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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 26: The Sons of Elrond

To his surprise Frodo saw that Aragorn stood beside her; his dark cloak was thrown back, and he seemed to be clad in elven-mail, and a star shone on his breast.  

Many Meetings                                                                           The Fellowship of the Ring

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn looked at the garments laid out carefully on his bed. The Elven-mail was ancient; it had probably seen battle in the Second Age, if not the First, but in the pale light of early evening, its mithril rings glistened as brightly as if it had been made but lately. He ran his fingers over the intricately woven metal; the craftsmanship was unbelievable. Beside it lay a shirt made from the finest soft leather. It too was centuries old, but it was still supple and pliant from meticulous oiling and care. The tunic was newly made; the collar and cuffs decorated with exquisite embroidery, stitched he knew, entirely by the hand of his beloved.

   Arwen had been most insistent that he dress according to his status for the feast tonight. He had declined to argue that in his travelling gear he felt he did just that. He was Chieftain of the Dúnedain, nothing more. As a child he had often been attired as an Elven princeling, as befitted a foster son of the Lord of Imladris. But after so many years as a humble Ranger, he was far more comfortable in the plain browns and greens that enabled him to blend unseen into the landscape of Middle-earth than the finery preferred by the Elves. Nowadays it was only his boots that betrayed his Elvish connections. The cobbler of Rivendell kept him well shod and, on his long journeys, he was ever grateful for the comfort of his well fitting leather boots.

   With a sigh of acceptance, he shed his robe and reached for the leather shirt that was worn next to his skin. It fitted him perfectly. Next he donned the tunic. It was unlike anything he had worn in a long time, but he esteemed it the most, knowing the affection that had gone into every stitch. He then struggled into the mail, but once it was secured, he found it to be surprisingly light and easy to wear. Finally, to his breast, he pinned his silver brooch, the Star of the Dúnedain, the sole concession to his own heritage.

   Suitably dressed for the evening, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. The Elven-warrior looking back at him was a stranger. Arwen, in the four days he had been home, had tidied him up considerably. His hair was now combed and cut, and his beard neatly trimmed. Cleaned, and refreshed from some much needed sleep, he barely recognised the man gazing back at him. He wondered, rather fancifully, if kings were always expected to dress in such a manner or would the lord of the realm be permitted to wear whatever he desired.

   He smiled at himself for allowing his thoughts to run away with him. He was not a king yet and no good would come of indulging in day dreams; not when such a seemingly hopeless task still lay before him.

   He turned away from the mirror. He was actually rather looking forward to tonight’s feast. Thoughts of the fare awaiting him at Rivendell had sustained him on many a bleak journey and this latest one had been no exception. For a few hours tonight he intended to put away his cares. The Hobbits and the Ring were safe within the bounds of the Elven refuge and, at least for the moment, they were not his responsibility. He still shudderedwhen he thought how close they had all come to disaster. Without that fortuitous meeting with Glorfindel, they would never have reached the Ford in time.  Even so, Frodo’s condition had still caused grave concern for several more days, but now, thankfully, he seemed to be recovering from his wound well enough.

   Aragorn’s relief at this encouraging turn of events left him feeling more hopeful than he had been for some time. Since arriving in Rivendell, he had also managed to spend a few happy hours in the company of Arwen, cherishing as ever the short time they had together, her presence succouring and restoring him like that of no other. But a major factor contributing hugely to his more relaxed mood was that Gandalf had been waiting for them when they arrived. Aragorn’s burden was eased enormously on finding his old friend safe and well.

  Although he expected to leave again tomorrow, following Elrond’s meeting, for tonight, at least, he intended to celebrate and enjoy the delights of his father’s table. He was for once planning to sit openly beside his lady among the lords of Imladris and the many guests who had been arriving in Rivendell over the past few days. Dwarves from Erebor had arrived that very afternoon; Bilbo had already introduced him to the legendary Gloin. Also there were Elves from the Havens; emissaries of Círdan, as well as King Thranduil’s son, Legolas, who had come all the way from Mirkwood.

   He was looking forward to a pleasant evening meeting old friends and making new ones.

   He was about to leave his room and make his way to the feasting hall when a message was brought to him; Elladan and Elrohir had returned from the wilds and wished to speak with him at once. Aragorn was relieved to hear they were back. When Elrond had sent out his greatest warriors against the Nine, his sons had elected to head south-west to strengthen the defences of the Dúnedain guarding the southern border of the Shire. Aragorn was hoping they would have some news of his men stationed at Sarn Ford. They were never far from his mind and he was very aware that he would have joined them had it not been for the necessity of urgently searching for the Ringbearer.

   Aragorn grabbed his old cloak and went looking for the twin brothers. He found them walking up the path on their way back from the stables and embraced them both in joy that they looked well and were clearly unharmed.

