Aspects of Aragorn 5 [new] part 1 "Chieftain of the Dunedain"

[inzilbeth]

Here's the new chapter I put on SoA earlier in the week.

I'll post a new, new chapter here in a couple of days!

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

 

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

 

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

 

 

Chapter 5: Chieftain of the Dúnedain

 

 

“He is Aragorn son of Arathorn,” said Elrond; “and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil’s son of Minas Ithil. He is the Chieftain of the Dúnedain in the North, and few are now left of that folk.”

 

 

   This looked as good a place as any. The heap of boulders had once been somebody’s home, but they might still be serviceable as a shelter for tonight. Aragorn picked his way carefully through the roofless space that had probably been the kitchen. The wide chimney breast still stood at one end, the last remnant of the house that was recognisably part of a dwelling. Looking up, he noticed a tangled mass of leaves and twigs protruding from the top of it. That was a good sign; nesting rooks had long ago made it water tight. In the fire place below, there was still a large blackened cauldron lying on its side. He knelt down and stretched his hand behind it, feeling for the rim. If he could remove the pot, the space where once a family had cooked its meals would do well enough as a bed chamber.

 

   The rain had started again as the afternoon had worn on and now he could feel its chill tentacles seeping through to those places where his cloak did not provide adequate protection. He knew he must find shelter. It had been drummed into him over and over that getting soaked through was akin to jumping in front of an orc.  The weather could be just as lethal as any blade. And the very last thing he wanted on his first night away from home was to be taken ill and have to return to Imladris for his father’s care. He would never be able to endure the humiliation.

 

  The pot was heavy, but he managed to twist it sideways. Suddenly a rat sprang out from inside it and ran across his arm, narrowly avoiding landing on top of him. Startled, Aragorn jumped backwards and let out a yelp like a frightened hound. He recovered quickly from the shock though he felt his face colour with embarrassment. Thankfully his brothers had not been there to witness his childish reaction, but he found himself grinning as he imagined the ribbing they would have given him. And justified it would have been too; a fine ranger he made, afraid of an overgrown mouse. But he hesitated before touching the pot again. There might be a whole nest of them in there. He looked at it for a moment and then he had an idea. He unsheathed his sword and, wrapping the blade safely in his cloak, he used the hilt as a hook to drag the pot clear of the hearth. It was empty and, in spite of the unwelcome rodent, the empty space looked inviting enough. If nothing else, it would keep him dry until the rain stopped, although he knew he was never going to get a fire going until it did. But he would manage without; it would not be the first time he had eaten a cold supper.

 

   He removed his bed roll from his back and, spreading it on the bare earth, he crawled into his new bedroom. It was a little cramped, but he was pleased with himself for finding somewhere so suitable. Then his thoughts turned to food. Rivendell’s cook had not sent him off into the wilds empty-handed. He had ample provisions to see him through the next few days at least.  He sat in the entrance of his temporary home and opened his pack. Inside he found the pie that cook had carefully wrapped up for him that morning. He had eaten nothing since he had left home and so he tucked into the delicious pastry with relish.

 

   As he sat enjoying his supper, the last of the daylight fled and darkness descended. There were no stars to brighten the evening and the light of the moon struggled to penetrate the dense cover of the rain clouds. Shadows seemed to grow menacingly from every direction. There was no sound except the gentle patter of the rain falling on the stones around him. Aragorn suddenly felt very small and lonely amid the vast emptiness of Eriador. He had never felt this vulnerable at night when in the company of his brothers. If he got into difficulties, there would be no one to help him now. He was completely alone. With that thought in mind, he very much doubted he would risk closing his eyes that night. In fact he wondered how any solitary ranger ever found rest when out in the wilds.

 

   He was just beginning to convince himself there was nothing to worry about, when he heard a rustle in a thicket of hawthorns away to his left. Instantly, he dropped the pie and, leaping to his feet, he drew his sword. He waited motionless as the moments passed. A fox sauntered into view and looked at him with distain before trotting off into the shadows. Aragorn breathed out and sheathed his sword, feeling a little foolish. He was getting wet again now, so he crawled back into his little den. He finished his meal and sat watching the darkness all around him. His nerves were taut and he jumped at every sound. In the end, he decided not to even attempt to sleep, though he knew he must at some point. He doubted he would manage to last out the week it would take to reach Dírhael without any rest at all.

