Aragorn is My Father

Five seconds into the conversation with Strider, and I was lost and not giving a damn about getting found again. What a huge disappointment. Maybe he wasn't as decrepit as my grandfather, but he sure did have 'dad' written all over him. Not a 'manly hunk' or 'rugged swain' at all. So I sat sullenly in the corner while the 'menfolk' bandied words about Strider hooking up with us on our epic quest. To my surprise, he'd been following us since we came out of the Downs onto the road, and 'dropping eaves' when we parted ways with Tom.

At least he wasn't skulking about the barrow. I changed clothes behind that thing. Creepy.

The long and the short of it was, when he finally stopped talking about Frodo as if he weren't in the same room with us, or the person he was talking to, he got around to telling us about the Black Riders, shady characters like some Bill Ferny guy, and in general pretty much painting a rather unsettling picture of 'Southerners.' I had no idea what the deal was with 'Southerners,' but from his tone and careful choice of words, it didn't sound like they served mint juleps under magnolia trees.

What really annoyed me was all the beating around the bush. I mean, honestly, he was a friend of Gandalf's. He was legitimately sent to meet the Hobbits and help them get to Rivendell, unlike me who was lying like a rug. All the yammering was boring the hell out of me. Just tell us Gandalf sent you and be done with it! Geez. What was it about old people that they had to go on and on about boring crap? It was a relief when the innkeeper showed up with hot water and candles.

"Now, I do hope you're all comfortable and getting on," Butterbur said breathlessly. He was clearly still running his butt off out in the common room. "I've come to bid you good night, and tell you one last thing before you retire. I've had a busy time of it lately, and that's a fact. One thing drives out another, as you'll admit, I'm sure. Seeing you come in tonight reminded me that I was asked to look out for Hobbits of the Shire, one named Baggins in particular. Now, don't fuss; it was Gandalf who told me of it, and said you'd be traveling by the name of 'Underhill.'"

Frodo looked rather flabbergasted, and exchanged brief shocked looks with Pippin and Sam. "Have you seen him, then? When?"

"Quite some time ago now, I'm afraid," the innkeeper replied with embarrassment. "He bade me deliver a letter to you, and I would've done in all haste, but there wasn't anyone willing to take it that day or the next, and then... well, one thing after another drove it from my mind. I'll do what needs to be done to set things aright; you've only to name it."

"Well, I should like to have this letter, if you please," Frodo said rather crossly, folding his arms over his chest. I had to agree with him; though this was yet another tidbit that rang no bells, I at least knew that Frodo should have left the Shire a crap-ton earlier than he did. I was willing to bet my Granny's girdle that Gandalf's letter would tell him to get his ass out of Dodge weeks ago.

"Here," Butterbur said, handing a thick, wax-sealed parchment to the Hobbit. "I hope you'll forgive me, and no harm comes of it. With all the queer folk roaming about, I've had quite a few distractions. Black men from who knows where have been showing up, asking after 'Baggins,' and if they mean well, then I'm a Hobbit. And if it isn't these strangers frightening the folk and setting the dogs to whining, it's those Rangers showing up at odd hours asking questions. Why, that Strider tried to get in to see you, before you'd had a bare moment to rest yourselves or have a bite to eat, he did."

"Indeed!" Strider said, and I almost jumped out of my jammies. I realized he'd slunk into the shadows when Butterbur entered the little sitting room, and only now felt the perverse need to leap out at the poor flustered man and scare the bejesus out of him. "Had you let me see them when I asked, much trouble could have been saved, Barliman."

"My word!" Butterbur cried, clutching his heart. "What business have you with these Hobbits, I ask you?"

"He is here by my leave," Frodo quickly interjected. "We are... indeed... in dire need of help. He has offered as much."

"Well, I'm sure you know your own business, Mr. Underhill, but I'm not sure as I'd take up with a Ranger, no matter the need."

"Who would you recommend he 'take up with,' then?" Strider flared. "A fat innkeeper who only remembers his own name because people shout it at him all day?"

Awkward, I thought, suppressing a giggle. Mental score: Strider one, Butterbur zero. Folding my arms over my chest and leaning back in the chair, I started to think the old geezer may be less of a crushing disappointment than I originally thought.

"These 'black men' you speak of," Strider went on, lip curling in disgust, "have you any idea from where they hail?"

Butterbur blinked and shook his head. "I... I confess, my dearest wish was removing myself from their presence at the earliest moment."

