Disclaimer: we do not own any characters, places or storylines you recognize, it belongs to Prof. Tolkien, Tolkien Enterprises, New Line Cinema and other lucky bastards.
Authors´ notes:
Happy New Year and the best of luck to all of you! This was originally supposed to be posted on Christmas, but wine, champagne, beer, the Netherlands and sherry intervened. Hopefully this will nevertheless be a nice present, if a little belated.
This is our first collaboration and it´s been great fun so far. Writing together is a new experience, and we think you can tell when reading, since the style is slightly different from both our usual works; we find it rewarding though and recommend our fellow authors to try it.
Furthermore, we dedicate this piece to Mirach, since she suggested that we should write a story together. Thank you (and we had the wine for you)!
PS: Maj would like to say that this is the first story she has written in a long time, and that "The Hunt for Gollum- Aftermath" is not forgotten. Star would like to add here that whereas she has at least updated "The Only Way to Kill the Dragon" in the last couple of months, she nevertheless feels bad about it, too! We do mean to continue them, it´s just a matter of time (as well as wine, champagne, beer, the Netherlands and sherry).
A Long Time Coming
Summary:
Time passes, but old hatred remains strong. A misunderstanding from the past is about to claim Aragorn´s life. But it is not his battle alone because Legolas is involved as well...
~o~
Part 1: The Ring With the Emerald Stone
A dark and earthy aroma greeted him. It was a familiar smell, yet he could not name it. It did not exactly remind him of home, nor did it make him feel comfortable. Moisture seemed to cling to it as well as to his body, bringing another, rather unwelcome sensation with it: he was chilled to the bone. Coldness had spread through his every limb, increasing an underlying ache which he only now noticed. He could not locate it, for it seemed to have neither a beginning, nor an end: it was just there, steadily as his heartbeat and increasingly strong.
He heard a strange noise which caused him to look around; he groaned from the effort and pain of trying to locate the source, and with a jolt of shock realized that the first noise had come from himself as he had tried to move. Nausea assaulted him, and he tried to breathe it away only to discover that a heavy pressure was constricting his chest, preventing him from inhaling deeply. Unwanted panic rose within him; he could not recall what had happened, and the all-encompassing ache was beginning to turn into real pain now. Trying to ignore the nausea and panic, he made another attempt on moving, but it was impossible. Something was holding him in place, and even if he had been coherent enough to realize what it was, he could not have moved it aside.
The feeling of being trapped added to a desperate sense of helplessness, which caused a shiver to run down his spine: he did not know what had befallen him, and apparently he could not free himself. He closed his eyes, too exhausted to find a solution.
-
The flames of the campfire were dancing merrily, illuminating the faces of the figures assembled around it and warming their frozen bodies. It was a group of four which had assembled here, in the depth of the woods.
The oldest man among them was nearing his fourtieth birthday; he had flaming red hair and a weather-beaten face full of freckles. Next to him sat a boy of probably twelve winters; he was resembling his father greatly, his hair and features nearly exact copies of the older man.
He kept looking at the hooded figure which was sitting across the fire: the hood was concealing most of the face, and only a few wisps of fair hair were visible whenever the stranger moved. Most of the time he sat still, however, and talked only a little.
His companion on the other hand was engaged in a lively conversation with the boy´s father. His voice was soft, yet he had a manner of speaking which caused people to listen attentively. Occasionally he took a pull at his long-stemmed pipe, the sweet smelling smoke mingling with the scent of the fire.
In the shade of his hood, Legolas smiled despite the smoke. He could not understand why Aragorn had taken Gandalf´s lead concerning the strange habit, and he probably would never get used to the smell; it was more pronounced and acid than the normal smoke of a fire, and it kept irritating him greatly. Yet his friend seemed more relaxed than he had been in weeks, and it pleased him to see that the lines of worry on Aragorn´s face had disappeared for once. He had finally decided to leave the Rangers and to pledge his service to King Thengel of Rohan. It had not been an easy choice, and it had been born out of a deep restlessness, which had been initiated by the increasing burden of Aragorn´s heritage. Ever since his foster father, Lord Elrond of Rivendell, had revealed his true identity to the young Dúnadan, the weight of responsibility had Aragorn seriously questioning every step he took.
Legolas was accompanying his friend on his way to Minas Tirith, where Aragorn was supposed to meet Gandalf before heading to Rohan; the elf was aware that he was probably not going to see much of the Dúnadan during his service, therefore he was using the opportunity to spend more time with his friend.
