Nothing in particular needs warning about in this chapter, but things are going to start getting pretty bad for poor Aragorn in the next. As always, all feedback, both positive comments and constructive criticism, is very much appreciated. This is a pivotal chapter. How are young Aragorn's actions here—in character, believable and reasonable given his current situation and life experiences, or not? I'd love to hear what you think!
Where was he? Stopping abruptly, Aragorn finally ceased his rapid pace long enough to give his surroundings more than a passing glance. Though he knew he remained within the safety of his father's—no, Master Elrond's—woods, if he judged correctly he neared the very borders. What was the hour? Over the course of the day, the sky had grown increasingly overcast and grey, but still he could tell that dusk approached. He had been walking quickly, at times running full out, almost without pause since his words with Elrond that morning.
He had not meant to come so far. As he oft had done before, he sought from these familiar woods time alone to think, and that he most certainly found. But what answers came from his solace, what conclusions had he drawn? Though many memories and questions and understandings arose and passed through his troubled thoughts over these uncounted hours, one truth remained above all else. The time had come for him to depart Imladris, to bid farewell to his family and friends, to leave behind the only home he could remember knowing.
A firm decision, no matter how momentous, brings a certain sense of peace, and finally he was ready to rest. Suddenly, he felt most weary, and his stomach rumbled its emptiness. Aragorn sighed. In his haste to leave his father's chambers that morning, he had not prepared for an extended stay in the woods, and now he faced the prospect of a damp and unpleasant night. Without the gift of elvish sight, attempting to make his way home through the woods after dark was too unsafe. He had to set camp, such as it would be, and return to Imladris at dawn to begin making preparations for his departure and take proper leave of his family. His sword and dagger were at his side, of course, but little else. At least, in his flight, he had the sense to grab his cloak, which, with its dense but fine weave, would shelter him from the worst of the threatening rain.
Having taken his own duties on the perimeter guard the past few years, Aragorn knew well the movements of the patrols that watched these woods. On their sweep of the borders, they had passed by this way a short while ago and would not return for several hours yet. But, despite his hunger, in truth he did not mind this solitude, for he felt unready to face his elvish friends and brothers-in-arms so soon after being put soundly back into his place by Master Elrond that morning. As a mere Man, even one of his noble lineage, he was too far below Elrond's own daughter even to entertain notions of affection for her. Now, if he could only convince his own heart of that!
Angered by this useless self-pity, Aragorn shook his head firmly. Such thoughts were pointless! As soon as he was able, he would leave Imladris, and Arwen, behind, and seek his own fate in the world of Men. Still, no matter how far from her his travels might take him, he knew in his heart it would not change the truth that he could never love another.
He began to walk again, at a much slower pace this time, scanning the woods around him. If he recalled correctly, nearby a large, fallen tree rested upon some others, and he could take at least some partial shelter in the hollow under it. Though early autumn, some of the blackberries had already ripened on the bushes, and together with the edible plants to be found around here, he might gather enough for a rather meager meal. And, if he could collect some dry kindling before the inevitable rain began, he might even manage a small fire for warmth.
However, he had not walked far when a distant sound caught his ear—a music unlike any he had heard before, either from the minstrels of Imladris or from the Dúnedain songs his mother would sing for him. Far less melodious and harmonic than elvish music, there was yet something most appealing about it in its basic, almost jovial, simplicity, and Aragorn found himself drawn towards it. Cautiously, using all the skills at stealth taught to him by Elladan and Elrohir, he crept toward the sound. Soon, he spied in a clearing a large fire with a group gathered around it, and bringing himself closer to peer between the bushes, to his surprise, he saw not elves, as he had expected, but men.
Why were they here? Never before that he could recall had strange men come so close to the outskirts of Master Elrond's woods, and his first thought was to seek out the nearest patrol to warn them of this foreign presence. Just as he was about to creep back in the direction from which he had come, however, he stopped himself and stayed his ground. He knew the border guards had passed by this way not long ago, and they were, no doubt, well aware of this rather noisy group of men. If the patrol had not deemed these men a threat, then why should he?
In eighteen years at Imladris, all of the life he could remember, he had seen so very few men, and remaining concealed behind the bushes, he silently studied those before him with keen interest. They were a group of eight, and though he felt unable to accurately judge their ages, he guessed most of them to be about ten years his senior. One was much closer to his own age, even younger perhaps, and Aragorn noted with interest the patchy and rather sparse beginnings of a beard upon his face. All of the men had beards, and he brought his hand up to touch his own close shaven chin. A few years ago, when, much to his horror, his own beard had begun to grow, he had hidden in his room with a sharp knife and some soap and water and scrapped off the hairs as closely as he could to the skin. Unfortunately, no one had taught him the skill, and the outcome had not been pretty. Since then he had become quite adept at the art of shaving, and now he could keep his face almost as smooth as his elvish friends and family.
The one who held his interest most keenly, though, was the man who played the small stringed instrument that provided the music. He was old. Aragorn had spent almost the entirety of his life surrounded by beings who had walked upon Arda for thousands of years, and still they remained, forever, ageless. Lately, he began to notice with concern the little signs of age that wore upon his mother: the occasional, stray strands of silver that snuck into her dark hair, and the small lines that now traced her eyes and mouth. But this man's thinning hair and thick beard were completely white, and the wrinkles seemed etched into his skin like fissures in dry earth. Aside from paintings and illustrations in books, never before that he could remember had he seen someone so afflicted by time as the man who stood before him.
