scheduled to make an appearance, but now that he’s here, I can’t seem to rid myself of him.  Oh, he almost brought a whole slew of others, too—Thranduil, Legolas, several other Mirkwood characters I fashioned…  But I had to put my foot down before Elrohir and Elladan went galloping off to Mirkwood.  It would make things terribly long, and I’m dying to post a prologue for another story.  Sadly, I don’t foresee our darling Wood-Elf pop up in this one.  I figured the Elves of Mirkwood were probably used to “shooting first and asking questions later.”  It’s a dangerous place, and pausing to identify what they’re shooting might be the difference between slaying an enemy and being slain by an enemy.  Oh WOW.  Guttarion does need to die, doesn’t he?  *lol*  For some reason, the image of Frodo as a Ringwraith…  he’d be awfully short compared to the other ones.  Thank you for the fantastic review, as always!!!  :)

caz baz-  For full effect of the Gandalf “BOO!” imagine him wiggling his eyebrows and fingers while he shouts.  ;)  From what I’ve read, Glorfindel was reincarnated.  I have no idea how he managed to pull it off.  Maybe he bargained with the Valar (or blackmailed them?).  Personally, I found ‘The Hobbit’ the easiest of Tolkien’s works to read.  At first I kept getting the names mixed up in ‘The Lord of the Rings,’ and ‘The Silmarillion’…  whew…  still working on that one.  “Poor Aragorn getting left all on his own with a bunch of sadistic rangers out in the middle of nowhere, prancing around like a bloody elf.”  --*falls out of chair laughing*  Thank you for the great review!

Miss Aranel-  I tend to be ridiculously slow on reviews, as well.  *lol*  Elrohir and Elladan seem to have quite a bit of pent up angst, don’t they?  I’m actually writing this story to get a better feel for them.  I’m still trying to sort them out, but I’m finding it interesting.  I do think they have some issues with Elrond.  Actually, that passage from the other story was written as a flashback, and Halbarad from ‘Out of the Frying Pan’ was just so much fun to write…  *grin*  The cheeky little bugger!  He demanded his own story.  :)  Thank you for the wonderful review!!!

Earwen of Alqualonde-  Halbarad is hands-down my favorite Ranger.  Okay, so maybe he’s the only one I know of besides Aragorn…  Wait!  Faramir was a Ranger!  Correction: Halbarad is my favorite Ranger of the North.  :)  You know, I always wondered how Aragorn became leader of the Dúnedain.  And he did grow up in Rivendell, so there probably was some period of adjustment.  Thank you for the review!!

Ren-  *clutches ribs while laughing hysterically*  “…cocky a** b****…”  Think the cocky comes from my father’s side.  Mother is to blame for the rest of it.  ;)  Fear not!  Glorfindel returns in all his Balrog-Slaying-Reincarnated-Glory next chapter.  Somebody has to stick up for Elrond when the twins get a little mouthy.  Thank you for the fabulous review!!!  :)      

Miriel-  Okay, my latest theory as to What The Three Evils Will Return As:  (ready?)  …little old ladies!…  *lol*  Oh man, I have teeth marks all over from the plot bunny.  They get nasty if you try to beat them off.  The one called ‘Shallows’ over here is beginning to draw blood, and “The Second Legolas Experiment” has taken to gnawing.  Eeesh.  Back, you wicked creatures!  Back!  Do you think they would let Glorfindel return a third time?  You know what they say: “Third time’s the charm.”  I actually didn’t know Aragorn’s father died like that either.  I was doing some canon research to make sure everything in this tale fit, and happened to stumble across it.  E2 must definitely feel remorse over that incident.  Thank you for the great review!!  :)

Paranoidangel-  I’m glad you like it!  :)  I agree—there’s a whole slew of possibility to consider as far as Aragorn’s “introduction to Men” is concerned.  The poor guy doesn’t quite fit in with the Elves, and obviously doesn’t fit in with his own kin…  No wonder it took him so long to sort things out.  Thank you for the review! :)

daw-  Tolkien only wrote the tiniest snippet about Dol Guldur’s defeat.  I wonder what exactly went on, too…  *lol*  Halbarad must have done his job well in the end, though—Aragorn turned out scruffy enough to make even the crankiest Ranger proud.  Thank you for the wonderful review!

fliewatuet-  Glorfindel might as well have put a target on his forehead.  I still wonder why he was galloping around bells on his reins during the hobbits’ adventure.  Maybe he was trying to attract attention.  Rivendell must have gotten pretty boring…  Thank you for the great review!!!  :)

Nerwen Calaelen-  Aragorn’s entry to the Rangers has always intrigued me, and Halbarad just doesn’t get enough story appearances.  :)  I decided to attempt to “kill two birds with one stone,” as the saying goes.  I hope you enjoy reading it!  Thank you for the review!

Sphinx-  I decided to write this story (primarily) to get a feel for Elrohir and Elladan.  I still haven’t grasped it yet, but for all their recklessness and merriment they seem to have a lot of angst—not to mention some issues with Elrond.  I didn’t intend to have Glorfindel make an appearance, but now it seems as though someone needs to keep the twins in line when they swipe at Elrond.  Thank you for the wonderful review!! :)

The Karenator-  Oh wow, thank you!  *ducks head in embarrassment*  I’m thrilled you like the tale so far.  :)  Growing up with the Elves as he did, Aragorn must have undergone quite a period of transition.  (And Halbarad must have done his work well…  Aragorn did end up marvelously scruffy.)  *lol*  Glorfindel the Peaceful can claim the bells are for decoration purposes, while Glorfindel the Warrior can be satiated by shooting a couple over-curious orcs… ;)  Thank you for the amazing review!!!       

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  I am SO SORRY to have kept you all waiting so long!  Oh my gosh, please forgive me!  I simply have not had time nor strength to read or work on anything as of late, and was beginning to worry I’d have to give it up.  I thank you all for the fantastic reviews—THANK YOU!  I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to see this story going over so well.

On a more personal note, to whoever has the Voodoo doll: please stop using it.  I can’t read and write if you keep incapacitating me.  And for crying out loud, if you’re going to make me ill, give me a NORMAL sickness!  If I come down with a case of leprosy or gangrene, I AM GOING TO COME AFTER YOU.

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~ Chapter 4:  The Logic Behind the Treason ~

Autumn had begun to color the Misty Mountains when Glorfindel and his entourage at last looked down upon Rivendell.  The company of the sons of Elrond had chosen to remain in the Wilds, for they had little desire to rejoin those in Rivendell.  Glorfindel did not press the matter.  Having experienced the transition from life on the front lines to leisurely civilian residence, the Elf lord knew it to be a trying change at times—even for one who was willing.  Thus Glorfindel and the sons of Elrond had journeyed back alone.

Lord Elrond’s realm had yet to lose its early summer hues, for Time was not rushed nearly so fast within the elvish land—though perhaps Time simply skirted it out of respect or forgetfulness.  Such was the power of Elrond, and the trees and flowers continued to bud and blossom. 

Glorfindel found himself unusually eager to walk the familiar halls and garden paths.  Middle-earth had changed much since he last traversed its roads.  The land sloped differently; its rocks had weathered and crumbled, the forests were strange…  Even the streams and rivers sounded foreign to his ears, their waters singing of happenings he did not quite understand.  He felt out of place and somewhat of a dusty relic.

Traveling with the sons of Elrond and their company to the edge of the Wilds had been trying, to say the least.  Used to the strict regimental procedures of battalions and legions, Glorfindel found the small company’s attitude disturbingly lax.  Elrohir and Elladan were only referred to as “Lord” on rare occasion—half of which was done in jest.  Even more irking was the lack of command.  The company followed no higher orders than those of their own making.  Their missions were done on pure whim or flight of fancy. 

Glorfindel abhorred vigilantism—found it foolish, dangerous, and ultimately deadly.  That Elladan and Elrohir, whom he helped train, used his gifts to such a purpose grated him to no end.  The twins knew this, and had ceased to speak of their deeds within his presence long ago.  Glorfindel had spoken of it only once:  The death of Aragorn’s father had broken the golden-haired Elf’s normally calm demeanor.  His tongue-lashing was sharp and furious; he named them selfish and shameful.  However, the twins had shown much remorse, and never again was the subject broached.  The only one who would occasionally voice displeasure over the dark rumors of Elladan and Elrohir’s more questionable slayings was Elrond’s Chief of Counsel Erestor.  The counselor, who tended to be waspish in nature, had habit of commenting that Elrond’s sons and companions seemed “intent to ride about killing things.”  However, in true testament of his wisdom, never did he speak of such things within Elrond’s presence.

And then there was the twins’ sense of humor. 

Glorfindel had always found it strange, but it seemed to have manifested itself to even greater oddities within the small company.  There were inside jokes within inside jokes.  And, despite what the company might claim, Glorfindel could find absolutely nothing humorous about pheasants.

It was a bird.  A bird. 

Why on Arda did the group dissolve into fits of laughter whenever one flew up from the Wilderland grasses?  

Relief swelled within Glorfindel as he caught sight of the gently sloping rooftops nestled carefully between the trees.  Too long had he been absent; too long. 

“You are not pleased to be home.”  Glorfindel noticed the twins stiffen simultaneously.

“Nay,” Elladan slowly replied.

“We merely wish to know the purpose of our summons,” said Elrohir.

“Mm.”  Glorfindel gazed at a familiar elm tree in what could have been accused as rapture.  “It must be decided on whether or not to reconvene the White Council.  As you have traveled much within these past years, your observations will be of immense help.”

“The White Council?”  Elladan pursed his lips.  “And what shall the White Council do, if gathered?”

“Debate on whether or not the Enemy poses threat.”  Glorfindel absently smiled at the chipped stone fountain gurgling pleasantly along the path.  The chip, incidentally, being fault of Elladan and Elrohir during their younger days.  “There is much that needs to be spoken of—all angles and possible outcomes must be delved.”

