A/N: …Well. I looked in the Appendix to RotK, and discovered that I had completely screwed up the story.
Here's Tolkien's version:
"Arador was the grandfather of the King. His son Arathorn sought in marriage Gilraen the Fair, daughter of Dirhael, who was himself a descendant of Aranarth. To this marriage Dirhael was opposed; for Gilraen was young and had not reached the age at which women of the Dunedain were accustomed to marry.
'Moreover,' he said, 'Arathorn is a stern man of full age, and will be chieftain of the Dunedain sooner than men looked for; yet my heart forebodes that he will be short-lived.'
But Ivorwen, his wife, who was also foresighted, answered: 'The more need of haste! The dats are darkening before the storm, and great things are to come. If these two wed now, hope may be born for our people; yet if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts.'"
*scratches head* Well, that's sorta…different. But I like this story! Can I keep it? We'll call it an AU! It'll be our secret, okay?? Pleeeeease??
Disclaimer: Not mine, yadda yadda, etc. etc…
One Afternoon By The River
By Thalia Weaver
Chapter Two: Arathorn
I was tired from long journeying, my legs sore under me and my throat parched. It was a lovely day, and the band of Orcs I had been following had been dispatched by a troop of Ithilien Rangers. And so I found myself on the banks of the Anduin, leaning over and drinking thirstily from the fast-flowing waters.
The day was peaceful enough, though in the distance I could hear the faded chattering of many women.
Still, the calm of the little, shaded bank I was resting on was hardly disturbed by the muffled laughing, and it was a welcome enough change after weeks of heavy fighting.
I sighed, and wiped my mouth, ducking my head into the cool water and letting it run over my sweat-soaked hair. My sword poked me sharply in the side, reminding me that this pleasant detour would soon be over.
A glint of red caught my eye. I looked up, and saw a trailing piece of red cloth and, close behind it, a woman floating on the river. She might be still alive, and so I threw off my sword and dagger, racing into the cold water. I struggled against the swift current and brought her to shore- luckily, she was light, and not far from the bank.
As I brought her up onto the mossy side of the river, I got a better look at the woman I had rescued. She looked to be about thirty, and she was beautiful; her hair was long and dark, though it was wet and soggy now. Her face was tired, but lovely in its own way, and I found myself liking her looks immediately.
I felt her wrist- there was a heartbeat still, though weak and thready. Remembering what I had learned from Nerdanyr, the old Ranger who had taught me everything I knew, I leaned over and began to give breath into her mouth. Reflecting that, in any other circumstance, I would have been filled with pleasure at the opportunity to have my mouth on that of a beautiful woman, I smiled in my mind; at that moment her eyes flew open, her arm raised up, and she struck me, hard, upon the head.
"Ai!" I cried, clutching my head. "Strange gratitude you give, woman!"
"Gratitude? For what, then, that you would rape me after pushing me into the river?" She cried, her eyes blazing. She got to her feet.
"What? I fished you out of the river! You would have died!" I replied, angered at the insult to my honor.
"You…you are not the one that attacked me, then?" she answered, hesitant, her anger cooled somewhat.
"You were attacked? By whom?" I asked, stunned. My anger disappeared.
"I know not…I think that one of the names was Morhen."
"Morhen? Oh, no," I groaned, for Morhen was one of the most famous bandits west of the Ered-Lithui. "I know that name…"
"What is yours?" She asked suddenly. "Your name, I mean."
I looked at her sharply, surprised at the question. "Arathorn , son of Arador. And what is yours?" Inside, I wondered at my own foolishness, asking for the name of some river-woman when one of the most evil men in Middle-Earth was nearby; but something made me ask despite.
"Gilraen. Gilraen, daughter of Dirhael and Ivorwen."
The silence of the trees hung about us; the muffled laughter and chatter of the women was silent, and all I could see were Gilraen's eyes.
The moment was broken by the sound of loud voices and tramping feet, not very distant from us.
"We'll find the trollop, and do to her body what we would have to her alive! No one kicks Ethnahor, son of Estranor, in his manhood and lives- or dies- unspoiled!" came a snarling voice. Gilraen paled, and I guessed that this was her attacker- and that she was the trollop he spoke of.
I was torn between anger at the insult to her and admiration of her courage, but the voices were getting closer. I picked up my sword, abandoned on the moss while rescuing Gilraen, and buckled it on.
"Run!" I cried to her.
"You cannot fight them!" She cried. "Listen! There are many men."
I smiled to myself, ruefully. "Then we will both run. But they are upon us!"
We ran.