The year is 2957 of the Third Age. Sauron rebuilds the fortress of Barad-dur, while three Nazgul have returned to Dol Guldur in secret. The sons of Elrond travel to Mirkwood, where evil grows ever stronger, to offer aid from Imladris to the Woodland King. Meanwhile, after leaving Rivendell six years before, Aragorn travels the Misty Mountains with a small band of Rangers led by the chieftain of the Dunedain. The company now assembles with the rest of the Dunedain to hold council and decide their course against the shadow in the East.
*
The thick darkness of the undergrowth forced him to flee blindly through unknown hollows and copses, flailing to grasp at low branches when his feet caught in the tangled nightshade. His companion shoved against him from behind as he struggled free of the clinging shrubbery and they fell forward together to the hard ground. He tasted blood on his lips and scrambled to his feet, his desperate wheezes echoing in his ears and his heart thundering in his chest.
Dimly he heard a savage cry, a ring of metal and a scream cut short; his companion had risen too slowly from his fall. Yet he could not hope that they would abandon the pursuit, for he knew that they would not be satisfied with one victim. While any of his wretched kind remained alive, they would not be satisfied.
The sharp shadows cast by the nightshade and the trees overhead showed faintly in the silvery light that drew nearer as his injured leg trembled underneath him and his mad flight slowed without his consent. The light shone brighter and he stumbled forward with a frantic half-gasp, half-moan. His eyes flickered from side to side, searching for just a little hole in the ground, a space under a rock, anywhere they could not follow
A blur of silver light dropped from the branches above and landed silently before him. The flashing blade that swung up to meet him shone painfully clear, and then was gone.
Elladan lifted his gaze from the dead orc that lay sprawled in the nightshade. He tugged a bloody rag from his belt and wiped his blade clean.
"The shadow has spread since we last hunted in Mirkwood," he remarked. He stepped easily over the small body and began to walk back to the Forest Path where they had left their horses.
Elrohir sheathed his knife and fell into step beside his brother. "They were only two, and they fled."
"Yet I have not heard of orcs so bold as to cross the Road," Elladan said. "Nor has Thranduil written to us that they have advanced so far north."
"Mayhap he does not know. These may be the first to venture so near his realm."
"Mayhap they are the first," Elladan said. He slid his blade into the scabbard and sprang lightly onto his mare. The sons of Elrond began again to ride slowly along the dark road. "But they are not the last."
The elves then fell silent, listening to the strange murmurs of the forest and watching the small slivers of the eastern sky that were visible from the path. Elrohir felt the suffocating tension of the forest ease slightly as the first light showed above the horizon. The bulbous glow of the eyes that watched them from beside the road began to dim and go out. Yet he still knew the presence of evil, drew it in with every breath and felt its pressure like an ironclad hand closing about him.
"The shadow has spread," Elladan said quietly.
Elrohir watched the edges of the leaves shine bright orange and pink with the sunrise. He turned to his brother. "Think you that Thranduil will accept our aid?"
Elladan had considered that question throughout the night, but he still did not answer for a long moment.
"He may," Elladan said finally. "The King is proud, but Ada believes that his thought dwells ever on the safety of his realm and people. Yet his answer may also be decided by the manner of our offer. Thranduil places a high value upon his independence – perhaps too high. We must work to avoid the impression that we offer charity."
Elrohir smiled slightly. "That is unfortunate – we are hardly renowned for our tact, muindor-nin," he said. "Perhaps Ada should have sent Estel as his emissary."
Elladan threw back his head and laughed, and a black squirrel which had been staring at them from the roadside leapt startled into a tree. "If Estel ever became our emissary to Thranduil, I would go along as his escort. I would be a fool to miss the King's face when he saw that scruffy man-child as the chief ambassador of Imladris!"
"Elrohir!"
The sharp voice snatched Elrohir from his daydream to find his brother staring at him with an unreadable expression.
"I said that Aragorn is not yet prepared for the dangers of Mirkwood," Elladan repeated. "Yet you did not hear me. Where has your thought strayed?"
Elrohir could not say whether his brother spoke in anger or concern, and did not know how to answer. After a moment, Elladan spurred his horse slightly ahead.
*
The journey had been long. No pain or fatigue was revealed by the long strides of the Dunedain as they walked their narrow path, but many had been wounded and all were weary.
The Misty Mountains had been perilous for longer than any of the Dunedain could remember, but the dangers of this last journey had been far greater than they had anticipated. Aragorn could see in the faces of the company the grim tale of nights spent in battle and days in long marches over treacherous mountains. The Dunedain endured danger and deprivation well, but during the worst of this journey Aragorn had felt that only the will of the chieftain Merenglas had kept the company alive.
The Dunedain went in single file along the mountainside, a cliff rising on one side and falling away on the other. Merenglas led and Aragorn went directly behind, followed by less experienced Rangers in the center and grim Thalion as rearguard. Aragorn watched ever for a sign of their destination, seeing easily over the head of the leader, but there was only the same steeply sloping path that they had followed since their journey began.