 

   He was taking the East Road to Weathertop and from there, he planned to bear northwards until he came to the Dúnedain settlement on the edge of the North Downs. Here he hoped to find Dírhael before he set out on the winter patrols. He was looking forward to meeting up with the rangers again, especially as this time he would not be the new recruit, though with his newfound status, he sincerely hoped he would not be expected to lead a patrol. He really did not feel ready to cope with that sort of responsibility; at least not yet. He knew he still had a lot to learn and he wanted time to find his feet first. The whole idea of giving orders, especially orders where men’s lives might depend upon the outcome, was a scary prospect. For the moment, he would be more than happy to simply follow Dírhael’s lead. In fact, he decided, he would be more than happy to follow Dírhael’s lead for the foreseeable future.

 

   The night dragged on and, as he kept his lonely vigil, his thoughts strayed back to Rivendell. He repeatedly reminded himself that he had made a conscious decision not to think of his home. That life was over; this was his life now; he was a ranger, one of the Dúnedain, this was where he belonged.

 

   No, he would not think of his home.

 

   They would all be gathering in the hall of Fire by now, having enjoyed a hot, cooked meal washed down with fine wine. The fire would be blazing brightly. The room would be light and warm and dry. There would be singing and laughter, and dancing maybe. His family would all be there. And Arwen. He reached for his pack, and found the shirt that Arwen had given him earlier today. He held it to his face and buried his head in it, her scent filling his nostrils…

 

   He put it away. No, he would not think of his home. He would dwell on what was to be, not that which could never happen. He was going to live with his people. His mother had told him everything she could about them, but he still had difficulty picturing in his mind what a Dúnedain settlement would be like. He imagined the great cities of Númenor that now lay under the sea to have been magnificent places though he had no such hopes for the Dúnedain dwellings of today. He had already seen some of the sad remains of their once great fortresses. But he knew the Dúnedain in the South still dwelt in the relative splendour of Minas Tirith, even if the domed city of Osgiliath had long since fallen into ruin. He wondered if he would ever get to see those far off cities. A sudden surge of excitement filled him as he thought of all the places he might be able to explore now that he had left home.  Middle-earth was a wondrous place, he thought as he noticed the stars shining for the first time that night. The rain had stopped and the clouds had drifted apart. The beauty of the night brought him an unexpected sense of peace. He was young and his heart was full of hope. He was more than ready for adventure.

 

   Not once did he think of his home again that night.

 

~oo0oo~

 

   A week later a very tired young man was seen wandering, apparently aimlessly, towards the small Dúnedain settlement on the edge of the North Downs. He stopped a couple of miles away to the south and set up his camp. One of the scouts watching from up in the hills went at once to inform Dírhael.

 

   “Keep an eye on him tonight and then, in the morning, take his weapons and find out his business,” said Dírhael on hearing the news. Nobody ever wandered this way by chance; he wondered at the meaning of it. He did not care at all for strangers venturing this close to the settlement, so that night he sent out more men than usual to guard the approaches.

 

   At dawn, the stranger was showing no signs of moving on, so the scout drew his sword and cautiously approached the young man. It had not escaped his notice that the man carried a very long sword of his own. He stopped a distance away and called out: “Speak and declare yourself.”

 

   Aragorn was sitting dozing. He had been trying to summon the will to start his journey again but had succumbed, for a moment, to his body’s craving for sleep. He was desperately tired, he had barely slept since he left home and now he could hardly keep his eyes open. The muscles in his legs were painfully stiff from walking so many miles and his boots were pinching his feet. He did not hear the scout approach until he spoke. Instantly he leapt to his feet and his sword was in his hand. He had become rather adept at this manoeuvre in the last few days.

 

   “Declare yourself,” repeated the scout, hoping his companion was busy taking up his position on the man’s flank. He was very aware of the competent way the young man handled his sword and did not particularly want to tackle him on his own if he could avoid it.

 

   Suddenly there was a shout from up in the trees to the right, a cry that sounded like one of joy. Another scout came bursting into view.