While the prince was lost in his thoughts, he watched how the flicker of the fire was reflected by the small emerald stone in Aragorn´s ring; he had been astonished to see his friend wearing the ring on this particular journey, since it plainly identified him as the heir of Isildur and most likely would not be very welcome by the Gondorian steward. Aragorn however seemed to draw comfort or even strength out of the small token, as though it was affirming his decision, and seemed intent on wearing it until their arrival in Minas Tirith.
The boy was watching the ring as well; he looked tired, and his lids were beginning to droop.
Legolas was pulled out of his musings when a low sound caught his attention. He listened hard, no longer paying heed to the conversation or the crackling of the fire; slowly, as though unawares of his own action, he stood. He sensed it more than he could hear it: something was there, a presence which made itself known now that the elf was alert. The almost inaudible sound of breathing, and the feeling of being watched made the fine hairs on his neck stand on end.
Aragorn had interrupted himself when he had seen Legolas rise in a tense, long drawn-out motion, and was straining his ears as well now, all the while watching the elf attentively. The man and his son were looking from the Ranger to the other in confusion.
Aragorn now rose as well, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Legolas´ ears were more reliable than anyone else´s, but apart from that, he had felt it too. They were no longer alone.
Legolas and he exchanged a long look before the elf spoke softly: "Wolves. The wind carries their scent."
Aragorn turned to the red-haired man: "Stay near the fire. Light a branch."
The man did not hesitate, though he looked puzzled. He drew his son to his feet and pulled him close.
While the two were struggling with their improvised torches, Legolas had notched an arrow and Aragorn had pulled his sword. Not a minute too early so, as the assault came a moment later.
-
The boy could feel his heart beating rapidly; it seemed to have slipped up into his throat. His fingers were trembling as he held the burning branch. He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he was simply having a nightmare, but when he opened them again, he could see the dark-haired man brandishing his sword and the hooded stranger abandoning his bow and wielding two long, elegantly carved knives instead. Dark, heavily blurred shapes seemed to whirl around them, matching the confusion in the boy´s mind. He dropped his branch, it was of no use anyway. He could hear his father shout something and did not realize that he meant him until he used the boy´s name: "Fingaer! Fingaer!"
The name did not help to shake off the boy´s panic induced stupor, but it caused him to turn around. His father was looking at him, thus he did not see the attack coming. Fingaer stared as a wolf threw his father off his feet, helplessly staring as the man screamed.
Later, he could not recall what happened next; at one point, he realized that something had changed, and that he was kneeling next to his father, crying for help. He looked over to the dark-haired man, who was kneeling on the ground a few feet away. While Fingaer was clinging to his father´s bloodied body and the laboured breathing of the mangled and dying man was painfully filling his ears, he saw that the stranger´s hood had slipped back. He was lying on the ground next to the other, but Fingaer did not see the blood that was pouring out of a deep wound in his side; all he realized was that the stranger was an elf and that the man with the sparkling ring was helping him rather than his father.
-
Aragorn tiredly ran his hand over his eyes. Dawn had begun to break, and he had finally had managed to staunch the bloodflow from Legolas´ wound. He had not been able to save Fingaer´s father however; the regret weighed heavily on his heart, yet the wound the wolf had inflicted had been too grave and beyond his healing skills. The boy was sitting next to the fire now, his eyes never leaving his father´s body, which they had covered with the man´s blanket. Aragorn wanted to apologize for not being able to help, for the shock and pain which were evident in the boy´s features, but he did not find his voice. He was too shaken himself, and Legolas was not out of danger yet.
The man stoked the fire once more; Fingaer turned his face towards him, as though waking up. He gazed at the stick Aragorn was holding, wide-eyed and evidently still shocked, but the simple act of routine seemed to unmercifully tell him that life was indeed going on. He was still there, freezing in the cold air of the early morning, and his father was lying dead on the ground.
As he felt that the man was beholding him, he looked up; he saw sympathy and sadness on the other´s face, and felt his face grow hot: it was this man´s fault that his father was dead, because he had chosen to help the elf first, was it not? The stranger had no reason to look at him as he did now, he should rather have felt ashamed of himself, if anything.
His and Aragorn´s gazes met, and there was so much contempt and hatred in the boy´s eyes all of a sudden that it startled the man. Fingaer´s stare seemed to burn a hole into his heart, right next to the spot which was raw and hurting from the night´s events.
