May or may not be the last time I posted two chapters in one day. But I couldn't resist. I'll try to find a comfortable schedule in which to post chapters at a more consistent pace... But to be honest, at times I can be fickle with those things.
I'm still quite new to writing on FF, so sometimes, you'll notice changes here and there where I fix formats. They're quite minimal, and it's simply to make the writing flow.
Enjoy! And as always, I do not own LOTR.
-Mana
Chapter 4- A Ragged Encounter and a Songless Sky
They followed Elysia in the rain. They were getting drenched, huddling in their soaked cloaks as their packs began to way down upon them with the added weight of the rain water. But as miserable as the weather felt, it gave them an advantage as they moved through the noisy pitter patter, the sounds of their movement muffled and all traces of their travel swept away by the water.
The hobbits, although weary, paid close attention to their female warden. Within the Shire, she was the "Walkins" they all new and many respected. She had always carried herself with a certain stern grace, always looking a little aloof at some points, but never hesitated in helping out a hobbit with a heavy load or in entertaining the children that rushed to her with eager requests for magic.
But out of the Shire… Seeing her now as she crept through the wet woods and guided them to the gates of Bree, she was different. She moved with a predatory elegance; a feline or she-wolf stalking its prey. When she had Silvindr in her hand, moving with little hesitation to strike the rider, Frodo Baggins was sorely reminded Elysia was much more than Elly Walkins.
He was in the presence of a being far older than him, Bilbo, or any of them here and perhaps even in Hobbiton combined who had seen many things and been many places.
He was in the presence of a dragon.
The gloomy wooden gates of Bree were in sight, and as gloomy as they were the hobbits never felt so relieved to see them. Elysia rapped hard at the door in three quick knocks, and from the wooden flap she met eyes with a grouchy old gatekeeper.
He looked at her hooded face and the snarl on his mouth grew.
"What do you want?" He asked suspiciously.
"We're headed to the Prancing Pony."
The gatekeeper narrowed his eyes further at the "we're" and quickly closed the flap before opening the door.
"You and what kind of company-…" He stretched out his hand with a lamp its grasp, trying to grasp a better look at the visitors. "Hobbits?... You and four hobbits? What brings so many of ye' out from the Shire and into Bree?"
"We wish to stay at the inn. Our business is our own." Frodo spoke out.
If Elysia's piercing gaze didn't make him relent his pressing, Frodo's words did. The gatekeeper avoided those dagger-like eyes and looked down at the hobbits, hesitating before giving a small smile.
"Alright young sirs, I meant no offense." He began to move out of the way, much to the Halflings' relief. "It's my job to ask questions, after all." He babbled on. "There's talk of strange folk abroad… can't be too careful."
Elysia turned to the gatekeeper. "Has Gandalf the Grey recently come into Bree? The old man with a pointy gray hat and a long beard." She spoke out of earshot of her companions.
The gatekeeper frowned thoughtfully. His words brought dread to Elysia. "I'm afraid I haven't." He replied. Was it just his age getting to him or was this young "sir" a ma'am? He could not tell under the hood.
Elysia departed after her companions with this news, leaving the gatekeeper to squint at her back, trying to decipher her gender. She was dressed like a male, albeit a little on the thin side, and there weren't any feminine bumps he could see, yet she sounded a little feminine. But then again, no maiden would carry such swords as that "young sir" did.
Indeed… There are some strange folk going about, coming into Bree.
Elysia pulled up the scarf around her neck and concealed the bottom half of her face. She could sense the hobbits' anxiety as they treaded the intimidating crowd in Bree. Folks stared at them but only briefly as they sighted the taller hooded and sword wielding figure that accompanied them, for hooded folks with swords were dangerous. The stranger could be some kind of ranger, and rangers were best left alone.
When they reached the doors to the Prancing Pony, Elysia turned to Frodo.
"I'll be back in a few minutes or so, little one. I'm going to have a look around. Remember what Gandalf said about your name."