 

   “There is no need for him to declare himself,” the scout cried as he ran towards the newcomer with a wide grin on his face. “I would know this sorry looking excuse for an elf anywhere.”

 

   Aragorn, who had hesitated to reply as he was not sure quite how to introduce himself, watched the ranger leaping down the hill towards him with a mixture of fear and amazement. Then he knew him and his heart leaped.

 

   “Halbarad!”

 

   “Aye, Estel, what a surprise,” said Halbarad as he bounded up to him and slapped him forcibly on the back before drawing him into a rough bear hug.

 

   “Whatever are you doing here? Are the sons of Elrond not with you?”

 

   Aragorn, grinning crazily now with relief at having stumbled across the rangers, happily hugged Halbarad back.

 

   “No, they are not,” he said. “I am considered capable of managing on my own now.”

 

   Halbarad looked at the bags under his eyes and the tiredness all too clearly etched on his face and was rather doubtful, though he said nothing. Then he turned to his companion who stood watching with bemusement.

 

  “All is well, Radhruin. This is my friend, Estel, whom I told you about. He came on the patrol with us last winter.”

 

  Radhruin’s eyes opened wide and he stared at Estel before remembering to stretch out his hand in welcome.

 

   “I have heard a lot about you, Estel,” he said. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

 

   Aragorn took his hand and smiled.

 

   “I am pleased to meet you too,” he said.

 

   “You are a long way from home, my friend,” said Halbarad, “I am surprised at Lord Elrond allowing you to travel so far alone.”

 

   Aragorn looked about him before replying. “Are we anywhere near the settlement?” he asked.

 

   “Yes, it is but a couple of miles away.”

 

   “Then I am not so far from home as you suppose,” said Aragorn. “I do not dwell at the House of Elrond any more. I have come to take my place among my people. I am no longer known as Estel, Halbarad. I have taken my true name at last. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” He knew he probably sounded pompous, but it thrilled him to say those words.

 

   Halbarad hesitated for a moment, and then he did something that amazed Aragorn but also touched him deeply. He suddenly pulled out his sword and dropped to one knee. He took Aragorn’s hand and, pressing his fingers to his lips, he kissed it. “My lord, may I have the honour of being the first to do this?”

 

   Aragorn looked at him in confusion. “Do what, Halbarad?”

 

   “Swear fealty to my lord, of course.”

 

   Halbarad solemnly laid his sword at Aragorn’s feet and with his head bowed, he said his oath. “Here do I swear fealty and service to my lord Aragorn, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need and in plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Halbarad son of Barador.” [1]

 

   Aragorn was greatly moved, though also rather taken aback, at Halbarad’s gesture. He had read of such actions in the great tales that he had so devoured as a child, but it never occurred to him that anyone would actually swear fealty to him.

 

   Rather embarrassed, he said simply.

 

   “Thank you, Halbarad, gratefully do I accept.” Then, not knowing what else to do, and being suddenly moved by a great love for his brother warrior, he pulled Halbarad to his feet and into a tight embrace.

 

   When they parted, Halbarad smiled at him and said: “Come, Aragorn son of Arathorn. It’s time you met your people.”

 

   Aragorn nodded, though now he felt even more apprehensive about doing so than he had before. He wondered if they would all fall at his feet as Halbarad had done.  The two scouts helped him clear his camp and gather up his possessions. The Shards of Narsil clattered noisily as Halbarad stowed them roughly in his pack.

 

   “Whatever have you got in here?” he asked.

 

   Aragorn grinned at him.

 

   “Patience, Halbarad, I’ll show you later, if you like, but not now.” To his surprise, Halbarad accepted this without quibble. Aragorn was fairly certain the young ranger he first met last winter would have insisted he open his pack there and then. Perhaps there was something to be said for being the chieftain. But when the two rangers attempted to carry his possessions for him, Aragorn decided this was taking subservience too far.

 

   “I may be chieftain, but I am perfectly capable of carrying my own pack,” he said as he teasingly admonished them both. He would never have expected it to be otherwise.

 

   Halbarad bowed with a flourish. “As you wish, my lord!”

 

   Then, without further argument, he led the way over the ridge to the settlement beyond. Radhruin reluctantly remained behind on watch duty.