DISCLAIMER: All the places and most of the characters are of Tolkien’s creation, not mine. There is a little dialogue of his in this piece since it is a scene from the Appendices, just to let you know. Please R&R! Enjoy my first fic!!

1: Heir of Isildur

Morning dawned, twilight was broken, and the stars dissipated as the sun’s brilliant light grew in the horizon. Golden shafts of sun fell upon the crystal waters of the Bay of Belfalas setting it alight like a field of diamonds. The light moved over the lands; Rohan’s green fields glimmering as emeralds and still it continued bathing the kingdom of Gondor in a golden haze where the pale stone of Minas Tirith shone once they collided. It followed the Great River Anduin until it reached the bright forests of Lothlórien where the Elves dwelt in lingering peace. It topped the Misty Mountains towering above the Northern lands of Eriador where the snow-caps were set on fire by sunlight and, at last, it reached its swift-spreading fingers to the valley of Imladris where the race of the Elves also dwelt and enemies of the Dark Lord made a fortress. Bubbling streams and rushing rivers sparkled in the morning light of dawn. Old trees of mighty girth stood at their banks spreading into thick forests of lush green. More slender trees were among them and in the gardens of Rivendell where radiant flowers opened up to the sun’s warm brush against their silky petals, and leafy bushes and growth surrounded the brilliant array of colours pleasing to the eye. A fair company rode into Rivendell, travelling the dirt road leading down into the verdant valley where the dwellings of the Elven people gleamed amidst the waterfalls and greenery. Rushing water filled the air alongside the sweet song of the many colourful birds flitting amongst the blossoming trees.

“It is always marvellous to return to Imladris,” murmured an Elven maiden cloaked in rich blue velvet beaded in silver in a pattern of a mighty tree reaching out as far as it was able with its full branches. Beneath the hood of her cloak, eyes of glittering grey shone like reflected moonlight upon water when evening first draws on. Her pale, smooth hands stroked the horse’s white, glossy neck.

“My lady, I understand now why you do not reside in one place only,” said an Elf of her escort. He steered his horse towards the Last Homely House, and they rode beneath the arch at the dwelling’s head. Emerald vines twined around the tall arch of light stone woven above the brown earth. The Elf-maiden hurriedly dismounted, her movements swift and graceful. The others were not as quick to leave their horses. She moved inside with joyful haste and glimpsed dark hair and tall figures down the hall once she removed her hood. Master Elrond was speaking to Erestor, a close advisor and companion.

“Atar!” she said, nearly running to him. Elrond turned round, the severity in his face softening to loving adoration.

“Arwen!” he said as she threw her arms around his neck, and they embraced. “I did not know you had arrived, my daughter.” He stepped back to study her face. “My beautiful daughter.”

Arwen smiled, white teeth gleaming. The white gems upon her brow glinted faintly. “Father, I have missed our evenings near the fire speaking of lore long forgotten. Much has changed in Middle-earth while I walked the woods of Lórien. When duty releases you, we must talk as in days before.”

“Of course,” Elrond said smiling. “For now I must speak with Erestor of things too dark for such a joyous moment. I am glad you have returned.”

Arwen touched his cheek and left her father and Erestor to themselves. She spent the remainder of daylight wandering the beautiful, unmatched gardens of Rivendell. Tumbling waterfalls glinted in the fading light once the sun began to set behind the Misty Mountains in shadow. Arwen found herself in a grove of birches where white blossoms began to close as the sun set. Elrond was pondering or dreading something, she thought as she stepped in a slow gait. He had something to do soon before he could spend time with me. I wonder…

A silver light was in the glade, blossoms bright and open. She suddenly heard a voice quite pleasant to the ear and like unto an elven voice though deeper and clear. She listened as she walked, realising what song it was: the Lay of Leithian. It was a beautiful unveiling in Quenya, and the man who sang it spoke the Ancient Speech well.

What man is this that he should sing so well and sound different as well as alike to an Elf?