"They are Black Riders," Strider said dramatically, and I rolled my eyes. "They come from..."

"Mordor," I finished impatiently. "They're freaking Nazgûl from Mordor. And they'll be here tonight stabbing the crap out of mattresses. Can we move on, please? I'm tired."

"Save us!" Butterbur cried, and I swear, if Catholicism had been a factor, he would have crossed himself.

"How did you come by such knowledge?" Strider asked me, and all of a sudden he seemed to fully realize I was there. What, Eeyore pajamas are all the rage in his home town or something? Didn't call attention to myself with the weird colors?

Standing up and stretching my back, which made me tall enough to bonk my head on the ceiling in a most undignified way, I said, "I'm a friend of Gandalf's, and I've also been tasked with guiding them. I brought them this far. I guess I pass the baton to you for the next leg of the trip, right?"

He looked me up and down in a particularly untrusting way. "What is that you're wearing?"

Sighing, I said rather witheringly, "My pajamas. I was woken up from a nap, you know?"

Sam's brow furrowed. "But... you wear them all the time."

"Shut up, Sam. So...," I began, then paused. "Uh... where's Merry?"

"Still out, I expect," Frodo said wearily, then started. "He has not returned?"

"I'll send Nob out for him," the innkeeper offered. "He'll be safe inside before I bar the doors, rest assured." Nodding to all of us, and casting a doubtful look at Strider, Butterbur left.

The Ranger gave me one more uncertain look, then turned back to Frodo. "Come along now, read the letter."

Frodo composed himself and broke the seal. He didn't read it out loud; when he was done, he had a worried look on his face as he passed it around for the others to read. When I got a hold of it, I almost flipped it into the fireplace. If it was in the language we were all speaking, it sure as hell wasn't written using the Latin alphabet. Huffing impatiently, I dropped it onto the little table.

"But if you are the friend spoken of in this letter," Frodo was saying when I tuned back in, "why did you not mention it before? You might have spared us the time." Yeah, what he said, I thought.

"I knew nothing of this letter," Strider explained. "I assumed I must gain your trust on my own account, and I confess I hoped you would accept my help by that measure. I have been long in the wilderness without friendship, and grow weary of traveling alone. Ah, but I'm certain my looks are against me on that score." He chuckled ironically, plucking at his worn, dirty tunic.

I had to agree with him there. Viggo I would have followed into Mordor. This guy I wouldn't march to the bathroom with.

"I still don't know as I trust him," Sam said warily, crossing his arms over his chest. "How do we know you aren't a play-acting spy? You could've done in the real Strider. What have you to say to that?"

"I would say you are wiser than your companions," he said with a smile. "You, at least, have learned not to trust so easily. But in truth, if I had slain Strider and sought to take his likeness in order to deceive you, I could have killed you all by now without difficulty. If it were the Ring I was after, I could take it... NOW."

With an excessively dramatic flourish, Strider whipped his cloak aside to reveal the hilt of a longsword hanging from his belt. I confess, I thought the moment wasted because Strider wasn't wearing a corset and fishnet stockings under that cloak, but honestly, he was no Tim Curry.

"I am the real Strider, and that is most fortunate for you," he said solemnly. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and if by life or death I can save you, I will."

I found myself nodding off in my chair as they continued to banter about who knows what. Then quite suddenly, the room erupted in chaos as Merry returned blathering about Black Riders on the street corners. His story was told in fits and starts, what with all the questions, but eventually got around to the gist, which was he was taking the air, saw a Black Rider skulking about, then ran across another one chatting up that notorious Bill Ferny character. Top it all off with something Strider called a whiff of the Black Breath, causing Merry to drop like a stone for a couple hours before Nob found him.

Finally everyone seemed to catch the clue bus and realize what I said was true: Black Riders were going to pay us a little visit in the night. We arranged to bed down in this little sitting room, with Strider keeping watch. Windows and doors barred, we settled in. Once more, I was thoroughly put out by having to go through this adventure with a completely disappointing Aragorn. Oh, sure, he was kingly and all. Oddly enough, he actually wanted to be king; expected to be king. I was under the impression he'd rather clean a festering outhouse in the summertime than take the throne, but apparently that was not the case.

Huh. Whatever. I was too tired to care. The room quieted down to snores and snuffles, and my own eyes closed. Moments passed, and then I was fast asleep.