The old man played a lively tune that sounded so strange to Aragorn's ears, and the others joined in, raising their voices in merry, if discordant, song. Truly, they did not sing in any reasonable harmony that he could determine, and he could not help but smile a little at the thought of what effect their "music" would have on sensitive elvish hearing. On long winter evenings, the elves passed the time by singing in the hall of fire, and they often encouraged Aragorn to join in. Compared to the lyrical beauty of elvish voices raised in song, however, he was always acutely aware that he sounded like a croaking bullfrog, and when they complimented his singing, he knew they were only being kind.
These men sang in Westron, and Aragorn tried to make sense of the lyrics. Of course, he spoke the language fluently and, he thought, with very little accent, but he did not hear it spoken on a regular basis, and with the way these men were mashing and slurring their words, it took some effort to decipher their song. Suddenly, he felt his cheeks grow warm. The lyrics were most crude, something about a tavern wench and a part of the male anatomy. Certainly, he had never heard such bawdy songs sung in the Hall of Fire!
They all held large tankards, which they waved around quite freely as they sang, often sloshing over the rims a brown frothy liquid that Aragorn thought must be ale. He had been told men were very fond of this particular drink, but he had never before tasted it, as the elves of Imladris much preferred wine and fruit ciders. He noticed the cups were refilled frequently from a large barrel roped to the side of one of their wagons. There were two such wagons nearby, and two thick, sturdy, coarse-coated packhorses that looked so very different from the tall, sleek elvish steeds he was accustomed to.
For a time, Aragorn stood silently, observing the scene before him with rapt fascination. Who were these men? Why had they come to stop here? Were they traders, traveling merchants, selling their wares from one village to another? He thought he had studied all there was to know about Arnor and Gondor, and about the ways of his people, of their genealogy, and of their history. But how did he know so very little about the reality of men's lives?
Was he not, too, a man? Surely he must be, for he was most certainly no elf. Though he had been raised amongst elves, and knew their ways as his own, he had always been aware, at times painfully so, that he could never be like them no matter how hard he tried. Where then did he belong? The only father he had ever known, and loved, would be his father no longer. Still he felt the sting of his foster father's words, his father's rejection. "She is too far above you." Not once, but twice, Elrond had made a point of calling him Arathorn's son.
Imladris, the only home he could remember and the home of his heart, was no longer his home. In his younger days, when his noble titles and grand destiny were concealed from him, and he dreamt about his future, as boys often do, he entertained the notion of remaining in Imladris for all of his years, ever content in his father's service. He had been a fool, and wrong about so very many things. Elrond had clearly spelled out his doom, either to rise above his forefathers or fall into darkness with his kin. Many years of trial lay before him, Elrond had said, and he would have to prove his worth.
What then should he do? Where could he go? To the Dúnedain? Would they even know him, the son of their long-dead chieftain, a distant memory, a myth? How would he seem to them, with his foreign appearance and his strange ways? Though he might change his clothes, and cut his hair and grow his beard, would it ever be enough? Would he one day again find kinship, or remain, forever, alone between two worlds?
Casting a glance over his shoulder in the direction he knew Imladris lay, he felt a profound ache in his heart. The woods behind him had never seemed so dark and sombre, so unfamiliar and unwelcoming. He shivered at the cold, and again his stomach rumbled its hunger. As he turned his gaze back toward the scene before him, he saw that the fire burned brightly, and he could smell the delicious aroma of roasting meat. As the men sang and drank, they seemed so very jovial and merry. Suddenly, he wished so dearly to know them.
Would it be unwise to reveal his presence to these men? Of course, he had learned that not all men are good, any study of history quickly revealed as much, and Elrond taught him well of the evil that could be wrought by men. But what of this small group? Obviously, the elvish patrol that passed this way not long before chose to leave them be, not deeming them a threat. And indeed, as Aragorn carefully assessed the merry, drunken men, they seemed little threat to him as well. They carried swords, of course, for attempting to travel in these dark days unarmed would be nothing but foolish. The swords, though, did not look well maintained, and these men so obviously were not trained warriors. He did not fear them. If it came to blows, he had no doubt he could defend himself quite readily against this motley bunch.
But why should it come to that anyway? These men appeared benign enough. Clearly they were simple traveling merchants, and truly they might have as much reason or more to distrust and fear him. How could he explain to them his strange appearance and his lack of company? Surely he could find a way to speak with them and put them at ease. No doubt they came across others in their travels. What would be the harm in spending some time in their company? Of sampling their ale, listening to their songs and hearing their tales? How could he ever fit into the world men, let alone lead them, if he did not understand them? One thing was quite apparent—he needed to know far more about the ways of men. Why could he not begin to learn right now? It seemed the perfect opportunity.
With one last fleeting glance at the dark emptiness behind him, he stepped out from the bushes and into the light, making his presence known. The music and the singing stopped abruptly as he spoke: "Greetings, fellow travelers! Might I share the warmth of your fire and your company for a time?"
Hmm, what type of reception do you think these men will give Aragorn? Reviews please me very much and keep me motivated!