7. A Storm is Coming

Aragorn looked away from the warm log fire and glanced up at the chilly night sky. It was very dark now, an endless black void, and it was cold and unwelcoming. He could see one by one the evening stars disappearing behind thick bands of cloud, and even the moon had become a grey tinge feebly probing the strong screen over it. There was also a gusty wind, which had begun to pick up very quickly. The tents were billowing and the flames were flickering. Now most people were resting in their tents for as long as they could get, with only the younger ones, including Aragorn, left up around the fire.

The dozen or so had been talking alone for a while and songs had also been called for, to cheer away the bitter gloom. All were gladly received, and most of his friends had sung a ballad or two, even Halbarad (who did not usually like to sing in front of others), all about drunken inns and foolish adventures. Everyone had laughed when Halbarad had finished, he giving a last demonstration of how to fall over spectacularly when one had consumed far too much ale that was good for him. Aragorn chuckled and watched Halbarad hurry away from the leaping flames, having toppled almost into the camp fire and scorched the ends of his hair. He smiled and looked away into the darkness around their ring of light.

"Aragorn! You sing something now! Aragorn!" His eyes darted back and found his friends' happy faces eagerly urging him on.

"No…" he muttered, "maybe not." He got up and made to walk away, but two strong arms pulled him back down on both sides.

"You stay right where you are," Calosin grinned at him and watched him wriggle uncomfortably.

"Sing!" some others chorused, "Sing! Sing!"

"It is definitely your turn, Aragorn," Halbarad mumbled beside him, unhappily inspecting his damaged hair.

"Please! Any song!" The shouts continued to be directed at him and grew steadily louder.

"Ok, ok," Aragorn relented and sighed nervously. "Um, let me just think of one." As the uprising faded Aragorn tried to remember a good song. A song which was lively and would bring happy memories. In fact, any song at all.

But his mind had gone blank. He squirmed even more and felt butterflies pulsate within him. He had never liked to sing in front of other people, and it made him feel very uneasy. He loved singing if nobody else was with him, or he was unlikely to meet anyone, and he actually had quite a good voice. He just felt very bare and found that the human voice touched deep places which other sounds could not. He had never wanted to sing to other people, and he was very positive that he never would. Self-confidence was something which Aragorn lacked in great quantity here, and he would even prefer to fight some evil orcs than to sing.

He looked around the circle. Everyone was waiting and watching him with earnest. It did not help his conscience to hear Calosin chortling to himself nearby. Aragorn swallowed.

"Er…" So, he would have to sing one of his own songs. He often made up poems and beautiful melodies to fit with them, but quite a lot of them were extremely unacceptable to sing to his friends. There was only one really which he could let his friends hear. It was still private, but if he improvised on a few words and changed the view to being from somebody else, there was just a possibility that they would not realise the Man was actually him.

Aragorn wobbly stood up and fumbled with his hands, before he gradually came to be still, and relatively calm (in the eyes of his friends anyway). Even the sniggers from Calosin came to a halt.

He gazed into the fire and closed his eyes, picturing himself a long time ago in a fair, distant land.

There once was a man called Estel

Who loved to roam through Rivendell

But oft he left and rode away

Where he proved he bore a sword well

His spirit's fire was pure and strong

His healing hands never went wrong

His face was fair and his eyes soft

A young brave man in tales and songs

Yet to the elves he did return

As for their peace his heart did yearn

But one warm twilight he did see

A maiden who made his heart turn

Tinúviel! Tinúviel!

Lest she should go fear he did feel

But, he melting at her deep eyes

She said she was Undómiel

The birches sang with their grey leaves

Her hair was caught in sudden breeze

And whilst knowing from whence she came

He desired everything to freeze

But lo! she spoke of many years

And seemed young, this brought many fears

Then she spoke of her Eldar light

Abashed he saw that this was clear

And from then on he loved Arwen

Even though she had life elven

And it seemed that his aim was like

That of Beren and Lúthien

Then in love Estel went away

And still he wanders to this day

His heart bound to hers won't be swayed

And 'Arwen' he will always say

Aragorn finished the last note and quietly sight to himself. He missed Arwen so much. He loved everything about her; her face, her eyes, her smiles, her laughs, her gaze, her touch, her knowledge, her peace, her gentleness, her kiss, her hope…

She had always believed in him, even if he had not in himself, and he had felt so moved by this. He knew he must seem as a yearling shoot next to a young birch of many summers, and that she must forsake her immortality to love him, but he was so deeply in love with her; and he also knew her heart. They had met seven years ago and there had shown their love for each other. Arwen did love him, more than anything else in Arda, or in Valinor, or anything Ilúvatar had created. She had bound herself to his heart, and Aragorn had given his heart to her.

When they had first met, like in his song, he had felt something he never had before. It was like the highest rush of happiness there could ever be, and he only saw Arwen, just her, and he could sense his own need for her and his desire for her to be in his arms. Aragorn realised he loved her, and he knew that nothing would change his heart. Never. He had fallen in love with the most beautiful lady to walk the earth, and he knew her eyes and he felt her glance. He had always hoped, hope beyond hope, that she loved him too, that he was not too low for her, unimportant, weak and not fair enough to please her eyes. He knew he would be nothing without her, no hope, no love, just an empty shell.

