Aure Entuluva
by: Angel Wings Rinoa (Cathy-chan)
Chapter 2
Everything seemed vague and eerie in the cover of the fog, but soon Aragorn found a small inn. If an inn it could be called for it was no different or better than the other houses at Bree, save a faded 'INN' sign. He was more fond of sleeping in the wilderness, but it was uncommonly cold. Despite the stale and incommodious condition of the lodge, it was far better than shivering on the damp grasses.
The exterior of the inn foreshadowed the ambience of the interior. A thick redolent of beer came from the bar situated at the entrance. Half asleep bodies were slouched on the tables, tousled and musty. In contrast with the other men's clothing his plain, grey raiment looked immoderately fine. He felt hostile eyes bore down on him, clearly labeling him as a foreigner. If it were not for his hunger and weariness, he would have gladly avoided entering the inn.Warily, he sat on a chair at the far corner. His grey eyes scanned round. He saw mostly men drinking, eating and laughing while the inn's host scurried to and fro. A typical gathering of people after a hard day's toil. However, there was an armed group that caught his attention. They began a turbulence of loud yelling just for the sheer enjoyment of the disorder. While the host delivered him a pint of beer, he noted the direction of the men. They were heading toward his side of the room. He wanted to finish dinner quickly and without notice. But it was too late. Already three of the armed men were coming upon him. One of them with a wide girth sneered obnoxiously in front of him.
'Ai, you! Whu be fancy-bloke like yoo be doin' hea?' the wide man bellowed. His voice was rough and slurred; whether from careless speech or drunkeness, Aragorn could not tell.
Aragorn had no reason to answer him. He had no reply to slanderous, unintelligible words; nor did he want to provoke the large man by speaking. Fear never stirred him away from fights; it was honour itself that did. A duel without necessity, pride and chivalry shames a warrior. Strongly did he believe in the conviction. It was in this respect did he eventually learn to masterfully slip away from attention over many years. In the meantime, however, his skills in shadow and secrecy were impuissant.
He sought for a clear exit, but found none. With a group of half a dozen, broad figures, he was easily encircled. The atmosphere thinned into a wire, ready to snap at a given moment. When the man heard no answer from Aragorn, he shouted, 'Ai, ye don' shoo awie Easterlings so hastily! We dun like faerie folk, 'specially a boy that dresses like 'em.' Then he slammed his fist on the table. The heads in the bar turned to the corner.
Just by the reference of Elves to 'faerie folk' suggested the wide man would gladly receive Aragorn's hostility. The man had also nonchalantly identified his group. Rumours of Easterlings had spread quickly across the land. He was told that most of them gave their souls to Sauron, swearing fealty to the Dark Lord. He presumed all of Sauron's men were still lingering in the east, but evidently they were migrating to the northwest. Judging by the emblem of Sauron's Red-eye on the man's knife, there was no doubt a minion of Mordor was challenging him. Ironically the enemies he sought for found him. And not ironically, the necessity to fight was being shoved in front of his face.
A loud yell accompanied a darting knife the next moment; the blade renting the skin on his temple. If it were not for his fast reflexes, the knife would have left more than a bloody line. Within seconds the Easterlings attacked him from all sides, leaving no space for Aragorn but to block with his armguard. The men were relentless and cruel, they cared not that the young man was unprepared for battle.
Beyond the borders of the fight, none of whom witnessed it helped or spoke for Aragorn. Frozen and feeble-minded from fright, they could only stare, faithless that one man could defeat a group of blood-thirsty knaves. Never was it known that a single person could rebel against them, save King Elendil and his sons in the days of yore. They knew not that the King's very own heir was battling for his life before them.
Soon Aragorn found himself atop the table. The Easterlings cackles became louder; soon they thought would they have the young man's life, but Arathorn's son was not easily usurped. In spite of the men's large and broad swords, he defied their blades, and received naught more than a few scratches and bruises. At this his assailants fumed with frustration.
A hard kick from Aragorn brought three of them down in a tangle of yelling and flailing men. It was then that Aragorn found the chance to retaliate steel against steel. The broken sword, Narsil, was a great sword; wrought with the mightiest steel. But broken, it was completely useless. Thus Aragorn unsheathed another sword given to him. It sang valiantly in his hands. Each swing brought a wail of terror upon his enemies' ears.
It was the Easterlings' turn to be caught unawares. Whilst three of them were still down, he jumped up and over them to wound the others still standing. He bore the appearance of a ruthless knight, his grey eyes aflame as he brought them down with a swift slash. It is said that, decades later in the very same town, he received the name 'Strider,' a dark wanderer with a renowned strength and agility. The staring audience was shocked. The Easterlings were more than shocked. Their audacity departed at the stab of Aragorn's sword to one of their breasts.
Their laughing ceased. They had underestimated the young warrior.
