Author's Note:
Yes! Somebody has not only heard the song but liked it a lot!
A note about the names: I am probably the least creative person ever to come up with names, so I resorted to some handy online dictionaries. Ithidin, the name of the battle, is elvish for star-moon. No significance, I just liked the way it sounded. And Gràdh is Gaelic for beloved (I didn't think it would be appropriate to give him an elven name because he's not an elf!)
One thing about updates: I will try and keep them as consistent and quick as possible, but I'm afraid this will have to be every week or so. It takes me a while to hammer stuff like this out. But please review!!
~*~
This story continues about one month later. Aragorn, known to all as Thorongil, has been raised to the rank of General for his valiant behavior in the previous battle.. Now comes the time to prove himself as a leader.
The troops he has command of are stationed to the east of Gondor. They have clashed with the opposing army of the Umbar, the Black Numenoreans, in several small skirmishes, forcing them into retreat, though at great cost to the Gondorian's lives. The two small armies are now matched in numbers; but a Gondorian victory is expected due to their superior equipment and training. Based on these high odds, Denethor, the young Steward of Gondor, has opted against sending reinforcements to Thorongil, as they will be needed elsewhere.
Songs of this battle will be told for ages to come; for what reasons have yet to be told:
Chapter 1:
here was a decorated general with
a heart of gold, that likened him to
all the stories he told
of past battles, won and lost, and
legends of old a seasoned veteran in
his own time
on the battlefield, he gained
respectable fame with many metals
of bravery and stripes to his name
he grew a beard as soon as he could
to cover the scars on his face
and always urged his men on
He was known by many names. So many, that he hardly ever went by his true name: Aragorn. As a Ranger he was known as Strider, because of his long legs and fast gait. His family, or the closest thing to it, called him Estel. Hope. Heir of Isildur, Lord of the Dunedain, and perhaps one day, Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor and Arnor. But all here called him Thorongil, eagle-star, because of the pin he wore on his cloak.
He rubbed the tips of his fingers over the scar above his lip, feeling its roughness, feeling how it marred his face. Not that he cared, or even knew what he was doing; it was habit. It was what he did, unconsciously, when he thought. Now he was sitting at his desk in his tent, thinking about the desk he was sitting at. It was made of wood, of which kind he did not know, but it was light and collapsible for easy haulage, with a small matching chair. Deep brown and plain, it served only its purpose. It was not for decoration. Nevertheless, it was quite a luxury to have a desk, and he did not mind its bareness. It was a necessary item to for any general, and now that he had command of his own troop, he used it regularly. Still, he regarded it as a kind of luxury. The desk, the chair, and the size of his tent, and the type of armor he wore all distinguished him from the men under his command, but that was all. Silently he smiled to himself.
Ironic, wasn't it? That he, who was rightfully king, was serving for the kingdom he should rule, and glad of the extravagance of a sparse desk and chair. But aside from the subtle smirk that showed across his features, he did not want to think of such. Instead, he concentrated at the task at hand.
He sat for a moment, relishing this last amusing thought, then stood. He made his way out of the tent, limping just very slightly. He was not completely healed from the last battle, in more ways than one.
He made his way over to where the body of his men were resting, enjoying their lunch. Grabbing a dirty bowl, but thinking nothing of it, he poured himself some soup and sat down with them. Though he was respected by most of them, he though it was important to interact with his men, if only to keep them going.
He kneeled in the middle of them, his weight balanced evenly and comfortably on the balls of his feet. This is how they all sat, even when they didn't need to. It was a habit.
They were all carrying on light conversation, mostly good natured, just for the sake of it. Most of these men hadn't been home in over a year, and all their nerves were strung high with the increasing friction between the two armies. Another battle was just a few days away, inevitable. His army had seen their share of battle; more than their share if all truth be told. But still, despite their accustom-ness, if it could be called that, they were wary and nervous. It is hard to describe the feeling before a battle. How long can one hold their breath? The feeling that you are about to die, you last days, your last deeds. Most men reach a state of resigned depression. Others became reckless, and sometimes dangerous. Few, very few, were excited, masochists and sadists among them. The real veterans, the hardened ones, had a sense of hope, appreciation of life, and just general detachment. The optimistic view.
But Aragorn had no choice how to feel. He could not feel, and that was the whole point, because he was the leader. He was the general. He had to plan and strategize and rationalize. He was responsible for every one of these men, for every one of their deaths. And despite the air of confidence in leading, the many years of instruction and experience, he did not feel as though he could handle this great responsibility. And it ate at his soul. He rubbed the scar above his lip.
But enough of this inner conflict and self scrutiny, he though to himself. Just enjoy this meal, for after all, it might be the last.
"Sir, the prisoners are here."
