The After Ages
by Shauna (wind3213@hotmail.com)
***
Chapter 1: The Unwilling City
***
Aragorn followed his strange guide through the forest, becoming ever more aware of eyes gazing upon him. He had glimpsed them, twice, too alert for owls. Now he could not see them in the shadowy night, but still he knew they were there. It sent a little tremor of terror down his spine, through his heart.
The man turned suddenly on his invisible course, and Aragorn followed him obediently. Despite his fear, he felt an abiding conviction that if he trusted this man no harm would come to him. If he followed, if he trusted, he would be taken away from the eyes. He would be safe, protected, guarded...
The word 'guarded' twisted in his mind.
As though he'd thrown a blanket off his sleeping face, he gasped in the stinging night air, the situation suddenly clear to him. He was lost, he had been captured, and now he was blithely following a man who had threatened him with his death?
With all his strength he darted left, threw himself forwards, and then coming up to his feet began to run.
He had gone for almost a mile, breathing harshly, barely avoiding trees, thorns scraping against his face, when he reailized there was no sound of pursuit. Stopping and resting against a tree, he thought maybe he had lost them. It didn't seem likely, there being so many. Maybe he had never seen them at all? A hallucination?
He didn't feel much safer now, alone in a forest of enemies, rough bark pressing through his t-shirt against his back.
"Twas not wise to run," came a voice from behind him. Aragorn turned, startled. His guide stood a few feet away, his breath coming evenly and his forehead not even sweating from the prolonged sprint. Behind him stood several dark men, smaller and rougher then the first. They were more like Aragorn then the first man although they too wore brown clothes and tied their hair in similar fashion.
"You see my companions?" continued his guide. "Took much persuading for to keep them from putting their arrows in you. They like you not at all... nay, they like not your people. You, I think, may have gained some of their respect for that ill-advised but brave attempt at escape. But such as that means little to them now. They are wary. Do not test them - or me - again."
Aragorn could only nod dumbly, still trying to catch his breath. Perhaps it was fatigue, but he felt at once that he should acqueisce. Fighting off the feeling, he asked, "You're in good shape, aren't you? Why didn't you stop me sooner?"
"'Tis better to sap your strength, little one, for a tired captive is a more willing one," the guide replied. "Also, you ran in the right direction."
Without saying anything more, his captor resumed the trail, and Aragorn followed, the three dark men falling in behind him.
As they walked, Aragorn could once again feel eyes upon him, though this time he could be sure he did not imagine them. But that gave him little ease. *Are there Indians in Europe?* he asked himself, trying to resist the urge to look back at the now-revealed watchers. *Indians who fight with bows and arrows - and glow with faint light?*
After several miles, the leader signaled and they paused to let Aragorn rest. He took the chance to ask, "What are you?"
The dark men glared at him and didn't answer. His guide merely answered, "I will not say."
"Great. Just great." Aragorn threw up his hands. "So you won't tell me what you are - or who you are - and you don't ask me either. Some kidnapping. How are we ever going to get anywhere, huh? How am I supposed to know what to do to get you to let me go?"
His guide paused. "I am not sure what you mean by that. It is perhaps the language failing me - we have not had a visitor refresh our knowledge of the tongue for well over sixty years. But I will attempt to answer you as best I can. What I am is a hunter, a forester. Who am I - well, perhaps it does not matter if you know my name. I am called Throndil. We are going to my father, the King, who will decide what to do with you."
Aragorn eyed Throndil warily. "What do you mean, decide what to do with me? Don't I get a say?"
"The king's word is final. Beside, it is you who have trespassed on our land. You have forfeited your freedom."
Aragorn began to panic. "But I didn't know this was your land! I was just following a deer!"
Throndil laughed softly. "Even the hungriest of hunters does not follow a single deer so many miles, not past so many others. No, you came to do mischeif, though how you knew to do so, is beyond me. The King's judgement in the wisest. I will wait for it."
Aragorn felt his stomach sink as he glanced around at the other members of the group. "What of them?" he asked.
"They agree that since I found you, you shall be subject to the King. Unless you do harm to them, in which case it will be their justice you face."
"Your king isn't their king, then?"
Throndil paused as if considering his words. "They have no king. We are of a kind but not a kin, and though we are often together we will always be in ways apart. Had they found you, they would have killed you instantly and thought it no wrong, for you are hum- you are tresspassing. Come now," he said, standing up. "To ask so many questions you must be well rested."