Frodo nodded, and Elysia looked to the others, specifically to Pippin and Merry.
"And keep out of trouble."
She then pivoted on her heel and walked away, weaving into the crowd, deeper into Bree while Frodo and his friends entered the Prancing Pony.
Elysia headed for the general store, deep in thought as she aimed to stock them on a few provisions for a long journey. Gandalf said he would meet them in Bree, but he hasn't.
Gandalf always kept his word, especially in a time like this… At least he always tried, unless…
Something must have deterred him. Troubled, she grabbed three leather waterskins on the shelf. She trusted Sam to have packed a lot of food, but with four hobbits she would most likely have to hunt.
This situation smelled fouler now. There were those forsaken Nazgúl on their tail and Gandalf has been delayed. She began to wonder what delayed the wizard. This situation had parallels with the incident in Erebor when he went to investigate the darkness conjuring in Dol-Guldur… That peril left him significantly delayed, but this time he was not supposed to visit hostile lands. He was visiting-
Saruman…
"Something foul festers in Isengard…."
Elysia gnashed her teeth in frustration as she purchased her things, slamming them down with more force than necessary onto the wooden counter, startling the merchant. He hastily packed her purchases while she continued to analyze the situation.
If Gandalf was deterred by that white wizard then where was she supposed to take the hobbits? They could not return to the Shire, not with the Ring in Frodo's possession and the wraiths pursuing them, but they cannot go on the run forever. She could make for Rivendell.
The thought of entering the elvish citadel without Gandalf to mediate with Lord Elrond made her stomach roll with anxiety. However, times were dire. Elysia was forced to push pass her own sentiments with the elves for the sake of her hobbits.
Her reverie was broken by a dark shiver crawling down her spine. A foul whisper ran through the air, and Elysia could only think of one thing to cause such sensation.
Frodo
The merchant flinched as the mysterious customer snatched her purchases from the counter and ran out of the shop in a blur.
It only took her a few heartbeats to arrive at the Prancing Pony, and when she did her eyes scoured the inn, ignoring the bartender's curious gaze. Anxiety lanced through her heart. Her little one was nowhere in sight. To ease her fear, she spotted the others looking terrified.
With a few long and fast strides she loomed over them like a lion over the lambs.
"Where is he?" She growled.
Pippin and Merry flinched, becoming mute, but Sam was frantically speaking in a rush.
"The ranger took Mr. Frodo! Frodo, he j-just slipped and the ring flew out of his pocket a-and landed on h-his finger. He turned invisible then a-appeared then the ranger just took him-"
"Took him where?!" Elysia snarled.
"U-up the stairs!" Sam stuttered. Within the blink of an eye, Elysia left and headed for the stairs with silent fury. After a long pause, Sam swallowed hard and turned to the others.
"Come on! We've got to help Mr. Frodo and Miss. Elly!"
Merriadoc Brandybuck grimaced but didn't argue. Help Frodo and Elly? He thought they should help the ranger. Elly looked ready to rip the man apart!
...
Frodo was backed into a corner while the Ranger paced around, extinguishing his candles. The stranger new he had the Ring. He despaired because it was obvious he couldn't squirm away from this one. There was something about this man that screamed strength and authority despite his rugged appearance.
Any attempts at escaping would be futile, so he asked.
"Who are you?"
He began to hope, for Elly should be back at the Prancing Pony any minute now. He just had to stall.
The ranger tilted his head and narrowed his keen eyes.
"Are you frightened?" He asked almost mockingly.
Frodo swallowed hard and glared at him, refusing to have his courage stripped by the gaze of this wolf-like man.
"Yes." He said, more defiant than cowed.
"Not nearly frightened enough-"
Then several things seemed to happen all at once. Frodo could barely blink before he fell back at the splintering crash as the door burst open. It practically shattered under the force of the dragon's barging.