But secretly in his heart, Aragorn had believed that such love as he felt could not just be one-sided. He trusted his and he was convinced that she had felt the same, that the love he had felt was what he saw in her face, and that she saw it in his, and that she had set heart upon his, like he had on hers. Yet still he had the darkest, deepest fear that Arwen did not, and that he was alone, and tricked, made to look a fool and be laughed at by the elves and dismissed by Men. The pain would kill him.

But the love was true. What he had seen under the twilight was real, and Arwen really did love him, and she needed his heart. She had melted at his face, and he was ready to catch her. He would always be there for his Evenstar. Their love would always hold. Always.

Aragorn breathed out shakily and looked up. His friends all seemed to still be in a trance, moved by the song and holding onto the words.

"Aragorn?" Emathar called him softly, "Aragorn, that was amazing. Where did you learn that song?" The others looked at him too, all murmuring similar comments. "Aragorn, you sing so well. Why have you not sung before? And you know such magical songs," Halbarad praised him and hummed some of the tune again.

"I did it," Aragorn replied, feeling slightly unnerved. It was just not right that people enjoyed his singing voice. He had never thought he had hit notes perfectly. "I wrote the words and I made the melody. It's from a… a tale. A story. But it is true."

His friends all smiled and were shocked that he had made the song. "You will have to sing for us again tomorrow," Halbarad laughed, "love stories always help. Songs about ale-consumed men and queer inns do have their limits." He stared into the fire, falling into silence. "Love does not," he added after, more to himself than anybody else. Everyone stayed round the log fire, quietly losing themselves in thought. Everything was silent except from the wind blowing among them and rustling in the still night.

Aragorn came back out of his recollections of the evening and rose up. "It is time we set off," he said, breaking the stillness. His friends all looked up. "The sky is now very dark. We must leave in no more than fifteen minutes." He smiled gently then walked away, taking a burning branch from the fire. He could hear shouts going throughout the camp, spreading the news that they were moving off and needed to pack. Tents were folded up and placed in bags, uneaten food was stowed away, the fire was put out with water and lanterns were lit. Gradually a group began to form where the tents used to be.

Aragorn gathered hi rucksack and cloak from near where the cinders of the campfire were. He gave orders to Calosin and Halbarad, who together managed to bring all the men to Aragorn and have them all noiseless.

"My friends," Aragorn called out, "we will now set off again for our night's march. Do not worry; your need for sleep will be quenched when the herald of day comes. But for now, we must go. Stay close to the cliffs of the mountain, where we may be concealed in even thicker darkness. And please, try to go quietly – only talk in low voices. The mountain may have many ears. We must travel unnoticed."

He nodded to Halbarad and Calosin, who began to guide the Rangers up the first slopes. Aragorn himself waited until the last man had left. Emathar was at the back, and he passed Aragorn a lantern. He raised it to look back at the land where they had shortly rested. There was barely a trace left on the ruffled grass, swaying in the uneven wind in time to a disturbed rhythm. The flattened patches did not matter – the grass was often sparse, and anyway, the lengths were very irregular and in messy tustles.

Aragorn turned back and for a while watched the small lamps ahead flickering in and out of sight behind Rangers' bodies. But as the air around them started to get thicker and harder for light to penetrate through, Aragorn left Emathar helping those at the rear of the party, and he sprinted to the front, the candle in his lantern quivering violently.

He joined Halbarad and then led the Rangers through the rest of the night, guiding them safely up the ancient road. As the power of the wind increased, the temperature decreased, and the men all pressed nearer to each other for shelter, wishing that the gust came from the opposite direction and leave them untouched by the protection of the mountain. The sky above was very dark by about two hours before dawn. It seemed impossible to Aragorn that the sun would ever pierce the menacing clouds and bring light and warmth to the day.

But an hour later, he did see a distant yellow glow in the east, struggling to reach the cold and bare mountain slopes. And by the time the sun rose her fiery head above the far eastern lands, all the Rangers were fast asleep, and hidden under a long cliff, thrown into shadows to seem like mere rocks to the few morning birds that flew over the barren ridge.

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Arwen woke up suddenly and to the sound of a distressed voice. Her eyes snapped open and for a moment she was surprised to see the grey grass-stalks and tangled roots right by herself. She relaxed as she remembered where she was, and that it must be evening again. She could hear the vicious wind swiping at everything on the land, and also the purring of rain. She felt the water-drops landing on her cloak and next rolling off, while she was dry and now very warm inside.

Then she tensed again, and a hand flew to her face. How could she see the grass whilst the cloak was over her? It was impossible. But she could touch the soft material just ahead of her eyes. How strange. That really did not make sense. Well, maybe it was just the angle of light.

Settling for this answer, Arwen wriggled around in her grass-cavern and pulled her cloak about, trying to bring the actual hood over her face without getting up.