There was a strange and tense pause, in which both sons of Elrond drew in slow and angered breaths.  Glorfindel found himself on the receiving end of two fiery glares, oddly reminiscent of Elrond’s glower. 

“We were summoned,” Elladan spoke at last, his voice controlled yet strained, “so that Father and his advisors may discuss on whether or not to gather a council, which will in turn discuss whether or not Sauron is a threat?”

The golden-haired Elf lord blinked.  When put into that context, it did sound rather ridiculous.  “Yes,” he carefully replied, a slight frown gracing his face.  That he found himself agreeing with Elladan and Elrohir was unsettling.

Elrohir’s nostrils flared.  “And should they find Sauron to be a threat?”

Glorfindel grimaced.  “Most likely another Council would be called to discuss what measures ought to be taken against him.”

Elladan actually gnashed his teeth. 

“I do not suppose,” Elrohir managed to snap, “it ever occurred to them to do other than sit around discussing all day?”

“Such as riding forth,” Elladan continued for his brother, “and facing the Enemy?”

“We cannot afford rash action,” Glorfindel replied.

“And I suppose,” said Elladan, perfectly mimicking Elrohir’s previous tone, “Sauron is content to wait patiently while his strength of character is discussed?  If naught but conversation has occurred, it is small wonder Barad-dûr rebuilt and our enemies run amuck!” 

Elrohir scowled in agreement.  “I fathom it was discussed whether Barad-dûr was actually being rebuilt.”

Glorfindel decided he no longer liked the word ‘discussed.’  “Elrohir.”  The Imladris captain’s tone carried unmistakable warning.

The younger twin shrugged in graceful nonchalance.  “Nay, I do not lay blame upon the Council.  I would have argued it a large stone monument of sorts—”

“—that just so happened to be in the shape of the fallen Barad-dûr tower,” Elladan sourly finished for him.

Elrohir nodded in agreement.  “Yes, of course.  Still, it was quite an understandable mistake.  Rather embarrassing, though—”

“Curb your tongues,” came Glorfindel’s soft but stern reply.  “I shall not be goaded into argument.”  He glanced pointedly at the two.  “Very few have the luxury of riding into battle on mere whim.  We are bound to maintaining our realms and the welfare of our kindred.  We cannot seek the Enemy.  Our priority is to protect the land—to protect our homes.  We cannot mount offensive without jeopardizing that which we have left.”

Elrohir’s eyes lowered and settled on his hands.  Elladan was not so easily rebuked.  “And what,” the elder twin challenged, “of King Thranduil’s kin?”

The three had traveled through Mirkwood on the well-guarded Elf-path, where they were greeted (albeit with suspicion) by some of Thranduil’s folk.  The Elven-king’s second son, Calengaladh, had commanded the small Mirkwood patrol.  The golden-haired prince was polite but cold.  “The path is worn and well protected,” he said in the strangely musical accent of the Silvan Elves, “yet dangerous still.  Do not stray, lest you wish to face the darker creatures of Mirkwood.”

The heads of Elladan and Elrohir had immediately snapped towards the sinister boughs in excitement.  Glorfindel groaned inwardly.

“We first train our novice patrol warriors along this trail,” Calengaladh continued, “and then move them to darker and less protected areas.”  He indicated to three young Elves in the patrol’s midst, who were desperately attempting to look as experienced as possible.  Glorfindel did not miss the stifled gleam of amusement and pride in the prince’s grey eyes.  “Today is the first patrol of my youngest brother Legolas.”

One of the three young warriors flushed slightly, a mix of fury and utter mortification flashing across his fair face.  Glorfindel suppressed a smile.  ‘That must be Legolas.’

He stared curiously at Thranduil’s youngest child.  The prince was tall and lithe with bright, observant eyes.  Glorfindel did not doubt he was quick-footed and swift.

The young Elf met his eyes for a brief moment, and Glorfindel felt a small tug of intuition.  Beneath the prince’s wary curiosity, Glorfindel glimpsed a youthful merriment and undimmed spirit he had not seen or felt in ages.  ‘Such true hearts are not without purpose,’ the Elf lord had thought.

Legolas would play a larger role than that of an archer and prince of Thranduil’s realm.  Glorfindel was certain of it.

“The Elves of Mirkwood readily seek out their foes,” Elladan continued to press.

“Nay,” replied Glorfindel.  “The Enemy seeks them.  Thranduil’s kin do naught but defend their realm.  Seldom do they venture from the forest.”

Elladan scowled, recognizing his defeat, and said no more.  The trio continued to ride in silence for a time, until Elrohir at last broke it.

“Why do you not fight, my Lord?”

Glorfindel blinked. 

Elladan glanced sideways at him.  “Why do you serve under our father?”

“You are in possession of greater… experience… than he,” added Elrohir.

Glorfindel’s brow furrowed in confusion.  “Always have I served your father.”

“Yes,” Elrohir persisted.  “But why?”

“Because he is my liege.  He is leader of all Eldar.”

The twins exchanged glances.  “But why?” they repeated in unison.

Glorfindel again blinked.  “Gil-galad bequeathed his title unto your father.  You know this.  Why do you ask me of it?”

Elrohir chewed his bottom lip and held wordless conference with his brother.  The two seemed to reach an agreement.  Glorfindel wished for the umpteenth time that journey he was capable of reading minds.    

Elladan straightened.  “If you were to—“

“—petition for Father’s duties,” finished Elrohir.

“Rightfully could you lay claim as leader of the Noldor,” said Elladan.

Elrohir nodded briskly.  “Yes, and others would willingly follow you.”

“You could raise an army, my Lord—“

“—and march upon Sauron,” Elrohir again finished.

Glorfindel nearly went numb.  It was all he could do to keep from staring slack-jawed at the two.

Both twins straightened defensively.  “You have commanded armies!” cried Elladan.  “Surely you tire of the Council’s lack of action.”

Glorfindel washed a hand across his face.  “I shall not listen…  Speak no more of it!”

“But—“ began Elrohir

“No!”  Glorfindel swiftly raised a hand.  The twins sat sullenly upon their mounts.  “First and foremost, I shall not allow you to utter words of treason within your father’s very realm!  Should the suggestion ever again leave your mouths, I shall deal fitting punishment unto you—and then bring you to stand before your father.  Secondly, I am a soldier by nature.  I do not seek power or command!  I merely wish to perform my duty.  I receive an order, and I carry it out.  It is simple and straightforward.  Never have I desired leadership—much less a kingship of sorts!  Such positions are too complicated and ill-suited to my tastes.  Ever have I served your father and the realm of Imladris, and ever shall I continue to do so.”

“But,” Elrohir was compelled to point out, “you defeated Balrogs.”

“And trees grow leaves,” Glorfindel snapped in reply.

Elladan’s brow furrowed.  “Trees have naught to do with our discussion.”

“Nor do Balrogs.”  Glorfindel sighed in exasperation in spite of himself.  It was inevitable that the Balrog be brought into conversation.  He supposed it should fail to surprise him after all these years.  Yet somehow, it always did manage to catch him off-guard. 

The Balrog slaying seemed to make him an outstanding authority on everything; from weaponry and war counsel to spring wardrobes and which brew of tea Lord Elrond would most prefer. 

“Let us ask Glorfindel,” the Elves of Rivendell would say.  “Surely the Slayer of Balrogs must know!”

Glorfindel was quite weary of the whole matter.  Never mind he hadn’t actually survived the ordeal.  And since when had The Balrog become plural?  It caused the Elf lord more trouble than was worth, having really only worked in his favor once that he could recall—and that had been several millennia ago.

Glorfindel allowed himself an uncharacteristic chuckle.  He and Erestor had engaged in a… competition… of sorts.  Erestor boasted of his wisdom to the rather attractive Teleri maiden of their duel. 

Of course the, “But I have slain Balrogs” line won her over in the end.

The Rivendell lord shook his golden head and smiled wryly.  ‘I suppose I was somewhat brash in my youth, as only the young can be.’

“My Lord?” 

Glorfindel blinked, the smile of memory fading from his lips.  The twins peered cautiously at him.

“Come,” said the golden-haired captain, bringing himself back to the present.  “Let us stable our mounts and bathe.  Speak no more of what you would have me do—such thoughts are poisonous and have no place within mind and heart.  Your father shall expect us to dine in the main hall this eve, I trust you will not keep him waiting.”

It was not long before the graceful and willowy buildings of Rivendell sprang from the surrounding forest.  Many a joyous call rang from tree bough and gazebo deck, for the sons of Elrond did not often tread their father’s realm. 

Leaving his horse in care of a stable hand, Glorfindel left Elrohir and Elladan to their own devices and sought out Rivendell’s lord.  The twins’ horses were somewhat temperamental, and would allow none to tend them save the ones they carried.

Saddlebag thrown over one shoulder, Glorfindel paused at the top of an open staircase and allowed his eyes to wander the familiar landscape.  Never had he felt such an acute sense of belonging. 

It felt good to be home.

“Welcome home, my friend.”

Glorfindel turned to the speaker with a small smile, immediately recognizing the gentle steel of the other’s voice.  “My Lord.”  Placing one hand over his heart, he bowed low.

Elrond inclined his head in reply, slight amusement dancing in his grey eyes at Glorfindel’s rather excessive and unnecessary actions.  “I see travel has not compromised your manners, my old friend.”  He clasped his hands behind his back, eyes flickering towards the stables.  “How fare my sons?”

Glorfindel sighed heavily and shook his head.  “Wild.”

Elrond arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

“My friend,” Glorfindel placed a hand upon the other’s shoulder.  “Speak to them.”

Elrond nodded slightly, recognizing Glorfindel’s underlying tone as one that was not to be contested.  “I shall.”

