Notes: I didn't die! Hehehe, I didn't think I would ever update this story
again. I'm not sure why, it wasn't all that bad a story really, I mean…
I've written worse. But I was getting so discouraged, reading all the
incredibly amazing fanfics by other authors, and I felt so stupid writing
my own. And I guess the biggest problem was that it was just so dang
ambitious. I mean… The summary said it would tell his entire life, and go
through all his childhood, then all his experiences with the rangers, then
through his time spent in Rohan, then Gondor, then Harad and the East, then
Lothlorien and Arwen, then Gandalf and Gollum… I mean, it was just
ridiculous. I just can't do that. Plus, I don't know how to fill the gaps
inbetween! After chapter nine… I had an idea from time to time of something
to write, but it didn't connect. Like that story I wrote, "Leave All Doubts
Behind". That could be part of this story, except that this story doesn't
go that far. I've added this chapter as a kind of conclusion, wrapping up
the story as best I can and foreshadowing the rest of it. No action
whatsoever, just Aragorn reflecting and whatnot. It's not so great, but I
felt I needed to do something, I couldn't just abandon this story
completely… So here ya go…
____________________________________________
The door of the bar creaked open and a very tall man entered the room. He was clad in a dark green, almost black, cloak that could easily have concealed weapons. His face was shadowed and hidden by a dark hood. His clothes were stained with dirt and blood, his worn, leather boots caked in mud. Conversations paused as people turned from their drinks and friends to stare for a moment at the foreboding figure looming near the entrance. He paused for a moment, on the threshold, taking in the scene of the room, his silver eyes gleaming out from the dark void of his hood, before striding quickly through the masses of people to a small table in the corner. The Bree folk scurried out of his way as he came, at the same time trying to appear as if they weren't scurrying at all, as if they didn't notice him. But their attempts at ignoring him were so obvious it almost amused the man, though he made no expression and spoke no word as he hurried to his secluded sanctuary in the corner. Once seated, he seemed to melt into the background of the room, and people soon forgot he was there and resumed whatever they had been doing previously.
The man leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out before him under the table, crossing them at the ankles. He took out a pipe and a pouch of pipe-weed. He brought the pipe to his lips and inhaled, then let out a long contended sigh as the sweet smell surrounded him. A fire was burning softly nearby and he stared into it, becoming ensnared in its flickering and whipping and smoldering, he felt for a moment that he was falling into it. And then he closed his eyes and raised his gaze to the ceiling, his thoughts inevitably beginning to swirl through his mind.
He found himself reflecting on the past five years, and on his entire life thus far. For the past five years he had served the Dunedain, as a Ranger. He had fought alongside Halbarad and Carhanon and many others, defending the Shire, defending Bree, this very village, and many other places. There had been many battles, many strong friendships forged and many tragic deaths. He was their leader. Yet, it seemed odd to him. Sometimes he didn't even feel like he had a right to lead them at all, as if he wasn't truly one of them; after all, he had grown up away from them, in a completely different world. And he hadn't fit in that world either. Aragorn sighed, chewing the end of his pipe plaintively. It struck him as ironic that here, amidst a loud and rowdy crowd of drunkards having a wonderful, careless time, he should be sitting here alone, brooding. But he supposed he would be capable of doing that no matter where he went, he thought, smiling wryly in annoyance at himself.
And quite suddenly and unexpectedly, amidst his whirl pool of memories, she came. Arwen rose in his mind, framed in the fading sunlight and growing twilight, not walking but floating. He could hear her laugher, see her smile at him, happy, though bemused. He remembered the day he had departed from Rivendell, five years ago, after Elrond had informed him of whom he was. He had told his mother gleefully, all that Elrond had told him, though she undoubtedly already knew all he had to tell. He had been nothing but happy at that time, and Gilrean had shared in his joy and hugged him, but she was aware much more fully of what it would mean. She knew that it was a heavy burden her son bore. Aragorn blew a smoke ring and watched it hover in front of him for a moment, something he had learned from Gandalf. He knew now, that there was much more than mere happiness to come from Elrond's words, and that it was indeed, a heavy burden. Doubtless he would learn that lesson much more thoroughly in the time to come, Aragorn told himself. It could only get harder.
