AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks everyone who's been reading my story; especially lindahoyland and Eldarwen Elanesse! I hope to have more people reading it, but for now here's chapter 3. I'm glad you guys are enjoying it so far :).
Arwen looked up from her book as Elladan and Elrohir entered the room, each alike in appearance to the other with identical smiles gracing their elven faces. "Elrohir! Elladan! It is good to see you again," she said leaping to her feet and embracing both of them at the same time. They all three laughed and smiled and began speaking to one another at once.
"Your stay in Lórien was well?"
"Yes, how went your journeying with the Dúnedain?"
"Quite well really. I heard there was great rejoicing here when you arrived."
"Yes, they say there was a feast of special magnificence!"
"Indeed. Tell me of your journeys and let us sit together."
They all quieted and sat outside in the courtyard where stone benches had been placed. Arwen listened as her two brothers recounted some of their affairs with the Rangers of the North.
"That is indeed thrilling," said Arwen smiling at each of them. "Sometimes I wish I could join you."
"Ai, but your place is with your people. They seem heartened wherever you go."
Arwen wondered if Aragorn was with the Dúnedain now. He was someone with too many layers for her to understand at once. She saw ahead of him a terrible choice of incredible greatness or to forsake his burden to fall into darkness. She realised she was staring off into the trees, and her brothers were watching her. Her eyes shone when she returned her attention to them.
"You wander paths we cannot take," said Elrohir. "I have often seen you distant even before mother sailed into the West."
"I believe we did not gain that which is precious to our kin...the foresight gifted to many of the Elves by Ilúvatar. Father has it, yet we do not."
"Dear sister, you have the gift, and I have seen it in your eyes many times," said Elladan meeting her gaze with eyes of brilliant grey.
Elrohir laughed. "Even the line of Númenórean kings were gifted with it; the greatest ones anyway."
Arwen tilted her head at this. "Does Aragorn son of Arathorn?"
Elladan and Elrohir both fell silent for a moment.
"You know of him then..." Elladan murmured. "Few in Middle-earth know who he truly is and that he even exists. The Enemy would hunt him like a deer of the wood if he found out."
"And slay him without thought for there are none of Men he fears more than the Heir of Isildur," said Elrohir. "Aragorn still must hide his identity even now."
"And, I fear, for many more years of Men…though little time for us," said Arwen. The twins nodded almost in unison. "He is different than other Men even in his youth."
"We taught him well!" Elladan smiled grimly. "The minions of the Enemy cannot match him in anything but the sense of dread that comes upon those near them. This Aragorn only has against the enemies of all Free Peoples."
The sun fell behind the snowy range of the Misty Mountains, the shadows lengthening and falling across the valley. A cool breeze suddenly came down from the mountains from the West caressing the leaves of the trees and the petals of the flowers. Arwen and her brothers waited as the grey of evening passed and the stars appeared one by one. She gazed up into the rich purple heavens, immediately focusing on a star that glittered a bit more and shone a bit brighter than all the others: Gil-Estel, Star of Eärendil.
Aragorn had been now three years with the Rangers roaming the North and stemming the tide of evil things attempting to enter Eregion. They had come to respect his skill and his quick wisdom over the long months. Aragorn and two others were in Bree for the night at an inn called The Prancing Pony. They no longer had to instruct him—they had not much in any case—but he had become a part of their force against the shadow. He had even wandered the Wild without companions for three months.
Aragorn had found that the people of Bree were not exactly fond of Rangers; they thought them vagabonds of the Wild to be feared or disfavoured. Aragorn often kept his hood far over his face so he did not have to abide the stares from some of the Bree-landers. He moved swiftly on his long legs down the streets, brushing past other men—quite shorter most times—and attempting to blend although it was difficult when they gaped at him.
He continued to conceal his sword beneath his cloak and still had not even shown it to the Dúnedain for it was no simple woodsman's cot he carried. When Elrond informed him of his noble bloodline of legends, he had given him two things: the Ring of Barahir, which he now wore on his finger, and the Shards of Narsil. This he kept in a sheath at his side shrouded in his dark cloak while his useful blade was strapped to his back so that he would not remain completely unarmed.
He was learning that the Dúnedain were much different from other Men, and some in Bree were more like ruffians of the road. Some actually were travellers staying in the village of Bree even in the same inn as Aragorn. As he strode past an alley small and cramped, he heard a man's voice sharp and angry. When he slowed to see, he saw that a burly man had an iron fist clutching the collar of a man a foot shorter and looking quite frightened. He caught a little of the conversation.
