Rocks slithered under his boots. Aragorn stifled a curse as the autumn wind came cold and chill, knocking him off balance again. Off this narrow way fell sheer cliffs on either side, and pebbles rattled down the chasm, as he grasped vainly for the wind-beaten bushes. But he was sliding; the rocks tearing his hands as he fell, scrabbling vainly among the shale.

A hand seized his, just as his heart plummeted and he felt it was lost, and pulled him up with a strange strength. Aragorn stood, his head spinning, watching the grey-cloaked figure before him. He was tall and hooded, but beneath a pair of grey eyes watched him as well. They seemed sharp, or they would have been, but dulled into vagueness by a sense of sadness. An aura seemed to hang around the stranger, one of mystery and lamentation, that cloaked him even more than the finely woven cloth which he wore.

Aragorn wiped his bleeding hands on his jerkin. "I thank you for my life, mellòn."

"I am no friend of the Edaìn." said the stranger. His voice told him as an Elf; he turned away, but Aragorn laid a hand on his shoulder. "Yet you saved my life. Will you not at least give me your name?"

The Elf turned back to him, a cowering gleam in his eyes. "Why, young Adan? But if it will satisfy you, I am Daeron."

Aragorn took a step back, awed. "The minstrel of Doriath?" he whispered.

Daeron inclined his head. "And what is your name, since I have given you the courtesy of mine?"

"Aragorn the Dúnadan."

Daeron laughed bitterly and sat down on a rock. "So you are of Lúthien's race. You look as Beren did." he added, uncovering his face, and Aragorn could see the curl of his lip. "A wandering man, unkempt."

Aragorn's jaw tensed, but the minstrel seemed to think he was alone, and murmured. "So, shall you drag a fair Elven-maid down to your level?"
Aragorn flinched and Daeron turned savagely upon him. "Ah, guilty, guilty! Who shall you kill?!"
"I shall kill none, but Arwen Evenstar has reckoned me worthy enough of her love."

"I have heard of her." Daeron's voice was as chill as frost-bitten steel. "Her beauty is renowned." He sighed. "But none could match my Lúthien. She was no creature of this imperfect world, she belonged to the stars." His eyes fell. "Indeed, as she danced it seemed she only came to bless the ground as it suited her, a creature of utter beauty. She had no flaw, she belonged to the flawless heavens. And then a wanderer came, one of the Secondborn. I had reached so often for her, and yet it was his accursed hand who dragged her down, took her from the skies and tainted her for a mortal life."

"My Evenstar is as fair, if not fairer." said Aragorn stubbornly. "She walks in the very likeness of Lúthien."

Daeron shook his dark head, his eyes bitter. "No. How you wish to deceive yourself, I care not, but none was fairer than she, none deserved her, but the least deserving gained her. And it will be with your Evenstar. She will die for you, out of pity more than love."

"You lie." Aragorn's voice was trembling. "She loves me."

"If you say so."

Aragorn swallowed, but Daeron interrupted him by standing up. "You will have better fortune with love than I." he said softly, and cast his hood over his dark head again. "And, though you have chosen a dastardly course, may you live long, for the sake of the Undómiel."

The minstrel, the last relic of Doriath, was gone, fleet-footed and young, with steady steps down the shale-cursed cliff and Aragorn watched him go, and he felt pity for the Elf, and almost wished for his sake, things could have been different.

But they were not.