He had bid all of Elrond's household farwell, for it would be his home no longer. Elrond had hugged him and given him his blessing, Elladan and Elrohir had clasped hands with him and wished him the best of luck (he had seen and fought beside them several times since then) and Arwen had stood by as he said his goodbyes, looking mildly regretful and sad. He had bowed before her and kissed her hand. He smiled at the memory; such a brief, fleeting moment it was, and sad in truth for it had been a parting, yet he savored it all the same. He tried to remember the taste of her smooth, warm, soft hands, ancient yet youthful. But she was not his. He was never intended for such beauty and majesty, he knew that in his heart.
But still, he was meant for great things. He debated for a moment, just what that meant, just what "great" was, but was left with no conclusion. He knew only that there was much to be done, and not for his sake, but for the sake of these people around him. For a moment he wished he could forget all of his knowledge and become like them, but he knew that was impossible. If he was to join them and become like them… there wouldn't be a them, they wouldn't exist, not as they were. He glanced around the room, gleaning pieces of people's conversations. All simple, all irrelevant, all so sweetly ridiculous… These people had no idea who he was or what he had done for them, and continued to do. They feared him in fact, and scorned him. But it didn't matter. They knew no better, Aragorn reminded himself. They were simple and honest and content, and he would fight for them so that they could remain that way. Yet, they were not the only ones in Middle- Earth. There was so much beyond the gates of Bree, so much that he had still to see and defend. He had never even set foot outside of the Lost Realm of Eriador. If he was meant to be king, then he must know all of his people, not merely these. And perhaps also people who were not his, but that he would have dealings with, if ever that day did come. And there was the Enemy. Always, there was the Enemy, and there were many different ways to go about fighting him.
Aragorn took a sip of his beer, and placed it back down on the table with a soft thud. He would leave Bree, and leave the Northern lands. He would go south, to Rohan, to Gondor, to Harad. He would go under many guises and names, serving and helping others in whatever way he could, and fighting the Enemy, in secret. He had lived as Estel, happy and unknowing amongst the great Noldorin Elves, under care of the Lord Elrond, and he had led as the Lord Aragorn of the Dunedain the dutiful, quiet, grey Rangers of the North, and there was much yet to come. He had found friendship and company amongst the other rangers, but now he would travel alone, in places he had never seen. He had already said his goodbyes, once more. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered how many goodbyes he would say in his life. Shaking his head, and emptying his glass, the man rose from his seat and strode past the other men, between tables and toward the door.
"Oy! Strider!" cried a rather drunk man from a table at the other end of the room. Aragorn turned quizzically. "Yeah, you- tall, dark fellow, the strider." Aragorn smiled slightly.
"Yes?"
For a moment, the man said nothing, merely sat grinning stupidly, but then came a slurred "G'night." Aragorn returned the smile and answered courteously,
"And a good night to you, kind sir." He turned and was swiftly out the door. Well, that was one more goodbye to add to the list, he thought with a chuckle.
____________________________________________
The door of the bar creaked open and a very tall man entered the room. He was clad in a dark green, almost black, cloak that could easily have concealed weapons. His face was shadowed and hidden by a dark hood. His clothes were stained with dirt and blood, his worn, leather boots caked in mud. Conversations paused as people turned from their drinks and friends to stare for a moment at the foreboding figure looming near the entrance. He paused for a moment, on the threshold, taking in the scene of the room, his silver eyes gleaming out from the dark void of his hood, before striding quickly through the masses of people to a small table in the corner. The Bree folk scurried out of his way as he came, at the same time trying to appear as if they weren't scurrying at all, as if they didn't notice him. But their attempts at ignoring him were so obvious it almost amused the man, though he made no expression and spoke no word as he hurried to his secluded sanctuary in the corner. Once seated, he seemed to melt into the background of the room, and people soon forgot he was there and resumed whatever they had been doing previously.
The man leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out before him under the table, crossing them at the ankles. He took out a pipe and a pouch of pipe-weed. He brought the pipe to his lips and inhaled, then let out a long contended sigh as the sweet smell surrounded him. A fire was burning softly nearby and he stared into it, becoming ensnared in its flickering and whipping and smoldering, he felt for a moment that he was falling into it. And then he closed his eyes and raised his gaze to the ceiling, his thoughts inevitably beginning to swirl through his mind.