“As a father, Elrond.”  Glorfindel gave the dark-haired Elf’s shoulder a quick yet strong squeeze.  “Speak to them as a father.” 

The barely perceptible straightening of Elrond did not go unnoticed by Glorfindel, nor did the flash in Elrond’s grey eyes as he warred between resentment and the wisdom of the Imladris captain’s words.

At last, the dark-haired Noldor lord again nodded.  “I shall.”  He frowned and examined Glorfindel’s face intently, searching for some hint as to the warrior’s urgency.  But, as always, Glorfindel’s ageless face betrayed only his calm inner strength and loyalty.  “I shall.”

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Righty-ho!  Next up (in about 2 weeks… I know, again, I’m sorry!), Chapter 5: the un-culturing of Aragorn continues.  Halbarad decides all that long hair must go, and discovers (horrors of horrors) Aragorn suffers from a sickness…  Lovesickness, that is.  ‘Tis a very tricky disease to cure. 

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized places and characters are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

Whoa!!!  :)  My most sincere thanks to those wonderful souls who left reviews!!  You’ve got me feeling better than any medication--I’m grinning ear-to-ear.  THANK YOU!!!

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~ Chapter 5: A Bit of a Snag ~

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Aragorn lowered himself onto all fours, placing an ear upon the wet earth.  He and Halbarad had been assigned to follow a veteran Ranger as part of their tracking drills.  They had chased the man for better part of an hour, until the tracks finally led them to a pebble-strewn river and promptly disappeared.

Aragorn closed his eyes in concentration.  Arda, the Ranger Chief Guttarion had told them, spoke to those who knew what to listen for.  Aragorn allowed himself a small smile as he began to decipher the different sounds: the rumble of stone, the steady trickle of water, the far-off reverberation of a footfall.

Such tactics would never occur to Elves.  They sensed things through the pitches and chords of Iluvatar’s Song.  But to hear such music, if indeed it could be called so, was inborn and could not be taught.  “I could no more describe colors to a blind man than explain it,” Elrohir had once told him with a shrug.

Impatient movement at the edge of the bank pulled Aragorn from his thoughts.  “If you are quite finished sleeping…”  Halbarad called, kicking at errant pebbles and watching them tumble into the churning brown waters.

Aragorn held up a hand.  “Shhh.  I believe I may have heard footfalls to the North.”  He pushed several locks of hair past his shoulder and again closed his eyes.

“Or,” Halbarad loudly announced, “we might follow the footprints at river’s edge.”

Aragorn’s eyes snapped open.  He sat up, resting on his knees, and shot Halbarad a look of irritation.  “Why did you not tell me this earlier?”

Halbarad grinned.  “I was amused by your attempts to commune with the dirt.”

Aragorn brushed mud from his hands and knees as he stood.  “It does work, you know.”

“I know,” Halbarad absently replied.  “But I find actual tracks far easier to follow.”

The two slid carefully down the bank’s rocky slope.  Halbarad scrutinized the area a few moments before crouching down a few paces away from Aragorn.  “Here.”  He indicated to the track, which was little more than the imprint of a boot heel. 

Aragorn knelt at the tousle-haired Ranger’s side.

“The old Warg wanted us to believe he crossed the river.”  Halbarad rocked back on his heels and smiled confidently.  “He only traveled alongside it.”

Aragorn brightened.  “North.  He was traveling North, then.”  He glanced up the rocky bank, absently pushing errant hair past his shoulder.

“Strider.”

Aragorn turned to Halbarad.  He was immediately alarmed by the gleam in the other’s eye.  Halbarad’s schemes were usually trouble, but it was even more disturbing to see them forming in his head. 

Aragorn tensed.  “Yes?”

Halbarad cocked his head to one side, lips tugging into their customary smirk.  “I believe it time to rid yourself of those pretty Elven locks.”

“You shall not come near my hair.”

“All those ridiculous little braids…  And it is nearly past the center of your back.”

Aragorn stood and scrambled up the bank.  “You are not cutting my hair!”

*          *            *

Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced as his head was cruelly yanked backwards.  “You are positive you have done this before?”  He leaned back awkwardly and attempted to eye Halbarad, wincing as the young Ranger gave his hair another sharp tug.

“I said,” came Halbarad’s cross reply, “I know what I am doing.”

Aragorn again grimaced, well aware the phrase was only second to, “Trust me,” as far as Halbarad and certain disaster was concerned.

Their tracking expedition had ended surprisingly well—they managed to at last corner their quarry in a cave—and the two were given early dismissal to wash up before the evening meal.  Aragorn was still not sure why, or how, he had let Halbarad talk him into a haircut. 

“Have you finished?”  Aragorn squirmed restlessly while Halbarad continued to awkwardly saw at his hair.  If hair had feeling, Aragorn was positive his would be screaming.

Halbarad growled.  “Stop moving or I shall cut off your head.”

“I fear you shall cut it off anyways.”  Aragorn let out an involuntary yelp as Halbarad gave a forcefully tug.

“One would think,” said Halbarad, “your hair made of braided metal.”  He momentarily ceased torturing Aragorn’s hair and examined his knife with a frown.  “My blade has already dulled.”

“Perhaps it is that you lack the proper strength required to cut hair?”

Halbarad paused.  “Lack the—“  He snorted, then broke out into laughter.  “That was very good, my friend.  A well-placed jab at my expense.”

Aragorn merely grinned in reply.

When at last Halbarad was satisfied, Aragorn sat amidst a small mound of dark locks.  Running a hand through his newly shorn head, he sighed ruefully and eyed the pile at his feet.

It was quite a bit of hair.

“Well?”  Halbarad casually flipped his blade and cocked his head to one side.  “What say you, Strider of the Dunedain?”

Aragorn hunched his shoulders, head feeling strangely light and naked.  “I am not sure.”  He scratched his chin and frowned.  The beard stubble itched madly.  “It seems strangely backwards to me, Halbarad, that I should have long hair on my face and short hair on my head.”

Halbarad threw up his hands in long-suffering disgust and shook his head.  “Truly, you are such a woman.”

Aragorn ceased brushing errant hairs from his tunic and straightened indignantly.  “I am most certainly not a woman.”

Halbarad placed one hand upon his hip.  “Halbarad,” he replied in mock falsetto, “I wish to have a smooth face and long hair.  Halbarad, have you seen my lavender soap?”  He batted his eyes and pouted.  “Halbarad, will you hold this corner while I fold the end of my bedroll?  Halba—OOPH!”

Aragorn’s tackle caught him by surprise.  The two grappled within the browned autumn grass until Aragorn managed to pin Halbarad on his stomach.

Pushing his knee into Halbarad’s back, Aragorn wrapped one arm around the other’s neck and pulled upward.

“Mmph, very well, argh—you win!”  Halbarad hissed as Aragorn gave him a final yank for good measure.  “Careful, you great oaf!  The ladies will not be pleased should you mangle me.”

“Ladies?”  Aragorn released Halbarad and offered him a hand.  “Halbarad, we are in the middle of the Wilds.  I hardly expect there shall be any ladies here.”

“Ah.”  Halbarad winked and grinned cheekily.  “But you have not yet been to Riordan.”

“Riordan?”

Halbarad nodded, running a hand through his tousled hair and dislodging bits of dried grass.  “The finest settlement in all the Wilds.  There are taverns full of ale and games.  And the ladies…  Ai, Elbereth!  They are never in short supply.”

Much to Aragorn’s horror, Halbarad proceeded to do a very lewd version of an ancient Elven begetting day dance.  Aragorn’s face went crimson.  Never, ever, would he be able to view the dance in the same way.

And if that wasn’t enough, Halbarad threw back his head and belted forth lyrics no tongue, as far as Aragorn was concerned, should ever utter.

“HALBARAD!” 

Halbarad stopped mid-stanza and innocently looked back.  “What?  You dance and sing all the time.”

“Not-not-not-” Aragorn managed to stutter, blush spreading clear down to his neck,“-like… that!”

Taking note of Aragorn’s mortification, Halbarad burst out laughing.  “You priss,” he managed to gasp between fits.  “Do you even know what a woman is?”

Folding his arms across his chest, Aragorn waited until Halbarad’s merriment subsided.  “Are you finished, then?”

“Quite.”  A final snicker escaped Halbarad’s lips nonetheless.  He eyed Aragorn as they gathered their gear and prepared to return to camp.  “Riordan is the destination we head to when granted leave near the end of the month.  Come Strider—even a pure soul as you cannot deny the company of a woman would be welcome.  Especially after the grueling exercises we have been through.”

Aragorn threw his pack over one shoulder with a heavy sigh.  “I desire none save the one I have already given my heart to.”

Halbarad snorted.  “You jest,” he cried incredulously.  “You and I are too young to fall in love.  Why waste your affections on one, say I, when there are several to be had!”  He grinned, pack bouncing jauntily on his back at his light step.

“Oh, but you should see her.”  Aragorn gazed dreamily into the darkening autumn forest.  “Her eyes sparkle as the dews of twilight, her skin pale as the moon, and her hair as blackened velvet as the night sky.  Her soul shines brighter than—“

“Strider, if you continue I do believe I shall retch.  And for Valar’s sake, wipe that moon-struck look from your face before I remove it for you.”

“My heart aches to have parted from her,” Aragorn said softly.  “And I know she feels the same.”

Halbarad rolled his eyes and groaned loudly.  “Istari’s bones!  I finally get him to realize he is no Elf, only to discover him lovesick!”  He shook his head.  “Rangers do not fall in love.”

“How do you know?”

“I—“ Halbarad blinked, somewhat taken aback.  “Because I just do.  It turns us to pudding.” 

“Pudding?”

Halbarad sighed in exasperation.  “Yes—pudding.  It makes us gloppy and…  and…”  He searched for a suitable word.  “Well… bluurrggh.”