Arwen Evenstar watched straight ahead entranced by the voice. Suddenly, it ended the lay and paused a moment before calling, “Tinúviel! Tinúviel!” Arwen halted and turned to see who called her so. She smiled when she saw a young lord standing amidst the trees, his shadowy hair shimmering with starlight and skin pale and smooth. His tunic was dark green and his breeches black as the night. Yet these things were last in her mind. The only thing she could see were his eyes, o his shining eyes! She moved closer.

“Who are you? And why do you call me by that name?”

“Because I believed you to be indeed Lúthien Tinúviel, of whom I was singing. But if you are not she, then you walk in her likeness.”

Fairest among Men and Elves was she, daughter of Elrond. Dark tresses of hair were stirred by the breeze of twilight, and the gems on her brow reflected the glinting starlight so that it seemed stars from the heavens had alighted upon her. Her skin was flawless and radiant in a face untouched by the years where a pair of silver eyes watched with discerning wisdom of long ages of the world.

“So many have said,” she answered gravely. “Yet her name is not mine. Though maybe my doom will be not unlike hers. But who are you?” She had realised just how tall he was once he stood before her, a vision of those Men called Númenóreans from the Elder Days though young he was.

“Estel I was called,” he said, “but I am Aragorn, Arathorn’s son, Isildur’s Heir, Lord of the Dúnedain.”

She laughed merrily and said, “Then we are akin from afar. For I am Arwen Elrond’s daughter, and am named also Undómiel.”

“Often is it seen,” said Aragorn, “that in dangerous days men hide their chief treasure. Yet I marvel at Elrond and your brothers; for though I have dwelt in this house form childhood, I have heard no word of you. How comes it that we have never met before? Surely your father has not kept you locked in his hoard?” Aragorn’s voice was deep and melodious, singing its own song among the trees. Arwen saw his youth–even for a Mortal Man–yet in the quickening evening he appeared as though out of a silver mist fastening the Third Age with the First when legends roamed the earth.

“No,” she said, and looked up at the Mountains that rose in the east. “I have dwelt for a time in the land of my mother’s kin, in far Lothlórien. I have but lately returned to visit my father again. It is many years since I walked in Imladris.” Arwen saw wonder in his eyes and met his keen, brilliant gaze. “Do not wonder! For the children of Elrond have the life of the Eldar.”

Recognition dawned in his eyes as the sun peeks above the mountains at its rising. Arwen smiled still at the youth for he was keen as a newly sharpened blade. There was no need for words or explanation. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had aroused her curiosity for few among Men resembled such long-lost glory. A new light kindled in his bright eyes, and Arwen Undómiel marvelled at what she saw.
* * *
Elrond and Arwen sat in the Hall of Fire nearly alone in a corner. Both did not notice the other’s absence of mind for each was somewhere else. Arwen suddenly looked around and glimpsed Aragorn across the room. His grey eyes flickered with firelight as they quickly turned their attention elsewhere. She smiled faintly and looked down at her lap. Elrond finally woke from his thoughts and looked to his daughter.

“Yendenya, long it has been since you were here last, and it has been long since I visited the Golden Realm. How fare Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn?”

Arwen looked up from her hands. “Well, Atar. They send their greetings to the Lord of Rivendell.” She stood to gaze out of the low window nearby. “Their land is fair, yet I must say Imladris is just as beautiful.”

Elrond smiled and joined Arwen. It had been two days since her arrival in his realm and already she seemed to have never departed from his sight. His daughter was a resplendent star unveiled in the heavens to him for he loved her more than life itself. Ever since her mother Celebrían had sailed into the West, he had grown ever closer to Arwen and her two brothers Elladan and Elrohir. His children were more precious than any rare gem or fertile land.

Arwen slipped a hand as soft as silk into his and gazed up into his eyes. He then recalled the days of her youth when she was only as high as his waist. A slight smile bloomed on his ageless face.

“Atar…you cannot know how marvellous it is for me to be here. Each time I return it grows greater and more beautiful. This may be where my heart truly lies even though I dearly love my kindred in the Southern Realm. Galadriel is of blood, yet…she will never be as dear to me as my father.”

