Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Stories of Strider (#3783)
Author: Senta
Chapters: 52
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Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: A collection of ficlets originally posted on the AA list now extended and polished.
A companion series to Tales of Telcontar focussing on Aragorn's and his circle's adventures before he became king.
A mixture of angst,fluff,humour and drama.
Further characters and catagories will be added together with the stories
Published: 06 Jun 2008
Updated: 13 Apr 2018
Warnings: 
Type: Drama
Characters: Aragorn;Halbarad,Gilraen;Ivorwen


Chapter 1 - Drawing the Eye

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story 

With grateful thanks to Raksha. 

Drawing the Eye 

The two grey-cloaked men entered the chamber; its stone walls were cold and unwelcoming. The room had been Théodred's private room, but bore scant trace of its former occupant. It was bleak and sparsely furnished, holding only a rough pallet and a table and a chair. A meagre fire burned in the hearth, the flames offering little light and less warmth. 

Moving carefully, Aragorn approached the table and carefully set the covered object he carried down upon it. 

"Is this wise?" Halbarad asked anxiously. He lit the lamps, a frown creasing his pale face. 

"Probably not, but it must be done. Remember, as the Heir of Elendil, I have the right to use the Orthanc-stone. The message you have brought me tonight from my Lady rekindles the fire in my blood. This is one of the trials I must overcome if I am to become what I was born to be!" 

"I do not doubt your claim on the Stone, but to press it this night? You are weary after your labours of the past days. At least take rest first!" Halbarad pleaded. 

"Would that I could, but time is a luxury we do not have. You need not stay, Halbarad; go and rejoin the others." 

"I will not leave you," Halbarad said staunchly. 

"Thank you, kinsman." Aragorn clasped the other's shoulder. "Your presence will give me comfort, but I must ask you to remain silent, and above all, do not approach me, lest our Enemy espy you from the stone." 

Halbarad nodded reluctantly. He sat down upon the pallet in the far corner, his eyes never leaving Aragorn, and his limbs tense, ready to rise swiftly if needed. 

Aragorn seated himself in front of the stone and flung aside the cloth that covered it. At first, the palantír seemed filled with heavy mist. Then a pinprick of light widened, became a sullen glow, which gradually burned away the mists, to reveal a great lidless eye. The great eye fastened upon him. Aragorn was suddenly hit by a wave of ancient malice that rocked him from head to toe. But if Sauron thought to cow him with such evil, as the Lord of the Dúnedain were a young hobbit or simple Bree-man, then their adversary would soon learn otherwise. Aragorn smiled grimly. Let it begin! 

Aragorn stared at the Great Eye locked in combat as fierce as any passage at arms. The hours passed as Halbarad watched his lord sit still as if turned to stone, hardly seeming even to breathe. 

The first glimmer of dawn lightened the eastern sky when Aragorn drew Andúril and rose to his feet. 

The Great Eye vanished from the globe, its attendant fires slowly dissipating. The air in the room suddenly felt cleansed. Aragorn threw the cloth over the palantír. He swayed on his feet. Halbarad caught him before he could swoon and half dragged, half carried his kinsman to the pallet. Once there, he drew off his cloak and wrapped it around Aragorn. He uncorked his water bottle and coaxed Aragorn to swallow a draught. The Heir of Isildur was trembling and ashen faced. Halbarad placed a comforting arm around his shoulders. 

As daylight entered the room Halbarad clearly saw his Chieftain's haggard features. Aragorn seemed to have aged by decades overnight and looked every one of his eighty-eight years. "I fear tonight's struggle has cost you dearly," said Halbarad, unable to hide his concern. 

Aragorn managed a grim smile. "The attempt had to be made to draw Sauron's attention," he said." I told the Dark Lord. I am here, Sauron, I Aragorn son of Arathorn the heir of Isildur; he whom you have long sought and believed was slain. Behold! I bear the tokens of my lineage, the star of Elendil and the sword that was broken! This sword now reforged shall once again mete out justice to you. I am coming to Minas Tirith to take what is my rightful inheritance! The struggle was hard, but my will prevailed." 

"The Valar be praised, we have hope at last!" Halbarad exclaimed. "Sleep now Aragorn, rest a little while you may." 

Aragorn lay back on the pallet and closed his eyes. He found, though, that he was too weary for sleep. Halbarad was already snoring loudly. He regarded his kinsman with a wave of affection. They had shared many adventures together over the years, but drawing Sauron's Eye had been Aragorn's hardest trial yet. A sudden flash of foresight chilled his blood. Halbarad would not live to see the outcome of this struggle. He wished he could send his kinsman back to the relative safely his wife and children in the North. He knew, though, Halbarad would not leave his Chieftain's side as the hour of his destiny approached. 

Aragorn had chosen this course. He must now follow his path to its bitter end. 

A/N. This is an extended version of the story I wrote for “Attempt” on the AA List.This is my first attempt to write Halbarad. 

It is the first in a series; Tales of Strider, companion series to Tales of Telcontar. These stories will focus on Aragorn before he became king. 

Chapter Four of “Mask of Virtue” is now posted on this site.


Chapter 2 - No Hope for Myself

No Hope for Myself 

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. 

  

'I gave Hope to the Dúnedain, I have kept no hope for myself. – Gilraen, The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen- Tolkien. 

Dedicated to the memory of all beloved Mothers no longer with us. 

  

With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra 

  


Aragorn awoke with a start. A feeling of bleak emptiness was gnawing at his soul. It were as if part of it had been torn away. He immediately sensed that what he had long feared had happened; his mother had passed beyond the circles of the world.  

Guilt and grief overwhelmed him. He should have remained at her side. It had been all too clear to him that Gilraen was fading; overwhelmed by a lifetime of care and sorrow. She had told him herself that they would not meet again in this life. He had not wanted to believe her, but her foresight had proved correct. He remembered clearly that final morning when he had embraced his mother for one last time, and begged her to have hope. He had offered to stay longer, but she had urged him to go and continue to fight the evil that threatened them all. 

Overcome with sorrow, Aragorn wept, as memories of Gilraen swam before his eyes. She had always been there for him, teaching him to be proud of his human heritage in a house full of Elves, comforting his childish sorrows, and calming his youthful insecurities as he grew to manhood, always offering him unconditional love. If he closed his eyes he could see his mother now, smiling with pride at his achievements.   

Not waiting until morning, Aragorn tied up his bedroll, extinguished his campfire, mounted his horse, and rode through the bleak winter landscape of Eriador to pay his final respects to Gilraen. A pale sun, devoid of warmth, rose over the eastern horizon, piercing the grey mist and illuminating the skeletal forms of the bare trees.    

The earth on his mother’s grave was freshly dug. They had buried her but a few hours before he arrived. His kinsman, Halbarad greeted him with a warm embrace. “Your mother did not suffer,” he told Aragorn. “As the days grew shorter, she simply grew weaker. My sister, who stayed with her, said Gilraen would have nightmares of darkness encompassing the land. Sorrow overwhelmed her. She could not endure to live through such days of darkness and died quietly in her sleep.” 

Halbarad and the other villagers withdrew, leaving Aragorn to pay his final respects at his mother’s grave. Aragorn stood there, lost in thought. Gilraen was renowned for her foresight. Was there truly no hope, no escape from the darkness from the East? Sauron grew ever stronger. Would any escape enslavement or death at the hands of the Dark Lord? At least no one could hurt his mother now, but that was but a cold comfort for the loss of the woman he had loved so dearly. 

He remained but a day, and then urged his horse on to Imladris. Elrond had assured him his welcome would always be warm, despite the shadow of his love for Arwen that hung between them. 

It was Arwen, rather than her father who came forth to greet him. “My heart sensed your sorrow,” she said, drawing him against her in a close embrace. 

“Alas, Arwen,” said Aragorn. “I fear that my mother’s sorrow will engulf us all.” He rubbed his eyes wearily, trying vainly to blink back the tears that welled up within him. 

“Nay, Estel, take courage. Your mother was a good and wise woman, I grew to love her too, but all foresight is merely a glimmer of what lies ahead. My heart foretells that, although darkness will come, the light that lasts through it will shine all the stronger. Your mother rightly hailed you as the hope of Men, as your valour will play a great part in the final victory.” 

Arwen’s eyes shone as if she saw something that others could not. Aragorn felt heartened. Maybe sorrow would one day give way to joy. He had hoped that his mother would live to see him take the throne of his ancestors. Alas, that she would never see her son wear the Silver Crown; but he would continue to strive and wish for a future with Arwen at his side. What better way to honour Gilraen’s memory than to restore the glory of their people and fulfil the hope he had been born to bring? 

A/N This is an expanded version of a ficlet that was written for the AA List prompt “Sorrow”.


Chapter 3 - Good King of Cats

Good King of Cats 

Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives - Shakespeare- Romeo and Juliet. 1.1 

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. 

With grateful thanks to Raksha 

Dedicated to Cairistiona on her birthday 

Aragorn cautiously squeezed his lanky frame through the low door of the barn; it was surprisingly roomy within. A few goats were penned at the far side, while a ladder led up to a loft, where presumably grain and hay would be stored. More bales of hay were scattered around the ground floor. The Halflings seemingly required more food than Men, despite being but half their size. Aragorn was loth to trespass on Hobbit property, but could no longer withstand the fierce storm that raged outside. He would shelter and depart as soon as the rain had ceased. 

He threw his pack down upon a nearby bale of hay, and then shook himself, the better to shed excess moisture from his hair. Then opening his pack, he took out his spare garments and started to divest himself of his dripping clothing. 

A sudden rustle in the hay made him start and hastily cover himself. Then he laughed, seeing the watcher was a large ginger cat. The animal emerged from where it had been sleeping and started to wash its whiskers all the while eying him curiously. 

“What strange creatures you must think us, Puss,” said Aragorn, pulling his dry shirt over his head. ”We must appear to you that we shed and re-grow our fur at will. Are you sheltering from the rain too? Or do you live here to keep the mice at bay?” 

The cat mewed and came nearer. 

“Are you hungry?” Aragorn asked the cat. “You are fortunate that I have just purchased provisions from Bree, and have fresh meat to spare.” 

Finishing dressing, he rummaged in his pack and took out some fresh bread and bacon. He threw some scraps of meat in the cat’s direction. The ginger tom devoured them greedily. He then approached Aragorn and, rubbed his tawny head against the Ranger’s knee. Aragorn stroked the soft ginger fur and was rewarded by the sound and steady rhythm of the cat's contented purring. 

The rain did not subside and Aragorn decided to spend the night in the barn. He pulled his blanket round himself and tried to vainly sleep. A dryness in his throat was worsening, and when he lifted his water bottle to drink, he was seized by a violent fit of coughing. He sighed in dismay, realising he had picked up an infection from the crowded common room of the Prancing Pony. Wishing to prevent the spread of infection to the Hobbits, Aragorn decided to leave the Shire. He rose, with the intention of leaving; but found he could hardly stand. It seemed he had caught the dreaded “Fever”, for which even Elves had no cure .It could be a deadly contagion, even for a strong man like Aragorn, but the most at risk were the very young and the very old. While common folk blamed it on the malign influence of the moon, the Wise believed it was carried in the breath. It was too late now to matter to Aragorn now how one might catch it. He was infected and would have to remain here, caring for his needs as best he may. 

By dawn, Aragorn was shivering violently. He could not get enough warmth from even two borrowed blankets he had found in a corner. 

Suddenly, something soft and warm landed against his chest. The cat stretched himself across the Ranger and settled to sleep. 

“Thank you, Puss,” Aragorn croaked gratefully. Soothed by the animal’s presence, he fell asleep. 

When Aragorn awoke it was bright daylight. A family of Hobbits surrounded him. 

“It’s one of them Big Folk!” said one who appeared to be the father, though he would not even have reached to Aragorn’s waist had he been able to stand. 

“Is it dangerous, Milo?” asked a tiny, stout female, obviously the mother. 

“Marmalade likes him so he must be a good sort,” said a small Hobbit girl. 

Aragorn was seized by a fierce coughing fit. Frightened, Marmalade fled to the far side of the barn. Aragorn then started to sneeze. 

“Isn’t it noisy?” commented a little boy. He was about an inch shorter than his sister, with especially hairy feet. 

“I think he has caught that fever we all had last month,” said the father. 

“The poor thing looks quite ill, ”said the mother. ”That fever’s right dangerous. It killed poor Cousin Dora two months back. “Would you like some tea and hot broth, Master?” she asked addressing Aragorn timidly. “I am Mistress Peony Burrows, this is my husband, Milo and my two youngest Myrtle and Minto.” 

“Thank you, Mistress,” Aragorn croaked. “I am Strider, a Ranger. I meant no harm. I was sheltering from the storm when the Fever laid me low.” Exhausted, he sank back against the hay. 

*** 

The next few days passed in a blur of shivers and aches for Aragorn. The kindly Hobbits brought him warm drinks for which he was grateful and food, the sight of which turned his stomach. Marmalade stayed constantly at his side, a soothing presence. More than once, Aragorn buried his aching head in the cat's silky ginger fur. 

On the fifth day, Aragorn awoke feeling much better. The Hobbit woman approached, carrying a bowl of something that smelled delicious. Aragorn devoured it greedily. Marmalade eyed him reproachfully, but was soon mollified when Aragorn shared some morsels of beef from the stew. 

“Would you fancy a slice of my peach pie now?” enquired Mistress Peony. “I baked it only this morning.” She beamed approvingly at Aragorn’s empty bowl. 

“That sounds delicious, Mistress,” said Aragorn, reaching out a hand to caress Marmalade. The ginger cat scrambled on to the man’s lap and purred contentedly. 

“I’ve never known our cat to act like that before,” said Peony. ”Doesn’t like strangers, he don’t. I’ve often told my husband that even were the King to come back, our Marmalade would have none of him!” 

.A/N The Fever is a type of influenza. In “Web of Treason” Aragorn mentions he caught it when in the North. 

Marmalade is based on my cat Leo. 

This is an extended version of a story I wrote for the prompt “Animal” in the AA Group. 

Peony Burrows is a Baggins; she and her husband and sons can be found in the Baggins of Hobbiton family tree in Appendix C in ROTK


Chapter 4 - Star Daughter

Disclaimer - These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

With thanks to Raksha.

Dedicated to Inzilbeth for her birthday.

 

The stars twinkled against a cloudless blue-black sky. 

Singing Elbereth’s praises, Arwen danced, her head thrown back in ecstasy, intoxicated by the sheer beauty of the spring night. Gems glistened in her unbound hair, while her unshod feet seemed hardly to touch the ground.

Hardly of Arda she seemed, too ethereal to be a creature of flesh and blood, but rather that she were made of stardust, her song sweeter than the nightingale’s.

Aragorn watched entranced. His heart soared at such beauty and grace, but how could he ever hope to win this star daughter?

Overhead, Gil-Estel seemed to smile.


Chapter 5 - Yavanna's Gift

Title: Yavanna’s Gift 

Theme: Myths 

Elements: Elderberry 

With grateful thanks to Raksha and Virtuella. 

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. This story was written for pleasure, not profit


Dedicated to Harrowcat as a belated birthday offering. 

The late afternoon sun bathed the narrow country lane in a golden glow. Newly reaped fields stretched as far as the eye could see like an enormous patchwork quilt. The hedgerows were laden with an abundance of wild berries, which three small figures were collecting in baskets almost as large as themselves. 

“Come along, May, and get your basket filled. We don't have all day.” 

“But, Ma, I’m tired!” 

“I am sure your sister is too, but look how many berries she has picked!” 

Bell paused for a moment and rubbed her back. The new baby was due any day now, but she was determined to harvest the last of the elderberries and make some jam before it arrived. Her elderberry jam was a great favourite with the lads, while Hamfast loved a drop of elderberry wine on a cold winter night. 

“Ma, I’m tired too!” Eight-year-old Daisy put down her basket. “I like blackberries better!” To illustrate the point, she plucked a handful from the hedgerow and stuffed them in her mouth. 

Bell sighed. Maybe they had come too far with the baby so near and the girls unaccustomed to walking more than a mile or so from home. 

“Ma, why are elderberries black?” Daisy enquired. 

“I’m sure I don’t know, Daisy. Now come on, just a few more berries to pick and we can go home.” 

“I’m hungry, Ma!” four year old May complained. 

“You should have eaten all your dinner then!” her mother retorted. 

“There was too much cabbage and I don’t like cabbage,” the little girl retorted. 

“Those were your Da’s prize cabbages that you were eating,” said Bell, plucking another umbel of berries. 

“I don’t like cabbage and I’ll never like cabbage not until the king comes back!” May retorted, using an expression she was wont to copy from her elders. “I don’t like elderberries either; they taste and smell funny and make you feel sick!” the little girl pouted. She looked as if she were about to hurl the contents of her basket into the hedge. 

“May!” her mother said in a warning tone. 

“The bogey man will get you!” said Daisy somewhat gleefully. “Da told me a story where he comes to take naughty little girls away!” 

Bell sighed again. The girls were usually so good. Why, today of all days did they have to be so unruly? Her backache was steadily getting worse and it was getting late. The sun was starting to sink in the western horizon and a low mist was forming over the surrounding fields, heralding the approach of autumn. She forced herself to smile. “Let us gather the berries from just one more bush, girls and then we’ll go home. If you are good, you can have mushrooms for tea.” 

“Hooray!” May danced round gleefully. She did not see the exposed tree root and tripped over on it, falling to the ground with a loud cry before bursting into tears. 

Bell knelt to comfort her daughter only for a sharp pain to stab through her belly. She knew that sensation all too well, having given birth to four children. The last two had been born really quickly and Mistress Primrose had said it was likely to be the same this time. The fifth was about to make its appearance at a most inopportune moment. She forced herself to remain calm. The Cottons' farm lay nearby. If she and the girls could but reach there, Farmer Cotton would send for the midwife. 

“I can’t walk, Ma! My ankle hurts!” May sobbed while her mother tried to coax her to her feet. 

Bell felt like bursting into tears herself as she thought of what to do next. Maybe if she asked Daisy to run to the farm? It was only a few lanes back, but still a long way for a little girl on her own. 

Suddenly a stranger loomed out of the mist and climbed over the hedge to reach them. He was the tallest person Bell had ever seen, even amongst the Big Folk, a rough looking fellow in well-worn garments of dark green. The stranger's hair was dark and shaggy and his big hands seemed quite powerful as they reached towards her. 

“The bogey man!” screamed Daisy starting to run. 

Bell tried not to show the terror she felt. “If you want money, I have none!” she cried. “Please let me and my girls go on our way.” 

The man dropped on his haunches, immediately appearing less threatening. Bell noticed that for all his fearsome appearance, the Big Man's deep grey eyes were kind. 

“Come back, Daisy!” cried Bell, causing the child to freeze in her tracks. 

“Peace, mistress,” said the stranger. “I was passing by and could not but help notice you and your daughter appear to be in distress. May I be of some assistance? You have my word that I mean you no harm.” 

“Could you fetch help from the farm, sir?” Bell asked. 

“I will take you there myself,” said the stranger. “If you could just hold on to your little one, I will carry you both.” 

Bell took a deep breath and decided to trust the stranger. She bit back a cry of pain as another contraction seized her. “Thank you, Mister…? She said once the pain had subsided. 

"I am called Strider; at your service;" the tall man replied. "I am a Ranger." 

Strider scooped up Bell and Daisy in his arms as if they weighed nothing at all and made his way towards the Cottons' farm with great long strides. Daisy trotted along behind doing her best to keep up. 

Strider appeared to reach the Cotton farm in minutes. The dogs started to bark at the approach of a stranger. Lily Cotton came out, her sons clutching at her skirts to investigate the noise. She gasped in alarm at the sight of the stranger carrying Bell. 

“It’s alright, Lily,” Bell called from high in Strider’s arms. “Could Tom fetch the midwife please; my baby is on the way. This stranger helped me when I took poorly in the lane and May twisted her ankle.” 

“Come in!” Lily cried, beckoning them through the doorway, which Strider entered with some difficulty. "It’s straight to the bedroom with you, Bell! I’d lend you one of my old nightgowns. Tom will have Mistress Primrose here in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. Sit down, mister; I’ll fetch you a drink and a bite once I’ve sent Tom to the village.” 

“I’m hungry too!” May complained. 

“You shall have some bread and jam and a nice glass of apple juice,” Lily smiled. 

She bustled off outside once Bell was safely ensconced in the bedchamber. 

May started to cry once the door closed behind her mother. “Let me bind your, ankle, little maid,” said Strider. “It will hurt you much less then” 

May nodded shyly. She whimpered for a moment as Strider gently felt her foot, but was smiling happily and sitting on his lap by the time Daisy came through the door panting with the effort of trying vainly to keep up with Strider. 

*** 

Mistress Primrose arrived within the hour and disappeared into the bedroom together with Lily. Farmer Cotton took the boys outside to play despite the gathering dusk, which left Strider with the two little girls in the Cotton’s kitchen. 

Bell’s cries from behind the closed door grew louder. Daisy and May looked increasingly scared. Lily bustled back and forth but never stayed long enough to tell them what was happening. 

“What’s wrong with Ma?” May asked. 

“She’s giving us a new sister or brother,” Daisy explained. “She cried like that when you were born.” 

“I don’t want a new brother or sister!” May pouted. 

“Shall I tell you a story?” Strider volunteered. After accepting a mug of ale and a hunk of bread and cheese from Lily, he had retired to the chimney nook to smoke his pipe. 

“Yes, please!” chorused the little girls. 

“You wanted to know why elderberries were black, did you not?” said Strider. 

“You were listening!” Daisy said accusingly. “Ma says it’s rude to listen to folk talking and you’ll hear no good of yourself!” 

“I was concerned about your mother,” Strider said mildly. “I thought you might need help. Now do you want to know why elderberries are black?” 

“Yes!” said Daisy, while May thoughtfully sucked her thumb. 

“Once upon a time, long, long ago Elbereth the Star Queen was placing the stars in the sky,” Strider began. “She was robed in a gown of gleaming silver and around her neck was a long necklace of shining pearls. As she went from star to star, one of the points of the stars caught on her necklace and broke it. The beautiful pearls fell down to earth, and as they fell they took on the colour of the midnight sky. 

Yavanna the Bountiful caught the pearls as they fell and was about to return them to her sister when she noticed a tree sobbing pitifully. The tree called to her for help as all the other trees in the wood were bearing berries, while the poor Elder bush had none. Yavanna took pity on the tree and gave it her sister’s pearls, which ever since have been elderberries.” 

“Did that really happen?” asked Daisy. 

“So the Elves say,” said Strider with a smile. 

Just then Lily entered the kitchen, a beaming smile on her face. “Your ma has someone she wants you to meet, girls," she announced. “Come on!” 

Daisy and May followed her into the bedroom where their mother was sitting up in bed clutching a shawl wrapped bundle. Bell looked tired, but she was smiling. ”Daisy, May, meet your, new brother,” she announced holding up the bundle, from which a small red face peered. “I think this little one will share your Da’s love of growing things, since he almost arrived when we were picking elderberries!” 

“What’s his name, Ma?” asked Daisy. 

“Samwise, Samwise Gamgee,” Bell replied smiling lovingly at her baby son. 

A/N This story was written for the LOTRGFIC “myths” Challenge and inspired by a friend saying long ago that she hoped her baby would not arrive on the day she hoped to make jam with a friend!


Chapter 6 - Only Human

Only Human

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

Co authored with Raksha the Demon

Estel could scarcely contain his excitement as he ran to the banks of the Bruinen. His lessons for today had been cancelled, since as Master Elrond and his advisers were entertaining King Thranduil and his retinue from Mirkwood. Estel made his way to the river. It was a perfect day for swimming. He loved to swim, and he knew the perfect spot - deep, but not encumbered with too many underwater rocks or strangling weeds. As he swam with the mild current, Estel wondered what Thranduil and his folk would be like. Master Elrond had said that Estel could meet Thranduil after the feast tonight. In all his thirteen years, Estel had never met Elves other than those of Imladris, who he believed must be the grandest and wisest Elves left this side of the Sundering Sea. But still, Elves who lived in forests and in caves would be worth knowing; and he had heard the great tales of the valour of the Mirkwood Elves in the battle of Erebor.

After one last, lovely dive into the River's cool depths, Estel returned to the shore, shook out his wet hair, and stretched out on the blanket he had left under his favourite tree. The warm sun would soon dry his soaked body; all he had to do was wait, and enjoy the sensation of the heat on his naked skin.

“What is that creature?” A strange voice startled the boy from perhaps twenty paces away. Estel had very good hearing; and the speaker was not troubling to lower his voice. The language was slightly different from the Sindarin he knew so well, a Silvan variant that Estel had studied last year. Estel raised his eyelids just enough to peer out through his eyelashes; a trick that Elrohir had taught him. He saw a group of some three tall Elves, divesting themselves of their raiment; perhaps to take a swim as well. This was awkward. Estel was close to manhood now, too old to play possum and jump up to ambush them, as he had done in jest with his tutors and friends many times. Best to stay quiet awhile, and then make a show of awakening slowly, so as not to embarrass those who were surely his foster-father's guests.

"It looks like a leafless Ent, or a very strange frog!" the speaker said with a laugh.

"Come, Lalforn, you have seen Men before, and their young ones!" Another voice said, perhaps deriding the first speaker. "I have heard it said that Master Elrond has often fostered the sons of Men."

"I suppose then, that this is the latest in his collection," the first speaker said. "I have never seen a child of Men unclothed; such a graceless, puny thing."

Another voice added: "You are right there, Lalforn, the sprout is an odd-looking sort; long legs and arms, but no breadth to the rest of him. How do they manage then, to grow enough to father others?"

More laughter. Estel felt his cheeks burn, and prayed that they could not see. He would have to get up and defend himself, or say something, soon, but what? He wished he could return to the river's comforting embrace and not come out until these strangers were gone!

"Have a care, you two;" said a third voice, perhaps older than the others. "He might be able to hear you."

"So what if he can, Legolas," the one called Lalforn answered; and Estel could hear the derision behind the words. "He would not know our tongue."

"Are you certain?" The third speaker asked, with some sternness. "The Lord Elrond would not raise fools. And even if he cannot understand us, he can hear your tones if he wakes. We are guests here, it is ill done to mock those of our host's household, especially a lad so young. And I have heard that this poor lad is fatherless, the more reason to treat the child kindly rather than laugh at him."

Oh, that was the worst! The mockery was cruel, but Estel found the pity intolerable. Burning with humiliation, he stood up and scrambled into his clothes as hastily as possible. He tried to march away with head held high; but the look of sympathy on the face of the oldest of the three destroyed what little dignity he had. Estel turned and ran for home.

000

Gilraen was walking past her son’s closed door. Estel was growing up and was allowed some privacy now he was almost a man. Gilraen sighed. Often she wished that Arathorn had lived long enough to give her a daughter too. A child who would not grow away from her and ride into danger would have been such a comfort. A muffled sob made the woman pause. Estel may not be a small child any longer, but her boy still had need of his mother! She found the lad lying sprawled across his bed, his face buried in a pillow.

“Estel, what ails you?”

The boy did not answer.

Gilraen sat down on the edge of the bed and put her arms around her son. Estel sighed, but did not attempt to move away. “What ails you?” she repeated.

“Nothing.” Estel gave a loud sniff then determinedly dried his eyes with his sleeve.

“I thought you planned to go swimming while your tutors were meeting with King Thranduil? Estel, I know there is something wrong. You cannot deceive your mother!”

“Never again will I go swimming when strangers might be nearby!” Estel exclaimed before blurting out the whole story. Gilraen’s features became grave as she listened. Long had she feared something like this. The Elves in Master Elrond’s house had never treated either her or Estel with anything other than kindness and respect, but Gilraen had always known that she and her son were not of the same kind as the other inhabitants of Imladris. Once she had asked if some playmates of his own kind from amongst the Dúnedain villages could be found for Estel, but Master Elrond had said it was far too dangerous and might lead to the Enemy discovering her son. “Nana, why did he call me a ‘thing’?” Estel asked fixing her with wide grey eyes, so like his father’s.

“He and his fellows are ill mannered and ignorant. King Thranduil’s folk were long suspicious of outsiders, I am told, while Master Elrond has ever welcomed strangers, ” said Gilraen. “Unlike Imladris, they are not protected from the forces of Darkness. And you are no ‘thing’: you are a child of Eru, just as much as are they. You are different than an Elf, but of no less worth. Many would count you fair amongst Men, my son.”

“Why do you never speak of my father?” Estel demanded. “Did he do something wrong?”

“Indeed not!” Gilraen said fiercely. “You father was a good man and a brave warrior. I was proud when he asked me to wed him, and I grieve still for his death. I promise I will tell you more when you are older. He would be proud of you, were he still living, Estel, as proud as you make Master Elrond and me.”

Estel sat up straight, his usual high spirits almost restored. Gilraen studied his face, the boyish chubbiness already giving way to the fine boned structure of a Man of Númenor. Her little one would come of age in just a few more years. She could see her own father in his face, as well as Arathorn. Later she would speak to Master Elrond and tell him it was time Estel accompanied his sons on their visits to the Dúnedain villages, if only occasionally. They would have to think of some tale to explain his presence, but her boy was Edain--human-- and needed to see others of his kind.

As for the Elves who had mocked her kind-hearted and courteous son...Gilraen forced down her fury. Right now she would gladly make a gift of them to the hill-trolls, but that was not possible. Gilraen smiled coldly. Master Elrond loved her son too. Once he learned of their churlish behaviour, and she would make sure the Elf-lord learned of it, the King of Mirkwood would have to send another envoys. Those cruel strangers would never again set foot in Imladris, except for the one called Legolas, who had spoken on her son's behalf.

A/N this was written to explain the reason for Aragorn’s shyness in Linda’s stories. and written for the AA List prompt “Human”. Raksha then considerably polished and expanded it.

Neither Raksha nor Linda believes that Aragorn and Legolas were friends before the Ring War, but we believe it is plausible they might have briefly met.


Chapter 7 - Pride of Place

Pride of Place 

This story is co- authored with Raksha the Demon 

  

Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. - Proverbs 16.18 – The Bible. 

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain. 

“Welcome home, my son!” 

Denethor frowned slightly as his father seized him in a bear hug that nearly crushed his own ribs. It was a rather vulgar display.  Surely the Steward of Gondor's greeting to his heir should be  more dignified .  But his father insisted on treating Denethor like a child.  Denethor saw his father's arm reach up to try to pat him on the head, a gesture that Denethor detested.  Usually he would have nobly tolerated it, but this night his fatigue and hunger sharpened his impatience.  He swerved away with as much aplomb as he could manage. 

“I hear you have performed great deeds of arms against the Easterlings,” Ecthelion smiled. “You must dine with me tonight. I have a new captain I should like you to meet. Thengel commended him to me most highly." 

“As you wish, sire.” Denethor struggled to hide his irritation at being expected to dine with some Rohirric clodhopper.  Worthy allies, the sons of Eorl, but incapable of conversation that did not centre on the merits of their horses.  Thengel was an exception.   He had taken on the manner and speech of Gondor during the many years he had spent in exile, and had a Gondorian wife of high blood, the fair Morwen.  Most of Thengel's messengers and envoys were barely able to speak Westron, and daunted by the usage of more than one fork.  And now his father had given a Captaincy to one of them?"  

Denethor would be kind to the man.  There had never been enough time for him to master the Eorling tongue, but he could sing The Slaying of Scatha, one of Thengel's favorite songs in that language - all ten verses with chorus!  His father liked the song too, despite understanding it less than did Denethor; and had been known to bang on the table with his hand to match the steadily quickening rhythm of the refrain.  Denethor smiled The Rohir captain, doubtless lonely for the grassy plains and Golden Hall of his own country, would surely be cheered by the song.  And, Denethor realized, the Steward would be pleased. 

With luck, Denethor considered on the way back to his own chambers, the Rohir captain would be awed by the splendour of the Steward's Residence, and not speak much at all.  The Rohirrim were at least courteous folk; and mighty warriors.  

Denethor’s mood improved as he prepared for dinner. His manservant praised him on Gondor’s latest victory while he helped Denethor don a shirt of finest linen and a richly embroidered velvet tunic. Ah, but it was good to be home!  Much as Denethor appreciated the respect of his soldiers in the field, he had missed the greater comforts and deference that was afforded his high station here at home.  

With a few moments to spare before the meal, Denethor moved to the window, for the view it afforded was one of his favourites.  His chambers overlooked the Court of the Fountain, where the most sacred symbol of Gondor, the White Tree stood. Denethor’s heart swelled with pride. He was heir to Gondor with all her history and splendour. The White Tree might be withered, but the spirit of Númenor was not! 

Denethor had been told since childhood that the blood of Westernesse ran truer in him than in the sons of other families. Even his own kindred marvelled at his ability to see deep into the hearts of Men. Surely the renewal of the strength of Númenor within him portended a great destiny?  Denethor drew himself up, aware of the power that was his and the greater power that he would hold one day.  Prince in all but name, but never King, he would use his prowess to protect Gondor. 

Denethor slowly made his way to his father’s private dining chamber. Ecthelion was alone. It seemed that punctuality was not one of the Rohirric Captain’s virtues. 

Denethor was just about to take his seat when a very tall stranger entered, clad in the black and silver of the Guard.  The Steward stood up; and, as often happened when he stood up hastily, an old wound in the right knee caused him to stumble.  Denethor moved towards him; but the stranger was both quicker and closer; and reached Ecthelion first.  All Denethor could do was watch while the unknown Captain held out his arm for Denethor's father to grasp.  

Ecthelion thanked the man, then lightly clasped the stranger's supporting arm until they reached the high-backed chairs.  Denethor kept his mouth shut; scarcely able to credit all he had seen.  The stranger had not even bowed!  The manoeuvre of Ecthelion's taking the Captain's arm was easily done; the Captain's demeanour completely relaxed, the Steward's attitude trusting.  This had happened before; perhaps more than once.  Denethor knew then that this night was not the first occasion that the outlander had dined with Denethor's father.  

"Are you well, lord?" asked the stranger, in slightly accented Sindarin.  Denethor bristled, remembering how his father had brushed off his own advice to use a cane.  The Steward seemed to be pleased by the man's attention.  

"In good fettle, Thorongil," Ecthelion replied.  "Come to table, Denethor; don't dawdle." 

"Yes, Father,” Denethor said clearly and in a slightly louder tone than was usual for him.  A subtle reminder was needed here.  Just who was the outlander and who was Ecthelion's only son and thus heir to the rule of Gondor? 

Ecthelion turned west; his hand still on the stranger's arm.  Denethor and the man called Thorongil turned west at the same moment.  The moment of silence seemed very long.  Then, the ritual having been observed, Denethor sat down in his usual chair at his father's right hand; glad that it was still vacant.  His father's new friend waited until Denethor was seated and then took a seat farther down the table.  Denethor shot him a quick look.  The man had a soldierly bearing, and was certainly no Rohir, with those Dúnedain grey eyes and dark hair.  And what was that odd silver star that the fellow wore so close to his Captain's sigil? 

“Denethor, meet Captain Thorongil,” said Ecthelion. “Is it not amazing to see the two of you together? You are as alike as close kindred!” 

“I am honoured to meet you, Lord,” said the Captain. “Your fame precedes you throughout Gondor and other lands. And your father has told me much of your great deeds,” Thorongil continued.  

The accent seemed more Northern than Eorling, Denethor noted.  And the name of Thorongil's father had not been given, as was customary in an introduction.  If the man had been abandoned by a scoundrel sire, was he now trying to attach himself to Denethor's father?  Ecthelion was usually a good judge of character, but he had a kind heart and a weakness for strays.  

Thorongil inclined his head graciously before raising it to meet Denethor's questing gaze.  Most men stood back, or dropped their eyes when Denethor turned even half the power of that gaze upon them.  But this man gave no ground.  He gave no challenge either; though Denethor thought, without knowing exactly why, that the stranger actually could have had he cared to do so.  What secrets lay behind those seemingly guileless grey eyes?   The Northern eagle would bear watching.    

“I have been glad of Thorongil’s company while you were away, my son,” said Ecthelion. “He knows much of lore and legend.” 

Dinner was served. First, at his father’s bidding, Denethor recounted the details of the campaign against the Easterling incursions. The conversation then turned to the great battles of old.  Denethor spoke of the Last Alliance, a subject that Denethor knew well from constant study.  Discussion of the Siege of Barad-dûr and its end had always enthralled him.   How could it not?  The story evoked the rise of the Númenoreans in Middle-earth and Gondor's glory of old, a shining hour when the strength of Elves failed and Isildur defeated Sauron with one daring sword-stroke. 

“You tell the tale well, my son,” said Ecthelion. “You should hear Thorongil tell the story; though.  He speaks of the deeds of Elves and even Dwarves as well as the valour of our own people.  Why, it is almost as if he had heard the tale from one who fought there!” 

Thorongil coloured slightly and lowered his eyes. 

Dwarves fighting beside the armies of Men?  Denethor repressed the urge to take the Northerner to task for obviously embellishing what was written. He was the heir to the Stewardship and a lore-master of note; and he would not lower himself to correct some vagabond sell-sword, however self-assured the fellow was.  

Denethor favoured Captain Thorongil with a lordly smile.  One day, he would rule when this nobody was long forgotten.


Chapter 8 - The Gift of Foresight

Disclaimer - These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain. 

Dedicated to Cairistiona as a belated birthday gift last winter. 

Vilwarien has written a wonderful ficlet on a similar theme, but as it is canon based, I hope there is room for this interpretation too. 

Foresight was a mixed blessing, Aragorn mused. He glanced again at Halbarad. His kinsman stood leaning against the rail also lost in thought. They would reach land within a few minutes and there would be no further time for speech. 

"You should return home," he said. "I still have need of you." 

"If it is my fate to die, I cannot change it," Halbarad replied placidly. "Most likely I would fall from my horse or something on the way home and perish in a most ignominious fashion. At least this way, I shall die with honour in your service. Our foresight could be mistaken, though. Maybe I will die in my bed of old age." 

"I do not want to lose you." Aragorn's voice was thick with emotion. "We have been through so much together." 

"I would have liked to see you wearing the Silver Crown," Halbarad mused. "And be present at your wedding to the Evenstar. Then watch you reign justly and wisely for a hundred or so glorious years surrounded by your children." 

"Is that foresight or wishful thinking?" Aragorn asked. 

"Foresight that I know to be true." Halbarad's eyes were shining at this vision. "I have seen you best the Dark Lord in the palantír and summon the Army of the Dead. I was blessed to witness such marvels. But the best is yet to come for you, my friend." 

"If you fall, victory will be tinged with sadness," said Aragorn. "My soul will be torn asunder to lose the brother of my heart." 

"Your sorrow will be eased when you wed to your lady," said Halbarad. "Do not grieve, but remember the good times we shared. The days when food was sufficient and we feasted, the nights we slept under the stars and dreamed that our people's glory would be rekindled by the return of the King. I ask only that you see my family are cared for. I fear for my wife and children and their little ones." 

"You have my word," said Aragorn gravely. 

"You will find new friends," Halbarad said. Again the light of foresight was in his eyes. "You will meet one who will love you like I loved you, as friend, lord and kinsman. And you will grow to love him as if he were your own son." 

"I wish I shared your faith. No other friend could replace you. Please, I beg of you, stay here on the ship and be safe!" 

"I promised your lady I would carry her banner into battle and fight at your side. If you are to wed the Lady Arwen, you cannot treat her wishes so lightly. You made your vow to her and I have made mine. One keeps one's word to so peerless a lady!" 

"Land ahoy!" Elrohir's call made them both start. 

"Every man must one day accept the Gift and leave the circles of the world behind," said Halbarad. "What better way to do so than fighting at your side? It is not that we will be parted forever. The One will restore all things." 

"Cast anchor!" cried Elladan. 

The ship shuddered to a halt. Aragorn drew his kinsman into a fierce embrace. He did not want to let go. Halbarad was the first to pull away. 

"Go, your hour is come," he said gruffly. "We must each ride to our destinies."


Chapter 9 - Beneath the Birches

Author: Linda Hoyland 
Title: Beneath the Birches 
Rating: G 
Theme: Hearts and Flowers 
Elements: Star crossed love, passionate heart, daffodil (chivalry) 
Beta: Virtuella 
Author's Notes: Written for the LOTR GFIC challenge and dedicated to Julia on the occasion of her birthday 
Summary: A pensive Arwen encounters a stranger 

Arwen was glad to be home. It was good to see her father and brothers again after so long. She had almost forgotten how beautiful Imladris was at this time of year when the daffodils carpeted the woodland with their fair golden trumpets heralding the arrival of spring. 

This evening she had chosen to walk in the shade of the birches. As the sun began to sink beneath the western horizon her thoughts turned to her mother far beyond the sea. She missed her greatly and there were times she wished that she had chosen to accompany her. Her grandmother had told her that she had foreseen that Arwen's destiny lay in Middle-earth, but she had no idea what that destiny might be. Would she ever find the love her parents had known and bear children? She knew all the male Elves at both Imladris and Lothlórien and not one had stirred her heart. 

Or would she spend the endless measure of her days as her father's hostess, the esteemed Lady of Rivendell, but in truth, little more than an ornament? Arwen felt there must be surely more to life than presiding over feasts and listening to minstrels praising her beauty. 

Suddenly she heard singing, the strong virile tones of a young man. He sang of the glorious deeds of her ancestors, Lúthien and Beren. Arwen had often pondered Lúthien's fate. What must it be like to love someone so much that even forsaking the life of the Eldar was not too great a price to pay? Many a mortal man had fallen in love with her, or so they claimed, swearing their hearts were forever in her keeping. They were all likeable young men and she pitied them, but the idea of sharing Lúthien's fate for them was absurd! Luckily, they swiftly forgot her and married amongst their own kind. The wind whipped her hair as she turned to look at the approaching young man who called out, "Tinúviel. Tinúviel!" as if he mistook her for her famous foremother. 

He was little more than a boy, albeit a comely one, tall and graceful in his bearing with windswept dark hair and expressive grey eyes, which were filled with all too familiar adoration when he looked at her, no doubt already imagining them both smitten by star crossed love! 

He bent and plucked a handful of daffodils, offering them to her in a gesture of chivalry. He spoke, asking her name and introducing himself as "Aragorn son of Arathorn". 

She replied gravely, intending to gently but firmly steer his thoughts away from her. And yet something seemed different about this young man. She was oddly moved by him, sensing here was more than just a passionate heart, but also a noble one. She found herself telling the boy that maybe her fate would not be unlike Lúthien's when he told her that he for a moment had believed his song had caused Lúthien to appear before his eyes. Whatever had processed her to think such a thing, never mind say it? 

What was wrong with her? She was not Lúthien, but Arwen Undómiel, who intended to choose the life of the Eldar and one day rejoin her mother in Valinor. Yet something had changed. Arwen would not easily forget Aragorn son of Arathorn.


Chapter 10 - More than meets the Eye

Prompt - Stereotype 

Title: More than Meets the Eye
Author: Linda Hoyland
Characters/Pairing: Paladin Took, Barliman Butterbur, Aragorn
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Book/Source: LOTR book-verse 
Disclaimer - These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain. 

With grateful thanks to Raksha and to Larner 

MEFA 2009 - 2nd Place 

Paladin Took whistled cheerfully as he entered "The Prancing Pony". He had made a tidy profit of twenty silver pennies at the market with his fine quality sheepskins. Before returning home he intended to buy gifts for his wife and children. First though, he would enjoy a bite to eat and a mug of Butterbur's best ale. As usual for Market Day, the inn was crowded and there were few spaces in the parlour. 

"Good day, little master," Butterbur greeted him. "Where would you like to sit? There's a seat over in the corner, but it is next to one of them Rangers, give me the creeps they do, and one by the fire with respectable looking folk." 

Paladin considered his options. The Ranger, a long-legged fellow in shabby clothes and muddy boots, had his hood pulled close over his face, which gave him a mysterious appearance. Paladin did not approve of mystery; he preferred to deal with what he could see and touch. And he didn't like the look of the hooded Man. By the fire, a stout, smartly dressed Man was devouring a plate of roast beef. He greeted Paladin cordially when the Hobbit took the place next to him. By the time Butterbur brought his meal, Paladin was telling his newfound friend, a trader from a faraway place called Laketown, about his fine flock of sheep and his success that day at the market. 

The Hobbit sensed someone was staring at him between the clearing of the soup and the starting of the very good meats and cheese and bread. When Paladin turned, he saw that the hooded Ranger had moved closer. Paladin caught the gleam of sharp eyes watching him beneath that hood and shuddered. He turned his attention back to the cheese. . 

Replete with good food and ale, Paladin called Butterbur over to settle his bill. 

"I will bid you farewell now," said his dining companion. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Master Took." The Laketowner bowed low and whistled merrily as he left the Inn. 

"That will be five copper pennies, please, little master," said Butterbur. 

Paladin felt in his pocket. To his horror, his money, all twenty silver pennies of it had vanished, together with his copper and brass! 

A series of thuds and huffing sounds caught Paladin's attention. By the doorway the Ranger appeared to be attacking his dining companion as he tried to leave. Paladin immediately realised what had happened. The tall ruffian had somehow stolen his money while he was eating and now was trying to rob another unfortunate guest. Paladin fumbled for his pocketknife; preparing to demand that the dangerous Man cease his assaults on innocent travellers. 

"Get out and stay out, or it will be the worst for you!" the Ranger cried, booting the Laketowner out of the door. He closed it and strode over to where Paladin stood with Butterbur, just as Paladin found his only weapon. "Here is your money, Master Hobbit," the Man said with a grim smile, placing Paladin's purse on the table. "Count your coin just to make sure that a rascal like me has not taken any of it." 

Red faced, Paladin did as he was bidden. The money was all there. He held out a silver penny to the Ranger with a slightly unsteady hand. "A reward for your help, Master..." 

"Strider at your service," said the Ranger with a bow, his keen grey eyes gleaming. "I desire no payment. I simply ask you to have a care to whom you tell your business in future. Not all men are honest." His hood had fallen in the scuffle; showing the Ranger's shaggy, grey-streaked dark hair and the weariness on his proud face. The man was a grim and strong sort, to be sure, but Paladin saw no evil in him. 

"I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Master Strider," said Paladin. To his surprise he meant it. There was obviously more to this fellow than met the eye.


Chapter 11 - Ranger, Ringbearer and Resolution

Ranger, Ring-Bearer, and Resolution by Linda Hoyland 

Disclaimer - These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain. 

Rating PG 

When Aragorn meets the Ring Bearer, he is far from impressed. 

Dedicated to Larner on the occasion of her birthday 

With grateful thanks to Raksha and Virtuella. 

I stretched out my legs and took a sip of Barliman Butterbur's excellent ale to soothe my increasing frustration. Why had that fool of an innkeeper not allowed me a word in private with the Hobbits? And why, oh why, had Gandalf allowed one so unsuitable to be wandering around carrying the thing that could destroy us all? For granted, Gandalf usually knew what he was doing, but this time I was starting to wonder if he might for once be mistaken. I would have expected someone more sensible than this Frodo to be Bilbo Baggins' beloved heir. 

I sighed at the memory of overhearing the party of Hobbits discussing their dangerous mission. I had decided the best I could do was to follow them into Bree. They had acted as if they were going on an agreeable adventure. How could the most dangerous thing on Arda have been entrusted to one who seemed to have no more sense of danger than a young child? 

Even this crowded room was full of danger; Bill Ferny was rarely up to any good and one of the Southron travellers looked like a troublemaker. 

Ah, my feet ached tonight, as did my heart. I had lost good friends at Sarn Ford, men who had given their lives for these Hobbits. And where was Gandalf? 

I realised that the one the others had addressed as Frodo was looking at me. I returned the gaze and saw that the Hobbit was asking Butterbur something. As soon as the innkeeper bustled away, I beckoned Frodo over. The Hobbit came reluctantly. I threw back my hood before addressing him, making it clear that I knew exactly who Frodo was, and warning him that his companions were saying far too much where unfriendly ears might overhear them. 

Frodo looked uncomfortable, but met my gaze, something which seasoned warriors were often loth to do, which earned my grudging respect. It seemed though, his young companions were too intoxicated by either the attentive audience or Butterbur's strong ale to exercise any caution and one of them started recounting the story of Bilbo's farewell speech. 

I leaned over and whispered in Frodo's ear "You had better do something quick!" 