He looked up to see a young man, hardly more than a boy, standing before him.
"Lead me to them."
They made their way over to the far side of camp, away form the tents and eating area. There he saw four men, in Umbarian garb, standing proudly, with their arms chained behind their backs. Their faces were streaked with dirt and dried blood, but startling clear eyes stared fiercely off into the distance.
As he approached, they all turned to look at him. Three were young, about as old as the soldier leading him, and Aragorn guessed they were novice warriors. The fourth was old and hardened, with sharp features, wild hair, and only one eye. It followed him as he approached. Where the other eye had been was now an empty socket, pink and oozing. The muscles in it moved visibly as he turned his other eye to look at Aragorn. Though none of the Umbar wore their ranks visibly, a defense against assassination, he knew that this man was a leader.
They were foul, these black Numenoreans.
Aragorn addressed them in Westron. He was fluent in the tongue of the Numenoreans, and though he could often understand it, the dialect they spoke sounded broken and unintelligible to him at times. None of his own men knew he spoke the language, and he thought that it would be to his advantage if these prisoners of war did not know either. "Men of the Umbar," he said, "you are in the hands of the kingdom of Gondor, ruled by the Steward Denethor. As prisoners of war we hold you. You will aid us as we command or face the consequences of imprisonment." He emphasized the last word, insinuated worse then what he said.
"We will never aid our enemy," said the leader, and he spat harshly at Aragorn's feet.
Aragorn's heart was pounding in his chest and he could hear blood rushing in his ears. The face of his friend flashed before his eyes, and he trembled with grief, guilt and anger. The memory of Gràdh was too much to bare, and his calm coolness was quickly transformed into violent fury before the eyes of his men.
Aragorn snarled with barely suppressed fury. His hand shot out and he gripped the chin of the man in front of him, the flesh turning white from the pressure. The man's one eye widened, but he did not tare his gaze from Aragorn's. "Then you and all your people will feel the wrath of Gondor," he said in scarcely controlled voice, his rage coming through. And with a sudden movement, he lifted the man and threw him backwards. His shackles clattered as he fell to the dirt, unable to support himself.
Aragorn turned sharply on his heel and strode swiftly back to his tent, leaving the gaping young soldier to deal with the prisoners.
His head in his hands, he sat on the edge of his rigid bed. And rubbing the scar above his lip, he thought.
~*~
TBC
Yes! Somebody has not only heard the song but liked it a lot!
A note about the names: I am probably the least creative person ever to come up with names, so I resorted to some handy online dictionaries. Ithidin, the name of the battle, is elvish for star-moon. No significance, I just liked the way it sounded. And Gràdh is Gaelic for beloved (I didn't think it would be appropriate to give him an elven name because he's not an elf!)
One thing about updates: I will try and keep them as consistent and quick as possible, but I'm afraid this will have to be every week or so. It takes me a while to hammer stuff like this out. But please review!!
~*~
This story continues about one month later. Aragorn, known to all as Thorongil, has been raised to the rank of General for his valiant behavior in the previous battle.. Now comes the time to prove himself as a leader.
The troops he has command of are stationed to the east of Gondor. They have clashed with the opposing army of the Umbar, the Black Numenoreans, in several small skirmishes, forcing them into retreat, though at great cost to the Gondorian's lives. The two small armies are now matched in numbers; but a Gondorian victory is expected due to their superior equipment and training. Based on these high odds, Denethor, the young Steward of Gondor, has opted against sending reinforcements to Thorongil, as they will be needed elsewhere.
Songs of this battle will be told for ages to come; for what reasons have yet to be told:
Chapter 1:
here was a decorated general with
a heart of gold, that likened him to
all the stories he told
of past battles, won and lost, and
legends of old a seasoned veteran in
his own time
on the battlefield, he gained
respectable fame with many metals
of bravery and stripes to his name
he grew a beard as soon as he could
to cover the scars on his face
and always urged his men on
He was known by many names. So many, that he hardly ever went by his true name: Aragorn. As a Ranger he was known as Strider, because of his long legs and fast gait. His family, or the closest thing to it, called him Estel. Hope. Heir of Isildur, Lord of the Dunedain, and perhaps one day, Elessar Telcontar, King of Gondor and Arnor. But all here called him Thorongil, eagle-star, because of the pin he wore on his cloak.
He rubbed the tips of his fingers over the scar above his lip, feeling its roughness, feeling how it marred his face. Not that he cared, or even knew what he was doing; it was habit. It was what he did, unconsciously, when he thought. Now he was sitting at his desk in his tent, thinking about the desk he was sitting at. It was made of wood, of which kind he did not know, but it was light and collapsible for easy haulage, with a small matching chair. Deep brown and plain, it served only its purpose. It was not for decoration. Nevertheless, it was quite a luxury to have a desk, and he did not mind its bareness. It was a necessary item to for any general, and now that he had command of his own troop, he used it regularly. Still, he regarded it as a kind of luxury. The desk, the chair, and the size of his tent, and the type of armor he wore all distinguished him from the men under his command, but that was all. Silently he smiled to himself.