"Impatient child," Merenglas said, easily perceiving the thought of his youngest warrior. "Surely a short walk in the afternoon does not try your patience so unbearably?"
The chieftain still faced ahead, but Aragorn dared not roll his eyes. When the younger Dunedain debated – quietly, once their leader had been proven asleep – whether Merenglas could actually see out of the back of his head or was merely very perceptive, Aragorn argued invariably for the former opinion. No orc encampment, goblin ambush or childish prank escaped unseen under the watch of the old Ranger.
"I shall restrain myself until the end of our journey," Aragorn said somberly. "Fear me not."
"Stubborn boy," Merenglas muttered. "Since you will not ask, I will tell you – we are less than a league from camp. We shall be there long before sunset."
Aragorn fell silent. He had seen no sign of a camp – and even a stealthy band of Rangers should not escape his notice. He scanned the landscape again for smoke or human movement, but there was none.
"Have you not found them yet?" Merenglas said in mock astonishment. "By Elbereth – a company of forty men has managed to hide from our elfling."
"No, I see them not," Aragorn murmured. "Yet we are so near. How do they conceal their camp?"
The question was answered when Merenglas turned a sharp corner of the cliff – and disappeared.
In the side of the mountain there was a crack, just wide enough for a large man. Aragorn could see the dim outline of Merenglas ahead as he entered the tunnel in wonder. Did the Dunedain hide now in caves, as orcs or goblins did? Or – was that faint light ahead, making the man ahead stand out in sharp relief?
The air in the tunnel was unusually fresh, not dank and rotten like the caverns he had explored before, where fell creatures hid and devoured prey. Aragorn reached out to touch the jagged wall – the tunnel had grown wider – and felt dry rock beneath his fingers. No slime, no moss.
The light grew brighter, filling the tunnel, and Aragorn could suddenly see Merenglas as though he stood in the full sun on the plains. He blinked as the tunnel widened, and suddenly found himself walking into a valley in the middle of the mountain.
Grey tents were pitched haphazardly on the deep grass of the hollow mountaintop, and a line of cooking-fires burned cheerfully before them. Dunedain sat repairing their gear or talking in small clusters outside the tents. A few were walking restlessly about, but stopped when they caught sight of the small company.
"My lord!"
A rawboned youth with wild dark hair leapt up from the rock where he had been sharpening his blade. He shoved the machete into his belt and darted forward to bow hastily before Merenglas. As he straightened again – standing well over the head of the chieftain, for he was nearly as tall as Aragorn – he flashed a wide grin of bright white teeth, startling against his sun-bronzed skin.
"Memorable journey, eh?" he asked, glancing at the haggard faces of the small band. "Never fear – we have alcohol. That is, athelas," he corrected quickly. "We have athelas."
"I would not refuse either, Halbarad," Merenglas said grimly. "Yet some of us are badly wounded. Where is the healer's tent?"
The youth indicated a large tent some distance away, instantly serious. "We are well supplied, but Gilion is the only skilled healer in camp," he said. "Shall I find someone to help him?"
"Nay, he will do," Merenglas answered. "Thalion, take the injured to Gilion. Lend him whatever aid you can, but if any wound is beyond his skill, send for Strider here." He clapped Aragorn on the back. "He will be in council with us in the captains' tent."
The confusion on Halbarad's face was surpassed only by that in Aragorn's mind. He was not a ranking warrior – he had only traveled with the Rangers for six years – why should he attend a council of the captains? The warrior who had slain more goblins and Wargs than most Rangers ever saw felt a slick of hot panic through his gut. What would he do at a council? Would he have to know things?
Yet when Merenglas laid a firm hand on his shoulder and half-led, half-dragged him away from the company and toward the captains' tent, Aragorn asked none of these questions.
"Strider'?" he repeated dazedly.
Merenglas chuckled. "Can't let the whole camp hear your right name just yet, Heir of Isildur," he said quietly. He glanced up at Aragorn, and there was a malicious glint in his sharp grey eyes. "Besides, it suits you – tramping along at a great pace with those long legs of yours, all tall and skinny, towering over normal folk like an Ent "
Halbarad, who had followed behind Merenglas and Aragorn, halted and stood still. Heir of Isildur
*
Disclaimer: All characters, creatures and places borrowed from The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion belong to J. R. R. Tolkien. Any property of mine that you might gain from a lawsuit would not be worth the lawyer's fee, so don't bother.
A/N: I've thrown you into the midst of two storylines with no preparation. Why? Because preparation is boring and I like to confuse you. However, the plot from now on is very straightforward and the two storylines will converge. Thus setting the world firmly in order again. If you want to know, this is primarily an Aragorn story, with Legolas, Halbarad, Elladan and Elrohir as secondary characters. No romance, no slash, limited original characters, no running with scissors but lots of arrow-shooting and sword-slashing, with a good brawl or two for variety. Enjoy!