As he crouched down next to the elf and gently reached out to feel his forehead in order to check his temperature, he found that his hand was trembling. Tiredness, he told himself, and worry for the elf, nothing more. Yet he could not forget the absolute loathing in Fingaer´s eyes.
-
The light of the morning sun caught in the emerald stone as Aragorn regarded his ring. He had not seen it in fifteen years, ever since he had begun his service in the armies of Rohan and, later, Gondor.
Fifteen years during which the ring had lain hidden, carefully wrapped in a piece of cloth, so as not to reveal the Captain Thorongil´s actual identity. Yet now the day of his taking leave had come, and it was time to remember who he truly was. Slowly, reverently, he slipped the silver band on the index finger of his left hand, marveling at how familiar it felt after such a long absence.
The victory over the pirates had been his last achievement as Thorongil; he was about to leave Umbar, and he did not plan to go back to Minas Tirith. The city was weighing down on him, as he seemed to dwell on other matters than his destined path, and he felt that he had to get away. For the first time since he had been a child, he had often woken up in the middle of the night lately, drenched in cold sweat and feeling a kind of longing which seemed to tug at his heart. It was like being homesick, and it made him restless. Maybe it was time to go back to his past before facing the future once again.
-
Fingaer did not believe in coincidences. Things happened and set other things in motion, there was nothing more to it. He had no patience for other explanations than the obvious, and he had fared quite well with that so far. As a Ranger, he could not afford to rely on uncertain factors, he needed to be able to find his way no matter what; thus, he used his senses and his knowledge to distinguish between danger and safety, and to do his service under the steward. The men of Ithilien were daily dealing with the cold, hard facts of their lives, such as the wild beasts that were living in the forests, and how easily one could fall prey to them. There were other, more uncanny beings out there as well, therefore daydreamers had no place in the ranks of the Rangers.
He was all the more baffled by the encounter he had in the Two Crowns, the local inn he frequently visited. It was on the Old Road through the Emyn Arnen and therefore a useful source of information. A Ranger only had to buy himself a pint of ale and listen carefully to the people around him.
He had become a Ranger mainly to master his fear, the horror that had been creeping up his spine whenever he had so much as thought of the forests which were so characteristical for the county he was living in. Yet he always felt better when he was sleeping inside, a trait which had had him become friends with the innkeeper, Rumo.
It was on such day while he was nursing his brew that he was unexpectedly roused out of his state of relaxed observance; a stranger had entered the taproom in order to talk to Rumo. Fingaer could not understand what he said, for his voice was soft and low, but the Ranger´s eyes fell on the ring the man was wearing: a dark green stone was reflecting the light of the candles, and the sight of it suddenly had Fingaer recalling a very similar picture: a jewel glimmering in the glow of the fire, its deep green rich and luminescent.
Fingaer froze, his fingers slowly closing around the handle of his jug until his knuckles went white. He would have recognized that ring anywhere.
-
Aragorn followed the innkeeper up to the room he had rented. It was small and dingy, but he had seen worse, and at least it was dry and even had its own fireplace. For the past few days it had been raining ceaselessly, and on that very morning his horse, Draumur, had slipped on a muddy spot and had twisted its hock. Aragorn had seen to it and was confident that he would merely need rest and proper treatment, yet it meant that they would have to stay in Ithilien until the injury had mended. For the moment, he was quite glad to be out of the torrential rain, thus he did not really mind the delay.
With tired movements, he pulled off his boots, then he unfastened the clasp on his cloak and draped it over the one chair which he placed in front of the small fire. Sighing, he sank onto the bed, suddenly longing to just lie down and sleep for a while, but it was still early, and he wanted to visit Draumur once more before retiring for the night.
He slowly undid the laces on his tunic and took it off; he examined it for a moment, aware of the many tears and stains which had gathered on the dark green leather. He would take to mending it during the time he would be forced to wait. He threw it over the chair, then likewise opened the laces of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion. For a moment, he imagined how it would feel to sink into a hot bath, to have the warm water wash over him and relax his taut muscles; instead, he quickly pulled off his equally wet socks, trousers and underpants and slipped underneath the blankets to get warm. Huddled into a ball, he closed his eyes, feeling a profound sense of relief welling up in him. He had meant only to rest for a minute, but exhaustion overwhelmed him, and he soon was fast asleep.
