~ The Shadow of the Past ~
Aragorn laid low, seeking out the faint trail in the sparse grass. "It continues up the hill," he informed, rising from the ground to level himself with his companions.
He rushed up the hillside, quickly seeking secure footing on each new moss-covered rock and stone. His blood pumped furiously through his body, thundering in his ears and pulsing through his limbs as he fought to stay ahead of the Elf close on his heels. Gimli struggled along behind them, showing a great deal of good humor for a Dwarf whose compact form was less inclined to running and climbing than either of his companions'.
Gimli and Legolas had been in Rivendell a week now and each day the three of them had chosen a trail at random and sought out its source. Aragorn was delighted by the utter pointlessness of the hunts: the opportunity to know members of the Fellowship far from a battlefield was a blessing for which he had never dared hope.
Legolas and Gimli, the friendship they formed even through the most trying and painful days against the Enemy, had been an unexpected light in the fog. Aragorn was especially glad to have become more acquainted with the Elven archer and was relieved to find that his merit did not crumble under closer scrutiny.
As a warrior, Legolas was fast, deadly and smart – the best kind of back up during an unexpected raid. As a friend, he was armed with spirit and wit as light and quick as his arrows.
Years had passed since the Three Hunters had traveled with such speed along terrain so rugged, and though he could feel the lethargy of kingship in his legs, Aragorn enjoyed the exertion. While his Ranger's mind busied itself finding a steady path among the loose rocks and slick moss, his monarch's mind could think on its troubles, but feel little of their weight.
Those first days had been a blur of mourning and celebration. So many had fallen in the dark days of Sauron, but bright days had at last arrived. He had claimed King Elessar as his name and the daughter of Elrond as his wife and the people of Gondor had rejoiced at his crowning.
Now, Aragorn realized he had been naïve; he had underestimated the damage and the speed at which it could be remedied. The darkness and destruction of Sauron had spread wide, devouring much of Middle-earth. Even the sheltered Shire of the hobbits had been ransacked and burned. No place had gone untouched.
The line of Stewards had cared admirably for the kingdom and his direct predecessor, Denethor, had valiantly overseen Gondor during many of its bleakest days. But he had only to slow the descent of darkness, not bring back the light.
In the provinces of Gondor, many fields still refused to grow and the creeks and rivers meant to nurture them still ran black. Every night the sun went down on a day of toil, only to rise to another. The people were exhausted and frustrated. They wished to be no longer reminded of the blight of Sauron, but every day was a memento of the power he had wielded over their lives and land.
Aragorn charged briskly up the path, willing his body's mounting fatigue to drive his mind and heart to distraction. He knew that ruling would not be easy and that healing would not be swift, but somehow, he felt he should have accomplished more, should have been more certain by now.
Any man could have done as he had these last three years. He was no different, no more commendable or capable than any of the race of Men. The Elves, he felt, were slowly relinquishing the care of Middle-earth into the hands of Men and at one time, he had felt himself worthy of being the figurehead, the specific Man to claim what they bestowed. But no longer. He wasn't even certain he deserved the daughter Lord Elrond had allowed to marry him.
"Aragorn," Legolas called.
"Lost the trail?" the Ranger asked, turning to see his friend paused in the shadow of the higher mountain tier. His lungs gulping in air, he trotted back to stand in the welcome shade, kicking aside a few of the wind-felled branches that littered the ground.
Legolas shook his head, his sharp eyes focused on the Dwarf still lumbering up the hillside. "I want to allow Gimli time to catch us."
Aragorn chuckled, taking the opportunity to calm his breathing – and ignore the irksome composure of the Elf beside him who seemed barely winded. Gimli's wheezing soon drowned out his own panting as the Dwarf made his laborious climb over the rocks. He came to a stop beside them, fighting valiantly to hide much of his own exhaustion.
"I would…rest here," he said between heaving breaths, leaning against the stone for support.
Legolas looked about the hollow, no doubt noting the pleasant brook slipping down the slope. "A good choice, Gimli," he declared. "This is a nice, airy spot for a break." Using an impossibly narrow branch as a makeshift ladder, he climbed up to the next mountain tier with enviable elven ease. Scanning the ground, he crouched atop the boulder just above Gimli's head, his eyes on the trail.
Aragorn leaned back on the cliff wall, feeling his breathing slow steadily. The Ranger in him shut off his tracking skills; he was perfectly contented to let Legolas bear the burden alone during such recreation. Closing his eyes, he focused his attention on the gentle murmur of the brook as it trickled through the rocks.
Even with his lungs thirsty for air and his heart pumping thunderously in his chest, Aragorn felt better now than he had in months and he did not doubt that was by particular elven design. It hadn't escaped his notice that whenever his mind turned once more to the troubles of his empire, either Arwen or Legolas had appeared to offer distraction.
It seemed he had enjoyed more of the splendors of Rivendell in the past week than he had in all his years of living there as a young man. Feasts, each more incredible than the last, filled every afternoon well into the evening and then always a concert of elvish songs and poems of which it was difficult to tire. He felt saturated, revived by the sounds, smells and tastes of the Elves.
With Arwen, he had walked through the gardens and gone riding in the mountains, much as they had done when he had first dared to court her. With Legolas, he had tracked rabbits and other game, and sparred with sword and long-knives, their fighting skills now free of the pressing concerns of Orcs and Rings of Power. But as much as he was enjoying the recreation, he felt there was intent beyond it, as if it were building to something.
More than once, he had spied Arwen and Legolas trading looks, as if keeping score. He knew they were planning something. What he didn't know was what.
Legolas stood tall once more, his perceptive ears listening to the sounds on the wind. Aragorn's cooling muscles twitched, ready to continue the hunt. He surveyed the ground around them, rediscovering the trail.
"If you two are so anxious," Gimli said, noting the awakening of his fellow hunters, "you may continue on without me. I have seen enough rabbits this week; I do not need to see this one."
Aragorn cocked an eye up at Legolas to see the Elf peering down at him. The Ranger grabbed the archer's outstretched hand, and with his help, hoisted himself atop the next rocky tier. In moments, the two were off, following the trail of an animal Aragorn was certain wasn't a rabbit this time, though it didn't much matter if it were.
***
To be continued….
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