Silver bark and golden leaves; fire in the heights of the mellyrn. Black smoke lifting to black skies. And Lorien lies hidden in shadow and flame, no longer the light of the elves.
From there, flames race down the dry bed of the Bruinen, bringing Rivendell's birches to soot behind them. Imladris burns, and Imladris, too, falls. A ship flees its harbor, sleek sails dark with dirt and ash, and he sees Elrohir lying on its deck. Elladan. Elrond. Gilraen.
Arwen.
Above the smoke, a dark eye begins to smolder with kindling fire. He hears its laughter. Hopeless, it screams to him, beckons to him. Hopeless.
Aragorn woke with his knife in his hand, staring at the sky. It was dark, but clear; the wind was high, chasing bluish clouds past the moon and dimming stars in sheets of almost-shadow. Gandalf sat beside the remains of a cooking fire, his hat pulled low over his face, and he looked over when Aragorn sat up.
"Something is wrong?"
His gaze on the fire's embers, Aragorn shook his head. Curls of smoke still rose from the coals. "It was only a dream."
"Dreams often show us what we will not let ourselves see." Gandalf leaned down to sweep another handful of dirt over the coals as Aragorn began to pack his bedroll. "But not always. Nothing is certain, and dreams least of all. --ah, look. The sun rises."
The sun did rise, and the wind rose with it until Aragorn chose to suffer the indignity of tying his hair into a mess of half-knotted elf-braids rather than keep it whipping into his face with the breeze. As he was twisting one of the last braids, Gandalf pulled off his own hat and looked at him -- Aragorn was utterly mortified for a moment at the notion that Gandalf might have thought to offer his hat, but the wizard only dusted off the brim before putting it back on, with a hint of a smile. "Did the wind never blow in Imladris while you were a child, that you tie your hair so dreadfully when a breeze comes?"
Aragorn could say nothing for a moment, and found himself laughing instead.
They had reached the northernmost bounds of Ithilien by the time the sun had begun to sink. "We should stop before it is too dark," Aragorn said, casting a long look over the land and grey stone. Gandalf only walked on -- faster, if anything. "Mithrandir?"
"It would be unwise to stay in Ithilien longer than we must," the wizard said at length, still moving, and Aragorn found himself hurrying to keep up. Unwise? He looked over his shoulder with a frown, hand settling with the comfort of familiarity to the hilt of his sword. This haste was not usual for Gandalf, and he found himself growing uneasy. "There is darkness here that I would not linger for."
"Darkness?" Aragorn thought of flame and smoke again, but Gandalf only shook his head sharply.
"The Nazgul."
"I remember the name, but no more."
"From Elrond's books, no doubt." Gandalf turned his head to see Aragorn nod. "If you do not remember it, I will not tell you of them now. You have time enough to learn of other things first."
As the sun finally faded beneath the mountains to the distant west, the sense of unease deepened. Ephel Duath loomed, seemingly closer in the darkness, and Aragorn found himself asking questions to keep the heavy silence of the night at bay. "Why do we pass through Ithilien if it lies in the shadow?"
"Because Ithilien, at least, lies on the edge of the shadow, not at its heart."
"And because it is the quickest way to Minas Tirith?"
"That also."
"Are there such few animals even here, that it is so silent?"
"Aragorn, for all you've been to battle and back, you chatter as if you were a child. No, don't glare at me-- I know that this place weighs on one's spirits. But learn to listen when there is darkness, instead of talking." There was the thud of Gandalf's staff landing on stone. "Your talk has distracted me. We need to turn west -- we have come too close to the mountains."
They walked into the dawn. Birdsong piped as the clouds began to tint pink and gold, and Aragorn smiled as he heard Gandalf humming under his breath. They came to the ruins of Osgiliath near noon, and once they had passed the garrison the White City stood miles before them, stark against the drab stone of the Emyn Arnen. And as they approached, Minas Tirith rose higher and higher in their view, white banners flapping as the lazy breeze stirred.
It took some time before Aragorn realized that the steward's hall was, indeed, at the pinnacle of the city, and that he would have to walk there. "How long would you say it is, going around the city to the top?"
Gandalf looked askance at him, but not unkindly, and his eyes twinkled. "Far enough for you to stretch your legs, I fear."
Aragorn was preparing some witty comeback (he was sure he could think of one, given enough time) when the sound of distant hoofbeats caught his ear. He stopped, turning, and saw a group of horses and riders from toward the river; his grip on his sword tightened again, but at the horses' speed he soon saw the standard of a white horse: Rohirrim. They had turned as well, slowing as they neared Gandalf and Aragorn until they came to a halt, fanning around the two in a great ring of snorting, helmeted horses.
"Thorongil?" one of the riders said, dismounting. Selenithas pulled off his helmet, looking incredulous. "What have you done to your hair?"