   “You have impeccable timing, my brothers,” he said, grinning at them both. “A great feast is about to begin. If you hurry you will not miss the first course. I forget exactly what it is; Arwen did regale me with the full menu earlier this afternoon, but I’m sure you would not wish to miss any of it.”

   “I am sure we would not, Estel,” said Elladan levelly, but something in the tone of his voice caught Aragorn’s attention. He suddenly remembered the urgency in the message and immediately he felt a dull stab of fear in the pit of his stomach as he anticipated bad news.

   “What is it?” he asked. “You wished to speak with me. What has happened?”

   “Come inside to father’s study,” said Elrohir, taking his arm and guiding him towards the door of the house. “We bring news you may wish to hear at once.”

   All thoughts of his supper forgotten, Aragorn was willingly led back inside.

   “But tell us of yourself first,” said Elladan as they climbed the steps to the main entrance. “We have so far only gathered the sparest details of all that has happened in our absence. We understand the Ringbearer is here, but injured. That is all we know.”

   “Well then let me put your minds at rest at once,” said Aragorn. “The Ringbearer is recovering from his wound, thanks to Elrond’s skill, though it was very nearly too late by the time we arrived here. The Black Riders pursued us from Bree. Five of them attacked our camp at Weathertop where Frodo was stabbed.”

   “What!” Elladan stopped in his tracks, his horror plainly written on his face. “You mean to tell me you confronted five of the Nazgûl alone?”

   “No, Elladan, I was not alone. I had four hobbits with me.” Aragorn was impatient to hear what news the twins so urgently bought and had no desire at all to dwell on the events of that terrible night.

   “The hobbits no doubt were a great comfort, but Estel, you could all have been killed,” said Elrohir. “However did you evade them?”

   Realising he was never going to hear their tidings until he had told his tale, Aragorn sighed and gave the briefest account he felt he could get away with.

   “You obviously know even less of hobbits than I,” he said. “I don’t believe the Wraiths expected to be resisted so strongly. Even Frodo stabbed at the Witch-king though he only succeeded in cutting his cloak.” Aragorn watched with satisfaction as his brothers’ eyebrows shot up. “The Wraiths then withdrew and in the morning we were able to evade them.”

   “However did you manage that?” asked Elladan. “Surely you didn’t bring the hobbits all the way from Weathertop along the East Road?”

   “No, we would have been caught for sure,” said Aragorn with rapidly waning patience. “I took them south and cut through the Wilderness.”

   “With five Wraith’s on your tail?” asked Elrohir in amazement. “That can not have been easy!”

    “It was not. I have never cared much for that barren place at the best of times,” said Aragorn as he thought of the long stretches of wasteland where they could easily have been attacked as they made their way from one clump of stunted trees to the next. “It was a miserable journey.”

    Aragorn really did not want to recall that first day after Weathertop. He had been beside himself with worry for Frodo and fear that the Ringwraiths would at any moment be upon them again. He had done his best to keep his own terror from his small charges lest it undo them completely, but the events of the night before had left them all feeling defeated and heavy hearted. They were all desperately tired that morning and the hobbits had been exceptionally quiet all day. All he could remember was the sound of rhythmic thud of the pony’s hooves as he plodded along steadily behind him. Frodo had barely been able to stand so they had put him up on Bill. He had sat hunched up with his eyes closed for much of the way, his face grey and drawn. Rivendell and Elrond’s care had seemed an impossibly long way away. The only glimmer of hope that had kept him going was the possibility that Gandalf had been at Weathertop before them and might at that very moment have been trying to bring them aid.

   Aragorn suddenly realised both the twins were staring at him intensely. He knew exactly what they were searching for.

   “No,” he shook his head. “I have been pronounced free of any sign of the Black Breath, so you have no need to concern yourselves about my well being. I travelled many miles the night after the attack, both searching for athelas and for signs of the Nazgûl. Fortunately, I found the one and not the other. Even so, I was unable to do much to ease the Ringbearer’s suffering.”

   Still the twins stated at him as if fully expecting him to elaborate so he hurriedly finished his tale. “It was a difficult journey, but we eventually reached the Last Bridge. We would though have been caught on the Road had we not been saved from disaster by Glorfindel who, no doubt, will provide you with a full and detailed account of his involvement in the matter. Now, if you don’t mind, I believe you have urgent news that I should hear at once.”

   He had shamelessly used his ‘Chieftain of the Dúnedain’ voice to halt any further questioning. He never ceased to be amazed by how remarkably effective it always was. Satisfied that the discussion had well and truly ended, he strode on purposefully down the corridor to Elrond’s study. As he opened the door, he turned and gave his foster brothers a small apologetic smile as he disappeared inside.

