Guilt wrecked him for inside for what he did to Silwin.
Lord Silwin had been a councilor in the court of Lothlorien. He should not have punched him so.
Aragorn believed Silwin's followers would come at him for retribution and deduced that he would not be safe in this land anymore. While he should not have been provoked so easily, he had given in to anger. He had spilled blood in the Golden Wood, something that had never happened for many ages.
Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel would be disappointed in him.
He didn't wish to stay here anymore. If he did, he feared more elvish blood would be spilled.
And so he had run as fast as he could. North and south.
He would make for Imladris where he felt homely.
Despite Arwen's presence here, somehow it refused to feel like home. Despite the timeless beauty of the Golden Wood, somehow it refused to feel safe. Some of the elves hated him enough to want him dead. The others had stood quiet. Their reasons were valid as they did not wish for any kinslaying, but should they not have stood up for what was right and what was wrong?
He would miss Arwen, but he had to leave. It would be best for her if he did. Many of the elves, even those who accepted him, looked with hurt on their companionship. Maybe they were right. Maybe their union was not meant to be.
A sigh escaped his lips.
He would make his way silently to the Dimrill Gate and then over the Redhorn pass into Hollin and then northward to Imladris.
It had been a challenge to pass the supervision around the region he had come to know as the Naith. Many of the elves from the borders had been gathering there as though in preparation of war and to protect Caras Galadhon. His brows furrowed at such a gathering.
He accepted the challenge though and thought it was good use of the skills he had learned from the elves on the elves themselves. He had succeeded in surprising the Dunedain and the Rohirrim in the south, but if he could flummox the elves, that would be some achievement.
He sneaked his way behind many tents, trying hard not to make much noise. Crouching, and crawling sometimes, he made his way ever northward. Although, at times, he had to move to the west a little.
Very soon, he came to the front of the elven ranks. So far he had succeeded in his quest. And he was about to heave a sigh of relief when he heard two elves stopping in front of him. A tree was all that separated him from the two elves.
He quickly hid behind the tree whereas the elves looked here and there. "Who's there?" one of the elves cried loudly in the elven tongue.
"Come out, come out, whoever you are," the other elf said.
He cursed. If these elves started shouting loudly, they would draw everyone in the vicinity to the spot, and then there would be no hiding.
"What's it?" another elf came from the trees above, dropping to the ground from flet to flet.
"I think there's something in the woods," the elves cried in unison.
"Well, be that as it may," the newcomer said, "there's war on our eastern borders. The orcs have penetrated Egladil."
"What!" the two elves remarked.
"However, the elvish army gives battle at the Girdle around Caras Galadhon. You two have been summoned to the Lord Commander's tent."
"Aye!" they nodded and left, though giving the tree doubtful looks.
The newcomer too did the same and hurried up the mound where the commander's tents were.
Aragorn breathed a deep sigh and then looked upward at the trees. He had to be careful. The elves of Lorien rarely set foot on the ground. They lived among trees, building flets on them. They would also most probably fight from the trees.
He wondered now if he could really escape.
What if any elf saw him moving in the forests? Would they shoot him before they knew who and what he was?
He shook his head and cursing how he had forgotten that the elves had far-sight.
He turned south-west as he figured it would be easier to reach the River Celebrant. It was also known as Silverlode amongst some, but the elves called it Nanduhirion. Once on the banks, he would tread towards the West and then past a lake called Mirrormere and then up the Dimrill Stair.
Breathing deep, he raced in the southwestern direction, hoping to reach the river before dawn.