Ironic, wasn't it? That he, who was rightfully king, was serving for the kingdom he should rule, and glad of the extravagance of a sparse desk and chair. But aside from the subtle smirk that showed across his features, he did not want to think of such. Instead, he concentrated at the task at hand.
He sat for a moment, relishing this last amusing thought, then stood. He made his way out of the tent, limping just very slightly. He was not completely healed from the last battle, in more ways than one.
He made his way over to where the body of his men were resting, enjoying their lunch. Grabbing a dirty bowl, but thinking nothing of it, he poured himself some soup and sat down with them. Though he was respected by most of them, he though it was important to interact with his men, if only to keep them going.
He kneeled in the middle of them, his weight balanced evenly and comfortably on the balls of his feet. This is how they all sat, even when they didn't need to. It was a habit.
They were all carrying on light conversation, mostly good natured, just for the sake of it. Most of these men hadn't been home in over a year, and all their nerves were strung high with the increasing friction between the two armies. Another battle was just a few days away, inevitable. His army had seen their share of battle; more than their share if all truth be told. But still, despite their accustom-ness, if it could be called that, they were wary and nervous. It is hard to describe the feeling before a battle. How long can one hold their breath? The feeling that you are about to die, you last days, your last deeds. Most men reach a state of resigned depression. Others became reckless, and sometimes dangerous. Few, very few, were excited, masochists and sadists among them. The real veterans, the hardened ones, had a sense of hope, appreciation of life, and just general detachment. The optimistic view.
But Aragorn had no choice how to feel. He could not feel, and that was the whole point, because he was the leader. He was the general. He had to plan and strategize and rationalize. He was responsible for every one of these men, for every one of their deaths. And despite the air of confidence in leading, the many years of instruction and experience, he did not feel as though he could handle this great responsibility. And it ate at his soul. He rubbed the scar above his lip.
But enough of this inner conflict and self scrutiny, he though to himself. Just enjoy this meal, for after all, it might be the last.
"Sir, the prisoners are here."
He looked up to see a young man, hardly more than a boy, standing before him.
"Lead me to them."
They made their way over to the far side of camp, away form the tents and eating area. There he saw four men, in Umbarian garb, standing proudly, with their arms chained behind their backs. Their faces were streaked with dirt and dried blood, but startling clear eyes stared fiercely off into the distance.
As he approached, they all turned to look at him. Three were young, about as old as the soldier leading him, and Aragorn guessed they were novice warriors. The fourth was old and hardened, with sharp features, wild hair, and only one eye. It followed him as he approached. Where the other eye had been was now an empty socket, pink and oozing. The muscles in it moved visibly as he turned his other eye to look at Aragorn. Though none of the Umbar wore their ranks visibly, a defense against assassination, he knew that this man was a leader.
They were foul, these black Numenoreans.
Aragorn addressed them in Westron. He was fluent in the tongue of the Numenoreans, and though he could often understand it, the dialect they spoke sounded broken and unintelligible to him at times. None of his own men knew he spoke the language, and he thought that it would be to his advantage if these prisoners of war did not know either. "Men of the Umbar," he said, "you are in the hands of the kingdom of Gondor, ruled by the Steward Denethor. As prisoners of war we hold you. You will aid us as we command or face the consequences of imprisonment." He emphasized the last word, insinuated worse then what he said.
"We will never aid our enemy," said the leader, and he spat harshly at Aragorn's feet.
Aragorn's heart was pounding in his chest and he could hear blood rushing in his ears. The face of his friend flashed before his eyes, and he trembled with grief, guilt and anger. The memory of Gràdh was too much to bare, and his calm coolness was quickly transformed into violent fury before the eyes of his men.
Aragorn snarled with barely suppressed fury. His hand shot out and he gripped the chin of the man in front of him, the flesh turning white from the pressure. The man's one eye widened, but he did not tare his gaze from Aragorn's. "Then you and all your people will feel the wrath of Gondor," he said in scarcely controlled voice, his rage coming through. And with a sudden movement, he lifted the man and threw him backwards. His shackles clattered as he fell to the dirt, unable to support himself.
Aragorn turned sharply on his heel and strode swiftly back to his tent, leaving the gaping young soldier to deal with the prisoners.
His head in his hands, he sat on the edge of his rigid bed. And rubbing the scar above his lip, he thought.
~*~
TBC