There was a blur of metal and bodies and moments later, the ranger was pinned against the wardrobe with a curved dagger against his throat.
Aragorn had lived long and experienced many things. He was an accomplished tracker, swordsman, and survivalist. He was prepared for almost anything he might encounter in the wilderness.
But that confidence was challenged in a mere second. Swift and steady, he had unsheathed his sword and whirled to fend off the intruder, be it a wraith, orc, or a foolish mugger. But just as he brandished his sword, the intruder moved in such speed that rivaled the elves, pouncing on him like a wild cat.
His ears caught the sound of a dagger being unsheathed. His right arm, wielding his sword, was caught in a vice like grip as he was shoved against the wardrobe, but Aragorn was not totally subdued. In counter, he managed to grab the leather braced wrist of the intruder's dagger holding hand as the back of his head slammed against the wardrobe.
To his surprise, the intruder was smaller than him in both width and height but wasn't a Halfling. The top of the hooded head was up to his collar, and the wrist in his hand felt slender. He couldn't make out all of the face under the coverage of the thin black scarf and the hood, but from the size of the body, the long charcoal lashes shadowing those storm hued eyes, and the graceful arch of the nose this, intruder wasn't a man.
However, what surprised him the most was not the speed nor size, but the brute strength of this woman. As they stood in a standstill, Aragorn had tried to relieve the pressure on his sword hand and push away the dagger a mere hair's width away from his throat. But her strength clearly trounced his own, as she barely budged. Seeing folly in resisting, he tried to negotiate and calm her.
"Be at ease… I mean you no harm." His voice was gentle and honest.
"Who are you, ranger?" The sound of her voice was indeed female, hostile, but female nonetheless. Her blade and position were not swayed by the assuring words.
The rugged man smelled of pipe weed and sweat amongst many other things more unpleasant to her nose,-really the race of men smelled so terrible sometimes. If she were blind and deaf, she would have mistaken many of the men in Bree for pigs-but there was something else that Elysia couldn't put her claw or forked tongue on about him. He wasn't a mere man despite his raggedy clothes and shabby appearance. Something in his heart's blood permeated magic.
Frodo, speechless and even more frightened at the sight, finally found his voice. As daunting as this ranger was, the murderous aura emanating from his beloved friend was petrifying. It didn't sit well with him to imagine his dear Elly killing a stranger.
"Elly, no!" he cried running to them, mustering the courage to restrain his friend.
At the sound of his voice and his hands gripping her clothes, Elysia moved back swiftly and stood with Frodo securely behind her and the ranger a good five feet away.
The ranger kept a watchful eye on her fang-like dagger in her white knuckled grip.
Elysia's eyes narrowed at the man before swiftly turning to her friend—still she kept the man in her peripheral—scanning for any injuries.
"I'm alright, Elly." Frodo assured as he held onto her robe.
Elysia merely kept him close like a lioness with her cub and glared once more the ranger. The ranger seemed to understand her meaningful glare and slowly sheathed his sword before raising his hands as a sign of surrender. Seeing the muscles in her shoulders ease at his vulnerability, he spoke.
"I know what hunts you." He never wavered from her eyes.
The tension could be cut with a knife as Elysia silently assessed the man. Slowly, she sheathed her own dagger and pulled down her scarf.
"I've met you before… Or at least heard of you." She said with a little hesitation, unsure of her own words. Was this the famed Strider, the Ranger of the North? He was among the most well known of the wandering men.
Staring at those ancient eyes in that petite stoic face, Aragorn smirked.
"We have never met, for I would have remembered a face like yours. But I've heard of you… The rumors are true, you are Mithrandir's apprentice, are you not?"
Elysia's next words were overwhelmed by a loud clumsy crash. Immediately, the two warriors had their hands on their swords as they whirled around to face the door.
Sam came stumbling through the ruined door barely held together by its hinges. He had his fists up and ready with a brave face while Merry and Pippin brandished a piece of furniture hardly suited for a fight.