He whispered to the others in another language, then as one they began walking down the trail. It was not too much longer before their path opened up into a large clearing, ringed with the tallest trees. As they entered, a number of men and women came cautiously out of the shadows. Most were dark, muted men, some hastily tying up their hair. Still, Aragorn counted two or three who were blonde and tall like Throndil.
"This is a city?" he whispered to him.
"They like not to call it that," Throndil replied, "but in a way it is. There are no stores for merchants, nor stones of worship, but there are many homes. We all have our dwellings among the trees."
Looking closer, Aragorn could make out the outline of houses around and in the trees. Around nearly each one were structures of wood and brush, leaning against the trunks. And up high the branches were woven together to make floors, with the leaves stretching themselves out and softening the bark. "How did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Thread the trees like you were making a quilt?"
Throndil smiled and did not respond. Aragorn peered further into the forest, and could make out dozens of faint lights that were shut as news of their arrival passed from home to home and people left to gather in the clearing. Pretty soon only a few remained.
"Throndil!" It was both spoken music and a stern command. Looking to where the word came from, he saw a beautiful and proud man. His hair was so blond it was white, and it flowed freely down his back. Then Aragorn was caught in his eyes, soft as a grandmother's, wise as a sage, and piercing besides. This, then, was the King.
"Yes, father?" Throndil replied.
"From where comes this mortal?" he asked. The odd choice of words stayed a moment in Aragorn's thoughts, but with a wink from the King the abberation was gone.
"I found him many miles southward following the Great Deer."
"The Great Deer, eh?" the King replied, then murmured something in another language. It sounded like a song. Then he switched back into English. "Why did you follow her?"
"I wanted to get food for my family. Well, maybe they didn't so much need it, but I like to pretend, you know?" he admitted. "It's better then playing with dolls."
"It is, is it?" The King said thoughtfully. "Continue."
"Well, when we lived back home my dad and I would go hunting and we'd have it for dinner. But here we aren't allowed to hunt. I don't think we're allowed to go very far into the forest at all. But the woods- they get in you, you know? I needed to come out here. I wasn't going to shoot your Great Deer."
"Why not?"
"It'd be a waste of food, for one thing, since I couldn't bring the deer home to eat it."
"Then why were you following it?" Throndil interjected, amazed that his father would accept such reasoning.
"I- um, don't know. I was already lost. And it seemed to know where it was going." The others were silent. "I know, I'm crazy!"
The King moved towards him, his hair rippling in perfect waves although there was no breeze. He reached a hand out to the Aragorn's cheek. His skin was warm and smooth, smoother even then the boy's. "I do not think you crazy. Nor dangerous. Let us not dispense with all pleasantries. Welcome to my home. What is your name?" asked the king gently. "Come, you have nothing to fear from me, at least."
The uncertainty within him vanished, and he whispered, "Aragorn."
The King's eyes widened and then snapped shut, and he stood absolutely still. Everyone else shifted and murmured, the brown men grasping at their spears, as the name spread through the crowd.
Throndil and the other silver men moved towards, faces showing their wonder, and Throndil hissed, "Aragorn? How did you get that name? Surely this is an omen of some kind."
Shaken and confused once more, Aragorn replied, "From the back of a family heirloom." When he spoke, the King opened his eyes again, and they burned with intensity that did not scare him as much as it should. And as he continued, he began to feel more relaxed, and his words flowed freely. "A beautiful stone has been passed down on my father's side of the family, and it is set in metal. On it is written three things, one in middle english, one in a tongue so old we can not decipher it, and the last - or first, as you may see it - is so obscure we cannot even tell the language, let alone the words. But in english, it says Aragorn. When my parents married, my mother thought it would make a good name... I had a hell of a time in elementary school. You *cannot* make a good nickname out of Aragorn."
This confused most of the men, but the King only smiled. "You cannot? I will consider this. You may indeed be an omen. I will consider this as well. You, too, I sense, will have much to consider. We are a strange people, given to secrecy, and to a long waiting. It will not be easy."
Aragorn could only nod. "What does my name mean to you?"