Aragorn supposed the oddly boneless jiggle Halbarad performed was some sort of bluurgh impersonation.  He made as though the check the other for unseen injury.  “Did you hit your head while bathing?”    

“Bah!  Leave off!”  Halbarad swatted him away.  “Who is this beautiful woman, anyways?”

Aragorn sighed dreamily.  “Arwen Undomiel.”  Her name was sweeter than honey upon his tongue.  He would repeat it forever if he could.  ‘Arwen Undomiel…  Arwen Undomiel…  Arwen Undomiel…’

“Sounds rather elvish,” Halbarad commented, shifting his pack.  The telltale haze of blue smoke and flickers of flame through the trees announced the Dunedain encampment ahead. 

“She is an Elf,” Aragorn replied, still lost in pleasant daydreams of Arwen.  “The daughter of Elrond and fairest beauty in all the land.”

Halbarad stopped walking.  “Elrond, who raised you?”

“Yes,” Aragorn absently replied.

“Then that would make—“  Repulsion flashed across Halbarad’s face.  “ARAGORN!  That is disgusting!”

Aragorn’s daydream vanished at Halbarad’s shout.

“She is your sister!  You are in love with your sister!”

“I am not,” Aragorn hissed.  “She is not my sister!”

“She is.  Ugh!”  Halbarad backed away from the other.  “Your sister!  Three do I have, and never would I—ugh!”  Turning smartly on his heel, he began marching purposely towards the encampment.  “I do not know how Elves view such matters, but I, for one, will not tolerate it.  We are going to find you a real lady, my friend.  One who is neither Elvish nor related to you.”

Aragorn lifted his newly shorn head to the twilit heavens and sighed.  No matter what the outcome, he was positive it would not be favorable.

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ROMANCE!

(Hopefully that caught your attention.)  Um, I’m curious as to general consensus in regards to an “encounter” between a son of Elrond and Gilraen.  Unrequited and nothing more than tension and angst, so no canon violations…  I didn’t mean to write it, but it sort of ended up that way…  And basically I haven’t worked up the nerve to officially add it.  I tend to avoid things that could be construed “romantic,” particularly if they’re more serious in nature.  It’s a stretch for me.  But trying new things is good, yes?  *cringe*  I’m anxious to hear any thoughts on the matter!

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized names and places are property of Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

A/N:  The decision has been passed, and it’s a no-go on the romance!  If you absolutely must read it, though, I’d be more than happy to email you a copy.  Umm, if I get enough heckling, I suppose I could post it as a separate piece.  Probably over on fanfiction, because it seems to contain mostly LotR romance these days.  …I’m going to be struck by lightening for that comment, aren’t I?  *ducks under table*

This chapter’s dialogue was challenging—hopefully it isn’t too wordy or too choppy.

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~ Chapter 6:  Bladed Tongues ~

Sparrows darted to and fro, calling merrily to one another as they flitted up and down the tree branches.  Elrond followed their movements with the eyes of one who looks but does not see.

Elladan and Elrohir were to have arrived at his study fifteen minutes ago.  Propping his elbows on the desk, Elrond rested his chin on steepled fingers.

Erestor continued prattling about some important nonsense or another.  “…have arrived.  Ah, and Círdan sends kind tidings along with his representatives.  *Curunír, as you know, entered the realm last morn…”

One sparrow lit upon the widow ledge, ruffling his feathers and chirruping loudly.  The bird’s black eyes flashed brightly in the noontide sun.  He cocked his head to one side, beak slightly open.  He was soon joined by his mate.

Erestor shuffled through the thick pile of parchments in his hands.  “…cannot seem to find him.  Though if you recall his last visit, Haldir remained hidden in the trees until the Lothlórien entourage departed.  I find no cause for concern…”

Elrond’s gaze strayed to the thick study door, as though he might will the twins to appear should he frown hard enough.  Where were they?

“…His Royal Majesty King Thranduil was booted over the mountainside by Giants while attempting to cross the High Pass—pity—and so you need not worry about him—“

“I beg your pardon?”  Elrond snapped to attention, wondering if his ears had heard correctly.

Erestor sniffed.  “You were not listening.”

“Erestor,” Elrond replied in severe tones, “I was listening, and it would behoove you to kindly refrain from disparaging our woodland kin.”

Erestor’s brother, having sworn himself to a Silvan maiden, fell during the Last Alliance while fighting under the Greenwood colors.  Erestor had yet to overcome the loss, and still held Mirkwood accountable for his brother’s death.  His dislike of Wood-Elves was understandable, Elrond knew, but the advisor did tend to rant if left unchecked. 

Placing the parchments upon Elrond’s desk, Erestor folded his arms across his chest and eyed the other.  “You are unusually strained today, my Lord.”

Elrond raised an eyebrow.

“And,” Erestor calmly continued, “you have done naught but frown at the windows and door since I first arrived.”

Elrond pinched the bridge of is nose and drew in several slow breaths.  Sometimes, Erestor’s prodding overstepped even his patience.

“I shall take my leave,” said Erestor, sensing the other’s mounting agitation.  “If it would please you.”

“Nay, nay.”  Elrond lifted a hand and shook his head.  “I apologize.  My thoughts roamed elsewhere.  Please continue.”

Erestor eyed him momentarily before giving a curt nod of acquiescence.  “Very well.  As I was saying, His Lordship King Thranduil will not attend.”  He pulled an opened letter from the middle of the stack.  “It was thoughtful of him to time its arrival on the very day of council.”

Elrond shot the advisor a reproving glance over the top of the letter as he unfolded it. 

Erestor managed to return the look innocently enough.  “You will notice he did not write it himself.”

Elrond ignored the comment.

“’To his Lordship Elrond of Imladris,’” Elrond read aloud. 

‘His Royal Majesty King Thranduil of Mirkwood regrets he must decline the offer to attend council.  Roads of travel grow darker and fraught with greater peril at each passing twilight.  The King feels it necessary to remind you that His borders, unlike those of Imladris, Lórien, and Mithlond, are pressed daily by Enemy forces, and with increased intensity.  In light of the King’s enhanced obligation to the safety and welfare of his Realm, it is viewed in the Crown’s best interest to remain.  It is also suggested—‘”

Elrond was forced to lower the letter.  Erestor, who already knew of its contents, pursed his lips in self-satisfied anger and waited for Elrond to continue.

“’—It is also suggested,’” Elrond continued, unable to keep the irritation from creeping into his voice, “’that future council gatherings be held in Mirkwood, due to travel inconvenience on behalf of the Wood-Elf King.”’

A vision of Thranduil came to him: golden-haired and imposing.  There was a gleam of smug arrogance in the grey eyes, which clearly said, “I win.”

“Erestor.”  Elrond turned the letter face down and held it out to his chief advisor.  “Please take this and dispose of it.”

“But you have not yet read the part about how he does not have the luxury of being able to send his sons off—“

“I have read enough,” Elrond flatly replied.  He sighed in exasperation as Erestor reluctantly took the parchment.  Why must Thranduil always be so difficult?  Why?  Perhaps the other realms could be accused of minor negligence, having left Thranduil’s folk to fend for themselves.  But the Elven-King deserved his share of blame as well.  Never had Thranduil asked for aid.  In fact, he tended to be rather defiant in his refusals.

Elrond resisted the urge to throw his head in his hands and groan.  There were greater matters at hand than a battle of egos with fellow rulers—especially when they were notoriously sharp and stubborn as Thranduil.

“Shall I write a letter of response?”  Erestor’s eyes glittered wickedly. 

Elrond wearily shook his head.  “Nay, I shall write it.  I have no desire to present him with further fuel.”

Erestor cleared his throat and began to recite a response nonetheless.  “Dearest King Thranduil, Imladris is most saddened to learn you have voluntarily locked yourself in a cave…”        

Elrond bit back a chuckle.

Erestor grinned widely, then broke into soft laughter.  Mayhap he tended to stretch nerves, but he also knew how to soothe Elrond’s when the Elf lord needed it most.

A sharp rap upon the study’s oaken door halted their merriment.  Erestor noticed Elrond still.  The door opened soundlessly, Elrohir pausing to allow Elladan entrance.  Elrond rose from his seat.  The twins appeared clean and sleek—a look befitting rank and station.

They fell into step with each other and bowed simultaneously.  Erestor found the synchrony unnerving, and the strangely wild light in the twins’ grey eyes did not help matters. 

He was reminded of the injured hawk Aragorn had found when much younger.  Three weeks did the boy tend to it, and in the end, the bird still drew blood.

“Erestor.”  Elrond’s voice broke through his thoughts.  Erestor mentally shook himself, turning to find his Lord smiled softly at him.  “That is all,” said Elrond.  “I thank you for your aid, and will see you at the gathering presently.”

Collecting the various parchments from Elrond’s desk, Erestor bowed low and took his leave.  The advisor’s robes swished gracefully as he turned to shut the study door.  There was a soft click, and then naught but silence.

*          *            *         

Father and sons regarded one another for a few moments.  “You are late,” Elrond said at last, eyebrows arching in query.

“We were kept by other matters,” Elladan replied, a slight smile gracing his fair face.  “Apparently, we were missed even by those who have reason to celebrate our absence.”

“And,” broke in Elrohir, “you would be surprised by how many there are.”

Elrond could not help but chuckle.  “Doubtless they will remember their grievances once you have settled and again take up old antics.  Please,” he indicated the twins to sit with a sweep of his hand.

Elladan strode to a well-polished chair and seated himself.  Elrohir, never one to enjoy prolonged immobility, took to an absent pacing.

“Long has it been since you walked these halls.”

Elrohir nodded in agreement, though did not cease his nonchalant pace.

“The Enemy has grown in strength and number,” Elladan replied.  “And there are not many who would willingly pick up a blade against so wicked a foe.”