I had expected he would either buy his young friends more drinks to distract them, or tell them it was time to retire for the night, but no, the foolish Hobbit leapt on a table and began to sing. I could have groaned aloud. Could he not understand that it was vital not to draw attention to himself? Frodo had a pleasant singing voice and his audience clapped and cheered and demanded more. The Hobbit obliged and gave an even more spirited rendering of the song. He leapt and danced and sang and tripped over a tray of mugs after an especially vigorous leap. Then he vanished! 

I struggled to remain outwardly unmoved. The fool! How could he be so stupid? To use the Ring of Power in the crowded common room of an inn? I noticed two unsavoury looking characters slip quietly from the room. No doubt they were spies. A Dúnedain child would have had more sense than this Hobbit! Something needed to be done and quickly! 

Frodo reappeared crawling under the chairs towards where I was sitting in the dark corner. 

"Why did you do that?" I scolded "You have put your foot in it! Or should I say your finger?" 

Frodo flushed and denied he knew what I was talking about, even when I addressed him by his real name and demanded a quiet word with him as soon as the uproar had died down. The Hobbit reluctantly agreed. 

Barliman Butter entered and everyone began talking at once. I slipped away and took a seat in the private parlour by the door and inwardly debated what to do next. It was essential that I talk some sense into him and make him aware of the danger he was facing. I would need to accompany Frodo to Rivendell; that was surely what Gandalf would have wanted. Where was Gandalf anyway? It was strange that he was not here. I felt a stab of anxiety concerning my old friend. Maybe I should suggest to Frodo that I took care of the Ring on the journey? After all, I was far bigger and stronger than the Hobbit and much wiser. 

A few minutes later Frodo and his companions entered. It was not until they had built up the fire that they saw me. The youngest, whom I'd heard the others call "Pippin," addressed me in a friendly and inquisitive manner, seemingly unperturbed by my presence. 

I introduced myself and Frodo immediately demanded to know what I wanted. I decided to frighten him a little, he still was not wary enough given the danger that he faced. "I will tell you what I know, and give you some good advice - but I shall want a reward," I told him. 

'And what will that be, pray?' said Frodo warily. 

He took me for a scoundrel – good. At least he was starting to learn some caution. I smiled as I replied "'Just this: you must take me along with you, until I wish to leave you." 

Frodo looked far from pleased at the prospect of my company. Did he truly think that he and his companions would have any hope of reaching Rivendell without help? 

"I should not agree to any such thing, until I knew a good deal more about you, and your business," the Hobbit replied. 

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs, settling myself more comfortably. "Excellent!" I said. 

"What do you know?" asked Frodo. 

I got up and looked out to make certain we were not being overhead and then closed the door tightly. I told him how I had overheard him saying he would use the name Underhill and that I knew of his secret and all about the Black Riders. I chided him too for using the Ring to disappear. 

"I was a sheer accident!" Frodo protested. 

How naive he was! There are no accidents where Rings of Power are concerned. No doubt the presence of agents of the Enemy in the room had caused it to manifest itself. Frodo decided to play the innocent and not to understand my meaning, to my increasing exasperation. Did he not understand the Black Riders would stop at nothing to gain their Master's Ring? 

I recalled my own dealings with them. I hope I am no coward, but the very thought of them freezes my blood. They drain all hope and life from a man by their very presence, leaving him helpless and easy prey. The first time I encountered them I was frozen to the spot and only survived thanks to Halbarad who dragged me to my horse. An ordinary enemy can kill you, but these creatures destroy not only the body, but can turn their victims into wraiths like themselves. I thought of the devastation they had so recently wrought at Sarn Ford. 

"They will come on you in the wild, in some dark place where there is no help. Do you wish them to find you? They are terrible!'" I told the Hobbits. I found I was clenching my hands and gripping the arms of my chair. If those creatures were to take the Ring it would be the death of all that was good in Middle- earth. My people would be hunted to extinction and there was small hope that any Hobbit would be spared either, unless perhaps as a slave to do the Dark Lord's will. 

I drew my hand across his brow, tortured by these dark thoughts. "Perhaps I know more about these pursuers than you do. You fear them, but you do not fear them enough, yet. Tomorrow you will have to escape, if you can. Strider can take you by paths that are seldom trodden. Will you have him?" I was almost begging Frodo now. I could not let him wander off into the wilds with the Ring. I could feel its power even as we spoke. 

For the first time, Frodo's servant, who was addressed as "Sam", spoke up, imploring his Master to beware of me. Frodo announced that he did not trust me at all. Only Pippin seemed to be warming to me. I sighed. It seemed I would have to trust them with my true identity, something I was loth to do as they all seemed incapable of caution and keeping their mouths shut. There was nothing else for it unless I .. 

Just then Butterbur entered with candles and a letter from Gandalf. The fat innkeeper then warned the Hobbits not to take up with a Ranger when he saw me with them! The impertinence of the fellow! If he but knew what horrors the despised Rangers keep away from his doorstep! If he were told, though, the knowledge would take away the very peace we strive to grant these simple people. At least he had the honesty to say he could not protect his guests from the Black Riders. 

Butterbur bustled away looking alarmed and Frodo read the letter aloud. Gandalf's tidings only increased my concern for my old friend. He did, though, tell the Hobbits my true name and counselled them to trust me. Frodo then chided me for not having told them sooner that I knew the Wizard, while Pippin made foolish remarks that he would resemble me after a few days in the wild. As for Sam he still stubbornly suspected me of being a spy or an impostor. 

My patience finally snapped. Here was I, the last heir of the great house of Elendil forced to live alone and friendless like a beggar in the wild, never thanked and never trusted, begging for the right to escort a gaggle of foolish suspicious Hobbits! 

My hand went to my sword and I threw back my cloak to make myself look even more imposing. I could take the Ring now. Was I not heir to Isildur, who rightfully took it as wergild for his father? There was no need to harm the Hobbits; a mere threat would suffice. If I had the Ring, I could keep it from Sauron's clutches far better than these hapless, dithering Hobbits. I could swiftly depart Bree with it and leave the Black Riders far behind. I would be the most powerful man on Arda and could reclaim the throne of my ancestors. Most important of all, my impossible dream of marrying Arwen would come true! I could give her the life of luxury and comfort she deserved, we would have children together and I would restore the fortunes of my people. I would .. 

I gazed at the frightened faces yet defiant faces of the Hobbits. They clung together, forming a protective ring around Frodo. What courage it must have taken for these small folk to leave the shelter of the Shire! What madness had seized me? The Ring was trying to work its evil upon me. It had betrayed and destroyed Isildur. It would not take his heir. The Ring was not mine, nor any man's, but it was in Frodo's keeping and I must do everything within my power to protect him. I was resolved. I smiled, my heart melting within me. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn; and if by life or death I can save you, I will," I said. 

A/n. This story was written originally for the Teitho contest "Resolutions". Some dialogue is taken directly from Tolkien.


Chapter 12 - Coming of Age

Title: Coming of Age 

Author: Linda Hoyland 

Characters/Pairing: Aragorn, Elladan, Elrohir 

Rating: PG13 

Warnings: none 

Book/Source: LOTR book-verse 

Disclaimer - These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This
story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain. 

Dedicated to Estelcontar as a belated birthday gift. 

March 5 BTME Challenge 

Write a story or poem or create artwork that will
illustrate the consequences of isolation. 

The Dúnedain elders had told him this was the hardest test to pass to become a
fully-fledged Ranger; to spend time alone in the wilds. Aragorn, though, was
rather enjoying himself; for the first time in his short life there was no one
to tell him what he should do. He had no lessons to study and it was entirely
up to him to decide how he spent his days. 

The weather was fine and food was plentiful. Aragorn spent his time perfecting
his skills as a warrior and tracking game. He loved to swim in the clear waters
of the river on the edge of the forest then lie on his back in the sun. It took
the young man some time to become accustomed to sleeping on the ground
each night rather than on the soft beds of Rivendell, but even that hardship
did not deter him for long. He fashioned a bed of soft bracken where he was
free to sleep for as long as he chose and dream of the fair Arwen. 

Sometimes he sighed and softly sang old ballads to himself, pining for the
hopelessness of his cause in gaining the love of Elrond's daughter. At other
times he was hopeful and dreamed of restoring his people to their former glory
and winning the fair lady's hand in marriage. 

When it grew dark, Aragorn would light a fire and gaze into in, and wonder how
he as Chieftain of the Rangers could overcome the darkness that threatened them
all. His strength seemed as feeble as the meagre campfire. 

It was then he felt very alone. He knew he could return to the others whenever
he wished, but he was determined to show that he was no pampered Elven child,
but one of the Dúnedain, well able to survive alone in the wild and worthy to
be their Chieftain. 

As the days passed, sometimes he fancied that he saw Arwen walking beneath the
trees as she had beneath the birches at Rivendell, but when he approached her
she vanished and dissolved into the
mist. 

The birds grew ever more accustomed to his presence and he began to fancy that
they were watching him. Or was it fancy? Did not the enemy sometimes use the
crebain for his own purposes? 

Aragorn stayed closer to his camp He no longer practised with sword or bow, nor
took pleasure from swimming in the river. 

That night the moon was full and the trees seemed to grow faces in the silvery
shadows. He could hear them whispering. The words sounded like "Doomed to fail,
doomed to darkness!" 

The shadowy branches seemed to reach out towards him to grasp him, crush him,
strangle him. 

Aragorn screamed in terror. 

"Hush now," familiar voices soothed. "You are safe." Strong arms embraced
Aragorn and held him tight. 

"The trees!" he cried, "They mock me; they will crush me!" 

"You have been alone in the wilds too long, Estel," said Elladan. "Come back to
the others. Halbarad and your other comrades are waiting to welcome you home." 

"I failed," Aragorn said miserably. He took a keep breath. The trees no longer
looked so threatening. 

"No other young Chieftain has endured so long in the wilds alone," said
Elrohir. " I remember them all." 

"We should have made our presence known before now," said Elladan. "It was hard
to watch when the isolation began to take its toll on you." 

"You mean you were there all along?" Aragorn asked. 

"Of course, we could not leave you so inexperienced and unprotected," said
Elrohir. 

"Not that you needed our help until tonight," Elladan added, seeing the young
man's frown. "Now come, the Dúnedain are eager to greet their Chieftain. You
have proved yourself more than worthy."


Chapter 13 - Voice in the Night

Voice in the Night by Linda Hoyland 

Rating PG13 

Summary - One night at an inn changes a young soldier's life forever. 

Disclaimer - These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain. 

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? – William Shakespeare (1564–1616) - King Henry IV. Part I. Act iii. Sc. 3 

 “Drinks for all my men, please!” Captain Thorongil told the comely tavern wench at the “Seven Stars”. She fluttered her eyelashes flirtatiously, but the Captain simply smiled and looked away. His expression was strained and he flushed. 

“Three cheers for the Captain!” cried Ragnor, a young lieutenant. 

The men cheered and raised their tankards. 

“You all fought well,” said Thorongil. “We routed the Southrons with few casualties on either side. Let that be a lesson to them not to breach Gondor's borders so lightly again!” 

“Why do you care that the enemy has few casualties as well as us?” asked one man, emboldened by the ale. 

“They are Men too, Turgon, albeit misguided ones,” said Thorongil. He shifted restlessly in his chair. 

Turgon frowned but said no more. 

Ragnor thought his Captain looked weary and began singing a popular ballad about a soldier and his sweetheart to raise his spirits. The rest of Thorongil's company joined in as did the villagers who usually drank at “The Seven Stars”. 

Suddenly Thorongil gave a muffled cry and collapsed across the table. Ragnor, who was sitting beside him, leapt to his feet and called for help. 

“Don't be making such a fuss, lad!” the innkeeper chided. “Your Captain has had a few too many drinks. He'll soon sober up.” 

“He's not even drunk one mug of ale!” Ragnor protested. He placed his hand on Thorongil's forehead. “He has a fever!” he exclaimed. 

“He took a slight wound during the battle, ”said Ulfast, one of the oldest of Thorongil's company. “He bound it and it did not seem to trouble him over-much, though. He seemed weary today, but so are we all. The campaign has been long and hard.” 

“Is there a healer in the village?” asked Ragnor. 

“There's my grand sire, old Bor, who lives in the cottage by the smithy,” said the serving girl. “He knows some herb lore, or there's Mistress Indris.” 

“She's the midwife,” added one of the villagers. “She brought my five little ones into the world.” 

“I'll go and fetch Bor,” said Ulfast. “I doubt a midwife would be of much use to the Captain.” 

“Go then,” said Ragnor. “Innkeeper, do you have a room for our Captain?” 

“Few people stay here,” said the innkeeper, “But there is a room I keep for guests who can pay their way.” 

“This is Captain Thorongil,” said Ragnor. “He will honour his debts.” 

The chattering in the room fell silent and the innkeeper's eyes widened. “Captain Thorongil you say? Now there's a fine man for you! You can have a room for him as long as you want. Do you need help getting him upstairs?” 

“Someone needs to take care of him,” said Turgon. “What about you, Ragnor? Your father is a healer is he not?” 

“He tried to teach me his arts, but I had little aptitude for healing,” said Ragnor doubtfully. “Nevertheless, I will do all I can to aid my Captain.” 

“As soon as Ulfast returns with Master Bor I will lead the men back to Minas Tirith and tell the Steward what has happened,” said Turgon. Maybe he will send a healer from the City to help our Captain. You must remain here with him, Ragnor, until he is well enough to travel.” 

The men, so jolly a few moments before, were now subdued and anxious. “We will, sir,” they chorused, together with many expressions of concern for Thorongil. 

Between them, Ragnor and the Innkeeper carried the unconscious Thorongil upstairs to a small guest chamber and laid him on the bed. His long legs dangled limply over the end. 

“I will put him to bed,” Ragnor told the innkeeper. “Will you send the healer up when he arrives, please?” 

“I will do that,” said the man. “I hope the Captain will be all right. I don't know what Gondor would do without him. Just let me know if you need anything.” 

As soon as the man had gone, Ragnor secured the latch on the door. Captain Thorongil was a reticent man and Ragnor felt as few as possible should witness any secrets he might uncover. At nights round the campfire, even when only with his closest comrades, Thorongil would reveal little of his origins. Ragnor had served with him for five years now, and while he and his comrades had freely shared stories about their homes and families, all Thorongil had ever told them was that his father had died in his infancy, he had come from the North to seek his fortune, had left a much missed mother there and was in love with a beautiful maiden. 

Despite his reticence concerning his own affairs, Thorongil was interested in the lives of his men and often enquired about Ragnor's sisters, sweetheart, and the father he had disappointed by becoming a soldier rather than a healer. Ragnor had never known anyone quite like the Captain, so valiant in battle, yet also so wise and compassionate, a healer as well as a soldier who bound up his men's wounds and listened to their troubles. Despite his worries for Thorongil, Ragnor was glad that he was insensible as he undressed him; certain were that not so, he would have the mother of all battles on his hands. 

Thorongil's cloak was stained with blood. Ragnor unfastened the star shaped brooch that secured it and put it carefully aside. The tunic beneath was torn and equally stained. He eased it over Thorongil's head and did likewise with the blood soaked shirt beneath. Ragnor was surprised to discover that beneath his clothing, Thorongil wore on a chain a heavy gold ring engraved with two entwined serpents, their eyes made of fine emeralds. It looked to be of great value. He lifted the chain over the Captain's head and placed it in his own tunic pocket for safety. It was easy now to see what ailed the Captain. Thorongil's shoulder was bandaged heavily. Ragnor undid the wrappings and revealed an ugly festering wound that looked angry and inflamed. It appeared that Thorongil had tried to tend it himself, but been unsuccessful. 

Ragnor pulled the covers over the Captain and called to the serving maid to bring hot water. He was glad now that he had learned a few healing arts from his father before he decided a soldier's life held more appeal than spending his time mixing potions and treating festering wounds. 

As soon as the girl brought the water, Ragnor cleaned the wound as best he could. It was bright red and the flesh was hot to his tentative probing; yet Thorongil was not sweating. 

A few minutes later Master Bor arrived, a bent old man who could hardly get up the stairs and had to be assisted by the innkeeper and his granddaughter. His eyes were keen, though, and much to Ragnor's relief, he seemed to know what he was talking about. 

“The wound needs draining first,” said the old man as he examined his patient. “The poisons must be released if the captain is to recover. Let me think now- what will he be a- needing? Willow-bark tea might bring down the fever, that be if he wakes up to drink it. Maybe a poultice of ground cabbage leaves to draw the poisons out of him? Yes, we could try that. Try to be a - keeping him cool to break the fever, lad.” He reached in his pockets and brought out a bag. “Here's some willow-bark for if he wakes. Maybe my granddaughter will be a- having some cabbage leaves? Will you help me down the stairs, lad, or must I be a -calling her?” 

“What about lancing the wound, sir?” Ragnor asked. “Have you forgotten it?” 

“There's nought wrong with my memory, lad, though it be the only part of me that works well nowadays. My hand be too shaky to be a- lancing wounds. You'll have to do that, my lad.” 

“Will he live, sir?” 

“How should I be a-knowing that, lad? He be young and strong, though.” 

With that meagre comfort, Ragnor had to be contented. Bor shouted for his granddaughter and hobbled off down the stairs again, holding to her arm. 

Ragnor sighed. It seemed he would have to put the arts his father had tried to teach him to use. The Captain's pack lay by the side of the bed. Ragnor rummaged through it until he found what he was looking for; the knives Thorongil kept there. The Captain was known for his healing as well as his military prowess and many of his men owed their lives to his skill at stitching wounds and extracting arrows. 

Ragnor had often cherished fantasies of becoming a hero by saving the Captain's life, but by glorious feats of valour on the battlefield, not like this! Feeling slightly queasy, he chose the sharpest of the knives and placed it in the fire to heat. He then called for the maid to bring more boiling water and some ground cabbage leaves. 

When the blade was ready, Ragnor wondered if he should ask the innkeeper to hold Thorongil down, but decided against it as he had hardly stirred since his collapse. He rummaged again in the Captain's pack and found a good supply of clean bandages. He could delay no longer. 

Thorongil groaned when Ragnor probed the wound with the blade, but did not awaken. Neither did much of the infection drain from the wound. Ragnor made a poultice of the ground cabbage leaves and sat pressing it against the inflamed flesh for about half an hour. Then he bandaged Thorongil's shoulder and sat on a chair by the bedside to wait. 

Despite his best intentions, Ragnor nodded off. They had had little sleep the night before and had marched many miles before reaching the inn. In a small stuffy room with only an unconscious man for company, weariness eventually overcame him. He was awakened by agitated cries from the man on the bed. 

 “Captain?” 

A loud groan was his only reply. Darkness had fallen. Ragnor fumbled to light a candle. 

“Mother!” Thorongil exclaimed, tossing restlessly. “Help…hurts…” 

“She is coming,” Ragnor lied hastily. 

“Mother…help…please!” Thorongil cried. 

Thorongil’s tone wrenched Ragnor's heart. Never had he expected to see his brave Captain’s spirit reduced to that of a frightened child. Awkwardly, he reached for Thorongil's hand, knowing the Captain would do the same for him. The hand he grasped was hot and clammy. Thorongil seemed oblivious to his presence. 

Ragnor decided that since the Captain was now conscious, he would give him some willow- bark tea. He placed a pan on the fire to warm some water. While he waited, he checked the bandages and was relieved that the wound was starting to ooze a little. He was just debating whether to apply another poultice when a knock came at the door. Without waiting for permission, the serving maid entered, carrying a laden tray. 

“How is he?” she asked. She placed the tray on a table. 

“Still very ill,” Ragnor replied. “Your grand sire suggested poultices and willow-bark tea.” 

“Grandpa knows what is talking about,” said the girl. “The innkeeper has sent you up a bite to sup and drink. I'll sit with him later if you need to stretch your legs.” 

“Thank you and the innkeeper kindly,” said Ragnor. “I had better not leave him though.” 

“Suit yourself,” said the girl a trifle huffily. “Chamber pot's under the bed when you need it. The Mistress said to bring his clothes to be washed. Are those they?” 

Ragnor scooped up the blood stained garments he had earlier divested the Captain of and handed them to the girl. She grimaced as she tucked them under her arm. 

Ragnor sighed when she closed the door behind her. It was obvious she had notions of mopping Thorongil's fevered brow, but he could not let some tavern wench hear the Captain crying for his mother. He contemplated the contents of the tray; roast mutton with potatoes, and what must be the rest of the cabbage, a large dish of stewed apples and a mug of ale. There was also a pitcher of fresh water. He was not very hungry, but the simple food was tasty and he ate, all too well aware that he must keep up his strength. 

Thorongil’s feverish tossing continued as Ragnor ate, and still he called out for his mother.As soon as the young man had finished his meal, he mixed the willow-bark tea and tried to tempt Thorongil to take some. The Captain coughed and spluttered at the bitter taste. Ragnor eventually got it down with alternate spoonfuls of stewed apple. He applied a fresh poultice of cabbage leaves and was relieved that Thorongil appeared to settle a little. He coaxed him to swallow some water. 

“Mother! Sorry…Elrond…love her, had to…” The disjointed rambling went on, and though Ragnor understood little of it, still he tried to soothe Thorongil. 

“I know,” Ragnor responded, though he doubted Thorongil heeded his presence. “She will understand.” 

Thorongil muttered for a little longer then fell into an uneasy sleep. Ragnor decided he might as well try to rest too and settled himself in the chair as best he could. The candle had burned low when he awakened again. To his dismay, Thorongil had thrown off his covers. Ragnor hastily covered his Captain again and then felt his brow. He was sweating profusely. 

“Arwen? Love you…ache…on fire! Win the crown…earn the right…wield sceptre. Arwen…worthy…” Thorongil cried. 

Ragnor flushed slightly, uncomfortable at being privy to the Captain's yearning for his sweetheart as well as puzzled as to why Thorongil should speak of crown and sceptre. Many a young man in flights of romantic fancy would speak of laying crowns at their lady love's feet, but why a sceptre? He decided that he must concentrate on practical matters. The bedding was soaked and he needed water to sponge the Captain down. He peered out of the small window. The moon had risen, but he could hear the singing of late night revellers making their way home. Hopefully the innkeeper was still abroad. He opened the door and called, “Is anyone there?” 

The innkeeper replied almost at once, from where he had just reached the top of the stairs to turn in for the night. “How’s the Captain, lad?” he asked. “Can I help you with anything?” 

“I'd feared you were already abed,” said Ragnor. “His fever is beginning to break and he needs water and clean sheets.” 

“I'll bring some,” the man replied. 

Within a few moments he was back with the water. “Sponge him down first and then I'll help you change the sheets,” he said 

“That is kind of you,” said Ragnor. 

“Nothing is too much trouble for Captain Thorongil,” said the man. “His deeds are known far and wide. Gondor needs more like him. Call me when you are ready.” 

Ragnor dipped a cloth in the bowl of warm water and started to bathe Thorongil's face and neck. 

“Arwen…so fair… Only you…remain alone…line fail…prophecy…we…of Lúthien’s blood!” mumbled Thorongil. 

Much of what Thorongil was muttering made no sense to Ragnor, but he almost dropped the cloth at the mention of Lúthien’s blood. Why, the line of ancient kings stemmed from Lúthien! He found himself studying Thorongil intensely while he bathed the sweat from his body. The Captain was exceptionally tall and strong, despite being slender as a willow. His hair was dark and his eyes grey. All traits he knew depicted the ancestry most Men in Gondor had some small part of, but centuries of intermarriage meant only families such as the Steward's had the blood of Númenor running true in their veins. Lord Denethor was famed for having it in large measure, for not only did he have the look, but also the powers of the mind. 

Ragnor suddenly recalled how Captain Thorongil seemed able to sense if there was danger with more than the experienced soldier's instinct he put it down to. He could read men's hearts too. He always seemed to know what his men's greatest hopes and fears were and acted accordingly, therefore bringing out the best in those who served under him. Then there was the ring. He had never seen one like it before. Maybe it was some royal heirloom? 

Thorongil's grey eyes flickered open. “Could take it now,” he cried. “Denethor! Hates me! You are trying to kill me!” He grabbed Ragnor's arm and stared at him accusingly. 

“No, Captain,” Ragnor protested. “I am trying to help you.” 

Thorongil glared at him. “Mine! Rightfully…be king…Arwen my queen…Elrond? Halbarad cares – my people! ” He shifted onto his side, still muttering. “White tree…blossom…no hiding…son…Arathorn.” Then Thorongil wept and began again to call for his mother. 

Ragnor found he was trembling. He was certain now that Thorongil was Gondor's lost king whose coming had been awaited for well nigh a thousand years. What must he do? 

Thorongil groaned again reminding Ragnor just how ill he was. The young man shuddered. The fear that Captain Thorongil might die in his care was bad enough, but the king? He pulled himself together. A dead king was of no use to anyone any more than a dead captain was! He tried to recall more of what his father had tried to teach him. The Captain was sweating heavily. He would need water to replace what was lost. Ragnor filled a glass of water from the pitcher. With he free hand he supported Thorongil's head. “Drink this, lord,” he said. 

Thorongil gulped it down thirstily. “Mother?” he asked. 

“She is coming,” Ragnor soothed. 

“Burning…burning…Arwen!” Thorongil cried. 

“Easy, my lord,” said Ragnor. “Let me make you more comfortable.” He took up the cloth again and continued sponging the sweat from Thorongil's body. He noticed then that the wound was oozing vile matter. Surely that was a good sign? He dressed it again with clean bandages. He continued gently bathing his Captain and coaxed him to take more water and willow-bark bark tea. Not until Thorongil ceased to rave and fell into an uneasy sleep did he dare call for the innkeeper to help him to change the sheets. To Ragnor's great relief, apart from a few groans, Thorongil was quiet while the innkeeper was in the room. 

The feel of the dry, clean linen against his skin seemed to soothe the feverish man and he fell into a deeper sleep. On the chair beside the bed, Ragnor dozed fitfully. When he next awoke, sunlight was streaming through the small window. 

The man on the bed stirred and opened his eyes. “Where am I?” he asked hoarsely. ''Ragnor? What happened?” 

“You were wounded, lord,” said Ragnor. “You have had a fever and were delirious all last night.” He filled a glass and held it to Thorongil's lips. “We are at an inn, the “Seven Stars”. The rest of the men have returned to the City. They will ask the Steward to send a healer to you.” 

The Captain drank then reached beneath the covers. His eyes widened in alarm as his fingers scrabbled at his chest. “ It is gone!” he cried. 

Ragnor reached into his pocket and drew out the ring on its chain. “Your ring, lord,” he said. “I took it for safe keeping,” he said. 

As he handed it back, Thorongil gripped his hand with surprising strength for a sick man. “Why do you call me lord?” he demanded, unmistakable fear in the keen grey eyes. “What did I say in my fever? I am your Captain, not your lord.” 

Ragnor inwardly wrestled with what to say. It was obvious Thorongil wanted his secret kept. He loved his Captain and would gladly do anything for him. If silence was what he desired, he should have it. “You spoke nothing but nonsense, Captain,” he said firmly. “Anything you said I have already forgotten.” 

Thorongil visibly relaxed and squeezed his hand. “Thank you, my friend,” he said. “Now does this inn have anything to eat? I feel weak as a newborn kitten! I need to be recovered before Master Beren gets here and tries to dose me with some foul tasting concoction of his!” 

Ragnor smiled. It seemed that the Captain was well on the way to recovery. He felt a surge of elation sweep through him, at the knowledge he had helped Thorongil overcome as fierce an enemy as any he had wielded a sword against. For the first time since he had left his home village, he regretted forsaking the healer's calling. Now he realised, saving lives was more satisfying than taking them. 

Many years later 

“Grandpa, the King is riding through our village!” 

“Is he indeed now?” The old man looked up from the potion for winter coughs he was brewing. 

“Can I watch him ride by? I'll catch up with my studies later. I do mean to be as good a healer as you are, grandpa!” 

“Yes, lad, you go and see him.” 

The boy ran off. Ragnor absently stirred the mixture and stared into the fire. He had never spoken to anyone of that long ago night at the inn, but it had changed his life. Within a year, Thorongil had abruptly left Gondor. Ragnor was one of the very few who suspected why, but he could say nothing when his comrades endlessly speculated the reason for the Captain's departure. He spent more and more time alone. The new Captain who replaced Thorongil was a decent enough man, but he lacked his predecessor's power to inspire his men. 

When Ragnor had been wounded, he decided not to return to a life of fighting but instead went back home and told his father he had changed his mind about becoming a healer. He found now it gave him far greater satisfaction than soldiering. 

He had married his sweetheart and they had had seven children and as many grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Ragnor was old now, but still keen of mind and eye. He had led a contented life, but he had never forgotten Thorongil. He had been special and Ragnor had never admired anyone else quite as he had admired his Captain. 

Ragnor had never seen the King, but from what Men said, he was certain that Elessar and Thorongil must be one and the same. He had heard that the White Tree did indeed bloom again, so Thorongil's fever dreams had come true. He could hear cheering outside now and debated whether or not to go outside and see the King ride past. He decided against it. He would rather remember his Captain as he was, a warm and approachable man in his prime, not some ageing and distant ruler surrounded by grand lords and ladies. Thorongil would have forgotten his young lieutenant as soon as he left Gondor. 

His grandson came running back inside. 

“Grandpa, the King wants to see you!” the lad cried breathlessly. “I overheard him asking for you.” 

Ragnor took up his cane and hobbled outside. There, across the street was his Captain. Apart from a few flecks of grey in the dark hair, Thorongil had not changed at all. Beside him was the fairest lady that Ragnor had ever beheld. 

The King was saying to the village innkeeper. “I knew Ragnor long ago and I recall that he told me he dwelt in this village. I would see him again if he yet lives.” 

Ragnor's grandson called out excitedly. “He is my grandsire, lord! He is here.” 

The King dismounted nimbly from his great stallion and hastened across the street. Before Ragnor could attempt to bow to him, the King's arms were around him in a warm embrace. “It is good to see you again, my old friend!” he said. The voice was still Thorongil's; warm, deep, and with a slight accent. On his finger, he wore the emerald ring. Still with his arm around Ragnor's shoulders, the King turned to the lovely woman at his side and said, “Arwen, meet an old friend of mine, Ragnor. I owe him a great deal for he once saved my life.” 

Ragnor's old heart swelled with pride. “It was my honour, my lord, my lady,” he said. “I would have gladly given my life for my Captain, um, I mean my King, begging your pardon, my lord.” 

“You will always be my lieutenant and I will always be your Captain, Ragnor,” said the King. “We are older and hopefully wiser, but we are still the same men. We are two of a kind, you and healers, I and warriors both. Now let us share a mug of ale together and talk about old times.”


Chapter 14 - A Proper Man for Summer

Author: Linda Hoyland
Title: A Proper Man for Summer
Rating: PG
Theme: Midsummer Dreams
Elements: A proper man, as one shall see in a summer's day.
Beta: Virtuella
Author's Notes: Based on an idea of Shirebound's. A sequel to "Star of Hope
Summary: Ivorwen loved her grandson dearly, but he was little more than a baby when he was taken to the safety of Rivendell. Now the time has come for him to return to his people, she is full of apprehension
Word Count: 1318

A Proper Man for Summer
A proper man, as one shall see in a summer's day. - Shakespeare – A Midsummer Night's Dream
Disclaimer; the characters are the property of the Tolkien estate. No money has been made from this story

Ivorwen inwardly berated herself for feeling so excited. At her age it was the height of foolishness. She had lived long enough to know that high expectations were rarely fulfilled. But surely any grandmother would be excited at the prospect of seeing her grandson again after eighteen years? Especially a grandson for whom her farsight had predicted great things.

She might be getting old but the memories of the last time she had set eyes on little Aragorn were as clear as if it had been yesterday. She still saw that child in her dreams. He was such a beautiful child, warm and loving and advanced for his tender years. It had well nigh broken her heart when the child and his mother had been torn from her to protect him from the Enemy.

Ivorwen had seen Gilraen a few times over the years, brief furtive visits that had never been long enough for either of them and caused as much pain as joy. Gilraen had found it hard to settle at Rivendell, but had reported that her child was thriving there and was the fairest, cleverest and most loving son that any mother had ever given birth to.

Ivorwen smiled wryly. Of course his mother would say that! What if Aragorn had become too Elvish and could not relate to the people he was supposed to lead? Or what if living at Rivendell had made him spoiled and soft? What if her dreams turned into nightmares?

Her elder daughter's boy, Halbarad, had already met Aragorn when he had been out riding with the sons of Elrond, but oblivious to the fact that the young man was his kinsman and chieftain, had paid him small heed and could do little to satisfy his grandmother's curiosity.

It had been decided by Master Elrond and the Dúnedain elders that Aragorn should meet his people at their annual gathering by the shores of Lake Nenuial to celebrate Loëndë. A new face would attract little attention from the Enemy amongst so many and the powers of darkness were at their weakest when the nights were at their shortest.

What few knew was just how fitting it was, as Gilraen had confided that the boy had been conceived here twenty-one summers ago at the annual celebration. Ivorwen recalled that long ago celebration as if it had been yesterday. She had but to close her eyes and she could see her daughter sitting by the campfire with Arathorn on the single night he had attended the festival. Such a night it had been with more shooting stars seen in the sky than any man living could recall.

Ivorwen could endure sitting in her tent no longer. Her earlier excitement had turned to apprehension. She cast aside her needlework and went outside. She pulled her shawl closely around her shoulders and shivered slightly. It was cold for June and summer was slow to come this year. The earth itself seemed to be like their people, trapped in an endless winter.

Ivorwen looked around her. Soon she feared there would be none left save old women such as she and their memories. Every year the numbers declined and this year there were fewer men than ever, or so it seemed, especially those of mature years. There were times she had been thankful that she had borne only daughters to be spared the pain of the women around her who mourned their slaughtered sons. She knew, though, that such feeling were selfish as her people needed warriors so badly. Maybe she had been punished in the long years of separation from the daughter and grandson she loved. There had been times when she wondered if it had been just to Gilraen to encourage her to marry Arathorn, a grim and aging man and one who she knew was doomed. Yet her farsight had told her that great things would come of the union and now she was about to be reunited with the child on whom so many hopes rested.

Children were playing amongst the tents, laughing as if they had not a care in the world while they kicked a ball made of rags. A group of women were spinning and singing as they worked. The men, ever watchful, polished their weapons, but they too sang while they worked, ballads telling of great battles and victories of long ago.

Ivorwen walked down to the shores of the lake. It was peaceful here away from the bustle of the camp. A young couple walked hand in hand, oblivious to all save each other. Ivorwen thought wistfully of the last time she was here and watching her daughter and son- in- law set off for a stroll on the shore. Arathorn had not been young, unlike these lovebirds, but the girl with her face turned trustingly towards the young man could have been her Gilraen. Not that any young woman could match Gilraen's beauty- not in her mother's eyes at least.

The breeze rippled the water creating softly undulating waves. From where she stood, Ivorwen could clearly see the ruined towers of Annuminas on the far side of the lake. They still stood, isolated and grim, a reminder of past glories. Ivorwen was so lost in thought that she hardly noticed the young man approaching until he stood at her side. He too gazed across the lake.

"How splendid the City once must have been!" he said.

"Is this your first visit here?" she asked reluctant to turn her head to look at her companion.

"I came with my mother for a brief visit long ago," the young man replied.

Ivorwen laughed. "Long ago is before you were born, lad," she replied, "when these desolate ruins were a fine city."

"It could one day be rebuilt when the Dark Lord is overthrown," said the boy.

"The young are allowed their dreams," said Ivorwen. "The old have lost hope. An endless winter has fallen upon our people.

"There is always hope," said the youth. "Spring must follow winter and the splendour of summer follow spring."

Ivorwen spun round to face him. She studied him carefully, taking in the chiselled features, dark hair and sparkling grey eyes. He was fairer than most and there was something familiar about the lad. He was a stranger, yet familiar.

'What is your mother's name, lad?" she asked, hoping her voice did not tremble.

The boy hesitated as if debating whether or not she could be trusted. "Her name is Gilraen," he said at last. "But mistress, you look pale, are you unwell?" He put a protective hand on her arm and gazed at her with friendly grey eyes.

For a moment it seemed to Ivorwen that the boy had a shining gem upon his brow. His touch was warm and seemed to surge through every fibre of her being Then a flash of farsight came to her. The boy was now a man ripe in years. The sky grew ever darker and her grandson carried a mighty sword in his hand. The darkness cleared. Aragorn now wore a green gem upon his breast and the sceptre of Annuminas was in his hand. The ruins surrounding her had become a fair city. Farsight did not lie. Somehow this boy would not only be Chieftain, but King and restore the lost glory of the Dúnedain. A great wave of elation surged through her. Maybe dreams could come true?

Suddenly the sun came out turning the grey surface of the lake to silver.

"Why, lad, I have never felt better in many a year," Ivorwen said. She smiled and reached out to take his hand. "I know who you are, lad, and the sight of you gladdens an old woman's heart. You are my grandson, Aragorn, son of Gilraen and Arathorn. You have rekindled hope in my heart. Maybe summer will come again for our people."


Chapter 15 - Great Expectations

Author: Linda Hoyland
Title: Great Expectations
Rating: PG
Theme: Hit the books
Elements: Great Expectations
Beta: Virtuella and Raksha
Author's Notes: This is a sequel to “A Proper Man for Summer.
Summary: We know that Aragorn returned to his people soon after he came of age, but what did they think of the young Chieftain?
Word Count: 1,005
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. This story is written for pleasure not profit.


Great Expectations

Even for a fine afternoon, the village square was unusually crowded. Some people made half-hearted attempts to go about their daily business, whereas others simply huddled in groups talking. The women were dressed in their best finery, while the men had polished their gear until it sparkled.

“If only I'd been able to go to the Midsummer celebration,” one young woman sighed, “but with mother being ill with a fever I had to stay at home. I've heard he is fair as an Elf!”

“He is indeed,” said her companion. “When he greeted me, my legs trembled.”

“What did he say?” her friend asked, a trifle jealously.

“That he was pleased to meet me, nothing more. But his eyes! They were like storm clouds with the sun behind them!”

Behind the girls their mothers were equally engrossed in conversation.

“He seemed most impressed by my lass,” said one. “After all, he will be in need of a wife and we have the blood of Arador in our veins through my great grandmother. I have heard that the Chieftain's mother is remaining with the Elves, so he will need a woman to take care of him.”

“Do not forget that Arathorn was well advanced in years before he married,” said her companion. “Besides what do we know about this lad save that he was brought up by the Elves? He might think himself too good for the likes of us and go straight back to them. I have heard tales that they can have hot baths whenever they please and they have soft coverings on their floors.”

“I would not mind living in such splendour, neither would my lass.”

A small group of old men sat outside the village inn. They were sipping their ale, but their eyes were on the road.

“I remember his father well,” said one. “A fine man, though a stern one.”

“I've never seen his like as a warrior,” said another. “For all that, the Orcs got him in the end. We shall see how long this lad of his lasts. Not long I wager if he's been brought up soft and pampered.”

“They say the Elves call him Hope”, said another greybeard.

“What hope is there left for our people?” said the oldest of the group. “Each year we grow fewer. Still it will be pleasant to see a young face around. But where will he live? The Chieftain's house is derelict. We all believed that Gilraen and her son were dead.”

“How can we be sure then that this boy is Arathorn's true heir? Maybe we should be content with Halbarad as our chieftain and forget our hopes of Isildur's line?”

“Mistress Ivorwen has seen the lad and swears he is her true grandson. We can rely on her word.”

“Aye that we can.” The old men all nodded their heads in agreement.

000

“Maybe I should sweep the floor once more?” Inzilbeth fretted. She stood outside her house together with her son and her mother. The two women never took their eyes off the road. Halbarad busied himself sharpening his sword, though even he stole an occasional glance towards the North.

“He is your nephew, child, Gilraen’s lad, not the High King of the Noldor!” Ivorwen chuckled.

“But living so long amongst those Elves, he will expect high standards!” Inzilbeth protested.

“He's just another lad, mother,” Halbarad sounded exasperated.

“Maybe he would have been better off staying with you?” Inzilbeth looked doubtfully at her mother.

“I am old, child, Aragorn needs to be with younger folk. Ah, it will gladden my heart to have my grandson home again!”

“I have always been here!”

“There is no need to be jealous, Halbarad. You have led us well since you came of age, but Aragorn is Arathorn's son. You owe him your obedience.”

“And he shall have it. I just cannot see why there is so much fuss about him. Granted, he is skilled with sword and bow and well versed in lore, but he is just a boy, not some great hero out of legend!”

“My foresight tells me that he might become one,” Ivorwen said gravely. “I know at present you see him as an unwelcome guest you would liefer not have to share your room with, but who knows what the future will bring?”

000

“He is coming!” the guard at the postern shouted.

The chatter abruptly ceased. The sound of distant hoof beats grew louder. The villagers hastened to greet the new arrivals.

The new Chieftain was alone apart from the Rangers who had been sent to be his escort. He rode a fine horse, but his clothing was simple and unadorned save for the star emblem of the Dúnedain.

“By Elbereth!” whispered one of the oldest women. “It is as if Arathorn himself had come back!”

The people bowed their heads and placed their hands on their hearts in the traditional sign of loyalty, a few anxious mothers prompting their young offspring to do the same.

Aragorn dismounted from his horse, but kept hold of the reins. Ivorwen thought she detected a glint of fear in the clear grey eyes, but it was swiftly mastered and replaced by a warm open smile.” My people,” said Aragorn. “It gladdens my heart to be here amongst you. I owe much to Master Elrond, but this is the true home of my longfathers. I know, you have great expectations; whether or not I shall meet them only time will tell. I can but give you my solemn oath that I will serve my people with all my heart, soul and strength. I have much to learn, I know, and hope you will teach me that I might live up to the example of my forebears. We live in dark times, yet there is always light somewhere in that darkness.”

The villagers cheered. They did not know the young man yet, but there was something in his warm grey eyes and noble bearing that filled them with new hope.


Chapter 16 - In need of a wife

Title -In Need of a Wife

B2MeM Challenge Roles and names of Aragorn1- warrior; ;Emotions- joy; I Love in M-e - love at first sight; Book Titles- Silver on the tree. First Lines- It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in need of a wife.

Format: 500 word FLF

Genre: humour romance

Rating: PG13

Warnings: none

Characters: Aragorn/ Arwen

Pairings: Aragorn/Arwen

Summary: Aragorn walks amongst the birch trees.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in need of a wife, or so he had heard folk say. Estel, or Aragorn, as he now knew his true name to be, laughed at the absurdity of the idea.

He was a warrior, already skilled with sword and bow and intending to become mightier yet, not some lovesick fool who would spend his days helping his wife wind wool by the fireside!

He was not just any warrior either, but the heir of the great Elendil, the latest scion of the mighty line of the Sea Kings.

He supposed he would have to marry someday to beget heirs, but compared with feats of arms and the companionship of his fellow warriors, marriage seemed but a dreary duty to be undertaken at some distant date in the future. Like all young men, he knew the urges of flesh could be troublesome, but they were nothing that a good bout of sword practice could not remedy.

He had a loving mother and foster family and his companions in arms from amongst the Rangers. And when he was not fighting, he spent his time studying healing and lore. What more could any man need?

Aragorn put all thought of women from his mind as he walked through the woods, pondering over what Master Elrond had told him. His mother had often told him that his father was a mighty warrior and Aragorn had strived to equal his sire in feats of arms, but to think that the shards of the great sword Narsil now belonged to him! The sword had achieved the greatest of deeds.

Aragorn started to sing softly to himself as he walked beneath the birches. His heart was filled with joy to know he was of such high lineage. He sang the Lay of Luthien, marvelling that Lúthien and Beren were in fact his forebears. He wondered idly if any woman could truly be as fair as Lúthien.

It was the hour before sunset and the shafts of light turned to silver on the trees, giving the birch wood an especial beauty.

It was then that he espied her, a maiden walking amongst the trees. Had he strayed into some wondrous dream? Surely this was Lúthien herself reborn? No other maiden could be so fair!

For a moment he stood as if entranced, fearing she might vanish from his sight even as he gazed. Then he called out "Tinúviel, Tinúviel!" as did Beren long ago.

The maiden turned and looked upon him. She smiled.

Emotions he had never known before seized Aragorn, a strange mixture of joy and fear of hope and of yearning. His heart thumped and his stomach churned. So this was love at first sight, of which the poets spoke? All he knew was that he wanted this maiden beside him until the end of his days.

Aragorn realised he was indeed in need of a wife!

A/n You can see this story on my website illustrated with lovely artwork by Rachel.

http://lindahoyland.yolasite.com/in-need-of-a-wife.php


Chapter 17 - August in Bree

August in Bree

B2MeM Challenge Weather1- humid; Emotions1- apprehension; Carolling- We won't go until we get some; Canon couples1-Aegnar/Andreth; Love1- They loved the woods and the riversides.; Rangers of the North- Fell Winter; First lines- One midwinter day off the coast

Format: ficlet

Genre: general

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Aragorn, Halbarad, Butterbur, OMCs

Pairings: Aragorn/Arwen, Aegnar/Andreth

Summary: Three Rangers spend a hot afternoon in Bree.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

"One Midwinter day off the coast of Dol Amroth the crew spotted a bottle with a note in it," Aragorn began.

"What did it say?" asked Gilavir, the youngest of the trio, who had only recently become a fully- fledged Ranger.

"Come home soon!" said Halbarad. "I felt like sending such a missive often enough while you were away on your travels."

"Am I telling this story or are you?" Aragorn's tone was irate. The three Rangers were in Bree after hearing reports of Orcs being sighted in the area. For men who loved the woods and the riversides, being in a town was bad enough, but to make matters worse, it was a day in the hottest and most humid August that any of them could remember. The three sat sprawled under the only tree they could find, which stood opposite the Prancing Pony, waiting until nightfall to repel the possible Orc attack. Most of the passers- by glared at the trio, while others ignored them completely. No one offered a smile or friendly greeting to the Rangers.

"What is the sea like?" asked Gilavir.

"Vast and ever changing," said Aragorn. "It stretches as far as the eye can see and a cool breeze always blows off it." He sighed wistfully. "I have been telling enough tales for one afternoon. It is time someone else took a turn. Gilavir, why don't you share a tale with us?"

"I have never been further than the ruins of Annúminas," Gilavir said glumly. "I have no tales of adventure to tell."

"Surely you know some of the great stories of old?" said Halbarad.

Gilavir brightened. "My mother used to tell me the old tales on winter's nights by the fireside while we waited for father to come home. I remember well one tale she used to tell about Aegnor and Andreth, who lived long ago. Andreth was a wise woman, well versed in lore, who fell in love with the Elf lord, Aegnor. Alas, their love was doomed not to end in wedlock, for it was a time of great trouble and ..."

Aragorn's expression grew increasingly grim during this narration. He found himself wondering if this too would be the fate of his beloved Arwen and himself. The boy was not to know, though, as he had confided his troth plighting to Arwen to none save his mother, Gandalf, and Halbarad.

"Do you not know any more cheerful tales, lad?" asked Halbarad, coming to his Chieftain's rescue.

"I…" Gilavir flushed scarlet.

"I have met Aegnor's sister," said Aragorn. "She is a wise and beautiful lady."

Gilavir gaped at him open mouthed.

Just then two Hobbits walked past, they both glared at the Rangers.

"Just look at them layabouts," said one, a plump fellow of middle years. "Nothing but rogues and vagabonds, them Rangers!"

"Be careful they don't hear you," said his companion, who was even plumper. "You might end up murdered in your bed. Honest folk aren't safe with the likes of them lurking around!"

Gilavir nearly exploded with indignation. "My grandmother says folk such as they would have been devoured by wolves or starved to death without the Rangers' help during the Fell Winter, and we had little enough to share as it was. Her youngest baby died, as she had no milk for him. I'd like to teach those two a lesson!"

"Easy, Gilavir," Aragorn said mildly. "We choose it to be this way. They would fear to sleep at night if they knew the horrors we protect them from."

"I think I would prefer the Fell Winter to this heat!" said Halbarad, mopping his brow.

"Let us go to the inn and order a cool beer from old Butterbur," said Aragorn. "Maybe that will refresh us."

Gilavir regarded his elders with some apprehension. "But will he serve Rangers?"

"Barliman Butterbur will serve anyone with the right coin," said Aragorn. "He is not a bad fellow, though. He appreciates a good song or a story while his ale is the best in these parts." He scrambled to his feet his companions followed his example.

Gilavir still looked worried.

"We won't go until we get some!" said Halbarad pushing open the door of the inn and calling to the innkeeper to bring some ale.

To the Rangers' amazement, Butterbur brought their drinks with a smile.

