Twilight Tale by Rafer

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


Chapter II


The sons of Beorn had taken it upon themselves to guard the Ford near Mirkwood, the way to both the High Pass through the Misty Mountains, and the Old Forest Road, though their courage came at a price, the levy of a high toll of those seeking passage. But the sentinels Gandalf had expected to meet again weren't to be found. If there were more Wargs about than this slain company, the Beornings could be off fighting their own battles. Aragorn would search for their tracks as soon as he could; when he had tended to the Elf.

Gandalf started a fire while Aragorn hurried to the river bank. The Anduin was shallow by the Ford, but her water was clear. He filled a small kettle. Now he reproached himself for not having brought healing herbs, but he had expected no harm to come to them during their journey. Since the Battle of the Five Armies, Orc nor Warg had dared to draw near the realms of their foes. Clearly their numbers had grown again to the point where their courage had returned; or a desperate cause had drawn them into the daylight they shunned.

Beside him, Gandalf took a pouch from his grey robes. As he opened it, a sweet scent had Aragorn's eyes widening in amazement. Inside were the leaves of a herb he hadn't come across in a long time. It was hard to find even for a Ranger, and the greater was his surprise that Gandalf possessed it.
"Kingsfoil!"
"I was lucky enough to come across these. A small but great gift of the Edain."
Aragorn suspended the kettle over growing flames. Fueled by Gandalf's magic, their fierceness had the water boiling almost instantly. Aragorn immersed the leaves, then took out cloth he kept in his satchel to clean and dress wounds. As he looked down on the Elf, Aragorn was overcome by a strange dread. He had tended to injured warriors before, but they had all been Men. Never before had he seen war wounds on an Elf. Growing up in Rivendell, he had come to believe the Firstborn were invincible. Living, breathing perfection. Nothing could touch them. Not even the dark of night held sway over them, for their eyes were ever open to the world. It was a sight which had long troubled Aragorn in his boyhood. How relieved he'd be to see that instead of a pale face, and closed eyes hiding elven-light.
He looked to Gandalf. Sorrow was there, the like of which he had not seen since knowing him. He knew the wizard dearly loved the Elves, as he did all the races in Middle-earth he had come to protect. While his hope was in Men, and his joy in Hobbits, his dreams he had given to the Eldar in ages of the West long forgotten. Not until Aragorn was finished did he speak, and then it was only in answer to his question.
"His name is Belegon, a mariner of great skill and a kinsman of Thranduil who journeyed with him from Lindon two Ages ago." Gandalf stood up. He gripped his staff with whitening knuckles. Aragorn knew what he was going to say. They had to see to the fallen. Send word to Thranduil. But they couldn't do it alone, they needed help and the closeset by were Grimbeorn and his folk. Gandalf looked sadly at the Elves. Then his gaze fixed on something behind the Ranger.
"Aragorn, I have not your skill in tracking, but even I can see that these marks belong to neither Elf nor Warg."
Aragorn turned and upon seeing the marks, sprang to his feet. Where Gandalf had pointed he saw indeed footprints that were strange to the battle, for they belonged to neither side which had fought. But Aragorn recognized them all too well and cold anger kindled at the sight of them.
"Orcs!"