Elrond fingered her dark hair and looked out upon the lands under his rule and authority. He wondered how in such dark times he could feel so blessed and merry.
* * *
The following week a feast was prepared in honour of Arwen’s return to Rivendell. Elrond and the Elves that resided in that glorious place all sat at meat that evening as the sun descended. Much food and drink was served–seeming to be an unending supply–while the gathered Elves laughed and made merry until darkness took the land and stars bloomed in the night sky. In its beginning, Arwen, the Evenstar of her people, sat at Lord Elrond’s right hand while the golden-haired Elf Glorfindel sat at his left. There was also Erestor, Lindir, and others of high council in Elrond’s eyes. They had also lived as many years as Elrond himself or longer even.

There was another near that honoured end of the table. Arwen expected he would stand out dramatically among such high and noble Elf-kindred him being of Mortal blood, yet he somehow seemed to blend if one could ignore his youthful face. Arwen had not noticed until then how handsome Aragorn was for even among the Fair Folk he appeared quite pleasing to the eye. She stole a few glances in his direction when Elrond or Glorfindel was not appealing to her.

Aragorn could not restrain his eyes from wandering towards the fair Evenstar. He found himself staring at times and was glad of the lack of conversation directed his way. Arwen had seen him watching her more than once now, and he felt her knowing gaze fall on him as a tree looks down upon a flower in the ground at its roots.

“Lady Arwen,” said Glorfindel, “it is good to see you once again. How fared Lórien?”

“Well, Glorfindel,” she smiled. “Its gold and silver woods are still a treasure in my heart as well as my kin there.”

Enchanted by her beauty and wisdom, Aragorn dared not speak to her. He felt insignificant beside such a glorious being. He only listened as others questioned her of the Golden Wood ruled by the Lord and Lady Celeborn and Galadriel.

Aragorn may have guarded his eyes more carefully if he would have observed Elrond’s discerning gaze that had fallen upon him when he caught him concentrating on Arwen Undómiel. He suddenly felt a sense of dread seeing a young man, whom he thought of as a son, watch the Evenstar with such intensity…a mortal man. His face did not change, yet he could not help but observe his beloved daughter more carefully.

Arwen forgot the troubles of the world and of Rivendell, allowing herself to fall into mirth and merriment of the night. All was forgotten, the only thing heeded was joy and love.
* * *
Arwen entered Elrond’s study where he sat reading a newly opened parchment with a broken seal. He glanced up when she came before him. She had seen Aragorn near the place earlier and wondered what had set his face in such a gloomy state.

“Elrond…may I inquire as to where Elladan and Elrohir have gone?”

“With the Dúnedain of the North. You know they become restless when Orcs still roam the lands.”

“The only reason I am not with them is the fact that I understand that no matter how many we slay, mother will not return.”

Elrond nodded sadly, dropping the letter to the table. “In that you are wiser, yet I do not believe that is their reason for fighting the evil forces.”

“Of course. They fight for the sake of opposing Sauron and his wicked minions. That I understand, yet I also know that each and every one of you would object to my joining the struggle. Even though I know the bow and sword well, it is not my place to be in battle.”

Elrond met her gaze directly. “You have seen this?”

“I have, for I know that my destiny is quite different from fighting the Enemy’s armies so directly. I am fighting them indirectly even if I am not sure exactly how just yet. Someday it shall be revealed to me and the veil taken away.”

“Someday, yendenya. Each of us has a purpose whether we know it or not. Some never know what they were put here for.”

Arwen wandered over to the sheer drapes separating the outside balcony from Elrond’s study, and they parted at her gentle touch. The spring wind blowing from the West stirred her dark hair tumbling down her back. “There is something else troubling you,” she said quietly when Elrond joined her. “I have seen it swelling inside of you these past weeks, and I yearn to hear it. The first day I arrived especially. What secrets are you concealing within your heart that you dare not share with any of your kindred?”