The Uruk stood still and curious as one of the smaller Orcs held a leather tunic up to his chest, eyeballing the fit. Shaking his head, the slave discarded the tunic and grabbed another one. Behind the Uruk, another larger one stood impatiently, testing the weight of a broad-bladed sword and taking a few practice swings.

"Hurry it up, maggot," he snarled. "Whelp needs trainin'."

"Won't do no good if you kill'im in a heartbeat," the smaller Orc snarled. "Best covered, he is."

"Got a name, does he?"

"Aye," the Orc replied as he guided the Uruk's arms into the tunic's sleeves. "Call him Ûnran." Before lacing up the front of the garment, the Orc poked Ûnran's chest, his claw digging into the still raw brand in the center. He cackled. "New moon."

Ûnran flinched and growled. The Orc cuffed him upside the head. "Mind yourself. You ain't got enough favor to get uppity with me. Prove you're worth the skin keeping your guts in, and then you can backtalk your betters."

"You are not better than me," Ûnran snarled, his voice deep and rough like a bear's if it could speak words.

The Orc cackled again and shook his head. "They all gotta learn some time, don't they?" The Uruk with the sword grunted a laugh but said nothing. The Orc's expression suddenly changing from amused to enraged, he took a swing at Ûnran, catching the Uruk across the neck with his claws. Black blood welled in the furrows he dug, and Ûnran roared furiously. Even as he launched himself at the smaller creature, he was yanked back by the hair.

"That there's the Pitmaster, pushdug," the other Uruk growled. "You do not cross him, if you know what's good for you."

Curling his lips and baring his teeth, Ûnran allowed himself to be led away, but kept his malevolent gaze on the Pitmaster. The Orc just sneered at him, as if he had much higher ranked and larger enemies to contend with already; something as insignificant as Ûnran was of no importance.

The Uruk with the sword ushered Ûnran away. "Lesson learned, eh?"

"I will kill him," Ûnran muttered. He was quivering with the need to avenge the attack.

"Word to the wise," the Uruk cautioned. "He's got the Master's eye. You anger him, he tells the Master. The Master roasts your ass with a look."

"Then I will please Master," Ûnran vowed. "I will gain his favor. And filth like the Pitmaster will not cross me."

The Uruk laughed and shook his head. "Ain't as easy as all that. Here." Halting at a weapon rack, he took a sword from it and pushed it into Ûnran's hand. "We don't play games here, whelp. You pick it up fast, or you fill the bellies of them filthy Orcs."

Ûnran examined the unfamiliar weapon as he followed the Uruk to a clear section of a massive underground staging area. All around them, pairs of Uruk-hai were sparring with the same broadswords. The dirt floor of the place was sticky with shed blood. Here and there, pieces of Uruks who hadn't picked it up fast enough could be seen.

He squared off with the bigger Uruk, mirroring the stance and how the Uruk gripped his sword. The first attack came unexpectedly, and his response was awkward and inadequate. The Uruk's blade cut deeply into Ûnran's upper arm, leaving a gaping wound there. Ûnran bellowed loudly from the shock and pain.

My entire body jerked hard, waking me up. I couldn't be sure if the Uruk's roar had woken me up, or if the pain I was still feeling in my arm had done it. Frantically pushing my sleeve up, I was momentarily confused by the complete lack of blood and gore.

"Bad dream?"

It was unsettling how completely out of sorts I was. Every time I came back from a foray into fricking Isengard, there was a bit more of an adjustment, as if I was really there, or heaven forbid, I was seeing through this Uruk's eyes. Although I technically wasn't; I was more like a fly on the wall, sort of floating like a disembodied presence in his wake, watching... Good god. What was happening to me? And why in the damn world was it happening?

"Tanith?"

I jerked back to reality with surprise. Strider was speaking to me, and I hadn't even registered it.

"Huh?"

"You appeared to be dreaming, and woke with a start," he explained. "I assumed you had a bad dream. Is this the case?"

Well, he'd be traveling with us. Likely going to see this happen a lot. And I was feeling particularly desperate for someone to tell me it was going to be all right, that it didn't mean anything, it wasn't real... Though that really wasn't a comforting thought either. If it wasn't real, why was my brain conjuring it up?

"Everyone else knows, so you might as well," I said quietly, hugging my knees. I quietly told him about the other dreams, and brought him up to speed with the one I just had. All the while, he sat there in silence, puffing on his pipe. I stole a glance up at him; he seemed thoughtful, but his face wasn't one that expressed many emotions.

