Disclaimer: I own nothing of Middle-earth, though I do thank J.R.R. Tolkien for creating this wonderful world. The characters and places are used for non-profit purposes only, so please don't sue me.
Author's Notes: I am not a Tolkien-expert nor do I claim to be one. Any errors that might occur in canon, language etc. are entirely my fault. Please feel free to point them out in a friendly manner, constructive criticism is welcome.
Additional A/N: Many of my stories and certainly my way of describing the characters' relationships are inspired by Cassia and Siobhan's wonderful "Mellon Chronicles".
I too work with the idea that both of Aragorn's parents died when he was young and he was therefore raised in the House of Elrond like a son and that Elladan and Elrohir are his older brothers by all but blood.
J.R.R. Tolkien did say that Aragorn "was raised in the House of Elrond", all else is just artistic license and I ask you to please not take offence in it.
Aragorn is a man of many names and I believe I have used them all. ;)
He is Estel to his family and close friends, Aragorn to those who knew him during the War of the Ring and to the Dúnedain Rangers and Elessar to the people of his Kingdom.
I have tried my best to get the Elvish words and phrases right, but if you do find an error, please let me know.
Words/phrases that are not translated directly in the text can be found at the end.
Special A/N: Above and beyond all, I would like to thank my best friend Phil for her inspiration and patience and for reading and re-reading all my drafts over and over again. Hannon le, muinthel-nîn!
CHAPTER 1
Dead. All of them. Killed.
The smell of fire hung in the air, heavy with the stench of burned flesh. Human flesh.
Bodies littered the damp grass, bodies of men and women, old and young.
Few had survived, too few.
The Dúnedain had long since decreased in numbers, the centuries having taken their toll on the descendants of Númenór.
Too diluted was the blood of the Men of Westernesse with that of other races, making those of "pure" blood painfully aware of their dwindling numbers.
Arathorn, son of Arador, had been the Chieftain of the Dúnedain for only three years. Now he lay among those slain, the arrow of an Orc still protruding from his left eye. One of the last descendants of Isildur was dead.
Beside him lay Gilraen, his wife, she too had been killed in the ambush that a band of Orcs had launched earlier that day.
Elladan, son of Elrond half-elven of Rivendell, stood in the middle of the upturned camp, his fair face covered in soot and blood - his own and that of others - his grey eyes haunted by the horrors that had befallen these people.
"How many live?" His voice was hoarse from the battle and the thick smoke that stung his eyes.
"Not enough. Barely a handful." His twin brother Elrohir stood beside him pressing a rag to his side where an Orc blade had cut a nasty gash through the silver fabric of his tunic, his blood staining it a dark crimson.
Elladan nodded. "Tell them to tend to the wounded…and the dead." He walked away, his soft footfalls making barely a sound in the stillness that had descended upon the clearing.
He needed to get away, just for a moment. Needed to breathe, to think.
Heading towards the forest that surrounded them Elladan barely noticed the whimpering that came from within one of the few tents that still stood.
It did not sound like an Orc and he did not sense the evil that usually radiated from the foul creatures, still he drew his sword, advancing upon the tent stealthily.
He threw back the fabric that covered the entrance – and froze.
Sitting in the middle of the dim interior was a tiny human that stared up at the Elf with huge silver eyes.
It's cheeks were reddened and tear-stained and a tiny string of saliva dripped down the little chin, pooling on the dark-blue fabric of the tunic below.
"Ai, Elbereth have mercy," the Elf whispered, sheathing his sword and crouching down before the child. "Ilúvatar must have been watching over you, little Aragorn."
Elladan reached out and brushed a tear from the little boys cheek, careful not to mar it with the blood still sticking to his hands.
"The babe lives?" an incredulous voice asked from behind, startling Elladan.
Elrohir stepped into the tent and crouched down next to his brother.
"He does indeed." Elladan smiled and gently picked up the boy. "The son of Arathorn lives." It amazed him, for the Orcs had raided the camp like a black plague.
Tiny fists clenched the silver fabric of his cloak as the elder twin rose and stepped out of the tent, followed by his brother.
In the fading light it was apparent that the child hat not been harmed, save for the fact that the boy had just lost both his parents.
"We must take him to ada, the child cannot stay here." Elrohir stroked the fine, black hair that covered the little head, marvelling at how perfect the little human was.
Neither of the twins had much experience with babies, their live-spans had already reached across almost three millennia and children were rare in the Elven Realms.
The son of Arathorn and Gilraen was in fact the first human babe they had ever encountered.
Elladan nodded. "Where are the other Dúnedain?"
"They have retreated into the woods, they will be safe there." Elrohir unclasped his cloak and draped it around the boys shoulders.