"Let them go! Or I'll have you, Longshanks!" Samwise Gamgee snarled.
The sight eased the remaining tension in an instant. Elysia fought the urge to look up and sigh in exasperation, but like the ranger she admired their stout hearts. There were more urgent matters at hand than to waste time in becoming well acquainted with one another.
The ranger turned to Elysia and Frodo.
"You can no longer wait for the wizard. They are coming."
~O~O~O~O~O~
The people of Bree who remained awake were terrified. Something dark has come into the town, breaking down their gate and trampling their gatekeeper. The innkeeper closed his eyes and prayed to whatever deity there was as the black riders swooped into his inn like the dealers of death and shadow.
Elysia listened to the steady fall and rise of the sleeping hobbits. Some of them were even snoring, obviously exhausted by the thrilling course of events. However, one remained by her spot on the edge of the bed, sitting near her form. Frodo couldn't sleep and instead leaned against the dragon for comfort.
Elysia said nothing but draped her arm around him.
Her keen ears heard the sound of the riders coming through Bree and into the Prancing Pony. Luckily, Strider had set up a false room and they settled in a different area.
Speaking of the ranger, he hadn't said much, perched near the window like a watchful guard dog. He occasionally glanced at Elysia and Frodo with unspoken questions in his gaze. Elysia had finally allowed her hood to drape down on her back. A few loose strands of her raven hair framed her face in its dark waves, but there was little she could do to hide the slight point of her ridged ears.
Strider's sharp eyes had not missed this odd trait, but it was one of many oddities that shrouded the enigmatic woman. He said nothing and inquired nothing. The woman's stony expression discouraged any pressing inquisitions and his curiosity was not worth her antagonism.
A familiar blood curdling shriek startled them all. Elysia and Strider remained still but the sleeping hobbits all sat up. Frodo flinched and turned his head to the window, comforted a little by Elysia's arm.
Those inhuman piercing shrieks echoed through the night. They listened in silence until the hobbit could wait no longer to ask.
"What are they?"
Strider glanced at Frodo. His sea colored orbs darkening at the foul topic.
"They were once men… Great Kings of men… Then Sauron the Deceiver gave to them nine rings of power… Blinded by their greed, they took them without questions. One by one they began to fall into the darkness. Now they are slaves to his will."
"They are the Nazgúl…" Elysia's voice was dark. "Ringwraiths… Neither living nor dead." She turned her piercing gaze to Frodo.
"At all times, they feel the presence of the Ring… They will never stop hunting you."
Then her eyes moved to Strider meaningfully, asking questions that were unsaid. The ranger met her gaze with honest eyes.
"I will take you to my home. It is the safest place to be."
As loathsome as the idea of leaving Gandalf behind was, Elysia saw no other option. She was sorely tempted to fly to Isengard and interrogate the white wizard, but she promised Gandalf to see the hobbits have a safer passage. So wherever Gandalf was, she could only hope and pray for his safety.
They moved out at the first light of dawn. Strider guided them through the wild, and Elysia was content in allowing him to lead. She seemed to be guarding their backs while the ranger took the front, but in truth, she wanted to assess the ranger. Her experience with the race of men left her wary with his kind, and there was a riddle surrounding this particular man.
It was in a dragon's nature to seek answers to a good riddle.
All rangers were at ease in the wilderness, but his interactions with the environment around him, from the way his hands caressed the leaves of passing brush to the way he trekked the earth with near soundless steps, was harmonious, not unlike the elves. In fact, many of his movements were comparable to those pointy eared immortals.
It's a pity he doesn't have their smell. Elysia thought sourly, although his scent was not all bad.
Perhaps if he bathed off the ick from his natural musk, he might smell as attractive as he appeared-by the human standards. She wasn't too sure. She was no human maiden. Beards and unkempt scruff on the chin never appealed to her.