One by one, they were wounded or dead by Aragorn's deadly strength and blade. Those who did not perish scrambled to the exit. The one who was ridiculing him before cowered below his feet crying, 'No! Dun hurt me! I didn' do aneethin'!'
An evil man he was, but a bad liar also. Aragorn knew him to be the cause of the brawl. He had pure loathing for Sauron and his vassals. Nevertheless, pity still stirred in his heart. He could not take a pleading man's life, not even from one who tried to take his mercilessly. 'Depart and never again come upon the valleys of the North,' he commanded icily. The man thought Aragorn had become a grand lord made of stone, as terrible and
menacing as the Argonaths.
At that, the stout man clumsily stood and ran. He dashed through the door with a bone-chilling scream. Tense silence harboured the air in the aftermath while Aragorn walked by the hushed crowd. They did not expect him to defeat half a dozen huge men, and because of it they wondered if he was a man at all. Some whispered 'An Elf-warrior from the West has come upon us!' Others replied 'Nay! He is a demon lord from the East! Look how terrible his sword and eyes are!' Many believed the latter to be true. Though none spoke their comments too loudly, lest their discourteous comments came to Aragorn. They retreated at the sight of his sword, glistening and dripping with blood.
Aragorn cared little of the people's assumptions. His hunger and exhaustion peaked to its limits during the fight. The affair had left him with many cuts to mend, and very little time to heal them. Outside, the moon waxed bright and high, it was hours pass midnight. Only then did he felt the magnitude of his weariness. A throbbing pain had appeared at the side of his head; whether from fatigue or a hard blow from the melee, he could not tell. Beneath him, his legs well-nigh surrendered to its weakened muscles. In a lagging, but steady pace he approached the inn's host.
'Y-Yes?' the host said meekly.
'Do you have a room for me to stay?' Aragorn asked, disregarding the host's trembling voice and knees. Most likely he was despised and feared as much as the Easterlings, he thought. Even if the host did, he was too terrified to deny him.
'T-There's a...an empty one...u-upstairs. Farthest one on the right.'
Without another word, he walked briskly up the stairs and into the room. His tired body made the decision for him to drop down on the bed. Unexpectedly though, he found himself only staring at the ceiling. How could sleep prevail when so many troubles and ponderings came into mind? He had expected to arrive at his first town uneventfully. It was beyond his imaginings that he would be fighting for his life so soon. Entirely unforeseen by him, but could have been guessed and avoided. He blamed himself for knowing not the lands and customs of his people. Inexperience was his weakness, he knew the fact all too well. Obviously, any fool could tell he was a foreigner. Even his simplest clothes caused trouble. The mere colour of it, elven-grey, was enough to lure villains. Only Elves would wear the colour of his clothes.
He sighed. At least one of his problems was not wholly complicated. He asked the host for any spare clothes. The host was still frightened out of his wits as he hastily went and came back with a bundle, then left as quickly as he had arrived. Inside the bundle was an assortment of traveling clothes. The attire was dark from soot and its own dusky-grey hue, parts of the tunic and jacket were unraveling. It was hard to tell the original colour of the dull leather boots and weather-beaten cloak. The garbs would become even more marred and stained over the next six decades.
A grin played across his lips. It was perfect. Disguised as a vagrant, no one would look twice upon him. No doubt it could ameliorate his progress. Or rather he was truly a vagrant, not just disguised as one. An exiled king, shunned out of royalty and identity. In less than a sennight, he discovered his noble ancestry, then it was secreted from other ears save the wise Eldar, lest Sauron himself hear tidings of the hidden king. Scarce did Men knew of their own lores and oaths. The Dunedain, like his mother, kept the prophecies of their race close to their hearts. Only they would know the import of the Broken Sword and the Ring of Barahir.
At this, Aragorn's mind turned to the ring upon his finger. His eyes were fixed on it as he recalled the stories of his forefathers. It was his ancestor's ring, a symbol of valour that was once unassailable now diminishing into naught but tales. The ring shone ever as a brilliant circle; emerald, gold and silver entwined in a beautiful, but menacing array of precious stone, flowers and two serpents. Wrought during the youth of Men, it was a reminder of the first alliance of Men and Elves. A reminder that once his people were feared and hated by Melkor, and were loved and praised by the Eldar. Even the Valar themselves praised men with blessed gifts during the zenith of the Numenorean Kings. It was Finrod Felagund's gift to Barahir in honour of him and his people's loyalty, friendship and courageous hearts. Strongly did Aragorn believe Men could still deem themselves worthy to receive praise. It was said that Men's hearts were the easiest to corrupt, yet he had faith in his people's strong spirit. His grey eyes flamed like the ring. Arnor and Gondor would rise again. Upon his name he swore that one day evil will quail with fear by his people's swords.