“Perhaps not with my kindred, yet with a daughter of Men who resides here…for now. This is something for us. You may hear of it…” Elrond cut off abruptly and his brows drew down in a slight frown. “Never mind.” He looked up to find her watching him curiously and holding her mantle of lavender close against her skin. Arwen glimpsed a flicker of fear in her father’s eyes. She had never been anxious in her life until that moment.
* * *
For a time, Aragorn felt his head ache and his heart sing. After Elrond’s talk with him, his heart sang no more. Reality had struck him in the face using his foster-father’s words, and Gilraen, his mother, had not comforted him by almost repeating what Lord Elrond had said. He knew he must depart soon to a life transformed where his life of unawareness must take no part. He knew his true lineage and purpose now, and had to leave behind his peaceful years to engage in trials and tribulations sent to him from the Enemy. He knew what was ahead–to a point–yet faced it without fear, eyes piercing straight ahead into his future. Aragorn stepped into it without hesitation.

The next day he made ready to leave Imladris shining as many gems in the sunlight. Gilraen sorrowfully bid him farewell and Elrond was grim as he watched his foster-son go. Aragorn did not look over his shoulder as he led his horse through the trees. All his young years, he was prepared for this fate: Elladan, Elrohir, and Glorfindel taught him use of weapons and fighting while Elrond, Gilraen, and other Elves instructed him in wisdom, lore, and knowledge. Now that he knew who he truly was, everything began to piece together.

Arwen had been present at his departure. He had had difficulty keeping his attention elsewhere. She was standing behind Master Elrond in shining white and dark hair furled about a face so perfect and beautiful that it filled his vision even while he journeyed up out of the elvish valley. Hope that she would ever find in her heart to love him in return was quickly fading in his spirit.

2: Man of Riddles

Arantar belted on his sword as he moved towards Vorondil who stood watching the dark forest with bright, grey eyes. He was young for a Ranger of the North, and Arantar thought him teetering on paranoid at times, so he was often chosen to keep watch at night.

“Anything?”

Vorondil shook his head without taking away his eyes from the shadows of the early dawn. “Only a herd of deer passing through. No travellers yet.” He shifted uncomfortably.

“What is troubling you?”

“There was little noise last night…barely a rustle when there should be all sorts of night creatures. The deer were a surprise to me. Surprises are not good.”

Their swords flew out of their sheaths when an unfamiliar voice spoke out of the darkness.

“Then you will forgive me for coming upon you like this.”

Arantar whirled around to face the man, but realised from the voice it was a youth younger even than Vorondil. He lowered his blade and gazed sternly on him. Vorondil did the same though he kept his sword prepared for an attack. It was not until then that Arantar truly saw the stranger. He threw back his hood before they could react further, and both Rangers held their reserve but gripped the hilts of their swords tighter. The stranger was quite young, yet he bore himself as one of great nobility. Arantar was astounded at how similar the man looked to one of the Dúnedain blood.

“Forgive me for coming upon you without warning, yet I fear my task is an important one,” he said. “I search for the Dúnedain of the North.”

“You have found them,” Arantar said, marvelling at the young man’s voice and appearance. He not only upheld himself as a high lord would, but spoke and looked as one. He had never seen a handsomer youth or such sharp eyes he felt sliced to his soul. They were grey, piercing eyes with a glance full of wisdom and knowledge surprising for one his age. And to think…he, in fact, had come upon them without their knowing. This was near impossible for Rangers are the most skilled in tracking, observing their surroundings, and keenest in hearing and sight. This young man, who could be only twenty at the oldest, had stolen up behind them when not even a spy of the Enemy could. Arantar remembered the only two who had ever achieved such a feat were the sons of Elrond: the Elves.

“If you would grant us your identity, we will hear you out,” said Vorondil.

“Granted.” He paused as if wondering if he should continue. “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn of the Dúnedain. I have come to search out those of my kindred for I will be in hiding no longer.” He had lowered his voice considerably so that only they could hear.

The two other men exchanged startled glances. Could it truly be the descendant of the Chieftains of their people who they had thought dead long ago? Their last leader had been slain eighteen years ago by Orcs and had been an excellent captain to them, yet no one had known if his two-year-old son was alive afterwards.

“How is this?” Vorondil asked. He was always wary beyond thought.