"You look happy today, Barliman," said Aragorn.

"Business is booming in this heat," Mr Butterbur replied.

The Rangers tasted their drinks and looked at each other, than at Butterbur in joyous amazement.

"They taste good, don't they, lads?" said the innkeeper. "I had an ice house built last winter. A right good investment it's proved too."

Aragorn, Halbarad, and Gilavir sipped their cold drinks. For the first time that day, they were happy.

A/n. I decided I'd better publish this while it is seasonal! Gilavir first appeared in my drabble "A woman's touch", also on this site.


Chapter 18 - Amidst the Ruins

Amidst the Ruins

B2MeM Challenge; Rangers of the North- Fornost; Tolkien's Trees- Oak; Colours- purple; Beasts-snail; song lyrics-Go on a journey and roam the streets. cant's see the way out so use the stars.

Format: short story

Genre: general, humour, friendship

Rating: PG

Warnings: very mild horror

Characters: Aragorn, Halbarad, OMC

Pairings: none

Summary: Three Rangers make camp amongst the ruins of Fornost.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

"We will make camp here for the night," said Aragorn. "The ruins will offer protection from the wind, as should the trees."

"But it's haunted here!" young Gilavir protested.

"You have seen the ghosts then, lad?" Halbarad teased.

"No, but I've heard the rumours. Don't the Bree folk call Fornost, Dead Men's Dyke?"

"You don't want to be listening to old Butterbur's tales," said Aragorn. He unrolled his bedroll beneath a mighty oak, while Halbarad kindled a fire.

"I don't, "said Gilavir. " But I do know there was a great battle here to drive out the Witch King and many were slain. It feels creepy here amongst the ruins."

"That is only because all ruins look sinister at dusk in the fading light," Aragorn said calmly. "I have been here on a spring morning and it is fair enough then. Violets and pansies grow so profusely that it is like walking on a purple carpet. Many birds nest in the great oaks here and amongst the broken stones. It saddens my heart to see a once great city in ruins, but I dream that one day it will be rebuilt and flourish anew."

"The times are so dark, yet you never lose hope," Gilavir looked at Aragorn in wonder.

The Chieftain was silent for a few moments. He sat warming his hands by the fire. "I was named Estel as a child," he said at last. "I try to live up to that name. Look up there, lad, can you see the stars?"

Gilavir followed his Chieftain's gaze and looked up at the heavens. It was dark enough now to see the stars twinkling brightly.

"I have travelled far," said Aragorn. "Even to lands where the stars are strange, but on all my journeys, especially when times have been hard and I have not been able to see the way forward, I have looked up at the stars and found hope again, especially from Gil-Estel. So let not your heart be troubled, lad, hope yet remains, even amongst these ruins."

"When you are king and have built your palace here," said Halbarad ", we will expect regular invitations to dine with you. We shall recline on purple cushions after the lavish banquet and drink Dorwinion long into the night."

"I would prefer Annúminas as my capital," said Aragorn. "But Fornost would do nicely too." He yawned. "But let us continue our dreams in our sleep. I am weary."

"I will take first watch," said Gilavir. "I do not feel like sleeping yet."

"Oh to be young again!" said Halbarad yawning. "Thank you, Gilavir; I am more than ready for my bed.

"I'll take the second watch," said Aragorn. "Wake us if you notice anything untoward." The two older Rangers settled down in their bedrolls side by side and soon were fast asleep.

Gilavir remained staring into the fire for some time. He then became restless and decided to polish his sword to while away the time. Taking a cloth from his pack, he rubbed it until it gleamed. He then felt the need to answer a call of nature. Taking just his dagger for protection, he wandered off into the trees, leaving his sword propped against the great oak.

Away from the shelter of the campfire, Gilavir's earlier unease returned. The ruins looked so eerie by starlight, while the oaks could almost have been trolls! He hastened back to the campfire. It was then that he heard it, an unearthly sound beyond description, a horrible squelching, creaking sound. Gilavir had never heard the like before. It were as if some unquiet spirit were forcing its away out of one of the many graves that must surely lie beneath the earth here. His nerve failed him and he cried out in alarm.

"What is it, lad, Orcs?" Aragorn cried. The Chieftain and Halbarad were beside him in an instant, their swords drawn.

"I don't think so." Gilavir' s teeth were chattering with fright.

"What then, lad?" Aragorn laid a comforting hand on the frightened young Ranger's shoulder. He gestured to Halbarad to return to his bed.

"That sound! Surely it is something not of this world!" Gilavir said with a shudder.

Aragorn listened intently for a few moments .then he laughed. "I will show you our intruder!" he said. He picked up a dead oak branch and thrust it in the fire to make a torch, and then cast the light in the direction of the sound. "There is your ghost, lad!" he announced triumphantly.

Gilavir looked. His sword gleamed brightly in the torchlight. "That is but my sword," he said in bewilderment.

"Look more closely," Aragorn insisted.

Gilavir looked and beheld a large snail crawling along the polished metal.

"A snail has hundreds of tiny suction pads to help it move along," Aragorn explained. "I recall one stormy night in Rivendell, when I was a child, wondering what the strange noise outside my window was. I was scared too. My mother took me outside and we found a snail climbing up the glass. The next day, Master Elrond explained about the suction pads and how they make a noise rubbing against shiny smooth surfaces." He gently removed the snail from Gilavir's blade and cast it into the long grass. "There, our intruder is banished," he said. "You will have to polish your sword again, first thing tomorrow, Gilavir. After you have done so, always replace it in the scabbard. For a Ranger must look after his sword and keep it ready for battle."

"I'm sorry." Gilavir flushed scarlet.

"We were all young once," said Aragorn. "It is indeed a strange sound the first time you hear it." He squeezed Gilavir's shoulder reassuringly. "Go to sleep now, "I will keep watch now."

"Thank you." Gilavir suddenly felt extremely tired. He stumbled towards his bedroll and settled down beside Halbarad.

Aragorn took out his pipe and gazed up at the stars. Gil-Estel was already halfway through his nightly journey. He sighed; there would be little rest for him this night. Then he thought of the noisy snail and chuckled softly.

A/n. The story of the snails is based on memories of hearing a most unearthly noise one October night. It turned out to be a large snail climbing up the windowpane.


Chapter 19 - The Hardest Battle

The Hardest Battle – Linda Hoyland

Rating- PG13 (for gore)

Summary – Aragorn has returned to his people, but they are slow to accept their young chieftain.

Disclaimer – The recognisable characters in this story all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

With thanks to Wiseheart, Elenbarathi, Keiliss and Huinare for inspiration with the plot, all my LJ friends who made suggestions, Raksha and Julia for encouragement and Deandra for her editorial assistance.

Written for Wiseheart for the Edhellond 10th Anniversary ficathon and for the Teitho Fireside challenge.

Aragorn shifted uneasily, trying vainly to get comfortable on the thin bedroll. A few weeks ago, living as a Ranger had seemed exciting. All too soon, he had realised that nothing could be further from the truth. Short fierce battles were punctuated by endless hours spent finding food and a dry place to sleep, or simply waiting.

Halbarad, who was sleeping beside him in the cave in which they had found shelter for the night, opened one eye and glared at him balefully. "Are you missing your soft feather bed, my lord?" his kinsman hissed. "Some of us are trying to sleep!"

Aragorn indeed missed Rivendell and the comfortable bed that had been his there, he missed the excellent food and daily baths too, and most of all he missed the loving family and friends he had left behind. In the lonely watches of the night, he thought longingly of his mother, who was always so eager to hear of his adventures, of Master Elrond and his sons, and of the fair Arwen. He wondered jealously just who might be paying her court while he was out here in the wilds.

"Sorry," he mumbled. He turned away from Halbarad and stared fixedly at the meagre campfire that burned in the cave. He thought wistfully of the blazing fire in the hall at Rivendell and the companionship he had enjoyed there. He had never felt so alone in his life as he did now. Either the men resented him, believing him to be soft and mollycoddled, though he had tried his best not to appear so, or they treated him so deferentially that friendship seemed impossible.

Aragorn considered himself a skilled tracker and well accomplished with sword and bow, but so too were these men whom he was supposed to lead. Halbarad, who had been acting leader until recently, seemed to know so much more than the young chieftain did, though only his senior by a few years. Aragorn was acutely aware that he only led these men by virtue of his birth. That was why Halbarad had been chosen to lead the Rangers in his absence, as he too was a descendant of Aranarth, though through the female line only.

The young chieftain found the evenings around the campfire the hardest to endure. The men would ask one another to sing songs and tell stories to entertain their fellows, but never once did they ask him, he who had been raised in Master Elrond's house and knew more lore than any of them!

Aragorn shifted again, ignoring a sharp elbow dig from Halbarad and tried to get comfortable. They would be up at dawn to meet up with another small group of men who had been tracking Orcs in the Fells.

Aragorn must have slept a little as he was awoken with a start to the sound of raised voices.

"We should attempt to remove the arrow," said one voice.

"He will die of blood loss if we do," said another voice. "It is near a major blood vessel and none of us has the skill to extract it."

"He will surely die if we leave it in," said the first voice. "Orc arrows are filthy. We should take him to Rivendell."

"He'd be dead long before we got there," said the second speaker. "Master Elrond is too far away."

Aragorn threw off his blanket and scrambled to his feet. "What has happened?" he asked.

"Nothing for you to concern yourself over, sir," said Vardamir, the oldest of the group. "Tarcil has been wounded on patrol, but there is no danger. His fellows killed the Orcs. "

"What has been done for him?" asked Aragorn.

"We can do very little save try to keep him comfortable," Vardamir replied. "He needs the skills of Master Elrond, but we are many leagues from Rivendell."

"I was trained by Master Elrond," said Aragorn. "I will tend Tarcil's wound as best I may." He rummaged in his pack for the well- stocked kit of healing implements and herbs that Master Elrond had given him as a parting gift.

"Better to let the poor fellow die in peace than be butchered further!" Halbarad said acidly.

"I do not butcher my patients," Aragorn said coldly. "Master Elrond trained me well." He pushed his way through the small group of men to where Tarcil lay close to the fire on a bedroll. A black fletched arrow protruded from high in his shoulder, just below his neck. Aragorn regarded it with dismay; it was indeed in a difficult position to remove, but he had seen Master Elrond treat similar injuries and assisted him. It would be a difficult procedure, but he believed he could do it. He knelt beside Tarcil and took his hand, noting that his pulse, although rapid, was still strong. "Be easy," he told the injured man. "I will give you something for the pain then tend to your wound."

"He needs a skilled healer like my mother!" Halbarad protested.

"She is not here and we do not have one," said Vardamir.

Tarcil's eyes flickered open. "I want to live to see my children grow up," he murmured.

"I cannot promise to save you, but I will try my utmost," said Aragorn.

"Thank you," said Tarcil.

Aragorn got to his feet. "I need as much light as possible," he said. "And plenty of hot water. I also will need someone to help me. At least one man to hold him down and another to pass me my instruments." His tone was confident and commanding. For the first time since he had re-joined his people, he sounded like the leader he was born to be.

For a moment no one moved then Vardamir said, "You heard the Chieftain, make haste!"

Aragorn rummaged in his pack and took out a vial of precious poppy syrup. He mixed a few drops in water and gave them to the wounded man, then busied himself cutting away his clothing from around the arrow while he waited for the pain- relieving potion to work.

One Ranger threw more wood on the fire while another lit torches and positioned them around the wounded man. Aragorn selected a sharp knife and a special implement for removing arrows and placed it in the flames to cleanse it. Halbarad brought him a bowl of hot water and Aragorn thoroughly washed his hands. He gently felt the flesh around the arrow. To his relief, as yet there was no sign of serious infection, but he would have to work quickly before any could set in.

Aragorn removed the instruments from the fire and set them aside to cool. He then cleaned the skin around the arrow. He looked around for some clean cloths to staunch the wound. There were none. He realised he would have to sacrifice one of his shirts. At least his mother had ensured he left Rivendell with a plentiful supply of linens. Doubtless, she would have sewed more for him when he next returned to visit her.

"I need someone to hold Tarcil steady," he said. "It is vital that he does not move while I extract the arrow."

Two of the Rangers stepped forward.

"Have you done this before?" Halbarad asked.

"Many times," said Aragorn with more confidence than he felt. He had indeed removed a good number of arrows, but he had only assisted Master Elrond when the arrowhead was in such a dangerous position. "I am ready," he said to Tarcil.

The wounded man gritted his teeth. "Do it quickly, please."

Aragorn's helpers pinioned their comrade down. The young healer began the gruesome task. First, he sawed off the shaft, and then after cleansing the skin around the arrow, he cut deeply.

Tarcil gave a cry then mercifully fainted. Aragorn worked swiftly, all the while all too well aware that one wrong move could sever a major blood vessel and kill his patient. As soon as the cut was wide enough, he carefully eased the arrow free and cast it to one side. He swiftly staunched the bleeding with his spare shirt."

"Are you going to stitch it?" asked Halbarad.

Aragorn shook his head. "The poisons need to drain from it first," he said. "I need more hot water to make a poultice, then afterwards, it needs treating with honey. Now will someone keep this cloth pressed over the wound for me?"

Vardamir took Aragorn's place beside the wounded man while Aragorn mixed the ingredients that he needed.

By the time the poultice was ready, the bleeding had slowed. Aragorn applied it and was just bandaging it in place when Tarcil's eyes flickered open. "All over now," Aragorn said reassuringly. "The arrow has gone."

"Thank you," Tarcil murmured.

"Fetch blankets and water for him to drink!" Aragorn commanded. He washed the gore from his hands and set about making Tarcil as comfortable as possible.

"You did well, Lord Aragorn," said Vardamir approvingly.

"Only time will tell how he fares," Aragorn replied.

"You should rest, lord, one of us will watch by him," said the older man.

"He is my responsibility," Aragorn said simply. "I will stay by his side."

All that night and the following days, the young Chieftain sat beside his patient, changing the dressings and applying honey and fresh poultices, giving Tarcil water and herbal potions, gripping his hand and mopping his brow when the inevitable fever came upon him. At times, Aragorn despaired of Tarcil's life, but the older Ranger was strong. On the third day, the fever broke. When Aragorn checked the wound in Tarcil's shoulder, it was healing cleanly. It seemed that his patient would live. Whether he would ever use his arm again properly, was another matter, the arrow had torn through muscle, bone and sinew. With rest and nourishment, he should be able to return to his family, though, work on their small farm, and see his children grow up. Aragorn detected a slightly different attitude towards him once it seemed that Tarcil might survive. The men followed his orders far more willingly and tried to make his vigil more comfortable by making up the fire and bringing him food unasked. Halbarad, though, remained aloof, treating his kinsman with a thinly veiled hostility.

"Tarcil needs nourishing broth," Aragorn told Vardamir, who acted as their cook. The other Rangers had left to patrol the area and only four remained in the camp that day.

"We used the last of the fresh meat yesterday," said the older Ranger.

"Halbarad and I will go out hunting," said Aragorn. "Watch over Tarcil while we are gone."

"You have had little rest, sir," said Vardamir. "Maybe I should go in your stead?"

"It is better that I go," said Aragorn. "I am younger and my eyes keener to spot the tracks of the prey. Come, Halbarad!"

Halbarad scowled but refrained from making any of his usual sarcastic comments. The two tracked and killed a brace of rabbits, but it was growing dark by the time they had sufficient food. They were returning to the cave through a dense patch of forest when Aragorn heard a sound. He swiftly drew his sword just before a group of Orcs emerged from behind the trees. The two Rangers were greatly outnumbered by the foul creatures, but far superior in strength and fighting skills. They hacked and slashed until a dozen or so of the creatures lay dead at their feet. The others fled into the undergrowth. It seemed that the battle was over. Aragorn wiped his sword on the grass and leaning on it, took several deep breaths and ran his sleeve across his brow. Young and strong though he was, three nights without proper rest had taken their toll.

One of the surviving Orcs, bolder than its fellows, suddenly re-emerged from the forest and rushed towards Aragorn with drawn sword. Halbarad cried out a warning and swung his blade, cleaving the creature almost in twain just before it reached Aragorn.

"You saved my life!" Aragorn whispered. Never before had he been so close to death.

"Keep your guard up in future!" Halbarad replied gruffly.

"Thank you." Aragorn grasped Halbarad's hand. "I know you do not greatly like me, and it cannot be easy for you giving up your rank to me, but I will be forever in your debt."

"You could be a lot worse, sir," Halbarad replied.

"Please, Halbarad, you are my kinsman. Call me by my name, at least when no others are present. I know I still have much to learn and would welcome your advice."

"As you wish, Aragorn." Halbarad clapped his cousin awkwardly on the shoulder. "Now come on, let us return to camp with these rabbits ere any more Orcs appear."

The two returned to camp talking to one another as they walked. It was awkward conversation concerning inconsequential matters, but after the last few weeks, it seemed like water from a barren rock to Aragorn.

When they returned to their camp, the other men had returned .The hunters were greeted joyfully. There would be enough rabbit stew for all that night.

A few hours later, the Rangers were seated around their campfire after a hearty meal and Halbarad was regaling his comrades with a tale of his grandfather's exploits. When the tale was concluded, he turned to Aragorn and said, "You must know all the old tales better than any man here, since you were raised by Master Elrond, a master of lore. Will you entertain us with one?"

"Of course. I will tell you the tale of fair Lúthien and bold Beren," said Aragorn. He began the much-loved tale, a favourite of the Rangers', but this was a version they had not heard before. The fire blazed merrily, illuminating the faces of the listeners, including Tarcil, who felt well enough tonight to leave his sickbed for a little while. Aragorn found himself studying their faces; weathered faces with grim features, but the faces of brave and honourable men, his men, his people. At last, he was accepted as truly one of them.

A/n. This story was written for the Teitho "Fireside" challenge, but was unplaced.

A very Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends in the USA.


Chapter 20 - A Sad Tale's best for Winter

Author: Linda Hoyland

Title: A Sad Tale's best for Winter

Rating:PG13

Theme: Dark side of love

Elements: eagles, abate, rage, rose, unite, bane

Author's Notes: The events of this story are mentioned in passing in chapter 11 of my novel "Web of Treason" while Tarostar is a recurring OC of mine. With grateful thanks to Deandra.

Summary: Ecthelion tells Thorongil a tragic story,

Word Count:1594

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Thorongil was about to knock on the door of Ecthelion's study one winter's evening when a servant interrupted him.

"You are to go straight in, Captain," the man said, "The Steward is expecting you."

Thorongil nodded his thanks and entered the room with his customary catlike, almost silent tread. He enjoyed these evenings with the elderly Steward, who had become to him almost like the father he had never known. They would spend long hours together sipping wine and he would listen to the old man's tales and his hopes and dreams for the land beloved to them both.

Ecthelion was sitting in his favourite chair, clutching a portrait in his hand of a beautiful young woman. There was a sorrowful, faraway look in his eyes as he contemplated the image.

Unwilling to disturb the old man, Thorongil waited for a few moments. He idly studied a tapestry showing Fingon riding aloft upon the back of Thorodor, King of the Great Eagles to rescue his kinsman.

Still Ecthelion did not acknowledge his presence. Ecthelion reached a hand to his eyes as if to wipe away a tear. Fearing he was intruding on the Steward's privacy, Thorongil coughed.

Ecthelion spun around to look at him, and dropped the portrait.

"Your pardon, my lord," said Thorongil. "I did not mean to disturb you, but your servant told me I should come in."

"Yes, my boy, of course. I was merely distracted. Come sit down and partake of some wine."

Thorongil bent to retrieve the portrait and handed it to his patron before taking a seat.

"She was very beautiful, was she not?" said the Steward.

"Your wife, my lord?"

"No, that is Firiel, my eldest daughter."

Thorongil looked puzzled. He had met Ecthelion's two daughters, neither of whom were named Firiel, nor were they beauties like the girl in the portrait. "I cannot recall having heard you mention her before," Thorongil said at last.

"I rarely speak of her because it pains me to do so," Ecthelion replied. "I still remember though, especially every time I see her son's name on a report." He gestured to a paper, which lay on his desk. It was of a kind familiar to the Captain- the regular report from the houses of Healing to the Steward detailing how many wounded soldiers were being treated at the Houses, as well as reported cases of infectious diseases.

"Your grandson is a healer?" Thorongil exclaimed in surprise.

"It is a long story," said the Steward. "One that is little known outside my family. For everyone else, it is best that none know that Firiel ever lived."

Thorongil remained silent.

"You might as well hear it lad," Ecthelion said after a pause. "You have become as family to me and I know I can trust your discretion."

"You have my word, my lord."

"I suppose Firiel was spoilt," Ecthelion began. "My lady and I were wed several years before she was born to us. As you know, the Dark Lord's vicinity seems to have damaged the ability of many to have children, so my lady and I were delighted when our firstborn arrived. We had hoped for a son, but Firiel was so fair a babe that our disappointment was soon forgotten. We doted upon her. For many years, she was an only child before her sisters and Denethor were born. My lady and I could deny her nothing, which resulted in her having far more freedom than girls of noble families usually enjoy. That proved her undoing."

"How so, my lord?"

"I foolishly allowed her to wander the City at will with only a handmaid and a Citadel Guard in attendance."

"It sounds as if you protected her well, my lord."

Ecthelion sighed. "How could I have known that the very man who was meant to protect her would prove her bane? He used guile and cunning to seduce my little girl, changing duties with his fellows so that he would always be the one to escort her. I assume he bribed the maidservant to leave him alone with my Firiel. Such girls are easily swayed with trinkets. The first I knew of the affair was when I came upon Firiel clutching a rose and murmuring sweet nothings to herself. When I questioned her, she said she was in love. Love indeed! She was but twenty years of age, far younger than the age when women of Númenorean descent are united in marriage with a suitable man.

Thorongil immediately thought of his own mother, who wed before the usual age, but remained silent.

"To my great relief, Firiel assured me that her virtue was still intact. I forbade her ever to see the guard again. It was late at night when confessed to me and I told her to go to her room and forget about the young man. I was determined to see that he was disciplined and dismissed from the Citadel Guards on the morrow.

"A difficult situation," Thorongil observed. "How old was the guard?"

"Not more than twenty four I imagine. He was old enough to know better! By morning, my rage towards my daughter had abated. I resolved to ensure she had enough pleasant activities to occupy her until she forgot about the vile would- be seducer. I decided to send her to a kinswoman in Dol Amroth for the summer and treat her to new gowns and trinkets before she left. I was not unduly concerned when she failed to appear at breakfast. Young maidens often suffer from headaches and the like. My lady sent a maidservant to see what ailed her. The girl returned wringing her hands and reporting that Firiel had vanished. She had left a note on the bed saying she could not endure life without the man she loved and they had gone away together to be wed! Wed indeed! She was well below the age at which it is lawful for a girl of good family to marry!"

"That is twenty five, is it not?" said Thorongil. "The peasants marry much younger, though, I believe."

"They do not have the blood of Númenor in their veins," said Ecthelion somewhat impatiently. "I sent a message to the Captain of the Guard who reported one of his men was missing. I sent out search parties at once, but eleven long months elapsed before the runaways were found, and too late, as my little girl was heavy with her seducer's child! They were living together in a small village in Lossarnach and had gone through a marriage ceremony before a local official. Of course, it was not valid given Firiel's age and the fact I had not consented to the match. The seducer was taken at once to prison and charged with seduction and desertion, but before he could be tried he caught a fever and died, thus escaping the hangman's noose."

"A sorry tale indeed," said Thorongil. "What then became of your daughter and the child?"

"Firiel collapsed when her seducer was arrested," said Ecthelion. "The soldiers took her to the Houses of Healing where soon afterwards she gave birth to a premature boy. He was strong, though, and thrived. Firiel did not. My lady visited her and told her we would forgive her. After all, her plight was entirely that wretched seducer's fault. With almost her last breath, she named the child Tarostar. Strange to name such a misbegotten child after a king, but we honoured her wishes. The Warden of the Houses and his wife took the boy and raised him as their own. It was better that way that the scandal might be forgotten. When Tarostar grew to manhood, he became a healer like his foster father. He is a good one too, by all accounts. Every time I see his name though, it reminds me of my poor Firiel."

"You suffered a tragic loss," said Thorongil.

"The worst of the matter is, though," Ecthelion's voice dropped to a near whisper and his hands trembled. "Sometimes I wonder if she really did love the fellow. They say she tried to cling to him when he was arrested, and he threw himself in front of her when the soldiers came. Sometimes, I wonder if it had been better if we had never found them."

"The poets sing of love, but sometimes it can be very dark," said Thorongil. He patted the old man's hand sympathetically, but his thoughts were far away with a maiden that he himself loved despite her father's objections. Should he gain fair Arwen's heart, she would become as a mortal woman with all the pain that entailed both to her and to her kin. "Love can be painful indeed," the Captain murmured, his words as much to himself as to the grieving old man. "Yet who would be without it, both the sweet and the bitter?"

"That is easy for a young man like you say," said Ecthelion with an indulgent smile. "We reaped a bitter harvest from Firiel's ill- chosen passion. My dear lady did not long outlive her while my other children suffered the consequences. My younger daughters led extremely sheltered lives, while Denethor's youth was blighted with his elders' grief. But enough of the past, Thorongil, let us share another glass of wine. I will drink to my daughter's memory."

Thorongil raised his glass in a toast to the girl who gazed out at him from her portrait. He breathed a silent prayer to Varda, May my love for Arwen bring her joy rather than pain!


Chapter 21 - Full of Surprises

Full of Surprises

B2MeM Challenge SnippetsOfVerse1- In what furnace was thy brain; AspectsOfAragorn1- Captain; Weather1- thundersnow ; RolesAndNamesOfAragorn1- healer

Format: Short story

Genre:hurt/comfort, general, adventure

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Aragorn, OMCS

Pairings: none

Summary: Thorongil's men are in for some surprises when they take shelter in a derelict barn.

A/n Some of the OC's also appear in "Voice in the Night", which takes place a few years after this.

It was unnaturally cold even for February in Gondor. Yet the air had an oppressive, heavy feel to it. The men muttered amongst themselves and pulled their cloaks more closely around them to keep warm as they tramped wearily along the track. They were mostly young fellows on their first campaign, unused to the horrors and hardships of war.

Captain Thorongil gazed upwards at the unfriendly sky. "I sense a storm coming," he said. "We will not be able to make the village in time. We must seek shelter where we may."

"I see no storm clouds." Ragnor, the youngest of the company, sounded sceptical. He coughed as the bitter wind caught his breath then grimaced as if in pain.

"A storm will break within the hour," said Thorongil.

"He has an uncanny way of sensing things that we cannot explain." Ulfast, a grizzled veteran of many a campaign, whispered in his young colleague's ear.

Thorongil scanned his surroundings with keen grey eyes. "There is a disused barn yonder that will have to suffice," he said. He turned to face the men. "I know you were thinking of an inn with well- deserved ale and soft beds, as indeed was I, but I fear that must wait for another day. The barn might well have straw and we can make ourselves comfortable for the night."

The men ceased their muttering and marched resolutely after their Captain.

The deserted barn was all too common a sight in these times, standing near to a burned out farmhouse, the Southrons obviously not thinking such a dilapidated building worth the trouble of destroying. The door hung loosely from its hinges, but the structure seemed sound enough.

Several small lights gleamed eerily in the darkness. Some of the younger men backed away in alarm.

Thorongil lit a torch to reveal several striped cats watching them.

"I'll chase them out," Ragnor volunteered.

"No, you won't, lad." Thorongil placed a restraining hand on the young man's shoulder. "Not unless you desire rats for bedfellows!" As if to underline his words, one of the cats suddenly pounced at a shadow in the darkness.

One of the young men gave a muffled cry of horror.

"Come on lads, we make camp for the night here," said Thorongil. "We will be safe enough. Ulfast, I want you to gather firewood. Falastur, you fetch water from the stream, but hurry. The storm is almost upon us. Alcarin, you take the first watch."

Soon a fire was blazing merrily and the men were sitting in a circle round it cooking their rations.

Thorongil, though, had retired with his pack behind some bales of hay. The cats watched him curiously. He re-emerged and called to the men. "I am ready now to tend to those of you who were hurt in the sortie."

"But you're the Captain, sir, not a healer!" Ragnor protested.

"I am both," said Thorongil. "Otherwise why would I be so rash as not to bring a healer with us? You can be first, Ragnor, you took a blow to your side."

"It's nothing, sir. My armour deflected the Southron blade."

"Let me be the judge of that. I intend to bring you all safe to Minas Tirith in one piece."

"You should talk so much, lad," said Ulfast when the young man hesitated. "Speaking means you want to volunteer."

"I'll treat your blisters next, Ulfast," said Thorongil. "I saw you were limping."

"You miss nothing, Captain," said Ulfast. "Did you learn from wizards?"

"Maybe I did," said Thorongil. "Come on now, Ragnor."

Looking apprehensive, Ragnor disappeared behind the bales. He was surprised to find that the Captain had laid out a variety of healing supplies and implements on a cloth upon the ground.

"Your father is a healer is he not?" Thorongil said conversationally while Ragnor started to unfasten his armour.

"How did you know that, sir?"

"You mentioned it round the campfire one night."

"You remembered?"

"I like to know about my men."

"You have as many supplies as my father!" Ragnor looked wide eyed at the array of healing supplies."

"You did not want to follow your father's trade?"

"A soldier's life is far more exciting than a village healer's. Killing men will take some getting used to, though."

"You should never become too accustomed to it, lad. We fight because we must, not because we enjoy it. The enemy must not be allowed to damage your soul as well as your body. Now take off your shirt, lad, I will not bite you!"

Ragnor reluctantly pulled his shirt over his head to reveal a large spreading bruise on his left side. With surprising gentleness, Thorongil felt it.

"Does it hurt you to breathe or cough?" the Captain asked.

"A little." Ragnor grimaced.

"Your ribs are bruised, but they do not appear to be broken. I know it hurts, but try to breathe as deeply as you can." He took up a pot of salve and started to apply a thick layer to Ragnor's side.

"Comfrey, sir?"

"I see your father taught you your herb lore."

"I was his apprentice for a little, but the healer's life is not for me."

"I learned herb lore from my foster father," said Thorongil. "You should heal well enough, but tell me if you are in pain. You can re-join your fellows now."

"How did you know I was hurt, sir?" Ragnor pulled his shirt back over his head.

"I care for my men and I like to keep an eye on them," Thorongil said. "I saw you grimace after you coughed back there and you were also marching less swiftly than you usually do."

A wide- eyed look of surprise was on Ragnor's face when he re-joined his fellows as result of witnessing this different side to his Captain. He felt ashamed that Thorongil had noticed his weakness, yet so much better after having his hurts tended. His father had often treated his cuts and bruises, but he had a somewhat heavy-handed touch, very unlike the Captain's. He knew Captain Thorongil was special. Ragnor closed his eyes for a moment and imagined himself cutting down a hoard of enemies who threatened his Captain and being rewarded by one of Thorongil's rare smiles.

Thorongil had tended a variety of cuts, bruises, and blisters when the storm broke overhead. He was eating his meal with the men and sharing scraps with the cats with a loud thunderclap startled them.

"Told you the Captain knows weather lore, didn't I, lad?" Ulfast said to Ragnor.

Just then, Alcarin ran inside, his ruddy young face blanched with shock. "It is snowing outside with thunder and lightning too!" he cried. "Never have I seen the like!"

Several of the men rushed outside to see, Thorongil following at a more sedate pace. A flash of lightning illuminated the black clouds from which issued forth a shower of whiteness."

"In what furnace of thy brain, did thou devise this, fiendish Dark Lord?" cried Turgon. He shook his fist at the heavens.

"It is no devilry, just a rare phenomenon of weather," Thorongil said calmly. "I have seen it in the North where I was raised."

"But snow with thunder and lightning? It's not natural!" protested Alcarin.

"It is sleet rather than snow," said Thorongil. "Now come back inside by the fire. There is nought to fear. I will tell you a tale of the lore of old ere we sleep. Ulfast, you take over the watch."

Soon the men had forgotten their fears and were listening engrossed to Thorongil's accounts of great battles of old and ignoring the now increasingly distant rumble of thunder. Even the cats stared at the Captain with their great green eyes, but whether it was because they too were enjoying the tale, or were hoping for further titbits, none could say.


Chapter 22 - Lavender's Blue

Lavender's Blue

B2MeM Challenge AspectsOfAragorn1- Thorongil; Weather1- hurricane;Botany1- barley;colours1= lavender,;Emotions1- ecstasy; Caroling- heedless of the wind and weather; Steward and his Sons- Osgiliath

Format: short story

Genre: general

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Aragorn, Denethor, OMS

Pairings: Aragorn/Arwen

Summary: An interlude in the lives of Captain Thorongil and his men.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green,
When I am king, dilly, dilly, you shall be queen. - Traditional

Thorongil and his men worked efficiently, quickly clearing away the scattered rubble. A few days previously, a hurricane had struck Gondor and left a good deal of damage to both crops and buildings in its wake. A few days afterwards Thorongil and his men had been summoned to assist the Captain General repair the damage to the outpost at Osgiliath, a task to which some of them applied themselves to with less that than their usual enthusiasm.

"We are soldiers, not builders!" grumbled Alcarin, a recent recruit.

"A soldier must apply himself to many tasks," said Thorongil. "Fighting the enemy is futile if we do not maintain our defences."

"This place feels cursed!" young Ragnor exclaimed as he filled a bucket with broken stones.

Just then, the Captain General walked past. "Watch your tongue, boy!" Denethor snapped. He rebuked the young man sharply. "Captain Thorongil, your man needs a severe reprimand for lowering his fellows' morale."

"Some words are best spoken in private, Ragnor," said Thorongil mildly.

"Yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir."

"Those are not regulation boots, boy," Denethor barked, staring at Ragnor's feet. "You should be flogged, boy, for insubordination!"

Ragnor turned pale

"If any should be punished, it is I," Thorongil said calmly. "He has blisters on his feet and I gave him leave to wear the more comfortable boots. I wear the emblem of my folk upon my tunic, by leave of the Steward, so I am flouting regulations too. You can flog me if you wish, but I doubt your father would be best pleased with you."

Denethor glared. "You are too soft with your men, Captain Thorongil," he replied. "They will all be asleep on feather beds when the enemy attacks, the way you coddle them!"

"My men have routed the enemy in each battle we have fought," said Thorongil.

"There is nothing more you can do here," said Denethor. "Take your men and return to the City." He abruptly turned away and stood for a moment staring at the ancient ruins of the Dome of Stars. "Alas, my beloved land, your glory has fled!" he said in so soft a tone that even Thorongil's sharp ears only just made out the words.

"Men, leave off your tasks and gather round!" Thorongil called.

"Thank you, Captain!" said Ragnor as the men flocked to Thorongil's side. He still looked rather whey faced. Flogging was a punishment that every soldier dreaded.

"Don't fret about the Captain General, lad," said Thorongil, squeezing the boy's shoulder. "What you said unwittingly touched a raw nerve in him. No true Son of Gondor likes to see what has become of this once great city, and especially not the Steward's heir. Many of us feel as you too, but we have learned to keep our thoughts to ourselves. This City with its great Dome of Stars and the throne room was one of the wonders of the Age."

"You know more of our history than many who were born and bred here," said Ulfast, a greybeard and veteran of many a battle.

"Lore has always interested me since I was a boy," said Thorongil. "Now listen, men! The Captain General has given us leave to return to the City. Gather your belongings. We leave in a few minutes."

Thorongil and his men thankfully left the ruined city and its garrison behind them. They were soon marching through fields of barley in the countryside. Much of the grain had been devastated and flattened by the hurricane and was a sorry sight to behold. The men helped themselves to the occasional ear and chewed on the grains. Thorongil collected a fair quantity as he marched along.

"Are you planning to brew us some beer, Captain?" asked Ragnor.

"You are not that fortunate!" Thorongil replied. "Barley is an excellent remedy for a fever or an upset digestion, so I am replenishing my healing supplies while I can."

Ulfast playfully cuffed the boy and laughed. "You are a man of many talents, Captain!" he said.

"A good captain needs to be, so I was taught," said Thorongil.

"You had good teachers then?"

"I had the very best," said Thorongil. He turned his attention back to the barley.

Ragnor, who was gifted with a pleasant tenor voice began to sing "Heedless of the wind and weather, Gondor's soldiers march together. With Thorongil, our Captain bold, our deeds will match the tales of old!"

"Don't let the Captain General hear you singing that, lad," said Ulfast.

"All the soldiers sing it," said Ragnor. "I didn't make it up."

"Maybe it was the men in the troop the Captain led before us?" mused Ulfast before enthusiastically joining in the song.

Thorongil paid no heed to what his men were singing. Instead, he continued to gather healing supplies.

The men marched on until the fields of barley gave way to lavender fields. The lavender was fair to behold and the farmers usually made a fair profit selling the crop to make perfume, honey, and tea. The sun came out, as they approached the purple flowers, bathing them in pleasant warmth. Again, the crop had been damaged by the hurricane, but the sweet scent, together with the array of colourful butterflies fluttering amidst the flattened crops, gladdened all their hearts. Thorongil added some lavender to his healing supplies alongside the barley. It had many uses; to cleanse and soothe the skin and promote restful sleep, being the most frequent.

Thorongil called a halt. "We will rest here for a while," he said. "There is a stream nearby where you can drink and refill your water bottles. And those of you with mothers, wives, or sweethearts could gather a few sprigs of lavender to press and enclose with your next letters home."

He went down to the water and splashed some on his face before drinking deeply and re-joining his men. Most of them were sitting at the edge of the field talking amongst themselves and nibbling at their rations.

Ragnor and Alcarin were play fighting amongst the lavender, tussling like a couple of puppies as they rolled over, playfully dodging each other's half- hearted blows. Thorongil sat on a bank at the edge of the field and watched them, amused by their antics of youthful exuberance. In the few short months since he had been given this troop to command, he had come to love these men almost as brothers. He knew they would gladly give their lives for him while he would do the same.

He was seized by a sudden pang. He had been loved and cherished during his childhood, but there had been no one with whom he could playfully tussle in the grass with until he had come of age and met Halbarad. How he missed his kinsman!

He closed his eyes and was immediately back in Rivendell, watching his mother gather lavender from the gardens. Always she had wanted to be useful and begged Master Elrond for some task that she might perform.

Another vision swam before his eyes, of Arwen wearing a lavender gown, which complemented her grey eyes to perfection. She had smiled at him that day and asked him to walk with her in the gardens, which had given him a glimmer of hope that she might not be indifferent to him.

Suddenly, his foresight came upon him and he beheld an older version of himself playfully wrestling with a man who looked alike to Denethor, but yet was not he, together with a small boy, whom he somehow knew was his own son. Arwen was watching them, her eyes filled with laughter. He let the young man and the child overpower him then scrambled to his feet. Arwen embraced him and their lips met.

"Captain, are you well?" Ragnor's concerned young voice jolted him back to the present.

"Yes, I was just lost in thought."

"You had a look of ecstasy upon you, such as one sometimes sees in dying men!"

"I assure you I am not dying!" Thorongil smiled at the boy. "I was thinking of someone dear to me."

"Ah." Ragnor gave him a knowing look.

"Be off with you and gather some lavender to send to that fair maiden in your village you told me about," said Thorongil. "We must be on our way soon."

"Yes, Captain." Ragnor hastened to do his bidding.

Thorongil rose to his feet and gathered several more sprigs of lavender. He would enclose them in a letter to his mother and ask her to give one to Arwen as a token of remembrance. One day, he would win her love.


Chapter 23 - Strange Meeting

trange Meeting by Linda Hoyland

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

Warnings – mild horror

With thanks to Virtuella

It seemed that out of the battle I escaped

Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped

Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,

Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.

Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared

With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,

Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.

And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall;

By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell. - Strange Meeting – Wilfred Owen

The fate of the last scion of the House of Húrin lay in his hands, or so the Wizard told him. Aragorn could almost have laughed at the irony of it all as he followed Gandalf through the winding city streets. They had held his destiny in their hands for so very long.

Now, though, he wanted only to sleep, not set off on this most likely futile errand. He was weary beyond measure and could scare recall when he had last slept for longer than a snatched hour. Sleep would allow him to cast aside his cares for a little while too. Halbarad's death lay heavy on his heart, like a vast weight. Better not to dwell upon that now. If he started weeping, he might never stop.

He forced his mind on to other things and found his thoughts wandering to the brother of the man he was now being called upon to aid. It had not been an auspicious first meeting. He had known who Boromir must be when he had first beheld him at the Council of Elrond. His heart had lurched at resemblance that Boromir of Gondor had borne to his grandfather, Ecthelion.

It pained Aragorn still, even after all these years, to recall the old Steward. Ecthelion had loved him and been loved by him in return. It had almost broken the then Thorongil's heart to leave his friend and patron without even biding him farewell, but he had had little choice. The hostility of Ecthelion's son and heir towards him had increased with every day that Thorongil spent in Gondor. Denethor had taken as strong an aversion to the stranger from the North as his sire had taken a great liking to him. Aragorn had never been certain exactly why as Denethor had hated him, even long before he had guessed the Northern Captain's true lineage. Maybe he had felt supplanted in his father's affections, or maybe he resented the affection and renown that Captain Thorongil won during his time in Gondor.

Aragorn had been grief stricken when he heard tidings two years later that Ecthelion was dead.

Boromir might well have resembled his grandsire in looks, but not in his affection for Aragorn. It was hardly surprising that Boromir was less than impressed by the careworn Ranger sitting quietly in a corner at the Council of Elrond, but they had never really warmed to each other. Boromir had inherited pride and stubbornness in double measure from his father and like Denethor, saw no further than Gondor and her interests. He had been a valiant warrior, though, and his death had greatly saddened Aragorn. He still recalled the fair babe of whom Denethor and Finduilas had been so proud.

What would this brother of his be like? Aragorn wondered. Boromir had spoken often of his love for his younger brother, saying that he and their father were often at odds with one another, maybe because they were so alike in many ways. Aragorn sighed. That boded very ill for his claim to Gondor's throne and any hope of winning Arwen's hand.

Then whatever had processed Denethor to die so dishonourably by his own hand? And to try to burn his still living son? Such a thing was unheard of! Sometimes, a wounded comrade could only be spared capture and torment by a swift and lethal blow. Such was seen as an act of mercy, but how could death by fire be merciful?

His thoughts were forced back to the present when they arrived at the Houses of Healing. Pippin was overjoyed to see him. How Aragorn hoped that he could save Merry, who was also grievously ill. Then there was Lady Éowyn. He blamed himself somewhat for her plight. The pain of unrequited love had driven her forth to seek death in battle.

First, though, he must see this son of Denethor's. Aragorn would have known immediately who this man was without being told. How like his father he was! It were as if time had been rolled back and he beheld Denethor as he appeared forty years or more ago. This son of his was dying, though. It hardly took a healer to diagnose that the burning skin, rapid pulse, and laboured breathing were that of a man destined very soon to depart beyond the circles of the world.

Aragorn would have preferred to tend first to Merry and Lady Éowyn, but those two, though gravely ill, were not yet at the very brink of death.

For a moment, he stood at the foot of the bed and studied this Faramir. He was too weary and heart-sore for this task. With athelas, he could most likely save him, but there was none to be had. Whatever he did, the man was likely to die. His healing abilities would be better employed in trying to save Merry and Lady Éowyn, not the one man who stood between him and the throne of Gondor.

No! Aragorn inwardly chided himself sternly. He must resist this temptation as he had resisted the lure of the Ring. Most likely Faramir would die whatever he did, but if he did not at least try to save him, he would be betraying everything he had ever fought for. He could not claim Arwen's hand at the cost of this man's life even if he did most likely awaken only to complain about the presence of a Ranger in his chamber!

He knelt beside the bed and took Faramir's hand in his own. The features might be Denethor's, but the hand was not. Those long slender fingers were a masculine version of Finduilas'. Aragorn recalled dancing with the lady, who was almost Elven fair, and how her graceful fingers had entwined around his own.

His other hand he placed on Faramir's brow. The blood of Númenor obviously ran true in Faramir's veins as almost immediately, Aragorn's spirit connected with his patient's. He was plunged into the shadow realm where Faramir's spirit currently dwelled. Aragorn had seen many horrors in his long life, but surely, these were amongst the worse!

He found himself in a place filled with burning heat and the stench of death. Beneath his feet lay rotting corpses, the insignia on their armour showing that they were once the very flower of Gondor. Thorns surrounded him and torn at his clothing, while Sauron's fiends threatened him from all sides.

Aragorn steeled himself and drew Andúril. This was but a nightmare created by Sauron's dark magic, he knew, but it felt very real. He cut down the creatures of darkness and concentrated on finding Faramir's wandering spirit. He soon espied Denethor's son a little way ahead of him, stumbling along towards a light in the distance. Aragorn had seen that light before. It led beyond the circles of the world. If Faramir reached it, he would not return.

Aragorn quickened his step and called Faramir's name. Faramir turned to answer his call. Aragorn reached out to grip his hand, but almost immediately, one of the fiends assailed Faramir from the other side.

Sauron is determined to destroy this young man, Aragorn realised. He must be of some importance to his evil plan. Sudden anger flared through him. He will not succeed!

One stroke of Andúril despatched the foul monster. Faramir turned to look upon his rescuer. He did not look like so like Denethor now. He regarded Aragorn wonderingly with Finduilas' warm grey eyes. "Who are you, sir?" he asked. "Lord Mandos?"

Aragorn laughed despite the gravity of the situation. "I have been called many names, but never before have I been likened to one of the Powers!" he exclaimed. "Do I appear as grim as death?"

"No, lord, the gem you bear makes you shine like the Evening Star!" Faramir replied. "But what living man could be in this place? Maybe you are Lord Manwë, the Star Gatherer's consort?"

Aragorn laughed again. "I am a living man like you, Faramir. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, bearer of the Sword that was Broken."

A sudden light of recognition flickered in Faramir's weary eyes. "Envinyatar!" he cried, sinking to his knees. "Long have I dreamt of your coming. You shall save Gondor and I can die content."

"First, I must save you," said Aragorn. "We must leave this dread vale of shadow."

"Long have I tried to do so," said Faramir. "I can find no way out. Flee from this place if you can and save yourself, Lord Aragorn. Gondor has need of you!"

"She has need of you too, Faramir," said Aragorn. "Come!"

"Gladly would I follow you, lord, even to the very bounds of Arda and beyond," said Faramir. "I do not know the way, though, and I am sore weary. Listen! Can you not hear Boromir calling me?"

"It is not yet your time to follow him," said Aragorn. Where was the athelas he had asked for? Had Gondor lost all knowledge of the lore of Númenor that they failed to keep any to hand? He had found Faramir, but he would lose him again without the precious herb. There was another way he could try that might buy more time for Faramir. He could give his own strength to the dying man. Had he sufficient, though to bring both Faramir and himself to safety, or would they both perish?

Faramir remained patiently kneeling before him. It was long since Aragorn had beheld one in whom the blood of Númenor ran so true. To behold Faramir was almost like beholding his own reflection in the glass. If he had sired a son, surely he would be the very image of this young man! He reached out, gripped both of Faramir's hands, and guided one to the green gem that he wore, the other he took between both his own hands. "Faramir!" he cried. "Take my hand and I will lead you home."

Faramir did as he was bidden, but could not rise, though he tried with every remnant of his failing strength.

Throwing all caution to the winds, Aragorn hoisted Faramir to his feet and supported him, bearing the other man's weight. He felt his own strength waning as he poured it into the dying man. Together they stumbled along the thorny path, stepping over the corpses that surrounded them. More and more fell creatures blocked their way. Again and again, Andúril struck home. The path grew ever steeper and Aragorn felt his life force draining from him. How much longer could he endure? Yet, he could not abandon Faramir. He could now sense the very essence of the young man's soul. Such grief and pain had wounded it, but even more, he sensed an abundance of goodness, courage, and honour to a rare degree. This soul had remained pure and unsullied despite the evils that assailed it. He would not, could not, let Sauron snatch this one. Should he ever come into his kingdom, he needed this man at his side.

Twice, they came upon steep precipices. Faramir almost stumbled over the edge and was almost lost. Just in time, Aragorn was able to pull him back. The next time was far worse as Faramir slipped from the rocky cliff face and for a moment, only Aragorn's hand kept him from falling to his doom.

Sweat poured from Aragorn's brow and he felt as if his arm was being wrenched from its socket. This might be a shadow realm of the enemy's devising, but should they fall, their deaths would be real enough.

"Lord, you are sore weary, leave me and save yourself!" Faramir pleaded.

