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

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 5: Chieftain of the Dúnedain

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

The Council of Elrond                                                          The Fellowship of the Ring

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   No, he would not think of his home.

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

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

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

~oo0oo~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Halbarad!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   Aragorn took his hand and smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “Swear fealty to my lord, of course.”

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

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

   Rather embarrassed, he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

   Aragorn grinned at him.

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

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

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

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

~oo0oo~

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

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

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

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

   Halbarad followed the line of his finger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~oo0oo~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   The old man smiled at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~oo0oo~

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

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

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

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