She was still missing an important piece of this ranger's puzzle, and thus she could not form the final answer to the mystery for the magic permeating off of him. That was until she spotted his hand.
His hand was resting against a tree, and what she saw on those dirty calloused hands was a glittering emerald shining on his finger. The emerald was embedded in a ring, designed as two silver serpents wrapping around the finger.
Elysia was no scholar, but she knew enough of Arda's history to know the significance of the finger jewel.
It was the Ring of Barahir, an ancient heirloom that existed long before her birth. It survived many wars and epic quests and was passed down throughout the ages through an archaic royal bloodline…
So what was a priceless artifact doing in the hands of a ranger?
… This is not some ranger.
It dawned on her then. The way the man moved, talked, and that ring of his… Even his scent was something different. She had encountered rangers before, caught their scent occasionally as she wandered through and defended the Shire. Those long lived Dunedain always felt a bit off from the average mortal man. Their lifespans were blessed with greater longevity, but that magic had long been diluted through each generation.
Yet his blood was different. The magic in his veins had yet to become as diluted as the others.
Throughout her long years in Middle Earth, men have proved to be unpleasant creatures. Many times too proud or stubborn, greedy even, not unlike her kin, they were a short lived paradox of a race. Susceptible to the harsher ways of the natural world, mortal, and of lesser strength than many other races, yet they were also fiercely resilient. They endured the world, recovered from their mistakes, and continued to not merely survive but thrive.
She wasn't very fond of them but neither did she resent them. There was a time when her sentiments towards humanity were embittered and downright disdainful, but opinions changed. More importantly people changed.
The Men of the West were a different category of humans. They hailed from a long line of nobles, but this man in particular… With that ring on his finger and the flare in his blood, without a doubt, this shabby ranger came as one of the few descendent from the line of Elendil, if not the only remaining descendent.
Rather anticlimactic, really. She expected one of royal blood to be a bit more… presentable, regal even. This man's tunic appeared as though it had been mended a countless number of times, by none other than his calloused hands. His boots were patched and his breeches were stained with dirt. His unkempt appearance seemed almost insulting for someone of his noble lineage, if her suspicions were proved true.
But be it royal blood or the blood of some commoner, the dragon cared little for it. The monarchies of Middle Earth meant very little to dragons. Be it King of Men, King Under the Mountain, or king of some elvish realm, if it was not complimented by an impressive achievement; one that was earned not given just by birth, there was little lasting glory and respect given by the draconic folk.
What mattered more to her were this man's intentions. Men could be terribly fickle creatures, and she had little desire to take the risk of trusting fickle things.
Merry seemed to share her wariness of the stranger. "How do we know this Strider is a friend of Gandalf?" He whispered to Frodo.
Frodo hesitated. "I think a servant of the enemy would feel fouler."
Merry grimaced and adjusted his pack. "He's foul enough." He grumbled.
"He can hear you, Brandybuck." Elysia commented, not sparing a second glance at Merry. Her blank eyes bore holes into the ranger's back.
"We have no choice but to trust him." Frodo sighed. Although have Elysia by his side certainly alleviated the uncertainty within him, he felt grim with caution.
"Don't fret, Frodo." Elysia smelled his fear. "He will be of no threat to you."
Frodo blinked, looking at her. "Do you trust him, Elly?"
"No."
Merry was confused. "Then how can you be so certain?"
"Because if he tries, I will kill him."
Her response was so calm, so starkly said. Without mirth or anger, she spoke as though she were predicting the forecast. The monotonous sincerity cut deeper than any angered promise.
The hobbits stared at Elysia, eyes widening. Even the ranger seemed to stiffen in his movement.
It was in her intentions to say it blatantly so he would hear; a plain and promising threat that he would have to be a moron to ignore. He remembered those eyes when she held the blade at his throat. They were the eyes of someone who could and would cut him down with cold apathy at his death staining her hands.