"Frodo thinks it's the Ring," I said, whispering the dreaded words. Damn, five minutes with Strider and I was starting to adopt his dramatic delivery.

"Had you suffered these visions before you joined the Hobbits on their journey?" he asked. I shook my head. He puffed away some more.

"What do you think it means?" I asked quietly.

"It is difficult to say," he replied. "Perhaps Gandalf will have some insight."

Goody. We're off to see the wizard, then. Somehow I didn't feel like bursting into song, though. "Strider... what if... this Ûnran person... what if... he dreams about me?" I asked in a small, uncertain voice.

Now Strider's brow furrowed and he leaned forward, pipe forgotten. His expression was almost scary, he was suddenly so alert. "We must hope that is not the case, or all will be lost. If a servant of the Enemy were aware of what we do, the whereabouts of the Ring, our plans, our aims..." He trailed off, shaking his head and settling back in the chair. "We must make all haste to Rivendell, then. If we do not meet Gandalf upon the road there, he will surely make for that place. It was his intent, as you well know." He shot me a slightly suspicious look, and I crumbled.

Sighing and rolling my eyes, I said, "Okay, here's the deal. I haven't even told them yet. I just... didn't want to be left behind. I'm not... a friend of Gandalf's. I've never met him, actually. But I'm not a servant of the Enemy!" I quickly added. "I want to see the stupid bastard destroyed as much as anyone. The thing is... I'm not from here. This world, I guess."

"You are not making sense," he growled. "You lied?"

"Yes, all right? I lied. I had to," I explained rather lamely. "Where I come from, this whole... thing... has already happened and is ancient history. In all honesty, I wouldn't know how to survive on my own here. My... uh... people, I guess, are sort of... beyond this. I mean, we don't use swords to fight anymore. That's ancient history, too. We don't tramp across the wilderness to get where we want to go. We jump in the car or a plane or something, and get there in minutes, not days or weeks. We don't have to hunt for our food; we go to the store and buy it. There are whole industries dedicated to making life easy and convenient for the majority of us, so we don't have to struggle to survive." It seemed that the more I talked, the less attractive my world was becoming. Like the majority were lords getting fat and lazy while the 'inferiors' did all the hard work of making our lives easier. Theirs could be a ragged existence, maybe even miserable in some cases, and the 'majority' either didn't know or didn't care. Sort of made me sick to think about it, actually.

"Anyway," I said to cover my growing embarrassment, "the upshot is that I know what's going on, and I didn't want to... miss any of it, I suppose."

"So you lied," he said sternly. Yeah, he was definitely a dad.

I nodded. "So I lied."

Strider puffed thoughtfully on his pipe and stared at me for several long moments. "Is this also a custom of your people? Lying?"

Oh man. He was laying on the 'dad' pretty damn thick, and I felt like I did when I got caught swiping gum from the local convenience store on a dare. My dad used the same tactic to make me punish myself with guilt and shame. He never needed to spank us, that's for sure. Even my brother, who ended up in the Navy Seals, beating the daylights out of the Middle East through two recent wars, could be brought to heel by a look from dad.

"No," I replied sullenly. "And I don't do it if I can help it. I'm sorry. Really. I just... thought it would be... fun. Coming along and seeing... uh... history sort of... unfold."

"Has it been... 'fun'?" he asked, arching an eyebrow skeptically.

"Not especially," I said, and ventured a tiny laugh. "I've had trees eating my friends, zombies stealing my clothes and trying to bury me alive, and all these stupid dreams scaring the hell out of me every night... No, not a party by any means." And it's just beginning, too, I thought with a shiver.

"I am concerned, I confess," Strider said thoughtfully. "If you have come here from some other place, there could be a reason for it. Perhaps your... purpose will be revealed in time. But I am truly disturbed by these 'dreams' of yours." He looked at me rather astutely. "Where would you say these events are occurring? Have you a sense of location?"

More than a sense, and I completely withered under his gaze. If I lied now, after apologizing for it before, he'd probably never trust me again. Deflating with a sigh, I said, "Yes. I know exactly where he is, and... who... his Master is."

Strider raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"He's in Isengard, and his Master is Saruman."

His eyes suddenly took up a bunch more facial real estate than was normal, and he leaned forward. I think if the pipe stem had been in his mouth, he would have bitten straight through it. "Saruman?" he hissed incredulously.

"Surprise," I said, shrugging.