They had ridden silently for two hours. Ahead Aranuir could see the path widening as it approached Framsburg.
With a practiced eye he measured it at five streets square. Two story houses next to shops of skilled tradesmen, a market square, and taverns lined the main dirt road. Off to the left the land rose. Atop a hill overlooking the village was a large great house and meeting hall. It would be the chieftain’s residence.
As they approached, the dirt path was replaced with laid stone, making a wide sweep across the face of the hill as it rose to the top. Aranuir glanced up. A tall, powerfully built man with long dark blond hair watched him impassively from a railing outside the great house.
There was movement amongst his group. Several riders escorted Wulfric off to a long one story building on the side of the hill below the road. Others turned and headed back to Framsburg for a tavern visit prior to resuming their patrols. The rest took formation tightly around Aranuir as the rounded the curve in the stone path and approached the great house.
The man on the rail was there, on a stone patio outside the house. He had company. Three armed guards and a white haired wizened old man. Aranuir’s escort halted, the patrol leader gestured that he should dismount and walk to the chieftain.
Aranuir slowly eased out of the saddle, then stood next to Naron and paused, staring at the patrol leader.
“He will be well cared for. As will your belongings.”
The voice came not from the leader, but clear and resonant from across the patio. It was Cenulf, the chieftain.
Aranuir released the reins and began to walk the 50 paces that separated him from Cenulf. He was indeed a large man, Aranuir considered appraisingly. He was a broad and tall as Aranuir had been in his prime, which was a head taller than most men of that day. But much the same could be said of many of the men of the Eotheod.
Cenulf now strode slowly towards him, hand extended.
“Welcome to Framsburg, traveler. And accept my gratitude for tending to my son in his test of the wild.”
Aranuir clasped his hand, two calloused, rough palms held together in a cordial but wary shake of welcome and appreciation.
“I did what any man would do.” Aranuir rumbled
Cenulf looked at him, weathered, wrinkled, long white hair of shoulder length. An old man, but one still sufficiently hale to brave the wild on his own. Efficiently attired in worn but serviceable light leather armor and wool cloak.
Aranuir in turn appraised his host. His leather tunic was of more recent vintage, worn over a white shirt. The leather breeches were well crafted and not for work in the fields or riding patrol. Over top the tunic was a light fur jacket. Penetrating blue eyes stared out from under light brown brows.
“Come then, sit with me and my great uncle. Tell us this tale.” Cenulf beckoned to a table with three chairs. A very old man was already sitting, sipping ale from a well wrought metal cup. Aranuir sat next to him, staring across the table at Cenulf.
“I am Cenulf, chieftain of the Eotheod. This is my great uncle Aldhelm who has seen 90 summers in his long life
“I am Aranuir, son of Arahael. I passed through the Misty Mountains near a fortnight ago, having journeyed from west and south of Bree.”
“You ride alone. Your baggage says you are ready for a fight but do not seek one. Sacks and pouches of food for you and your mount suggest plans for many days in the wild. But you carry no tools of permanence to dig a cellar, prepare a foundation. You are always on the move.”
Aranuir considered his words. Cenulf was indeed a shrewd observer. But he was also asking the question, who are you? Aranuir decided to be direct and honest, always a risk.
“This is not my first visit to your lands. Most, I have seen from afar, atop a high ridge of the mountains to the south, marking the growth of your realm, its farms and fields. But my first visit was long ago, when this great house was new and the chieftain was old.”
At that, Aldhelm leaned over to Cenulf and whispered something in his ear.
“My uncle asks who was the chieftain then?”
“His name was Hagar, though his son had taken over many of his duties at that time”
Cenulf’s eyes widened. Hagar had been dead well over a century. Aldhelm spoke softly to Cenulf in another tongue, not the Common Speech.
“Did you come alone?” Cenulf asked
“No, I was a young man in the company of my father, Arahael, and my grandfather Aranarth. They had traveled with Hagar into Mirkwood on a fearsome task with others long ago. It was a reunion and time for old tales.”
“My uncle asks how you acquired the small scar above your right eye”
Aranuir laughed at that question.
“It was not in battle with man nor beast. Hagar’s grandchildren were a lively sort, too lively at times. One lad named Rolf hurled a tankard of ale at his brother who had teased him. The aim was wide and struck me in the head. A bleeder as they say which was sown up on the spot and the drinking resumed.”
Then the old man spoke.
“That lad Rolf was my grandfather. He told me the tale of that night when I was barely ten summers. So, it is true, then”
“That would make you over one hundred and fifty.” Cenulf commented, somewhat awed.
“Those of my line have long life. My grandfather, Aranarth was the son of Arvedui the last king of Arthedain. He claimed descent from Elendil.”
“The line of the old kings of Gondor and Arnor. Then you are of the Dunedain.”
“I am. Gondor’s lineage is no more, a realm ruled by Stewards. Arnor and Arthedain are no more. The line survives but the northern kingdoms have vanished.”
Cenulf was quiet for a moment, absorbing the presence of what was living history at his table.
“There is much that I would know. But it would be remiss of me to ask without providing food and ale to an honored guest.” Cenulf signaled someone inside the great house. Soon two lads came out bearing trays of ale, bread, meat and cheese. The three men drank deeply.
“Now, where shall we begin”