Elrond nodded.  “Still, not all battles are fought with swords.”

Elladan emitted a rather haughty snort, earning a sharp look from his father.  “Nevertheless,” said the eldest twin, “I prefer blade over speech.  Words and endless counsel will only cut so deep.  Such means cannot bring about a final end.”

“I speak not of talk,” said Elrond.  “For there are other means of defiance.”  He gestured to the windows.  “Look about you.  What do you see?”

“I see complacency and ignorance,” Elrohir replied with surprising scorn, whirling on his heel.  “I see those who turn a blind eye to the world outside, because they dare not admit darkness gathers just beyond the borders.”  His light footfalls echoed angrily in the still room.  

“And you, Elladan?”  Elrond, knowing the nature of his sons far too well to be caught off-guard by Elrohir’s outburst, turned quietly to the elder twin.  

Elladan propped his elbows on the chair, steepling his fingers and pursing his lips.  “I also see this.”  He met his father’s eyes.  “It is an illusion—a selfish dream mocking those who toil and perish beneath the ever-growing shadow.”

Elrond regarded the two in silence, though neither was able to decipher his thoughts.  “Then you do not look hard enough,” the Lord of Imladris said at last, moving silently to the window.  Sunlight played over leaf and grass.  A bee droned lazily from one brightly colored flower to the next.  “Perhaps there is truth in your words.  But I would ask you look again, for mayhap there is more.”

Elrohir ceased pacing and stood at his father’s side.  Elladan remained seated.  After several minutes, the younger twin crossed his arms and sighed heavily.  “It appears unchanged.”

A ghost of a smile flitted across Elrond’s lips.  “Yes, it is unchanged.  The grass remains green, the trees tall and proud, the gardens full and colored.  Song and laughter still fill the air.”  He drew away from the window, folding his hands within the sleeves of his robes.  “This ‘illusion,’ as you would name it, is a reminder.  It is a reminder of why we continue to battle.  It is our defiance.”  He glanced pointedly at each son.  “Even the hardest warrior finds himself wearied at times.  And when he seeks respite, we shall be here to shelter him.”

Elrohir met his gaze.  Elladan did not.

“Ever,” continued Elrond, “shall he have a home.”

Elladan shook his head, ebony hair gleaming at the movement.  “It is a home built upon the shards of faded dreams and memories past.  We have no wish to dwell in such a place.”  He rose abruptly and made for the door.  “Come, Elrohir.  Too long have we tarried in this illusion.” 

He paused in the doorway and bowed low towards Elrond.  “Farewell, Father.  We wish…  I wish…”  He closed his eyes momentarily, gathering himself.  “I am sorry, Father,” he said softly.  “Truly, I am.”

Elrohir bowed apologetically.  “As am I, Father.  But we cannot remain.”

Elrond watched as they turned to leave, noting the grace and purpose in their movements, how the twin bands of mithril seemed to fit just so on their heads, the way light from the windows richened the hues of their dark cloaks and glossed their equally dark hair.  When had Elladan taken to a double-edged blade?  When had Elrohir begun concealing a dagger in his right bracer? 

These strangely foreign yet strangely familiar lords were his sons.  His warriors. 

Proud, strong, and angry.   

‘Too long has this continued,’ thought Elrond.  Glorfindel had been right—as always.  ‘Too much has been left unsaid.  Here and now shall it end.’

He raised himself to full height.  “So you shall take your leave.”

It was neither question nor statement, but something in the Elf lord’s tone caused Elrohir to stop.  He swiftly grasped Elladan’s shoulder, bringing the elder twin to halt as well.

“And you shall return to wander your own territories,” Elrond continued levelly, knowing full well his words would bring about volatile reaction.  “Built upon bloodied soil and fashioned of bones from enemy and friend alike.”

Elrohir’s face paled in anger.  Elladan stiffened.

Elrond paused, calmly regarding each.  “I would name your illusion as great a mockery, for you fail to acknowledge there is still light and laughter in this world.  Not all is darkened by shadow.”

“But it soon shall be!”  Elrohir’s cry echoed painfully in the hushed room.  “We fight because you do nothing.  Nothing!  Where were you when Barad-dûr again reached skyward?  Where were you when the Enemy overran the mountains and forests and plains?  And where,” he pointed a slender finger at Elrond, unaware he was shaking, “where were you when Mother was taken?  When we found her?  Where were you?”

Elladan placed a comforting hand on each shoulder.  Elrohir found himself welcoming the familiar warmth.  For some reason he could not stop shaking.

“You were not there,” he cried hoarsely.  Elladan’s grip tightened.  Elrohir felt a tremor go through his brother.

“Where were you?”  Elrohir was not sure if it was he who spoke, or Elladan.  His eyes were beginning to burn.  Elladan’s hold was so tight it hurt.

And suddenly his father stood before him.

“Ai,” murmured Elrond.  “Ai, my sons.”  He placed a slender hand on each twin’s cheek, then grasped them firmly at the base of the neck, pulling each in for a fierce kiss on the forehead.  “Do not become so lost in your own pain that you fail to see the pain of those around you.”  He sighed wearily.  “Mayhap it is my own failing as a father, or that I allow myself to rely too heavily on that which I foresee—but I have always been here Elrohir.  Always.”

“Why did you not stop her?”  Elrohir’s voice was almost pleading.  “If you knew mother was—“

Elrond shook his head viciously, anguish openly marring his ageless features.  “Many sleepless nights have I spent over the very thought.  But I do not know all—only glimpses of what may come to pass.  You know this, for you are both gifted with foresight, though I know you do all in your power to repress it.  I wished to ride with you, but I am bound too tightly to this realm…”  He trailed off, clenching his hands and glancing at the ring upon his finger.  Inhaling deeply, he gradually relaxed his fists.  “That is why, I think, I said naught when you escaped into the Wilds.  I know what you do, Elladan and Elrohir; I know what you have done.”

Elrohir and Elladan pulled away from his embrace in shock.

Elrohir’s head lowered in shame.  “You know all we have done…”

They had tortured: scalped, amputated, burned alive, knowingly inflicted wounds that caused slow and agonized death just to hear the enemy scream.  Elrohir had put out eyes with his own thumbs.  He had once seen Elladan slice off a man’s fingers one by one.  And those weren’t even the worst of their deeds.

“We thought you took no notice.”  Elladan swallowed thickly.  “We thought you did not…”

“How could I not?”  Elrond grimaced.  “Yes, I have heard of your deeds.  I know of your reckless quests—those you have killed and the means by which you have done so.”

The twins flushed.  “What we have done,” Elladan said stiffly, “is nothing more than was deserved.”

 “Such judgment is not for me to pass,” Elrond replied.  “But I believe you already know whether or not your actions warranted.”  An image of Arathorn sprang from the depths of his mind unbidden.  “And,” he added, “I believe you know the price that will ultimately be paid.”

Elrohir sighed softly.  “Mayhap we have been too cruel and vengeful.”  He stared unseeing at the polished floor.  “Far too easily can we imagine each foe as one of Mother’s captors—that we may slay them again and again, each more vengeful than the previous.”

“And mayhap,” murmured Elladan, “it is penance for those we have lost because they chose to ride with us.  Those we drove foolishly to an undeserving grave.”

“I have been too silent,” Elrond said quietly.  “For in the darker corners of my heart I have oft wished to strike back as you do.  Yet I cannot, and so allow you to in my stead.”  He closed his eyes, voice dropping so low that Elladan and Elrohir had to strain in order to catch his words.  “It is difficult to stand by and do nothing.  More difficult than you know.”

Heavy silence blanketed the room, each Elf lost in his own thoughts and memories, yet knowing they all tread similar paths wrought with similar pains.

“She is gone,” Elladan at last spoke.  “We cannot bring her back.”

“Nay, we cannot.  But,” Elrond firmly replied, “it was not by fault of you or I what cruel fate befell Celebrían.” 

He placed a hand atop Elrohir’s dark head, though the latter was slightly taller than he.  It was strange yet comforting, he thought, how much of Celebrían he could see in the two identical faces.  And how much of himself.  “Do not think you must take on the world, my sons.  You are not alone in your battles.  You shall never be.”

Twin smiles, grateful and brilliant in intensity, lit the faces of Elladan and Elrohir.  “What would you have us do?” Elladan asked with uncharacteristic eagerness, striking a chord of amusement in Elrond.  “How may we aid you?”

“You may start by attending Council,” Elrond answered, opening the chamber door and indicating the twins should follow him.  “And those in the weeks and months to come.”

The twins stopped mid-stride.  Elrohir jerked back as though he had been slapped.  Elrond ignored their sudden halt and continued walking down the sunlit corridor.

“And is there aught else you would have us do?” Elladan called, unable to completely mask his bitterness.

“Such as lie here and rot?”  Elrond heard Elrohir mutter.  

The Lord of Rivendell turned, a slight twinkle in his grey eyes.  “I spoke in jest, my sons.  I would not torture you so by holding you prisoner in Imladris.”

Elladan blinked. 

Elrohir’s eyebrows drew into a single dark line of perplexion. 

“That was not amusing,” Elrohir said at last, eyeing his father suspiciously.  Elrond was not exactly known for his humor.

Elrond emitted a quiet chuckle.  “I would claim otherwise, but I will not press the matter.”

The sons of Elrond stood amidst the bright walkways of Rivendell, watching their father’s retreating figure sweep gracefully into the courtyard and beyond.  The two exchanged wordless glance of bafflement. 

Elladan absently straightened the mithril band about his forehead.  “He has an odd sense of humor.” 

Elrohir nodded in agreement.  “Yes, very odd.”  He tugged his brother’s sleeve.  “Come, let us not allow him to enter the council gathering without escort.  I fear he may attempt to jest with fellow members, and even Glorfindel would not be able to smooth over his insults.”

