The Old Man

Aragorn saw him from far off, and he slowed down to watch and be wary.

Surely this was a trick his eyes were playing. The nearest village was more than two days' march away, and no one could have wandered so far in these elements, much less an old man who seemed bent over nearly double and leaning on a gnarled old stick. Perhaps Aragorn's knowledge of this part of the country was still incomplete—he'd only been living in the Wild for a few years now, after all, and he still had much to learn—or perhaps he was dealing with something very strange and dangerous indeed.

"Hail, father!" he called out, not knowing if he hoped for or against an answer. "Who are you? What errand brings you to these wild lands? Have you need of help?"

The old man came steadily onwards, not faster, nor slower, until Aragorn could see the dark eyes under the wide brim of his hat.

"I say, who are you?" he called more sharply, and felt for the knife at his belt.

At that, the old man finally lifted his head and peered at him from under his bristling brows.

"Only an old man, going about his business," he answered, and though his voice was quiet, it was clear and deep. "As you are no doubt going about yours. But who I am is not nearly as important as who you are. Will you tell me that?"

"I am a Ranger," he said, still on guard against an uncertain threat. "It is our custom to journey far in these Northern lands, for it is our territory." He said no more, because he still did not trust the stranger, and doubted his intentions.

But the old man stepped forward, not heeding Aragorn's grip on his knife, and peered up into his face—and Aragorn saw that there was a twinkle in his dark eyes.

"Estel," he said softly, and the word was like the echo of a stone dropped in a deep cavern.

The Ranger's hard expression vanished, and his tense shoulders sagged, and wonder like a child's crossed his haggard face for a moment.

"Yes, I know that name," said the old man. "It was told to me by a friend. Elrond Half-Elven, Lord of Imladris—he raised you, did he not? He has told me much about you. But perhaps he has not mentioned me."

"There are many things he did not mention," said the Ranger, and a small smile touched his lips at the thought of a certain elf-maiden. But then his expression grew hard again. "You said he spoke of me. There are parts of my business that should be kept secret."

"Yes," said the old man, "and I intend to keep them secret, and tell no one else. But the Wise may confide in the Wise, and so Lord Elrond has confided in me. Great hopes are placed on you, Estel. Great things are expected."

His tone spoke praise, but Aragorn's face became hard and stormy.

The old man seemed to see this. "Does this trouble you?"

Aragorn shook his head. His voice was far away, as if he spoke only to himself, regardless of who heard him. "He said I am the son of kings." His voice faded.

The old man did not speak for some time. When he did, his voice was quiet. "Do you not believe it?"

"It is a hard thing to believe," said Aragorn, and he laughed without any mirth.

The old man looked at him, and he seemed to be searching his face with his eyes, as if trying to read his heart and mind through the lines on his skin alone. Finally, he seemed to find what he sought, and his frown softened.

"And you are not yet tested," he said. "Do not worry. You shall have time and opportunity yet to prove your mettle; to yourself, if to no one else.

"But come!" The old man straightened his back, and his voice was louder and lighter. "It is weary work to stand in a blustery field and talk about business. I have travelled far, and I am weary. I suppose you are too. Shall we not sit down and take our midday meal, as friends? Then we shall speak a little easier."

At that, Aragorn laughed. "You are very strange and speak in many riddles! But these wild lands are lonely," he admitted, gazing off into the horizon and feeling young and small, "and I feel more than ever that I have need of a friend."

"Then that you may call me," said the old man, "if you will have me." He shuffled off towards a nearby stone on which to sit.

Aragorn laughed again. "And what shall I call my friend?"

The old man turned his head, and his eyes glittered with some hidden mirth. "Gandalf!" he answered. "Gandalf the Grey. There are other names, but that one will do."

"Gandalf," he said, tasting the word on his tongue. "So be it. And I am Aragorn—for such I am told was my name before I was given 'Estel' in Imladris."

"Aragorn it is, then," said Gandalf, and opened a cloth bundle upon his lap. "Would Aragorn fancy a bit of cheese?"