They had come to a fork in the road two days ago.
“To the right is the Greenway?” Aragorn had ventured
“Aye, son. It skirts the Barrow Downs then makes way to Bree”
“And the left?”
“Over Sarn Ford and then into the Shire.” Aravir had pointed to the northwest. Neither path was well tended, just a memory in the earth, an opening in occasional clumps of trees that spotted the rolling grasslands.
“We’ll cross at the Ford then hug the west bank of the Baranduin, the hobbits call it Brandywine. And at a certain point we will be on the doorstep of a hobbit who knows me well”
The crossing had been uneventful. They had not seen a soul on road since Tharbad. Aragorn had concluded rightly that there was no good reason for anyone to use it. There was no trade between the Shire and the almost empty lands to their South.
And this also meant that none knew they were here which is as they preferred. And here was a spot near the southern Fringe of the Shire, where they were about to depart the northbound trail and make their way overland up along the Baranduin.
It would be a few days of mixed woodland and grassland along the river, becoming increasingly forested as they approached the southeast extremity of the Shire. Aravir knew that would last but half a day until the trees gave way to the first farms. At that point the Baranduin carved a steeper bank as it wound almost due north. They would then stay out of sight along the base of those banks, not drawing attention until their destination.
It was quite pastoral and peaceful in fine early spring weather. Too quiet for Aragorn’s tastes, a young chieftain to be, thinking more of great deeds instead of golden dells.
“Be grateful your sword is sheathed, Aragorn” Aravir glanced his way, as if reading his thoughts. “The last war in these lands was the end of Arthedain, the scattering of our people, and the beginning of these journeys we take to keep war away. That is what war can do, and worse”
Aragorn was silent.
“Now as to the Halflings. They are industrious farmers, skilled and prosperous, content with the rhythm of their lives. Delight comes from a good ale, a song in the tavern, feasts and featherbeds. And we have the remit to let them live that life without threat”
“We have done well, it seems.” Aragorn broke his silence.
Aravir smiled. He was beginning to understand.