This chapter (and the previous one) has seen much revising, tweaking and polishing, and I've decided it's time to post. I realize that no matter how I write this, it will not please everyone, not when I'm placing as noble a character as Aragorn in such a horrible situation. Believe me, I want to do him justice, and depict him believably and in character, and most definitely not as stupid or foolish. But, as educated and trained as he is, the 20 year old Aragorn we see here has a lot more learning to do, and life to experience, before he can become the much older and wiser Aragorn we know from LoTR--the one who is ready to be King. And, as noble and honorable as he is, Aragorn is still human, and it is a fact that making mistakes is a fundamental part of the human condition. It is what we take from our mistakes, and what we learn, that can eventually make us stronger, wiser, and better people.

I'd like to thank the members of the LoTR writers groups—the LC and GoI, for all of their very useful feedback and suggestions.

Again, a warning: this story contains disturbing, adult content. There will be absolutely nothing graphic, but parts will be very dark. In this chapter specifically there is some adult language, and some may find the ending upsetting.

With one last fleeting glance at the dark emptiness behind him, Aragorn stepped out from the bushes and into the light, making his presence known to the small group of traveling merchants, men, he had quite unexpectedly come across just outside the borders of Master Elrond's woods. "Greetings, fellow travelers! Might I share the warmth of your fire and your company for a time?"

The music and the singing stopped abruptly, and eight hands were instantly at the handles of eight swords as one of the men stepped forward slightly to study Aragorn with a menacing scowl. "Who 'er you?"

This rather unfriendly greeting came as no surprise to Aragorn. After all, he was to them a stranger who appeared suddenly and unexpectedly in the middle of the forest at night. Holding his own hands up in a placating gesture, he responded calmly: "Peace. I mean you no harm. I am merely a traveler, as you are, and I would like to share with you a tale or two and some ale if you are willing."

The man's brows furrowed even more deeply as he eyed Aragorn with suspicion, his hand still on his sword, and his coarse voice betrayed his skepticism as he questioned: "A traveler, eh? If yer a traveler, 'ere's yer pack?

Certainly a most reasonable question, thought Aragon, and his answer was not entirely a lie. "I had set up camp some distance away when I heard your merry music and sought out its source."

Taking another step closer, the man continued to frown, and Aragorn could feel his tension as he gripped the handle of his sword more tightly. "I ain't ne'r seen a traveler in such fancy garb 'afore."

"Yea!" a second, rather squeaky, voice piped up. "'E looks more like a prince than a traveler ta me! Look a that there clean and shiny cloak—it must be worth a pretty penny! An' the broach on 'is collar—I swears its silver! An' look a the handle of that sword. I ain't ne'r seen a sword as fine as that!" Aragorn noticed that the small man who now spoke had removed his own short and dull looking blade from its sheath, but still he remained a safe distance away, peering out cautiously from behind the other men.

"I've 'erd talk elves hide in these 'ere woods," another, quite large and scruffy, man said nervously. He shifted his eyes, warily searching the forest around him. "Is't an elf? Are there others?"

The small man spoke again, giving 'Scruffy' a sound swat on his arm. "Don't be daft, Bull! We all know that's just old wifes tales! Elveses are no more real than dwarfs or talkin' trees!"

Concealing his amusement behind a neutral expression, Aragorn kept his hands raised and far from his sword as he watched the exchange with interest. Clearly these were not the brightest nor most well-bred of men. Indeed, they seemed simple folk, and he could certainly understand why they might be so wary. Surely his appearance, with his smooth face, his fine clothes, and his grand way of speaking, was quite intimidating to them. Yet, he wished still to be able to talk with them and hear a little of their lives. If nothing else, it would make for an interesting evening, and he might just learn a useful thing or two about the ways of the common man as well. Giving them what he thought to be a reassuring smile, he tried again to put them more at ease: "I am no elf, I assure you. I am a man, just as you are."