The man who named himself Aragorn was in no way insulted or taken aback by their distrust or non-belief. He leaned on one foot with a hand on the pommel of his sword. “My kin, if I were of the Enemy’s making, you would surely know it.”

Arantar caught a glimmer of sparkling green that briefly reflected in the sunlight upon Aragorn’s right hand. “My lord!” he cried kneeling at once. “I am ever at your service.” Vorondil knelt more slowly for he had not seen the ring on his finger.
“You bear the Ring,” said Arantar. “You truly must be the one we lost.”

The younger Ranger’s eyes searched Aragorn’s hands, and when he saw the Ring of Barahir–two serpents swallowing the other’s tail, crowned with gold, and with eyes of emeralds–he lowered his eyes and pledged himself to the younger man…if not as eagerly.

“Thank you, my friends,” said Aragorn bidding them stand. “You have more faith than I could have hoped. There is no need to kneel and bow for you are my kindred and my own people.”

“It is with delight I greet our new Chieftain,” said Arantar. “Are you to…?”

Aragorn raised a hand. “I do not think to grasp the lead of our people so abruptly. It will be strange for them. They will…” He stopped, gazing around them. “Let us leave this place. We must speak of these things where no unfriendly ears may listen. We may have spoken too much already.”

The two Rangers snapped back to their normal fashion and listened as Aragorn told them how he wished to visit the Dúnedain settlement where most the women and children lived. He did not tell them, but Gilraen had wished for him to speak with someone she knew of old. He also needed to see his people. His people.

The three men, one surprisingly taller and younger than the others, moved silently through the trees as shadows move between the branches. They halted beneath a particularly large tree with a mighty girth. Arantar made the sound of a lark, and two men cloaked in dark green moved out of the shadows of the trees. They spoke quietly a little ways apart from the other two, and Arantar beckoned them to follow.

Vorondil had seen everything before, yet Aragorn watched all with piqued interest. His keen eyes caught things that the others had hardly noticed. The men were leaving booted tread in the soft earth beneath the trees, so Aragorn pointed it out to them. “You leave tracks,” he said loud enough for them to hear. All four turned round to stare at him.

One of those they had newly met glanced at the others. “We are mortals, young one.” He grunted a laugh. “Only Elves leave no trail to follow.”

Aragorn laughed and continued walking, passing them where they stood still. They all watched as his feet, booted as they were, left no footprints or any sort of trace in the ground. They all gazed ahead to where Aragorn had halted.

“Are you all coming or not?”

They exchanged bewildered looks with each other before catching up to him. The man who had mocked Aragorn stepped up to walk beside him. “You are a strange fellow, young one. I do believe our eyes have been cheated by an Elf. You are of the Elven kindred? You speak and move as one of their own.”

“Nay, I have only a little of their blood. I am a mortal, yet as you yourself said…only Elves leave no trail to follow.” He smiled and fell silent as they came to a sparser bit of forest where the borders of the Dúnedain settlement began. The two Rangers in green they had met were sentries keeping watch during the day.

The trees broke to a large clearing there in the mountains where small dwellings of stone and wood were built. Smoke rose from many of the stone chimneys rising to the tree-tops above and little of it escaped. There were people–all dark-haired and pale-eyed–moving from one building to the next or walking down the few paths there were. These were a people diminished once the greatest of Men, wealthy, and unchallenged among all in Middle- earth.

Aragorn felt sorrow build up enough that his eyes became wet with tears that did not fall. His kindred had fallen all the way to this; in his heart, he swore to bring them back up again no matter what it took…even if he must sacrifice all he had to do it. They deserved better.

“My lord.” Arantar cleared his throat. “The day grows old. We will get some food and rest tonight. Are you coming?”

Aragorn did not look at him for he continued to watch the men and women. “Yes. Yes, I am coming.”

They came to a place where Rangers stayed when they returned from their years or months in the forests and mountains of the North. The building they were in was similar to an inn like those in Bree and Esgaroth. Women cooked for the men gladly and rare smiles were brought up for their generosity. Aragorn was heartened when he saw the warmth that flowed from the dwelling and that people were only stern of face from the hardships they had born. Through them all, these people had persevered and travailed little, becoming the hardiest race of Men to live since the First Age. The Enemy could not break them completely.