To be continued...
by: Angel Wings Rinoa (Cathy-chan)
Chapter 2
Everything seemed vague and eerie in the cover of the fog, but soon Aragorn found a small inn. If an inn it could be called for it was no different or better than the other houses at Bree, save a faded 'INN' sign. He was more fond of sleeping in the wilderness, but it was uncommonly cold. Despite the stale and incommodious condition of the lodge, it was far better than shivering on the damp grasses.
The exterior of the inn foreshadowed the ambience of the interior. A thick redolent of beer came from the bar situated at the entrance. Half asleep bodies were slouched on the tables, tousled and musty. In contrast with the other men's clothing his plain, grey raiment looked immoderately fine. He felt hostile eyes bore down on him, clearly labeling him as a foreigner. If it were not for his hunger and weariness, he would have gladly avoided entering the inn.Warily, he sat on a chair at the far corner. His grey eyes scanned round. He saw mostly men drinking, eating and laughing while the inn's host scurried to and fro. A typical gathering of people after a hard day's toil. However, there was an armed group that caught his attention. They began a turbulence of loud yelling just for the sheer enjoyment of the disorder. While the host delivered him a pint of beer, he noted the direction of the men. They were heading toward his side of the room. He wanted to finish dinner quickly and without notice. But it was too late. Already three of the armed men were coming upon him. One of them with a wide girth sneered obnoxiously in front of him.
'Ai, you! Whu be fancy-bloke like yoo be doin' hea?' the wide man bellowed. His voice was rough and slurred; whether from careless speech or drunkeness, Aragorn could not tell.
Aragorn had no reason to answer him. He had no reply to slanderous, unintelligible words; nor did he want to provoke the large man by speaking. Fear never stirred him away from fights; it was honour itself that did. A duel without necessity, pride and chivalry shames a warrior. Strongly did he believe in the conviction. It was in this respect did he eventually learn to masterfully slip away from attention over many years. In the meantime, however, his skills in shadow and secrecy were impuissant.
He sought for a clear exit, but found none. With a group of half a dozen, broad figures, he was easily encircled. The atmosphere thinned into a wire, ready to snap at a given moment. When the man heard no answer from Aragorn, he shouted, 'Ai, ye don' shoo awie Easterlings so hastily! We dun like faerie folk, 'specially a boy that dresses like 'em.' Then he slammed his fist on the table. The heads in the bar turned to the corner.
Just by the reference of Elves to 'faerie folk' suggested the wide man would gladly receive Aragorn's hostility. The man had also nonchalantly identified his group. Rumours of Easterlings had spread quickly across the land. He was told that most of them gave their souls to Sauron, swearing fealty to the Dark Lord. He presumed all of Sauron's men were still lingering in the east, but evidently they were migrating to the northwest. Judging by the emblem of Sauron's Red-eye on the man's knife, there was no doubt a minion of Mordor was challenging him. Ironically the enemies he sought for found him. And not ironically, the necessity to fight was being shoved in front of his face.
A loud yell accompanied a darting knife the next moment; the blade renting the skin on his temple. If it were not for his fast reflexes, the knife would have left more than a bloody line. Within seconds the Easterlings attacked him from all sides, leaving no space for Aragorn but to block with his armguard. The men were relentless and cruel, they cared not that the young man was unprepared for battle.
Beyond the borders of the fight, none of whom witnessed it helped or spoke for Aragorn. Frozen and feeble-minded from fright, they could only stare, faithless that one man could defeat a group of blood-thirsty knaves. Never was it known that a single person could rebel against them, save King Elendil and his sons in the days of yore. They knew not that the King's very own heir was battling for his life before them.
Soon Aragorn found himself atop the table. The Easterlings cackles became louder; soon they thought would they have the young man's life, but Arathorn's son was not easily usurped. In spite of the men's large and broad swords, he defied their blades, and received naught more than a few scratches and bruises. At this his assailants fumed with frustration.
A hard kick from Aragorn brought three of them down in a tangle of yelling and flailing men. It was then that Aragorn found the chance to retaliate steel against steel. The broken sword, Narsil, was a great sword; wrought with the mightiest steel. But broken, it was completely useless. Thus Aragorn unsheathed another sword given to him. It sang valiantly in his hands. Each swing brought a wail of terror upon his enemies' ears.
It was the Easterlings' turn to be caught unawares. Whilst three of them were still down, he jumped up and over them to wound the others still standing. He bore the appearance of a ruthless knight, his grey eyes aflame as he brought them down with a swift slash. It is said that, decades later in the very same town, he received the name 'Strider,' a dark wanderer with a renowned strength and agility. The staring audience was shocked. The Easterlings were more than shocked. Their audacity departed at the stab of Aragorn's sword to one of their breasts.
Their laughing ceased. They had underestimated the young warrior.
