"Get some sleep Frodo," he commanded causing the curious hobbit to cease his questioning and lay back on the bedroll. Turning his back to the boy, he let his gaze wander once more across the night sky. It took but a second for his thoughts to return to the paths they had been traveling before the hobbit had made inquiry of him.
Loneliness, doubt, but most heavily destiny weighed on him this night. It had always been there but never so close as it now seemed. He could its' hot breath on his neck and it did not please him; like a horse discovering a bit has been unwillingly thrust in his mouth and knew not if the journey ahead lay in kindness or cruelty.
Exiled from his future. Hiding, but never truly escaping. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, King of Gonder, raised by the elves, hope of man. As far as he could see, the only escape to his destiny was that of death. His own.
His eyes narrowed, a frown creased his weathered forehead, and an icy cold thought slid thru his doubting mind. Had he been but a pawn his entire life? Was his bravo really only his destiny cloaked in another form? In trying to escape his fate, had he actually embraced it?
These thoughts shook him to the very foundation of his being. Could he have been so stupid, so blinded? In running so hard to escape his destiny, had he played right into the hand's of the enemy? Sauron wanted the death to the heir of Isildur. Had he obliged the evil lord by taking a job that was by its very nature an invitation to death? Strider, the Ranger?
Aragorn knew he had cheated death more times than he was willing to admit and bore the scars to prove it. But he had always believed that his declaration to become a ranger those many years ago, to deny his birthright was his decision and his alone. But tonight, grave doubt gnawed at his soul. Could his "freewill" have been no more than a clever manipulation by the enemy to get what was most desired… death to the hope of man?
Snuffing out his pipe, it dropped it to the earth as he buried his head in his battle-calloused hands.
Dark thoughts. Such dark thoughts. He had contemplated his life's path countless times over that last 70 years but never before had it seemed so bleak, so manipulated. Never had he such great doubt. Strider, the great ranger of the North, had he been no more than a pawn for Sauron and too blinded as to even know it.
His muscles twitched, wanting to rise and run off into the night abandoning all his responsibilities. "Blast Gandalf for charging him to deliver these hobbits to Rivendell," he cursed as he removed his head from his hands to glare banefully at the moon. His left hand, seemingly unbidden, formed into a fist and slammed resoundly into the earth.
"By the spirit, Gandalf was no less a manipulator than the great Sarumon himself!"
His body began to tremble with pent up fury. Yes. Manipulation. Elrond the elf had been the first to manipulate him, desperately trying to steer the young king down the path of his destiny. Then, having escaped Elrond's manipulations by joining the Rangers, he fell pray to another. Gandalf. The wizard had come along to guide, no manipulate, Aragorn down the course he so desperately choose not to travel.
Springing to his feet, hand to the hilt of his sword he swore to the night, "By the spirits of Valar, I will be manipulated no more!"
He strode away from the camp, into the night, his thoughts only on escape from the camp, the hobbits, and his destiny.
Blind rage carelessly drove his footsteps causing him to trip over a tree root a few hundred yards from the camp. Gracelessly, he fell upon the hardened earth. With a string of curses that would have made the drawfs proud, he thrust himself back upon his knees.
While drawing a shaking breath to gather himself, he noted something warm and fluid flowing over his palm. Rotating it upwards towards the waning moonlight and unclenching his fist he discovered he had been clutching Arwen's pendent so tightly that it had pierced his palm. Blood, his blood, flowed over its surface. The blood of the heir of Isildur. The blood of failure. Taken back, he settled on his haunches and stared in bewilderment at the jewel.
Out of the dark and ethereal voice questioned, caressing his mind. "Where do you run to my love?"
Slowly raising his eyes, he met those of his beloved. "Arwen," he passionately whispered, the love of the ages captured in her name.
The pale, glowing spirit moved closer so as to kneel on the ground in front of him.