Aragorn, Vorondil, and Arantar bid farewell to the two who had accompanied them. They both watched Aragorn curiously, yet said nothing more. Aragorn nodded to them as they walked out the door. The three left sat at a round table in a corner near a fire burning in the hearth. The crackling flames reminded Aragorn of the long nights in the Hall of Fire in Rivendell where the Elves sang and told tales long forgotten among most Men.

“You have a distant look in your eyes,” said Arantar when he looked to the younger man. “Something plagues your thoughts?”

“Of sorts,” he murmured.

When he would say no more, Vorondil now pressed. “Well, man? What is it?”

“Imladris. Glorious realm of the Elves and one of the last strongholds against the Dark Lord.”

“You have been there?”

He smiled. “That is where I was raised, my friends. Twenty years at least. I have left now to take up the burden born to me.”

They both stared at Aragorn. He truly was an incredible find if he was really who he claimed. They forgot their wonder when a young scullery maid approached, asking if they were up to a fine meal after travelling so far. Aragorn was still far away when the maid glimpsed his young, handsome face; she knew herself to be only a few years younger. Her eyes sparkled when she saw him.

“Where have my lords journeyed from this day?”
Arantar had to answer. “Near the Ford of Bruinen, good miss.” He motioned to Aragorn. “This lad brought us all this way.”

Aragorn looked up then to find the pretty maid watching him with quite a lot of interest. Her dark blue eyes glittered mysteriously in the firelight, yet to her he was even more mysterious the way he sat silent and brooding. His grey eyes drew her in without knowing it. You shall neither have wife, nor bind any woman to you in troth, until your time comes and you are found worthy of it. He shuddered at Elrond’s words recalled and forced a polite smile. “Yes, I did. Do you know a woman by the name of Niorwen?”

“Niorwen? Yes, she lives not far from here deeper in the trees. It’s not difficult to find for they have a blue door and…” she paused, “…well, you will see. I’ll not trouble you with it until after you’ve all eaten properly.” She flashed him a bright smile and left to fetch food and drink.

Arantar and Vorondil smiled secretively until they remembered his question.

“What do you want of Niorwen?” Vorondil asked, his face becoming stern again.

“Lady Gilraen wishes me to see how she fares after all these years.”

Arantar looked up sharply. “Gilraen? She lives?”

“Aye, she is my mother! She resides in Rivendell for the time being until she returns to her people.”

“We thought her and her child lost when Arathorn was slain,” said Arantar. Aragorn’s face darkened. “He was your father then. I should have recalled all of this earlier. Forgive me for doubting a bit longer.” He glanced down at Aragorn’s hand on the table. “That alone should prove it more than anything.”

Aragorn spun the Ring about his finger absently and shook his head. “I should put it away while I am here for these people will recognise it.”

“And that is a reason why you should keep it on,” said Vorondil leaning forward. “Then our people will recognise their true leader returned from hiding in his childhood. We need you, Aragorn. All of us do.”

“I cannot walk into the open so boldly yet for this is barely the beginning for me, my friends.” He could say no more for the maid laid a tray on the table with fine cuts of meat, slices of warm bread and butter, and little fruit.

“There you are,” she said in her crystal voice. She pulled her dark brown hair over her shoulder as she made a study of Aragorn’s high cheekbones and chiselled arms resting on the table.

Vorondil hid his smile with a lowered head, and Arantar thanked the young maiden warmly, who only briefly looked his way.

When she left with a somewhat mirthful appearance, Arantar picked up a piece of bread. “And you do not take interest in women who take interest in you. You only did what was courteous, and you did not attempt to conceal that fact. You are a strange young man, Aragorn.”

“That is something I wished to mention,” said Aragorn. “My name must be hidden as it once was.”

“You will pick up one along the way,” Vorondil smiled, “yet you avoid Arantar’s inquiry.”

