A/N: Here is part 2! Thanks to everyone who is reading this (or will read it) and especially to Allee1 and Rangerofthenorth-Estel. The only thing was that I'm not exactly sure how many pieces the Shards of Narsil alludes to. 2? 3? Or a lot like in the movies? It sounds like 2 or so in the book since Aragorn has it in a sheath with him all the time. Hmm...I don't know. Anyway...

Enjoy!


Aragorn

Into the North in Eriador, the Shadow reached out its grasping fingers. Orcs grew in number and evil creatures—like the Trolls or Wolves—walked the lands freely. Yet there was a force hidden within the North that still waxed strong against all wicked things, guarding all Free Folk against the minions of the Dark Lord.

The sun was setting and light was quickly fading. Night would soon cover the forest in darkness. And the dark would bring out things that dared not walk openly in the sunlight.

A band of Orcs made their way down from the Misty Mountains in the cover of night and of the tall, shadowed trees. They thought they were being fairly quiet, but they could be easily heard or espied from a distance. Especially when the eyes seeking them were sharp as the eagle's. The Orcs trampled the ground and broke branches. They reached a thickening of the trees where the shadows were deeper and the underbrush taller. Normally they would have been wary or watchful, but they were just glad to find more darkness where they were most comfortable. They did not see the trap that awaited them there in the wood.

Shrieks and growls shattered the stillness when arrows pierced those in the front or straggling to the side. Three fell first, then two more were shot in the throat before their assailants appeared out of the shadows as vague figures moving swifter than their dulled eyes could track. Curved swords and blunt daggers were pulled out. One cloaked man boldly attacked from ahead while two others came from the sides.

Some Orcs tried to flee but were cut down the easier as they tried to run instead of defend themselves. Their numbers were soon dwindled to a third of what they had been. Their hideous faces leered and snarled even as they knew they were no match for the enemy that ambushed them on their own advantageous ground.

The tallest attacker slew two Orcs with one stroke and blocked the blade of another coming up behind him before he spilt his black blood as well. His bright sword was stained with the filth. He then leaped over their bodies to aid one of his companions.

There was a sudden silence. The last sound was of the last Orc's throes of death as he cursed the one who took his life, though in vain. One of the cloaked men drew back his hood. Though very little light fell near them, his face was clearly seen in the night and it was that of a fair Elf. He looked to his companions.

"Let us leave them where they lie so any others who pass here will know the wrath of the sons of Elrond and fear to roam these lands."

Two sons there may have been of Lord Elrond of Rivendell in blood, yet another there was who was as a son to him, and he was the third of their small company.

They walked out of the forest into more open land where the moonlight encircled them and glistened upon their heads. The Elvish cloaks upon their shoulders nearly hid them from mortal sight and the weapons they bore were also of Elven make. Nonetheless, when the other two doffed their hoods, only one was another Elf. The third was of the Edain even though many mistook him for one of the Fair Folk. He had their beauty but was strong as his own people. His chiselled features were fair and noble, his hair dark and his eyes grey like twilight.

"Well met, Estel," said Elladan to the young man. "You have proven the valiant character of your heart and done great deeds this night. I am proud to call you friend and brother-in-arms."

"Truly," said Elrohir. "Those of the Shadow should fear your blade."

Estel smiled grimly. "I hope that is true for us all. Let us depart from this place." His eyes shone. "There are more Orcs to hunt."

The horizon was tinged with gold and the sky still grey when Elrond learned of the return of his sons and Estel, his foster-son. He arose to meet them. The air was cool, though no wind stirred, for the sun was not yet risen, and dew was on the grass. The Elf lord passed through a corridor open to the outside and down a set of steps into a small courtyard. They were already there speaking to two other Elves about their journeys. Elrond looked upon his sons Elladan and Elrohir with a gleam of pride for they had become a thorn in the Enemy's foot. Yet when his gaze fell on their third companion, he stared.

He knew Estel had accompanied them. He knew he was skilled enough to match the twins. But he felt as though he looked on the young Estel with new eyes. As a father one day sees his son and wonders at how he has grown, so Elrond saw him standing amongst the Elves as if he were of their blood. He was taller by a hand's breadth than all of them and broader in the shoulders even though he was muscularly lean. Only eighteen years had passed since Estel came into his household at the age of two. Now at twenty years, he seemed matured beyond his years.

They paused in their talk when Elrond approached. Each bowed their head in greeting before the two other Elves courteously departed.

"Good day, father," said Elrohir.

"I see that your enemies were the unfortunate ones."

"Indeed they were," said Elladan. "They have learned to fear the cover of the forests where once they found refuge."

"They may be more in number, but they often roam blindly," said Estel. "Apparently their fear has done nothing to improve their tactics."

"Ah, this young Edain has done mighty deeds this month." Elrohir clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You shall hear tell of them in the Hall of Fire tonight, father."

"Yes," said Elladan, "no orc dared to meet his blade for he was like a mighty wind that swept them down. His kindred would be proud…as we are."

Elrond again gazed upon him with shining eyes and a sudden realisation. He has become a man, a man of valour and wisdom. I can no longer withhold the truth from him for he deserves to know. He has shown himself more than worthy of his blood even at so young an age. It is time…

"Estel, come with me. We must speak alone."

Estel glanced at Elladan and Elrohir, then nodded. "Of course."

They left the others and walked to a room Estel had only been in twice before. It was a private study of sorts of Elrond's where important discussions took place, discussions Estel had never been able to hear as a child. The light was growing on the horizon that was seen through all the arched windows open always to the air even in winter. The Elvish carpentry was of the finest make and had lasted for over four thousand years. There was also an image upon one of the walls that he had never forgotten since the first time he saw it. A mighty man of great height and kingly features bore a bright sword in his hand. The sun shone upon his helm and the wind seemed to billow out his mantle. It was Elendil of old, the King of Gondor and Arnor and renowned lord of Men. He was one of the many men of elder days whom Estel admired most.