   The room was empty as all the inhabitants of the Last Homely House were at the feast, but, nonetheless, a fire burned welcomingly in the grate. The sons of Elrond entered the room right behind Aragorn and immediately strode towards the fire and began warming their hands. Aragorn stood in the middle of the room and waited anxiously for them to speak.

   At last, Elladan turned to face him. “Estel, we have been with the Rangers at Sarn Ford.”  His fair face looked grim and Aragorn at once saw the sadness in his eyes.

   Dread settled like a weight in his stomach. He had seen that look on far too many faces and on far too many occasions in the past.

   “Tell me,” he commanded.

   “I’m afraid we arrived too late to be of any help to them. The Nazgûl had already been there.”

   Aragorn gasped and felt as if he had been punched in the chest.

   “What happened?” The question caught in his throat; he was sure he already knew the answer.

   It was Elrohir who broke the news. “Apparently, they were confronted by all nine of the Ringwraiths at once. The Rangers made as brave a defence as they could, but they were unable to withstand such an attack. It must have been terrible for them.” He hesitated for a moment as horror appeared on Aragorn’s face. “I am sorry, Estel, but three of them did not survive.”

   “Who?” asked Aragorn simply, his voice tight with the effort of suppressing the sudden pain that always seized him on hearing of the deaths of any of his people.

   “Halmir was the first to fall. It was he who challenged them. Then Dagnir and Baragund were slain with him as they came to his aid. But such was the dread the Nine unleashed, eventually the remainder fled in terror. Had they stood their ground, they would have fallen also. The Ringwraiths can not be gainsaid.”

   It was as he had dreaded, but Aragorn was still stunned with grief. “I should have been with them,” he said quietly, his voice barely a whisper. “They knew not what they faced.”

  Elladan came to stand beside him and placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. He spoke gently. “Estel, I doubt it would have made any difference if you were there or not. The Rangers stood between the Nazgûl and the Shire. They were determined to enter at any cost and would have slain to the last man any who stood in their way. Had you been there, you would have fared no better and who then would have come to the aid of the Ringbearer?”

   Aragorn bowed his head for a moment and closed his eyes. He loved his men, each and every one of them. The deaths of any of his Rangers cut him to the core. He could well imagine the horror they had endured. He had been fortunate when he had faced the five Wraiths on Weathertop. They had retreated because they believed their work to be done; the Ringbearer was wounded and they could bide their time. But the Nazgûl would have been totally ruthless against his Rangers. The faces of the slain men stared at him in his mind; he could picture their wives and families and in great sorrow, he imagined them learning the fates of their loved ones.

    But he could not dwell on this loss now. Long ago he had learned how to contain his grief; to stow it away for the right time and place when he could take it out again and mourn properly, as his aching heart desired. Now was not the right time; there was still too much that demanded his full attention, too much was still at stake and many more lives would be lost before the coming war was over. He raised his head and, in a voice devoid of emotion, he asked: “Do you have any other news?”

   Elladan squeezed his shoulder and the look on his face confirmed his understanding. Stepping back to the fire, he said: “Yes, there was one other matter of some urgency that we thought you would wish to hear about at once.” He paused to accept a goblet of wine from Elrohir who then offered one to their foster brother also.

   “As we returned home tonight, we met a couple of our scouts just beyond our border. They had a strange tale to tell for they had with them a man from Gondor. He had travelled from that land seeking Imladris, but he had no knowledge of where it lay. The scouts came across him wandering aimlessly and offered to accompany him the rest of the way here. It was fortunate for him perhaps that the guard on the valley is so intense at the moment or he might have searched in vain for days before being found. They were making camp on the far side of the Bruinen when we left them. They will not come here now until first light in the morning.”

   “Who is this man? Did you ask his name?” asked Aragorn. There were so many strangers here, he was not unduly surprised that one should come from Gondor, but he was curious as to who it might be.

   “The man is called Boromir. He is the son of the Steward of Gondor.”

   “Boromir?” exclaimed Aragorn in wonder. “Denethor’s son has come here in person! Did he speak of his reasons for doing so?”

   “Yes, he did,” said Elladan, “though he was reluctant at first and we had to press him. It would seem he is seeking the answer to a riddle that once came to him in a dream. Correct me if I am wrong, Elrohir, but as I recall it went something like this:

“Seek for the sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul spells.

There shall be shown a token

That doom is near at hand,

For Isildur’s bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.” [1]

   “Well remembered,” said Elrohir with a smile as he acknowledged his brother’s word perfect recital. Then speaking to Aragorn, he said: “Apparently there were no masters of lore in Minas Tirith who could interpret the meaning of the rhyme. He has had a long and hard journey looking for Imladris and he knows nothing of a broken sword or of Isildur’s bane. The name Halfling he recognises only as a term from legend.”

   Aragorn was shaken by this news. The rhyme was uncannily accurate. What ancient power had caused Denethor’s son to dream so vividly of this? It was the first line of the riddle, though, that stayed in his head and intrigued him the most.

