For a long moment, neither man spoke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fifty lies some years yet before me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

Better to wait and let the man come to him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What did it look like?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

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

"I hit you in the head."

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

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

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

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

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

"How?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When will you come?"

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

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

~~~fini~~~