-
In the dark alleyway which led to the inn´s stables, Fingaer stood waiting. He pressed himself against the wall so as not to get wet; he would probably not have noticed the rain and the cold anyway, so great was his wrath. No one who knew the young Ithilien Ranger would have recognized him at first glance now; his eyes were shining as though glazed with fever, and his face was contorted with fury. He wanted to maim, now that he finally had found the man he was holding responsible for his father´s untimely death. It must have been fate which had helped him, which had sent the stranger to the Two Crowns of all places. Ever since the fateful night had he been determined to avenge the deed, and it had haunted him that he had no knowledge of the other´s whereabouts.
He had heard Rumo saying that the man had mentioned looking in on his horse later, thus he had gone outside, unthinkingly, all the while clutching his dagger. He wanted the stranger to die an equally slow and painful death as his father had, wanted him to suffer and writhe in agony.
He did not know how much time had passed, but the man he was waiting for did not turn up. A couple of drunken travellers passed by, too busy to support each other to notice the young man who was pressing himself further into the shadows, but no one else. Fingaer´s fingers began to grow numb, and he reluctantly put the dagger back into his sheath. Maybe this was another sign, a sign that he should wait; if he killed the man here, someone might find out it had been him. He would have to leave quickly, but Rumo had seen and talked to him, so he would know something was odd. He probably would not tell anybody, yet Fingaer did not trust him to not accidently spill the beans.
Taking a deep breath, he pulled his cloak tighter around himself; this was not the time and place. He had waited for so long now, he could wait a little longer.
-
For a moment, Aragorn did not know where he was as he opened his eyes, or what time it was for that matter. Things began to come back to him slowly: the rain, his horse slipping, the inn. He had fallen asleep. He was still tired, and snuggled deeper into the nest of blankets; it was not yet light outside, and he could hear the rain pouring onto the roof.
He hoped that Draumur was fine, as he wished to proceed his journey as quickly as possible; he had agreed to meet his friend Legolas on the Great West Road soon. He smiled as he thought of the elf; they had not seen each other for a long time, and he was looking forward to being in his company.
Aragorn crawled out of the covers and stretched, trying to chase the last traces of sleep out of his mind. His muscles were still stiff from the long hours of travelling in the cold and rain, but the brief rest had done him some good. The Ranger swiftly put on his trousers and walked to the hearth to rekindle the fire, which had died out some time during the night. His shirt and tunic had managed to dry, but his cloak and trousers were still slightly damp. Aragorn felt the inside of his leather boots and sighed tiredly – they were moist as well, but he had no spare ones, so they had to do. Besides, he did not plan to travel today anyway since Draumur would need longer to heal.
The thought of his horse made him hurry, and only a minute later he was fully dressed and ready to go to the stables. Perhaps by the time he returned, the sun would have already risen and he could stop in the taproom for a warm breakfast since his meals had been meager of late and his stomach was beginning to voice its protests. He also made a mental note to himself to ask Rumo for a small water basin; he might have been denied a warm bath, but he was determined to wash the dirt and grime clinging to his body as thoroughly as possible, and he would not be able to get a better accomodation for a while after he left the inn.
Draumur was contentedly chewing on a bit of hay; the Rangers of Ithilien had seen to it that horses were well cared for in the inn. He turned his head towards his master as Aragorn quietly stepped up to him, his ears playing expectantly. Aragorn smiled as the dapple grey nosed his tunic for a greeting, and scratched him behind his ears before bending down to examine the leg. Draumur did not flinch as he touched it, a vast improvement to the day before, and the sore spot did not feel warm anymore. He seemed to be healing better than the Ranger would have dared to hope.
The rain had not abated a bit; with a weary glance towards the sky, Aragorn went back inside the inn with long strides. The taproom was nearly empty, only one lonely figure was sitting in a corner, huddled in a worn cloak, and two old men were playing a game of cards in front of the fireplace. The innkeeper was polishing some glasses with an old rag; it was questionable whether the glasses would be much cleaner afterwards. He interrupted his work as Aragorn sat down at the bar: "And what can I do for you, sir?"
"I would appreciate some breakfast," Aragorn replied, "preferably warm, if that is possible."
Ten minutes later, he was being served a bowl of porridge, some bread and a steaming mug of coffee. Rumo joined him after a while: "´S been pouring all week," he observed, sipping on a mug of coffee of his own. "The roads are a mess, after what people told me."