"You cannot stay here alone," said Aragorn. "I will not leave you."

"I want to come with you, lord," said Faramir. "I would not have you risk yourself for me, though."

They stumbled onwards together, but their steps became slower and they increasingly stumbled.

At last, Aragorn became aware of a voice from the outer world telling him they had kingsfoil.

"Wait here, for a little while, while I fetch help," he told Faramir, placing the younger man with a blackened tree at his back to support him. "Be comforted, the worse is over."

"I will wait, lord," said Faramir. I will watch for the light that surrounds you."

Aragorn brought himself back to the real world and the crowded little room in the Houses of Healing. Gandalf, Éomer, and Pippin were regarding him with worried faces, as was the lad who held out six precious athelas leaves wrapped in a cloth.

Swiftly, Aragorn took two of them and breathed on them, then crumbled them before casting them into a bowl. He inhaled deeply of the refreshing fragrance that filled the room. His strength renewed, he stood up and held the mixture in front of Faramir's face.

Will he still know me? Aragorn wondered. I am but a weary, battle stained Ranger, not some shining figure out of legend, as he beheld me in the shadow realm.

Faramir's grey eyes flicked open and met Aragorn's. A light of love and knowledge was at once kindled in his eyes, "My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?" he said.

Aragorn smiled at him. 'Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!' he said. 'You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return.'

'I will, lord,' said Faramir. 'For who would lie idle when the king has returned?'

'Farewell then for a while!' said Aragorn. 'I must go to others who need me."

He left the room with a new lightness in his heart and spring in his step. A strange first meeting indeed, but a most wondrous one.

A/n. Some lines are quoted verbatim from Tolkien.

I wrote this for the Teitho "First Meetings" Contest a few months ago where it was placed third, but am posting this today as Aragorn healed Faramir on 15th March. Hope you are not fed up with my versions of this scene as I've lost count of how many times I have retold this story! It is my favourite part of LOTR!


Chapter 24 - Not like Lúthien

Not like Lúthien by Linda Hoyland

Rating K+

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No financial profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

Arwen is weary of being compared to Lúthien.

A/n. Some dialogue is taken directly from Tolkien

Lúthien! Sometimes she seemed to haunt Arwen and dog her every footstep. Folk say that she is so like her, it were as if she were reborn! How can they be so certain? None save her Grandparents had ever actually beheld her.

Arwen paused in front of the tapestry that adorned the Hall of Fire and gazed at he image of her renowned foremother. Yes, she had the same glossy dark hair, ivory skin, and grey eyes, but then so did many of her folk.

How could she be like Lúthien? Lúthien was one of the bravest who had ever lived. She had enchanted the Dark Lord with her singing to enable her beloved to snatch the Silmaril from his crown. Arwen was certain she would faint with terror should she ever have the misfortune to be in Sauron's vicinity. While her voice was sweet enough, she had never known one of her kind who could not sing well. She very much doubted her singing would entrance Sauron or any of his minions. Most likely they would devour her before she even had a chance to open her mouth!

Lúthien had wed Beren, a mortal, who had come upon her as she danced in a woodland glade and called her Tinúviel. Arwen never knew quite what to make of this part of the story. She supposed it was wonderful to love someone so much that you would plead for their life in Mandos' Halls, and forsake your immortality and your kinsfolk for them. But was it not also rather foolish?

She had met mortal men in plenty. She pitied them, such frail creatures and as short lived as dragonflies almost without being as fair! How could her wise and beautiful foremother have given her all to one of those fragile, scruffy, blemished creatures? She studied the likeness of Beren, a less than imposing figure, who had been banished to a corner of the tapestry. He looked somewhat like the many Heirs of Isildur that her father had sheltered over the years. Hardly surprising, as they sprang from his line as much as she did.

She had yet to meet her father's latest foster son. How old would he be now? Was it twenty already? Time had little meaning for Arwen. Days, months, seasons and years came and went, all rolling into one. Likely it was more than twenty years ago since she had last looked at this tapestry, but it might well have been yesterday.

She supposed she would have to meet this latest fosterling. No doubt, he would be just like his predecessors- a callow youth who would make sheep's eyes at her and follow her around like a love- struck puppy! What was his name? Araborn, Arathorn? Their names were all so alike. No wonder her father called him Estel. She wished her father would foster a few Dúnedain maidens too, who would be more suitable objects of affection for the young men!

The shadows were growing longer. It would soon be sunset. Arwen decided she would take a walk. The birches would not be in leaf yet, but she could walk beneath their slender white trunks. She asked her maid to bring her favourite mantel of blue embroidered with silver and left the house.

It was a perfect spring evening, but Arwen remained in a pensive mood. The wind blew her hair and her thoughts wandered to her mother far beyond the western sea. Maybe she would join her there soon?

Her reverie was interrupted by singing. It was obviously the voice of a mortal as it lacked the bell- like quality of the Elves. It was a pleasant enough voice, though, deep and rich. He was singing the Lay of Lúthien. Arwen sighed. Was there no escape from her famous foremother?

The singer came into view. It was a young man of about twenty years of age. Arwen knew at once who it must be; the latest foster son that her father and brothers spoke so highly of. He was comely for one of the secondborn. His sparkling grey eyes were almost like those of an Elf.

As soon as he beheld her, he ceased his song and stood gazing at her.

"Tinúviel! Tinúviel!" he cried.

"Why do you call me by that name?" she asked the young man.

"Because I believed you to be indeed Lúthien Tinúviel, of whom I was singing. But if you are not she, then you walk in her likeness," he replied.

"So many have said," she answered gravely. "Yet her name is not mine. Though maybe my doom will be not unlike hers." A sudden chill breeze blew across Arwen's face and something she could not describe stirred within her. Why had she said that? She was Arwen, not Lúthien! But what if her fate were indeed to be entwined with Lúthien's? Surely not! Yet, for the first time, the idea did not repel her. Instead, a shiver of excitement made her skin tingle. Was Lúthien's fate truly so undesirable? She had known a love that the bards still sang about. Her fate had been bitter but also sweet.


Chapter 25 - Blood in the Snow

B2MeM Challenge Roles and names of Aragorn1- lover; weather- snow; Emotions- cruelty; Injuries and other ailments - torture. Love in M-e - torn between his oath and his love. Song lyrics - blessings are not just for the ones that kneel- luckily.

Format: short story

Genre: hurt/comfort, romance

Rating: PG13

Warnings: mention of torture and injuries

Characters: Aragorn, Halbarad, OMC, Elrond, Arwen

Pairings: Aragorn/Arwen

Summary: Aragorn fights to save a young Ranger's life.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Aragorn dropped to his knees in the blood- splattered snow and took the crumpled body in his arms.

"Does he yet live?" asked Halbarad.

"Aye, but barely. We must get him away from here."

The Rangers surveyed the carnage. The bodies of twenty or so Orcs lay scattered around them, their black blood mingled with the scarlet blood of their young comrade.

"I only hope we have not come too late," said Aragorn bleakly. He looked sadly at Gilavir who lay insensible, his clothing torn to shreds and blood oozing from his many wounds. He pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around the young man.

"The Orcs grow bolder with each year that passes," said Halbarad. "They seized their chance when Gilavir became separated from us. At least the snow made them easy to track."

"There is a cave a league or so yonder," said Aragorn. "Let us take Gilavir there and tend to him as best we may."

He whistled to his horse, which trotted over to him. With Halbarad's help, he lifted Gilavir on the stallion's back and mounted behind him. Without a backward glance at the dead Orcs, the small party set off through the snowy landscape.

They were relieved to find the cave was dry and airy, and most importantly, well concealed from the eyes of any passing enemy.

Together, they unrolled one of the bedrolls from their packs and laid Gilavir upon it.

Halbarad busied himself making a fire, while Aragorn unwrapped the cloak from around Gilavir. He took a deep breath before starting to examine the young man's many wounds. He had treated many a victim of an Orc attack, but their cruelty never failed to sicken him. He always found it far harder to treat victims of torture than those wounded in battle.

A cursory glance revealed that Gilavir had been brutally whipped and beaten with clubs. Hardly an inch of his flesh remained unmarked. At least they had arrived in time to save the young man from even worse degradation. The Orcs had been so engrossed in their cruel sport that it had been simple for two seasoned warriors such as Aragorn and Halbarad to take them by surprise.

"I need hot water," said Aragorn looking up from his examination of Gilavir's wounds.

"I will melt some snow and kindle a fire," said Halbarad.

Gilavir groaned and started to struggle, feebly lashing out at Aragorn.

"Easy, lad," Aragorn soothed. "You are safe now."

Gilavir opened his eyes. They were wild with terror.

Aragorn rummaged in his pack for the vial of precious poppy syrup he carried and mixed some for the boy. "Drink this," he said, holding the cup to Gilavir's lips. "Halbarad and I are here with you. The Orcs are dead. They will never hurt anyone again."

Gilavir drank the pain relieving draught, but gave no indication of having understood his Chieftain's words. Aragorn wrapped the cloak around him again and cradled him in his arms as one would a frightened child. Indeed, he was little more than a child with the gangly coltish limbs of a boy still growing.

He waited until the drug had eased Gilavir into a merciful oblivion before cleaning the many lash wounds, salving his bruises and tending cracked ribs and a broken ankle. Aragorn swore softly under his breath as he tended the worse of the wounds. The lad's hurts were a stark reminder of everything he was fighting against. Every Ranger knew the risks when he took up arms against the Enemy, but Gilavir had not even been fighting. He had been snatched while the three had been hunting for food in the grey winter twilight.

"We should take him to Rivendell," Aragorn said, replacing his healing supplies in his pack. "If he is to recover, he needs the peace and warmth of the Last Homely House. I have only limited supplies with which to treat him here. We will leave tomorrow at first light."

"I will take first watch," said Halbarad. "You try and get some rest."

"I cannot rest until Gilavir is safely at Rivendell," said Aragorn. "I promised the lad's mother that I would look after him." He sighed deeply. "I should have insisted he stay close by me once the light began to fail."

"You have warned him repeatedly of the dangers," said Halbarad. "The young never listen. They believe they are invincible."

They passed an uneasy night, trying to keep Gilavir warm between them as best they could and constantly alert lest more Orcs should attack. Aragorn tried to rouse Gilavir every few hours to take water, but the young man seemed loth to open his eyes. Aragorn was unsure whether this was due to the blows to his head he had suffered, or whether he was sinking into deeper unconsciousness, from which he might never awaken. The long hours of the night passed slowly.

As soon as the cheerless grey dawn broke, they loaded Gilavir on to Aragorn's horse and set out for Rivendell.

Master Elrond himself helped Aragorn tend Gilavir when they reached the Last Homely House. The Elf lord's face was grim as they bathed and salved the cruel injuries. "He is young and has the resilience of the Dúnedain," he said at last. "Whether he will live or fully recover, I cannot tell."

Aragorn was silent, thinking of the many men who had been broken in body and spirit by Orcs who were condemned to live out their lives as mere shadows of their former selves.

"Go and take food and drink, Estel," said Elrond. "You will better help your young friend when you are rested."

"Call me at once if he wakes," said Aragorn. With a last glance at the still figure on the bed, he made his way to his rooms.

"Estel!" Arwen appeared from around a corner and threw her arms around Aragorn.

"Arwen, vanimelda! This is a joy I did not expect, I thought you were in Lothlórien!"

"Blessings are not just for the ones who kneel – luckily!" Arwen laughed. "I returned home just before winter. I did not expect to see you either. Ada said he had not seen you in months"

For a moment, in the joy of her loving arms, Aragorn had forgotten Gilavir's plight. His face became grave again as he told his beloved the purpose of his visit. "The poor lad is so young," he concluded. "He has never even taken a wound in battle. Your father hopes he will live, but will he ever smile again?"

"There is always hope," said Arwen, her eyes were filled with sadness, though. She kissed Aragorn tenderly.

The Ranger belatedly realised his dishevelled state. His clothes were filthy, stained as they were with Orc and Gilavir's blood. "I should have bathed before embracing you," he apologised.

"It is you I love, not your clothes," said Arwen. "I cherish every precious moment that we can spend together."

Aragorn kissed her again inwardly lamenting his fate that he must be forever torn between his love for Arwen and the oath he had sworn to abide by Master Elrond's condition not to wed her until he could make her Queen of both Gondor and Arnor.

"You must be hungry," said Arwen. "We can talk together while you eat then you should seek your bed."

000

Several hours later, Aragorn had still not rested. He had bathed and changed his garments before dining and then had sat long in the Hall of Fire with his beloved. During the daytime, the Hall was deserted and they were able to talk or simply hold hands and gaze into one another's eyes. At last, despite the joy of Arwen's presence, Aragorn's weariness began to show.

"You must rest now," said Arwen. "We can talk again later."

"I must see how Gilavir fares first."

"I will come with you," said Arwen.

Together they entered Gilavir's chamber. The young man lay unmoving beneath layers of soft covers, his head propped on pillows.

"Gilavir?" Aragorn called softly.

The young Ranger stirred and his eyes flickered open. They slowly came to light on Arwen's beautiful face. He smiled.

TBC.

Wishing all my readers a happy Easter, Passover and spring season.


Chapter 26 - Hope in midwinter

B2MeM Challenge Aspects of Aragorn1- Aragorn; ;Emotions- Love; Injuries and other ailments- Concussion. Rangers of the North - Eriador. Song Lyrics- Echoes and silence, patience and grace, all of these moments, I'll never replace. Botany - holly. All Ocs all the time- Housekeeper

Format: short story

Genre: angst, hurt comfort

Rating: PG13

Warnings: mention of torture and injuries

Characters: Aragorn, Elrond, OMC

Pairings: none

Summary: Gilavir is fading and Aragorn fights for his life. A Sequel to "Blood in the Snow."

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

"Is he any better?" Aragorn asked as he entered Gilavir's chamber.

Elrond shook his head sadly. "I fear not. His mind is sorely troubled. I have done all I can for him, but nothing seems to help. I had hoped the concussion he suffered might have removed the memory of the torment the Orcs inflicted upon him, but sadly not." He fell silent. Aragorn wondered if he were thinking of his wife, who had suffered a similar ordeal. Elrond had been unable to heal Celebrian and she was now in the Undying Lands. There was no such refuge for Gilavir.

"I will stay with him now," said Aragorn. "He knows me, maybe that will help."

"You must be weary, you sat with him all last night," said Elrond. "Where is Halbarad? Could he not stay with Gilavir for a while?"

"I sent him back to the Angle. Someone needs to be in charge there or the Orcs will overrun all of Eriador! I have asked him too to send word to Gilavir's mother and sisters. He is my responsibility as the Chieftain. Alas, the Orcs took him from right under my nose!"

"Hardly that, Estel. Do not blame yourself." Elrond rose to his feet. "Call me if you need me. I will be within my chambers."

Aragorn took the chair that his foster father had vacated and sat sadly studying Gilavir, who tossed restlessly in an uneasy sleep. A few days ago when he had regained consciousness, opened his eyes and smiled at Arwen, who had come to visit him. Aragorn had hoped the young man might recover, but despite his care and Master Elrond's , he was growing weaker and either could, or would not, swallow the nourishing broths prepared for him. It seemed that the horrors left in his mind by the torture he had suffered at the hands of the Orcs, was preventing his body from healing.

Aragorn pulled back the covers. Gilavir's bruises had turned a livid purple. His wounds, inflicted by lash and knife, had been cleaned and stitched and did not appear to be festering. Aragorn covered the young man again and looked around the room. Everything that could be had been done to ensure Gilavir's comfort. He lay beneath soft linen sheets and a down quilt, while soft goose pillows were under his head. A cheerful fire burned in the grate, and the room was decorated with holly branches to mark the winter solstice.

Gilavir moaned and stirred, his bruised fingers clawing restlessly at the covers. Impulsively, Aragorn took one of the young man's hands between his own. Gilavir's eyes flickered open. "I am here, Gilavir," he said gently. "You are safe now in Master Elrond's house."

"Cruel leering faces," Gilavir muttered. "Only pain, nothing else left. My mother and sisters, tell them farewell."

"You will recover," Aragorn said reassuringly.

"Too much pain inside." Gilavir closed his eyes again and turned his head away.

Aragorn's heart was breaking. This lad had trusted him and been in his care when the Orcs captured him. He wondered desperately how he might help the young Ranger who was fading before his eyes. He wondered if athelas might help. Gilavir did not have the Black Breath, but athelas raised the spirits of all who inhaled the vapours. There was a large jug of water by the bedside. Aragorn poured some into a metal bowl and put it on the fire to heat. When it was ready, he threw more logs on the fire so it blazed up merrily.

He pulled back Gilavir's covers, and began to unwrap the bandages that covered the young man. He murmured soothing words and draped a towel across the lad's hips to protect his dignity.

"Leave me be!" Gilavir groaned, turning his face to the wall.

"I have an idea that might help you," said Aragorn.

"You waste your time, lord., but as you will." Gilavir moaned softly at the effort of speaking.

In the depths of winter, fresh athelas was hard to come by, but Aragorn had a supply of dried leaves in his pouch. He took two, breathed on them, and cast them into the water.

He held the bowl in front of Gilavir's face so that the young Ranger might inhale the steam, and then very gently started to bathe the young man's numerous bruises and abrasions with the mixture.

"What are you doing?" Gilavir muttered.

"Washing away all traces of the Orcs' foulness," said Aragorn. "Breathe the steam as deeply as you can."

Aragorn immediately felt his heart lightened as the refreshing vapours filled his lungs. It seemed to have no effect on Gilavir, though, but Aragorn persisted and bathed the lad from head to toe with the mixture. He replaced the bandages and covered Gilavir again, but kept on bathing the young man's face and neck. The water grew cold, so Aragorn heated more and cast two more leaves into the bowl.

Gradually, Gilavir started to breathe more deeply and his tense body relaxed. Aragorn only then ceased his ministrations. He sat down by the bedside and gripped Gilavir's hands in his own. He started to softly sing the hymn to Elbereth.

At last Gilavir spoke. "Why are you taking all this trouble over me?"

"Out of love," Aragorn said simply. "I would not lose you. Then what of your mother and sisters, or that maiden you danced with at midsummer? Inzilwen was her name, was it not? Would you have them weep for your loss?"

"I am already lost," said Gilavir. "What those creatures did to me and what they planned to do with me. Afterwards they were going to eat me!"

"But they did not," said Aragorn. "We reached you in time. You are sore wounded, but you can heal. You are a Man, not an Elf, so the memories of your torment will be gradually blunted by time."

"I can never be what I was before."

"None will love you any the less. We simply want you with us."

Tears started to pour down Gilavir's face. Aragorn gently took the wounded young man in his arms and wordlessly wiped them away. A few tears leaked from his own eyes. They remained thus in silence for some considerable time.

Master Elrond opened the door to the chamber. His eyes met Aragorn's in mutual understanding. He smiled and closed the door quietly.

At last, Gilavir's weeping ceased. "I am hungry," he said, his amazement obvious in his voice.

"Good," said Aragorn. "I will ask the housekeeper to bring you something to eat."

He carefully propped the pillows behind Gilavir then went to the door and asked for a nourishing broth to be brought.

Gilavir's eyes were now exploring his surroundings. "The holly is most fair," he said.

"The winter solstice is tonight," said Aragorn. "The darkness will soon give way to the light."

The housekeeper knocked on the door and bustled within, carrying a tray. She was not an Elf, but a widow of one of the Rangers, a hale woman of middle years.

"Aye, but it's good to see you awake and hungry, lad!" she cried. "I've kept some of my best chicken broth on the hob for you, hoping you might want it and here's some of Master Elrond's rosehip tea to go with it. It tastes good, though I say so myself! Now eat it all up, lad and you'll soon be as good as new!"

"Thank you, mistress, I will."

The housekeeper set the tray on the bedside table, gave Gilavir an encouraging smile then bustled away again.

Aragorn took up a spoon and began to feed the young man. Gilavir's newfound eagerness to eat reminded him of a baby bird.

Gilavir drained the bowl then looked at Aragorn apologetically. "I fear I am causing a great deal of trouble," he said.

"There is no greater joy for a healer than to see his patient on the mend," said Aragorn. "And though I would not for all the world, have any of my men brought low, it is the moments of echoes and silence, patience and grace, that you truly get to know a man. Such moments cannot be replaced."

"I will recover and fight at your side again," said Gilavir.

"I know you will," said Aragorn. "My heart is filled with gladness. Hope, like the holly, is evergreen."


Chapter 27 - Protectors

2MeM Challenge Injuries and other ailments - Black Breath. Song lyrics - The Dark Lord rides in force tonight and time will tell us all; All Ocs, all the time - a twin; Rangers of the North- Arador, Dirhael. Botany - Common mushroom; Beasts - goose; Snippets of verse- arts hid causes are not found; Waters- underwater view

Format: short story

Genre: angst, humour, hurt/comfort

Rating: PG13

Warnings: mild horror, mention of injuries

Characters: Aragorn, Halbarad, OMCs, OFCS

Pairings: none

Summary: Aragorn protects his people in many ways.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Dedicated to shirebound .

The verse and some lines are taken directly from Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings".

B2MeM Challenge Injuries and other ailments - Black Breath. Song lyrics - The Dark Lord rides in force tonight

Gilavir knew that the Rangers were the protectors of the free peoples of Middle-earth and usually accepted his duties gladly and without question. He did sometimes wonder, though, why their Chieftain insisted they concentrate so much on protecting the Shire. It was one of the most peaceful and prosperous regions that he knew, while its inhabitants, the Hobbits, seemed interested in little more than the food that grew there in abundance. The Rangers usually managed to remain unobserved by the Hobbits. On the few occasions they were noticed, they were regarded with hostility and suspicion. It did not seem to trouble Aragorn.

"It is our duty to protect them from the fell creatures that would harm them," he said. "If they knew what lurked outside their borders, they would not sleep easy in their beds."

"Soft goose feather beds, no doubt," Gilavir muttered to himself one morning as he awoke on the hard ground.

"What?" Aragorn was wide- awake and tending their campfire.

"I was just thinking how nice it would be to sleep in a feather bed," said Gilavir.

"When the Dark Lord is defeated we can sleep in feather beds every night," said Aragorn. "Until then, count your blessings that today I let you sleep on until after sunrise and have cooked mushrooms for your breakfast!"

Gilavir laughed. He scrambled to his feet then he made his way into the nearby bushes. Much to his surprise, he encountered a plump goose, which regarded him with beady eyes. For a moment, he thought wistfully of roast goose to accompany the mushrooms, but the bird was plump and sleek, suggesting that it belonged to someone. He beat a hasty retreat. His grandmother kept geese and they were fierce birds.

The goose followed him, though, when he went to a nearby stream to wash his hands and face. It pecked at the fresh grass at the water's edge.

Gilavir paused for a moment watching the minnows swimming between the rocks. It seemed a pity to disturb such a peaceful underwater scene for his morning ablutions, but the Chieftain insisted on cleanliness, repeatedly telling his men that Master Elrond had taught him that not washing led to all manner of diseases.

The minnows darted away the instant his hands touched the water. Gilavir washed as quickly as he could and returned to the campfire.

"There was a goose in the bushes that followed me to the stream," he told Aragorn.

The Chieftain laughed. "At least there were no noisy snails this time you went to answer nature's call!"

Gilavir flushed, recalling one of his first night watches.

The two Rangers began their breakfast. "Beleg and Maglor are taking over guarding the Shire," said Aragorn. "We are to meet up with Halbarad and his grandson near the Barrow Downs, then journey on to the Coldfells north of Rivendell."

Gilavir's eyes widened. "Are we hunting hill-trolls?"

"I hope not, lad," said Aragorn. "My father drove them out of their nest after Arador was slain. We are hunting Orcs. Master Elrond's scouts spotted a raiding party on the very borders of Rivendell."

"My grandsire often spoke of Chieftain Arador before he died," said Gilavir. "He would tell me tales of his great deeds."

"You were fortunate to know your grandsire, lad," said Aragorn. "Arador was slain before I was born and I do not remember Dírhael, my mother's sire either. He was for a while acting Chieftain during my childhood before being slain in battle. His death greatly grieved my mother, as he had been much opposed to her marriage and they were never fully reconciled."

"My grandsire said Chieftain Arathorn was a mighty man like his father," said Gilavir. "Surely he would see the marriage as a great honour?"

"If you ever have a daughter you will understand," said Aragorn. "My father was indeed respected, but he was much older than my mother. My grandsire foresaw that their time together would be short. My mother told me, though, it was better by far to enjoy a few short years with a great man, than a lifetime with a lesser one. It is better not to marry at all than to wed unwisely." He fell silent and remained lost in thought for a few moments.

Gilavir remained silent, knowing better than to question his Chieftain over such a delicate matter. He finished his mushrooms and washed his plate in the stream, together with Aragorn's.

The Rangers mounted their horses and set off towards where they planned to meet Halbarad and his grandson in the wilds surrounding the Shire. It was sparsely populated here, apart from a few isolated farmsteads, so they cantered openly along the road. Mushrooms grew profusely in the ditches and stopped to fill their saddlebags with some for their next meal.

Suddenly, they espied a small Hobbit lass crying by the roadside. She was a pretty little thing, with brown pigtails, tied with ribbons and clad in a pink checked frock.

"Should we stop to see if we can help?" Gilavir asked.

"Let us see if any of her kin are around first," said Aragorn. "We do not wish to alarm the child, but we must ensure that she takes no harm."

They slowed the horses to a walk and kept a sharp look out. To their amazement, when they rounded the next bend in the road, they saw another little Hobbit lass, identical to the first in every respect, even her tears.

"Am I seeing double?" asked Gilavir. "I have drunk only water!"

"I can see the same," said Aragorn. "I think we should speak to her." He dismounted from his horse and dropped to his knees a little way from the child. "Are you hurt?" he called.

"Ma says I mustn't speak to strangers," said the child. "Especially not Rangers!"

"We will not hurt you," said Aragorn. "It is not safe for you and the other little lass to be so far from home. Where do you live? We will go and fetch your parents".

"We can't go home," said the child. "We've lost the goose we were supposed to be looking after and ma and da will be ever so cross!"

Gilavir also dismounted and dropped to his knees beside Aragorn. "I saw a goose back yonder," he said. "It was eating grass beside a stream".

"That's Goosie!" said the little girl. "She is always wandering off after fresh grass."

"We will try and find her for you," said Aragorn. "Is the other little lass your sister?"

"I'm Pansy and she's Tansy," said the child. "We are twins."

"Ah, that is why you are so alike!" Gilavir exclaimed.

"We're not alike!" Pansy said indignantly. "Tansy has more freckles on her nose and she always wears red hair ribbons, I have blue ones!"

Aragorn smiled. "I see now that you are quite different," he said. "Go now and re-join your sister. We will catch the goose for you. Why don't you gather some mushrooms while you wait?"

"Mushrooms?" Pansy's face lit up as she scampered off.

"Now we catch the goose," Aragorn said grimly.

An hour or so later, two weary and bedraggled Rangers had finally reunited Goosie with the grateful twins. They looked as if they had just fought a major battle as Gilavir's hand had been pecked and Aragorn's breeches torn. They escorted the little girls to the gate of the farm where they dwelt.

A stout Hobbit emerged from the house, shouting and waving his fist. "Vagabonds!" he cried. "Be off with you or I'll set the dogs on you!"

"Some thanks we get!" Gilavir said glumly.

"They do not understand," said Aragorn. "Pansy and Tansy were a joy to meet and who knows what harm might have befallen them had we not passed by?"

"Harm here?" said Gilavir. "This is such a peaceful spot."

"We must make sure it remains so," said Aragorn.

"Why is it so important?" asked Gilavir.

"Gandalf once told me Art's hid causes are not found," Aragorn replied enigmatically. "Now we must make haste. Halbarad and Barahir will think the trolls have taken us!"

They rode steadily on towards the Barrow Downs. Suddenly, Gilavir felt chilled to the bone. In the distance, he saw a cloaked horseman astride a black horse galloping away. His usually placid gelding reared and tried to bolt while Gilavir was seized with a sudden dread. He forced himself to concentrate on calming his horse. Aragorn was having similar problems with his own mount. Both men dismounted.

"Whatever was that?" asked Gilavir. He gripped Aragorn's arm in his terror and found the Chieftain was trembling slightly too.

"The Dark Lord rides in force tonight and time will tell us all," Aragorn said grimly. "That, Gilavir, was one of his most powerful servants, a Nazgûl. This bodes very ill. They spread terror and despair in their wake. It came from the direction of the Barrow Downs. We must ride there in all haste to see how Halbarad and Barahir fare. They might be in danger!"

They remounted the horses that had calmed somewhat and galloped towards the Barrow Downs. There they found Halbarad kneeling on the grass, his grandson cradled in his arms.

Aragorn leapt from Roheryn and ran towards his kinsmen. "What happened?" he asked. "It was terrible," Halbarad said. His face was ashen. "A dread faceless creature rode us down. I was thrown from my horse and winded. Barahir drew his sword and tried to fight the creature. When I regained my footing I found him collapsed here."

Aragorn knelt beside Barahir. The young man's face was drained of all colour and his eyes were closed. When Aragorn called his name, he did not stir.

"Did the Nazgûl wound him?" Aragorn asked. He gripped Barahir's wrist feeling for a pulse. His flesh was deathly cold.

"I can find no wound on him," said Halbarad. "I could not see clearly, but I think the thing touched his arm. It appears quite lifeless."

Aragorn rolled up Barahir's sleeve. His arm was white and numb. He did not stir. Aragorn's face was grave. "Gilavir," he said. "Ride with all haste to Rivendell and tell Master Elrond that the Nazgûl are abroad. We can but hope that only one of them has come this far north, but we must prepare to defend ourselves. Should it approach you, they fear fire. On no account let it touch you. Now go, ride with all haste!"

As soon as Gilavir had galloped away, Halbarad asked, "What ails my grandson?"

"The Black Breath," Aragorn said grimly.

"Can you heal him?" There was a mixture of hope and fear in Halbarad's voice.

"I will need athelas if I am to help him," said Aragorn. "Alas, that I do not have any with me. There might be some growing by the roadside. "

"I will go and find some," said Halbarad.

"If you cannot, we must take Barahir to Rivendell," said Aragorn. "Master Elrond is the eldest of our race and has the greater power, but the swifter Barahir is treated, the better."

Halbarad leapt astride his horse and galloped off towards the road, leaving Aragorn alone with Barahir. The Chieftain swiftly kindled a fire; both for warmth and for protection should the Nazgûl return. He filled a dish with water from his flask and put it on the fire to heat. He then removed Barahir's tunic and shirt, the better to examine him. The young man's arm was white and numb as far as his shoulder and the coldness seemed to be spreading. At least there was no trace of any wound, which gave Aragorn some cause for hope. He was surprised the encounter with the Nazgûl had affected Barahir so badly, but then he recalled Master Elrond telling him that if a Man's spirits were low, it made him especially susceptible to the malady. Halbarad had told him that a young lady that Barahir had set his heart upon had turned down his proposal of marriage, leaving the young man heartbroken. That would explain much.

Aragorn wrapped Barahir in his cloak, then took his hand and repeatedly called his name. The young man moaned and tossed as if caught in some dark dream, but did not awaken. He could only sit on the grass beside the fire and wait for Halbarad's return. He cradled Barahir in his arms to keep him warm and repeatedly called his name.

After what seemed like an age, his kinsman galloped into sight, triumphantly clutching a handful of athelas leaves. "I have it!" Halbarad cried. He thrust the leaves into Aragorn's outstretched hand.

"I might have to enter a healing trance," said Aragorn. "If I should swoon, hold the dish in front of my face." Thus saying, he took two of the leaves, breathed on them, then crushed them and cast them into the bowl of water he had heated. He dipped a cloth in the mixture and laved Barahir's arm and shoulder with it then took his hand and repeatedly called his name.

Halbarad watched while Aragorn grew as pale as his stricken grandson. Yet his heart felt lightened as if a fresh breeze was blowing from the sea. He held the bowl in front of his grandson's face as Aragorn continued to call him. Gradually some colour returned to Barahir's blanched flesh. His eyes flickered open and he gazed at Aragorn as if beholding him for the first time. "My lord," he said. "You called me. I come."

"Barahir, awake and walk no more in shadow!" said Aragorn. "Rest a little and then we must ride for Rivendell."

"I had such dark dreams," said Barahir. "What happened? Was I wounded?"

"You were suffering from the Black Breath," said Aragorn. He started to help the young man don his shirt, noting that his arm and shoulder had returned to their normal colour.

"I remember now, a faceless thing in a black robe!" said Barahir. He shuddered.

"It is gone now," said Aragorn. "Think not on it!"

"I feared I had lost you" said Halbarad, embracing the young man. "Do you feel strong enough to ride?"

"I think so." With the help of his grandfather's arm, he slowly rose to his feet.

Aragorn watched them and smiled for an instant. The smile quickly faded, though. He was filled with foreboding. What was a Nazgûl doing so far from Mordor? Was it a lone scout or had Sauron learned what was hidden within the Shire?

An old rhyme he had heard years ago when he was in Gondor suddenly came into his mind.

When the black breath blows
and death's shadow grows
and all lights pass,
come athelas! come athelas!
Life to the dying
In the king's hand lying!

Death's shadow was indeed growing. It seemed that the time was approaching when his destiny would be decided. Were that a lonely grave or a crown, only time would tell. Aragorn mounted Roheryn, rode to the crest of the nearest hill, and looked out. "There is no sign of the Nazgûl," he said. "We ride to Rivendell." For a moment, he lingered looking out at the peaceful landscape, the land, which he and his Rangers were sworn to protect. He would fight to his last drop of blood to defend it.


Chapter 28 - For the Beauty of the Earth

For the Beauty of the Earth

Rating: PG

Theme: One Picture is Worth a Thousand Words.

http://lindahoyland.yolasite.com/with-eager-feet.php

Author's Notes: A sequel to “With Eager Feet”. With thanks to Deandra. The picture prompt can be seen on my LJ.

Summary: Autumn’s beauties fail to impress Aragorn and his hungry Rangers.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Word Count:1,00o

“For the beauty of the earth

For the glory of the skies,

For the love which from our birth

Over and around us lies.

Gracious God, to Thee we raise,

This our grateful hymn of praise.

For the beauty of each hour,

Of the day and of the night,

Hill and vale, and tree and flower,

Sun and moon, and stars of light.” - Folliot S. Pierpoint

Autumn in the Shire was an especially beautiful time. Today, though, the orange, red, and golden splendour of the trees failed to lift the spirits of Aragorn and his companions.

They had spent the past three nights despatching the Orcs that threatened the Shire’s border with only meagre rations to sustain them. This morning had seen the first sharp frost of the season, a bitter reminder that winter was on the way.

To make matters worse, a group of Hobbit lads had pelted them with conkers and shouted insults when they trudged past the tree behind which the boys were hiding.

“After all we do to protect them!” Gilavir complained bitterly, rubbing his arm where one of the conkers had hit.

“It is what we do,” Aragorn said mildly. “It would destroy the peace we seek to preserve if they knew what dark creatures threaten them. Are you hurt, Gilavir?”

“I imagine I will have a bruise,” the young Ranger replied.

“I will look at it when we get back to camp,” said Aragorn. “You must learn to duck faster, lad.”

“Someone else is coming,” said Halbarad. “Maybe we should leave the road for a while?”

Aragorn looked in the direction of the sound of hoof beats. As soon as the pony and cart rounded the bend in the road, he recognised it and the Hobbit woman who was driving.

“Greetings, Mistress Daisy!” he called.

“Well, I never did!” cried Daisy. She reined the pony to a halt and beamed at him. “If it isn’t Mister Strider and Mister Trotter and …. ”

“I am called Stalker, Mistress,” said Halbarad.

“It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister Stalker. You are just the very folk I wanted to see. Luck is with me today!”

“We are?” Gilavir sounded incredulous. Aragorn nudged him sharply.

Aragorn inclined his head towards her. “How might we be of service, Mistress Daisy?” he asked.

“My Griffo went and dislocated his shoulder a few days back. The healer says it will take weeks to mend. Winter is coming and we’ve hardly a stick of firewood in the house. My Tosto’s a good lad, but he’s away staying with his cousins.”

“We would be happy to help you, Mistress Daisy,” said Aragorn, forcing a smile. Truth to tell, he was weary, cold, and hungry and nothing appealed to him less than the prospect of spending the morning chopping wood.

“My farm’s just this way,” said Daisy. She guided the trap over a low bridge overhung by trees. The three Rangers trudged wearily behind her.

“Maybe she will give us some food again?” Gilavir whispered to Aragorn.

“Don’t count on it, lad. We rescued her last time from being stuck in the mud. This time, we are simply doing an errand for her. It will soon be winter; Mistress Daisy will need all her supplies.”

They had reached Daisy’s farm now. She gestured towards a recently felled tree. “I would be grateful if you could chop that up for me, please,” she said. “Griffo hurt his shoulder when he was felling it for our winter fuel.”

The three Rangers set to work. They were somewhat hampered by the fact there was only one axe and a Hobbit-sized one at that, but with Halbarad chopping, Aragorn sorting and Gilavir stacking the freshly cut logs, they made short work of the tree and soon filled Daisy’s woodshed to overflowing. It was hard work, but at least they were no longer cold.

Aragorn knocked on her door to tell her the wood was chopped. She beamed at him. “Thank you so much. Now you must come in and have a bite to eat.”

“We expect no reward, mistress,” said Aragorn. “We must be on our way.”

“Nonsense!” said Daisy. “A right good turn you’ve done me. You and your friends look as if you could do with feeding up a bit. In you come and warm yourselves by the fire. Griffo’s upstairs resting, so you young ones can keep me company for a while.”

The three Rangers carefully wiped their feet on the tiny doormat and ducked inside Daisy’s home. A delectable scent immediately assailed their senses. Daisy gestured for them to sit down at the scrubbed table opposite the fire, and served them plates piled high with a delicious stew, flavoured with herbs. There was also fresh crusty bread with knobs of golden butter and generous helpings of turnips, carrots, and swedes, washed down with elderberry wine. Just when the three Rangers felt they could eat no more, Daisy produced an enormous apple pie with a crispy golden crust and served with lashings of fresh cream. The Rangers loosened their belts and tucked in. It was not until after they had all eaten second helpings that Daisy finally cleared the plates away.

“Thank you, Mistress Daisy for a delicious meal,” said Aragorn.

“It’s been a right pleasure seeing my cooking appreciated,” said Daisy. “I can’t care what anyone says, but you Rangers are good men. You will always be welcome to drop by for a bite to eat when you are passing.”

“Thank you, mistress, you are a good friend to us,” said Aragorn as they took their leave.

With full bellies and thankful hearts, the three went on their way. The afternoon sun slanted between the magnificent trees making the autumn leaves glisten like gold. The sunlight caught the brook that ran beneath bridge and made it sparkle like diamonds. A filigree of gossamer-like spiders’ webs glistened amongst the brambles. A song thrush sang joyfully from a treetop and Aragorn’s heart soared. He breathed the crisp autumn air and savoured its freshness. This was what he and his men fought tirelessly to preserve; that the Shire should remain a haven of peace and beauty for all who dwelt there.

Gilavir started to hum a cheerful harvest tune and his companions joined in. Their boots crunching the freshly fallen leaves, they strode back to their campsite with joyful hearts.


Chapter 29 - Under Elbereth's Stars

Under Elbereth's Stars

B2MeM Challenge AspectsOfAragorn1- Strider; Weather1- sleet ; Love1 – Unrequited Love; CanonCouples1- Manwe/Varda, Beasts1- Crane

Format: Ficlet

Genre: general

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Aragorn, Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin

Pairings: none

Summary: Aragorn and the Hobbits travel towards Rivendell.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Strider and three of the four Hobbits trudged wearily onwards. Sitting astride Bill, Frodo struggled to remain awake. The numbness in his shoulder from the Nazgûl knife wound seemed to grow and spread with every hour that passed. He now feared to sleep, lest he fall into dark dreams from which there was no awakening.

"How do you feel, Mister Frodo?" asked Sam, who was never far from his side.

"Cold and weary," said Frodo.

"It is uncommon cold for October," said Sam. "It's a lazy wind that comes from the North East as my old gaffer says. It goes right through you instead of going round you."

"You are further North than you have been before, I imagine," said Strider. "The Shire is very sheltered from the cold, compared to this wilderness."

"We've already seen more things than we ever dreamed of," said Pippin.

"Or had nightmares about," Merry added.

"I feel so tired," said Frodo.

"Look at those cranes flying overhead!" cried Strider, seeking to distract the ailing Hobbit.

Four pairs of eyes looked upwards.

"I thought they were herons," said Sam. "My old gaffer says they used to steal fish from Mister Bilbo's pond."

"Those would most likely be herons, Sam," said Strider. "But these are certainly cranes. See how they fly with their necks outstretched, a heron flies with its neck pulled back. They will be flying south for winter."

"What a lot you know about birds and beasts, Mr Strider," said Sam.

"I would not be a very good Ranger if I did not," said Strider, giving Sam one of his rare smiles, which lit up his grim features. "Many years ago I recall being in a cove on the beach where there was an enormous flock of cranes feeding on the fish in the rock pools. They are remarkable birds and many lands revere them and tell stories about them. They dance to attract their mates."

"You've seen the sea, Strider?" Frodo roused himself to ask the question. "What is it like?"

"Vast, beautiful and forever changing," the Ranger replied.

"I should like to see it one day," said Frodo.

"Maybe you will," said Strider. "You have already travelled further than most of your folk do."

As it began to grow dark, clouds blew in from the North. The Hobbits pulled their hoods more closely about their faces."

"Bother, it's raining now!" Pippin exclaimed. "Such cold rain too!"

"It feels like sleet," said Merry. "But surely not in October?"

"Hail and sleet are commonplace at this time of year in the wilds," said Strider. "We must find shelter before dark." He looked around him and selected a spot, sheltered from the wind by a copse of stunted trees. "This will have to do," he said." We can go no further today."

The Hobbits thankfully unloaded their packs and prepared a camp for the night. Sam tried his utmost to make Frodo comfortable, selecting the most sheltered spot for his master to sit.

"Can you tell us a story, Mr Strider, please?" asked Sam once they were sitting around the campfire. "It might cheer up Mister Frodo."

"Very well," said Strider. He took out his pipe and lit it. "What do you wish me to tell you about?"

"I should like to hear of Lady Elbereth," said Frodo. "I hardly know why I called upon her when the Black Riders attacked me, yet it seemed the right thing to do."

"You were wiser than you knew, Frodo," Strider said thoughtfully. "Varda, as the Elves call Lady Elbereth, is the brightest and most glorious of the Valar. All evil things flee from her radiance. She and her consort, Lord Manwë, dwell in glorious halls above the snows of Taniquetil in the Blessed Realm, and from there they can see all that happens upon Arda. Apart they are strong, but together they are mightier still. Great eagles and swift hawks bring tidings to Manwë of all things that happen. When he appears to the children of Ilúvatar, he is clad in robes of blue and carries a scepter of sapphire. Varda is so fair, that there are no words that Man or Elf could use that would do justice in describing her. Strider spoke slowly and softly. As he had hoped, the Hobbits soon fell asleep, exhausted after the long and weary day.

The Man remained watchful for a while. Only when he was satisfied that no enemies were abroad did he settle down, pulling his cloak more closely about him. The memory of what he had told the Hobbits lingered in his mind. Manwë and Varda's strength and wisdom was so much more when they were together than when they were apart. So it was too for him and his beloved Arwen. If he could but win the crown, and with it, her hand in marriage, together they could achieve so much that he could not do alone. Would he ever win her hand, or would their love be doomed? Everything yet hung in the balance, depending on what happened to the Ring that Frodo carried.

The sleet had stopped, but the sky remained overcast. As Strider gazed up at it, the wind blew away some wisps of cloud to reveal the stars. Strider smiled, it seemed that Manwë, and Varda had not forgotten him. His spirits soared. It was not as if his love for Arwen were unrequited, as for forty long years he feared it would be. She loved him and had pledged her hand in marriage to him. However, dark the path ahead, Elbereth's stars would light his way.

That comforting thought would sustain him wherever his journey might lead.


Chapter 30 - Somewhat Grim to Look Upon

Somewhat Grim to Look Upon – Linda Hoyland

"His ways were hard and long, and he became somewhat grim to look upon, unless he chanced to smile." – Tolkien

Rating: K

Disclaimer: The characters of "Lord of the Rings" were created by J.R.R. Tolkien, not by me, and I am not pretending otherwise. This story was written for love, not for money; no infringement of copyright is intended.

Summary: Pippin wonders why Aragorn doesn't smile more often.

Word Count: 1236

A/n. Some lines are taken from Tolkien's LOTR.

With thanks to Shirebound for the plot idea and Deandra for editing.

Dedicated to Shirebound.

Written for the Teitho "Smile" challenge where it was unplaced.

"Strider still looks almost as grim as when we first met him," said Pippin thoughtfully. He selected a cake from the plate of dainties in front of him then handed it to Faramir, who was visiting the Hobbits in the house provided for them in Minas Tirith.

"No thank you, I cannot eat any more," said Faramir.

"But you've only had three," Pippin protested. "You are much bigger than I am and I've eaten six already."

Faramir smiled ruefully. "I think Hobbits must have larger appetites than Men. The cakes are delicious, but I fear I am too full to eat another, much as I would like to."

"All the more for us then," said Pippin. He finished the cake he was eating and took another.

"Leave some for us, Pip," Merry admonished him. "I've only had four so far and so has Sam."

"I'm a growing tween and need my food. Now, as I was saying," replied Pippin with dignity, "you'd think Strider would stop looking so grim and smile sometimes now that he's King and everything."

"The King has many cares," said Faramir. "Lord Elessar works from dawn till dusk planning how we might best rebuild after the war, how to help the widows and orphans and deciding how best to treat all those who fought against us. There is little cause for mirth."

"He doesn't even smile much when he comes to visit us," said Merry.

"Not even if we offer him the best food and pipeweed," Pippin added. "Anyone would think he did not know how to smile and be merry."

"The Lord King has a wonderful smile," said Faramir. "Never will I forget how he smiled at me when I opened my eyes and first beheld him when he brought me forth from the Dark Vale. Later I learned that he had not slept properly in days and had just lost his dear friend and kinsman on the battlefield. Yet, he smiled at me with such love and warmth in his eyes. It was like the glimpse of a bright star on a dark night."

"He does have a radiant smile on the rare occasions that we see it," said Merry. "It lights up his whole face. Remember that smile he gave us, Pip, when we were reunited at Isengard?"

"I just wish old Strider would smile a bit more often now," said Pippin, "the war's over and he can live in comfort and have as much as he likes to eat."

"Warriors such as Lord Elessar see such dark things that it can take them a long time to smile again," said Faramir.

"Like poor Mister Frodo," said Sam. "I should like to see him smile more often too."

"He too has seen horrors beyond the imagination of most," said Faramir, "as too have we, my friends."

"We Hobbits soon recover," said Merry. "We prefer to think of the happy things in life, like good food and the company of friends."

"How is Master Frodo?" asked Faramir. "I had hoped to see him this afternoon."

"His poor hand is paining him and he is resting," said Sam. "If you'll excuse me, Captain Faramir, I'll take him up some tea and cake."

"I will take my leave," said Faramir. "I promised the King that I would discuss a treaty with him this evening."

"Tell Strider we said he needs to smile more," said Pippin.

Faramir looked shocked.

"Pip!" Merry chided.

"Well tell Strider we all send him our love then," said Pippin.

"I will tell him you send your greetings, my friends," said Faramir.

"Our love," Pippin said firmly.

Faramir nodded, then smiled at them as he went out of the door.

0000

A few weeks later

"I wonder why Strider was so determined that we come to the City Gates with him?" said Pippin. "It will be nice to see Master Elrond again, but surely tomorrow would do? I was planning to sample the ale at a nice little tavern in the third circle."

"Strider looks mighty excited and worried at the same time," said Sam. He glanced across to where the King stood together with Gandalf and Faramir. Aragorn had dismounted from Roheryn and was pacing before the gates liked a caged beast.

"I expect he is eager to see his foster father," said Frodo. "Master Elrond will be really pleased that Aragorn is King now, like his forefather, Master Elrond's brother. I've been reading all the old tales here in library about the Kings of old. It would not surprise me if he didn't bring some of the Elves from his household with him. "

"What a fine sight that will be!" said Sam. "I'd love to see the Elves again."

"I wonder why Strider is so dressed up?" said Merry. "He looks even smarter than the day of his coronation!"

