Sorry about the lateness of this chapter. I'm onto my third straight week of observations (if you're in education you'll understand what I'm talking about) and it's finally caught up with me. If this chapter isn't up to my normal par, please excuse me, I fighting a cold right now. Anyway, have a good week or spring break. Par usual, I don't own LOTR. Please, read, relax, and review.

Soothsaying

"Shall we begin?" the man said rhetorically, turning away from Aragorn and Glynn. He moved to set Narsil on the circular table that had drawn Aragorn's attention earlier. As he moved some books around and flipped through papers, Aragorn and Glynn approached the table. Aragorn spoke first.

"Where will we start?"

"The reconstruction will take some time, so we shall begin there. Then you can tell me about your dream. By then the sword will be complete and its powers ready for use," the master responded calmly, before returning to rifling through the papers. After much searching, he finally stopped, setting within eyes' glance a couple of papers, crinkled and colored with age. Though the writing on them was crisp and clear, Aragorn could make no sense of the words. Instead, he chose to turn his focus to Narsil, which the master was lying out in a wide space he'd cleared. The hilt and about eight inches of the ancient blade remained whole, but the remaining length was shattered into varying chunks. Still piecing them back together was a relatively easy task. Narsil had been well taken care of as evidenced by the shine of its shards. It'd been kept in the protective care of each of his ancestors, carried by them as a reminder of a single event. When Arathorn II died, it'd been placed in Lord Elrond's care until Aragorn was old enough to be told.

Aragorn had grown up hearing the tale of Narsil and gazing at it in wonder. He'd tried to play with it on several occasions and each time he'd been caught. Elrond had always punished him with kitchen duty and more history lessons. Aragorn had always been amazed that even after all of these years, the blade remained deadly sharp. Unfortunately, he'd also experienced its sharpness. One day, when he was about eleven, he'd been pretending to fight off a herd of orcs, when he heard some leaves crunching. Growing up with elves had trained his ears to pick up the slightest noise. While he wasn't as good as an elf, he was certainly better than a human. In his haste to return the base of the sword to its resting place, he knocked a couple of the shards off. During that point in his childhood, no amount of growing up with elves could have helped his clumsiness. The sharp shards of metal had pierced his right shoe and lodged themselves deep into his foot. Removing the shards was painful because Elrond feared the damage done by removing them, not to mention they'd pierced his shoes. Finally, Elrond had carefully removed them, pulled the now ruined leather off his feet and stitched up the wounds. That one time Elrond had let him off without a punishment, with the explanation, he'd already been punished.

Aragorn was pulled out of his thoughts by a rise in the voice of the master, who was chanting the strange words Aragorn had seen on the papers. Glynn had moved to the opposite side of the table, standing on the left side of the master. Still both men had their eyes trained on the sword, in front of which the master stood. At first, the chanting seemed to have no affect, but after a few minutes, Aragorn felt the air change. It felt cooler and dry. The sword itself began to glow. It started on the edge of each piece. As the chanting increased in intensity, so did the glow. It began glowing brighter and moving quickly to the inside of each piece. Aragorn thought he heard a second chanter as he watched the glow engulf the sword, but he discounted it as a possible echo in the ballroom. He never gave it another thought as the shards began to move. Slowly they came together, points filling divots. By this point, the chanting had reached a peak. Then, all of a sudden, it stopped and the room was filled with a strange silence.

"It is done," the master proclaimed. Aragorn looked at the blade again. It wasn't quite as he thought it would be. The sword was now riddled with lines. Where each piece was welded back together, there was evidence of its break. It was still shiny, but looked different somehow. "Go ahead, Aragorn. Pick up Narsil." Aragorn still hesitated. "You are the only one who can hold it now."

"What?"

"If anyone else were to pick up the sword, it would shatter into pieces once again. It will only answer to you."

"What if someone does pick it up and it shatters, will my picking it up restore it again?" Aragorn asked.

"No, the spell will be broken and would have to be recast."