The King went on as though he had not heard the question. "Come to my dwelling, where my son Throndil and I will serve you some dinner and answer your questions - but first! Where are my manners? Let me introduce myself. My name is Thranduil."
by Shauna (wind3213@hotmail.com)
***
Chapter 1: The Unwilling City
***
Aragorn followed his strange guide through the forest, becoming ever more aware of eyes gazing upon him. He had glimpsed them, twice, too alert for owls. Now he could not see them in the shadowy night, but still he knew they were there. It sent a little tremor of terror down his spine, through his heart.
The man turned suddenly on his invisible course, and Aragorn followed him obediently. Despite his fear, he felt an abiding conviction that if he trusted this man no harm would come to him. If he followed, if he trusted, he would be taken away from the eyes. He would be safe, protected, guarded...
The word 'guarded' twisted in his mind.
As though he'd thrown a blanket off his sleeping face, he gasped in the stinging night air, the situation suddenly clear to him. He was lost, he had been captured, and now he was blithely following a man who had threatened him with his death?
With all his strength he darted left, threw himself forwards, and then coming up to his feet began to run.
He had gone for almost a mile, breathing harshly, barely avoiding trees, thorns scraping against his face, when he reailized there was no sound of pursuit. Stopping and resting against a tree, he thought maybe he had lost them. It didn't seem likely, there being so many. Maybe he had never seen them at all? A hallucination?
He didn't feel much safer now, alone in a forest of enemies, rough bark pressing through his t-shirt against his back.
"Twas not wise to run," came a voice from behind him. Aragorn turned, startled. His guide stood a few feet away, his breath coming evenly and his forehead not even sweating from the prolonged sprint. Behind him stood several dark men, smaller and rougher then the first. They were more like Aragorn then the first man although they too wore brown clothes and tied their hair in similar fashion.
"You see my companions?" continued his guide. "Took much persuading for to keep them from putting their arrows in you. They like you not at all... nay, they like not your people. You, I think, may have gained some of their respect for that ill-advised but brave attempt at escape. But such as that means little to them now. They are wary. Do not test them - or me - again."
Aragorn could only nod dumbly, still trying to catch his breath. Perhaps it was fatigue, but he felt at once that he should acqueisce. Fighting off the feeling, he asked, "You're in good shape, aren't you? Why didn't you stop me sooner?"
"'Tis better to sap your strength, little one, for a tired captive is a more willing one," the guide replied. "Also, you ran in the right direction."
Without saying anything more, his captor resumed the trail, and Aragorn followed, the three dark men falling in behind him.
As they walked, Aragorn could once again feel eyes upon him, though this time he could be sure he did not imagine them. But that gave him little ease. *Are there Indians in Europe?* he asked himself, trying to resist the urge to look back at the now-revealed watchers. *Indians who fight with bows and arrows - and glow with faint light?*
After several miles, the leader signaled and they paused to let Aragorn rest. He took the chance to ask, "What are you?"
The dark men glared at him and didn't answer. His guide merely answered, "I will not say."
"Great. Just great." Aragorn threw up his hands. "So you won't tell me what you are - or who you are - and you don't ask me either. Some kidnapping. How are we ever going to get anywhere, huh? How am I supposed to know what to do to get you to let me go?"
His guide paused. "I am not sure what you mean by that. It is perhaps the language failing me - we have not had a visitor refresh our knowledge of the tongue for well over sixty years. But I will attempt to answer you as best I can. What I am is a hunter, a forester. Who am I - well, perhaps it does not matter if you know my name. I am called Throndil. We are going to my father, the King, who will decide what to do with you."
Aragorn eyed Throndil warily. "What do you mean, decide what to do with me? Don't I get a say?"
"The king's word is final. Beside, it is you who have trespassed on our land. You have forfeited your freedom."
Aragorn began to panic. "But I didn't know this was your land! I was just following a deer!"
Throndil laughed softly. "Even the hungriest of hunters does not follow a single deer so many miles, not past so many others. No, you came to do mischeif, though how you knew to do so, is beyond me. The King's judgement in the wisest. I will wait for it."
Aragorn felt his stomach sink as he glanced around at the other members of the group. "What of them?" he asked.
"They agree that since I found you, you shall be subject to the King. Unless you do harm to them, in which case it will be their justice you face."
"Your king isn't their king, then?"
Throndil paused as if considering his words. "They have no king. We are of a kind but not a kin, and though we are often together we will always be in ways apart. Had they found you, they would have killed you instantly and thought it no wrong, for you are hum- you are tresspassing. Come now," he said, standing up. "To ask so many questions you must be well rested."