Aragorn surprised them then by looking up and meeting each of their gazes directly and intently. “There is no mortal woman upon this earth who will take my notice, and I shall leave it at that. That is one thing I forbid you to speak of.”

An image of Arwen Evenstar clothed in silver and blue gliding among the birch trees when twilight drew on, her hair a waterfall of shadows cast about her and her skin pale and glowing, had filled his mind like a sweet perfume fills ones senses as its wearer passes close by. Hope rekindled in his heart when he remembered her eyes when he bid all farewell; there was melancholy and a certain regret that he had not seen before.

“All right then,” said Vorondil. “If that is your wish.”
* * *
Aragorn lay on his bed, hands beneath his head in a tangle of dark hair gazing up into the stars through a window there in the room. It was small and quaint but comfortable with only a bed, table and chair, and shelf. He had brought up an oil lamp and some candles to light the room yet had ended up satisfied with the stars shining down from the rich violet heavens.

The scullery maid had approached him afterwards with directions to Niorwen’s home…and more. She had tried all she could to get his attention, but he refused to budge. She might as well have sent her warm smiles to a boulder on the hillside. He knew he might seem rude, although, if he would have so much as smiled or seemed welcome she would have thought him open to her flirting. He had asked Arantar if all the young maidens of the Dúnedain were so. He had laughed and said he had never seen one act so flirtatious except around Aragorn. He had then stopped laughing to eye Aragorn up and down.

“Yes,” he had said, “only around you, Aragorn.”

“There is only one,” he murmured into the night breeze that wafted through his window. “Only one, and she is far away where the borders are safe.” He closed his eyes to allow sleep to overcome him. “May she remain that way.”
* * *
Aragorn woke early the following morning to miss the scullery maid and to find Niorwen’s home in the forest. He followed the maiden’s directions and approached a small place nestled between the trees where the shadows of the leaves danced. He rapped lightly on the door hoping everyone woke at such an hour when the sun first rose. His hope was satisfied when a middle-aged woman opened the door a crack.

“Yes?” she said warily, eyeing him up and down. “Who calls at such an early hour?”

“The son of Lady Gilraen,” said Aragorn.

The woman’s eyes gleamed, and she beckoned Aragorn to enter. “Tell me your name, lad, and what has become of Gilraen. We may speak without bother here.” She had him sit in a room where a small hearth stood against the wall of dark timbers. “In all my years…you are the greatest surprise I shall ever know.” Aragorn thanked her. She seemed lost in thought once they sat. “And you look like your father.” Her voice lightened. “A handsomer man could not exist.”

He laughed merrily. “The Dúnedain are well spoken indeed! I have no need of such compliments.”

“Then tell me…is Gilraen living?”

“Yes, and living well. She resides in Rivendell with Master Elrond.”

“Rivendell. I never thought to hear of our kindred dwelling in such a place. That is where you have been, yes?”

“Yes. My mother sends word. She hopes you are well and that all goes well with you here. She misses your company at times,” he said.

Niorwen nodded sadly and wrung her hands. Wrinkles were beginning to show in the pale skin. “As do I. When you return, or see her again, tell her our time spent together was not in vain. She is of the greatest companions a woman could have. Tell her that.”

“I shall,” said Aragorn. “I am sure she would say the same of you.”

“I would hope so. Your mother was ever so kind and generous to others. I hope to see her again one day. Such a noble woman with such a noble son.” She smiled, breaking the hardness of her face. “I know who you are.”

Aragorn looked up to meet her gaze. “What do you mean, my lady?”

“Your father was Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and Gilraen his wife. The Rangers of the North have been long without a true leader. Have you returned to us to relieve them of this trouble?”

He gazed down at the floor and rubbed his hands together. He shook his head slowly. “My fate lies before me, yet I cannot see it. I am young to lead such a noble people. For a time I shall journey with them and perhaps in some years from now…I will take up the responsibility.”

Niorwen nodded as if that were the answer she hoped to hear. “You are wise beyond your years, but you forget yourself as a young man does. May I hear your name?”