"You stole my horse!"
"I swear I didn't! I swear it!"
The big man tightened his grip. "Of course you did; who else would? You're the only one who hates me so much," he said in icy tones.
"But I wouldn't steal no horse! I've got my own and finer it is than the one you've got...had," said the frightened man. The other man released him but made sure he did not bolt out of the alleyway.
Aragorn heard not only truth in the small man's voice, but logic as well. He felt his feet move towards them when the small man was struck in the stomach and handled roughly. He seemed used to the wretched treatment as if this had happened before.
"Leave him be," Aragorn said stepping forward. Both men looked his way with astonished faces. Aragorn drew up before them tall and lean and his youth evident.
The burly man still seemed confident as he crossed his thick arms. "Who do you think you are, boy?" This's no business of yours." He eyed Aragorn's height and did not apparently notice the sword upon his back. He sniffed. "Go back to your playing and leave the men to their own ventures. I'm merely serving out justice to this wretch." He turned round to continue his browbeating, yet Aragorn would not allow it to pass so easily.
"Do not touch him again, or you will regret it," he said leaving his hands free to do what he must for he knew the mind of the sturdy man. He was a fool not to see the danger building in the youth. Aragorn's voice was cold and stern which brought a relieved look to the small man's face. He at least had faith that he would be saved.
The burly man laughed and paused before throwing a mighty swing, intending to make contact with Aragorn's face. Moving swifter than mortal sight and far smoother than the other man expected, Aragorn evaded the thrust as he knocked the man to the ground with a quick boot of his foot into his stomach. He fell in a doubled heap moaning and muttering, but Aragorn did not draw his sword.
"If you were a follower of the Enemy, I would have slain you," Aragorn said leaning down and grasping the man's collar. "We do not take lightly harassing other men who have done nothing to provoke wrath or justice. Take care you do nothing of the sort again...or I shall know of it."
He stood and left before they could say or do anything. The small man ran the other way as the other slowly stood, using the wall for support. Complacency filled his heart, and he stood lighter as he entered the Prancing Pony. Men would learn that the wickedness of their hearts was not tolerable when the Rangers of the North were around. The Enemy would lose one less village to his intrigues.
Gandalf leant upon his gnarled staff and gazed on Weathertop tall and stark before him against the hazy sky. It was almost evening and the sun was already setting in a blaze of crimson and purple. The ruins of what used to be a mighty tower now stood at its head, crowned with stone.
He made his way slowly to the top to gain a view of the land about him, yet he halted abruptly when he glimpsed a still figure among the ancient ruins. At first glance it seemed a part of them, a statue, until he looked closer: it was a young man. The way he looked appeared to Gandalf a stone figure of the Kings of Arnor of old made flesh, though younger perhaps and not as richly clothed. He was garbed in dark green and brown with a cloak of grey upon his shoulders while he carried a long sword on his belt and another upon his back.
The young man turned his head, and Gandalf stared up through bushy eyebrows with great curiosity for he had longish dark hair, pale skin, and eyes that glistened from afar. So noble and handsome was his face that the old wizard began to conjure ideas of his identity. But why was he alone in the Wild at such an age in the middle of nowhere?
"Greetings, father," he called from only a few yards away. His voice was rich and deep. "You have been standing there long. Why not come and join me."
Is he so careless? Gandalf thought before approaching. Does he not know the dangers that lurk in the Wild of the North? But he looked again and knew it was certainly not youthful foolishness. He passed through the fallen or crumbling columns to reach the man. Gandalf's dark eyes burned like coals beneath the wide brim of his hat as he faced the youth.
"You wander alone in these lands?" Gandalf said bent beside his tall staff.
"As you do, stranger." He had grey eyes that gleamed brightly in the fading light. "It seems Amon Sûl is a fine place to stay for the night. I never thought to meet another here."
The wizard paused when he heard the youth call the hill Amon Sûl, not Weathertop. "You are learned, I see," he said studying him. "Many would have named this Weathertop, not Amon Sûl. By this...I guess you are of the Rangers of the North for they of few call it by that name and few others journey here alone."
"And so you are correct," he said bowing slightly.
"You are quite young to be of their number if I know them well."
The Ranger donned a queer smile. "Yes, it is true of me. There are many strange things of me...Gandalf the Grey."