*          *            *

Walking hurriedly through the cheerful walkways and courtyard, the twins caught Elrond as he neared the council chambers.

“I would have you scout for Council,” Elrond told them.  “Much as do the Rangers.”

Elrohir brightened, a slight bounce entering his light step.  “We could ride with Estel and his Rangers of the North!”

Elladan nodded in agreement.  “We promised to return ere winter touched the land, as it was.”  He glanced eastward to the grey and snow-laden clouds upon the Misty Mountains with a slight frown.  “I fear we shall be late in meeting him.”

“Ride with him only until Spring’s first thaw.”  Elrond paused in front of the latticed double doors.  “He has chosen exile, and while we will not abandon him, we will let him seek his own path unhindered.”

“We shall heed your counsel,” replied Elladan.

Elrond nodded appreciatively before pushing open the double doors.  “And we shall need yours in the coming months.”  

*          *            *

Glorfindel looked up from the conversation he was engaged in with Gilbraith, a representative of Círdan from the Havens.  He caught Elrond’s eye, and the Lord of Imladris inclined his head and smiled slightly.

“My Lords.”  Elrond spread his hands in welcome as he addressed the small gathering.  “A star shines on the hour of our meeting.”

Glorfindel settled himself in his seat.  Elrond tended to be rather formal at times.  Introductions were bound to last half an hour—at very least.  Suppressing a sigh, he allowed his gaze to travel over to the twins.

Each sat tall and straight upon his chair.  ‘They are regal and powerful in their own right,’ thought Glorfindel, noting how well the delicate mithril-woven crowns rested upon their dark heads.  Bright grey eyes shone with wisdom on sculpted faces; slender hands were clasped nobly upon finely clothed laps.  The golden-haired Elf lord felt a surge of pride in spite of himself.  He had helped raise Elrond’s twin stars.  It was good to see them shine so brightly.

“They look well,” a voice murmured at his side.

Glorfindel glanced at Celeborn, watching the Sindar lord’s silvery eyes soften in filial pride.  His attendance had come as somewhat of a surprise, but it was a welcomed one nonetheless.  “I worried, for a time.  I feared we would lose them to the darkness as we lost my daughter.”  Celeborn straightened, silver hair flashing brightly in the sunlight. 

“By the Valar,” came an exasperated voice on the other side of Celeborn.  “Must he babble so?  And I do not think these seats were made for prolonged use.”

Glorfindel was too polite to lean forward in order to catch a glimpse of the second speaker.  As it was, he knew the soft grumbles of Gandalf the Grey well enough.  The wizard’s attendance had come as an even greater surprise than Celeborn’s.  So too had his appearance—a better part of his beard had been firmly knotted around a stick of beech.

Gandalf had vaguely mentioned something about visiting Radagast.  No one asked him to go into further detail.  All knew Radagast the Brown was mad, save perhaps Thranduil’s kin, who thought him wise and a bit misunderstood.  Then again, the Elves of Mirkwood weren’t exactly known for their sensible natures either. 

Thankfully, Saruman* had also come to the gathering, ensuring at least one sane wizard was present.

“My son-in-law enjoys words,” Celeborn replied dryly, albeit in good humor, to Gandalf.  “What may be said with one he says with eight.  Only when angry do I find such expressiveness helpful.”

Glorfindel blinked, arching one golden eyebrow in bemusement.  Celeborn’s serene bearing had not changed while he spoke—indeed, he still appeared to be listening attentively to Elrond. 

Noticing Elladan’s overly blank face and Elrohir’s suspiciously glassy eyes, Glorfindel decided he knew which side of the family was to blame.

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*Curunír, ‘the Man of Skill,’ aka Saruman, ‘Gee My Name Sounds A Lot Like Sauron.’

Coming eventually, Chapter 7!  Young Rangers learn the helpful properties of local vegetation (see: Healing 101), and Halbarad drags one very unwilling Heir of Isildur to the bar. 

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized characters and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

Thank you all for the magnificent reviews!  :)  Each one is a gift in its own right…  *happy sigh*  Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  Again, thank you!

A/N:  Minor stuff:  Aragorn Goes To The Bar has been pushed back a chapter, so my apologies if you were really looking forward to it this chapter.  Also, I wasn’t too thrilled with the flow of last chapter and will probably be revising it a bit.  I’ll let you know when it’s completed.  That being said, Happy Reading!

P.S.  Yes, I, too, was very sad about Bergil’s fate. 

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~ Chapter 7: Animal Farm ~

Aragorn awoke to the steady patter of rain upon oiled tent canvas.  A damp chill permeated the morning air, and it seeped through blanket and bone like the icy touch of a passing wraith.   

Aragorn shuddered and drew into himself, seeking to find some dry warmth beneath his covers.  Realizing his plight a lost cause, he at last threw them back and hastily dressed. 

Lacing his boots with numb and trembling fingers, he glanced to Halbarad’s side of the tent.  Halbarad’s bedroll was just visible in the grey morning light.

“Halbarad.  Halbarad.”  Aragorn knotted the final bootlace and vigorously blew into his frozen hands.  The mound of blankets across from him shifted and emitted a muffled groan.

“Halbarad, awake!” 

Aragorn caught sight of Halbarad’s tousled head.  It promptly disappeared beneath his pillow.

The Heir of Isildur stood, shifting from foot to foot in the dampness.  These wet and icy mornings were worst of all—there simply was no way to get warm.  A clammy chill settled into the bones and clung to everything.  Realizing his breath was visible, Aragorn released a steady puff and watched as the misty vapor hung momentarily before it vanished. 

Halbarad, upon discovering himself dangerously close to suffocation, popped upright with a greedy gasp.  “Halls of Mandos,” he swore, wrapping his blankets around him like a bulky shroud, “it is freezing.  And my pillow is sopping.”  He gave the offending cushion a punch for good measure.

“Mayhap you should not drool so much.”  Aragorn grinned and ducked as Halbarad threw it at him.

The rag-stuffed pillow hit the tent wall with a heavy flup!  The tent shuddered upon impact, and the two were showered with frigid water droplets.  Halbarad yowled.

“Come, Halbarad.”  Aragorn brushed errant droplets from his face with a light chuckle and tossed the other his thick black cloak.  “I shall not miss a hot meal on account of your tardiness.”  He snatched up the pillow and threw it good-naturedly at Halbarad.  It hit the shivering young Ranger in the face with a wet smack.

That damp and chilly morning, Aragorn learned Halbarad’s extensive knowledge of all things crude pertained to several gestures as well. 

*          *            *

Following a short but hot meal, the young Rangers gathered upon hewn logs and soggy tree stumps at wood’s edge.  There, they were met by the Dunedain chief Guttarion.  “Today,” the scarred Ranger barked, hand resting upon the sword pommel at his waist, “we work with plants.  Specifically, those of a healing nature.”

A few muffled sighs drown in the morning’s frozen drizzle. 

“Where are we supposed to find plants this time of year?” a flaxen-haired Ranger leaned over and whispered to his companion.

“Speak up, Caden.”  Guttarion’s flinty eyes settled on the young Ranger’s face. 

The flaxen-haired Ranger winced.  His face, already pale from the cold, went a shade whiter.  “Yes, yes sir.  I was wondering where we were supposed to find plants this time of year, sir.” 

“Aye,” his companion ventured, a lithe man with a mop of dark curly hair.  Aragorn knew little of him, save his name—Nethiron.  “They’ll—the plants, sir—have changed from the summer.”

Buoyed by the fact Guttarion hadn’t set upon the two, several murmurs of agreement followed. 

Guttarion nodded, craggy face appearing even more delved in the pale light.  “You’ll also discover some are no longer found, or that their healing properties have changed.”  He untied a leather healing pouch from his belt and dumped its contents onto an unoccupied tree stump.  “First,” he said, sifting through the withered leaves, “you’ll learn to again recognize the dried plants you collected this summer.”

Aragorn heard Halbarad mutter an inventive curse under his breath.  Though Halbarad was quite adept at stitching open wounds (“I had little choice in the matter,” he once confided to Aragorn.  “Tharbad is not a peaceful city.”), and was fast becoming one of the camp’s better swordsmen and trackers, he had no taste for healing.  He had barely been able to identify the assigned plants in the summer.  Were it not for Aragorn, Halbarad would still be confusing athelas with mint.

Coincidentally, Aragorn had made a mental note to never let Halbarad treat his ailments.

Guttarion held up a wrinkled brown leaf with a gentleness unexpected from his calloused hands.  “This is dock leaf.  It is used, if you recall…”         

Elbow upon knee, Aragorn rested his chin in his hand and sighed.  He knew plants as well as he knew the art of swordfighting.  Elrond was, after all, a renowned healer.  The young Heir of Isildur shifted on the tree stump, feeling the wetness beginning to seep through his clothes.  Idly, he picked at the tree bark.  It was going to be a very long, cold lecture.

Halbarad nudged him.  “You know why he stands as such?”

Aragorn blinked.  “What?  Whom?”

“Old Guttarion.”  Halbarad flashed him a grin.  He leaned in closer, well aware he had caught not only Aragorn’s attention, but those sitting next to them as well.  “He once angered a village of Hobbits—“

“Hobbits?”  Flaxen-haired Caden voiced the question before Aragorn or Nethiron could.

“Yes, yes—small folk.”  Halbarad waved a hand impatiently.  “Think Dwarves, only less hairy.”

“Hob-bit,” Aragorn heard Nethiron quietly repeat to himself.

“Old Gute,” Halbarad continued at a conspiratory whisper, “once angered a village of pherianneth.  So they took a pole and shoved it right—“

“Master Halbarad.” 