The four Hobbits studied the former Ranger who was wearing a tunic and breeches of black velvet. The tunic was decorated with an image of the White Tree, embroidered in mithril and diamonds. A white mantel was around his shoulders fastened with the Elessar brooch and upon his brow was the Star of Elendil.

"He looks very different now to when we met him in the Prancing Pony," said Pippin.

Suddenly the sound of silver trumpets rang out and a procession could be seen heading towards the City.

Aragorn remounted Roheryn, while Gandalf came to stand beside the Hobbits.

Elrohir and Elladan carried a banner of silver and headed the procession, and then came Glorfindel, Erestor, and all of Master Elrond's household, and after them came the Lady Galadriel and Celeborn, her spouse, riding upon white steeds, and with them many other Elves. Behind them rode Master Elrond, bearing the sceptre of Annúminas , and beside him, upon a grey palfrey rode Arwen.

Aragorn greeted his guests as one by one they assembled outside the City Walls.

Frodo turned to Gandalf and said, "At last I understand why we have waited! This is the ending. Now not day only shall be beloved, but night too shall be beautiful and blessed and all its fear pass away!"

"I still don't understand," Pippin complained. Like the others, he could not tear his gaze away from the vision of loveliness before him. Arwen wore a gown of deep blue, the colour of the night sky, embroidered with tiny gems that glittered like stars in the evening sunlight. Glittering gems adorned her hair, but these adornments paled by comparison to her beauty.

"You shall see, Pip," said Frodo.

Everyone dismounted. Master Elrond and Arwen approached Aragorn.

"What's Master Elrond holding?" asked Pippin.

"It is the symbol of kingship in the Northern Lands that Aragorn now rules," said Gandalf. "Have you learned nothing, Peregrin Took?"

Elrond then placed the hand of his daughter into Aragorn's.

"They are going to be wed!" exclaimed Pippin.

Aragorn hesitated but for an instant then kissed his bride to be. She eagerly returned his kiss.

The King then turned to face the assembled company. "Friends," he said. "You are all invited to witness my wedding in the Court of the Fountain tomorrow." He beamed at his bride and his whole face was lit up by his twinkling eyes. It was like the sun appearing from behind a cloud and brightening everything around it.

"He is smiling now," said Pippin. "I think it is the happiest smile I've ever seen!"


Chapter 31 - An Unexpected Letter

An Unexpected Letter – Linda Hoyland

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. This story is written for pleasure not profit.

With thanks to Raksha and Deandra.

Ecthelion picked up the topmost sheaf on the pile of parchments his secretary had brought him. It was a request for reinforcements for the garrison at Osgiliath. The old Steward tried to force himself to concentrate but the words swam before his eyes. It had been five days now and there was still no word from Thorongil. Maybe Denethor had been right after all?

It was sheer folly to send his best captain, together with a band of Gondor's finest men, against the might of the Corsairs. Thorongil had seemed so confident, though, and in all the years that Ecthelion had known him, his judgement had never proved wrong. Maybe though, this time he had overreached himself and was now slaughtered, or captured and forced to row the galleys himself.

Ecthelion shuddered. Surely, the Valar would not be so cruel as to snatch away the man who had become so dear to him?

A knock on his study door jolted him out of his reverie. "Come in!" the Steward called.

Beleg, his faithful secretary, put his head around the door. "My lord, a messenger from Umbar has just arrived."

"I wish to speak with him directly," said Ecthelion.

"He has ridden hard and needs to take refreshment and bathe and change his clothes first," Beleg protested.

"Are you deaf, man?" Ecthelion snapped impatiently. "Show him in at once. He can refresh himself later."

"Very well, my lord." Beleg closed the door again.

A few moments later, the secretary returned with a travel- stained man, who had obviously been waiting in the kitchen, as he was wiping ale from his mouth with his sleeve.

"What news from Umbar?" asked Ecthelion.

"The corsairs are utterly routed, my lord. Many of their ships and men were destroyed in the battle. Captain Thorongil slew their Captain upon the quayside. We had few losses amongst our men." The man beamed as he recounted these tidings.

"What of Captain Thorongil?"

The messenger's expression grew sombre. "He is gone, my lord."

Ecthelion paled and clutched at the side of his desk until his knuckles turned white. "Gone? What do you mean? Is he slain?"

"No, my lord. He lives, as far as I know, but he is gone. He was seen taking a boat across the Anduin, where he said farewell to his companions and went on alone; when he was last seen he was headed toward the Mountains of Shadow." The messenger reached within his tunic and handed a grubby scrap of parchment to the Steward. On it was written in Thorongil's distinctive hand, "Other tasks now call me, lord, and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate."

Ecthelion gave a low cry and slumped in his chair.

"The Steward is unwell!" cried Beleg. He immediately called a servant to summon a healer to attend the old man.

000

Ecthelion found himself in his bedchamber when he came to his senses. Denethor and one of the healers stood on either side of his bed. The healer looked grave, while Denethor looked more cheerful than was his wont. "What happened?" the Steward murmured.

"I believe you have suffered a slight seizure, my lord," said the healer. "Plenty of rest should soon restore you to health. Drink this potion, it will make you feel better, sir." He held a cup to Ecthelion's lips. The Steward drank.

The healer fussed around checking his patient's pulse and asking Ecthelion if he could lift his arms. He appeared satisfied with his findings. "You should stay abed for a few days, my lord," he said. "I will return later to see how you are faring." With that, he took his leave.

For a few moments, the old Steward remained confused, trying to recall what had caused his sudden weakness. Then recollections of the tidings he had received flooded back to him. "Thorongil has gone!" he murmured. "Gone without even a proper word of farewell!"

"I never did trust Thorongil," said Denethor. "You should have listened to my counsel, father. I told you that a sellsword of doubtful lineage could not be trusted. Gondor is better off without the likes of him."

"Never speak thus!" Ecthelion said sharply. "Thorongil was a great man and Gondor owes him much, not least now. The Corsairs have long been a thorn in our side. Thorongil has left us with a mighty parting gift."

"We must hold a great celebration," said Denethor. "This is indeed a glorious day!" Seeing his father's glare, he added hastily. "Resounding victories against the enemy are sadly few, so the defeat of the Corsairs is surely a good reason to rejoice?"

"Indeed, my son," said Ecthelion. "Alas, though, my heart is sore heavy. Go now and spend some time with Finduilas and my grandson. I would rest now. Send for my servant to tend to me."

Denethor made a mild protest then left his father's chambers with a spring in his step and humming a cheerful dance melody.

Ecthelion lay back against the pillows after the servant had attended to him and left, but sleep was slow to come to him. Unanswered questions whirled through his brain. Why had Thorongil left? Why? After such a victory, he would have showered honours upon him and given him whatever he desired. Perhaps even – better not even to think upon that now. And why was Thorongil heading towards the Mountains of Shadow? Surely, certain death awaited him there? Tears trickled down the old man's cheeks at the thought of the cruel fate that no doubt awaited the man he had come to love more dearly than his own son. Yes, Denethor was his flesh and blood, but Thorongil had shown him far more warmth and companionship. The Captain had enjoyed listening to his stories about his boyhood, as Denethor never had done. The prospect of life without him was lonely and bleak indeed.

Weeks passed and became months. Denethor held his celebration, which was the talk of Minas Tirith for weeks. It was said that he looked even happier than he had done when he wed the fair Finduilas and he had danced the night away with her. Folk soon grew bored with the topic, though. The departure of Thorongil, however, was still on the lips of all, as almost everyone from the errand boys to the Steward had loved the popular Captain.

Ecthelion recovered from his illness after a fashion, but was no longer his former hale and vigorous self. He took to strolling in the evenings around the Court of the Fountain, leaning heavily on a cane. Then he would sit and gaze at the dead White Tree, lost in thought.

One night, he was sitting on a bench, when he sensed someone brushing past him. He quickly looked around, but the cloaked and hooded man was already melting into the shadows. He realised something had been stuffed in his cloak. Ecthelion pulled it out. It was a letter. It was too dark outside for his ageing eyes to read; also he had a feeling it was something of importance, which was better read in private.

He made his way back to his chambers where he called for candles to be lit and then dismissed his servant. Ecthelion reached into his cloak for the parchment. A tremor seized him when he glimpsed it was written in Thorongil's hand. He tore open the seal and began to read,

"My lord Steward and dear friend,

I realise that you may no longer think of me as such, but in my heart, you will ever remain so.

It deeply saddened my heart that I had to leave in such a fashion, sneaking away like a thief in the night, but I felt I had no other choice if our beloved land were to be spared the horrors of kinstrife. It grieves me that I could not send you a message before now, but there was none I could trust to deliver this message, meant for your eyes alone.

I know you have long since guessed my true lineage, as has your son. While your words and actions have given me cause to believe that you would welcome my claim, should I make one, Lord Denethor would never accept me.

You told me that should I defeat the corsairs, you would shower me with honours. As you have already greatly rewarded me, I can think only of one further honour you might wish to bestow, an honour, which would appal your son and those who support him. Even if this was not your intent, the popularity that this victory has given me, would only increase the enmity of Lord Denethor towards me, an enmity which would set father against son and brother and against brother, thus weakening Gondor and strengthening our Enemy.

I speak from my heart when I say that never did I intend to cause discord between you and your son. I sought only to be a loyal captain of Gondor.

It greatly saddens my heart that I must take my leave of you, my friend. You became almost as a father to me, the mortal father I had never known.

I plan now to travel to distant lands where the stars are strange. I do not know if I will ever see you again, my friend, but my thoughts will ever remain with you.

Please look after your health and long may you continue to guard our beloved land.

For the last time I sign myself,

Your friend and captain,

Thorongil.

Tears rolled down Ecthelion's cheeks as he read the message. Thorongil had not betrayed him, but had left because he was so loyal. The Captain had guessed rightly. Had Thorongil been able to produce proofs that he was indeed the rightful king, the old Steward would gladly have surrendered rod and rule into his capable and popular hands. Denethor would never have accepted his decision, though. Ecthelion's son and heir saw himself as born to rule. The birth of young Boromir had only increased his determination that the tenure of the Stewards should continue.

Ecthelion sat for a long time clutching Thorongil's letter. It was not until the candles and the fire had burned low that he stirred from his chair. He knew he should destroy the parchment, but could not bring himself to do so. At last, he rose slowly and painfully from his seat. Taking a key from his pocket, Ecthelion unlocked a compartment in his desk. It was already stuffed with treasured letters, messages from his long dead parents, sent to them while he was serving as a soldier, missives from his lady when they were courting, and messages his children had sent him when they were very young. He stuffed Thorongil's letter amongst them. His trusted secretary, Beleg, had already given his word to destroy all these papers after his death.

Ecthelion locked the drawer. He sat down sadly in front of the fire, gazing into the dying flames. The glowing coals formed a circle that reminded him of the Winged Crown. Then suddenly the foresight of his people came upon him and he knew with certainty, that one day, one born of his line would freely offer the crown to Thorongil.

The old man smiled and called for a servant to bring fresh candles.


Chapter 32 - Call me Thorongil

Call me Thorongil

B2MeM Challenge First lines – Call me -; Emotions; awe; The Steward and his sons - Captain General

Format: 500 word fixed length ficlet

Genre: general

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Denethor, Thorongil, Ecthelion

Pairings: none

Summary: Denethor ponders on the identity of the man known as Thorongil

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

"Call me Thorongil," the stranger said. He looked me straight in the eye with none of the awe usually seen in those who address Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Captain General of Gondor!

Such insolence in one who lacks even a father's name to introduce himself by!

Who is this fellow anyway? He says he comes from Rohan, and he does indeed carry a letter of introduction from King Thengel. He is no horse lord with his dark hair, lanky frame, and grey eyes. He rides like one of them, though, man and beast becoming a single fluid entity.

My father is besotted with the man. He keeps remarking how like unto me this Thorongil is. Could he be Ecthelion's bastard? Valar perish the thought! My father is a true son of Númenor and would never have betrayed his marriage vow and polluted himself by getting this nobody's mother with child!

Alas, my father's affection for this Thorongil proves that he is in his dotage. It saddens my heart deeply to see a man of such wisdom fawn upon this stranger, inviting him to his table and showering him with affection. He even lets him wear a brooch shaped like a star upon his uniform, in defiance of all our regulations! Thorongil claims that he wears it in honour of his people. Are we next to see soldiers from Dol Amroth sporting swans on the uniforms of the Citadel, while those from Lossarnach adorn themselves with flowers? Even I, as Captain General wear only a simple insignia to denote my high rank.

Then who are Thorongil's people? Lore states that some of our Dúnedain kin yet survive in the North, a scattered and ragged remnant of a once great people. No doubt, Thorongil grew up in some mud hut there with his shamed mother and decided to improve his lot as a sellsword. He must have picked up the fine manners he uses to impress my father at Thengel's court. It is a homely place compared to the Citadel. At least Thengel's wife, Morwen, introduced our speech and manners there.

I have the gift to see into the hearts of Men, yet I can discern little of what secrets Thorongil's heart hides. It is almost as if he has learned to hide his thoughts. But where could he have learned such arts and to what purpose? What could a fatherless sellsword have to hide?

Sometimes he gazes at me with those unreadable grey eyes as if he is trying to discern my thoughts, the impertinent fellow!

Yet my father seems to be in awe of the fellow's abilities. Thorongil boasts that he has knowledge of lore and healing arts as well as soldiering. My father claims the fellow to be Elven wise. A charlatan more likely! Those who profess knowledge of many things, generally excel in none.

Yet, his perfidious influence on my father grows daily. It cannot last, though, for he is a mere sellsword, while I am Captain General.


Chapter 33 - Beyond the Shadows

Beyond the Shadows

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil- Psalm 23.

Warning – character death.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

The shadows lengthened almost imperceptibly as the afternoon wore on, until the features of the younger man in the room were no longer clearly discernible.

Ecthelion coughed loudly causing his son to look up.

"We should send a thousand men," said Denethor. He blinked as the sinking sun dazzled his eyes.

"You have not listened to a word I said," Ecthelion chided gently.

"I was listening, father," Denethor protested.

"I might be ninety- seven years old, but I am not yet in my dotage," the Steward replied. "I know when you are not paying attention, but how can I blame you today of all days. This discussion on the strength of the Ithilien Rangers can wait for another day."

"Our routine should not be interrupted by the impending arrival," said Denethor. He sighed and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. "It has been too long, though. I was informed that second babies usually arrive much more swiftly than the first. I am eager to behold my daughter. Boromir will make a splendid watchful older brother to his little sister, who will be the fairest little maid in Gondor."

"You could have a second son," Ecthelion cautioned.

"Nonsense! Finduilas was much stricken with sickness in the morning this time, which she never was when expecting my Boromir. The healers told me to expect a girl and I assured Finduilas that I would not be disappointed with a daughter."

"Boy or girl, as long as my grandchild is healthy and Finduilas is well, I shall be more than content," said Ecthelion. The old man reached for the cane he had needed since he had suffered a slight seizure the year before. He laboriously rose to his feet and went over to the window where he stood gazing out at the crimson hued sky. "It is a beautiful sunset tonight," he said.

Denethor glanced towards the window. "It is no different from any other," he said. "It tells me only that day is almost done."

"When you are as old as I am, my son, and you know that your days are approaching their end, you appreciate the small beauties all the more," said the Steward.

"Speak not of your death so calmly!" Denethor said sharply. "You are of the House of Húrin, a true son of Númenor. You could yet live for many more years."

"I do not fear death," said Ecthelion. "I rejoice, though, that I have lived long enough to see your children."

Before Denethor could reply there came a knock on the door.

"Come in!" both men cried almost in unison.

A woman entered; her fresh complexion and rosy cheeks suggesting she was most likely recently arrived from the country. She was dressed in the black gown and white smock worn by the women healers."

"What news?" Denethor barked impatiently before the woman had time to open her mouth.

"You have a son, my lord, and such a fair babe, as fine as any I've ever seen. Not a large babe, but he has a right lusty cry and…."

Denethor's face clouded at her tidings. "What of the Lady Finduilas?" he interrupted.

"She is well enough now, but it was a long and hard ordeal for the poor lady. Dame Morwen almost despaired at one time, but both are well now and the Lady Finduilas is taking a little beef tea to strengthen her and…"

"I wish to see my wife," Denethor interrupted.

"Of course, my lord. Mistress Morwen sent me to tell you that you can see your new son and the Lady Finduilas."

Denethor rose to his feet.

"I will come with you," said Ecthelion.

"It is a long way for you to walk, father."

"Nonsense, the exercise will do me good. It is the custom that the Ruling Steward should welcome each new heir into the world."

"You have already welcomed Boromir who will rule after us both," said Denethor.

"And I would welcome this grandson too." Ecthelion smiled at the woman who had brought them the news. "You lead the way, mistress, but not too swiftly, remember I am not as young as I once was. What is your name? You are not from the City, I wager?"

"I am called Ioreth and I hail from Lossarnach, my lord. I am but lately come to the City to study with Mistress Morwen and…"

Her chatter continued until they reached Lady Finduilas' lying in chamber.

As was the custom, Ecthelion waited in an antechamber while Denethor joined his wife and new-born son in the inner chamber. It was a dreary place to wait, dimly lit by a single torch burning in a sconce, the light from which barely penetrated the deeply shadowed recesses of the room.

A servant bearing a lamp entered, alongside one of the healing women, who carried the infant in her arms. The lamp brilliantly illuminated the baby, bathing him in a pool of light.

Ecthelion gasped. Boromir had been a sturdy babe, but this little one was, like their mother, nigh elven-fair. He had a sweet face with delicate features beneath a shock of dark hair and long limbs. He was smaller than Boromir had been at birth, but was perfectly formed. The old Steward was unexpectedly reminded of Thorongil. How he had hoped that his favoured captain might choose a wife and settle in Gondor. Surely, a son of his would have been elven fair, just like this tiny babe?

Ecthelion reached out a finger towards the child, which was promptly grasped in the tiny fist with surprising strength. The baby gazed at him with a clear unblinking gaze, innocent, yet full of wisdom.

Ecthelion was suddenly filled with an unexpected sensation of joy and hope. He blinked away a tear.

Denethor appeared from the inner chamber. A refreshing scent wafted out of the door behind him.

"Finduilas is resting," he said. "Mistress Morwen said it was a difficult birth, but that my lady should soon recover with rest and good food. So what do you think of your latest grandson, father?"

"He is a fine child. Our beloved land will be in good hands."

"We already have Boromir to secure our future." Denethor sounded angry and a shadow clouded his features.

"Your pardon, son, I scarce know from whence my words came." He turned to Mistress Morwen. "My thanks for bringing my grandson to show me, Mistress Morwen. He is a fair babe indeed. Tell me, what is that scent in Lady Finduilas' chamber?"

"It is kingsfoil, my lord. Mistress Ioreth says they use it in Lossarnach to refresh the air in a birthing chamber."

"Mistress Ioreth is quite a character," Ecthelion said with a smile.

"At present, she seems to think her country lore is the answer to everything, but she is proving a competent assistant," said Morwen.

Ecthelion lingered a few more moments contemplating his new grandson and stroking his soft cheeks and hair. At last, he said, "You should take him back to his mother now."

The healer disappeared back into the inner chamber, followed by the servant. Ecthelion could not tear his eyes from the baby until they were out of sight.

"Such a beautiful child," said Ecthelion. "It gladdens my heart to behold one so fair."

"Compared with Boromir, I find this one somewhat ugly," said Denethor. "He is a scrawny infant and much smaller."

"He will soon grow," said Ecthelion. "I believe he resembles Finduilas somewhat with her elven beauty and grace."

"Beauty and grace ill befit a boy child," said Denethor. "Gondor needs warriors not dancers!"

Ecthelion again thought of Thorongil, the mightiest of warriors who moved with the grace of a cat. Finduilas' brother Imrahil had much of his sister's grace in movement too and was a doughty fighter. "What will you call your son?" he asked Denethor.

"My Lady and I had planned to call a daughter, 'Miriel' so that we would have two jewels. Therefore, we have decided on 'Faramir '."

"Why not 'Miriond' for a boy?"

"It would seem that I valued this second son more than my Boromir if I called him my 'jewel son'. Faramir will be a sufficient enough jewel, I hope."

"'Faramir' is a good name for one whom I feel will prove more than sufficient," said Ecthelion.

"Time alone will determine that," said Denethor.

000

Baby Faramir thrived, but his mother recovered from the birth slowly. Her body healed, but the melancholy, to which she had often been prone in the past, held her in its thrall and seemed to drain the very spirit from her slender frame.

The healers informed the Steward and his son that it was not unusual for new mothers to suffer from low spirits and that Finduilas simply needed time and rest.

Ecthelion enjoyed spending time with his new grandson. The sight of the fair babe made him forget the aches and pains of his growing infirmities for a time. During that summer, the Steward was usually often to be found in either the nursery of or Finduilas' solar when his duties allowed.

Finduilas, more often than not would sit in a chair by the window in her solar with Faramir asleep either in her arms or in his cradle at her feet. Ecthelion frequently found her gazing south towards her homeland with a look of longing on her fair face.

Today, when he visited, though, he found his daughter by marriage looking out of a another window, one that faced east. She clutched Faramir so tightly that he wailed in protest, while tears streamed down her pale cheeks.

"What ails you, my daughter?" Ecthelion asked in alarm.

"The Shadow from the East grows ever stronger," said Finduilas. "My poor babies! What is to become of them?"

"We should not abandon hope," said Ecthelion. "Maybe the King will return and lead us to victory."

"If only he would come!" said Finduilas. She made a valiant effort to compose herself. She gently placed Faramir in his cradle, and began to rock it, all the while wiping her eyes. "Maybe Denethor could take me to visit the sea if the King returned and released him from his duties?" she said, her tone like that of an as eager little girl. "But pay no heed to my foolish words. I should like to see the White Tree bloom anew and Gondor at peace. These are but dreams, though. Perhaps we should hope instead that Captain Thorongil will return. He led us to a great victory against the corsairs. Maybe more might follow?"

"I miss Thorongil," Ecthelion said wistfully. "He was a good friend to Gondor and to me."

"I wish he could have seen Faramir," said Finduilas.

"Maybe one day he will," said the old Steward.

000

That night Ecthelion enjoyed a private late supper with Denethor. Finduilas had already retired to bed.

"I visited Finduilas and Faramir today," said the Steward.

"You never spent so much time with Boromir as a babe, father." Denethor's tone held a mild rebuke.

"You were constantly at his side when your duties allowed. I had no wish to intrude," said Ecthelion. "It is Finduilas I wish to speak about to you, though. She is in very low spirits. I have spoken to the healers and they say a change of air would benefit her."

Denethor sighed. "They tell me that too, but, alas, I cannot leave my duties to take her and the children to visit her kin in Dol Amroth. These times are too dangerous for her to go alone. Some of the healers have strange ideas, though. My lady is already in the fairest place in Arda. The healers should concentrate on brewing tonics to restore her health. If she misses her kinsfolk they are always welcome to visit her here in the City."

"You could be spared."

"I am needed here. It is out of the question, father. The subject is closed."

"I am your father, but I am also your lord," Ecthelion said sternly. "I still hold rod and rule here and the City will fare well enough in your absence. Your lord commands you, Denethor, to take your lady and sons on a visit to Dol Amroth."

"As you wish, father." Denethor replied. "If you will excuse me." He strode from the room.

Two days later, Ecthelion watched Denethor and his family depart for the coast. The old man found the extra duties that fell upon him in their absence drained his already meagre reserves or strength. Yet, he deemed his hard work a worthwhile sacrifice on Finduilas' return, for her step was lighter and colour bloomed in her cheeks once more.

Summer turned to autumn and autumn to winter. The cold seemed especially bitter this year and seemed to seep into Ecthelion's very bones. However many furs he wore and however large the fire, the Steward found it hard to get warm.

Faramir continued to delight the old man. Soon after Mettarë he learned to crawl and liked nothing better than to crawl around his grandsire's feet laughing delightedly when the Steward played peek a boo with him. Ecthelion would laugh too, something he had rarely done since Thorongil's departure.

Sometimes, Boromir would join in these games for he was touchingly devoted to his little brother. The lively little boy quickly grew bored, though, and would soon go off to play with his wooden sword or toy soldiers. Ecthelion was always relieved, for although he loved his elder grandson, he found Boromir somewhat boisterous. Faramir, on the other hand, was a quiet, sweet natured baby who was surprisingly undemanding for one so little. Ecthelion became increasingly convinced that there was something special about the child. an unusually wise child, quick to recognise and remember faces and possessing strong powers of concentration for an infant. The babe would gaze intently at pictures in books held up to his face, his bright eyes following the images from one page to the next. He was also sweet natured and loving. He liked nothing better than to snuggle against his grandsire.

Spring came at last, but Ecthelion's health did not improve with the warmer weather. He still dealt with official papers, but he rarely left his chambers. The slightest exertion exhausted him. The healers could do nothing and said old age was what ailed him, the one affliction for which there was no remedy. Ecthelion dismissed them, weary of their fussing. The old man found himself thinking more about the past. Sometimes it seemed only yesterday that he was a young man watching his own children growing. He had tried to be a good father, but it had not been easy. He realised now that he had made mistakes with poor Firiel. Her sisters seemed content enough in their lives though. Then there was Denethor. He had never been as close to his only son as he would have wished, but Denethor seemed to hold everyone at arm's length, including his own father. The old man sighed. Sometimes he thought that ruling Gondor was easier than ruling his family and that he had been more successful as a Steward than as a father.

Ecthelion was aware that he was slowly dying. He was resigned to it. He had grown weary of being confined within an aging body and was ready to gladly receive Eru's Gift to Men. One thing troubled him, though, the fate of his beloved land.

He had taught Denethor all he knew and his son was ripe to receive the White Rod from his hand, but battle hardened warrior and lore master, though Denethor was, Ecthelion feared that his son's pride might shadow his judgement. Unlike his father, Denethor shunned Mithrandir's counsels. Then what if Thorongil should return? Denethor would not welcome him as his sire had done.

Faramir's first birthday fell in early May and Ecthelion was determined to attend his grandson's modest birthday celebrations He rejoiced to see the toddler's delighted smiles at his gift of a wooden horse, but afterwards he was exhausted. The next day, he sent for Denethor and entrusted the White Rod into his keeping.

Denethor seemed torn between sorrow and delight on receiving the ultimate symbol of authority. "You could live for many years yet," he protested.

"My son, I am ninety-eight years old. All that is left for me is to ask that you rule Gondor wisely and well until the king should come again."

"I will," said Denethor, taking the rod and clasping it firmly in his hand.

Ecthelion now spent most of his time sleeping, but at his request, Finduilas brought Faramir for a brief visit each day. The visits much cheered the ailing Steward.

One morning, when Ecthelion awoke with a pounding headache and he felt as if the room were spinning. His body felt numb and unresponsive down one side and he could not speak clearly. When his servant drew back the curtains to let in the morning sunlight, the chamber still seemed full of shadows. Ecthelion tried to speak to the servant but could not form the words properly.

The man hastened from the room. Denethor and a healer appeared soon afterwards.

"I fear the Steward is dying," said the healer after a thorough examination. "He has suffered another seizure."

"Have you no remedy?" asked Denethor. "He recovered two years ago."

The healer shook his head sadly. "I fear not, my lord. The seizure is far more severe this time. All I can advise is that Lord Ecthelion is kept comfortable. I will prepare a draught. You should send for any family who might wish to make their farewells, my lord."

The day passed in a blur. Ecthelion was aware of his weeping daughters at his bedside and a scared looking Boromir clutching his mother's hand. The little boy seemed veiled in shadow, as were Finduilas and Denethor. "Faramir?" Ecthelion muttered.

"I will bring him," said Finduilas.

Ecthelion looked up and saw, to his great surprise, his father, Turgon, standing beside his bed. His sire appeared as a man in his prime, just as Ecthelion remembered him from his childhood.

"Come, my son," said Turgon. "It is time. Many are waiting to welcome you home. Your lady and your mother are eager to greet you, as is Firiel."

"What of Gondor?" asked Ecthelion. He found he could speak clearly to his father. No one else in the room seemed to have noticed Turgon's presence.

"I think you know Gondor's future is in good hands," said Turgon. "Behold!"

Just then, Finduilas returned with Faramir in her arms. Unlike the others in the room, Faramir appeared to be surrounded by light.

Suddenly, he was a child no longer, but a man grown. He was riding beside Thorongil along a path lined with blossom trees and everywhere was fair and green.

"Father! You cannot leave us now," Denethor cried. "Not when Mordor's shadow grows ever longer!"

Ecthelion wanted to tell his son that all would be well. With a might effort, he cried out, "Thorongil, Faramir, hope!"

Turgon reached out his hand. Ecthelion grasped it. The Old Steward was enveloped in a glorious golden light as the shadows fell away forever.

A/n. This story serves as a sequel to "An Unexpected Letter" and also refers to "A Sad Tale's best for Winter". This story was written for the "Teitho" "Shadows" contest where it was placed second.


Chapter 34 - Twists of Fate

Twists of Fate

B2MeM Challenge Roles and names of Aragorn1- Telcontar; Emotions- pain; Injuries and other ailments - Twisted ankle. Song lyrics - I saw all the bright people in imposing flocks they landed; All Ocs, all the time - a shade; Book Titles - Fragile Things; Rangers of the North- The Grey Company.

Format: short story

Genre: angst, hurt comfort

Rating: PG13

Warnings: mention of battle and character death

Characters: Aragorn, OMC

Pairings: none

Summary: In the Houses of Healing, Gilavir reflects on the Grey Company's adventures.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Gilavir felt utterly ashamed. All around him in the Houses of Healing lay sorely wounded men. Some moaned in pain, while others lay in a poppy induced stupor after having arms or legs amputated. Others were there, seemingly unscathed in body, but gripped with dark dreams from which they could not awaken. The healers shook their heads over these folk and appeared more concerned about them that about those grievously wounded in body.

Gilavir had been knocked from his horse and carried from the field suffering with what he believed to be a broken ankle .When the healer, a garrulous old woman, examined him; she had pronounced it to be merely badly twisted. He had a few cuts and bruises as well, and a minor concussion from his fall, but felt he had no right to lie beside these sorely wounded men. His Chieftain had insisted, though, that he be brought to these houses when he was carried from the field.

Gilavir's thoughts wandered back over the events of the past few weeks. He had been delighted to ride South with the Grey Company to aid his Chieftain in the war he was fighting. He had seen marvels he had never dreamed of and sailed in a ship for the first time, adventures he would enjoy telling his family about, should he ever return home.

Other sights he had seen over the past weeks were matters of he could never speak to any other than his fellow Rangers, though. These memories would surely haunt him forever. He had thought he had experienced his fill of horror after being taken and tormented by Orcs several years ago, but he had learned there were even worse things that stalked Middle-earth than Orcs. There were Nazgûl, riding fearsome winged beasts that sucked all sense of life and hope from a man, monstrous trolls, and other fell creatures. The glimpse he had had of a Black Rider in the North had not prepared him for the horror they evoked here, so near to the stronghold of their master.

The shades of the dead had been the most fearsome of all, pale shadows that had followed them from the depths of the mountain. He would have run away, had it not been for his love for, and loyalty towards Aragorn. He had turned around once and one of the shades had appeared to glare at him with soulless gleaming eyes. He had been glad his attention had been forced towards calming his terrified horse, or he most surely would have cried out in terror. The shades had not threatened them, though, but obeyed Aragorn's will.

He had seen a side of his Chieftain that he had never even dreamed of before. What manner of a man was Aragorn that even the shades of the dead bowed to his will? He thought of the man he knew, the bravest of warriors, the gentlest and most skilled of healers, and the best of comrades; a man who enjoyed a song and a story around the campfire like any other. A change had come over his lord; he was now far grimmer than before. He had developed an aura of power and majesty like some hero from the tales of old.

Gilavir's thoughts turned to the battlefield. He wished they had not. He had fought in countless skirmishes, but nothing like this. Thousands upon thousands of men and horses fighting against other men, and foul monsters. They had winged beasts and creatures larger than great buildings! Never would he forget the clash of arms, the screams of the wounded and dying and the stench.

He had seen Halbarad fall, cut down by a Southron scimitar. Gilavir closed his eyes, wishing the image would go away, but it did not. Aragorn, alight with such fury, as Gilavir had never yet seen, had swiftly ridden to avenge his kinsman, but it was too late. Halbarad, much- loved friend and loyal comrade of many years, would not be returning home with his companions.

Gilavir found he was shaking. The pain in his ankle had grown worse. A passing healer noticed his distress and gave him a potion. He drank it and fell into an uneasy sleep. He dreamed of a great host, sailing in a ship, like unto the one he and his fellows had travelled to Minas Tirith in. It was filled, though with the slain, who gleamed bright as a spring morning. They were led by Halbarad, and landed in great imposing flocks on a distant shore where they became one with a great light.

When he awoke, night had fallen and the lamps had been lit. The atmosphere in the room had changed. Where before there had been fear and despondency, now there was a palatable sense of hope and excitement. Everyone around him was talking excitedly

"Lord Faramir is awake!" cried one of the women who was tending the sick. "He is eating and seems like to recover."

"Would that it were true, but I'll believe that when I see it!" said one of the wounded men. "No one awakens from the Black Shadow!"

"Dame Ioreth says the King has returned and he has the hands of a healer!" said the woman.

"You mean that Captain from the North is the King?" asked one of her companions.

Gilavir was just about to ask who Lord Faramir was and what all the fuss was about, when Aragorn, together with a handful of companions, entered the room. He watched as his Chieftain knelt beside those suffering from the Black Shadow and held a bowl of steaming water in front of their faces.

He recognised the scent; it was athelas, the herb that Aragorn had used to ease his torment after the Orcs had tortured him long ago. He watched as one by one the men opened their eyes and sat up. Aragorn looked sore weary. Gilavir wondered when his lord had last rested.

When the last of the sufferers from the Black Breath were roused, Aragorn made his way over to Gilavir's bedside.

"How do you fare, my friend?" he asked.

"The healer said all that ailed me was a twisted ankle and a minor concussion." Gilavir flushed scarlet.

"Ankles can be fragile things. Let me see it."

Gilavir pushed his ankle from beneath the blanket, gritting his teeth at the movement.

Aragorn felt it gently. "It is a bad sprain. You could not have continued fighting on it, especially not with a head injury too," he said.

Gilavir felt a great sense of warmth emanating from Aragorn's hands and easing his pain.

"The people here are hailing you are the king returned, lord," Gilavir said.

"There is still a long road ahead, but I am set upon it," said Aragorn. "The young Steward has hailed me as king, which his father would never have done. If my House ever be established, it shall be the house of Telcontar."

"Strider in the High Tongue?" Gilavir burst out laughing.

"It would not do to forget where I come from!" Aragorn joined in his laughter. "Now, I fear, I must leave you, my friend. Many others need me. We will meet again soon." He kissed Gilavir lightly on the brow.

The younger man sat watching him leave. His Chieftain might have attained new heights of greatness, but he was still the same man that Gilavir knew and loved. He would be as good a king as he was a chieftain.

A/n. Posted in honour of March 15th when Aragorn came to Gondor and healed Faramir. Gilavir appears in several other of my stories, which are on this site.


Chapter 35 - Fire in the Blood

Fire in the Blood – Linda Hoyland

Rating- T for mild sexual suggestion

Aragorn and Arwen face temptation.

Disclaimer - These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Dedicated to Shirebound on the occasion of her birthday.

With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra for help with editing and Dreamflower and Lignota for plot ideas.

“It is kind of you and Strider to visit me, Lady Arwen,” said Frodo. He gestured for his visitors to sit on the couch beneath his window.

“I was concerned that you decided to eat alone in your room tonight,” said Aragorn. “I feared your wound might be paining you. You have had a long day with all the preparations for our departure." He glanced towards Arwen. “ You can speak freely in front of Lady Arwen. She knows all about the burden you bear.”

“I am simply tired,” said Frodo. “My shoulder isn’t hurting or anything.” His hand moved towards his waistcoat pocket and then to the chain around his neck.

“It is better if you try not to touch the Ring, Frodo,” Aragorn said gently.

“It seems so ordinary,” said Arwen. “At least from what I can see of it. I half expected it to glow or emit evil vapours of some form.”

“Would that it were just a plain old ring!” said Frodo. He pulled the chain from beneath his shirt. “Look! It appears to be a plain gold band, albeit an especially fair one, of which there must be thousands. Sadly, the fate of Middle-earth lies bound up in this Ring!”

“It is indeed fair to look upon,” said Arwen. She bent down to better examine the ring. “Who could think that such a pretty thing could be so evil?”

“How I wish that Bilbo had never found it!” said Frodo.

“Better by far Bilbo than one of Sauron’s minions,” said Aragorn grimly. “It is not a burden I would wish on either of you, though, Frodo.”

Frodo’s fingers reached absently towards the Ring again. Seeing Aragorn’s gaze upon him, the Hobbit clasped his hands together in front of him determinedly. “It seems to call to me, Strider,” he said. “Have you ever heard its call?”

“Indeed I have,” Aragorn said soberly. “It called to me that night in Bree when we first met and again when you offered it to me at the Council. It seemed to whisper in my ear, suggesting that I would be a mightier King than even Elendil were I to take it. Then I recalled how it beguiled even so great a man as Isildur and led him to his death and I resisted the temptation.”

“You will be as mighty as Elendil, Estel,” said Arwen. “You have no more need of a magic bauble than he did.”

“Gandalf told me of Isildur’s sad fate,” said Frodo. “Goodness, I’m forgetting my manners. He gestured towards a plate of cakes on a nearby table. “Would you like one? I wonder however Master Elrond’s cook knows these are my favourites.”

“I suspect that Bilbo told everyone here a great deal about you long before anyone even set eyes upon you!” Aragorn chuckled as he spoke.

The three enjoyed cakes and conversation for a while until Frodo was unable to stifle a yawn. Aragorn suggested that the Hobbit prepare for bed. “Make the most of Rivendell’s comforts while you may,” he counselled before bidding Frodo good night.

Aragorn was about to return to the Hall of Fire when Arwen caught his arm. “Walk in the gardens with me for a while,” she pleaded. “The stars are especially beautiful tonight.”

Hand in hand, they strolled through Rivendell’s winding pathways. The bare branches of the birches looked especially fair under the silvery light of the moon and stars.

“It was here beneath the birches I first beheld you, Estel,” said Arwen.

“I have loved you from that moment on,” said Aragorn.

“Something stirred in my soul even then,” said Arwen, “though it took me longer to know my heart. Now it is given into your keeping.”

“It gladdens my heart that we can have this time together ere I depart,” said Aragorn.

They paused in their walk and for a moment gazed into each other’s eyes. Then their lips met with increasing passion.

“Marry me!” cried Arwen when they finally broke apart for breath.

“There is nothing I would desire more, vanimelda,” said Aragorn. “Should this quest succeed and I gain Gondor’s crown we can finally be united.”

“But what if it should fail?” said Arwen. “Then I will be left alone and bereft without even a child of yours to remember you by. These are troubled times, we need only to speak our vows to each other, according to the custom of my people and we would be lawfully wed. I know my father desires for us to wait, but what can he know of the great longing I feel for you?” She kissed Aragorn again, this time with even greater hunger.

“Vanimelda!” He pulled her close. She was trembling, but not from the cold.

He kissed her back, feeling the heat rise within him. More so than was usual in their brief touches, Aragorn noted. Why, it was as if the very blood in his veins was turning to fire. The part of him that was Elrond’s pupil observed that this was foolish exaggeration; but no matter. This was not mere desire; this was a great burning tide roaring up within him. All of Aragorn’s body and heart seemed aflame. He had to take her, make her his; for now and all eternity! For the first time, oddly, he thought of Fëanor’s obsession with the Silmarils with sympathy. Why should he wait on the querulous, cautious whim of Elrond, who had not touched a woman in five hundred years; when Arwen was warm, wanting, and the light of Aragorn’s life? His. His own, and more precious than even the Silmaril that Beren and Lúthien had wrested from Morgoth’s crown!

 

 “Bestow your child upon me ere you leave!” pleaded Arwen. “May the stars shine upon our union as I call on the Valar and the One to witness that I take you for my husband now and until the breaking of the world.”

“Must I leave you?” said Aragorn, kissing her again. “How could I depart having known the sweetness of our union, especially if you were to carry my child? Let Halbarad take my place, he could protect Frodo as well as I could. I have already given more years of my life than I care to think about defending the Shire and Bree.

All I receive in return is the suspicion and ingratitude of fools. Let us make a home in the Angle together. I cannot give you the luxuries you deserve, but we will be together. ”

His kisses became increasingly ardent and he fumbled with the fastenings on her cloak. She made no attempt to resist. The garden faded from his perception, as did the stars, and even the biting winter cold. It seemed that the world contained him and Arwen alone. The fire in his veins increased. Why should he be forever at the beck and call of others, constrained by duty and accident of birth, denied even the nightly pleasures that the humblest cottager might enjoy? He wanted Arwen now, wanted her to be wholly his in body and soul so that no one could dispute his claim to her, wanted to lie entwined in her arms without the barrier of clothing between them. His fingers moved to the fastenings of her gown.

Arwen reached to unfasten his cloak. Her slender fingers reached inside his shirt, tenderly caressing his skin.

Aragorn moaned with pleasure at her touch.

“What of Gondor’s silver crown that you were born to inherit?” asked Arwen after a few moments had elapsed.  

Aragorn reluctantly released her lips to answer. “An empty dream, alas,”  he said bitterly. “Denethor will never accept me; nor would Boromir. Then there is another son of Denethor’s whom Boromir claims is even more like unto their sire than he is. What hope do I have?”

“I would be happy in the meanest hovel, could I only share itwith you, Estel,” said Arwen. “Come speak your vows to me then we can retire to my chamber together. Long have I desired to lie beside you as your bride.”

Aragorn took her hand. “I call upon the Valar and the One to witness,” he began. He then looked up at the stars. The Star of Elendil shone brightest of all. Aragorn started as if awakening from a dream His head spun. Then a fresh breeze from the river seemed to blow away a veil from his senses. He took a step back from Arwen. “What are we doing?” he cried. “I gave Frodo my word to serve him; I gave your father my promise I would not take you as my bride until his conditions were fulfilled! What madness almost came upon me?”

The starlight caught the emeralds adorning the Ring of Barahir upon Arwen’s finger. “The Ring!” she cried.

Aragorn laughed bitterly. “The evil thing seeks out the weaknesses of those it seeks to tempt,” he said. “It offered us what we wanted most, not wealth or power but union with one another. I know now more than ever that I must embark upon this quest, as it sought so strongly to dissuade me from doing so.”

“And I, alas, acted as its instrument,” said Arwen. “I tried to lead you astray from doing what you know to be right.”

Aragorn kissed her tenderly on the brow. “It was not your doing, vanimelda, but the cursed trinket that Frodo carries that undid my forefather.” He drew Andúril and held the sword aloft. The blade glittered in the moonlight. “I swear I shall not let the Ring entice me to stray from the right path again. I shall only take you as my wife when I can swear to cherish you in front of all with your father’s blessing.”

“May Varda hear you and give you strength, beloved,” said Arwen. “I shall wait for you to return to me in triumph and make me your wife. Until then, I shall be with you in thought on every step of your journey.”

“I go forth strengthened by your love, vanimelda,” said Aragorn. “The way will be long and hard for Frodo, but somehow I will help him find a way to achieve the quest. By the power of your love, I will return victorious.”

Written for the February Teitho Contest where this story was placed second.


Chapter 36 - The Accused

Title: The Accused by Linda Hoyland

Summary: Aragorn and Halbarad are accused of a crime.

Disclaimer: These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Purpose:  Written for the Teitho challenge April 2014: Mystery where it was placed 2nd.

Rating: PG

Characters: Aragorn,Halbarad,Butterbur,Ferny

Genre: Mystery/Friendship

Book-verse

With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra.

Dedicated to Nath as a belated birthday gift.

Halbarad shook his head glumly as he joined Aragorn outside the Prancing Pony. "Not so much a scrawny rabbit to show for a morning's hunting," he sighed.

"And here was I hoping for a good dinner," said Aragorn. "It seems we shall have to go hungry until we return to camp."

"I am sorry," said Halbarad.

"I doubt I would have met with any better success," said Aragorn. "Game is sparse at this time of year."

"Now we face a five league walk with empty bellies," said Halbarad. "Have we enough coin for a bite to eat at the Pony first?"

The two Rangers turned out their pockets but found only a few meagre coppers. "Only sufficient for half a mug of ale each," said Aragorn. "Still that is better than nothing. We could ask old Butterbur if we could clean out his stables in exchange for a meal. We must bring some skins and wool to trade next time we are in town to replenish our supply of coin."

Halbarad sighed again even more deeply. "When I think of who you were born to be and that we are reduced to sweeping out stables to earn a few coppers, I could weep," he said.

Aragorn clapped him on the back. "There are worse ways to earn an honest coin, cousin," he said.

The two Rangers made their way inside the inn. There were few customers at this time of day and they were able to choose a table in a secluded corner near the fire. When Butterbur came to take their meagre order, Aragorn enquired if he required his stables cleaning out."

"Nob swept them out this morning," Butterbur replied. "Trade is slow at the moment so he had time on his hands. Now will you be wanting anything else?"

Aragorn and Halbarad sadly shook their heads.

Butterbur disappeared into the kitchen at the back and returned a moment later with a loaf, which he placed on the table. "This bread is stale," he said. "You can have it if you want. There aren't enough folk around to warrant making bread and butter pudding with it. I've just had a thought now, if you two be wanting work. Ned Goatleaf, who fixes things round here, is laid up with a broken leg and Widow Woodsorrel across the lane is wanting someone to repair her roof. Her husband left her well off, and she would pay handsomely for anyone who'll do the job good and proper."

He bustled away to serve another customer who had just entered.

Aragorn and Halbarad divided the loaf between them. It was not very stale. Washed down with the ale, it somewhat assuaged their hunger pangs.

They then went in search of Widow Woodsorrel. It took only a moment to find her as she was outside, scolding a man who hovered near her threshold. A part grown cat, its coat glossy black, apart from its white paws and whiskers, sat beside her on the doorstep, daintily washing its whiskers. "Be off with you, Bill Ferny!" she cried. "I'm not having you near my roof again. The last time you said you'd mended it, twice as much water came in as before!"

"You'll be sorry!" cried Bill Ferny. "When the water's up to your knees and your roof falls down on you you'll wish you'd not sent me packing. Tell you what; I'll give you a good price if…"

The cat hissed then resumed its ablutions.

"I think the lady has made her wishes clear," said Aragorn, interposing himself between the widow and Ferny. Ferny glared at him then slunk away towards the inn.

"And who might you be?" asked Widow Woodsorrel.

"I am called Strider and this is my kinsman, Halbarad," said Aragorn. "Master Butterbur told us you had need of someone skilled to mend your roof. We would be happy to repair it for you."

Widow Woodsorrel eyed the Rangers suspiciously, while the cat started to groom its paws. "And how much might you be asking?" she demanded.

"Whatever you think our labour is worth," Aragorn replied.

Widow Woodsorrel snorted. "If you do a good job, I'll make it worth your while," she said. "If not, you get nothing. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Aragorn. "Now if you will show us where the leak in the roof is."

Aragorn and Halbarad spent several hours repairing the hole in the widow's roof. They also looked round for any other repairs that needed doing. They patched up some cracks in the walls and mended a hole in the fence.

Widow Woodsorrel and her cat watched them suspiciously. "I'm not paying you to rebuild the place!" she said.

"I am simply doing some odd jobs as I would at my mother's cottage," said Aragorn. "It is not easy for a woman on her own."

Widow Woodsorrel carefully inspected the repairs. Aragorn and Halbarad held their breath, wondering whether they would finally get to fill their rumbling stomachs or not.

"Well, you've not made a bad job of it at all," said Widow Woodsorrel. "I see you've used plenty of pitch like my husband, may he rest in peace, would have done. " She reached for a bulging purse, which she wore attached to her waist. "Here you are." She rummaged in the purse, took out four silver pennies, and handed two to Aragorn and two to Halbarad. The Rangers regarded them in amazement. "What are you gawping at?" she demanded.

"We cannot take all this," Aragorn protested.

"I told you I'd pay well for a good job and I keep my word," said Widow Woodsorrel. "Now off with you before I change my mind. I need to bring in my washing and Blackie will be wanting his saucer of cream." As if to emphasise her words, the cat stood on his hind legs and pawed at the doorknob.