   “Seek for the sword that was broken,” he repeated to himself. “Why is that do you think? It is almost as if it is a summons.”

   “That is what we thought also,” said Elladan. “But whatever its meaning, we thought you would wish to hear of this as soon as possible.”

   “Yes indeed,” said Aragorn absently, as his mind raced over the implications of this unexpected development. The Steward’s elder son was only a baby when he last saw him, some forty years ago. But if Boromir was coming here tomorrow, and to Elrond’s meeting, then he must be prepared and decide this very night what to say to him. The man may be looking for a broken sword, but Aragorn very much doubted that he knew the sword came with an owner. The line of Isildur was believed in Minas Tirith to have died out long ago and little was now remembered among the men of Gondor of their Northern kin. Now might be the time to shatter that belief. But he would need to build his case carefully. If the son was anything like his father, he would be both shrewd and proud. Aragorn doubted he would react with joy to the revelation that his position as the heir to the ruler of Gondor might be challenged. Even though he always suspected Denethor had guessed who Thorongil really was, he doubted he would have revealed that information to anyone, not even his heir.

   Tomorrow it might perhaps be prudent to carry the Shards of Narsil with him. The sword, after all, had been placed in his hands by Elrond himself; there could be no denying its lineage. Soon the time would come when it would be reforged.

   Was it then his fate to go with this man to the aid of Minas Tirith?

   “Estel?” asked Elrohir.

   Aragorn came out of his musings and found his brothers looking at him curiously. A trace of embarrassment appeared on his face at having been so wrapped up in his own concerns.

   “Forgive me, my mind was elsewhere, but I thank you for telling me all this,” he said. “I assume you did not provide the man with any answers?”

   “Of course not,” said Elladan, “but if he attends tomorrow’s meeting he shall no doubt hear some. How much do you propose to tell him?”

   “That I may need more time to consider,” replied Aragorn. Somehow he had a feeling he might be awake well into the night considering that very question.

   At that moment there was a knock at the door and a servant entered.

   “Forgive the intrusion, my lords,” he said with a dip of his head, “but I am seeking the Dúnadan.”

    As his eyes alighted upon Aragorn, he said: “And I see I have found him, at last. Your presence, lord, is requested in the Hall of Fire by Master Elrond. I believe Bilbo Baggins has need of your skills in completing his poem.”

   Aragorn smiled as he thought of Bilbo and his passion for poetry. “Please assure Master Elrond that I will attend to Mister Baggins shortly.”

  As the servant left, Elladan said: “Go Estel, we have detained you too long already; I’m sure our sister will be wondering what has become of you.”

   “Arwen will be most distressed at my missing the feast. However I shall not hesitate to inform her that the blame is entirely yours.”

   Elrohir laughed. “Very well, blame us if you must. After all, we have far more practice at placating Arwen than you.” Then, as if noticing for the first time how Aragorn was dressed, he added: “I must say, Estel, you look very regal tonight. I guess this is Arwen’s doing.”

   “Indeed it is,” replied Aragorn, drawing back his cloak to better reveal the mail beneath. “Arwen was most insistent that I dress appropriately. It would appear that my usual attire is far too rustic for such a grand occasion.”

   “Quite so,” said Elladan, “but that probably means we are unacceptably dressed also. The feast will most likely be over by now, so perhaps Elrohir and I will wander over to the kitchens instead to see if we can salvage anything from tonight’s celebrations.”

   “Well if you do, remember me,” said Aragorn. “I would have enjoyed a five course dinner tonight if it were not for your untimely intervention.”

   “Very well, little brother, we will not forget you,” said Elladan. “Come and join us later and we will see you don’t go hungry.

  Smiling his gratitude, Aragorn left them to join the gathering in the Hall of Fire. His mind was still reeling from all he had heard that evening. As he made his way down the long corridors, he knew he should be concentrating on the matters likely to be discussed at the meeting tomorrow, but all he could thing of were his slain friends and how terrible their last few moments must have been. Finally, unable to string together a single coherent idea, and not wishing to be weighed with grief, he turned his thoughts to Frodo. The feast had been in his honour after all and he hoped, more than anything, that he had enjoyed himself tonight. He would do his best not to sully his evening with a dour face.

    And hopefully there would still be time before the sun rose too high in the sky tomorrow for him to consider carefully the words he would speak at Elrond’s Council.

~oo0oo~

“Where have you been, my friend? Why weren’t you at the feast? The Lady Arwen was there.”

   Strider looked down at Bilbo gravely. “I know,” he said. “But often I must put mirth aside. Elladan and Elrohir have returned out of the Wild un-looked for, and they had tidings that I wished to hear at once.”

Many Meetings                                                                           The Fellowship of the Ring

[1] The Council of Elrond                                                         The Fellowship of the Ring