Halbarad stopped abruptly at Guttarion’s call.  “Master Halbarad,” the Ranger chieftain again said, folding his arms across his chest and standing with his legs braced slightly wider than shoulder-width.  “Would you care to repeat yourself so the rest of us can hear?” 

‘He is unnaturally stiff,’ thought Aragorn, resisting the urge to dissolve into wild laughter.  The fact that he couldn’t only made it worse.  Firmly pressing his lips together, he stared at his boots.  Caden and Nethiron seemed to be having similar difficulties.

“Well, sir.”  Halbarad leaned back lazily and scratched his chin, not missing a beat.  “I was contemplating with my fellow Rangers the purpose of this lecture.  Not that it is without merit, good sir, but I merely wonder why we must learn it all at once.”

Guttarion eyed Halbarad with a blank intensity Aragorn found rather Elvish.  Halbarad boldly stared back.  After a few tense moments, the Ranger Chief shifted and unfolded his arms.  Aragorn let out the breath he didn’t know he held, as did the rest of the young Rangers. 

“We review our plant studies, young Halbarad,” Guttarion spoke at last, “because we’ll be putting them to immediate use.” 

He gestured across the encampment, to the area near the Rangers’ spare woodpile.  Necks craned and bodies shifted accordingly.  Aragorn felt his curiosity piqued—there were all manner of wooden crates and cages within the clearing.

“You’ve each been assigned an injured creature,” Guttarion continued, sharp grey eyes glinting despite the misty drizzle.  “Your task is to heal this creature.”  His voice rose as the young Rangers began chattering excitedly among themselves.  “You are not allowed to switch animals with one another, and each must tend to his assigned animal without help.  The cages are labeled.”  He inclined his head sharply.  “Now go.”

Halbarad elbowed Aragorn and grinned cheekily.  “Bet they caught you an injured Warg.”

*          *            *

Aragorn was relieved to discover his “patient” a thrush with an injured leg.  Halbarad’s comment had irked him more than he cared to admit—in truth, he almost did expect some deadly beast of sorts. 

The bird chirruped and fluttered nervously in its wooden cage.  Aragorn smiled wryly.  “I suppose,” he addressed the frightened thrush, “you shall do just fine.” 

He sought out Halbarad, soon finding the other holding a small cage and looking immensely pleased with himself. 

“They gave me a thrush with a lamed leg,” Aragorn called, lifting the bird’s cage. 

Halbarad grinned.  “I got a field mouse with a broken tail.”  He held up his cage and poked at it. 

Aragorn leaned in for a closer look.  The mouse had a tiny pointed face and was dull brownish in color.  It was just like any other field mouse Aragorn had ever seen.     

Halbarad solemnly placed a fist across his chest.  “Do not fear, Halbarad the Second!  Soon you shall be mended!”

Aragorn snorted in disbelief and lifted his eyes from the quivering mouse.  “Self-centered lout.  Only you, Halbarad, would name an assignment after yourself.”

“I shall certainly not call him Strider,” came Halbarad’s retort.  He eyed Halbarad the Second approvingly and then glanced at Aragorn’s thrush.  “What will you name yours?”

Aragorn shook his head.  “It is not a pet.”

“I have always favored the name Arwen, you know…”

“NO.”

“Manivaninan?”

“What?  I cannot even say that—“

“Cargil?”

“No.”

“Baydar?”

“No.”

“Wren?”  Halbarad snickered.  “Because it is a thrush—“

“No.”  Aragorn shot him a withering look.  “He—or she—shall not have a name.”

Halbarad pursed his lips.  “Very well, then.”  He held up his cage.  The mouse squeaked as the wooden structure twisted wildly.  “Halbarad the Second, I introduce you to Lord NoName.”   

“Oh for love of the Valar.”  Aragorn rolled his eyes.  “Halbarad, do not get attached—we have to release them when they are healed.”

Halbarad ignored him.  Poking at Halbarad the Second’s cage, the young man frowned.  “Strider, do you think he is hungry?  Mayhap he would like a noodle or piece of cheese.”

A small lamb bleated and went capering by.  The Ranger Crow, whom Aragorn still liked least of all his fellow Dúnedain, swore and ran after it.

“AHH!  It bit me!”  Bethron, a long-legged youth from Osgiliath howled and took up an odd dance.  “Get it off!  Get it off!”  His companions Tarendel and Théomund desperately attempted to remove the fox kit attached to his hand.  Bethron’s third companion, Gilthorn, fell to the ground laughing. 

“Cah-reep!”  Lord NoName the Thrush tucked in his wings and eyed Aragorn solemnly.

Aragorn grimaced.  “Yes, I agree.”

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Coming Soon, Chapter 8!  A Ranger and an Elvish-raised man walk into a bar... 

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Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized places and characters are property of Tolkien Estates and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

Again, thank you for the amazing reviews!!!  :)  It’s always a thrill to receive your comments and suggestions…  Thank you! 

Now if you excuse me, I must go gleefully frolic in the fields of Review Heaven. Feel free to join me.  (The more, the merrier!  And it really is so much warmer there this time of year.)

*          *            *

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~ Chapter 8:  Nowhere to Run~

At the end of the month, Fall lay in its final throes.  The air grew crisper and the land more grey.  Winter was unrushed, watching the Autumn swiftly fade with predatory confidence.  Soon would the Wilds fall to Winter’s icy fury, and even now the land’s inhabitants felt its warning bite.

The Rangers, as Halbarad predicted, were given leave two days’ leave.  And so it was that Aragorn found himself a few hours’ journey from camp, in a town he really had no wish to be in.

*          *            *

Riordan was an obscene and filthy clutter that appeared to have sprung from thin air.  It sat amidst the weed-strewn grasses, seeming to have no discernable purpose other than to ruin a perfectly nice plain.

It smelled terrible—of animals, Men, and dirt—and all the buildings leaned against one another as though someone had been too uncaring to form upright, sturdy structures with hammer and nail.  A majority of the dwellings, Aragorn noted, were fashioned of stone and mud.  Young children, draped in unkempt furs to ward off the cold, ran freely through the muddy streets alongside goats, pigs, and chickens.  Why anyone would raise children in such filth was utterly beyond Aragorn.  ‘Though,’ he had thought, involuntarily jumping back in disgust as several wild youngsters hurtled by, ‘they seem to have more in common with the animals than their own parents.’

Rapid, tumbling reels spilled from raucous taverns and into the single road.  The Rangers—young and old alike—bee-lined for the largest and busiest tavern of them all.

Aragorn balked on the front porch steps.  The polished sign of the ‘Pour House’ creaked cheerfully in the wind.  Yellow torchlight flickered gaily within; feet thumped merrily against wooden floorboards.  There were loud shrieks and even louder bursts of laughter. 

Halbarad shoved him lightly.  “Hurry, I have no wish to stand out in the cold while merriment awaits inside!”

There was a deafening crash from within.  A body flew across the window. 

“Halbarad.”  Aragorn warily backed away.  “I think I shall go back to camp—“

“Melkor’s teeth, you will!”  Halbarad promptly shoved him through the front doors.

Aragorn blinked in the brilliant torchlight and choked.  The air was unnaturally thick with smoke—most likely due to the Rangers’ pipeweed.  Aragorn had no taste for the stuff and doubted he ever would.  He stiffened in alarm as fellow Rangers Caden and Nethiron jostled by.

“’Pologies, Strider,’” Caden called over his shoulder, flaxen hair gleaming in the torchlight. 

Aragorn held up a hand and smiled uneasily.  The Dúnedain had begun to accept him at last—even Crow—though it was still tinged with grudge.  Aragorn suspected besting old Guttarion during a sword match the previous week had elevated his status.  That, and the fact his courtesy never wavered no matter how badly they treated him.  As Halbarad had pointed out, it was no fun picking on one who took all things in quiet, good-natured stride.  “You are too boring,” the Ranger had said.  “They would find better entertainment insulting a passing cloud.”

“Come on!”  Halbarad latched onto Aragorn’s arm and dragged him towards the back of the room to the bar. 

“Halbarad, no.  I do not think this a very wise—“

“Stop whining.”  Halbarad roughly pushed the Heir of Isildur onto a stool and plopped down next to him.  “Ho, Madrun!”  He waived down the stocky barkeep and shot the man a mischievous grin.

The gesture was quickly returned.  “Istari’s bones!”  The burly, grey-haired Madrun released a deafening laugh.  Aragorn cringed.  “If it isn’t Master Halbarad come back to break the bar!”  He set down the mug he was polishing and gave Halbarad a hearty clap on the shoulder.

Halbarad laughed.  “I come for the ladies, Madrun—fear not for your bar.”

“Ahhh.”  Madrun nodded, and gave the other a knowing wink.  “Plenty of the sort here, if I do say so myself.  And who,” he asked, laughing blue eyes coming to rest on Aragorn, “might this be?”  

Halbarad slapped Aragorn on the shoulder.  “This, Madrun, is my good friend Strider.”  He eyed Aragorn proudly.  “You will not find a better swordsman or horseman anywhere on Middle-earth.”

Aragorn hoped his ears weren’t as red as they felt.

“On all of Middle-earth?”  Madrun released another thunderous laugh.  “Well, young Strider—“  He slapped Aragorn on the shoulder.  Aragorn nearly had the wind knocked from him.  “—a friend of Halbarad is a friend of mine.”

“Give us a round, if you will,” said Halbarad, a little too gleefully for Aragorn’s liking.  “And where might we find a table?”

“Over there.”  Madrun pointed a thick finger towards the corner before setting two foaming mugs upon the bar.  Halbarad thanked him, managed to swindle another two mugs from the barkeep, and motioned for Aragorn to follow him. 

“Nice meeting you, Strider!”  Madrun gave him a final painful slap on the shoulder before turning to greet another familiar face.  Aragorn gritted his teeth and settled for mentally slapping the man in reply.

