He had enjoyed his stay in Framsburg. Young Wulfric had taken him on a tour of the countryside. Their farms prospered. Horse stables were full with new foals. It reminded him of hobbits, removed from the world in the Shire. Save they were not the warrior tillers of the earth that these men were.
“We thrive in part because of our distance from the affairs of Middle Earth” Wulfric had commented.
“And you do not possess a hoard of gold like dwarves or crafted marvels as elves may have wrought. Only the earth itself and the labor you put in it. Such does not first attract a conqueror in this Age.” Aranuir had added.
“It is my fate to be chieftain of my people. To live here, raise a family and a successor, and die.”
“It will be a good life, Wulfric.” Aranuir replied and then had continued.
“But you are young and see yourself at the lead of horsemen, triumphant in battle against a desperate foe. Mind you that I was young once, my grandfather the son of a king, tested by war. I thought much as you. But my life has been spent roaming the land in large measure, taking stock, watchful for the return of evil. My son and grandson will do the same. In that we have our fate as well. Yes, we see much of the land over your horizon, but we do not call it home as you do.”
Aranuir remembered the look on Wulfric’s face. It had begun to dawn on him that life choices involve both gaining and giving up and that he was gaining much compared to many others. His people would indeed ride in battle, but that was many lives of men yet to come.
They had kept their promise to resupply him. His saddlebags were packed, waterskins full. They also included a skin of a fiery drink they brewed for cold nights and icy mornings.
That had been some days past now. He had been content to have built a bond with the young man who would no doubt live another fifty years and might welcome another visit from the outside. That legacy would benefit men on both sides of the Misty Mountains.
His journey back over the pass in the Misty Mountains had been uneventful. He had wound his way southwest through the lower Ettendales and emerged on the East West Road headed for Bree.
Now he was standing outside the Prancing Pony, looking forward to a meal and a night’s sleep on a bed not made of boughs and blankets. He gave the reins of Naron to the stable hand and walked in.
The tavern room was loud and boisterous. Two tables of hobbits were celebrating something involving a great deal of ale and food. Men crowded around the bar, some travelers, some local Bree men.
Aranuir edged his way through the press of men and hobbits. None paid attention to him, a husky white haired old man in from the road. The road delivered up much in the way of variety in Bree. He had a favorite table in a little cul de sac in the corner of the great room.
As he got closer he could see it was occupied. Well, there was room for two, though he would have relished a solitary ale without need of conversation. There was something familiar about the occupant, though. Perhaps conversation would be in order after all.
“Aranuir, son of Arahael, if I’m not mistaken.”
Aranuir smiled. Gandalf the grey was never mistaken. At least not in Aranuir’s experience.
“You are not.” Aranuir eased himself into the chair opposite Gandalf. “And what is a wizard doing in the Prancing Pony, sipping ale?”
“Ah well a wizards’s business is his own, though I do fancy the ale.’
Aranuir laughed. He would pry few secrets here.
“And what is the heir of Isildur doing in the upper marches of the Anduin with the horsemen of the north?”
How he had come by this information, Aranuir knew not. But no matter, he would share his recent journey north. There were few in Middle Earth who cared much beyond what they could see in the morning. Gandalf was one and Aranuir sensed that he would always put it to good use.
Ananuir took a sip of his ale. “I saved the future ruler of the Eotheod from death in the wild”
Aranuir continued with his tale of healing Wulfric’s grievous wounds, his welcome in Framsburg and the state of the population of horsemen farmers.
Gandalf commented.
“They are a bold and fearless people. Their skill with horses is almost matched by their talents in the fields and in livestock. In time they will fill the northern valleys with their numbers. Should the peace we now enjoy leave us, they would be valued allies. It is well you have maintained some contact.”
“You, too have visited them, so they say.”
“Every generation perhaps. My travels take me to many parts of Middle Earth. It may be years between visits for some, but none are neglected. In fact I am overdue at the home of a friend in a land west of here. Perhaps you would care to accompany me. I can vouch for the mutton.”
“A friend of yours I would count as one as well. As for mutton, it has been too long off my menu.”
“Then its settled. We depart at dawn. In two days we will arrive for dinner.”