Finally, Aragorn reached to pick up the blade. Once in his grasp, he tested its feel. As expected, it felt much different than when he held the eight inch tip of Narsil. It was long and more majestic that he'd envisioned. Far more impressive, however, was the surge of the strength he felt when he grasped the sword. It reminded him at the euphoric feeling he'd felt while semi-conscious just a few days ago.

"How does it feel?" the master asked.

"Wonderful." Aragorn smiled, gazing at the sword. "What extra powers does it have?"

"We'll find out later." The master returned the smile. "Right now let's see to answering some questions. I am most curious about the dream you had while you were ill. Let's begin with that. What was the dream about?"

"The last battle my father fought, but it was nothing like what I'd been told happened."

"What is the story you've been told?"

"He was killed by orcs while fighting them with the sons of Lord Elrond. During the battle an arrow pierced his eyes, striking him dead."

"And your dream?"

"He was in the midst of fighting; the sons of Elrond fighting beside him. In the briefest of seconds, he fell but it was not until the field cleared that I glimpsed the clean wound over his heart. It was clearly not an orc's blade that had done the damage, for their blades are hardly smooth enough to create such a wound. As I glanced at the elves, I could hear them conversing about having completed their task and one wiped his blade of distinctly red human blood. A lady standing near me said I knew the truth. But I am confused. I cannot help but believe there is some truth to the dream, but I simply cannot accept that they would lie to me. It wouldn't even make sense."

"Interesting," the master said when Aragorn was at last finished with his narration.

"How do I discover the truth?"

"Grasp Narsil and place it against the marble figure in the center of the table." Wordlessly, Aragorn did as he was instructed. He could feel the sword surge with energy. It took him off guard, but he held his grasp. "Now think about your dream and what you've been told. Concentrate on discovering the truth. Think about your father and Elrond's sons. Take yourself back to that time." Aragorn forced himself to think about his past. He closed his eyes as he did so.

Seconds after Aragorn closed his eyes, the darkness was replaced by a brightness. A room appeared. To his left was a large, brown desk. It was covered with books, some opened and others with numerous bookmarks peeking out. In front of him were several rows of bookcases. The walls were filled with familiar murals of historical events he'd grown up hearing and studying. He remembered this room. It was Elrond's study. He wondered if he'd opened his eyes, but he realized he must be drifting into the vision. It felt so real. He could feel the cool air blowing through the balcony, the heavy blue curtains moving slightly in the breeze. The air had a welcoming fresh scent to it, one that always managed to calm him. It was an indescribable scent that was unique to Rivendell. No other elven realm held it. Along with the air scent, was the smell of Elrond's dusty old books. It too was a familiar scent that calmed him, but not nearly as much as the former scent did.

From the hallway, he heard some familiar voices. They were Elrond's and his sons'. They were moving quickly. In no time, they were within feet of Aragorn's room and from what he could tell they were slowing down now. Panic filling him, he looked about for a hiding place, but couldn't find once before the door opened and the three entered. Aragorn froze, but they, to his surprise, took no notice of him. Rather they continued their conversation.

"Now, that we are alone," Elrond began, shutting the door behind his boys, "tell me of your mission."

"It was a perfect success," Elladan answered, delighted. His brother nodded in agreement.

"I suppose that because you brought them back here there were no suspicions?"

"None," Elrohir confirmed. "None of them even asked a question; they just assumed it was an orc that killed him."

"Where was the family during the attack?"

"Out of harm's way," Elladan answered slyly. "They are unaware of what has happened."

"And the survivors of the battle?"

"Taken care of. It will look as if the orcs has massacred them." Aragorn gasped when he heard this. In his dream, at least twenty men had survived, but the sons of Elrond had apparently slaughtered them. His dream appeared to be true. His father had not been killed by orcs as he had been told, but had been murdered by elves. But why? That was the one question that remained. What would the elves gain by killing the Heir to Numenor?