"Aye," Aragorn answered monosyllabically.
The innkeeper eyed him over the rim of his mug: "You headed northwest, by any chance? I need a letter delivered, and the bloody messengers refuse to travel in the rain."
Aragorn gave him what he hoped to be a stern look; he knew that the man had watched him upon his arrival, having been staring out of the small window next to the bar, whether for entertainment or out of sheer boredom he did not know, but he had not liked it.
"So you have noticed that I have come from the South?" he asked, feigning ignorance.
Rumo scratched himself behind his ear: "Well, people say I´m perceptive."
Aragorn kept a perfectly straight face. "Where to?" he then asked.
It took the innkeeper a moment to comprehend: "To my brother, Wilmo. He owns an inn in Tilling. It´s beyond the Firien Wood."
"And the inn is called?"
"The Stone and Tree."
Aragorn nodded acquiescently: "Very well then. If my horse is recovered enough on the day after tomorrow, I shall leave and take the letter with me."
The innkeeper beamed at him: "Thank you, sir, that´s good news!"
Aragorn spent the rest of the day mostly in his room, mending his clothes and resting. He had no way of knowing that Fingaer, exhilirated by the information he had been able to gather, had left the inn in a hurry and was already on his way to the Great West Road, which was passing through the Firienholt, or, as Rumo had called it, the Firien Wood.
The Firien Wood was also the place where Aragorn and Legolas had agreed to meet; the Elven prince had suggested this spot on the border between Rohan and Gondor. The Ranger knew that Legolas preferred a forest to any other location, especially when they could not arrange a specific date and one of them might have to wait for the other. Aragorn did not mind; he was used to being in the Wild and felt at home outside.
He was actually looking forward to some fishing in the Mering Stream, which flowed through the forest; since it was raining heavily, though, it was very likely that the river might be impassable, or that the area had even been flooded.
-
These apprehensions were confirmed three days later, when he arrived in the Firienholt in the evening. The river had not burst its banks, but it was flowing rapidly. The ground was so muddy that Aragorn had dismounted and was leading Draumur along on his reins; he could hear the river nearby and wondered where he would find a somewhat dry place for the night. He did not bother to look out for Legolas; the Elf would find him, it had always been like that.
Legolas, supremely unconcerned by the rain, was looking down at his human friend and could not subdue a grin at the sight how Aragorn was struggling through the almost knee-high mud. He would most likely be grumpy and complaining about it later, and Legolas´ heart rejoiced in the anticipation of a friendly banter; they had not seen each other for too long. Aragorn had left the road, which was a little higher up, following the river, to make his way down to the shore, probably to let his horse drink. It was a magnificient animal, Legolas noticed, dapple grey and with strong, long legs.
The Ranger led it to a spot which had been smoothed out by frequent use of lumbermen, thus the water was easily accessible; Legolas could see a pile of logs up next to the road, waiting to be rolled into the water and flooded down towards the next village.
He climbed over to another tree nearer to the shore, intending on surprising Aragorn, but not spooking the horse; the branches were slippery, and even a being as secure-footed as Legolas had to be utterly careful not to lose his footing. A strange sound made him halt in his movement, a low, rumbling noise which was clearly audible over the rain and the river. He looked up, turning towards its source; for a moment, nothing seemed out of order, then, as though slower than it should be, the logs started to move. One after the other, they began to roll down the slope, tumbling over roots and treetrunks, and getting faster and faster. Legolas could only watch- time seemed to have stopped, yet the first few logs had nearly reached the shore already. Where Aragorn was standing.
With a cry so desperate it was almost anguished, Legolas jumped off the tree: "Estel!"
Aragorn did not seem to hear him. He had turned around and discovered the danger he was in, but he was currently trying to duck away from his horse´s hooves. The poor animal was panicking and rising onto his hind legs, whinnying pitifully. Aragorn refused to let go of the reins, pulling the horse forward with all his might in order to get it to run away. The dapple grey seemed to lose his balance for a moment, then he fell onto his forelegs in a somewhat clumsy motion, so forcefully hitting Aragorn´s shoulder with his own that the Ranger lost his own balance and fell backwards and out of sight.
Legolas heard himself scream his friend´s name once more; just as the horse had finally fled, the first two logs had reached the shore and were tumbling into the water, bound to hit the man.
~o~
To Be Continued
~o~
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