Gandalf had been pleased by the surprise on his face when he named him of the Dúnedain, yet it was his turn to be amazed. He leaned back and pulled on his grey beard. "Is that so? How did you come to that conclusion?"
"Well," the Ranger's eyes sparkled, "I have heard much of you from both the Elves and Master Elrond who call you Mithrandir, and my kin have also spoken of you as the Grey Wanderer. You are well known among my friends and companions."
Gandalf chuckled, his voice deep and clear. "Well met, my friend! Well met indeed! You surely speak as they do in Rivendell," he glanced at the sword on his back, "and your sword is of elven make. You are a walking riddle!"
He smiled and beckoned Gandalf to follow him. "Come, my friend! Let us go out of sight for the night and share our questions and tales." The two settled in a dell in the side of the hill and chose not to build a fire to keep unfriendly eyes from spotting them. Gandalf pulled out his pipe and leaf from the Shire and began to puff contentedly on his long-stemmed pipe. The young man sat across from him.
"So, young Ranger, what is your name? You know that I am indeed Gandalf the Grey, so I would know yours."
"You are close to Elrond, yes?"
Gandalf nodded, wondering why he evaded the question.
"Has he told you of someone who dwelt in his abode as his own son for a time whom is not of the elven-kindred?"
"Perhaps."
"I remember how you were in Elrond's close confidence as no other, so I assume you know. I shall tell you who I am though many do not know that I even live."
Once he spoke in this way, Gandalf began to speculate. His guess fit the man perfectly with the way he had seemed in the ruins, his appearance in body and voice, his kinship with the Dúnedain, and his talk of Lord Elrond. Could it truly be him? The age fit when he thought upon it more carefully, and he wondered to think how the boy had grown.
"There was a young boy who was brought to Elrond many years gone, and had grown up in Rivendell until recently, half-raised by the Lore Master himself. This boy remained a secret for the Dark Lord himself wished him slain if he knew he was alive."
"The Heir of Isildur," Gandalf murmured thoughtfully looking into the man's deep grey eyes and knowing his first guess was correct.
"I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, Heir of Elendil and Chieftain of the Dúnedain," he said with a voice that held authority and brooked no argument even in his youth. He shattered the solemnity when he smiled. "Yet I am called Strider when I cannot be called by my true name in the presence of others."
"I am honoured to finally speak with the renowned man for I only caught a glimpse of you when you were but eight years of age playing amongst the trees of Imladris." He blew a ring of smoke into the cool evening air. "It is no wonder you are one of the youngest Rangers I've met." He chuckled once again in his own thought.
"I am the honoured one, Mithrandir," said Aragorn. "You are the most revered and respected of all that I have heard, and I find what others praised you for true. You are the Grey Pilgrim! Old wanderer among Men, Elves, and all Free Folk."
"So it is. I have travelled far and meddled in many causes," he said with dark eyes glittering secretively. He half-lidded his eyes and nodded with a grin. "And I'm already finding your company pleasant, Strider."
Arwen approached her father where he stood gazing out over the land in deep thought. She touched his shoulder gently. "Atar...it is time."
He pulled out of his reverie with saddened eyes. "I know. Be safe, my daughter, for the roads darken and are perilous in these shadowed days. May the blessings of the Elves go with you." He led her out into the shrouded light of day, and she left him to mount her white stallion. Her cloak blanketed its flanks in silver-grey.
"Namárië, Atar. Namárië."
The five other Elves escorting her trotted out into the trees as she followed in their midst. Elrond watched grimly as he was left behind standing tall and dark in the sunlight. The Evenstar would return to Lothlórien, the Golden Wood of great light.
Arwen felt torn between the two lands: Imladris and Lórien. Each held a special place in her heart, yet the people there did as well. Wherever she went, the Elves were heartened by her brilliant presence like a star unveiled. The journey was uneventful, yet not in the Evenstar's mind. Her mood had diminished with the darkness of the Enemy fallen upon her heart.
When she reached the Elven-kingdom and abode there for a time, Lady Galadriel perceived that her eyes no longer shone as brightly, her face was rarely graced with a smile any longer, and she spoke little in company of her kin. Galadriel had seen it many times over the long years when shadows quenched their elven-light, and they soon departed for the Grey Havens; yet she knew that was not Undómiel's fate. Perhaps it would not be so unlike her forebear Lúthien the Fair.