There was another worried call in the air, and Arwen heard it fly over her in the angry wind. She sat up, anxious, and trying to figure out what it was saying. Most of the words was lost in the howls but she could just about hear what it said: "Arwen! Where are you?" She looked around, confused, tying her cloak around her small body tightly and trying to see who was wanting her.

About fifty metres away she could see her companions sitting around a small fire being fed by the dry grass from near the soil. All of the horses were bunched together to keep warm, as close to the flickering fire as the elves would allow them.

But Arwen also saw another figure, one who was standing very prominent in the soaking rain, his dark outline showing he had his hands to his head, probably wiping the dripping hair out of his blinking eyes.

"Arrrrwennnn!" he yelled out into the wind, turning round in a circle as he did so, "Arrrwennnnnn? Arrrrwenn?" It sounded like Kelmeleth, well mostly, seeing as the air currents distorted his voice until it sounded hiccupy and hoarse.

She sat up on her knees in order that he would catch sight of her. Before she finished doing her cloak up she felt for the bottle he had give her last night, and kept it in one of her hands, dripping from all the rain.

"Here!" she shouted, hoping it would reach his ears and not be waylaid by the wind. The elf appeared to hear something for he turned to face Arwen's rough direction, but then he just asked, "Are you therrre?"

"Kel-mel-eth!" she cried out, straightening her back so that her shoulders and head were way above the grass seeds but she was still quite sheltered. She watched puzzled as he stumbled forward head on into the wind, rushing as fast as he could, but missing her by a long way. She could see his panicked face, and his troubled eyes flickering nervously. She could not understand why he could not see her; it was not as if it was the depth of night, pitch black everywhere. The sun could only have gone down an hour ago – there was still an orange tint on the angry westerly clouds.

"Arwen!" he screamed, with such a note of terror that she stood up, dropping the bottle, and hurried towards him a few paces, stopping about four metres from him. She was deeply concerned. Was someone hurt? Had they been attacked? "Kelmeleth? I'm here." She hoped he was alright.

He turned suddenly to face her, his visage pale with worry. "Is that you, Arwen?"

He struggled to her, but his eyes were not focused on her own, yet looking past her blankly. "Are you there, Arwen?"

He stopped just in front of her, but looked around Arwen, not at her. There was a huge puff of wind in the midst of the heavy rain, and she watched him drag his sopping wet hair off his face. His mouth was slightly open and his eyebrows were pressed into a frightened frown. Arwen was sure he looked at her a few times, but he did not seem to realise it. Maybe he had been poisoned.

"I'm here," she said again, calmly, hoping her would realise it was her.

"Arwen, I can't see you!" She then realised that maybe even though she could see through her hood he could not. Infact, he probably had no idea who she was.

Arwen lifted her hands up and pulled her hood back off her face and received a surge of wet air on her left cheek. As she blinked against the thick stream of water she felt her cloak fall off her, despite she had tied the inside up. But it did not fly away onto the damp grass, rather it blew gently into her hands. Amazed, she looked up at Kelmeleth. He did not move for a second, and then he must have registered it was her. He laughed loudly, grinning broadly, and leapt forward, hugging Arwen tightly. She did not understand her friend at all, but she was very pleased he was now back to normal.

"Arwen, where have you been?" He held her out in front of him, smiling at her dripping complexion. Arwen felt completely perplexed.

"I have just been here. Why?"

"Arwen," he said, raising his eyebrows, "where have you been?"

She sighed – what was he getting at?

"I was asleep, just over there. You woke me up." Kelmeleth looked at her strangely. "What?" She really did not comprehend what he was implying of her. She wasn't lying.

"Arwen; I have been looking for you for ages. You have only appeared now. Where had you gone?"

Arwen gazed at him in despair. She had been here!

"Kelmeleth! Why are you saying this? You know I would always tell you the truth. Why do you accuse me of this? Please…" She bit her lip and watched him closely.

He sighed heavily and looked down at the ground. His face became hidden by his windswept hair. "I'm sorry, Arwen. I didn't mean to get so angry."

She lifted his chin up and searched his eyes. "Please Arwen," he said, bending under her deep blue eyes, "please, don't; but you really were not here."

Arwen ran her eyes over the grass and towards the place where she slept, with the saddle bags, harness and bottle still lying there. This was so strange. He should have spotted her a long time ago. She looked up at the black sky. There was a pale white glow among the array of raging storm-clouds, just a little hint to where the moon lay hidden.

Was it her cloak then? Did it blend her in with the night sky, when far above it was the twilight it had set under? She wondered, the wind blowing her hair playfully. Was she just to seem part of the night, sprinkled with stars?

"Arwen?" she turned, and found those big innocent child-like eyes looking at her. "Arwen, I don't understand, but –"

"Don't worry, Kelmeleth." She smiled at him kindly and squeezed one of his hands. "Don't think about it. I don't understand either."

She glanced away and heard Kelmeleth mumble something to himself, which was lost in the whistling wind, but then he strolled off towards the other elves, Arwen only catching part of a song he was humming. She watched him, smiling, hoping that she really could be camouflaged into the night. Then she too walked over to her saddle bags, with the twilight cloak hanging over her right arm, limp, damp, and unnoticed.