"Thank you, mistress," said Aragorn. Halbarad echoed his thanks and the two Rangers hurried off before she could change her mind.

"Four silver pennies!" Halbarad exclaimed. "That is enough to buy a pony!"

"We have no need for a pony!" said Aragorn. "We do need supplies to see the women and children through the winter, though."

"We should come back on market day with the horses," said Halbarad. "We can even afford a few trinkets for our loved ones."

"But first let us have a bath, a good meal and a room for the night," said Aragorn. "For once we shall live like lords!"

Butterbur showed Aragorn and Halbarad upstairs to their room. "The bed will sleep four easily," he said. "I reckon you'll be having it to yourselves though. Folk don't want to share with strange wandering folk, lest they be murdered in their beds. I'll be sending Nob up with the water for your bath."

Aragorn and Halbarad tossed one of the silver pennies for who should have the use of the hipbath first. Aragorn won. While his kinsman was bathing, Halbarad stretched out on the roomy bed. "I could become accustomed to this," he said.

"Fortune has smiled upon us today," said Aragorn from behind the screen that concealed the hipbath. A cloud of steam rose towards the ceiling. "Ah the bliss of a good soak, even if the bath is rather cramped."

"Save some hot water for me!" laughed Halbarad.

"We can wash our linens and stockings after we have bathed," said Aragorn. "Then enjoy a large plate of mutton roast, followed by apple crumble. My mouth is watering at the very thought!"

Within the hour, two freshly scrubbed Rangers wearing clean linens entered Butterbur's common room. Now it was getting late, more customers had drifted in. Bill Ferny was sitting by the bar. He glared at Aragorn and Halbarad then returned to his drink. A group of Hobbits sat at a table near the door devouring what looked like a meal meant for Men double their size, while several Breelanders, who appeared to be farmers, sat together in a corner talking and drinking.

Aragorn and Halbarad were just about to order their meal when Widow Woodsorrel stormed into the inn. She looked distraught. "My purse has been stolen!" she cried.

Bill Ferny leapt to his feet and pointed at Aragorn and Halbarad. "It was them Rangers!" he cried. "Get them! They should be put in the stocks for robbing a poor widow woman!"

"Shame on you!" cried the farmers.

The farmers, together with a group of rough looking men who had been drinking at the bar, got to their feet and advanced threateningly towards the Rangers. Two burly men raised their fists, but they did not appear to be armed. Bill Ferny hovered at the fringes of the group and brandished a knife. Only the Hobbits ignored the commotion and continued their meal.

"What's all this now?" asked Butterbur, emerging from the back room, followed by Nob.

Aragorn and Halbarad leapt to their feet, their hands reaching for their swords. They would rather not harm the Bree- folk, but neither did they intend to be punished for a crime they had not committed. At the sight of the weapons, the Breelanders took a step backwards.

"We are innocent of this crime," said Aragorn in a commanding tone."

"My purse is gone and you were the last folk to set foot on my property," said Widow Woodsorrel from the doorway. "I should never have trusted the likes of Rangers!"

"I saw you replace your purse on your girdle, mistress, after you paid us," said Aragorn.

"But who else could have taken it?" demanded Widow Woodsorrel. "Apart from Bill Ferny, no one else has been near my cottage in days."

All eyes turned to Bill Ferny. "Don't be looking at me like that!" he snarled. "I came straight here to the Pony and have been here all afternoon."

"That he has," said Butterbur in a somewhat regretful tone. "The only strangers to come in are the two Rangers. I always took them to be queer folk, wandering as they do, but believed them to be honest enough since they always paid for their drinks."

"Duck them in the village pond!" cried Ferny.

Aragorn and Halbarad ignored him and Aragorn turned to address Widow Woodsorrel. "How was your purse secured, mistress?" he asked.

"With a leather thong to my girdle," she replied. "See the leather is snapped here, where the thief has snatched it. The thieves must have known that this morning I received the rents on lands my husband left to me."

"We know nothing of your affairs, mistress," said Halbarad.

"We are skilled in tracking," said Aragorn. "If you would permit us to examine your garden for tracks, maybe we can solve this mystery for you and prove our innocence."

"They'll make off the moment they leave here!" said Ferny.

"I think not," said Halbarad. "My best shirt is drying in the room we have taken here."

"Let someone come with us if you do not trust us," said Aragorn.

"I'll go along with them," said one of the farmers.

"I will too," said Butterbur. "Nob, watch the bar, until I get back."

"Now tell me exactly what you did after we left, mistress," said Aragorn as the group made their way towards Widow Woodsorell's cottage.

"I went round the back to bring in the washing," she replied. "Some of it wasn't dry, though, and some will need to be washed again. Blackie jumped up against it and covered it with muddy paw prints. After I'd scolded Blackie, I went inside to get him his saucer of cream and then I made a drink and cut some bread and butter for my tea, and ate it. It was while I was washing up the cup and plate I noticed that my purse was missing. I searched the house, but it was obvious it had been stolen, snatched from my belt while I was distracted!"

Aragorn and Halbarad examined the tracks leading up to the front of the house. Their large boots were clearly visible, as were Ferny's and the Widow's smaller ones. It was clear that no one else had recently approached the cottage.

"I should like to go round the back now, mistress," said Aragorn.

"No one can get round there, the garden is surrounded by a thick hawthorn hedge," the widow protested.

"Nevertheless, I should like to see the garden," said Aragorn in a tone most often used to command his men.

"My washing is still out there."

"I wish to look at the ground, not your laundry."

Widow Woodsorrel looked about to protest further but thought better of it. She led the way to a spacious back garden with neatly scythed grass surrounded by shrubs and a thick hedge. In the middle of the lawn stood a washing line draped with sheets and voluminous undergarments. Blackie was sitting on the windowsill. He regarded the intruders with unblinking green eyes.

Aragorn dropped to his knees and studied the ground intently for tracks. It was starting to get dark, but his keen eyesight detected where feet had trodden. Suddenly a gleam of silver amongst the shrubs caught his eye. He reached out and picked up a silver penny, which he handed to Widow Woodsorrel. "One of your lost coins, mistress," he said.

"The thief must have dropped it as they fled," said the farmer.

"How might they do that without snapping a single twig on the hedge?" asked Halbarad.

Aragorn continued to rummage amongst the shrubs and picked up two more silver coins. Finally, he dived under the hedge and emerged triumphantly clutching the still almost full purse, though the strings dangled open. "Your purse, I believe, Mistress Woodsorrel," said Aragorn presenting it to the widow with a slight bow.

"Why should the thief bury it under my hedge?" Widow Woodsorrel looked bewildered.

"Who stole it then?" demanded Butterbur.

"Here is your thief!" said Aragorn.

"Where?" asked the farmer. "He should be put in the stocks to pay for his crime."

"I think not," said Aragorn. "The greatest punishment you could inflict upon him would be to withhold his saucer of cream!" He turned and gestured towards Blackie who immediately leapt from the windowsill and disappeared within doors.

"However did you work that out?" asked Butterbur, scratching his head.

"The only tracks I found were those of Mistress Woodsorrel and her cat," said Aragorn. "I surmise that Blackie thought the dangling purse was a toy and grabbed hold of it when he jumped up and left muddy paw prints on the washing. He is just a playful kitten who meant no harm. The thong was worn and would have easily snapped. Mistress Woodsorrel was distracted by the prospect of washing the sheet again. Blackie dragged his new plaything across the lawn and into the bushes but soon tired of it as it was too heavy to play with."

"Well, I never, the naughty boy!" Widow Woodsorrel flushed and looked uncomfortable. "I am so sorry. I would never have guessed. Please take this with my apologies." She held out a handful of coins to Aragorn.

"I desire no payment, mistress, only to clear my name," said Aragorn.

"Please, I beg of you!" Widow Woodsorrel looked distressed. "Think of it as a reward. Have you not wives and children you could buy a treat for?"

Halbarad and Aragorn looked at one another for a long moment. Finally, Aragorn said, "There are many of our women and children this would help through the winter. I will accept your coins for them. We shall bid you good evening, mistress and partake of our supper now that your mystery is solved."

"Thank you again," said Widow Woodsorrel. "I was mistaken about you. You Rangers are decent folk after all."

A/n. I now have the honour to be owned by a very lovable and lively kitten so am likely to write and post less frequently. Any cat lovers are welcome to meet my kitten on my LJ blog,http://lindahoyland.livejournal.com/.


Chapter 37 - Midsummer Magic

Midsummer Magic - Linda Hoyland

Prompt: Write a story or create art about the midsummer holiday (Lithe, Gates of Summer, or another midsummer holiday of your choosing).

Summary: Aragorn pays an unexpected visit to Rivendell.

Rating: PG.

Warnings: none

Beta: none

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

It was seldom nowadays that Aragorn’s journeys took him to Rivendell, especially during the warmer weather. It was usually in winter’s depths that he visited his childhood home, more often than not in need of supplies for the most vulnerable of his people.

Today, though, fresh from despatching a band of Orcs that he had tracked across the wilds, he found he was only a league or two from the Elven refuge. He could not resist the lure of a few days spent in the company of old friends. Besides, it would be as well to alert Master Elrond that Orcs had been roaming so near to his borders. There might well be more of the foul creatures abroad.

He entered the familiar Hall of Fire and was surprised to find it almost deserted, apart from a couple of elderly Dúnedain widows he had sent there a few months before to be treated for a variety of winter ills in the comfort their advanced years deserved. He greeted them warmly and enquired after their health before asking where everyone was.

“Why, have you forgotten the date?” cackled one dame. “It is Midsummer and all the Elves are outside celebrating the Opening of the Gates of Summer as they put it so poetically!”

“I’d much rather sit here by the fire,” said the other old dame somewhat disapprovingly. “Gallivanting around in the woods is for the young, thousands of years old though they might be! Not that I see much point in it myself.”

“I’m sure you did your share of gallivanting when you were young,” said her companion.

“Not I. I courted my Beren in my parents’ home in the proper manner, while you, I recall were nowhere to be found when your sister went looking for you one summer night and tongues wagged.”

The old lady flushed slightly. “Well, folk should have known better. I went after one of father’s sheep that strayed. It was but chance that I met with Halgorn on the way.”

“A fine chance indeed!” her companion snorted. “You were out gallivanting!”

Aragorn repressed a smile and left them to what he well knew was friendly bickering, which they secretly enjoyed. He made his way to the chamber that was, even after all these years, still always kept ready for him. He swiftly washed and changed into the elven style clothing that he kept here in his clothes chest. Master Elrond was saddened by the pledge he and Arwen had made, but had assured Aragorn that this was still his home where he was never less than welcome.

Aragorn helped himself to some food and drink from the almost deserted kitchens. He then wandered outside and made his way towards the woods from whence he could hear the faint sounds of well- loved elven music.

For some reason he could not explain, he turned aside from the main path and wandered off amongst the birch thickets. He intended to join Master Elrond and his household, but not just yet. Maybe it was because there seemed so little to celebrate of late. The Enemy grew ever stronger and with each year that passed, he lost more good men from his already meagre band of Rangers. Each death hit him like a blow. He was their leader. He always felt he could have somehow done more to protect his people. Then there were his own desires, as far away from being accomplished as ever. Would he be the last heir to the Kings of Old, destined to grow old and die unwed and childless? Yet all around him was filled with new life and growth. The balmy air smelt sweet enough almost to intoxicate him. Who could be downhearted on a perfect summer day? Yavanna’s gifts were at her must abundant. His sprits lifted and his heart soared with thankfulness.

His steps had led him to clearing amongst the trees. It was then as if time fell away and he was again the high- spirited youth who had first beheld the maiden, who from that day onward would forever more haunt his dreams.

She was dancing now, as she had then, but unlike him, the passing years had left no mark upon her brow. A carpet of elanor was beneath her bare feet and roses were bound in her flowing raven hair.

This time, though, she wore no gown and mantle, which lay folded beneath a great tree, but only a simple linen shift, which showed her graceful curves to perfection. Aragorn gasped. He had never beheld her thus before and she was even fairer than he had dared imagine. He trembled and flushed slightly.

Arwen sensed the presence of another and abruptly ceased her dancing. Then seeing who the intruder was, she smiled, and ran towards Aragorn and enfolded him in her arms. “Beloved!” she cried, between pressing kisses upon his lips. “I came here to dance alone, since I thought I could not dance with my beloved.” She gestured towards her discarded garments. “I desired to feel closer to the sun and the wind. Varda surely sent you to me this day! Come, dance with me and we will honour the opening of the Gates of Summer!”

“Arwen!” Aragorn exclaimed. “Little did I dare to dream that you might be here. I thought you were still in Lothlórien .”

“I returned here but last month. My heart foretold that you would soon return, but I did not dare hope you would come in time to dance with me.”

Aragorn’s head spun with a mixture of delight and desire. Yes, dancing would be good and distract him from thoughts he knew that he should not dwell upon until they were man and wife. Reluctantly, he pressed a final kiss upon her warm lips then held out his hand to her.

She laughed the sound like the ringing of a silver bell. “You would dance shod at Midsummer?”

He joined in her laughter and pulled off his boots and stockings together with his outer tunic. “Am I clad to your liking now?” he asked, glancing ruefully at his feet, which seemed so large and ugly beside her dainty ones. The grass felt soft and inviting beneath his feet.

“Very much so.” Arwen began to sing.

Aragorn took her hand and together they began to dance, swirling, and twirling in a giddy ecstasy. Time and space seemed to dissolve until they were no longer two, but one with each other and the breeze and the tree and the sky.

“What is happening?” Aragorn murmured in Arwen’s ear, though he scarcely cared, so lost was he in the moment.

“A little Midsummer magic of my people,” Arwen replied. “Do you not like it?”

“Very much so.”

“Then I shall wed you at Midsummer so the magic of our love will never fade.”

“I would gladly wed you in the most bitter of winters,” said Aragorn. “Ours is a love for all seasons. Yet, I agree I should like to be wed when Yavanna is at her most bountiful. Even the blossoms should rejoice at our union!”

“May Lady Yavanna and Lady Varda grant us that glad day soon!” said Arwen. Her lips met his in a long kiss.

A sudden gust of wind showered them both with falling white blossoms.

“See!” said Arwen. “Yavanna smiles on our love and Varda showers us with stars!”


Chapter 38 - The Ties that Bind

The Ties that Bind by Linda Hoyland

Rated T for mild violence

Disclaimer: These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

With thanks to Raksha and Deandra for editorial assistance.

Written for the Teitho "Bonds" contest where it was unplaced.

"Blest be the tie that binds

Our hearts in Christian love;

The fellowship of kindred minds

Is like to that above." – John Fawcett 1782

"The Crossed Swords" was tavern of somewhat dubious repute. Captain Thorongil usually strode past it without a second glance. Tonight, though, he espied three of his men making their way within.

Thorongil paused. They made an unlikely trio. The eldest, Galion, was something of a rogue, tolerated by Thorongil only because of his exceptional skills with the sword and dagger. The other two were Finarfin, a somewhat plodding fellow and father of five children, and Edrahil, a country boy, who had only joined Thorongil's Troop a few weeks before.

Thorongil had always believed it was up to his men to spend their free time as they chose, but made an exception to that rule when it concerned the new recruits. Unwary young lads away from home for the first time could easily get into trouble. The men had been paid earlier that day and knowing Galion, he would not put it past him to devise some scheme to persuade his companions to buy his drinks.

There were reports to be written at his lodgings, but Thorongil decided that they could wait. There would be no harm in enjoying a pint of ale first and keeping a discreet watch on his men at the same time. They were the first company in Gondor he had been given charge of and he took his responsibilities seriously, especially towards such as Edrahil, a lad almost young enough to be his son.

Thorongil entered the inn together with another soldier, who was dressed in the livery of the Captain General's men. He found a seat in a secluded corner from whence he could observe his men without being seen. If all were well, he would quickly finish his drink and leave without them ever being aware of his presence. He ordered a mug of ale. It was watery stuff of poor quality and Thorongil sipped it without enthusiasm.

Several others joined the trio of his men. His sharp hearing overheard Galion say to his companions, "You're in luck tonight lads, there's a game on. Here's your chance to strike it rich."

"What sort of game?" asked Finarfin.

"Dice," said Galion.

"Isn't that against the law?" asked Edrahil. "I thought Lord Ecthelion had banned gaming with dice for us soldiers."

Galion laughed. "What Lord Ecthelion doesn't know won't hurt him, or us either."

Another man at the head of the table took out the dice and called for bets.

Thorongil sighed. The fools! The Steward had recently issued a decree forbidding gambling as bad for morale. Cheating was rife and fights often broke out in gambling dens.

Thorongil rose from his table and strode over to where his men were sitting. "Galion, Finarfin, Edrahil," he said sternly. "You should know that you will be in serious trouble if you are caught. You could be thrown in the dungeons, not to mention squandering your hard-earned wages. Finarfin, you have five small mouths to feed, your wife would not be happy if you gambled their food away. Edrahil, your mother is relying on you to support her with your pay."

Edrahil leapt to his feet and saluted. "Captain Thorongil! Sir!" He looked scared out of his wits.

"I'm not here to punish you, lad, just give a friendly word of advice. I suggest you all leave here with me now."

Edrahil took a step towards the captain, Finarfin also made to rise, but Galion remained obdurately in his place.

Suddenly the door of the inn burst open and several guards burst in and hastened towards Thorongil and his men. "You are all under arrest on the orders of the Captain General!" the sergeant in charge cried.

"We weren't doing anything wrong," Galion protested in a sullen tone.

"Gambling is prohibited under the decree of the Lord Steward," said the sergeant. "Now come along quietly."

"My men were invited to take part in a game but they decided against it," said Thorongil. "No law has been broken."

"That's for the magistrate to decide," said the captain. "You'll most likely get thirty days in the dungeons then demotion to the ranks. Shame on you, Captain, for setting such a poor example!"

"The Captain wasn't p- playing," said Edrahil, stuttering slightly with fear. "He was ordering us to leave."

"That is the truth," said Thorongil. He drew himself up to his considerable height towering over the sergeant. "No crime has been committed. Now let us leave and go about our duty of defending Gondor."

"You were caught red-handed at a gaming table," said the sergeant. "You are coming with me." He gestured to his men who took out ropes and began to bind the man who had been holding the dice.

Galion made a run for the door closely followed by Finarfin. One of the soldiers raced after him in hot pursuit, but Galion kicked over a chair in the path of his pursuer, who stumbled and lost his footing. Galion and Finarfin fled into the night. Most of the other customers took advantage of the confusion to vanish into the alleyways surrounding the inn.

"We will catch them later," the sergeant said grimly. "No matter. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Hold out your hands, Captain Thorongil."

"I demand to be taken to the Steward," said Thorongil. "I have done nothing wrong."

"You're not binding the Captain," said Edrahil.

"Silence, you impudent boy!" cried the sergeant.

"But he's innocent!"

"I said silence!" There was a resounding thwack as he dealt Edrahil a savage blow to the ribs. The boy gave a cry and crumpled to the floor, hitting his head as he fell.

"How dare you treat one of my men thus?" cried Thorongil.

The sergeant's only reply was to deal the Captain a similar blow, but Thorongil ducked and avoided the full force of it.

The sergeant gestured to his men, "Bind them and take them away."

"The boy needs a healer," Thorongil protested.

"Nothing wrong with him that sobering up in the dungeons won't cure," said the sergeant.

Thorongil made no attempt to resist as his weapons were taken and he was bound alongside Edrahil.

000

Thorongil was forcibly marched towards the dungeons while a semi- conscious Edrahil was half dragged, half carried along by the guards. Thorongil's protests at the boy's treatment were ignored.

The jailor stared when they reached the prison "Surely it can't be-?" he gasped.

"Yes, it is the great Captain Thorongil caught red- handed in a common gambling den!" said the sergeant. "Lock him up securely until he and his accomplice can be brought before the magistrate."

The jailor looked taken aback but did as he was bidden. He placed the man who had been running the dice game in a crowded cell full of rowdy prisoners. To Thorongil's relief, he and Edrahil were placed alone together in a smaller cell. In the near darkness, he could just about make out that it was bare apart from a pile of straw and a bucket in one corner. The sergeant threw them both inside and Thorongil heard his footsteps together with those of his men clattering along the stone passageway and receding into the distance.

As the door clanged behind him, Thorongil sank down on the straw beside Edrahil and took a deep breath. If there was one thing he truly disliked, it was confined spaces. Maybe it was because he had been brought up in Rivendell's spacious halls then roamed the wilds of Eriador and the Plains of Rohan. He sighed. Maybe he should not have sought out the land of his ancestral throne. He had only dwelt in Gondor for two years, but Ecthelion's heir, Denethor, had hated him from the moment they had laid eyes on each other. He had no idea why as there was no way that Denethor could have guessed his true identity. Maybe it was because Ecthelion had taken a liking to him and Thorongil returned that regard. He sensed that the old man was lonely and the burden of rule weighed heavily upon him. Thorongil suddenly remembered the soldier wearing the uniform of the Captain General's men who had entered the tavern with him. Denethor was forever seeking ways to discredit him. Doubtless, the man was one of his spies. Thorongil had noticed that he had left once he got up to join his men, but had thought nothing of it.

Beside him, Edrahil moaned. Thorongil was troubled about the boy. He had been brutally hit then fallen on to a hard stone floor. If only his hands were free so that he could at least examine him.

Just then, he heard a jangling of keys and the jailor, holding a lantern, entered the cell. The man looked troubled. "I'm sure there's been some mistake, Captain Thorongil, sir," he said. "My brother is in your troop and he thinks the world of you, he does, sir. Is there anything I can do for you, sir, while all this is being sorted out?"

"Could you untie me, please, so that I can tend to my man?" said Thorongil. "I give you my word I will not try to escape. I have need of light, a blanket and clean water and then writing materials."

The jailor scratched his head thoughtfully. "I can bring you a candle and some water, but writing materials and a blanket will have to wait until the morrow, sir, as I've none here and I dare not leave the prisoners unguarded to fetch some. I will loose your bonds now."

He untied Thorongil and scurried off. Thorongil felt the circulation painfully return to his hands. He rubbed them together while he waited for the jailor to return. At least it seemed he had found a friend in this grim place.

A little while later, the jailor returned carrying a pitcher of water with a pewter cup and a candle.

"I fear this boy could be badly injured," said Thorongil. "He should be in the Houses of Healing."

"A healer comes each morning to the prison," said the gaoler. "If he is not better by the morrow, the healer will decide if he needs to be moved. I'm sorry I can't help more, sir, but my children will surely go hungry if I lose my job. Please shout, sir, if you need anything else." He set the candle in a sconce in the wall.

Thorongil waited until he had left then untied Edrahil. He began to examine the lad, who was developing an egg- sized lump on the back of his head from where he had fallen when the sergeant had hit him. Thorongil pulled aside Edrahil's tunic. Already a spreading bruise was forming on his side. Thorongil carefully felt the boy's ribs. At least two were broken. Edrahil stirred and moaned, calling out for his mother in his pain and confusion. Thorongil murmured soothing words to him.

"Feel sick!" Edrahil suddenly cried as he regained full consciousness.

Thorongil grabbed the bucket and supported the boy while he retched violently.

At last, he ceased and stared at Thorongil in confusion. "What happened, sir? Where are we?"

"In the dungeons," Thorongil replied. He held a cup of water to Edrahil's lips. The boy sipped it then lay back on the straw. "We were arrested for playing dice."

"Not fair, sir, didn't even play. Hurts, everywhere hurts." He started to shiver violently.

Thorongil was relieved the boy knew who he was. He picked up the candle and held it in front of Edrahil's face. The pupils focussed on the light and constricted. Edrahil blinked "Light hurts, please, sir."

"You have a concussion and broken ribs. That is why you are hurting." Thorongil felt relieved that the boy seemed to be regaining his senses, but he was deeply concerned about him. He needed to be in a warm comfortable room in the Houses of Healing not this cold damp cell. He unfastened his cloak, flinching as he did so. He has escaped the worst of the blows, but would still most likely be covered in bruises as result of the sergeant's brutality.

Thorongil draped his cloak around Edrahil and lay down beside him. He placed a comforting arm around the boy's shoulders.

"The others, sir?" Edrahil asked after a few moments.

"They fled," said Thorongil.

"Troop has bonds, should stick together," muttered Edrahil.

"Soldiers should indeed stick together," Thorongil replied. His thoughts strayed to the others of his troop. They ranged from hardened warriors like Galion to untried country boys like Edrahil, but loyalty to Gondor and defending her from her enemies had forged strong ties between very different men. All save Galion, Thorongil thought grimly. He was loyal to no one save himself. Thorongil inwardly berated himself for not dismissing the man long ago. As for Finarfin, Thorongil felt more pity than anger. The man had come to his senses over playing dice, only to face being thrown in the dungeons. If he had not already been caught, his captain would say nothing that might help the guards capture him. He could only hope that Finarfin's wife and children would not suffer too much, as result of what after all, had been a minor transgression. They lived in a remote village, where hopefully Finarfin could earn a living working in the fields if he remained undetected.

He could not help but be disappointed that Finarfin had abandoned his comrades. He had hoped the bonds of loyalty between members of his troop would have been stronger. A disreputable tavern was hardly a battlefield, though, and while Finarfin was far from the most intelligent of Thorongil's men, he had always fought bravely alongside his fellows.

Edrahil shifted uneasily beside him.

"I wish I had something to give you for the pain," said Thorongil. He gave Edrahil another drink then held his hand a few inches above the boy's injured side and head, attempting to use his innate abilities to ease his pain.

After a few minutes, Edrahil spoke again, this time much more coherently.

"I am well enough now, sir. What will happen to now us, sir? How long will we be locked up here?"

"It depends on the magistrate, Edrahil. It is my understanding of the law that only repeat offenders are thrown in the dungeons for long. "

"My mother will be so disappointed in me," Edrahil said sadly. "And the cobbler's lass won't walk out with me again. And I've let you down, sir, I'm sorry."

"We all make mistakes, lad." Thorongil tried to sound comforting. At least a lowly recruit could not be demoted, while he would be stripped of his captaincy and most likely thrown out of Gondor as an undesirable. The irony of it all when he was the rightful heir to the Silver Crown! Maybe it was a mistake to have come to Gondor at all. He should have stayed in the North with his own people. Gandalf, though, had counselled him to broaden his horizons and the wizard was usually right. It seemed, though, that this time he had made a mistake.

"Sir?"

"Edrahil?"

"They won't just forget about us will they?"

"No, lad, they won't. And the jailor is a decent man. Now try to get some rest."

"Yes, sir."

The boy needed little persuasion and Thorongil felt him relax beside him with the ease of the young. Best that he should sleep and gain some respite from his troubles. He would have to be woken at frequent intervals after a blow on the head, but he could rest for the time being.

Thorongil knew he should blow out the candle to save it, but could not yet bring himself to do so yet. Had Edrahil not been curled up alongside him, he would have been pacing the tiny cell. He had cherished such high hopes of winning renown through great deeds in Gondor and now he would be disgraced even though he had done nothing wrong.

He heard footsteps approaching the cell. He recognised the jailor's tread, but now there were several others with him. Armed men by the sound of their clanking weapons. Thorongil felt a rising sensation of panic. He had no weapon with which to defend himself and the injured boy. The marching feet drew nearer.

"What is the meaning of this?" Thorongil was startled to hear the familiar voice of the Steward. Ecthelion sounded very angry. Thorongil's spirits sank even lower. It was almost unheard of for the Steward to visit the dungeons.

"Why is Captain Thorongil locked in the dungeons?

"The sergeant who brought him here said he was caught playing dice, my lord," replied the gaoler.

"What nonsense!" snapped Ecthelion. "Thorongil isn't such a fool as to waste his pay gambling, and even if he were, only repeat offenders should be thrown in the dungeons. Why don't these guards use their common sense? Were they my son's men?"

"Yes, my lord."

"My son's a good boy but he can be over zealous at times in his desire to uphold military discipline. Ridiculous, though, to have my best captain locked up when he should be out defending Gondor! Now unlock the cell at once and release my captain."

The cell door swung open. Thorongil scrambled awkwardly to his feet.

"I must apologise for the way you have been treated, my friend. Are you injured?"

"Nothing but a few bruises, my lord, but Edrahil here has a concussion and broken ribs. He needs to be in the Houses of Healing."

Ecthelion turned to the guards with him. "Go and fetch a stretcher and see that this boy is taken to the healers immediately."

The men hurried to do the Steward's bidding.

Ecthelion peered at the still sleeping Edrahil. "Valar be praised that your man told me what had happened tonight."

"My man?" Thorongil could still hardly believe this sudden and unexpected change of fortune.

"Yes, Finarfin, I think the fellow's name was. He came to me when I was taking my usual stroll by the White Tree before retiring for the night and said you had been arrested for playing dice when in fact you were ordering your men not to play. The fellow looked half scared out of his wits, but I assured him he would not be punished so long as he was not caught gambling again. The other fellow who was with you will be severely dealt with if he is caught. From what your man told me it seems he might have been in league with the scoundrel behind much of the illegal gambling in taverns."

"I am certain Finarfin will never go near a gambling den again, my lord. He was about to leave the inn, as was Edrahil, when we were arrested. Galion was the ringleader who tried to lead his fellows astray."

"Now let us leave this place," said Ecthelion firmly. "Go and get something to eat and bathe, Thorongil. You are excused duty on the morrow, but I shall expect a full report the day afterwards. I intend to see that sergeant who injured your man is disciplined."

"If I may, my lord, I should like to first see my man settled in the Houses of Healing."

"Of course, my friend, but then you must have a thought for yourself."

"I will, my lord, and thank you."

000

The next day, Thorongil awoke feeling stiff and sore. When he dressed, he discovered a large spreading bruise. He had fared lightly compared to poor Edrahil, though. He applied a liberal application of salve to his injury then hastened to break his fast.

He then set out for the Houses of Healing to visit Edrahil. The boy had been sleepy and confused when he had left him the previous night and would no doubt welcome a familiar face. He was also anxious how the lad was faring.

He found the young soldier sitting up in bed looking thoroughly alert but utterly miserable.

"How are you feeling this morning, Edrahil?" Thorongil asked.

"Much better, sir, thank you. The healer said I should soon recover. But will they send me back to prison, sir? My mother will be so upset! I so wanted her to be proud of me."

"And so she will be, lad. The Steward assured me you are not in any trouble as long as you don't frequent gambling dens in future."

"Never again, sir! I promise."

"I trust you to keep your word." Thorongil smiled. "I think you will find too that the ale is of better quality in more respectable establishments than The Crossed Swords."

Just then Finarfin appeared. He started when he saw Thorongil and made as if to leave. Thorongil ordered him to remain.

"That was a very brave thing you did yesterday, going to the Steward," said Thorongil, clapping the man heartily on the shoulder.

"Well, I couldn't leave you and Edrahil in the dungeons, sir," said Finarfin. "We soldiers should stick up for one another."

"We should indeed," said Thorongil. "The ties that bind true-hearted soldiers together are like the bonds between brothers that no man can sever."

A/n. In my head canon Thorongil is in charge of two different troops while he is in Gondor. My stories "Full of Surprises," "Lavender's Blue" and "Voice in the Night" feature the second group of men.


Chapter 39 - Men for all seasons

Title; Men for all Seasons by Linda Hoyland

Rating; PG

Warning: Mention of character deaths

Disclaimer: Apart from my OC's, M-e and the characters belong to the Tolkien Estate. This story is written for pleasure not financial gain.

Summary ; The Dúnedain have known many leaders and reversals of fortune, but their courage and resilience endures.

The rain poured down in torrents while thunder crashed overhead. Elenwë and Haleth pulled their shawls around their heads as they scurried to the hall where the ceremony was to be held. The room buzzed with excited chatter.

They were early and the room was still half-empty so the two women were able to obtain a good vantage point with a clear view of the platform.

"This storm bodes ill for the new chieftain," said Haleth darkly. She shook out her shawl splattering the woman in front of her with water droplets. Wiping her damp cheek, the woman glared, and Haleth muttered a hasty apology.

"Why?" asked Elenwë. "I did not know that you were farsighted like your mother or Dame Ivorwen."

"I do not think I have their gift, but methinks such a storm cannot bode well for the future."

"I think Arathorn will make a good chieftain. He is a fine man, a brave warrior and he has a lovely wife."

Haleth snorted. "Gilraen is far too young to be the Lady of the Dúnedain. Lord Arathorn should have chosen a maiden of more mature years as his bride."

It was Elenwë's turn to snort. "A maiden named Haleth you mean! Don't try to deny it. I've seen the way you look at him. You should accept that he has had eyes for none save Gilraen. He has chosen well too. She has already given him a fine son, and there should be more little ones who will secure the future of our folk. And none could deny that Gilraen is almost elven fair."

"What is wrong with desiring a good husband?" Haleth retorted. "At least I didn't choose the first man that asked me for a dance at Mettarë."

"My Finbar is a good man," said Elenwë . "He might not have Lord Arathorn's lineage, but at least I won't die an old maid unlike some I could name!"

Haleth was about to make an indignant reply when the old woman in front of her turned round and said sternly. "They are waiting to begin the ceremony."

Haleth flicked the last drops of rain from her shawl and watched as a small procession made its way towards the raised platform at the front of the hall. First came the elders of the Dúnedain, including Arathorn's widowed mother and Gilraen's parents Dírhael and Ivorwen. Next came the sons of Elrond, one carrying the sceptre of Annúminas and the shards of Narsil, while the other bore the Elendilmir upon a silken cushion. The facets of the gem sparkled in the torchlight and there were murmurs of awe from the assembly, then came Gandalf the Grey, walking slowly and leaning on his staff. Arathorn with his lady brought up the rear of the procession. Gilraen's eyes were wide and she looked anxious.

"No doubt she's missing her babe," whispered Elenwë. "He must be with her sister as I've not seen Inzilbeth here."

Dírhael addressed the company. "My friends, the Chieftain is dead, long live the Chieftain! I present unto you Arathorn, son of Arador, heir of Elendil and rightful lord of the Dúnedain. Do you accept him as your leader?"

"We do!" cried everyone present.

A loud clap of thunder broke overhead and several of the younger women started visibly.

The sons of Elrond then stepped forward and held the sceptre and Elendilmir aloft. "We present these tokens of your line in memory of what is past and hope of what is to come!" they cried.

"Arathorn, son of Arador, do you promise to fight to protect your people and all free folk of Middle-earth from the forces of darkness?" asked Dírhael.

"I do," said Arathorn, shouting to make himself heard as another thunderclap broke overhead.

Gandalf then stepped forward and Arathorn knelt before him as the wizard placed the Elendilmir upon his brow and handed him the sceptre and the broken sword. A flash of lightning illuminated the scene.

Arathorn looked stern and grave, while beside him Gilraen, her beauty accentuated by the green and cream gown she wore, resembled a slender birch tree.

The ceremony concluded, Haleth and Elenwë lingered by the doorway, loth to venture out into the driving rain.

"I never saw Arador wear the jewel, nor wield the sceptre," said Elenwë to her companion.

"The regalia are kept at Rivendell for safekeeping, I believe," said Haleth. "They are only brought out on special occasions such as this."

"I was away visiting my Aunt when Arador was proclaimed Chieftain," said Elenwë.

Just then, Ivorwen passed by and said, "We shall not see the like of this day again."

Haleth turned to speak to her, thinking that she was addressing them, but Ivorwen's gaze was distant as if looking at something that only she could perceive. Another clap of thunder broke overhead.

000

Two years later

"It looks like rain," said Elenwë. She walked slowly hampered by the bulk of her swollen belly.

"It has done all day," said Haleth. "The skies ought to open and weep for Lord Arathorn."

"Just as you have done ever since the news reached us," said Elenwë. "Your eyes are red with weeping."

"I have a cold," said Haleth. She sniffed loudly.

"Who will lead us now?" said Elenwë. "Lord Arathorn's son is but two years old."

"He is gone and Gilraen too," said Haleth. "Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?" asked Elenwë.

"Mistress Ruinherdis , my neighbour, went this morning to take Gilraen some of her hotpot fearing she would be too grief stricken to prepare a meal, " said Haleth. "She found the Chieftain's house deserted with no trace of either Gilraen or her child. Then Mistress Ivorwen appeared and told her to think of them as dead."

"Dead! Surely not?" Elenwë exclaimed in horror.

"That would be a tragedy indeed." Haleth said grimly.

"I thought you had no love for Gilraen?" said Elenwë.

"I never wished her harm nor Arathorn's son!" Haleth protested. She wiped her eyes with the corner of her shawl. "How can they be dead? The Orcs that killed Lord Arathorn came nowhere near the village."

"Maybe she died of grief for her loss?" Elenwë suggested.

"That would not account for the child as well. And why has no funeral been announced?"

"I know only what Mistress Ruinherdis told me," said Haleth.

A bell began to toll and the women quickened their footsteps.

"We must hurry if we wish to know who will lead us," said Elenwë. The two women almost ran the rest of the way to the meeting hall. They squeezed in at the back of the crowd that had gathered. The silence of the assembly was as leaden as the clouded skies without.

The Dúnedain elders were gathered together on the platform. Dírhael stepped forward to address the gathering. Ivorwen stood beside him. "My friends, this is a dark day for us all. Our beloved Chieftain, Arathorn, has been slain defending our folk from the Orcs that threaten our villages. The sons of Elrond were with him when he drew his last breath and they buried him with honour where he fell. His grave must remain unmarked grave so that no foul creature might desecrate his body. They believe that the Enemy sought out the heir of Isildur to destroy the line that once brought him low. Gilraen and her son are gone, dead to our people." He paused and took a long breath. "It has been decided that in the absence of a direct heir of Elendil, that I, Dírhael, will lead you as the royal blood of Aranarth flows in my veins. I swear that I am willing to shed the last drop of that blood in your service if you will accept me as your leader."

There was a brief silence and some whispered mutterings but then Ivorwen cried out in a loud voice, "I will."

The others hesitated only for a moment before following her example.

Dírhael took a step forward. He drew his sword and placed his right hand upon the blade. "I am but acting chieftain, I bear no regalia," he said. "I can and will take the oath of our folk, though. I solemnly promise to fight to protect our people and all free folk of Middle-earth from the forces of darkness. I beg of you my friends, however deep the darkness seems, never to lose sight of hope nor to abandon it."

Haleth and Elenwë were amongst the first to leave.

"Whoever would have thought that Dírhael would lead us!" said Haleth.

"He is of a like age to Arathorn and knew him well, though Gilraen's marriage came between them," said Elenwë. I suppose he has as much of the blood of Elendil as any other that still draws breath."

"I believe that Gilraen and her son still live," said Haleth. "He did not look like a man who had just lost half his family."

"Our folk know well how to hide their pain," said Elenwë.

"No bereft mother and grandmother could look as bright of eye as Dame Ivorwen, nor were Inzilbeth's eyes reddened with weeping." said Haleth. "I have seen all too many of our women who have lost everything. They may not weep and wail, other than behind closed doors, but the light goes from their eyes."

"We should keep such thoughts to ourselves while still holding fast to hope," said Elenwë. "The Enemy desires to wipe Elendil's line from the face of Arda."

The sky remained leaden, but the rain did not fall that day.

0000

The wind whipped at Elenwë's shawl and she had to hold on to it tightly. Beside her, Haleth had given up the struggle and went bare headed. The autumn leaves whirled around the women's feet in swirling eddies as they made their way to the meeting hall.

"Who will lead us now?" asked Elenwë. She was already weary of asking that question.

"There will soon only be boys and old men left," said Haleth.

"You have not helped on that count with your refusal to wed," said Elenwë.

"No man, save one, ever stirred my heart," said Haleth. "There are few good men left to choose from so I would rather share my home with my cat. He is far less trouble than a husband."

"Only a cat would tolerate your cooking," said Elenwë. "I almost broke a tooth sampling your oat cakes!"

"My cooking suits me well enough," Haleth snorted. "I am not doomed to spend my nights wakeful with worry lest my husband never return."

"One lives with it," said Elenwë. "I have my girls to keep me company. I think -" The wind snatched away her breath and she said no more until they reached the shelter of the hall. "I think my eldest is less than happy to have to watch her little sisters and miss the meeting. I promised to tell her what happened."

The numbers in the hall were fewer than that far off day when Arathorn had been appointed chieftain, but even so, the two women had to content themselves with a place near the back as almost the entire village had come to find out who their next leader would be.

A grizzled elder, Beren rose to speak, "My friends, this is another dark day for our folk. Dírhael was slain two days ago in a skirmish with Orcs. He has led us wisely and well these past sixteen years. We have debated long and hard who shall lead us now, whether we should choose a man of experience, or one nearer in blood to Dírhael and the line of the Kings of old. Our choice has fallen on Dírhael's grandson, Halbarad. He is young, having but lately come of age, but he has already more than proved his valour. I ask him now to come forward and take the oath of our people."

"Halbarad?" whispered Haleth. "Will they choose a babe in arms next? He is still a beardless boy!"

"He has ridden out on patrol since he was twelve years old," said Elenwë. "He is as seasoned a warrior as any."

Beren held up his hand for silence as Halbarad took his place on the platform at the front of the hall.

Halbarad drew his sword and placed his right hand upon the blade. "I might be young in years, but I am old in experience," he said. "I will take the oath of our folk, with my full heart and soul. He took a steadying breath, and then recited the formal words of the oath. When he finished, he turned to the gathering and said, "Until death take me, I swear to defend our folk and our heritage." His grey eyes shone as he spoke.

Inzilbeth embraced her son then Ivorwen came forward and kissed his cheek. "Your grandsire would approve and be proud of you, Halbarad," she said. "As a widow, my heart is heavy with grief, but as a grandmother, I rejoice. We walk in darkness, yet live in hope that the light will overcome it. Even the longest night is followed by daybreak." She then walked away, a slender lonely figure, but her steps were firm and resolute.

"Dame Ivorwen is a brave woman indeed," said Elenwë as the two women left the hall. "Halbarad is the last male of her line who could easily be slaughtered tomorrow, yet she speaks of hope for the future."

"Dame Ivorwen has the farsight of her forebears," said Haleth. "Who knows what she might see?"

The wind caught Elenwë's shawl and whipped it from her head. It blew onto a nearby tree where it fluttered like a standard in the breeze.

000

It was a squally summer's day. The sun had peeped from behind a bank of high fluffy clouds earlier, but now a heavy shower was drenching the two women as they walked the short distance to the meeting hall. The leaves were turning their backs towards them, whipped by the breeze. Haleth and Elenwë were too engrossed in conversation to pay heed to the downpour. Wrapping their shawls tightly around their heads was their only concession to the elements.

"I can scarce believe it!" said Elenwë.

"I've seen him with my own eyes," said Haleth. "Gave me quite a turn he did, it was as if Arathorn had returned! He has Gilraen's mouth, though."

"I'll believe it's Arathorn's son when I see him," said Elenwë. "How can we be certain it is not some young ne'er-do-well passing himself off as our chieftain to get his hands on the heirlooms of Elendil's house?"

"Gilraen has come here for the ceremony," said Haleth. "A mother knows her own son."

"So she too is alive?"

"Dame Ivorwen told me that Master Elrond believed that the Enemy was actively seeking out the heirs of Isildur to wipe them from the face of Arda so when Arathorn was slain they immediately took his son into hiding at Rivendell with his mother. The boy himself only recently learned of his lineage."

"So they let us believe all these years that he was dead?"

"Dame Ivorwen said it was the only way to ensure the boy's safety."

"None of us would ever have betrayed him." Elenwë's tone was indignant.

"The Elders feared our men might be captured by the Enemy and pressed beyond endurance, or that someone might let a careless word slip after too many mugs of ale in Bree."

"So why does Aragorn return now under his true name?" said Elenwë. "The Enemy grows ever stronger. He will still be in danger."

"That makes little sense to me either," said Haleth. "We have a good leader in Halbarad. He might be young, but he knows us and our ways."

Elenwë nodded. "What can a youth who has lived with Elves most of his life know of our people? No doubt, he spends his days sitting on silken cushions playing the harp and writing poetry! Such talents are all very well, but we need a chieftain who can protect our folk."

"Dame Ivorwen says her grandson is a skilled warrior," said Haleth. "Maybe he takes after Halbarad?" She sounded far from convinced.

"Halbarad was raised amongst fighting men," said Elenwë. "He was learning skills with sword and bow almost as soon as he was weaned."

The two reached the great hall and went within, shaking the rain drops from their cloaks. It was packed and they struggled to find a space until one of the other women moved along, allowing them a small corner.

"I'm glad I didn't bring the younger children," said Elenwë. " They would be drenched. Miriel came early with her father to help decorate the hall and Ivriniel is watching the little ones. I told her she would see the new Chieftain soon enough."

Haleth looked around the hall, her gaze moving towards the platform at the front. She nudged Elenwë. "That's him, Arathorn's son, beside Dame Ivorwen."

"Him? He's just a boy! He hasn't even a beard yet!"

"Halbarad doesn't look very happy."

"Would you be unhappy having your nose pushed out of joint, thus? He's standing so he must be going to say something."

The woman in front turned round and glared at the pair. They fell silent.

Halbarad addressed the assembled Dúnedain. "Friends, I have news of grave import to impart to you today. Arathorn's son, whom many of you believed dead, is alive and well and come to claim his birth-right. From this day forward, I am no longer your Chieftain."

A young man, who was standing near the front called out. "It would indeed be a marvel had Arathorn's son returned, but how can we be certain it is he?"

"Shame on you!" cried an older woman. "If you were old enough to remember Lord Arathorn, you would recognise his living likeness in his son!"

Gilraen then walked to the front of the platform. Her fabled beauty had not diminished with the years, though her beautiful grey eyes were troubled as she looked at her son. "Friends," she began, speaking in an accent which had an Elvish lilt to it. "I am come here today to swear to you all that this is Arathorn's true born son, whom I bore to him twenty years ago." She reached out and took Aragorn's hand. "In the shelter of Imladris, I have watched him grow from a babe into a fine young man, who now desires to spread his wings and leave Rivendell behind."

Aragorn squeezed his mother's hand then spoke. "Long have I remained hidden, ignorant of my own name and lineage until but a short time ago. I cannot live my life, hiding like a mouse in the shadows, but I would ask of you all not to speak of my name and lineage, lest unfriendly ears might hear that I yet live." He held up his hand. "Apart from my father's ring, I bear no regalia. I have yet to earn the Sceptre of Annúminas, and I have asked for the shards of Narsil and the Elendilmir to be kept in safe keeping at Rivendell. Gladly, will I take an oath as your Chieftain, but I seek no formal investiture, lest the Enemy should learn of it. Also, I desire to lead you with the counsel of Halbarad and the Elders, for I fear I know little of the ways of my own people."

Ivorwen stepped forward. She was smiling and looked happier than Haleth and Elenwë could ever recall seeing her before. "Well spoken, grandson, you shall have my support and that of the leaders of our folk." She glanced towards Halbarad who gave a reluctant nod. "My friends assembled here, do you accept Aragorn, son of Arathorn to be your leader."

"We do!" cried the people, though some sounded more enthusiastic than others.

"Draw your sword and place your hand upon the blade," Ivorwen instructed Aragorn. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn, do you promise to fight to protect your people and all free folk of Middle-earth from the forces of darkness?"

"I do," said Aragorn.

The people cheered.

Gilraen suddenly turned pale. "He will be the last of the Chieftains!" she cried, then collapsed into her mother's arms.

The ceremony over, the people started to drift away.

"Gilraen is farsighted like her mother is she not?" said Elenwë. "Her words bode ill for us all."

"Dame Ivorwen looked happy, though, so her farsight must not foresee our doom," said Haleth. "Farsight is a strange gift. Sometimes I think I do have it as often I have sensed what is to come before it happens. We cannot know the future for certain, we can but continue to hope."

The two left the hall to be greeted by the sun emerging from behind the rainclouds and a perfect rainbow arching across the sky.

The women paused, catching their breath at this sudden display of nature's beauty.

"A rainbow, a symbol of hope!" said Elenwë. "There will be better times ahead for our folk. The storms will come, but afterwards the sun will shine again."

"I know only that today's storm is passing, " said Haleth with a smile. "If the weather turns out fair, I shall tend my garden this afternoon. The mixture of rain and sun will bring out the roses early."

A/n. Tolkien only lists Arathorn and Aragorn as Chieftains. I have used my imagination to fill in the gaps who acted as leader while Aragorn grew up. A revised version of a story written for the "Teitho Weather Challenge" where it was unplaced. I owe my inspiration of Ranger culture to Cairistiona, Everleigh Bain and Suzelle. Do check out their stories if you love Rangers.


