A Lost King
Chapter I: A Costly Hunt
Aragorn strode through the gloom; dusk's last fading light glinting off his elvish leaf broach. His hunter's eyes looked stoically towards the sun. It was a deep maroon, low in the sky and bloated like a sore, seeping it's blood red rays into the swollen clouds. His strong brow furrowed as the ethereal wailings of wargs echoed through the pines. He cursed himself silently for tracking the deer this far; it was not kingly to disappear for a night. The whole of Gondor would be in an uproar, not to mention Arwen, she would most likely ride out into the night to find her Ellessar.
The King of Gondor stood in the half light, stock still and poised. His acute ears listening intently, his intense eyes scanning. The cool, almost chill wind hummed through the once grand branches of the ancient trees. They seemed ghastly now, their lengthening shadows extended like claws towards Aragorn. A sinister transformation. Cold fear surged though his veins, turning his blood to ice. Not fear for himself, but fear for his beloved Arwen, who was sure to venture into the night after him. He prayed that her elven wisdom would council her rash heart against this, but he knew her too well. Even now, she would be riding alone into the gathering darkness.
Calling on his training as a Dúnedain ranger, he mastered his fear, turning it into steely resolve. With deep breath, Aragorn stalked silently into the night, half crouched, gripping the pommel of his blade; a strider in the night. As he slid from shadow to shadow, more liquid than human, his mind emptied. He was utterly focussed now, a part of the forest, a predator in the night. His powerful body was unspoiled by the luxuries of kingship, and below his finery his muscles rippled, like panthers, stretching after a long slumber. It was then that he glimpsed a dark void; an entrance to a cave.
As the royal ranger approached the cave, he stooped, expertly striking tinder and lighting the tar soaked cloth at the end of a torch. Fire danced into life, the tongues of flame reflecting off the dark pools of his eyes. Shadows danced as the flickering light bounced off jagged rocks and razor sharp stalagmites. The great King stooped, and deigning the cave to be suitable shelter, went about building a fire. The cold wind whistled through the mouth of the cave, biting into Aragorn's exposed flesh, numbing his hands. When finally the flames danced into life, he sat back on his heels, closing his eyes as the heat flooded over him. He removed his cloak, laying it out as a makeshift bed, using his quiver as a pillow. Aragorn stretched, flexing the muscles that his fine clothing could barely conceal. As he stared into the fire as the flames formed shapes; beasts flickered into life for split seconds, before the flames contorted again, forming kaleidoscopic shapes and scenes. A warg roared in the flames, before melting and shaping the proud head of a stag, which, in turn twisted into a searing sprite, dancing among the ashes.
As his eyes lost focus, mesmerised by the flames, his thoughts turned to Arwen. He desperately hoped that she had not ventured out after him, and cursed himself for allowing it to happen. He would do anything to keep her from harm. The love he possessed for her was fierce and absolute. He would wage wars, slay demons, fight innumerable foes to protect her. Something deep inside Aragorn flared as he thought about his beloved. Her elven grace granted her incredible beauty. An elegance that transcended description in the languages of men. He smiled reflectively as he remembered her high cheek bones, covered with fair, delicate skin; never ageing, unchanging. Perfect for aeons to come. Aragorn's fingers closed around the Evenstar hanging from his neck. Even in the gloom of the cave it glinted and glowed. It's meticulously crafted silver emanating a sheen that left the legendary horde of Smaug wanting. Aragorn sighed as he imagined Arwen's entrancing neckline, framed by the regal mane of her hair. He breathed deeply, longing to feel her safe in his arms again.
Strider was brought out of his reverie by a noise by the cave mouth. A footfall. It was light, nimble. Clearly the intruder was an accomplished tracker. Aragorn did not turn, but slowly and silently drew his curved hunting knife. The elven steel flashed in the firelight. The footsteps drew closer. The soft padding inched nearer each second. Aragorn held his nerve. Turning now, showing his hand too early could spell death for him. His entire body tensed, his muscles flexing, remembering their strength. Poised, he listened. The footsteps were halfway into the cave by now, accompanied by the dripping of water into a nearby underground watercourse. Drip. Drip. Drip. The drops were quiet and soft, like a pebble being dropped into a still lake. If the drops were pebbles, then the footfalls were the circlets of ripples; disturbed water sailing out from the impact of the stone. So quiet, almost beyond the limits of human hearing. But drawing closer, louder.
The footsteps stopped. So close that Aragorn could smell his attacker. A soft, floral scent flooded into his head, almost dazing him. It was beautiful. Snapping out of the trance, he grabbed a burning log, spinning and hurling it towards the intruder. But it was gone. Aragorn looked around, breathing raggedly. The log lay where it fell in the centre of the cave, smouldering. He stiffened as he felt cold steel press against his neck.
The intruder must be behind him, though none of his senses could detect any sign of it. The pressure of the blade increased; the sharp steel drawing a ruby drop of blood from his vulnerable skin. It spoke softly. "What's this? A ranger off his guard?"