Aspects of Aragorn 13 part 1 "King of Men"

[inzilbeth]

Our hero has now reached Lothlorien.

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 12: part 1  King of Men

 

 

   “It came to pass that when Aragorn was nine and forty years of age he returned from perils on the dark confines of Mordor, where Sauron now dwelt again and was busy with evil. He was weary and wished to go back to Rivendell and rest there for a while ere he journeyed into the far countries; and on his way he came to the borders of Lórien and was admitted to the hidden land by the lady Galadriel.

   He did not know it, but Arwen Undómiel was also there, dwelling again for a time with the kin of her mother. She was little changed for the mortal years had passed her by; yet her face was more grave and her laughter now seldom was heard.”

 

 The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen.                                                           Return of the King.

 

 

   He was tired. He ached to his bones with weariness, but somehow he found the strength to keep placing one foot in front of the other, for mile after endless mile. His progress was slow; it had been over three months since he left Harad. It felt even longer, though he had been only too glad to leave those inhospitable, distant lands behind. His time in the far South had been more difficult and demanding than any he had previously known as most of the people who dwelt there had been openly hostile to this stranger from the North. More times than he cared to remember, a stray knife or flailing sabre had nearly claimed his life. And the constant distrust and suspicion that accompanied him where ever he travelled made him feel more of an outsider than ever.

 

   He was making his way back to Rivendell where he hoped to find some much needed rest. Travelling alone was wearying. He could rarely relax his guard and sleep became a matter of brief lapses when utter exhaustion prevented him from keeping his eyelids open a moment longer. His feet were sore and his muscles ached, but, in truth, it was not only his body that needed to heal. He had been gone from the North for nearly half his life. During that time he had fought countless battles and had faced and survived dangers beyond those of even his wildest imaginings. He had learned to study the ways and hearts of men and had discovered the good as well as the evil that dwelt there, but he had also seen, and done, much that still haunted him. His efforts had earned him both honour and renown, but the optimistic and eager young man who had travelled with Gandalf to Rohan, to enlist in the service of Thengel, was no more. Now he longed only for the friendship of his own people and his home.

 

    Home!

 

    His happy memories of his years in Rivendell had succoured and strengthened him through many a hardship, but his childhood now felt distant and remote. He did not doubt the warmth of the welcome he would receive upon his return, but he was not the same man who had left home nearly thirty years ago. His greatest fear now was that he would feel an outsider in Rivendell too, and his joy in the one place closest to his heart would be gone forever. He did not even begin to allow his thoughts to stray to the possibility of meeting Arwen again. Barely a day passed when he did not think of her, but he knew he must guard his heart and curb his desire. To do otherwise would only bring him pain and he had no wish to renew his torment over Elrond’s daughter.

 

    But he sought more from his homecoming than a break from his labours and the companionship of old friends.  He needed to rekindle that unburdened sense of optimism that had come so easily to him as a youth but which rarely flared within him now. But he knew there were no certainties that by simply returning home, he would find what he was seeking.

 

    And if Rivendell could not restore the fire in his heart, where then could he possibly hope to find it? Not in Rohan, not in Gondor, and certainly not in the far South. Always he felt set apart by virtue of who he was and by the secret that he so carefully guarded. He was never able to allow himself to belong anywhere. Even among his own people in the North, who knew him as he truly was and loved him for himself, he could not find the fulfilment and peace he yearned for. At his core was a loneliness that was slowly crushing his heart and his hope. It followed him relentlessly; and he feared that it mattered not where in all Middle-earth he dwelt, it would always be with him and he would have no choice but to learn to live with it and accept it.

 

~oo0oo~

 

   He was taking a gamble with his present route. He had left the plains of Rohan behind him and had entered the southern fringes of Lothlórien. He reasoned this was the quickest and probably the safest way to reach Rivendell, but if admittance to the Golden Wood was denied him, it would be a very long trek back to the Gap of Rohan. In part, it was curiosity that urged him to come this way. Here was his chance to see the legendary realm that he had heard so much about as a child. More importantly, if he was allowed into the guarded land, he would find some relief for his tired and aching muscles, if only for a while. He would be safe in the elven realm and could recover his strength for the still considerable journey to Rivendell.

 

~oo0oo~

 

   Suddenly, out of nowhere, there were three elves standing in front of him, and three arrows pointing straight at his chest. He stood motionless and waited. It was no surprise to him that he had been caught off guard. Such was their skill, the elves would still have taken him unawares even without this mind-numbing lethargy. As the piercing eyes of the Firstborn studied him searchingly, he became increasingly nervous, though he doubted he could not be in any real danger. Perhaps he had dwelt in the company of Men for too long. Slowly he raised his hands; on his finger, worn openly, was the ring that had once belonged to the Lady’s brother.