"A man, eh?" 'Scowly,' the apparent leader of the group, questioned quickly. He continued to glare at Aragorn and clench the handle of his sword. "Then why do ya 'ave your hair so long an' fancy like? Ya look like a girl!"

"An' a right fine one, too!" Bull added, a most odd expression upon his face.

A round of laughter followed this comment, and little 'Squeaky' slapped Bull's arm again. "I think ya've been out in the wilds too long ya dumb brute! Ya've forgot what a girl looks like!"

Bull seemed decidedly frustrated as he responded: "Darn right! 'Ow longs it been since I last felt the soft, nice smellin' skin of a girl 'tween my legs? Just about anythin's starting to look good around now. 'Cept ya, of course, ya rat!" This time, it was Bull who gave the smaller man a sound swat on the side of his head before he continued: "But look at 'is shiny long hair, smooth, fair skin an fancy clothes--'e looks right fine, man or no!"

With this unexpected turn in the conversation, Aragorn's ire began to rise. How dare these base men speak of him in such a manner? Claiming he looked like a girl—the whole notion was preposterous!

Beyond annoyance, however, their words made him increasingly uncomfortable. What, exactly, were they implying and suggesting? He knew, of course, of the desires of the flesh. Years ago Elrond had told him about the physical union of a man and his wife that created a child. And he remembered all too well those most turbulent years as he began to change and grow from a boy into a man. His body seemed constantly at war with his mind, and at times, he was helpless to control the heat of the lust that would suddenly and frequently build up inside him. How very much alone he felt then! He never spoke of it to anyone, for he could not bring himself to discuss such a subject with his mother, and none of the male elves around him ever seemed afflicted by such base desires. Though no elf had ever said as much, Aragorn came to see these crude and lusty thoughts as a sign of weakness in the minds of men.

Now, at twenty, he took pride in the fact that he had largely overcome this mortal failing. Well, for the most part at least. However, these coarse men clearly had no such reservations or concerns, to speak of their desire for the flesh of a woman so freely. Sadly, he must have misjudged them. How would he ever be able to find any common ground with men so low? Trying to keep his anger in check, he responded softly with a slight tip of his head. "I apologize for my intrusion. It seems that my company is not wanted, and I will leave you now in peace."

As Aragorn began to back away slowly, the old man, who had until now remained silent, said: "Aye, lad. It's best if ya do."

"Wait a minute, Pa. Let's not be so rude, or so hasty." 'Scowly' spoke again, though he was no longer scowling, and finally he had released his grasp on the hilt of his sword. One arm now lay across his chest, and he had brought the other hand up to his chin as he seemed to regard Aragorn thoughtfully. "Ya do seem a right fine and noble fellow, an' I apologize that we din't give ya a more friendly greetin'. It's just that we're not used to runnin' into strangers in the woods, and ya surprised us is all. But, it'd be right improper of us not to share a meal with a fellow traveler. 'Specially if ye're all alone." 'Scowly' paused for a moment and glanced at the woods around him, as if trying to confirm the truth of this last statement. "Won't ya sit for a time an' have a cup of ale with us? A man of such high importance as ya seem is sure to 'ave an' interestin' tale or two to tell, an we'd be honoured ta have ya share our 'umble fire."

Aragorn stopped retreating, and for a moment he said nothing as he considered the man's words. He was no longer so keen to accept the invitation to join them. Though he had no doubt he could defend himself against these simple men with little trouble if need be, their crude comments had left him feeling decidedly unsettled. Truly they seemed a coarse and low bunch indeed, and, honestly, he was unsure if he could bear their company for long.

Suddenly, with a slight shake of his head, he silently chastised himself for his own arrogance. By what right did he judge them, anyway? In these dark times, he could most certainly understand their wariness towards a stranger, and he could not blame them, really, for their initial distrust and suspicion. Obviously, he knew little about the reality of men's lives, but this much he did know--they did not have the luxury of being raised and doted on by elves, of having their every need and desire met for them, and of living sheltered and in privilege. How could he ever hope to be, one day, a leader of men, as Master Elrond had charged, when he knew so very little about the common man? What harm could come from accepting their offer? Of sharing some tales and sampling their ale?

