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SUMMARY: On watch after fleeing Bree with the Hobbits, the mysterious Strider contemplates his life and the future.
Thoughts on a Dark Night by Jessie Syring
"Tinviel elvanui
Elleth alfirin ethelhael
O hon ring finnil fuinui
A rene..."
"Who is she? This woman you sing of."
The ranger called Strider let his song die as he looked to the small Hobbit sitting up in his blankets near the fire. Frodo's child-like expression was curious. Strider looked away, staring into the bowl of his pipe.
"'Tis the Lay of Leithian, the Elf-maid who gave her love to Beren, a mortal," he said, his low voice barely discernable over the crackle of the fire.
"What happened to her?"
"She died." Strider looked again at the Hobbit. "Get some sleep, Frodo."
Frodo lay back down, pulling the blanket around himself, but Strider knew sleep would not come easy to Frodo---too many burdens weighed upon him and the Ranger knew even the greatest Elven healer could not ease that for him.
For himself, Strider knew there would be no rest. Not while the Nazgul rode the land in search of the One Ring. He had not mentioned it to the four Hobbits but he had seen the Black Riders twice since leaving Bree, both times at a distance and not headed their direction. So he kept them moving to the point of exhaustion.
He was tired as well. Aside from short periods of light sleep, he had been awake since his own arrival in Bree. He had taught himself to keep going on little sleep---it was a skill he often found useful when wandering the wilds. He would rest when they arrived in the refuge of Rivendell but not before. No doubt his brothers---if they were still there---would harass him for his human weakness, but he would allow it for a much-needed night's rest.
Still humming the mournful love-song, Strider let his mind drift to Rivendell and raven-haired Elven maid of a different name. She was his sister in all but blood but his love for her ran far deeper. She had ensnared his heart in a stickier web than even the spiders of Mirkwood could weave. Once her brothers Elladan and Elrohir would have teased him, their little Estel, for such feelings but they could not deny the truth any longer.
As he tamped the tobacco into his pipe, his eyes went to the ring on his left index finger. The stone glittered brilliantly in the firelight. Learning his true name and heritage had opened up a whole new world for him, giving him new hopes and dreams even as all he wanted was shattered. By the strength of his name alone, he could lay claim to most of the western lands as well as the Ring of Power.
He wanted none of it.
Strider looked toward the sleeping Hobbits again. Frodo's eyes were closed and he had joined the others in an irregular chorus of snores that seemed loud to ears used to the quiet wilderness. The chain holding the Ring had slipped from beneath Frodo's shirt, and the Ring shone in the firelight. Strider sighed. Would that the accursed thing had never been found. Now all of Middle Earth was poised on the brink of war. Gandalf had once told him power corrupted more easily than any other force, and the Ring offered more power than any---Man, Elf, or Istari---could imagine.
Men were weak. Isildur, the king of old, had shown that when he refused to destroy the Ring so many countless centuries ago.
The Ring would be destroyed this time. Even if he, Strider---nay. Even if he, Aragorn, son of Arathorn and heir of Isildur, had to crawl through the very fires of Mount Doom to do it.
END
TRANSLATION:
Tinuviel the elven-fair
Immortal maiden elven-wise
About him cast her night-dark hair
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