Aragorn gave a start. “Forgive me! I had not thought. I am Aragorn, though I shall have another name soon enough for my own safety.”

Aragorn and Niorwen spoke for a time of Gilraen and other things, and she did not again mention anything of his lineage for which he was thankful. After an hour or more passed, Aragorn rose to leave.

“Thank you for coming,” said Niorwen. “It means more to me than you may know to hear from Gilraen…and her son.”

“Then I am glad to have come,” he smiled after bowing over her hand.

“Such formality as well.” Her eyes sparkled. “Be careful of the young women in the village.”

His cheeks flushed slightly as he cleared his throat. “I already have had an…encounter. A young woman at the inn found me to her liking, I suppose.”

Niorwen laughed quietly as they walked to the door. She reminded Aragorn of his mother when she laughed and smiled; something Gilraen had not done of late. “I bid you farewell, my lady, for I will soon be among the Rangers of the North travelling the Wild. I may not see you again for some time.”

“Or ever. My only wish is that you remember my words for Lady Gilraen,” said the elder woman.

Aragorn departed her home and thought on what she had said. As he was making his way down the dirt road running through the settlement, he was stopped by an old woman with eyes shining with amazement.

“Young man,” she said in a soft voice, “may I inquire as to your name? You…remind me of someone.”

Aragorn hesitated. “My name would not be known to you, lady. I have travelled from afar though I am of your blood, and I have not been seen before. You must be mistaken or…I only resemble someone you know.”

“It was a man long years ago. He had visited this place at times when he was not leading our men in the Wild. His name was Arathorn. Does that mean anything to you?”

“I have heard his name many times. He was the last Chieftain. I have business to attend to, my lady. Good day.” Aragorn left her standing in the road with a warm smile until he was further away. His face then hardened, and he lifted a hand to his brow. He did not know how long he would have to conceal his identity, yet he hoped it was not much longer than now.
* * *
That night, Arantar and Vorondil found Aragorn sitting against a tree watching the stars. Arantar drew in a sharp breath when he caught sight of the youth. His shadowy hair hung to his shoulders, glimmering with moonlight, and his eyes pierced the shadows of evening. His long legs were stretched out before him, and he fingered a wild flower blossom he had found nearby in long, pale hands. Arantar had not seen the work of those hands with a sword, yet he had no doubt that the young man had to be an excellent swordsman if he had dwelt with the Elves, walked without leaving traces, and crept upon Rangers without them knowing. The lean muscle of his arms also told of his skill.

“Come friends!” he said without turning his head. “The stars are unveiled and glorious. Have you not looked at them?”

“You are a strange man, Aragorn. You have an elven ring to your voice, you appear as one of the Fair Folk, you make no sound nor footprints, and you watch the stars as Men did in tales of old. And you tell me you are not of the Elven kindred?” said Arantar.

A rich laugh escaped Aragorn’s throat. “What do you expect from one who was half-raised by them? Come and sit! It is not only Men of old that gazed into the heavens to see the glittering stars. Do you not ever stop to see what surrounds you? I often do when everything slows in the world. It gives me peace to still see them shining as bright as ever even when darkness closes in on Middle-earth. There is always a beam of hope.” His voice had softened suddenly.

Arantar reluctantly sat beside him with Vorondil following more slowly. They watched their new companion with renewed interest for he never seemed to fail to reveal something new of himself; however, Arantar knew in his heart that he would never fully understand the man or see all the folds of his cloak.

“We came to inform you that you are to accompany a group of three Rangers that are here when they pass from this place into the mountains and forests of these lands. I had spoken to them of you and…well…that you were of our own blood and wished to truly become one of us. I have no doubts that you will do well among them.”

“I grant many thanks to you, Arantar. You have done me a great service,” said Aragorn, tearing away his gaze from the dark heavens. “All of our people shall soon know of my true identity. I think it is time for I feel pressed upon, though I may not lead everyone and our forces just yet.”

“Do you wish me to announce it, my lord? It can be done tonight.”

Aragorn paused for a moment. “Yes. That would be good.”

“It is done then.”
* * *
Atar: father
yendenya: my daughter