He found himself reflecting on the past five years, and on his entire life thus far. For the past five years he had served the Dunedain, as a Ranger. He had fought alongside Halbarad and Carhanon and many others, defending the Shire, defending Bree, this very village, and many other places. There had been many battles, many strong friendships forged and many tragic deaths. He was their leader. Yet, it seemed odd to him. Sometimes he didn't even feel like he had a right to lead them at all, as if he wasn't truly one of them; after all, he had grown up away from them, in a completely different world. And he hadn't fit in that world either. Aragorn sighed, chewing the end of his pipe plaintively. It struck him as ironic that here, amidst a loud and rowdy crowd of drunkards having a wonderful, careless time, he should be sitting here alone, brooding. But he supposed he would be capable of doing that no matter where he went, he thought, smiling wryly in annoyance at himself.
And quite suddenly and unexpectedly, amidst his whirl pool of memories, she came. Arwen rose in his mind, framed in the fading sunlight and growing twilight, not walking but floating. He could hear her laugher, see her smile at him, happy, though bemused. He remembered the day he had departed from Rivendell, five years ago, after Elrond had informed him of whom he was. He had told his mother gleefully, all that Elrond had told him, though she undoubtedly already knew all he had to tell. He had been nothing but happy at that time, and Gilrean had shared in his joy and hugged him, but she was aware much more fully of what it would mean. She knew that it was a heavy burden her son bore. Aragorn blew a smoke ring and watched it hover in front of him for a moment, something he had learned from Gandalf. He knew now, that there was much more than mere happiness to come from Elrond's words, and that it was indeed, a heavy burden. Doubtless he would learn that lesson much more thoroughly in the time to come, Aragorn told himself. It could only get harder.
He had bid all of Elrond's household farwell, for it would be his home no longer. Elrond had hugged him and given him his blessing, Elladan and Elrohir had clasped hands with him and wished him the best of luck (he had seen and fought beside them several times since then) and Arwen had stood by as he said his goodbyes, looking mildly regretful and sad. He had bowed before her and kissed her hand. He smiled at the memory; such a brief, fleeting moment it was, and sad in truth for it had been a parting, yet he savored it all the same. He tried to remember the taste of her smooth, warm, soft hands, ancient yet youthful. But she was not his. He was never intended for such beauty and majesty, he knew that in his heart.
But still, he was meant for great things. He debated for a moment, just what that meant, just what "great" was, but was left with no conclusion. He knew only that there was much to be done, and not for his sake, but for the sake of these people around him. For a moment he wished he could forget all of his knowledge and become like them, but he knew that was impossible. If he was to join them and become like them… there wouldn't be a them, they wouldn't exist, not as they were. He glanced around the room, gleaning pieces of people's conversations. All simple, all irrelevant, all so sweetly ridiculous… These people had no idea who he was or what he had done for them, and continued to do. They feared him in fact, and scorned him. But it didn't matter. They knew no better, Aragorn reminded himself. They were simple and honest and content, and he would fight for them so that they could remain that way. Yet, they were not the only ones in Middle- Earth. There was so much beyond the gates of Bree, so much that he had still to see and defend. He had never even set foot outside of the Lost Realm of Eriador. If he was meant to be king, then he must know all of his people, not merely these. And perhaps also people who were not his, but that he would have dealings with, if ever that day did come. And there was the Enemy. Always, there was the Enemy, and there were many different ways to go about fighting him.
Aragorn took a sip of his beer, and placed it back down on the table with a soft thud. He would leave Bree, and leave the Northern lands. He would go south, to Rohan, to Gondor, to Harad. He would go under many guises and names, serving and helping others in whatever way he could, and fighting the Enemy, in secret. He had lived as Estel, happy and unknowing amongst the great Noldorin Elves, under care of the Lord Elrond, and he had led as the Lord Aragorn of the Dunedain the dutiful, quiet, grey Rangers of the North, and there was much yet to come. He had found friendship and company amongst the other rangers, but now he would travel alone, in places he had never seen. He had already said his goodbyes, once more. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered how many goodbyes he would say in his life. Shaking his head, and emptying his glass, the man rose from his seat and strode past the other men, between tables and toward the door.
"Oy! Strider!" cried a rather drunk man from a table at the other end of the room. Aragorn turned quizzically. "Yeah, you- tall, dark fellow, the strider." Aragorn smiled slightly.
"Yes?"
For a moment, the man said nothing, merely sat grinning stupidly, but then came a slurred "G'night." Aragorn returned the smile and answered courteously,
"And a good night to you, kind sir." He turned and was swiftly out the door. Well, that was one more goodbye to add to the list, he thought with a chuckle.