With a slight bow of his head, and a smile, Aragorn replied: "I would be pleased to stay for a time. I thank you for your hospitality."

The man smiled broadly in return, revealing a number of gaps between his crooked teeth, as he stepped forward and grasped Aragorn's hand in his own in what seemed to be a friendly gesture. "I'm Will."

As Will moved closer, Aragorn could not help but notice that he emitted a rather...strong...odor. Did all men smell so? Again, he shook his head slightly, chastising himself once more. Unlike him, these men did not have a ready supply of fine linens, perfumed oils, and warm baths drawn at their request. "Call me Strider," he responded with little hesitation. Where had that name come from? It seemed somehow appropriate, though, for as a child, he had often been teased by the elves for his constant haste.

"Strider, eh? Well, come Strider, sit for a while an' share a cup of ale with us." Will placed a firm hand on his back and guided him to sit on a log near the fire. Then Will walked over to the one Aragorn thought of as 'Squeaky' and told the smaller man to fetch a tankard for their guest. The two men exchanged a few more quiet words that Aragorn could not hear, and 'Squeaky' headed off toward the wagon, presumably to fetch a cup.

Turning his attention to the other men around him, Aragorn could not help but notice that the old man looked most displeased. He spoke to the youngest, whom Aragorn could now see was not yet near his twentieth year, and told him firmly: "Tom, find yer bedroll. Now!" Tom dutifully obeyed, walking out of sight behind the other wagon.

Will approached again, smiling broadly and shaking his head. "Pa, ye're always fussing so over that boy! Now, quit yer worrin' and play us another tune. Somethin' lively!"

For a moment, 'Pa' looked as if he might say something more as he hesitated, but then, with a slight nod, he picked up his instrument and started to play again. It was a merry tune, as requested, and 'Squeaky' approached, pushing a tankard into Aragorn's hands. "I thank you."

A slight smile was 'Squeaky's' only response as he returned to his spot by the fire.

Bringing the cup to his lips, Aragorn took a tiny sip of the ale, and quickly turned his head away to conceal his grimace. It tasted so very bitter! Did men actually enjoy this foul brew? Turning back, he forced a smile to his lips as he managed to choke out: "Delicious!"

Unfortunately, though, as he tried to discretely place the tankard on the ground beside him, Will raised his own cup and said merrily: "A toast to our guest, Strider! Drink up, ya all!"

Not wanting to offend his hosts, Aragorn steeled himself against the taste and took a large gulp of the bitter ale. He hoped that if he drank quickly he could better tolerate it, but still he could not completely stifle another grimace as he swallowed the contents down. A sudden dizziness came upon him. Elves drank some very strong wine, and over the years, he had grown accustomed to it. Surely this drink of men could not be so much more intoxicating?

The men still talked and laughed and sang, and the merry music still played. Nothing seemed amiss, but for the lightness in his head, and the bitterness in his mouth. What was that strange taste that lingered on his tongue? Something that did not belong in the drink? His hands suddenly felt weak, and the tankard fell to the ground with a dull thud. He tried to stand, but his legs were heavy, clumsy, and he could not seem to make them move as he wished. He too collapsed in the dirt.

Bull moved toward him and, smiling broadly, brought his face close as he asked: "Strider, are ya alright?"

Though he tried to respond, his tongue felt thick, and to his horror, he found he could not speak beyond a beastlike grunt. The men began to crowd around him. Why did they suddenly seem so...eager?

Please leave a review. All comments--yes, negative ones too, so long as they are constructive--are very much encouraged and greatly appreciated. (And they make me happy!) Feedback from the first two chapters has definitely influenced the course of my writing in the next chapters.