Merry and Pippin swallowed hard. Sam simply looked a little pale. Frodo frowned deeply, finding it hard to accept what she said. It displeased him immensely to hear his dearest friend speak such merciless promise.
He had always known Elysia as the mothering soul; the one wore a look of regret at causing a small tween Pippin to cry (again) after giving him and Merry discipline. This side of her, this merciless blood-letting bite she bore, it reminded him that she was a dragon underneath the hood.
Sam seemed to break out of his stupor from Elysia's statement to ask a sensible question. "Where's he taking us?"
"To Rivendell, Master Gamgee." Aragorn finally spoke. "To the House of Elrond."
Upon hearing their destination, excitement quickly distilled the tension in the air. Sam was thoroughly thrilled while Merry and Pippin exchanged looks of wonderment.
"Did you hear that?" Sam smiled at Frodo. "We're going to Rivendell. We're going to see the elves!"
While the hobbits seemed to be full of anticipation, Elysia did not share their sentiments at all.
She sighed. Rivendell was beautiful, it was serene, and certainly hospitable, but her dilemma lied with the elves. Elves in general were curious beings. Time has not diminished their childlike intrigue. They merely learned to conceal it better with time.
Elves loved a good, challenging riddle, and Elysia was, to them, one of the greatest puzzles ever to be encountered.
It was by some miracle that they never recognized what she truly was. Since her first days entering Imaldris as a youngling, clutching Gandalf's clothes in apprehension, she was the primary target for attention. Initially, it was because she was young and on first glance she would pass off as an elvish child or a Peredhil: a half elvish being. Children were terribly rare amongst the fair folk and thus loved dearly, but Elysia, having never been accustomed to having so many curious eyes on her, nonetheless vying for her attention, recoiled fiercely from them. She was terribly shy and snuck about the place like a ghost. That unprecedented behavior startled them and informed them of her aberrant nature. The fact that she was Gandalf's "whimsical" apprentice, and most likely the only recorded apprentice of an Istari, didn't help to lessen the inquisition.
They hadn't been completely abrasive about solving the puzzle surrounding her, no. Elves had more grace and tact than that. Regardless, to Elysia, the unwanted attention had become so unbearable that she would only visit Imaldris if Gandalf required (with good reason) her presence there. He always exaggerated that he was forced to fight "tooth, nail, and fire" to convince her.
Never by her own volition would she go to the House of Elrond, and in the rare times she did, she took painful precautions to make herself scarce.
Living in secrecy was also a subtle thorn at her side. Having had at least two people in the Shire who knew of her true nature, she had taken for granted the relief one could feel on being free to express who they truly were.
Staying in Rivendell always gave her the strange sense of being a caged. Dragons were never meant for cages.
Elysia remained a silent, brooding guard as they traversed the great landscape of Middle Earth, distracting herself from unpleasant thoughts by listening to the wilderness and to Pippin grumbling about food and fatigue.
They trekked through snowy grounds, through odd sands and brush, and rested in a marshy land. Grimacing, she avoided walking into the goopy waters as much as possible, hopping from the tiny islands scattered across the marsh.
When they made camp, the hobbits quickly grouped together and sat down in loud huffs, exhausted from the long day of travel. Sam began starting a fire while Merry muttered about "insects hungry for a taste of hobbit". Pippin was drinking what little was left in his waterskin. Before Frodo could offer some of his own, Elysia dropped hers to Pippin's lap before she went to Strider. He had hardly set his own belongings down before he began to string his bow and strap his quiver onto his back.
When he caught her regarding him in silence, he explained. "I shall be back with food shortly."
If he wanted to complain of the frequency in which the hobbits seemed to need feeding, he said nothing.
Elysia gave him a long, hard look before casting a glance at the hobbits warming themselves by the fire. Although she would find game faster with her superior senses, the thought of leaving him alone with the hobbits was discomforting.