Elrond stood at a window with his hands resting on the ledge. He watched as the sun climbed higher and higher until it was high enough a sliver of its liquid gold reached over the mountains.

"Estel," he said as he finally turned to look at him, "there is a very important matter we must discuss. It's been hidden from you for long enough."

A slight frown creased his brow. "What has been hidden?" His heart began to beat quicker in his chest, though for what reason, he was not sure.

"Eighteen years you have been hidden. Eighteen years the Enemy has thought you dead. But no more! You shall know of your true lineage and your true name for the time is come. The time has come for you to come out of seclusion and do that which you were born into."

Estel's eyes gleamed with wonder as Elrond stood in front of him and held his gaze.

"Your true name is not Estel. You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the line of Isildur and Heir to the throne of Gondor. All your fathers before you were Chieftains of the Dúnedain and of an ancient line renowned and honoured by all Free Folk. There is blood in you of the noblest of Men even descended from the Kings of Númenor. You are the Heir of Isildur, Aragorn of the Dúnedain."

Astonishment rippled through him as his heart pounded. Could it be true? Or was this a dream?

Elrond stepped back and knelt before a chest against the wall beneath the painting of Elendil. The chest was of rich, dark wood inlaid with silver detailing on the edges. The latch was a leaf of silver also that softly clicked as Elrond opened the heavy lid. He reached in and drew out a few items swathed in elven material like that used in their garb. He set them on a table and first grabbed a small box. When he opened it, the morning sunlight glinted on something green within.

"The Ring of Barahir," murmured the Elf lord as he offered it to Estel—now Aragorn.

He took it and gazed in wonder at the ancient ring, the emerald eyes of the two serpents shining up at him.

"It is an heirloom of your bloodline passed down through the ages even from Barahir of the First Age. It is now in your keeping for you are the rightful Heir."

Estel slipped the ring on his finger. It fit perfectly.

Elrond then lifted the largest item and removed the cloth. It fluttered to the floor. Estel's eyes fell on the sheathed sword. A stirring in his blood caused a shudder to trickle down his spine. He knew this was no ordinary sword though the sheath was plain and had a strong notion of its name before Elrond spoke it aloud

Elrond put it into the young man's hands with a reverence not missed by his sharp eyes. "This…this is the Blade That Was Broken, the mighty sword that cut the One Ring from Sauron's hand, and the weapon of King Elendil…your forefather who preceded you almost two thousand years ago. This blade did great injury to the Enemy when wielded by the hands of such renowned men. May it one day do the same in your hands."

Estel looked up with surprise into the eyes of the lord who he had looked to as a father all those years as a boy growing up. He knew they did not share blood, yet now perhaps they did in a very distant way. Gilraen, his mother, told him of his true father when she could, but never his name or how he died. She merely said he was slain by Orcs and of his character and spirit. Now he understood why.

He ran the tips of his fingers down the hilt and allowed his fingers to wrap around it. His head tightened in a firm grip on the leather, and he pulled. The sword seemed to rasp sorrowfully out of its sheath. Only one piece even came into view for it was still broken after three thousand years, and the light was gone out of it. It looked much like any other simple sword, yet Estel could almost feel the years and stories etched within it as he touched the cold metal.

"The Shards of Narsil," he murmured.

He did not see the expression of amazement in Elrond's face as he saw a glorious sight that would have made even Sauron himself tremble. The son of Arathorn stood tall and mighty, grasping the sword with a powerful arm and with passionate fire shining in his piercing gaze. He was near the image of Elendil: he held the piece of the shards much like the King of old did in the painting when the sword was whole, and both were fell and fair in appearance. The similarity caused Elendil to stare at the two kingly figures. One had done his mighty deeds while the other was of flesh and blood and yet to reveal his full might.

Estel returned the blade to its place and sighed heavily. "There is much history in this sword. It carries with it a burden of responsibility I can already sense."

"But I know you can bear it just as easily as you will bear the weight of the sword itself," said Elrond. He laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "This is your fate. And this is your choice: to bear the name of Aragorn worthily and lead your people against the Shadow or to let yourself be in despair and not fight the Enemy with all that is in you."

Estel gave a firm nod with a steady gaze. "Though the road be hard, I will not falter. I would die before failing my kindred and all enemies of the Dark Lord." A brilliant gleam flashed in his grey eyes. "Sauron will find that the North is no longer open to his hand or malleable to his forging. I shall gladly accept the name of Aragorn son of Arathorn and all responsibility within my blood."

Aragorn took leave of Elrond soon after. The revelation was overwhelming, but he revelled in the tidings. All the mysteries of his youth were answered, and his heart swelled with the joy to know he was in company with those such as Elendil and Isildur…and Arathorn, his father.

To ponder the weighty tidings, he walked outside along ways familiar to him from all the years raised in Rivendell. He found himself amongst the blossoming birches where a fresh, sweet scent was in the cool breeze. So glad was he that he watched the lush beauty as his voice lifted onto the air and sang the Lay of Lúthien. His voice was pleasing as an Elf's: clear, deep and rich, and smoothly fluent in the Elven tongue.

Yet it was not only the trees who heard his song. Another's ear was captured and drawn to him. Upon this day he was fated to learn the truth of his identity but also fated to fall in love.

And so Aragorn stepped onto the path destined for him from the beginning of Arda.


NEXT: Strider...

I would highly appreciate feedback :), and if you want to actually read of the meeting of Aragorn and Arwen, you can go to the source in The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen in the books or go read my other story Eternity.