Evening was falling fast and the air already held winter's chill. He did not want the human to catch a cold.
The little one was hiccoughing slightly, no doubt from crying for hours and he clung tightly to Elladan, for he knew and trusted the Elf and the hand that was gently circling on the small back was comforting and reassuring.
"It will be best to leave here and seek shelter elsewhere. I do not want to risk being around should the Orcs decide on another visit." Elladan looked at the boy who had snuggled up in his arms, his head resting against the Elf's shoulder. "He is the last direct descendant of Isildur. Heir to the throne of Gondor and Arnor." His gaze caught that of his twin. "This little one is quite precious."
Elrohir smiled. "He truly is. But what do you think ada will say if we simply bring him to Imladris? Should we not leave him with his people?"
"Nay." Elladan pulled the cloak tighter around the now sleepy child. "They can never protect him as the Elves may. It is best to let ada decide his fate, not the Dúnedain."
Nodding his agreement Elrohir held his brother's horse while the other Elf mounted, barely disrupting the little one's sleep.
"We can reach Amon Sûl by nightfall, there we will make camp and continue on tomorrow." Elladan kicked his horse into a fast canter, holding the still form of the sleeping child safely against his chest.
Following in his brother's wake Elrohir cast a glance back towards the destroyed camp, whispering a silent prayer for the souls of the dead. "Rest peacefully in the Halls of Mandos and may Eru have mercy with you all."
*****
Amon Sûl, the ancient watchtower of Númenór, stood it's silent vigil over the windswept plains that stretched around it in all directions. Though it had long since been destroyed the ruins of the once mighty fort offered protection from the icy winds that swept across the open lands.
Elladan and Elrohir sought out the most protected corner inside the crumbling structure, refraining from lighting a fire, they could ill afford to be detected by the enemy.
Elrohir held the sleeping child while Elladan saw to the gash in his side, spreading a sweet-smelling poultice on the throbbing wound and binding it up with a strip of cloth he tore from his own cloak.
"He wakes." The younger twin smiled at the child as bleary silver eyes looked up at him.
"Nana?" The little one struggled upright in the Elf's arms, looking around for his mother. "Nana?" Trying to free himself from the arms that held him the human child eyed the Elves warily.
They were no strangers to him, they had spent many months with the Rangers, yet he was a babe in search of his mother.
"Nana is not here, little one." Elrohir spoke softly, casting his brother a worried look as the child's face scrunched up and tears started spilling down the round little cheeks.
"There now…" Elladan cooed, lifting the child from his brother's arms and settling him in his lap. "It is I, Elladan." The Elf coaxed the human child to look at him. "You know your El, don't you?"
The little boy's tears subsided as he studied the familiar face of the Elf, his little fist closing around one of the long, dark-haired braids that hung over the warrior's shoulder. Within seconds the braid found it's way into the little mouth, tugged forward none too gently and making it's owner wince.
Elrohir took pity on his twin and rummaged around his meagre provisions, finding a piece of bread that was not as stale as the rest and handed it to Aragorn, who took the offering and started chewing happily, actually managing to soften the bread with his saliva in a matter of minutes but thankfully releasing the strand of Elven hair.
"We have to tell him, El," Elrohir spoke in Elvish, knowing the Son of Arathorn did not understand him, "he has to know that his parents will not come back." His heart ached for the child, yet facts did not change.
"He is too young," Elladan interjected, meeting his brother's gaze, "he will not understand." He shook his head sadly. "It is best to wait a while, perhaps ada knows how to tell him."
Tiring of his strange meal Aragorn dropped the soaked bread onto Elrohir's cloak and looked at Elladan with huge, trusting eyes. "Want nana!"
Elladan pulled the young human closer, embracing him gently as he spoke. "Your nana cannot be here now, but we will look after you for a while, won't we, El?" He looked to his brother who nodded vigorously.
The tiny human seemed to contemplate the Elves words before he spoke again.
"No! Want my nana!" Although just two years old the child's voice was demanding, albeit a little shaky with a renewed threat of tears.
"Tell story, 'dan." He snuggled closer to the warmth of the being that seemed to radiate a sense of security.
"A story?" Elladan asked, relieved at the sudden change of demands and looked at his brother for help, but the other was leaning wearily against the stone wall, his injury and the long ride to their resting place having drained him of much of his energy. "Very well," Elladan smiled at the child, wrapping him up in his own cloak, providing some warmth, "you shall have your story."
Since he knew no tales in the common tongue the Elf started singing in his own language, softly at first, only for the child to hear but soon his voice rose into the blackness of the night, carried away by the wind and mingling with the stars, who seemed to be watching over them.