"Very well." She conceded, turning her head to gaze far away into the twilight, beyond the marsh. It was the first time she ever spoke directly to him in their long journey.
He had noticed her mind run to the conclusion, it was hard not to with the way she glanced back and forth from him to the four smaller ones of their company. Growing weary of her wariness, he sighed.
"Truly… I mean your Halflings no harm."
"Hobbits. They're more accurately termed as hobbits." She corrected, her head didn't move but her eyes flickered back to pin him again. "And I shall determine that for myself."
There was little fruit in arguing with her. He merely returned his attention to his bow.
The two remained in silence for a long moment. Then she spoke.
"There are signs of a young stag roaming these parts. Half a league to the east."
She then sauntered off, leaving him to watch her departing back and the gleaming pommel of one of her swords.
When he returned with the stag, gutted but not skinned, she swiftly took the labor from his hands. Examining the deer carcass, she lifted up the flap from where he made the incision to gut the animal. Pulling out a dark red, slippery slab of meat, she examined the meat briefly before approving of its condition.
"See what you can do with this, Samwise." She handed the strange piece of meat to the hobbit. Sam was startled by the choice of meat but he started to prepare his frying pan.
"The liver, Miss Elly?" It didn't seem like a common choice of meat to eat while camping, but then again, Sam had never gone camping.
"And the heart." She also gave him the organ that remained in the chest cavity. "Cook them separately but eat them both tonight. They will help you for the longer journey tomorrow."
The liver and the heart were the most nutrient rich parts of any game, although Elysia found them best when they were eaten raw.
Upon hearing this, Sam obediently began to prepare the meat for their dinner. Elysia continued her work on the carcass, skinning it and cutting the meat piece by piece. She wasn't as neat as the butchers in the Shire, but her handiwork sufficed in the wilderness.
The meal was prepared on the remaining loaf of bread Sam had packed into his belongings. Elysia declined a serving, simply handing it to Frodo to share amongst the hobbits. The ranger also ate, although he had been surprised to be handed a dish that appeared more suited to eat while at a tavern or in a pleasant home. He hadn't taken much care with how he cooked his food out here, so it was a much welcomed meal.
...
She settled on a lumpy patch of grass she found satisfactorily clean. Legs crossed and close to her chest in a meditative posture, she waited watchfully under the round eye of the pale moon.
After a few moments, Strider came and sat near her.
"You should rest with your friends." He said.
"My body's not in need of rest." She responded bluntly, rejecting his advice and silent offer to keep watch for the night.
Aragorn sat unperturbed, quietly observing the maiden's stillness. She was gazing at the sky, as though to pierce through the clouds in the distance with those eyes, perhaps in hopes to see the stars. There was something melancholic about the gaze, not unlike his own sullen tendency when he was immersed in a sobering thought.
"Something is on your mind."
"Something is always on my mind… It is a mind, that's its purpose." She replied.
"It is troubling you. You look forlorn, milady." He pressed, unfazed by her discouraging tone.
Furrows began to appear on her forehead, irked by his persistence. "I am alive. There is always trouble. That's life. It's the price of living."
Aragorn was more amused than exasperated by her dry, wisecracking words. "You speak in riddles."
He searched for his pipe. Upon finding it, he began to stuff the pipeweed into the bowl of the smoking tool.
"Yes… It rubs off on you when you're with the grumpy old gray pilgrim." She mused.
"Perhaps that is why you are strange." Aragorn lit the pipeweed and began to take soft puffs of smoke.
"I am strange to you because I was born different." Her response was vague.
"Different. That I see… What are you?" Smoke curled from his lips as he asked her, curiosity evident in his tone.
"… complicated."
The single worded answer only brought a small chuckle out of the man. The ranger lowered his pipe.
"Indeed you are." He pressed no further, much to her surprise.
It was unlike his people to not pry more fiercely when spoken to in such manner. She appreciated his intentions of being silent, but she was not without her own questions.