Chapter 40 - Voices in the Mist

Title: Voices in the Mist

Author Name: Linda Hoyland

Prompt. Morning Landscape with Trees - Grubicy de Dragon

morning

Summary: Halbarad and Aragorn have an adventure in the Old forest.

Rating: PG

Warnings: very mild horror

Beta: none

Author's Notes: Short story with grateful thanks to Shirebound, Curious Wombat and Elanbarati for help with the plot.

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

When Aragorn and Halbarad awoke that morning, the mist hung low over the river. The two Rangers shivered and pulled their cloaks more closely around themselves. The damp seemed to seep into their very bones. The trees loomed wraithlike out of the mist, the few leaves that still clung to their branches in November providing scant covering.

"I heartily dislike this fog," said Aragorn. He took a swig from his water bottle as he spoke.

"So do I," said Halbarad. "Everything seems muffled and eerie."

"We must be on our guard as it can mask an enemy's approach, all too easily," said Aragorn. "The very trees seem strange and hostile when surrounded by mist."

Halbarad laughed. "Hostile trees! Are you certain it was just water you were drinking just then?"

Aragorn did not join in his friend's laughter. "It is not such a strange notion. The Elves can communicate with trees. They are living things like you and I."

"I respect the Elves," said Halbarad. "However, I find some of their beliefs a little far- fetched. Trees are just trees, and very useful for firewood and shelter. "

"Have a care what you say, kinsman," Aragorn cautioned. "Remember, we are in the Old Forest, which is full of mysteries. I am going to see if I can hunt some game under the cover of the mist. You keep watch. I shall not be long."

"I would enjoy a nice plump rabbit for our meal," said Halbarad. "My mouth waters at the very thought."

"I will see if I can oblige." Aragorn said. Within moments, he had vanished into the mist.

Halbarad remained where he was standing for some time. He stamped his feet to keep warm. This confounded mist! Not even a bird chirping broke the silence. Time passed, minutes, or maybe even hours, he could not tell.

Suddenly, he heard a sound, a whisper out of the mist; followed almost at once by a muffled splash coming from the direction of the river. Fearing that some harm had befallen Aragorn, he drew his sword and hastened towards the sound.

Halbarad felt something grab hold of him and twist itself around his ankle. He stumbled and fell to his knees, lashing out with his sword at his attacker. There was no one there, though, just an old gnarled tree, the roots of which held his ankle in a tight grip.

He struggled frantically to escape, but the more he struggled, the more tightly he became entangled. The branches grabbed his hair and dragged him towards the river. He cried out for Aragorn but the mist smothered his cries. What a way to die, he thought, felled by a tree! Who would care for his wife and little ones?

A great weariness came over him and he knew no more.

000

"Halbarad, wake up!"

Halbarad opened his eyes and found himself looking into the concerned face of his kinsman. He looked around and discovered he was lying amidst a tangle of willow branches half in and half out of the river. The mist had dissolved and watery sunshine bathed the riverbank.

"Whatever were you doing?" Aragorn demanded; his voice a mixture of anger and concern. "This neither the time nor the place to go swimming and take a nap!"

"The tree! It attacked me. Have a care!" Halbarad gave a great shudder. He sat up and looked wildly around him.

"What tree?" Aragorn looked puzzled. "It seems you tripped over a root of a willow and hit your head. It is fortunate that I returned when I did or you could have drowned!"

"Let us get us get away from here," Halbarad said frantically.

"I could not agree more," said Aragorn. "You need to get warm and dry. Can you walk? Here, take my arm."

Halbarad gripped Aragorn's outstretched arm and rose unsteadily to his feet.

The two made their way to a sheltered clearing where they had made their camp the night before and had left their horses and packs. Halbarad leaned heavily upon Aragorn's arm. He still felt dazed and very cold.

Aragorn swiftly kindled a fire. He sat Halbarad beside it and helped him out of his sodden clothes, and wrapped him in blankets. The wet garments were arranged round the fire to dry. Aragorn carefully examined his kinsman for injuries, but could find only a few minor scrapes and bruises.

Halbarad was still pale and shaking. He remained silent as Aragorn tended him and applied salve to his injuries. Not until Aragorn had handed him a steaming mug of herbal tea did he speak. "I thought my last hour had come," he said. "How did you find me?"

"I was on my way back to you with the rabbit I had caught. I was singing, but I heard you call out. The mist made you hard to find, but then the sun came out and a fresh breeze blew from the west, dissolving the fog. Did you fall down the bank?"

Halbarad shuddered violently. "I heard a whisper on the wind and then a splash. I drew my sword and went to investigate. It was then the tree root caught hold of me and tried to drag me to my death in the river. I tried to cut myself free, but my senses left me."

"When I found you, the tree roots were holding you above the water. Without them you would have most surely drowned," said Aragorn. "The mist is treacherous. Maybe it played tricks with your mind?"

"I tell you, the tree tried to kill me!" Halbarad insisted. "Surely you do not doubt my word, kinsman? You said yourself that we should have a care in the Old Forest."

Aragorn shook his head and placed a reassuring hand on Halbarad's shoulder. "Never would I accuse you of falsehood." He busied himself preparing the rabbit and placed it in a pan on the fire to cook. He then came to sit beside Halbarad. As the older Ranger was still shivering, Aragorn placed an arm around his shoulders and drew him close for warmth. "Maybe the tales concerning the Old Forest have truth in them. There are many Powers at work, of which we know little, said Aragorn.

"I shall be wary in future of the trees in this forest," said Halbarad.

They said little more until the meat was cooked. "Now let us eat," said Aragorn. "A good meal should warm you and ease your heart."

Aragorn divided the rabbit between them. They also had a supply of mushrooms to accompany the meat and a handful of hazelnuts to serve as dessert.

Halbarad glanced around the peaceful sunlit glade and leaned back against a sturdy oak tree. He could hear the birds twittering in the treetops. This morning's events seemed very distant now. Had the tree truly attacked him, or had he dozed off in the mist and fallen down the bank? He had been so certain at the time, now it seemed a preposterous idea. Maybe there were some mysteries that were unfathomable even to a seasoned Ranger? Halbarad took another mouthful of the tasty rabbit stew and felt the warmth seeping back into his limbs.

Down on the riverbank, the willows murmured in the breeze.


Chapter 41 - The Stuff of Life

Title: The Stuff of Life
Author Name: Linda Hoyland

Prompt: ""There the air was cool and there wayfarers in summer would rest and drink of the cold water." (Children of Húrin)

Summary: Aragorn and Halbarad search for water on a hot day.

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Beta: none

The sun burned down mercilessly upon the two Rangers who trudged wearily along the dusty road.

Halbarad paused to take a swig from his water bottle. "It is almost empty," he said with a deep sigh.

"So too is mine," said Aragorn. "We had better go in search of fresh supplies. It means we will be late returning to camp, but no matter. We need water in this heat."

"A detour will be more than worthwhile if we can get out of the sun," said Halbarad. "I cannot recall it so hot in June before. I hope this is not some devilish new trick of the Enemy!"

"I think not," said Aragorn. "Any extremes of weather that we experience, the Elves have encountered countless times before and worse! In any case, Orcs flee from the sun while some decent folk actually enjoy heat waves, though why, I have no idea! Only blizzards do I like less than the heat!"

The two men laughed ruefully, remembering the recent harsh winter when Aragorn had almost been buried in a snowdrift.

"We should get off the road," said Aragorn. "There ought to be a spring somewhere in these woods."

"A few more years as a Ranger and you will know the exact location of every water source for miles around," said Halbarad. "Come, I will show you where the nearest stream is."

"Presuming it hasn't dried out in this heat!"

"It is fed by an underground stream," said Halbarad. "It never dries up." He plunged into the trees and set off like a hound following a trail.

The sweat poured down Aragorn's face as he fought his way through the thicket in pursuit of his cousin. "Is there not a more accessible stream nearby that experienced Rangers like you are aware of?" asked Aragorn.

"Stop grousing, cousin, you will thank me in a few moments. This water is worth battling the undergrowth to reach," said Halbarad.

The trees suddenly thinned out and the two men found themselves in a woodland glade. A stream trickled along mossy banks adorned with pink campions and golden buttercups.

The two Rangers hurried down to the stream and cupped their hands to drink from it.

"Is anything sweeter than pure fresh water? Nothing makes me more thankful than to quench my thirst with it." Aragorn said a little later after drinking his fill and refilling his water bottle. He now lay sprawled across the bank, watching the birds flittering in the treetops surrounding them. A few sunbeams danced across the stream illuminating the wings of the darting dragonflies and making the water sparkle.

"When you are King you will have fine wines to drink every day," said Halbarad. "You will forget to savour water."

"Wine cannot quench your thirst on a hot day like water can," said Aragorn. "Nor can wine look like diamonds sparkling in the sunlight. I wonder if even the Simarils appeared so fair?"

"You are master of Elven lore, not I," Halbarad said matter of factly. "I would imagine, though, that to a thirsty man that no jewel could compare with water."

Aragorn trailed his hand in the water, a thoughtful look upon his face. "Men and Elves have fought and killed over jewels," he said. "Yet what is there in Arda more precious than water? It is the very stuff of life."

Wishing my friends in the USA a happy and peaceful Thanksgiving.


Chapter 42 - Desert skies

Author Name: Linda Hoyland

Prompt: Suns...plash! by Mirach

Summary: Aragorn loses his way in the desert.

Rating: PG13

Warnings: angst

Author's Notes: I refer to other stories I have written in this story. though it can be read on its own.

“The Gift of Tongues” introduces Fardil

“East is East” explains the ritual markings.

http://lindahoyland.yolasite.com/the-gift-of-tongues.php
http://lindahoyland.yolasite.com/east-is-east.php

With thanks to Raksha



The sun blazed down mercilessly. Even the traditional head covering that Aragorn wore provided little protection from its searing heat. He raised his water bottle to his parched lips in the hope that few drops might yet remain. It was empty and as dry as the desert that surrounded him. How he hated this bleak unforgiving landscape.

He should have paid heed to Fadil’s warning that the desert was no place for a man not born and bred in this unforgiving land. He had heard tales of the nomadic tribes who dwelt there, though and  wanted to meet them and learn something of their beliefs and customs.

Many things he had discovered in Harad had surprised him, not least the diversity of the folk who dwelt there. Like most Men of the West he had believed the Haradrim to be nothing but a savage race of devoted Sauron worshippers. Some indeed were like that, but the public sacrifices to the Dark Lord were poorly attended. It seemed that Harad was a culture of many tribes, some of whom followed Sauron while others followed a more ancient religion, of which he had been able to discover very little. That was hardly surprising, as veneration of any other lord save Sauron earned the worshipper the cruel penalty of sacrifice upon one of Sauron's public altars.

After dwelling for several months with Fadil and his household, he was certain that the merchant was no Sauron worshipper. He always made some excuse not to attend the public acts of worship. Who or what the merchant did revere, he had no idea as he had only once heard him say, “Lord and Lady protect us!” under his breath when a rowdy group of soldiers threatened to overturn his booth in the market place.

Aragorn knew his mind was wandering and he needed to concentrate. Fadil’s maps had shown an oasis somewhere nearby, but it was easy to lose one’s way in this trackless desert, even for one as skilled in following a trail as Aragorn. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, but it grew ever harder. He felt as if his head would explode, while his limbs felt increasingly weak and reluctant to obey him. He knew if he did not find water and shade soon he would die. An ignominious ending for the heir of Elendil to survive countless battles only to die as result of indulging a foolish whim.

Was that a gleam of water on the horizon or a mirage of the heat? His befuddled brain could no longer make sense of what he was seeing. Aragorn stumbled and fell. Overhead the vultures reeled as if expecting to make a meal of him in the near future. He shuddered. He painfully dragged himself upright only to fall again. He could go no further. He thought sadly of his mother and of Arwen and of the green lands of the North. Then he knew no more.

000

Something cold and wet against his face and neck roused Aragorn from his swoon. He opened his eyes to behold a small group of men and women together with three camels. One of the women clutched a baby. Aragorn struggled to sit up. One of the men held a water skin to his lips. He swallowed greedily.

The group were engaging in an animated discussion. Aragorn knew enough of the language to make out what they were saying, though the dialect was strange to him.

“We should take him with us, as the Lord and Lady command we show kindness to wayfarers,” said the one who had given him water.

“Mind your speech, Mohsin,” said the woman with the baby. “He could be an enemy who would destroy us all. Leave him with a water skin or two and let him find his own way.”

“The sacred law of hospitality demands that we care for him, wife,” said Mohsin.

“We can soon find out if he serves the Lord of Gifts,” said another man.

“That would shame him,” said Mohsin.

The man ignored him and strode over to Aragorn. Before Aragorn could protest, he pulled Aragorn’s robe aside and gazed intently at the flesh above his heart.

“Junaid!” protested Mohsin.

“He is too far gone to know what we are doing,” said Junaid. “He is unmarked by the Lord of Gifts. Help me get him on to one of the camels.”

Aragorn swooned again as the men dragged him towards the beast.

000

When Aragorn next regained consciousness, the glaring sun had been reduced to a great red ball while the sky was no longer blue but a vivid hue of orange. He found he was lying beneath a gnarled olive tree, his head propped up with a makeshift pillow. A few feet away was a small lake, filled from a running spring which bubbled up from the rocks. Sheep and goats grazed around the shores of the lake. He could smell meat roasting. When he raised his head higher and looked around him, he could see the people were gathered around a fire. The woman whom he had seen earlier noticed he was awake and came over towards him, carrying a water skin. He eyed it greedily.

Aragorn remembered his manners to use the correct greeting that Fadil had taught him. “Greetings, fellow traveller, may the sun never burn your eyes!”

She replied “Greetings, fellow traveller, may you always dwell near an oasis!” She then handed Aragorn the water skin. This time, he had the strength to hold it himself, but he was still dreadfully thirsty.

“You are safe now, fellow traveller,” said the woman. “You were foolish to wander alone in the desert. It was fortunate that my companions and I came upon you when we did or the carrion birds would have been picking over your bones by now. We were seeking a camel that had strayed, instead we found you.”

Aragorn nodded dumbly somewhat surprised at her bluntness. It seemed that the nomads did not waste time on honeyed words

“I am Rana and these are the brothers and sisters of my tribe,” said the woman. “You are welcome to share our meal if you feel strong enough to join us.”

“I thank you, mistress,” said Aragorn. “May the sun never dazzle your eyes! I am called Belzager.”  He smiled at her, wondering why her name sounded oddly familiar.

Mohsin came over to join his wife. He smiled at Aragorn, revealing surprisingly white teeth. “I am glad to see you much recovered, fellow traveller. May the sun never burn you!” he said. “What paths are you travelling?”

“I desired to see the desert before returning to my home in Umbar,” said Aragorn. “I was foolish to underestimate its might. I thank you for your care and hospitality. May you always dwell in a shady oasis!”

Mohsin nodded gravely. “A man needs to be born and bred in these parts to truly understand the desert,” he said. “Even then, no wise man attempts to cross its vastness alone. My people and I are travelling towards the Great Road where we will meet with others of our tribe. You are welcome to come with us.”

“I will gladly accept your offer,” said Aragorn. “May the sun never dazzle your eyes!” He shivered slightly. Now the sun was setting, the air swiftly grew chill.

“Come eat with us and sit by the fire,” said Mohsin.

Aragorn still felt unsteady on his feet. He needed to be helped to a place near the fire by Mohsin and Rana. About a dozen adults were clustered around the fire and several children. They all greeted him courteously. Rana served him a meal of stewed goat and some kind of beans, followed by juicy dates for a dessert.

When the moon rose, the group all got to their feet and raised both their arms heavenwards.

“Gracious Lord and Lady, shine thy light upon us and guide us along safe pathways through the desert!” intoned Hohsin.

Aragorn felt a sudden thrill of understanding. The folk in this land who shunned the Dark Lord, worshipped the moon! It made perfect sense, as the moon’s light was gentle and benevolent compared to the searing sun. Then suddenly he realised where he had heard Rana's name before. It sounded very like 'Rána,' the old name that the Noldor used for the moon. He suddenly felt far less homesick. The manner in which she and her people worshipped the moon reminded him of the way the Elves venerated the stars. Maybe Lady Star- Kindler had watched over him this day, strange through the stars were in this place. He offered up a silent prayer of thanks to her. The desert sky was alight with countless twinkling stars and the silver orb of the full moon. This land was harsh but it also possessed a a majestic grandeur which gave it a unique beauty.

A/n Written for a BTME prompt last March and posted now to help readers escape the cold for a little while!


Chapter 43 - A Stranger in a Strange Land

A Stranger in a Strange Land – by Linda Hoyland.

"I have been a stranger in a strange land." – The Bible.

Rating PG13

The canon characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been nor will be made from this story.

With thanks to Deandra and Inzilbeth.

Written for the Teitho "Out of Place" contest where it was unplaced.

Edoras! Aragorn had already decided that he hated this place. The crowds, the noise and the stench of men and horses threatened to overwhelm him at times. After his upbringing in Rivendell, he had found the Dúnedain villages difficult to become accustomed to, but Edoras was vast by comparison.

Then there were the people; he stuck out like a sore thumb amongst these golden haired, blue- eyed horselords with their almost incomprehensible language. Although, King Thengel and his court spoke Sindarin, the decision was not popular with many of the common folk and Aragorn knew he would win few friends amongst his new comrades unless he learned to speak fluently the tongue of the Riddermark. After all, he would be spending his time with them, not with King Thengel and Queen Morwen, who so far was the only other person he had encountered here with dark hair and grey eyes like his own.

He sometimes wondered, though how much it would benefit him even if he did know the language. His comrades did their best to be welcoming, but he could tell they regarded him almost like some sort of exotic beast. They spent their off duty hours in dubious looking taverns or in the communal steam baths, which appealed to him not at all. He was careful to drink only in moderation and took his baths by swimming in the river, as had been his custom in the North. Then there were neither scrolls nor books to read, apart from the carefully guarded volumes in the royal library. The Rohirrim loved to tell stories, but they did not write them down nor trouble with reading or writing. Maybe if they did, he could have learned the language from a tome in Master Elrond's library before coming here.

Aragorn had a good mind to return home to his own people. Gandalf was wise, but in this matter, the Wizard was sorely mistaken for once in advising him to come here. He was needed far more at home than in this foreign land. He missed his family and friends and he could kill Orcs in the Angle just as well as in Rohan.

A group of horsemen passed, and for a moment, Aragorn forgot his troubles to admire the beautiful creatures that they rode. Their heads were held high, their eyes bright and their coats gleamed from the loving attention their masters lavished upon them. This was the one thing he did love about the Riddermark; the abundance of magnificent horses and the way they were loved and cared for. He had always believed that no horses surpassed those bred by the Elves, but the Rohirric horses were easily their equals.

"Thorongil!" a voice called. "Thorongil!"

It took Aragorn a moment or two to respond. He had chosen the alias carefully, a blend of his father and mother's names, but it still sounded strange to be called by it. He spun around to face Eadmund; the Captain of the Éored that his company was a part of. "Yes, Captain," he replied in halting Rohirric.

"Wake up, Thorongil! Are you deaf? We do not have all day!" snapped Eadmund.

"I am sorry, Captain." Aragorn struggled to appear contrite. He was finding it hard being treated as just another common soldier. Although he had deferred to the Elders advice as Chieftain, they had always treated him with respect.

"Word has come that Orcs have raided a village ten leagues from here," said Eadmund. He changed to the common tongue, obviously unimpressed by his newest Rider's command of his language. "We ride at once to reach our destination ere nightfall."

Aragorn hurried towards the stables, the most lavishly decorated part of the barracks. Beneath a thatched roof, the door to each stall was elaborately carved with the likeness of a horse. He swiftly made his way to where Gildin, his horse, was waiting for him. The grey was looking out of his stall. He whinnied with pleasure to see his master. Since his arrival in Edoras, Aragorn had often sought refuge in the stables, where he spent many an hour talking to Gildin and grooming him until his coat shone. He took a moment to greet the steed and then swiftly saddled him.

Aragorn took his place in the company beside a young man of similar years, whose name was Eadwulf, if he recalled the name correctly. All the names here sounded alike to his unaccustomed ears. Eadwulf rode a fine chestnut. He noted Aragorn's admiring glance at his horse. "Hunfrith's dam was said to have some Mearas ancestry," he said proudly. "He is a prince amongst horses."

"Truly."

"You too ride a fine horse."

Aragorn smiled. He knew this was praise indeed for a Rohir. "You honour me and Gildin. He is of northern stock."

Eadmund gave the command and the Éored rode off, their plumed helmets streaming in the wind. Aragorn heartily disliked wearing his. It was heavy and cumbersome and the plumes blew in his eyes when the wind was in a certain direction.

One of the men began to sing a hearty tune, which his fellow riders swiftly took up. All except Aragorn, that was. He found the melody crude compared to the exquisite music of the Elves that he had been brought up with. The music of the Dúnedain was not unlike Elvish music either. Maybe he would enjoy the song better if he understood the words. On second thoughts, maybe not, if a song he had heard here in a tavern was anything to go by. He had struggled not to blush when one of his comrades had translated it to the Common Tongue for his benefit.

Despite the uncomfortable helmet and raucous song, Aragorn found he was quite enjoying the ride through the sunlit countryside. The wind seemed to sing with them as it blew across the grassy plains.

The company made good progress, but came too late to save the village. Grim faced, Eadmund ordered the men to search the ruins for survivors. Aragorn was glad that few corpses were to be found. It seemed that most of the villagers managed to flee. The Riders dug a grave for what was left of two elderly men.

"They are heroes who remained behind to give their kinsmen time to escape," said Eadmund. "We will long remember them in song and story."

Several of the men were searching the surrounding fields. One of them cried out to his fellows, "Alas!" The rest of the company followed his call and came upon a slain horse, partially eaten by the Orcs.

"The orcish scum will pay for this atrocity in blood!" cried Eadmund. Then he wept, as did his fellows. They then set about digging a grave for the beast.

Aragorn regarded them in bewilderment. Amongst his own people, they held back their tears when burying their dead, but to weep thus for a horse that was not even known to them? The Rohirrim were strange folk indeed.

After the burial was complete, Eadmund ordered half of his men to go and search for survivors in the surrounding hills, while the other half were commanded to pursue the Orcs.

The tracks were easy enough to follow at first until they reached a forest where the track was deep with dead leaves and pine needles. Eadmund reined in his horse as he tried to work out which way the enemy had gone.

"I have experience in tracking," Aragorn volunteered.

"You know little of our forests," Eadmund replied. "Leave it to Thunor, he was born and bred here."

"I could assist him."

"You would only get in the way."

Aragorn bit back an angry retort.

"Peace, friend, Thunor knows what he is doing. He is a man ripe in years," said Eadwulf.

"I was trained in tracking by masters of the craft," Aragorn replied. He could only watch as precious time was wasted following three false trails before they finally sighted the Orcs' track. Eadmund gave the command to follow. The rode in single file, picking their way carefully along the track.

It was starting to grow dark. The horses whinnied uneasily. Aragorn tensed. Something was not right here. He drew his sword.

The attack took them all by surprise. The Orcs swarmed out from their hiding place. Aragorn swung his sword, killing several of the filthy creatures as they swarmed towards him. All around him was the noise of battle as the Rohirrim fought off their attackers.

There was a sudden silence as the clamour of battle ceased. A horse's anguished screams pierced the evening air.

Aragorn looked around. The moon had risen and he could see dead Orcs heaped at his feet and around his comrades. He was uninjured, as was Gildin, though the noble steed was panting heavily. He gently caressed his mane and spoke soothing words to him.

Eadmund gave a shout of triumph. "Death to all slayers of horses!" he cried, or at least that was what Aragorn thought he said. He looked around him. His comrades appeared to have escaped relatively unscathed, but the screaming horse was bleeding profusely. It was Hunfrith.

Aragorn dismounted and tethered Gildin to a tree. Grabbing the satchel of healing supplies he always carried, he hurried over to the injured horse. Eadwulf was holding his reins and trying to calm his steed, but the frightened horse was rearing and kicking wildly, preventing the approach of a Rider whom Aragorn recognised as Ealdred, the man in charge of the horses' welfare.

"Let me help, I have knowledge of the healing arts," said Aragorn.

"Ealdred tends the horses here," said Eadmund. "Go and begin building a pyre to dispose of the dead Orcs. That is your task."

Aragorn did not move.

"Are you deaf? Go man!"

"Your horse won't let me near him," Ealdred said desperately to Eadwulf. "He's going to further injure himself if not tended and he is losing a lot of blood."

Tears were pouring down Eadwulf's cheeks as he addressed Aragorn. "If you believe you can help Hunfrith, Thorongil, please try. I beg of you to let him, Captain!"

Eadmund nodded reluctantly.

Aragorn immediately took command. "Make a fire and boil some water," he ordered. "Eadwulf, stay where you are. Ealdred, prepare to press some cloths against the wound to slow the bleeding. Everyone else, stay back." He moved to stand at Hunfrith's side and began to chant softly in the Elvish tongue. Almost at once, some of the fear left the horse's eyes and Aragorn stroked the great neck.

Seizing his chance, Ealdred firmly pressed a cloth against the wound. Aragorn continued his soft chant. Hunfrith appeared almost mesmerised by the sound. Aragorn continued until one of the riders hesitantly approached with a pan of boiling water. He gestured to the man to place the pan at his feet. After telling Eadwulf to take his place at Hunfrith's side, Aragorn fumbled inside his satchel and brought out two leaves, which he breathed upon then cast them into the boiling water.

The men immediately felt refreshed while Hunfrith's breaths came more easily. Aragorn waited for the water to cool a little then dipped a cloth in it.

"Hold his head," he commanded Eadwulf. He then began to bathe Hunfrith's wound, all the while chanting softly. The horse whinnied but did not struggle, not even when he stitched the gash closed. "We should get him back to his stable as soon as possible," he said, once the task was complete.

"Eadwulf," said Eadmund. "You walk beside your horse for the journey back to Edoras."

"When we are halfway," said Aragorn, "I will walk beside Hunfrith and Eadwulf can ride my horse. He has suffered a shock."

"Will you ever question orders, Thorongil?" said Eadmund. He glared at the Northerner for a moment then smiled. "You fought bravely today, and then showed great skill in tending Hunfrith. Thengel King shall hear of your deeds when I next report to him."

Aragorn returned his smile. "Thank you, sir."

0000

The next morning, Aragorn went early to Hunfrith's stable with more athelas to tend the wound. He found Eadwulf was already in the stable feeding oats to his horse, who devoured them eagerly.

Eadwulf smiled a greeting. "I fear I did not thank you yesterday for saving Hunfrith. How can I ever repay you?"

"It was my pleasure," said Aragorn. "He is a noble steed. I should like to tend him daily until I am certain there is no risk of infection. But why are you laughing?"

"You just told me you would like to wash Hunfrith daily!" said Eadwulf, struggling to contain his mirth.

Aragorn had a sudden idea. "If you wish to repay me, maybe you could teach me to speak your language more fluently?"

"Gladly," said Eadwulf, grasping the other's arms in a warrior's embrace. "Meet me in the tavern tonight and we will begin your lessons."

Aragorn opened his mouth to protest that he disliked the tavern then shut it again. Maybe it would be more agreeable than his tiny room in the barracks.

0000

Eadwulf proved an enthusiastic if not especially skilled teacher, but Aragorn found his mastery of the tongue of Rohan increased by the day. Eadwulf taught him all manner of things, such as it was considered most impolite to enquire after the health of a Rohir's family without including his horses. He told him tales about the fabled Mearas too. The pure- blooded ones allowed only the King of the Mark and his sons to ride upon their backs.

Aragorn no longer struggled to hold a conversation. Maybe it was simply by spending more time with his new comrades. Eadwulf was swiftly becoming a friend, while his other comrades treated him with a newfound respect and friendliness.

One day, about two weeks later, Eadwulf met Aragorn in the tavern and they were soon deep in conversation. Eadwulf was in a nostalgic mood and told his companion that he hailed from the Eastfold and was the youngest of six brothers who had come to Edoras to seek his fortune. He hoped one day he could return home and woo the miller's daughter who had captured his heart. "Have you a sweetheart?" he asked Aragorn.

"I too seek to win the affections of a beautiful maiden from my homeland," Aragorn replied.

"Let us drink to our success!" said Eadwulf. He called the innkeeper to bring drinks.

Aragorn tasted his. It was not ale, but had a delicious sweet flavour.

"It is mead, our national drink," Eadwulf explained, seeing his companion's expression.

"It is good."

"This calls for a drinking song," said Eadwulf. "Mead merits mirth, mighty mouths making, wine of the warrior, weariness slaking. Happy the horn, filled to 0'rflowing, merry the maid, the warrior knowing," he began to sing.

The words made little sense to Aragorn, but the tune was a catchy one and he found himself joining in by humming along to it.

When he later returned to the barracks, he suddenly realised he no longer felt out of place amongst the Rohirrim. Gandalf had been right. It was good to broaden his horizons.

"Goodnight, Thorongil," called several of his comrades as he went to his room.

"Goodnight," he replied without any hesitation. He had become Thorongil now.


Chapter 44 - Room at the Inn

B2MeM Challenge: Pride.
"They come from Mordor,' said Strider in a low voice. 'From Mordor, Barliman, if that means anything to you.”
Format: short story
Genre: angst
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Characters: Barliman Butterbur, Frodo, Aragorn 
Pairings: none
Summary: Barliman Butterbur is a conscientious innkeeper who tries to look after all his guests.
With thanks to Raksha
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

Barliman Butterbur believed that he had every right to be proud of “The Prancing Pony”. He knew that he served the finest ale for miles around to his customers, together with good honest home cooking. His rooms were comfortable and he tried to make all his guests feel at home. He even had special Hobbit rooms for his smaller customers to stay in.

Mr. Butterbur tried hard to make all his guests feel welcome; even the unpleasant Bill Ferny and those odd Southrons who came in sometimes. He even served Rangers, such as that mysterious Strider fellow, who was in his common room tonight. Truth to tell, he found Strider a bit intimidating with his grimness and those fierce grey eyes of his , but he could tell a right good tale when he had a mind to and after all, a Ranger’s coin was as good as any other.

Barliman couldn’t say, though, that he was happy about those queer fellows in black that had been asking questions of late. He was mighty glad that they he’d slammed the door on them when they came asking questions about “Baggins”, whoever he might be. The name seemed vaguely familiar somehow. Had something slipped his mind he was supposed to remember? He hoped if it had done that it wasn’t anything important. They gave him the shudders, those black men did, and poor Nob’s hair stood right on end at the sight of them. The dogs made a right racket and the geese too, while his cat had emitted blood-curdling yowls. Animals can sense if there’s something wrong about a fellow, or so his old mother always used to say and she was usually right about most things.

The Ranger, Strider, had been asking questions too. The Pony hadn’t been so full in many a moon. Four Hobbits from the Shire had just turned up and it was a long time since any of those had ventured as far as Bree. Thank Goodness, he had the special Hobbit sized rooms he could offer them!

Suddenly, Mr. Butterbur was called into the common room by a group of customers claiming that one of the Shire Hobbits, a Mr. Underhill, had  gone and vanished into thin air! Now Butterbur had seen a few queer things in his life, but he knew that folks didn’t just go and vanish like that! The folk making such wild claims must have drunk a bit too much of his best ale or something.

Mr. Butterbur hurried into the common room and found Mr. Underhill there as large as life. He hadn’t vanished at all. The innkeeper warned the Hobbit good- naturedly that he ought to give notice in future if he wanted to do conjuring tricks. Now that put Butterbur to mind of something. Then it came back to him: Old Gandalf’s letter was addressed to a Mr. Baggins and the old Wizard had asked him to look out for Hobbits from the Shire, especially one who was travelling as Mr. Underhill! Gandalf would turn him into a toad for certain for this, Barliman thought, if he ever learned what had happened. It must three months ago or so now that the wizard had asked him to deliver the letter and it had clean gone out of his mind. Well, he supposed he’d better give it to Mr. Baggins, who called himself Mr. Underhill now and do his best to make amends.

Barliman picked up the letter, took a deep breath, and went with Nob to take candles to the parlour and give the letter to Mr. Underhill, or Baggins, or whatever his name really was.

The stout little fellow was annoyed, not surprisingly, but Barliman did his best to explain about how he came to forget about delivering the letter and how Gandalf had feared that Mr. Baggins might be in trouble and had asked Barliman to help him, which he’d promised to do. He also told them about those creepy black fellows who had been hanging around asking questions, which he wondered might be something to do with the trouble old Gandalf hinted about.

It was then the Ranger suddenly appeared, looming out of a corner, and nearly making him jump out of his skin. They were creepy folk too when he thought about it. Why had this Ranger asked him earlier about Mr. Baggins too? Was he in league with the queer black men in the long cloaks?

Butterbur felt he should warn the little master that taking up with a Ranger was not a good idea. You just couldn’t trust such strange wandering folk you knew nothing about.

The Ranger’s reply was tart and stung him.

'Then who would you take up with?' asked Strider. “A fat innkeeper who only remembers his own name because people shout it at him all day. Will you go with them and keep the black men off?”

Barliman reacted with horror. Well he couldn’t leave the Pony, could he? Who would look after it? He’d let Mr. Baggins stay here for a while if that would help. And who were these black men in any case? Where did they come from and what did they want?

Mr. Baggins started to give him an explanation of sorts, but the Ranger interrupted.

'They come from Mordor,' said Strider in a low voice. 'From Mordor, Barliman, if that means anything to you.”

Mordor! Barliman turned pale and gripped the table in front of him. He didn’t know much about Mordor, but the very name struck terror in his heart. He’d heard it was a place full of fire and brimstone where evil things dwelled that might venture forth in search of the unwary and carry them off to that dread place.

Mr. Baggins noticed his dread and asked if he still wanted to help. Of course he did. He was mighty scared, but Mr. Baggins was under his roof and he was right proud of the way the Pony looked after its guests. But how could he help against the forces of Mordor?

“'Not much, Barliman, but every little helps,” said the Ranger. “You can let Mr. Baggins stay here tonight, as Mr. Underhill, and you can forget the name of Baggins, till he is far away.”

Butterbur took a deep breath; well, he could do that sure enough. There was no way he’d throw a guest out into the night, and especially not with those queer black men around! And he always forgot names even when he wasn’t trying to.

He was proud of the Prancing Pony and would look after this Mr. Baggins and his friends, or his name wasn’t Barliman Butterbur!

A/n. Some quotes are taken directly from Tolkien. Barliman refers to the Nazgûl as “black men”. No racism is intended.

Written for BTME13


Chapter 45 - The Man behind the King

"But when Aragorn arose all that beheld him gazed in silence, for it seemed to them that he was revealed to them now for the first time. Tall he seemed and yet in the flower of manhood; and wisdom sat upon his brow, and strength and healing were in his hands, and a light was about him."
Format: short story
Genre: friendship
Rating: PG
Warnings: alcohol consumption
Characters: Aragorn, Faramir
Pairings: none
Summary: Faramir discovers an unexpected side to the new King.
With thanks to Raksha

His new King was all that Faramir had hoped for and more. In his dreams, he had long beheld Elendil's heir as tall, noble, and kingly. Today, he was even more, for when Mithrandir placed the crown upon Elessar's noble brow; there was a light surrounding him and a glory beyond his wildest imaginings.

Faramir had glimpsed Aragorn thus when he called him forth from the dark vale. Indeed, he had mistaken his rescuer for one of the Valar! In the waking world, though, he had beheld a weary Ranger and loved the man for himself.

Now when he again beheld Aragorn's kingly glory, he was filled with awe. His heart was overflowing as he cried, "Behold the King!"

000

In the months that followed, he found Aragorn to be a wise and kindly lord, and every inch of what a King should be. Faramir found his new lord to be friendly, yet he hesitated to become close to his liege lord. Aragorn was most solicitous towards him and enquired frequently about his health, offering him further treatments for his shoulder, which remained stiff and painful at times, though the wound had healed. Faramir always declined. Much as he loved and admired Aragorn, his father had left him somewhat wary of those who held the power of life and death over him. Aragorn was much of an age with his father and at times, when in a stern mood, looked disconcerting like him.

One evening, King and Steward had worked especially hard all day, compiling a complicated treaty with Harad. Queen Arwen was spending the day visiting the many Guilds of City craftsmen and then dining with the heads of the Guilds. She was not expected back until late evening, so the two men worked later than usual.

Only when the sun had set and a servant came to light the candles, did the King and Steward set aside their work.

"Have you any plans for this evening, Faramir?" Aragorn asked.

"No, my lord," Faramir replied. "I thought to do more work on the treaty and draft out an invitation for the Kha Khan of Harad to exchange ambassadors with us."

"That can wait until tomorrow, Faramir. I would not have you spend all your time tied to your desk. We shall escape from the Citadel together, this night."

"Escape, my lord?" Faramir could hardly believe his ears and could not conceal his alarm.

Aragorn laughed. "You remind me of your father when you raise your eyebrows like that, my Lord Steward! No need to look so concerned, I am not planning to escape back to the Northern lands from whence I came."

"That is good to hear, my lord."

"We are both former Rangers, are we not? We need a little freedom every now and then, if we are not to go quite mad cooped up within these walls!"

"But, my lord! It would cause an uproar if we were to simply disappear!"

"This time, we shall take guards with us who will be ordered to be as unobtrusive as possible. In future, though, when they are better used to my ways, I intend to disperse with them. Now, Faramir, will you join me for a drink?"

"Thank you, sire, I would be honoured," said Faramir.

000

The King strode through the darkening city streets with long confident strides, giving Faramir the answer to a question that had puzzled him these past months, why the Hobbits had often referred to the King as "Strider". The guards struggled manfully, but had trouble keeping up with their King. Faramir, who was nearer to his liege lord's height, managed to keep up without too much difficulty.

The King kept on walking until they reached the fifth circle where he stopped outside a very ordinary looking tavern. A crudely decorated sign read 'The Travellers' Rest.' "We will stop here," he told Faramir. "Gimli speaks highly of the place."

Aragorn ordered the guards to wait outside, ignoring their horrified reaction. He strode within, followed by a somewhat reluctant Faramir.

"Welcome to my inn, my lords. I am Turin son of Turgon," declared a tall, balding man, who was obviously the innkeeper. He swiftly approached them and bowed. "How might I be of service to your lordships? Would you like some refreshment to warm you on this cold night? I have the finest wines from Dorwinion to Lossarnach."

"A glass of Dorwinion, please" said Faramir.

"And a tankard of ale for me, please," said Aragorn. "Do you have Dragon's Breath?"

Faramir stared open mouthed. Labourers and other common folk favoured Dragon's Breath. He had never tasted it, but had heard it was an exceedingly strong and pungent ale.

"And would my lords like anything to eat?" asked the innkeeper.

"A crusty loaf with butter and a hunk of cheese," Aragorn replied. He glanced at Faramir who could only nod dumbly. The King, who could dine off the finest foods in Gondor, wanted to eat the fare favoured by the humblest of his subjects?

Turin showed his guests to a table. It was still early and there was plenty of room. A hush fell over the common room and the other patrons rose and bowed. Aragorn smiled at them and bade them ignore his presence.

"This was a mistake, Faramir," said Aragorn once the innkeeper had scurried off to fulfil their order.

Faramir let out a sign of relief. The King had come to his senses.

"Next time we come out for a drink we must choose a tavern where we will not be recognised and wear our old Ranger clothes as a disguise," said Aragorn.

"But why my lord?"

"We do not wish to ruin anyone else's enjoyment of their drinks by making them constrained in our presence," said Aragorn. "Also only a foolish King pays no heed to what his people are thinking. Over a drink, men talk of their joys and fears and whether or not they are happy with their lot and those who rule over them. "

Faramir nodded, suddenly understanding. The King was far wiser than he had imagined.

The innkeeper brought their drinks together with the food: brown crusty bread with creamy butter and sharp cheese from Lossarnach.

Faramir nibbled the bread. It was much tastier than that served at his table. He sipped his Dorwinion. It was a poor vintage. He grimaced.

"You should have had a tankard of Dragon's Breath," said Aragorn. He took a swallow and linked his lips appreciatively.

"My father always insisted I should drink wine," Faramir replied. "He said ale was common. I would have preferred, though, to drink the same as my men. My father, though, always insisted that wine was supplied and drunk by the officers."

"Neither King nor Steward should ever lose the common touch," said Aragorn. He called to the innkeeper to fetch another pint of Dragon's Breath.

"Now drink up, lad," he said, pushing the foaming tankard towards the Steward. "Let us make the most of our hour of freedom!"

Faramir drank, at first cautiously. To his surprise, the ale tasted good. It was a strong black beer with rich, complex aromas and the flavour of roasted malt.

"Do you like it?" asked Aragorn.

Faramir smiled. "I think I do, sire."

Aragorn grinned at him. "I thought you might once you had tasted it. I was brought up to only drink wine too, but discovered the delights of a good ale when Halbarad took me to 'The Prancing Pony in Bree'. I should like to take you there one day. I discovered "Dragon's Breath" when I was in Gondor before, many years ago. It is one of this land's hidden treasures. Drink up and enjoy!"

Faramir drank his expression thoughtful. This was a side to the King he had not suspected, an unexpected side of the man beneath the crown. Here was a former Ranger desiring to escape the trappings of royalty and enjoy simple pleasures. Behind the King's glory, was a humble man and Faramir loved and admired the King all the more for it.

Written for BTME and now revised and reposted. Faramir and Aragorn do not become close friends until "Shadow and Thought" in my universe.


Chapter 46 - The Rod and the Crown

The Rod and the Crown

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

Rating K+

Thorongil beholds some of Gondor's great heirlooms for the first time.

With thanks to Raksha and Deandra.

Thorongil's footsteps echoed loudly as he walked slowly towards the dais in the vast hall. In all his travels, he had never seen the like. The Golden Hall in Edoras seemed small and cosy beside it, as did the Hall of Fire at Rivendell. No hangings or tapestries adorned the walls instead great statues were set between the pillars of carved black marble that supported the roof of this vast place. The statues all wore crowns and with a thrill, Thorongil recognised them as his kinsfolk.

He glanced upwards; the vaulted roof was inlaid with gold, and decorated with brightly coloured designs, which were brightly illuminated by the sunlight streaming through great windows.

His attention was drawn towards the great throne at the far end of the hall. Many steps led up to the great seat, above which was a canopy in the shape of the winged crown. He recalled seeing pictures of in the library at Rivendell. Behind the throne was a carved image of the blossoming White Tree decorated with jewels. Thorongil's heartbeat quickened. This was the throne of Anárion, sire of the line of his own foremother Firiel. This was the very throne that he, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was born to claim.

He clutched the letter in his hand more tightly as he approached the old man who sat on a plain black chair on the lowest step, holding a white rod. He halted three paces before the man as he had been instructed. Thorongil tried to quiet his pounding heart. He told himself sternly that there was nothing to fear, but at this moment he would much rather have been fighting a whole army of Orcs! He collected his thoughts, all too well aware that the Steward carried a good measure of the blood of Númenor in his veins and might well possess the power to read the hearts of Men as result.

The old man raised the rod and beckoned Thorongil to come closer. Thorongil could see now that it was adorned with a gold knob, and decorated with mithril, crystal, and mother of pearl so that it almost equalled the splendour of the Sceptre of Annúminas. It seemed that the Stewards' heirlooms now equalled those of the Kings!

"So you are Thorongil, the captain that Thengel of Rohan has sent to me?" said the old man.

"I am he, my lord. I bring a letter of introduction from Thengel King." He handed the missive to the Steward, who immediately tore open the seal,

"Thengel speaks very highly of you, Thorongil," Ecthelion remarked after studying the letter for a few moments. "Why do you wish to serve me instead?"

"I have heard that Gondor has great need of fighting men. I would see more of the world outside Rohan's borders and try to win renown by fighting against the darkness that threatens us all. I offer you my sword to aid in that fight."

The old man smiled. "Doubtless there is fair maiden somewhere that you seek to impress too? I see by your blushing that I have hit the mark! Welcome, Thorongil! I Ecthelion, son of Turgon, gladly accept your service. I know Thengel to be a man of sound judgement. He would not send me anyone who would not be an asset to Gondor. You must be weary now from your long journey, but maybe when you are rested, you will tell me how things fare in Rohan?"

"Gladly, my lord." Thorongil smiled back. He had expected to dislike the man who ruled in his stead, yet his first impression of Ecthelion was a favourable one. He had been fond of Thengel and hoped he might grow to like Ecthelion too in time.

Three days after his arrival in Gondor, Thorongil was summoned to appear before Ecthelion again. This time, though, the Steward was in his private chambers where he offered Thorongil cakes and wine and questioned him closely concerning affairs in Rohan.

Thorongil told him of life at King Thengel's court, of the battles the Rohirrim had fought against Orcs and Dunlendings, of the fine herds of horses that roamed the plains surrounding Edoras and of the great feasts in the Golden Hall. At first, he was wary, fearing that Ecthelion might seek to learn the true identity of his new captain. The Steward did indeed ask if Thorongil had any family, to which he answered truthfully that his father had died in battle when he was a young child and that he had a mother in the northlands. Ecthelion nodded sympathetically and asked no further questions.

When the Steward dismissed Thorongil after over an hour of conversation, it was with an invitation to dine the following week.

An unlikely friendship soon developed between the Captain and the Steward. Thorongil sensed that Ecthelion had been lonely since his wife died. His position made close friendships with his peers difficult. It was easier for him to seek the company of an outsider under the thinly disguised excuse of discussing military tactics or life at Thengel's court. Ecthelion and Thengel corresponded regularly and the Steward would tell his captain news of the court he had recently left.

Thorongil too, was somewhat isolated. He enjoyed the company of men he had been assigned, but he tried to avoid over much of the society of his fellow officers, lest his guard slip when the wine flowed too freely at the taverns they frequented. He grew to enjoy the Steward's company. As time passed, Ecthelion would often seek his counsel and sometimes for a few moments, Thorongil felt almost as if he were the King and Ecthelion his Steward. At other times, the old man seemed to him almost like the human father he had never known.

Ecthelion spoke proudly of Gondor's long history and the great deeds of her Kings as well as those of the long line of Stewards. He would clasp the white rod and tell tales of the other hands that had held it. Thorongil would have felt uncomfortable during these tales save that Ecthelion always concluded them with the words, "Every Ruling Steward of Gondor has hoped that he will be the last and the one to whom the honour falls of offering the rod to the King returned."

As time passed Thorongil had beheld the white rod so often that he felt he could have drawn an accurate picture of it in his sleep! One night he had a dream that the Steward of Gondor knelt before him, offering him the white rod and the rule of Gondor that it symbolised. The Steward was not Ecthelion, though, but a young man that he had never met. At first, Thorongil wondered if this were a vision of Ecthelion's son and heir, but as soon as he met Denethor he realised that it was not. Denethor took an instant dislike to his father's new captain. Thorongil was saddened by this, for the blood of Númenor ran true in Ecthelion's son and he had a more kingly demeanour than even Thengel of Rohan. Denethor was a master of lore and a seasoned warrior with the ability to read the hearts of Men.

Thorongil could no more imagine Ecthelion's disdainful son kneeling before him than the dead White Tree sprouting blossom overnight. He veiled his thoughts in Denethor's presence and kept his distance.

Thorongil's military duties often called him away from the City. He was successful in battle and won great renown, which raised him even higher in Ecthelion's favour. Thorongil was always pleased to see the Steward whenever he returned to Minas Tirith, but whenever he was in the City, everywhere he beheld the royal emblems of the Winged Crown and the White Tree, emblems of the crown of Elendil and his heirs, the crown he could not yet claim.

Had Ecthelion been a younger man, how different matters might have been. The Steward would have at least given his claim to the throne a fair hearing, but his son was a different matter entirely. If Thorongil pressed his claim, it would lead to kinstrife and most likely bloodshed that could fatally weaken Gondor against her ever more powerful enemies.

Thorongil knew he dared not claim the crown, but how he longed to see it and not just a carved representation! He had learned that the winged crown lay in the tomb of King Eärnil in the Silent Street, where his son, the last of the Kings had left it before going off to do battle with the Witch King never to be seen again.

He wondered how he might gain admission to the tomb and made discreet enquiries, only to learn that no one was permitted to enter save on the Steward's authority. To purloin the key to the House of Kings from the porter who guarded it would have been an easy enough matter for him, but he felt loth to do so. He felt he would be betraying Ecthelion's trust in him. Moreover, Elendil's heir should not have to sneak into a tomb to look upon his crown like a thief in the night!