One by one, they were wounded or dead by Aragorn's deadly strength and blade. Those who did not perish scrambled to the exit. The one who was ridiculing him before cowered below his feet crying, 'No! Dun hurt me! I didn' do aneethin'!'
An evil man he was, but a bad liar also. Aragorn knew him to be the cause of the brawl. He had pure loathing for Sauron and his vassals. Nevertheless, pity still stirred in his heart. He could not take a pleading man's life, not even from one who tried to take his mercilessly. 'Depart and never again come upon the valleys of the North,' he commanded icily. The man thought Aragorn had become a grand lord made of stone, as terrible and
menacing as the Argonaths.
At that, the stout man clumsily stood and ran. He dashed through the door with a bone-chilling scream. Tense silence harboured the air in the aftermath while Aragorn walked by the hushed crowd. They did not expect him to defeat half a dozen huge men, and because of it they wondered if he was a man at all. Some whispered 'An Elf-warrior from the West has come upon us!' Others replied 'Nay! He is a demon lord from the East! Look how terrible his sword and eyes are!' Many believed the latter to be true. Though none spoke their comments too loudly, lest their discourteous comments came to Aragorn. They retreated at the sight of his sword, glistening and dripping with blood.
Aragorn cared little of the people's assumptions. His hunger and exhaustion peaked to its limits during the fight. The affair had left him with many cuts to mend, and very little time to heal them. Outside, the moon waxed bright and high, it was hours pass midnight. Only then did he felt the magnitude of his weariness. A throbbing pain had appeared at the side of his head; whether from fatigue or a hard blow from the melee, he could not tell. Beneath him, his legs well-nigh surrendered to its weakened muscles. In a lagging, but steady pace he approached the inn's host.
'Y-Yes?' the host said meekly.
'Do you have a room for me to stay?' Aragorn asked, disregarding the host's trembling voice and knees. Most likely he was despised and feared as much as the Easterlings, he thought. Even if the host did, he was too terrified to deny him.
'T-There's a...an empty one...u-upstairs. Farthest one on the right.'
Without another word, he walked briskly up the stairs and into the room. His tired body made the decision for him to drop down on the bed. Unexpectedly though, he found himself only staring at the ceiling. How could sleep prevail when so many troubles and ponderings came into mind? He had expected to arrive at his first town uneventfully. It was beyond his imaginings that he would be fighting for his life so soon. Entirely unforeseen by him, but could have been guessed and avoided. He blamed himself for knowing not the lands and customs of his people. Inexperience was his weakness, he knew the fact all too well. Obviously, any fool could tell he was a foreigner. Even his simplest clothes caused trouble. The mere colour of it, elven-grey, was enough to lure villains. Only Elves would wear the colour of his clothes.
He sighed. At least one of his problems was not wholly complicated. He asked the host for any spare clothes. The host was still frightened out of his wits as he hastily went and came back with a bundle, then left as quickly as he had arrived. Inside the bundle was an assortment of traveling clothes. The attire was dark from soot and its own dusky-grey hue, parts of the tunic and jacket were unraveling. It was hard to tell the original colour of the dull leather boots and weather-beaten cloak. The garbs would become even more marred and stained over the next six decades.
A grin played across his lips. It was perfect. Disguised as a vagrant, no one would look twice upon him. No doubt it could ameliorate his progress. Or rather he was truly a vagrant, not just disguised as one. An exiled king, shunned out of royalty and identity. In less than a sennight, he discovered his noble ancestry, then it was secreted from other ears save the wise Eldar, lest Sauron himself hear tidings of the hidden king. Scarce did Men knew of their own lores and oaths. The Dunedain, like his mother, kept the prophecies of their race close to their hearts. Only they would know the import of the Broken Sword and the Ring of Barahir.
At this, Aragorn's mind turned to the ring upon his finger. His eyes were fixed on it as he recalled the stories of his forefathers. It was his ancestor's ring, a symbol of valour that was once unassailable now diminishing into naught but tales. The ring shone ever as a brilliant circle; emerald, gold and silver entwined in a beautiful, but menacing array of precious stone, flowers and two serpents. Wrought during the youth of Men, it was a reminder of the first alliance of Men and Elves. A reminder that once his people were feared and hated by Melkor, and were loved and praised by the Eldar. Even the Valar themselves praised men with blessed gifts during the zenith of the Numenorean Kings. It was Finrod Felagund's gift to Barahir in honour of him and his people's loyalty, friendship and courageous hearts. Strongly did Aragorn believe Men could still deem themselves worthy to receive praise. It was said that Men's hearts were the easiest to corrupt, yet he had faith in his people's strong spirit. His grey eyes flamed like the ring. Arnor and Gondor would rise again. Upon his name he swore that one day evil will quail with fear by his people's swords.
To be continued...