"…I could say the same for you, Ranger of the North."
Now he was the still one. He stared at her questioningly.
She finally turned and met his gaze, and those eyes seemed to pierce through him and strip the layers covering his soul. Such unsettling sensation made it difficult to maintain the stare, a rarity for someone like himself.
"You wear the Ring of Barahir, Strider… And the blood of the Dunedain runs thick in your veins, thicker than that of the average ranger." She tilted her head, and Strider had the distinct sensation of a scholar reading an open book.
There was a heavy pause, and Aragorn debated on whether he should divulge her on the truth of his lineage. Her scrutiny promptly ended with a huff and a small twitch of her nose.
"Merry was right, you are rather foul. You rangers' and your sense of cleanliness can be atrociously deficient."
The ranger scowled lightly at this comment, both offended but amused. Of all the things that bothered her or should bother her, it was his cleanliness that irked her the most? He did not respond to the jab, and thus the two were left in an oddly comfortable silence.
~O~O~O~O~O~
The land was bathed in silver. The moon was outshining the stars, making it hard for Elysia to see the constellations but nonetheless she still tried. It was a habit she long stopped trying to relinquish, to spend idle time staring at the stars, recollecting the stories and directions each one told and all of which she knew by heart.
Her people had loved the sky, and above everything else they loved about the sky, from the tempest to the sun, they adored the stars above all else, but to Elysia it held a far greater significance...
"Wood elves love best light of the stars, but not all share our heart for them… I recall… h-he found them to be cold and lonesome…" The voice grew smaller in grief. "I do not know if I can love them as I once did."
Her own anguish began to strangle her, but she mustered the courage to speak.
"…. The elders of my people used to tell the younglings that those we loved who departed from life… They leave a piece of themselves in the stars… so they can watch us, guide us… remind us of beloved things.
Perhaps that is why my people resided so closely to the heavens, ventured so near and so oft into the skies; so they would not feel so alone and so chilled by the emptiness of having to live without them.… I know I have."
Bittersweet memories were ever present with the stars. And every time Elysia gazed upon them, she remembered the journey that changed her all those years ago. She remembered the sound of a voice as hard, cold, and rough as uncarved granite, the smell of autumn leaves and winter pine, and eyes as vividly blue as a cloudless, midmorning sky.
Laughter had been as bountiful as the unspoken words that should've been said back then. There was heartache; muffled but as present as the fondness by which she recollected the memories she imbued within the stars she gazed.
Aragorn watched her as she sat in solitude and silence near the encampment. She wore a vacant expression as she stared at the stars, a look he knew all too well, having worn it himself for countless of sleepless nights.
Quick to kill and of lesser mercy than him she may be, but perhaps they had more in common with one another than the enigma they carried with their silent steps.
It was a quiet night, and Aragorn found himself unusually lacking tolerance to the melancholic silence. He began to sing softly to the silver moon.
Elysia twitched an ear upon hearing the song. It spoke of a romantic tale, of a love between a mortal and immortal.
Frodo awoke to his song, unable to refrain from interrupting Aragorn.
"Who is she? The woman you speak of?"
Aragorn stopped singing, and Elysia began to focus her mind to other things, already knowing the outcome of the story sung.
To fall in love with a being of another race usually ended in tragedy. Love in itself was tragic to those who've lived and traveled long and far and suffered losses beyond a mortal's measure.
Love always carried with it a burden. As kind and patient as it could be, love was also fierce and strong. It could break the resolve of dragon like sea waves against the rocks or fire to snow; gradual or quick but nevertheless imminent.
To dragons, love was as dangerous as it was beautiful… but that made it all the more precious.
If there was one thing the immortal races of elves and dragons had in common, it was the value placed upon love above all things; above pride, above honor, and above one's own life.
Elysia knew this, because she was no stranger to it. She had come to know many forms of love, had the fortune of being loved and of loving.
And also the misfortune of falling in it, once upon a time.