Shame and self-doubt washed over him as he felt the warm blood on his hand. The blood of Isildur, failure. His failure. Unable to bear the soul searching depths of her eyes, he dropped his gaze back to the blood-stained pendent. Failure.
A gentle warmth reached out lifting his bearded chin until once again, his eyes meshed with hers.
"Estel," she spoke with no recrimination, boundless love, and a hint of sorrow.
He gazed into the deep depth of her eyes allowing himself to be lost to her world.
"You run so hard, but without need. What you fear, what you doubt, it is not real."
With a cry, he broke free of her gaze. "But how can I know? How can I be sure!" he hissed.
Once again the warmth that was her hand forced his gaze back upon her. "Aragorn. Estel. Can you not feel the manipulation is now, but was not then? Your past is your past and yours alone. But here, now, it calls. It reaches out with evil tendrils to poison your mind."
His eyes hardened. "You speak in riddles as the great Gandalf does."
She lowered her eyes to his outstretched hand and his eyes followed. In his hand lay not the pendent of Arwen but the one Ring. Jerking his hand back, as if burned by the very fires of Mordor, the ring spun off into the night.
"But how? How did it end up in my hand?" he gasped staring unbelievingly at what was not there.
"The ring was never there. No more than I am here. Projections. Of good. Of evil. The manipulation of enemy was not in your past but is in your present."
"The evil," he whispered as realization dawned upon him. "Oh Arwen, I have been such a fool." Anguish tarnished in his voice. "I, bearing the blood of my fallen kin, well know the power of the ring, perhaps more than most. Its' inherent evil. Its' manipulative powers. Yet I succumbed to it this very night no better am I then than my ancestors." Raising his eyes to meet that of his love he pleaded, "Arwen, I am not worthy of this task."
Not answering, for the task of convincing the doubting Ranger could only by done by himself, she leaned forward and placed a feather-light kiss upon his lips. "'Til Rivendell my love," she whispered fading upon the night.
Aragorn stared out into the empty darkness searching in vane for what was not there. A sigh that reached the very depth of his soul escaped his lips. Looking downward upon his hand he noted it was empty; no pendent. No ring. No gash to collaborate this night's tale. Only illusion and lingering doubt.
Rubbing a weary hand across his eyes, he arose. A howl in the night sent shivers down his spine and his feet hurrying back towards the camp. He berated himself with every step he took. Stupid, so stupid to be driven so recklessly from the camp, from the very souls he was sworn to protect. A blunder such as this could leave the hobbits dead, the ring gone, and the fate of Middle Earth sealed.
"But it would also release you from your destiny," the wind whispered.
"NO!" he cried into the night as he drew his sword. "I shall be fooled by your filth no more. My destiny is my decision and you shall not drive me towards or away from it anymore. Not you, nor Elrond, nor Gandalph. No one. Only I shall decide."
His stride faltered momentarily. But would he? Decide? And would it be the right decision?
The doubt that had plagued him since learning of his heritage so many years ago settled back upon him like a well worn cloak.
But then he laughed out aloud, realizing that it was as it should be. Since Elrond had told him about his birthright and he had chosen to turn away from it, he had always carried a thread of doubt. Doubt that others strove to fan into flames. Doubt that he himself on the darkest of nights would worry on like a dog on a favorite bone.
But this doubt, it was good. For doubt, in its strange way gave him hope. Hope that the powers of darkness could be dispelled and that peace might descend upon the land.
Entering the camp, eyes blazing, sword reflecting the night stars, he discovered all was well. The hobbits were sleeping, not slain by some creature of the night. The ring was poking out from under the shirt of Frodo as it should be. By the grace of the elves his foolishness this night had lead to no harm.
Knowing sleep would elude him now and probably for rest of this journey, he settled himself upon the ground to stare out over the night sky and mused. He had met the enemy in battle this night and had it not been for the help of Arwen he would have lost. He took this lesson to heart. Even a harden Ranger could learn new tricks. He would continue to carry his doubts about himself, as he should, but he would not let them rule his life.