He whispered to the others in another language, then as one they began walking down the trail. It was not too much longer before their path opened up into a large clearing, ringed with the tallest trees. As they entered, a number of men and women came cautiously out of the shadows. Most were dark, muted men, some hastily tying up their hair. Still, Aragorn counted two or three who were blonde and tall like Throndil.
"This is a city?" he whispered to him.
"They like not to call it that," Throndil replied, "but in a way it is. There are no stores for merchants, nor stones of worship, but there are many homes. We all have our dwellings among the trees."
Looking closer, Aragorn could make out the outline of houses around and in the trees. Around nearly each one were structures of wood and brush, leaning against the trunks. And up high the branches were woven together to make floors, with the leaves stretching themselves out and softening the bark. "How did you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Thread the trees like you were making a quilt?"
Throndil smiled and did not respond. Aragorn peered further into the forest, and could make out dozens of faint lights that were shut as news of their arrival passed from home to home and people left to gather in the clearing. Pretty soon only a few remained.
"Throndil!" It was both spoken music and a stern command. Looking to where the word came from, he saw a beautiful and proud man. His hair was so blond it was white, and it flowed freely down his back. Then Aragorn was caught in his eyes, soft as a grandmother's, wise as a sage, and piercing besides. This, then, was the King.
"Yes, father?" Throndil replied.
"From where comes this mortal?" he asked. The odd choice of words stayed a moment in Aragorn's thoughts, but with a wink from the King the abberation was gone.
"I found him many miles southward following the Great Deer."
"The Great Deer, eh?" the King replied, then murmured something in another language. It sounded like a song. Then he switched back into English. "Why did you follow her?"
"I wanted to get food for my family. Well, maybe they didn't so much need it, but I like to pretend, you know?" he admitted. "It's better then playing with dolls."
"It is, is it?" The King said thoughtfully. "Continue."
"Well, when we lived back home my dad and I would go hunting and we'd have it for dinner. But here we aren't allowed to hunt. I don't think we're allowed to go very far into the forest at all. But the woods- they get in you, you know? I needed to come out here. I wasn't going to shoot your Great Deer."
"Why not?"
"It'd be a waste of food, for one thing, since I couldn't bring the deer home to eat it."
"Then why were you following it?" Throndil interjected, amazed that his father would accept such reasoning.
"I- um, don't know. I was already lost. And it seemed to know where it was going." The others were silent. "I know, I'm crazy!"
The King moved towards him, his hair rippling in perfect waves although there was no breeze. He reached a hand out to the Aragorn's cheek. His skin was warm and smooth, smoother even then the boy's. "I do not think you crazy. Nor dangerous. Let us not dispense with all pleasantries. Welcome to my home. What is your name?" asked the king gently. "Come, you have nothing to fear from me, at least."
The uncertainty within him vanished, and he whispered, "Aragorn."
The King's eyes widened and then snapped shut, and he stood absolutely still. Everyone else shifted and murmured, the brown men grasping at their spears, as the name spread through the crowd.
Throndil and the other silver men moved towards, faces showing their wonder, and Throndil hissed, "Aragorn? How did you get that name? Surely this is an omen of some kind."
Shaken and confused once more, Aragorn replied, "From the back of a family heirloom." When he spoke, the King opened his eyes again, and they burned with intensity that did not scare him as much as it should. And as he continued, he began to feel more relaxed, and his words flowed freely. "A beautiful stone has been passed down on my father's side of the family, and it is set in metal. On it is written three things, one in middle english, one in a tongue so old we can not decipher it, and the last - or first, as you may see it - is so obscure we cannot even tell the language, let alone the words. But in english, it says Aragorn. When my parents married, my mother thought it would make a good name... I had a hell of a time in elementary school. You *cannot* make a good nickname out of Aragorn."
This confused most of the men, but the King only smiled. "You cannot? I will consider this. You may indeed be an omen. I will consider this as well. You, too, I sense, will have much to consider. We are a strange people, given to secrecy, and to a long waiting. It will not be easy."
Aragorn could only nod. "What does my name mean to you?"
The King went on as though he had not heard the question. "Come to my dwelling, where my son Throndil and I will serve you some dinner and answer your questions - but first! Where are my manners? Let me introduce myself. My name is Thranduil."