 

   One of the elves finally spoke. “It is not permitted for any to enter the Golden Wood without permission. Who are you?”

 

   Aragorn considered this question for a moment. Which of the names that accompanied his many guises should he use this time, he wondered. But he knew of no reason to conceal his identity here and so it was that, with no small surge of joy, he spoke aloud the name he had kept silent for so long.

 

   “I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, Lord of the Dúnedain,” he said, with all the dignity he could muster, given how down trodden he knew he must look. On hearing this, the elves spoke softly among themselves, all the while keeping their arrows pointed straight at him. But then the three sentries suddenly lowered their bows and Aragorn’s fears proved groundless.

 

   “That is as we thought,” said the first elf, with a low smile, “though we have seen none of your people in this realm for years beyond count. What brings you to our borders?”

 

   Relieved, Aragorn replied: “I seek only rest. I am journeying to Rivendell, but I have travelled from far to the South and am weary.”

 

   The elf nodded his understanding. “Give me your sword and we will not turn you away.”

 

   Aragorn unstrapped his sword belt and gave it to the elf.

 

   “Come, it is a long way to the city, but we may yet reach it by nightfall,” he said.

 

~oo0oo~

 

   The elves walked on in silence for most of the day, for which Aragorn was grateful; small talk was beyond him right now. But he was not so tired he failed to notice the beauty of the trees around him. The golden mallorns were larger than any tree he had ever seen in all Middle-earth, and the sight of the huge silver trunks, topped by the golden canopy above, left him awed and enchanted. No wonder there were rumours in Rohan about this place, he thought, remembering the tales he had heard of a sorceress with strange powers who dwelt deep within the forest. He could feel that power; it was all around him, even within the very trees themselves. Already he was aware of his step lightening and some of the burden that increasingly had settled on his shoulders easing a little.

 

   After nearly a day’s march, they finally came to the city of Caras Galadhon, and hence to the dwelling of Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. Aragorn found himself climbing a never ending ladder that rose to an impossible height into the largest of the mallorn trees. Near the top he ascended onto a vast raised platform that reminded him of being on board ship. Here he was guided towards two central figures, who rose to their feet as he walked towards them. They were very tall and were dressed all in white; their heads, one of silver and one of gold, shimmered in the twilight. Familiar though he was with noble and lordly elves, he felt overwhelmed by the presence of these two legendary beings. Galadriel’s beauty was beyond compare and the aura that surrounded her held him entranced. However, he remembered his place and bowed low.

 

    “Welcome, lord of the Dúnedain,” said Celeborn. “You are far from your home and I see you are weary, but here you shall find rest and refuge whilst you desire it.”

 

   “Thank you, my lord, my lady,” said Aragorn, still standing meekly with his head bowed.

 

   Galadriel said nothing, but smiling, she stepped towards him and gently raised his chin with her fingertips so she could look into his eyes. She had heard much about this foster son of Elrond’s. Her grandsons loved him as their brother and could not speak of him highly enough. Looking at him intensely now, she could see the nobility in his lean, pale face. For sure the blood of Númenor coursed through this man’s veins. Even exhausted, there was no mistaking the strength of both his body and mind and yet, as she looked into his dull grey eyes, she wondered if what she saw was enough. He was the Hope of his People, and ever did he dutifully strive to fulfil the expectations laid upon him. But this had been a heavy burden to place upon a young man. She could see the toll it was taking on him. His bold and generous spirit was battered and bruised; he had seen many, maybe too many, of the evils of this world already. It was a hard and lonely road that he travelled and that road was still nowhere near its end. If he faltered the consequences could be terrible. He must not fail.

 

   She looked upon him with compassion and understanding. For him there was no ring of power to aid him; he was just a man and whatever strength he possessed, he needed to find from within himself. Galadriel knew it was time to give him some hope for his own future, something to encourage him in the years ahead when desperation and despair would at times threaten to defeat him. Yes, she could see why Elladan and Elrohir loved and respected him so, but it was what her granddaughter felt for this man that concerned her now.

Comments

[lindahoyland.livejournal.com]

I love the way you get inside Aragorn's head here.I don't think I've seen all the troubles that must afflict him portrayed so vividly before.

I also liked your Galadriel as you make sense of her actions to the reader.

[inzilbeth-liz.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much. Returning from the confines of Mordor, he would have seen some terrible things which must surely have affected him greatly. I'm sure the weariness he felt had to be much more than physical tiredness. And Galadriel's motives were very interesting to unravel.I'm so glad it all rang true to you.