They headed west along the East-West road. There was little traffic to take note of what appeared to be two old men on horseback. One white haired and weatherbeaten, the other clad in a gray cloak and pointy had.
They had made a quick camp for the night, finding a spot off the road where the trees provided some privacy and a scattering of stones bespoke a makeshift hearth from some travelers in the past.
Gandalf had brewed some tea over the small fire. A little warmth was welcome as the spring sun had yielded to a night still bearing a brush of frost.
“How are your son and grandson?”
“Aravir is taking him on his first journey of the lands, introducing him to his tasks as future chieftain” Aranuir replied.
“I remember another young man. Heading out with his father, well over a century ago, ready to prove himself.”
“My father, Arahael, was a taskmaster. One who had joined you and others on the journey to Dol Guldur to secure the peace we have. And then his sword went quiet as he assumed the duties he taught me long ago.”
“You and your sons are all the north has. Your journeys provide at least a thin thread of connection between the scattered settlements of men. And a sharp eye to any signs that evil might be returning. I cannot be everywhere and would be sadly constrained without the eyes and ears of the Dunedain.”
“You will be without mine and soon, Gandalf. I am more than 150 and feeling my age. This is my last journey. I will retire to our little settlement in the Angle, where the Hoarwell and Loudwater meet.”
“A well earned rest. You do know you are always welcome in Rivendell.”
“I appreciate Lord Elrond’s generosity and kindness. It was shown to my grandfather, Aranarth, the first chieftain, who lived there when I was young. He shared much of his life with me as he wrote his Testament.”
Gandalf quietly stared into the campfire, sipping tea. Aranuir continued.
“My father, Arahael, never revealed the exact location of his burial. Along with his two brothers, they were the sons of Arvedui, the last king of Arthedain. Long ago and now I am old. How long will this line continue and to what end, Gandalf. How many grandsons must turn into old men, telling tales to their grandsons.”
“All of them Aranuir. And amongst them perhaps one may find himself on the cusp of great deeds. Dictated by the times in which he lives, and the gifts he has to lead, he will defend the people and try to make a just peace. Even then, the statues to such greatness will wear smooth over time of wind and storm. Palaces may tumble into decline. The scrolls of deeds may crumble into dust. At the end, we can only do the good we can in the present. Let that be the fullness of whatever cup we hold on any given day. As you have done recently in the land of the Eotheod with Wulfric, the chieftain’s son”
Aranuir quietly sighed with relief. He had indeed fulfilled his life mission, the task to which he had been appointed by birth. Saving Wulfric was part of it. It had preserved the future for that young man, his place in the history of his people. It was exactly what he was supposed to do, part of what he had done for more than 100 years.
“May you cross paths with my grandson, and his future grandson with such words some day.”
“No doubt. It is part of why I am here.”
As to the rest of the reason he was here, Aranuir knew not. Only that he represented something good. That was well enough for him.
He finished his tea and walked off into the trees to bed for the night. Gandalf remained, staring into the fire, sending smoke rings from his pipe sailing over the flickering flames.
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They were on the road again at dawn. Ground fog enveloped them, waiting on the strong spring sun to scatter the wisps that clung and swirled about their horses. They rode in silence, each in his own thoughts.
They crossed the bridge over the Baranduin just after mid-day. The sun had emerged in force, brilliant in the deep blue sky, igniting the emerald green countryside. Gandalf led them left on the lane to Stock and Rushy. They could see hobbit farmers in the distance on occasion, planting, weeding, plowing and stopping to wonder what brought two of the big folk to the East Farthing.
Gandalf would always give a friendly wave.
“Hobbits are social, Aranuir, though mostly keep with their own kin and company. Still I wave, make myself known as a regular traveler. Some wave back and with a few, some friendship develops.”
“They are less familiar to me. Just what I have seen from the East West Road passing through the Shire. But I have asked Aravir to give them more heed and guide Aragorn as well.”
“Then you will be for a treat. We are soon to reach the path towards my friend in the East Farthing. He will put us up for the night, sets a fine table and we can catch up on goings on in the Shire.”
It was time they did as the afternoon was beginning to wane and Aranuir had developed an appetite for the mutton Gandalf had mentioned in the Prancing Pony two days ago.