*          *            *

Less than an hour later, Halbarad had managed to gather quite a large contingent of female admirers around the corner table.  Aragorn wondered how the tousle-haired Ranger remembered all their names, until he realized Halbarad was using generic pet-names.  Every one of them was a “Dear,” a “Darling,” a “Lady,” a “Love,” or a “Beautiful.”

“Who is your friend, Halbarad?”  A raven-haired beauty with large brown eyes sidled next to Aragorn.  He sat up a little straighter.

“Yes, we’ve never seen him before.” 

Aragorn jumped.  There was a blonde at his back.

An extremely curvy woman with dark wavy hair joined her.  Aragorn’s skin prickled.  The three maidens eyed him hungrily.

It vaguely occurred to him this was what a rabbit must feel when thrown into a den of wolves.  ‘Or Vampires,’ Aragorn decided, watching the blonde draw back full lips in what was supposed to be an alluring smile. 

“Dooo tellus Halllburrraddd.”  A slender redhead dissolved into drunken giggles as she fell onto Halbarad’s lap.  The young Ranger didn’t seem to mind.

“We grew up together, Strider and I,” said Halbarad, managing to take a sip of frothy ale without removing his arm from female company.  “We were raised by Elves, you know.”

Aragorn choked into his mug of ale.  The pack of females emitted high-pitched squeals of delight. 

“You never told us that before, Halbarad!”

“Ah, well,” Halbarad toyed absently with a lock of the redhead’s hair and smiled fondly at her.  “You know I do not like to brag.”

Aragorn again choked, and decided to stop drinking.  He found the ale disgusting as it was, though had wisely declined to complain about the matter.  The dark-haired maiden trailed a finger up his arm and smiled coyly. 

Aragorn gulped down the mug’s remaining contents in the hopes he might pass out.

A scuffle broke out on the opposite side of the room.  Irritable Crow had managed to pick a fight with a burly stonecutter.  Wood splintered as Crow threw the man into a rickety barstool.  Several mugs crashed to the floor and shattered.  The stonecutter lurched to his feet, chest heaving in rage, and launched himself at the Ranger.  Crow’s fist met his jaw with a sharp CRACK! 

The entire tavern roared in furious delight.

The two fighting men suddenly became four.  The four seven, the seven ten…  until at last every room in the Pour House was a mass of flying fists and unchecked tempers.  Cards fluttered from the ceiling and dice rolled across the floor as the gamboling tables met airborne bodies and collapsed.  Bar maidens picked up their skirts and screamed in mock terror.

Aragorn watched in a dumbfounded haze, the scene made even more surreal by the amount of ale he’d consumed.  The Rangers and townsfolk actually seemed to be enjoying themselves.  ‘Where,’ he thought, ‘in holy Eru AM I?’

Halbarad leapt to his feet with a whoop.  “Come on, Strider!  Let’s go punch someone!”  His face was flushed, though it was impossible to tell whether from excitement or alcohol.

The blonde pawed piteously at Aragorn’s sleeve.  “Bee carrreflle,” she slurred. 

Aragorn jerked his arm away as though he had been stung.  No more—this was pure and uncivilized madness.  And he’d had enough.

“Strider?”  Halbarad stopped mid-charge.  “Strider!”

Aragorn pushed his way through the brawling bodies, ducking and dodging when necessary.  He had to get out.  It was simply too much to handle.

It was with no small relief that he reached the door.  Throwing himself forward, he burst into the freedom of night and was hit by air so cold it took his breath away.  Tumbling down the front stairs, Aragorn practically staggered into the street.  He inhaled greedily, the crisp night air clearing his sluggish mind. 

Stables.  His horse was in the stables. 

“Strider!”  Halbarad bounded down the rickety steps.  “Where are you off to?”  He sighed in exasperation when Aragorn didn’t answer.  “Bloody Void, Strider.  Lighten up.”

Aragorn hunched into himself, attempting to ward off the biting cold, and began walking down the deserted street.  His footsteps echoed loudly.  Muted strains of music and leaping torchlight spilled into the night.

“Aragorn, is it too much to ask that you act as a Man for at least one evening?”

“They did not act as Men,” Aragorn called in reply, not bothering to turn.  “They acted as beasts—disgusting, filthy beasts!  I could not breath in there.” 

“Strider—“ 

Aragorn quickened his pace.  The stables loomed silently ahead.

“Strider!”

He heard Halbarad release a strangled cry of frustration.

“Fine—keep running away!”

Aragorn stopped and turned crossly.  “I am not running away.”

Halbarad snorted.  “This is the Wilds, Aragorn.  Everyone is running away from something.”

The caustic bitterness in Halbarad’s voice was new to Aragorn.  Though—strangely enough—it wasn’t unfamiliar.  Aragorn briefly wondered where he’d heard it before.

“I am not running away,” he said flatly.  “I have never run away.”  Adjusting his scabbard with a sharp tug, he turned and continued walking towards the stables. 

“Oh no?”  Much to Aragorn’s chagrin, Halbarad fell into step beside him.  “You escaped the world of Men when you were small, and then you ran away from the Elves when you were older.  Aragorn—it seems to me you have done nothing but run away your entire life.”

Aragorn lifted his head to the crisp black night and sighed in exasperation.  The last strains of tavern music faded into the wintry shadows.  “My life is more complicated than that, Halbarad.”

“There are times when we need to simplify, Strider.  It keeps us from getting ahead of ourselves.”

Aragorn blinked and glanced at the other in surprise.  Where had that come from?

Halbarad’s somber face broke into its familiar grin.  “Then again, these words do come from the mouth of one afflicted with the tendency to exaggerate.” 

Aragorn chuckled in resignation and threw an arm over Halbarad’s shoulder.  “You were beginning to sound like a Ranger, my friend.  I was worried.”

Halbarad returned the gesture.  “Yes, and so were you.”

The two laughed quietly and walked down the street, swaying carelessly like two drunken revelers. 

“Strider,” Halbarad asked at last.  “Why did you leave Rivendell?  I admit, I have oft wondered.”

Aragorn dropped his arm and grew momentarily silent.  “Lord Elrond declared I could not take Arwen’s hand until I recaptured my birthright.  Until I became King of Gondor.”

Even in the darkness he was able to see Halbarad’s astonishment.  “He told you what?  And you agreed?”

Aragorn smiled wryly.  “No, I ran away.”

“King of Gondor…”  Halbarad shook his head and released a low whistle.  “I would have told the old peredhil to go and boil his head, then I would have grabbed the fair maiden and eloped.”

Aragorn shuddered, imagining the look on Elrond’s face should he tell the Elf lord to, “go and boil your head.”  “I do not think that would go over too well.”

Halbarad snorted.  “What kind of madman demands such from his daughter’s suitor?”

“First,” Aragorn replied, “Lord Elrond is an Elf, not a madman.  And a very wise one at that.  Secondly, he has foreseen my future—“ 

“Oh no.”  Halbarad held up a shadowed hand.  “No, no, no.  I do not believe in ‘foresight.’  Speak naught of it.  It is no more than foolish nonsense.”

“How so?”  Aragorn glanced at the other in bemusement.

“Strider,” came Halbarad’s pointed reply.  “They walk around claiming to see visions and hear voices.  Just as any normal madman.”

“Yes, but—“

“If I ever start hearing voices in my head, I should think it insanity rather than foresight.”

“It is different,” Aragorn insisted, chuckling in spite of himself.

“Nay, it is not.”

The two stopped in front of the stable doors. 

“You head back to the tavern,” said Aragorn, noticing for the first time Halbarad had put no cloak on in his haste to catch him.  Aragorn felt a surge of affection and gratitude for the other.  It quickly grew to concern as he saw Halbarad suppress a shiver.  “Go!  I know my way back to camp.  I shall be fine.”

“Truly?”  Halbarad vigorously rubbed his hands up and down his arms for warmth and searched the other’s face.

Aragorn caught the brief yet bright flash in Halbarad’s grey eyes.  “Yes, truly!  Now be gone—before you freeze to death.  And,” he added dryly, “the ladies are probably miserable in your absence.”

Halbarad laughed and turned down the path, retreating back to the tavern at a brisk jog.  Aragorn watched him go, a dark and confident figure moving swiftly against the muted glow of tavern lights.

‘Guttarion,’ he realized with a start.  That was why Halbarad’s tone had felt so familiar.  Pausing in the doorway, Aragorn furrowed his brow and idly wondered what it was Halbarad was running away from. 

*          *            *

The night weighed heavily upon Aragorn, as did the ale, by the time he reached the encampment.  Sliding wearily from his steed, he gave the horse a quick rubdown.  “Rest well, Foliar,” he murmured, giving the stallion a few pats on the neck.  The horse nickered fondly in reply.

He passed the wooden cages and pens on the way to his tent.  The fact that he bid them goodnight, Aragorn decided, was due purely to exhaustion.

Crow’s lamb bleated.  “’Night Fluffy,” Aragorn mumbled.

Nethiron’s badger grunted; Caden’s mole shuffled.  “’Night Stripes, Diggles.”

A tiny squeak was emitted as Aragorn stumbled by.  “’Night Lord Halbarad and NoName the Second—I mean,” Aragorn grimaced and stifled a yawn, glad Halbarad hadn’t been around to witness that mix-up.  He would never hear the end of it and probably be forced to start calling Halbarad ‘Lord.’  “—Goodnight Halbarad the Second and Lord NoName.”

A weary sigh of relief escaped his lips as he rounded the tents.  Reaching his own, he lifted the heavy flap and allowed himself another yawn.  It was good to be home—even if it was freezing and smelled of musty canvas.

Aragorn threw himself onto his bedroll, not even bothering to take off boots or cloak.  So what if they were muddy.  ‘Everything else is, too.’

And with that final thought, Strider the Ranger fell into blissful slumber.

************************************************************************