"All has gone wonderfully according to plan. Arathorn was the only one to discover our intents and with him out of the way, we can insure that the race of man will never rise to power again." Elrond told his boys.

Even more than last time, Aragorn was shocked. He couldn't believe the conversation he was witnessing. Elrond had spent so much time during his recovery encouraging him to embrace his destiny, but why if he'd wanted man to fail? As he pondered this, the scene before him faded to blackness and he came to realize that he was back in the master's study. As he opened his eyes, he found the master and Glynn standing in their same spots, but now holding an expectant look.

"It is true," he answered them, laying the sword gently on the table.

"I'm sorry," the master replied.

"But there is something else I don't understand. They did it because they wanted man to fail, yet they pushed me during my recovery to become the man I was born to be. Why would they do that if they didn't want me to succeed?" The master thought a moment before responding.

"They raised you Aragorn; they knew how you'd be as a man. Perhaps, they'd sabotaged you as a child so that you'd be an ineffective ruler."

"Perhaps," Aragorn conceded. "It does make sense." He paused a second before continuing, "How do we find out about your family?"

"That will be a little more difficult," the master replied. "Much like when you sought to discover your own truth, you will grasp the sword and touch it to the statue, but you will have to concentrate much harder. Focus on finding my family, the sword will direct you to them." As he had before, Aragorn picked up Narsil, following the now familiar steps. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the master. Although he had been warned, he was surprised when he didn't enter into a vision as quickly. He heard the master telling him to focus more. He tried, but it didn't work.

"Tell me about your family," Aragorn said. "Where did you live? Did you have any children?"

"We lived in a small village. My wife and I had three children before I lost them. I was the town healer." The master's voice faded as Aragorn found himself pulled into the dream. Unlike last time, there as a dim light and the air was dry, but pleasantly warm. Before him stood two groups of people. One was composed of adult men and the other appeared to be a family consisting of a mother and three children. This must be the master's family, but he couldn't recognize the place they were in.

"Where is my husband?" the mother asked.

"He is yet living," one of the men in the other group asked.

"Living?"

"Yes."

"And we are?"

"Dead." Aragorn reeled in shock. The master's family was more than lost; they were dead. He must not know or he wouldn't be searching.

"Where are we?"

"Just past the fourth gate." The man continued talking, but Aragorn couldn't hear him anymore as the vision began to fade. In no time, he found himself back in the master's study again.

"What did you see?" the master asked before Aragorn had a chance to open his eyes.

"They're…," Aragorn trailed off as he opened his eyes. "They're dead."

"Yes, I know that," the master responded. "But where are they?"

"You knew they were dead?"

"Yes, they were killed in an attack on our village. Where are they?" he asked, anger seeping into his voice.

"The man said they were just past the fourth gate."

"That's good. They'll be there for quite some time. I still have a chance to get them back safely."

"Back?" Aragorn asked incredulously. "How? They're dead."

"But they haven't reached the final gate yet. There's still a chance. I must reach them before they get to the twelfth gate. And you must help me."

"Me? How?"

"Come," the master said, walking swiftly out of the room through the door Aragorn and Glynn had entered through. The two followed him. They walked down the familiar weapon adorned hallway, but turned left instead of right, down a different hallway. This one was darkening with each step. The way was lit by a series of torches.

"Tell me," Aragorn said firmly once he caught up with the master, "what happened to your family."

"I was out defending my village against an orc attack. Elves were helping us. Several of them remained behind, forming a perimeter around the village, but some of the orcs got through. They set fire to the village. It moved swiftly from home to home. No one escaped the fire. At first I didn't think I could save them, but then I discovered the old scrolls and discovered the old magic." They stopped in front of a large wooden door. The master pulled a key from his waist band, unlocking the door. "Down these steps," he said, leading them through the door, "is the key to bringing them back." Aragorn followed him down the spiraling wooden steps. At the bottom in a dim light was a creature. It was dirty and chained. Aragorn took a step further. Only then did he see it was an elf. With yet another step, he discovered the identity: Legolas, the elven prince.