Twilight Tale by Rafer

Disclaimer: All belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien.


Chapter I


"She is of lineage greater than yours, and has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers. She is too far above you. And so, I think, it may well seem to her."

The Lord of Rivendell had read his heart, not when Aragorn had stood before Elrond in his chamber, but when he had so proudly announced his heritage to Arwen the Fair. Already then he'd realized it, without knowing she was a child of Elrond, or that she was of the Eldar. Yet he had left Rivendell with hope. The Nightingale, fairest of all Elves, had given her love to a mortal Man. Wouldn't Arwen, of Lúthien's line, do the same for him?

Aragorn hadn't to find out. He would not see her again, nor dwell in an Elven-realm before many long years had passed, in which he had fought Sauron's evil, befriended Gandalf, and then rode alone again. Alone, until Lórien. He could clearly recall the gentle sound of the leaves, the warmth of the sun, and her beauty, in Caras Galadhon. A fate was chosen, when Arwen had looked out into the West, to the Undying Lands where she could live in bliss with her people, until the time of Arda came to an end. And then she had looked at him. At his Doom.

Elrond had told him there was only one who could come between a daughter and her father, between the immortal and mortal. Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Valiant Man of the West. How valiant was he if he would have her forsake the Twilight? The Evenstar. No. She could not - would not be lost, not for him. Because he would die and leave her to the bitter fate Elrond had predicted.

Aragorn raised his eyes to the grey peaks of the Misty Mountains. Despite his belief he had made the right choice, he wondered with every new dawn what could have been. If he had broken the heart of the elf-lord who had raised him as a son. Had a King that right? Perhaps. Certainly not Strider the Ranger. But then he had been neither. As Thorongil he had fought in the armies of Rohan and Gondor and so he returned to her, a Dúnadan at last. She had requited his love; when he could no longer let it be.

"Come, Aragorn," Gandalf's voice stirred him from dark musings. "Take your leave of the Mountains. We must set on the road." Aragorn turned to the wizard, who stood leaning on his staff. His eyes, just visible under the brim of his hat, watched him keenly.
"It doesn't do at all that a Ranger of your renown remains ignorant of Mirkwood, you know. Many wondrous things are hidden under its green boughs."
Aragorn looked evenly at the wizard, but then an unexpected grin lit up his face. He found it returned by Gandalf, who was glad to see his mood lighten at last. The weight of unspoken grief had borne down hard on the Ranger.
"I haven't had cause to, unlike you, Gandalf." Aragorn fell into step next to him. "You still owe me the full account of your adventures there."
"Oh, I played but a small part in what happened."

Still, Gandalf told him the tale entire, beginning with a knock on the door of a Hobbithole. The Sun was halfway on its westward journey, deepening the blue of cloudless skies, when he had gotten to Bilbo's daring rescue in Thranduil's dungeons. Suddenly Aragorn interrupted him with a cry of dismay and ran forward.

A battle had been fought at the bridge of the Old Ford, and not too long ago. Surrounded by a host of slain wargs many times their number, lay Elves. They were of the silvan folk, arrayed in the colours of the forest in which they dwelt. But their garments were torn and slashed, their bows broken. Aragorn feared they had all fallen, and it seemed so until he knelt beside the Elf closest to the bridge. He lay next to the warg he had slain, in his hand still a knife. It was buried to the hilt in the beast's throat. A battle to the death, which the Elf too seemed to have lost. Blood stained his shoulder and side, where claws had ripped through his tunic. Though he had little hope, Aragorn put his head against the elf's chest. He looked over his shoulder at the wizard watching anxiously.
"He lives."
Gandalf closed his eyes, sighing sorrow and relief.
"Do you know him?"
"Since before the name of this forest changed, Aragorn."