One evening he was invited to dine with the Steward. After the meal they lingered in Ecthelion's quarters sipping wine. Suddenly, the old man said, "Tomorrow is a memorable day in the history of Gondor, for it is the date on which King Eärnur left Gondor in the hands of my longfather, Mardil and departed never to be seen again. As no man knows where his bones might lie, I pay my respects at the tomb of Eärnil, his sire. I was wondering if you would like to come with me, Thorongil. My son is away on campaign and the Silent Street is a grim place for an old man alone. It is better that Denethor should not learn that I sought a companion, though, lest he think me in my dotage!"

"Of course, my lord, I would be glad to accompany you." Thorongil tried to disguise the eagerness he felt. And how did Ecthelion know that he so badly wished to visit the tomb? Had his affection for one he had come to love caused him to drop his guard? He knew all too well that people who were close friends could sometimes know what each other was thinking even if they were not of high Númenorean lineage. Ecthelion's expression betrayed nothing though, but Thorongil knew and trusted him well enough to know he would not seek to lay traps for him, unlike Denethor.

Early the next morning, when very few folk were yet abroad, Thorongil and Ecthelion made their way to the Silent Street. To denote the solemnity of the occasion, the Steward bore the white rod in his hand. The porter greeted them at the doorway and unlocked the door for them, then preceded them within bearing a lighted torch. He placed the torch in a sconce and then withdrew to allow them to pay their respects privately.

The dead kings were laid out on tables to resemble beds. They had been so skilfully mummified that many of them looked to be simply sleeping. Thorongil had been in the presence of death many times before, but this felt different. He felt a mixture of reverence and awe, combined with a vague unease that the mortal remains of these distant kin of his still remained long after their spirits had departed beyond the circles of the world. He preferred the custom of the North, where the dead were returned to the earth. A sudden thought struck him; were he ever to be king, this would be his final resting place too.

Ecthelion halted beside one of the marble tables, which differed from the others in that a great casket of black lebethron bound with silver lay beside its occupant. Ecthelion stood in silence for a few moments before Eärnil's body. Then he turned to Thorongil, "Would you like to see the crown, friend?" he asked. "I look at it every now and then. It is the Steward's duty to keep all in readiness lest the King return!"

Thorongil nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Ecthelion fumbled at his belt, where he kept many keys and selected one with which he unlocked the casket. He lifted out the crown, which gleamed softly in the torchlight. It was shaped like the helms of the Guards of the Citadel, save that it was loftier, and it was all white, and the wings at either side were wrought of pearl and silver in the likeness of the wings of a sea-bird. Seven gems of adamant were set in the circlet, and upon its summit was set a single jewel the light of which went up like a flame.

Thorongil gazed upon it in awe.

"It is a fair thing, indeed is it not?" asked Ecthelion.

"Most fair." Thorongil realised he had been holding his breath.

Ecthelion looked at him for a long moment then replaced the crown it its casket and locked it again. "And there it must rest unseen until the rightful King should come to claim it," he said.

"When the time is right he will come, if it be the will of the Valar," said Thorongil.

"I am an old man and would gladly lay down my burdens to the King returned," said Ecthelion. "My son, though, would have all remain unchanged as in the days of his longfathers. Now let us leave this place. All too soon, I will join my fathers in the House of Stewards."

"The crown is an ancient heirloom indeed, dating back to the reign of King Atanatar II, who considered that Isildur's battle helmet no longer made a fitting crown," said Thorongil. "I hope you still have many years left yet as Steward, my lord."

"This rod is not the original one either." Ecthelion fingered the staff in his hand. "Do you know the story of how the white rod came to be, Thorongil?"

Thorongil shook his head. "I assumed it had similar origins to the Sceptre of Annúminas that was fashioned after the rod borne by Elendil."

"The story passed down the House of Húrin tells otherwise," said Ecthelion. "It is said that before King Eärnur rode off to do the battle with the Witch King that there was a great storm. Fierce winds tore a branch from the White Tree. The King and his Steward, Mardil went to inspect the damage, which many took to be an ill omen. Eärnur made light of it. He praised Mardil for his work in supervising repairs after the great storm. Then he said he planned to make Gondor more secure and put an end to the Witch King's evil once and for all. He picked up the fallen branch from the White Tree and handed it to Mardil. He told him he would have it fashioned into a rod with which Mardil could rule Gondor until he returned. Mardil promised to faithfully hold Gondor in his stead and vowed that he would return the rod to him when he came back."

"That would be a fitting start to the rule of the Stewards," said Thorongil. "It sounds like a true tale."

"Sometimes I wish that we Stewards had kept Mardil's rod," said Ecthelion. "It was a simple, beautiful thing and a constant reminder of how the Stewards come to hold office."

"Was the original rod lost then?" asked Thorongil.

"It is locked away in the archives since one of my less illustrious forebears decided that it was not grand enough for him. A pity, I believe a plainer rod would be better suited for one who is after all, but Arandur, the servant of the King. Maybe one day I will show it to you when my duties permit." Ecthelion sighed deeply. "I hope only that I have carried out my duties as faithfully as Mardil did. I have ever been the King's loyal Steward. It saddens my heart to see this tree withered and bare. Would that it could blossom anew!"

"What man knows what the future might bring?" said Thorongil.

"I grow weary and this staff weights heavy in my hand," said Ecthelion. "Carry it for me, Thorongil, back to my chamber." He held out the white rod to the younger man.

Thorongil hesitated for a moment then looked Ecthelion in the eye. Ecthelion might be aged, but he was still vigorous and hardly likely to be wearied by carrying the white rod to the Hallows. The old man looked on him with affection mingled with sorrow.

"I will bear it for a little while," he said. Though neither of them would voice it aloud, he knew what this gesture signified. Sudden foresight came upon him and he beheld another in Ecthelion's place with the same love shining in his eyes giving a white rod to him. Cheering crowds surrounded them in contrast to the near deserted Court of the Fountain. "The House of Húrin has ruled faithfully and well," he said as he took the rod from Ecthelion.

We are proud to be the King's Servants," said Ecthelion. "Now come, breakfast awaits us in my chambers."

Side by side, the two men walked away from the withered tree.

A/n. Some descriptions are taken directly from Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings." This was written for the Teitho "Heirlooms" challenge where it was placed first.


Chapter 47 - Arandur

itle- Arandur

Author: Linda Hoyland
Title:
Rating: PG
Theme:
Elements: 28. Third Age: Denethor broke the white rod of the stewards when he went into the fire. Whence came the rod that Faramir presented to Aragorn at the coronation ? (harrowcatliz)
Author's Notes: With thanks to Deandra, Raksha and my friends on LJ
Summary: As the day for Aragorn's coronation approaches, Faramir has a problem.
Word Count: 2,1808080
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

The day of the new King's coronation was fast approaching and Faramir's brief tenure as ruling Steward was almost ended. He was untroubled by the fact. He had always believed that there could be no greater honour for a Steward than to surrender the White Rod to the rightful King when he returned, the symbol of a trust faithfully kept throughout the long years of waiting. Little had he ever imagined that the honour would fall to him, but now that it had, he was determined that the transfer of power would be swift, willing, and gracious.

He did not expect the new King would have much need of a Steward once he was crowned, especially not a son of Denethor, but he would always be Arandur, the King's loyal servant. He doubted that there would be any place in public life for him, though. The King would appoint advisors of his own choice. Faramir intended to live quietly in Ithilien where he had some ancestral lands.

First though, was the coronation of the King. It had been decided that Aragorn Elessar would come with his retinue to a barrier, which had been erected to serve as a temporary gate to the City, where Faramir would greet him and surrender his office to him, which was symbolised by handing him the White Rod.

Everything was in readiness. Even at this moment, the people of Minas Tirith were decorating the streets and tending the flowers for the great day.

Faramir decided that to prepare for the ceremony, he ought to practise handing over the White Rod. Unaccustomed as he was to bearing it, he did not want to brandish it like some sort of weapon and thereby risk striking the King; neither did he want to hold it as an old man might clutch his cane. His father had always carried it as if it were a part of his very arm! In fact, it had felt so much a part of Denethor that Faramir had not sought to carry it at the meetings he had presided over since his father's death. Now he came to think of it, he did not even know where it was. He called for a servant and asked them to summon Caranthir, his father's personal servant, who had aided Denethor in dressing for his official duties. He would surely know where the White Rod was kept.

Caranthir was an old man, but since Denethor's death, he appeared even older than his years. He was now stooped and walked much more slowly than had been his custom as he shuffled into Faramir's study. "You sent for me, my lord?" he enquired in a thin reedy voice.

Faramir noticed that the old man's eyes were full of sorrow. It seemed that he was one of the few who had truly loved Denethor rather than simply respecting him.

"I sent for you as I will need the white rod, Caranthir, for the coronation ceremony and I need to prepare for it. I wondered if you might know where it is."

Caranthir paled and swayed on his feet. Faramir hastily bade the old man sit down.

"Are you unwell?" the Steward enquired. He poured a glass of wine from the carafe upon his table and offered it to Caranthir.

"I am well enough, my lord, but did you not know about the fate of the rod? I can hardly bear to speak of it." His voice shook as he spoke.

"No, I did not" Faramir looked at the man in concern, wondering whatever about the Rod could prompt such strong emotions. "I am sorry that it pains you to speak of the matter but I need to know what happened to the White Rod."

Caranthir sighed and took a deep breath before he spoke again. "My lord, I was one of those who was commanded to follow Lord Denethor to the Silent Street. I stood by when Mithrandir arrived and ordered you to be taken to the healers. The Grey Wanderer begged Lord Denethor to forgo his deadly purpose, but he would not listen and cast a torch upon the pyre." Caranthir paused, wiped his brow, and then swallowed hard. "When Lord Denethor…when…when he burned, he…he destroyed it! He said he would never yield to any heir of Isildur's, then broke the white rod in twain across his knee and cast it in the flames before he-." The old man broke down, unable to continue.

Faramir could not have been more shocked if the old servant had struck him across the face. The White Rod was the symbol of the Steward's office; an office that had been performed by the House of Húrin for well nigh on a thousand years. And his father had destroyed it together with his own life? The young Steward struggled to keep his composure at these tidings. It was bad enough that Denethor had not sought an honourable death in battle when all had seemed lost, but to desecrate the White Rod thus as well, was a bitter blow indeed.

"That will be all, Caranthir, you may go now. One of the guards will help you to your quarters." Faramir hastily dismissed the old servant, fearful that he would betray his distress in front of him, not to mention his anger. His father's retainers appeared to have done nothing to try to prevent their master from succumbing to his crazed purpose. He inwardly shook himself, knowing he was being unfair. His father had never been an easy man to cross and in the final week of his life his wrath had been feared by all when his mind began to crumble.

Faramir slumped across his desk and buried his head in his hands for a moment. 'No', he told himself sternly, this was not the time to weep. The White Rod was no more and tears and lamentations would not bring it back. It was Faramir's task to find a replacement before the coronation. It seemed a daunting task, though; the White Rod had been a beautiful thing, lovingly crafted from the finest materials and handed down from father to son over the generations. It would be impossible to create another like it at such short notice. The numbers of craftsmen had been sadly depleted during the war and those who survived were scattered far and wide. Materials, too, were in short supply as many of the warehouses had been located in the first level and had burned to the ground during the siege.

Faramir thought frantically of what materials might be available to fashion a white rod from in three days. Several múmakil had been slaughtered during the battle of Pelennor Fields and their tusks had been brought to him. Maybe a white rod could be crafted from one of those. He shook his head. The ivory was stained with blood, which was hardly an auspicious start to what he hoped would be an era of peace. But where would he find some white wood? Only the dead White Tree was of sufficient whiteness and it would be sacrilege to hack a branch from it. The King would surely demand his head as well as the Rod should he do so! It seemed all he could do was find a carpenter and see if he could fashion a new one at short notice and paint it white. Faramir sighed. The King had returned after so long only to be greeted with a painted stick! It seemed an affront both to the royal dignity and to the honour of the House of Húrin.

Faramir rose from the chair in which he was sitting, rubbing his back as he did so. His father's chair was the least comfortable piece of furniture he had ever encountered. Even an upturned barrel would have provided more comfort! The Steward started to pace the room restlessly. Then an old memory returned to him of a rainy day during his childhood. His father had just returned from an official function, the White Rod still in his hand and Boromir had admired it.

Denethor had smiled indulgently at his eldest and said he was fortunate that one day he would bear such a fine rod as the first Ruling Stewards had carried a much simpler rod, devoid of ornament. Maybe that first White Rod was stowed away somewhere. Gondor was a land steeped in lore and history and did not lightly cast away anything that was part of that history.

Faramir hastened to the archives where ancient objects as well as documents were stored. He found the archivist seated at his desk, Master Dior, a man who ever since Faramir had known him, had appeared almost as old as the dusty parchments that surrounded him. Faramir asked him if he knew if the first White Rod still survived. He found he was holding his breath as he waited for the old man's reply.

"Indeed it has, my lord."

"Do you know where I might find it?" Faramir asked eagerly.

"Let me think now, my lord." The archivist slowly rose to his feet and shuffled across to a cabinet on the far side the room with the help of a cane. Faramir had to restrain his impatience as he fumbled with a bunch of keys at his waist and unlocked the cabinet. The inside was stuffed with old scrolls, ceremonial vessels, ornate weapons, and ancient books, their covers decorated with runes. Faramir's heart sank. There was nothing here that he could present to the King. Then the old man reached into the furthest recesses of the cabinet and brought forth an ancient and grime encrusted white rod. "There you are, my lord," he said, handing it to Faramir. "This is the original White Rod that belonged to the first Steward, Mardil."

Nothing could have been further from the usual solemn ceremony when an aging steward would hand the White Rod over to his eldest son; nevertheless, powerful emotions seized Faramir as he grasped this tangible symbol of the rule of Gondor. Joy and relief that the White Rod had been found, combined with satisfaction that he could fulfil his duty to his liege lord, the King who had brought him forth from the darkness.

Faramir studied the rod carefully as he took it to his apartments to be cleaned. He supposed it had last been used around the time of Belegorn. It was a simple white staff, without adornment. It was beautifully crafted from a type of wood with which he was not familiar, which had not rotted at all over the centuries. It seemed to reflect the humility with which the early Stewards had approached their office, a humility still outwardly observed in the Steward's humble seat at the foot of the throne, but sadly long since lost once the House of Húrin took on the duties and powers of kings; the virtues of royalty and the failings too, culminating in Denethor's destructive pride. It was fitting that his office should end in the same spirit in which it had begun.

Faramir, heir of the House of Húrin and the last Steward of Gondor, would faithfully discharge his final duty as Arandur.

0000

Aragorn had given the White Rod little thought since Gandalf had told him of Denethor's final moments. He had briefly wondered whatever Ecthelion would have thought of the loss of the precious heirloom. He was certain his old friend would have grieved deeply that his son had fallen to such destruction.

He was certain, though, that Faramir would find something suitable for the ceremony as his young Steward seemed both sensible and resourceful. Faramir was a grandson of whom Ecthelion would have been proud. Prince Imrahil had told him that the old man had doted upon the child. Maybe his Númenorean foresight had told him that Denethor's youngest son would grow to be a man of exceptional quality.

Aragorn's dreams and visions were clear to him now. It must have always been destined for Faramir to be his Steward.

His heart full of joy, he approached the barrier, which formed the gate of City he was now to dwell in as King. Faramir approached and humbly knelt before him. "The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office," he said. And he held out a white rod.

As he took it, Aragorn suddenly recalled the story that Ecthelion had told him of how the original White Rod had been fashioned from the White Tree. With a thrill he realised that this must be that very rod! What could be more fitting than this rod be presented to the one who bore the emblem of the White Tree. Aragorn returned the rod, saying: 'That office is not ended, and it shall be thine and thy heirs' as long as my line shall last."

He smiled at Faramir as he spoke. Together the bearers of the White Rod and the Silver Crown would work to bring peace and prosperity to Gondor.


Chapter 48 - The Undiscovered Country

The Undiscovered Country.

B2MeM Challenge: Courage

"Down the swift dark stream you go
Back to lands you once did know..."

Format: ficlet
Genre: angst
Rating: PG
Warnings: canon character death
Characters: Aragorn, Boromir
Pairings: none
Summary: Aragorn prepares Boromir for his final journey

With thanks to Raksha

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. I make no profit from this story.

Aragorn fought to hold back his tears. He had not been greatly close to Boromir, nor especially liked the Man of Gondor. Boromir had been too like to Denethor in his haughtiness without his sire's wisdom.

For all that, his heart was torn asunder by his comrade's passing.

Aragorn recalled the fair babe he had once known; Finduilas' tender love for her child and Denethor's fierce pride in the boy as he grew.

Aragorn closed his eyes and recalled memories of the chubby toddler clutching a tiny wooden sword and running towards his devoted parents. Denethor had been delighted at his heir's early interest in the arts of war, while Finduilas had looked anxious and haunted, as if she foresaw that her son would one day fall in battle.

Ecthelion, too, had doted upon his grandson, delighted that the succession of the House of Húrin seemed guaranteed. In repose, Boromir had resembled his grandsire and did so even more so in death.

Aragorn wept afresh. He had betrayed Ecthelion once by departing without leave, sending a letter instead of making a proper farewell. Now he felt as if he had again betrayed the man who had been both lord and friend to him. As Ecthelion now welcomed Boromir beyond the circles of the world, what must he think of his trusted Captain Thorongil, who had led Ecthelion's beloved grandson to his doom?

Alas for the House of Húrin, so sadly diminished! Now all that remained were Denethor and Faramir, the younger brother of whom Boromir had spoken so fondly. What manner of a man was Denethor's second son? Did even still draw breath in these dark times? If he yet lived, he would wait in vain beside his father for his brother's return. Aragorn could pity Denethor now. It had long grieved him that he had no son and heir of his own, but how much worse to have one torn from you! A son should not die before his father.

Aragorn put such sombre thoughts to the back of his mind and forced himself to concentrate on the tasks that needed to be done. Boromir must be properly prepared for his final journey. Aragorn gently washed the blood from the fallen warrior's face and combed Boromir's long dark hair. Beside him in the boat, he placed his helm, and his shattered sword and cloven horn. Around his waist, the golden belt of Lothlórien gleamed, worthy of a king of old.

Together with Legolas and Gimli, he pushed the boat out into the current and watched the Anduin take its fallen son.

Aragorn watched until Boromir vanished from sight on his final journey. The warrior was now discovering the most mysterious and distant realm of all; the realm of death, which no man knows the road to, and yet all men must one day journey to.

What discoveries was Boromir now making? Did he see wonders beyond mortal comprehension and enjoy joyful reunions with those gone before, or did he still sorrowfully lament trying to take the Ring from Frodo? Aragorn could only hope his final smile meant that he was at peace.

Alas that Boromir would see his beloved White City no more, and that no silver trumpets would herald his return.


Chapter 49 - The Way through the Woods

B2MeM Challenge: Image prompt: Winter Fog and Trees
. /the_winterwitch/13030705/4348/4348_
Format: Ficlet
Genre: horror, hurt/comfort
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
Characters: Aragorn, Halbarad, OMCs
Pairings: none
Summary: Aragorn loses his way in thick, freezing fog.

The fog came down unexpectedly. One moment, Aragorn was trudging determinedly through the snow on his way to the Ranger's meeting place, his mind filled with daydreams, the next he was enveloped in a freezing white blanket.

He cursed inwardly. He had been a Ranger for over a year now. He should have been more alert to his surroundings and seen it coming. What would Master Elrond and the twins have said about such carelessness? He could not recall them ever having given him advice concerning finding his way in fog, though; it was never foggy like this in Rivendell. A fine mist would sometimes hover around the Bruinen, but that was all.

Aragorn concentrated on simply keeping moving. If he stayed onthe path and kept walking towards the North, he would reach his destination. He could see neither sun nor stars, though, and soon he became uncertain in which direction he was heading. He continued moving until he began bumping into trees and bushes. It was hard to see even a short distance ahead. He had never seen anything like this fog. Was it some device of the enemy? It was then he almost collided with a vast pine tree. Strange, he was certain this part of the forest was broadleaved trees. He looked around him, trying to make out indistinct shapes in the fog. The trees he could make out were mostly shaped like pines. Where was he? He could not recall this part of the forest.

It was then Aragorn began to feel frightened. He was hopelessly lost. He could hardly see his own feet in the icy whiteness. Tendrils of mist seemed to wrap clammy fingers around the exposed areas of his skin. Did foul creatures lurk here? He knew he was not far from the Barrow Downs. Did the ancient evil that lingered there reach into this forest? The young man's heart thumped wildly. He knew he should keep moving, but the further he wandered the more hopelessly lost he became.

Maybe he was nearer to the campsite than he thought Aragorn whistled the birdcall, which the Rangers used as a signal, but the fog muffled his voice. He felt as if he were enveloped in a thick freezing blanket. Trying to overcome his fear, he kept on walking; hoping that he would reach a place where the fog was thinner and he could see the way ahead. His hopes were vain, for if anything, the mist seemed to thicken and wrap its tendrils more tightly around him. The damp permeated his many layers of clothing and the woollen fabric felt cold and wet. Completely disorientated, he paused for a moment beneath a great pine. He began to feel very sleepy. Aragorn stamped his feet as he struggled to remain alert. It was growing dark and the forest was utterly still. Not a leaf stirred and no birds sang.

A dark shape loomed out of the mist and he knew no more.

000

"Wake up, come on, wake up!"

Aragorn blearily opened his eyes a slit at the sound of Halbarad's voice. He was cold, so very cold. "Can't get warm," he muttered through chattering teeth.

"Throw more logs on the fire and huddle closer!" Another voice, which he recognised as belonging to Vardamir, the oldest of his patrol.

Aragorn realised there was blissful warmth emanating from either side and in front of him.

"Make him a hot drink, Vardamir," said another voice, this time belonging to Tarcil, a young Ranger who was the proud father of two children and rarely ceased talking about them.

Aragorn forced his eyes open. He was lying in front of the campfire, wrapped in blankets and tightly wedged between Halbarad and Tarcil. The fog still lingered amongst the trees, but it was much clearer here. He noticed that his damp cloak and outer garments had been laid out to dry in front of the fire.

"Here, drink this, it should get some warmth into you, lad," Vardamir thrust a steaming mug into his hands, in his concern forgetting the usual deference he showed the young chieftain. Aragorn did not care. He tried to grasp the mug, but it almost slid from his frozen fingers. Halbarad gripped it and held it for him. Aragorn took a sip. It was soothingly warming. He concentrated on his drink for a few moments then asked, "What happened?"

"That is what we wondered," said Halbarad. "We were sore worried when you failed to arrive at the meeting place."

"I lost my way in the fog," Aragorn said sheepishly.

"A Ranger who gets lost!" Halbarad tut tutted, but he placed a comforting arm around his kinsman's shoulders.

"I know," Aragorn said glumly.

"Cheer up, lad, we've all done it once in our youth," said Vardamir.

"How did you find me?" asked Aragorn.

"When you never arrived at the meeting place, we set out to find you," Tarcil answered. An experienced Ranger can pick up tracks even in thick fog."

"We found you collapsed beneath a great pine tree. You were frozen half solid," Halbarad continued. "We hurried back to the campsite with you to thaw you out. Don't ever do that again, kinsman, you scared us half to death! We feared we had lost you when we came upon you lying so cold and still. You are lucky even the Orcs were not even to be abroad in such weather."

"I fear I still have much to learn," said Aragorn.

"Never fear lad, we will teach you," said Vardamir.

"We'll make a Ranger of you yet," said Halbarad.

Aragorn felt his spirits lifting. The terrors of the fog-shrouded forest seemed remote now. He was finally feeling truly at home amongst these men. It was obvious that they cared about him and not only for what he represented to them. He huddled into the blankets, enjoying the comforting warmth around him and took another sip of his drink.


Chapter 50 - The Deepest Pain

The Deepest Pain – Linda Hoyland.

Rating T

Aragorn receives his first battle wound.

These characters are J.R. R Tolkien's. I make no money from this story.

Her eyes were like twin stars and her hair darker than a raven's wing while her lips- . Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment. The pain of longing for a maiden so far above him was almost too much to endure. A loud curse startled him out of his reverie.

"My horse has gone lame," said Finrod, the oldest of the group of Rangers. He uttered another curse as he dismounted from the saddle.

"The hoof looks inflamed." Halbarad, who had been riding beside him had also dismounted and was already examining the horse's feet. "He can go no further today." He looked expectantly towards Aragorn.

The young Chieftain sighed. "We are expected in the village tonight, but we have no option but to make camp for the night here."

"I like it not," said Halbarad. "There are Orcs in these parts and our families will be waiting for us."

"I like it not either," said Aragorn. "We can hardly leave Finrod and his horse here alone, though, and travelling with a lame horse once night falls is too dangerous. It leaves us wide open to attack. We will resume our journey at first light tomorrow." Aragorn dismounted in the forest clearing and tethered his horse to a tree. "Halbarad, you and I will gather firewood while the rest of you make camp. Keep a close watch."

As soon as the two men were out of earshot of the others Halbarad said "I am sorry if I spoke out of turn."

"You care only for our safety," said Aragorn. "I hope I have made the right decision. Even after a year of being Chieftain, it is still difficult at times."

Halbarad nodded. "Sometimes, like tonight, you can only choose the least bad option." He stooped to pick up a branch. "Let us hope there are no Orcs lurking in the forest."

"The moon will be almost full." Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment and imagined himself walking hand in hand with Arwen through the gardens at Rivendell. They stopped and gazed up at the silver orb. His hand moved round her waist and she nestled closer to him. Their lips met in a lingering kiss. They tasted of honey or maybe fine, sweet wine."

"Aragorn!" Halbarad's voice jolted him back into the present. "Um, what did you say?"

"You were far away," said Halbarad. "Now you are blushing. Were you thinking perhaps of some lady?"

Aragorn said nothing. He felt his face grow even hotter.

"I knew it!" said Halbarad. "Thinking of fair maidens gathers no firewood, though."

"I am sorry." Aragorn collected himself and resumed gathering fallen branches.

000

Aragorn took the first watch of the night. Once darkness fell, it had grown chilly and he pulled his cloak more closely around himself. The sounds of the night reassured him, the wind in the branches and small animals, wood mice and voles scuttled around in the undergrowth. He wondered what it would be like if Arwen were beside him. Would she be afraid? He would reassure her that he would protect her. She would huddle close to him and rest her head against his shoulder. He would feel her warm breath against his cheek. Maybe he could kiss her? His body ached with longing. An owl hooted in a nearby tree and brought him back to the present. Suddenly, the owl squawked then everything fell silent. Aragorn tensed. He drew his sword and wondered whether or not to wake the others. He was loth to disturb their rest for what was most likely a false alarm. Then his keen eyes picked out shapes moving in the dim light.

He cried out "Orcs, Ambush!" He heard the twang of a bowstring and ducked. It was too late. He felt something hit his shoulder followed by a sharp, searing pain. He fell to his knees, his sword dropping from his hand.

The camp sprang to life. Aragorn could hear shouts. Someone cried "The Chieftain's been injured!"

Hands reached out. He managed to say "Orcs! Leave me and save yourselves!"

He was ignored as the hands dragged him into to the shelter of nearby undergrowth. He feebly tried to protest, but his rescuer took no notice.

"Stop struggling!"

He recognised Halbarad's voice. "Stay hidden!" his kinsman commanded.

Aragorn could only listen to the sounds of battle around him. Through his haze of pain, they sounded far away. Was he dying? Would he never know the pleasure of Arwen's embraces? He had not expected dying to hurt so much. After what seemed an age, the sounds died down. Then hands reached out and pulled him from his hiding place. Aragorn groaned.

"Easy now," said Halbarad. "We need to move you into the light."

"My men? The Orcs?"

"You are the only one with a serious wound. The others are all well apart from a few minor cuts and bruises. We have slain all the Orcs."

"Good." Aragorn closed his eyes. It took a great effort to speak as the pain blurred his thoughts.

"Are you ready? We need to lift you nearer the fire?" Halbarad said.

Aragorn nodded weakly. He raised his head and realised that his kinsman was with Beren, a burly young Ranger from their village. The two men lifted him and began to carry him into the clearing near the fire. He groaned loudly. They gently laid him down on a makeshift bed made from their cloaks.

Beren then knelt beside him and examined the arrow. "I do not have a detailed knowledge of healing," he said. "I do know, though, that this arrow needs to be removed at once."

"Would it not be better to take him to Rivendell?" said Halbarad.

"Orc arrows are filthy, we cannot leave it in him that long," said Beren. "That was how my father died, not of the wound, but the infection it caused."

"Who can remove the arrow then?" asked Halbarad. "The Chieftain is the only experienced healer amongst us."

Finrod rose from where he had been sitting by the fire and came over to them. "I have taken an arrow out of my horse," he said gesturing to where his lame mount was tethered. It did not improve his temper but he is still here and has carried me faithfully until he went lame today."

The three men looked expectantly at Aragorn. The young Chieftain swallowed hard. He had extracted arrows and knew the procedure hurt a great deal. He knew too that he did not wish to die just yet. He gave a reluctant nod. "Do it."

"Have you healing supplies?" asked Halbarad.

"Only a few." He paused to take a couple of deep breaths to push back the pain, then continued, "Was going to Rivendell for more."

Halbarad nodded grimly. There had been all too many in the last few weeks who had needed healing supplies. Not only Rangers wounded in battle, but also those stricken with fevers or victims of accidents.

Beren went over to where Aragorn had placed his pack and brought it to the fireside. Halbarad rummaged inside and brought out some bandages, powdered herbs, a pot of salve and a sharp knife.

Aragorn's eyes went to the knife and he flinched. "Sharp knife of Master Elrond's," he muttered.

"That will suffice," said Finrod.

"Do it quickly," said Aragorn.

Halbarad nodded to Beren and together they held him pinioned to the ground.

"He will need something to bite on," said Finrod. "Otherwise his screams will alert every Orc for miles around to our presence."

"I do not scream," said Aragorn though his voice quavered a little.

"You are made of flesh and blood," said Finrod. "It is no shame." He unfastened Aragorn's belt and placed it in the young Chieftain's mouth.

Aragorn was pale and sweating heavily. Already, the pain in his shoulder was more than he could endure. He dreaded the worse pain that was to come. He bit down on the leather and swallowed hard as Finrod picked up the knife and started to cut away the clothing that covered his shoulder. The knife was so sharp that he hardly felt the cuts to enlarge the arrow wound, but when Finrod started to dig out the barb, great waves of agony tore through his body. He arched and twisted, trying to escape from the cruel blade and the hands that restrained him. Then everything went mercifully black.

When he came to, his shoulder still throbbed painfully. Halbarad was bending over him anxiously while Finrod was bandaging the wound.

"Praise the Valar you are awake!" said Halbarad. "You worried us swooning like that. Do you want a drink?"

Aragorn nodded weakly. He sipped from the water skin Halbarad held to his lips.

"We need to take you to Rivendell," said Halbarad.

Aragorn shook his head wondering what manner of reception he would get there. He had not been on good terms with Master Elrond since his love for Arwen had become known. "I will be well," he said. "I have been injured before, though not in battle." Even as he spoke the words, he wondered why it felt so much worse this time.

"When you were hurt before you had all the lore of Rivendell to help you heal," said Halbarad, as if sensing his thoughts. "Orc arrows are filthy. We cannot risk the wound becoming infected. We need our Chieftain and would not lose you."

"Very well."

Halbarad turned to Finrod and Beren. "Help me get him on my horse. We will ride through the night. There is no time to lose."

The next few hours passed in a blur of pain. Every step the horse took jolted Aragorn's shoulder and increased his agony. He lost count of time and knew not whether he dozed fitfully or swooned again. Then there were lights and voices. Gentle hands lifted him from the horse and carried him within.

"What has happened to you, Estel?" a familiar voice asked.

Aragorn opened his eyes to find Master Elrond bending over him, a goblet in his hand. "Drink this," his foster father commanded. "Drink, then rest."

000

Aragorn opened his eyes and looked around. He was in his old room at Rivendell. His left shoulder was swathed in bandages and his arm in a sling. The searing pain had subsided to a dull ache. He turned his head and saw his mother sitting on a chair beside the bed. She was engrossed in stitching what looked like one of his shirts. She must have heard him stir as she put down her sewing and stood up.

"How do you fare, Aragorn?" she asked, kissing him tenderly on the brow.

Aragorn thought for a moment before answering. "Much better, the pain is bearable now."

"Master Elrond thoroughly cleaned and dressed your wound and set the bone. He does not think there will be any lasting damage."

Aragorn gave a sigh of relief. His eyes then lighted on a large bunch of exquisite blooms in a vase across the room. "You brought me some flowers?"

Gilraen looked troubled. "It was not I, it was Lady Arwen. She sent them with a message that she was sorry you were injured. Doubtless, the lady has a tender heart towards those her father succours. Do not make too much of it."

Aragorn hastily changed the subject. "I am thirsty."

"I will fetch you something to drink." She bustled from the room. As soon as she was gone, the door opened again and Halbarad entered.

Aragorn struggled to sit up. "Thank you, kinsman, you surely saved my life."

Halbarad smiled and clasped Aragorn's hand.

"Are the rest of the men safe?"

"I believe so. I told them to go on to the next village where there is a smith to tend Finrod's horse." His eyes came to light on the flowers.

"Lady Arwen sent them."

Halbarad laughed though not unkindly. "So she is the lady you dream about? Do not deny it. You are blushing like a maiden!"

"She is surely Lúthien reborn!"

"Grandmother says that every one of Isildur's heirs has fallen in love with her. Never fear, you will soon forget her once you meet more women; women who will welcome your suit."

"I will never forget her!" Aragorn said hotly. "I intend to marry her, and please say nothing of this to anyone, including Grandmother."

"Peace," said Halbarad mildly. "You have my word I will say nothing. Alas, the pain of unrequited love is worse than that of any wound."

Aragorn gazed at the flowers. Maybe they were but a kindly gesture, yet they gave him hope.

A/n. Written for the Teitho "Pain" contest where it was unplaced.


Chapter 51 - All Comes to those who Wait

All Comes to those who Wait

Theme: Waiting

Author's Notes: Some words in the story are taken directly from Tolkien. With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra.

Summary: A healer can only watch and wait as the Black Breath kills his patients.

The familiar characters are the property of the Tolkien estate. This story is written for pleasure, not profit.

The day Tuor had earned the right to wear the healer's robes had been the proudest day of his young life. All the hours of study and hard work were worthwhile once he had the right to call himself a fully qualified healer. He was not just any healer either, but one of the select few who worked at the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, surely the finest healing houses in all of Middle-earth.

Tuor enjoyed working with his patients and curing them of all manner of infirmities. He basked in their gratitude and that of their families and smiled his thanks for all the countless small gifts bestowed upon him. Usually, they amounted to little more than a dozen eggs from a farmer, but once he had received a bottle of Dorwinion from a lord who was grateful to be cured of his gout.

Of course there were rare times when the best medicine proved futile and the patient died, but even then there was the satisfaction of having done all that he possibly could. He was often invited to funerals by relatives grateful at how he had made their loved ones comfortable during their final days on Arda.

Since war had come to Gondor, the healers' work had greatly increased as the many wounded were brought to the Houses of Healing. Tuor did not greatly enjoy having to amputate shattered limbs, but so doing usually saved the patient. It was all part of the healer's lot. Then there were the minor flesh wounds. The soldiers he treated were thankful to have survived to fight another day. Then sadly, there were the mortally wounded, but even those Tuor could help by easing their pain until their spirits moved beyond the circles of the world.

With the coming of the Black Breath, though, everything had changed. The healers could only look on helplessly as those afflicted fell slowly into an ever deeper dream, and then passed to silence and a deadly cold, and so died.

For those with the Black Breath they could do nothing, only watch and wait. They were now so many they had been forced to tell the folk in the City not to bring any one else suffering from the malady to the Houses until a cure could be found.

Master Tarostar, the Warden averred that never before could he recall a malady that had proved beyond all the Arts and Knowledge of Gondor's healers.

Tuor found this waiting worse than any other, worse even than during the great battle. Then he and his fellows had known what to do, tend the wounded as they arrived in ever greater numbers. There had been no time for thought and reflection, or even for fear as to what would befall if the enemy had overrun the City. Tuor and his fellows had been instructed to offer the patients who were unable to be moved a merciful death, then flee through a warren of secret tunnels into the mountains. They had survived the battle; thanks to the timely arrival of the men of Rohan the City still stood. Gondor had survived to fight another day.

Those stricken with the Black Breath knew nothing of the great victory; as the sun turned west a grey shadow crept over their faces. Their Steward was amongst them and a fair maiden from Rohan who had been found on the battlefield dressed as a man. There was even one of the Perian. What had matters come to that even these small folk were fighting battles?

Old Ioreth, usually a sensible enough woman, had taken to constantly repeating an old rhyme,

"When the black breath blows

and death's shadow grows

and all lights pass,

come athelas! come athelas!

Life to the dying

In the king's hand lying!"

It was a sad day indeed for the Healers when they were driven to such foolishness. Athelas was a fairly useless herb. Old folk might use it to treat a mild headache or to freshen a room, but it had no place in the herbarium of the Houses of Healing. Even more foolish was the talk of kings. It was almost a thousand years since Gondor's throne had been occupied. Tuor thought it was foolish that Gondor still waited for a king who never appeared.

He sighed. It seemed there would not even be a Steward for much longer. He was sorely disappointed in Lord Denethor. He should have been leading the defences, not burning himself alive and trying to burn Lord Faramir too. He should have sent his son to the Houses for treatment. And whatever had he been thinking of, sending his only remaining heir out on such a dangerous mission. Now, Lord Faramir appeared to have developed the Black Breath and would surely draw his last breath sometime today. Then who was going to rule Gondor?

Tuor paced the rooms of the Houses of Healing once more, tending any wounded who were in pain and seeing if the Black Breath victims were still breathing. Two more had died and he gave instructions for their burial. Both were soldiers who did not have any kin in the City.

With a heavy heart, Tuor prepared to keep vigil for the night. The Valar alone knew how many would still be alive by the morning.

Just then, he heard a commotion and went to investigate. The Wizard had arrived and with him were Prince Imrahil and two warriors. One was obviously a man of Rohan from his armour and colouring, the other had dark hair and grey eyes. On his breast, he wore an eagle shaped brooch set with a great green gem.

Tuor was annoyed to see them. Apart from Prince Imrahil, who doubtless wanted to bid farewell to his kinsman, what business did these folk have here disturbing his patients and interrupting the healers? The warriors looked in need of a good wash and could be carrying infection. As for the Wizard, Tuor thought that if he truly were magical, surely he could cure the Black Breath. The last time when Mithrandir had been at the Houses earlier that day, he had been listening to Dame Ioreth's foolish rhymes. Surely any self- respecting wizard would use their powers to escape from Dame Ioreth's babbling!

He wanted to tell the strangers to go away and leave the dying in peace, then stopped himself. Maybe they too had kin here who had been wounded in battle? The Warden was with them, so Tuor swallowed his annoyance and went to tend a soldier with a broken leg who was groaning in pain.

Soon afterwards, Dame Ioreth bustled through the room, almost knocking into Tuor.

"Where are you going and in such a hurry?" he asked her.

"Some Captain from the North wants athelas to treat Lord Faramir," Ioreth replied. "The cheek of the man ordering me around! Who does he think he is. I shall have words with the Warden tomorrow, I shall. Fancy letting a scruffy soldier near Lord Faramir, and laying his filthy hands on him!"

She hurried off, leaving Tuor shaking his head. If the Black Breath wasn't enough to deal with, it seemed that everyone was going mad! Or maybe Dame Ioreth was mistaken. He concentrated on tending his patient.

A little later, Tuor was writing his daily reports when Dame Ioreth came running. " The King has come!" she cried. "Lord Faramir is awake! Come and see!"

Tuor looked at her in alarm. The poor woman had certainly lost her mind. He followed her, though, intent on preventing Ioreth from upsetting the patients. Maybe Lord Faramir had died and that turned the old woman's wits. She always had had a soft spot for him. But why babble on about a King?

Tuor hastened after Ioreth to Lord Faramir's room. To his amazement the Steward was sitting up in bed and smiling.

This is truly a marvel, my lord," said Tuor. "I am glad to see you recovered."

"The long awaited King is come and he has healed me," said Lord Faramir. "He has gone now to heal the others."

Tuor could always feel the wave of excitement filling the Houses of Healing. Where before there had been despair, now there was hope. Voices cried out. "The King is come again indeed. He brings healing in his hands!"

Tuor was lost for words. It seemed that sometimes all did come to those who waited.


Chapter 52 - I will lift mine eyes

I will lift up mine eyes

"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth. He will not suffer thy foot to be moved: he that keepeth thee will not slumber." Psalm 121- 1-3

A series of events after his return from Gondor leaves Aragorn's spirits at an all time low.

A/n – One line is quoted directly from Tolkien. Written for the Teitho "Sky" Challenge where it was unplaced.

Aragorn had been so filled with hope when he had arrived at Rivendell last week under a cloudless blue sky. That was before he had spoken to Elrond. Now his foster father's words felt seared into his very soul. "She shall not be the bride of any Man less than the King of both Gondor and Arnor."

He supposed he could proclaim himself King of Arnor, empty though the title would be, but King of Gondor? He laughed mirthlessly. Denethor would more willingly concede that title to his stable boy than to the man he had known as Captain Thorongil! His hope of making Arwen his bride seemed no nearer now than at the first moment he had espied her beneath the birches.

His mother's reaction had been just as distressing. "Alas!" Gilraen had cried. "I shall never hold my grandchild in my arms and the line of Isildur is doomed! For generations, many have fought and died to protect our lineage while you would cast it away on a whim!"

"Do you not like Lady Arwen?" was the only, albeit somewhat foolish response he could think of in the face of her fury.

"She is the fairest of ladies, noble and gracious. I like her well. Do you not see, though, my son, you aspire too high? Master Elrond's daughter is not for a mortal man. You have met fair women aplenty in the Angle and surely their were maidens in abundance in Gondor, or even in Rohan? Why could you not have offered your heart to one of those? By now you would have been wed with a fine brood of children to carry on our line."

"I met many fair maidens on my travels, mother, but I could never love them as I love Arwen."

Gilraen sighed. "Young people nowadays think too much of romance. True love often comes after marriage. Forget Master Elrond's daughter and look for a suitable maiden amongst your own people."

"I am sorry, mother, but I have given my pledge to Arwen. I will wed no other."

Then Gilraen had wept and there was nothing that Aragorn could do to comfort her.

That had been several days ago. Now even the weather seemed to reflect Aragorn's heavy heart. Dark clouds rolled across the sky, threatening heavy rain or even early snow. The autumn blooms in the gardens when Aragorn was walking that had been so bright when arrived, now looked faded and sad.

The sound of footsteps started him out of his melancholy thoughts. He spun round to see Halbarad hastening towards him. His kinsman looked travel stained and his cloak was streaked with blood.

"Halbarad! Are you injured?"

"I am well, but I bring grave tidings." Halbarad grasped Aragorn's hand in greeting. He was breathing heavily and struggled to get out the words. "Orcs have attacked our village. We managed to get the women and children to a safe hiding place but many good men were slain. We were heavily outnumbered."

Aragorn's heart sank. He had passed through the village less than a week ago. He could have stayed, but had been so eager to get to Rivendell that he had hardly paused long enough to greet his fellow Rangers."

"I should have been there."

"What difference would it have made? You have been absent these many years."

Halbarad's tone was weary and expressionless, but the simple words pierced Aragorn's conscience as keenly as a blade. "Were you able to slay the vile creatures?" he asked.

Halbarad shook his head wearily. "Most of them fled into the mountains. We did not have enough men to pursue them."

"I shall go after them and avenge our kinsmen."

Halbarad held up his hand in protest. "You would be one against many and the trail will be cold by now."

"My skills with sword and bow have improved these past years as have my tracking skills. I have neglected our people too long. Now maybe can play the part I should."

"Kinsman, this is madness!"

If Halbarad made further protests Aragorn did not hear them. He hurried to his chamber and took off the fine garments he wore in Master Elrond's house, replacing them with Ranger garb. He took up his weapons, bade his mother a hasty farewell and rode off into the Misty Mountains.

000

The Orcs were long gone, if indeed they had ever been this way. Aragorn searched for days but could find no trace of them. His heart grew heavier with every hour that passed. It seemed he could not even slay a few of the foul creatures to avenge his people. As he climbed higher, he had to leave his horse behind him and proceed on foot. A thick wet mist veiled the sky and shrouded him. He realised with a start that he was actually walking through a cloud. As darkness fell, he could not even see the path in front of him. He trod on a jagged stone and stumbled, twisting his ankle as he fell.

He got to his feet, but could only limp along painfully slowly. He could go no further. The path was far treacherous in the darkness on his unsteady feet. His clothes were drenched and sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He knew he needed to get warm and dry, but there was no shelter here on the mountainside and he could not walk to find a sheltering rocky outcrop or cave. He tried to keep stumbling forward until exhaustion overcame him and he sank to his knees. What a fool he had been, coming up here alone and unprepared like some raw recruit! Now he would pay for his folly with his life. As he sank into oblivion a feeling of peace washed over him. Maybe it was all for the best. Arwen would sail with her father when Master Elrond departed Middle-earth while Halbarad would lead his people and be a far better Chieftain than he had ever been. His mother would weep, but she had already been without him for many long years while he had sought to prove himself in distant lands. Aragorn closed his eyes and knew no more.

0000

Aragorn was warm, so comfortably warm and surrounded by something softer than his goosedown quilt at Rivendell. Was this death? Was he beyond the circles of the world? His ankle throbbed painfully and his mouth was dry which led him to conclude that he must still be alive. He opened his eyes and gazed upwards into a cloudless blue sky. He looked around him and realised he was enfolded in the wings of a giant bird- a great eagle! The bird turned its head towards him and regarded him with piercing yellow eyes.

"So you are awake at last. little man chick," it said. "I thought you would sleep the day away."

Aragorn gasped. The bird had the power of speech. "What happened?" he stammered. He now noticed he was no longer on the mountain path, but instead in a sloping grassy meadow beside a rippling stream.

"Drink!" commanded the bird.

Aragorn found himself gently released from his feathery confines. He cupped his hands in the water and drank. It tasted clear and sweet. Feeling much refreshed, he regarded the eagle with a mixture of awe and curiosity. "Where am I?" he asked.

"I found you half frozen near the summit," said the eagle. "My kind rarely interfere with your kind, but my King said you were important so I brought you down the mountain and warmed you like an eaglet as you were half frozen."

"King? Who might your king be? I am of the line of kings, descended from Elendil himself."

"The King I serve is greater by far than Elendil."

Aragorn tried to remember what he had been told by Gandalf many years ago about the Great Eagles. Then realisation dawned upon him. "You serve Lord Manwë, the King of the Valar!" he exclaimed.

"Indeed I do," The eagle's breast swelled with pride. "He himself bade me bring you down the mountainside.

"You have seen him?" Aragorn's brain was reeling. Surely he must be dreaming? He was conversing with a giant bird who was telling him that the Lord of the Valar was concerned for his welfare. Well he knew the old tales, but even though he had heard them from the Wise, they had always seemed remote and distant, memories of an Age long gone.

"Of course I have seen him, foolish young chick! He bade me tell you not to lose hope as the Powers, even the One, have formed you for a high destiny. Stay but on the right path, Aragorn son of Arathorn, and King of Men you will be. Long will you be revered in the eyes of all the Free Peoples. Now, I must rejoin my aerie. You will be well now, little man chick, your horse is nearby. Farewell!" With that, the eagle flapped its great wings and soared aloft.

Aragorn raised his eyes skywards until the great bird disappeared from view into the clouds above the mountain peaks. The darkness had left his soul and he was filled with hope. He had a high destiny ahead of him, even as Master Elrond had long ago foretold. One day he would be able to make Arwen his bride.

He heard a whinny of greeting. He tore his eyes away from the heavens and saw his horse galloping towards him. Stumbling to his feet, he grasped the steed's mane and managed to mount. The horse waited patiently for him to indicate which way they should go.

There was only one choice. He must return to Rivendell and confess the failure of his mission to his kinsman, and be reconciled with his mother and Master Elrond, then return to the Angle with Halbarad and continue the fight against the darkness until it was utterly defeated.

For today, though, he would ride under a clear blue sky, his heart filled with peace.
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