A/N: special thanks to Peredhil Lover for giving me the inspiration for this story.

I've borrowed some ideas from The Hobbit for the troll scene, but for the most part, I've taken some liberties.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are not mine; they belong to the Tolkien Estate, New Line Cinema and other interested parties. I'm just borrowing them for the moment, and when I've finished, I'll give them back. Honest!

Dark, heavy clouds threatened rain above the Coldfells north of Rivendell, but the sons of Elrond and their companion continued on towards their campsite. It was but a few leagues away, and they expected to arrive there before the storm broke.

“We must be very careful, Estel,” said Elladan sternly, “for this is troll country.”

“We could easily slay a troll,” said Estel, brimming with confidence. “It would be no hard thing for the sons of Elrond.”

“Ai, Estel,” Elrohir replied, bitterness tainting his laugh, “you know nothing of trolls. They are at least ten feet tall, massive in girth and made of something like stone. Many Elves and Men of high renown have they slain.”

“I thought they were truly made of stone,” said Estel with a frown. “What are they made of?”

“No-one knows,” Elladan told him. “Trolls are the spawn of Morgoth, and turn to stone when exposed to sunlight. They are wicked and very cruel; and killing them is no easy task.”

“I heard they had names like people,” said Estel, who was eager to learn about monsters, and hoped to slay one some day. “Do they have names like people, Elladan?”

“I have never thought to ask such things, and it matters little to me anyway,” Elladan asserted. “All I know is that, when they take hold of Elf or Man, they tear him limb from limb for sport, then roast or boil the poor wretch, whether he be dead or alive at the time.”

“They did that to Arador,” Elrohir added, a dark look in his eye. “We came too late to save him. It burns my heart to think of it.”

Estel went quiet. It was one thing to dream of doing great deeds one day like a hero of old, but when he saw in the eyes of his brothers the horror of the evils they had faced, he could no longer think of slaying monsters as a sporting challenge. After a while, he asked, “What happened to Arador?”

Elladan sighed. He composed himself, clearly upset by the memories that bubbled to the surface of his mind. He took a deep breath and said, “It is dreadful to think of, Estel, but I shall tell you so you will understand why even the Elves fear them.

“Arador was a Dúnedain chieftain who dwelt in Eriador. He was a scion of Númenor, a brave warrior... and our friend. One day, he went riding out here with a few of his men, for word had come to them that trolls were attacking travellers who passed this way. I presume he thought that he would be safe during the day, but it was a day like this: dim and overcast. One of the Men survived, and told us that, as he rounded the corner of that spur over there, two trolls leapt out and set about them. He said it was as if two huge lumps had broken away from the hill and attacked them. They came out roaring and frightened the horses. In fact, the Man's life was spared because he was riding at the rear of the party. His horse bolted and bore him nearly all the way back to Eriador before he was able to regain mastery of the beast.

“Elrohir and I were out upon errantry, and saw the Man struggling to bring his horse to a halt. We rode over and helped to calm the beast down. The Man told us what had happened, and we rushed to render what aid we could, though we knew it was already too late.”

Estel wondered at the lines that deepened on his brother's face as he spoke of this horror. Though Elladan was stern by nature, he was also a gentle, loving person and his face was as fair as any Elf's. Now he looked older, careworn, and very sad. A rush of pity flooded Estel's heart, and he leaned over in his saddle to pat his brother's arm.

“The Man came with us to the place where the trolls had come forth,” said Elrohir, picking up the thread of the story, “and there we found some of the Men's gear scattered about. We got down from our horses to see if we could find any indication of where the Men might be, when a scream rent the air, followed quickly by another. We got back on our horses. I blew my horn to call for aid and to frighten our enemies.

“When we reached the place the screams came from, we saw a sight so vile it chills our blood to this day. Just around the corner of that spur Elladan pointed out, there is a small wood. A short distance in, there is a clearing, and near that clearing is a cave. In that cave, the trolls had their lair. There they hid the goods they stole from Elves and Men. We went to the clearing and found parts of Men scattered around; every blade of grass was covered with their blood. One of the Men still lived, though both his arms had been torn off.”

“Was it Arador?” asked Estel, with bated breath.

“No,” replied Elladan, a tear rolling down his cheek. “We thank the Valar that his end was swift. A fire burned in the middle of this horror, and on it was the limbless body of a Man being roasted on a spit. I will say no more, for the memory upsets me too much.”

“What about...?” asked Estel, but Elrohir interrupted him. “We gave him something for the pain, and he died there in the clearing. The trolls were gone; I think they went into the cave, fearing our wrath. I did not look until a few days later, when we brought some strength of Men here to root them out. We took the remains of the Men the trolls had killed and buried them with honour. Their barrow is a few leagues hence.”

“Did you find them?” asked Estel. “The trolls, I mean?”

“No,” replied Elladan with a sniffle as he wiped his tears away with the back of his hand, “they were long gone when we arrived with the other Men. That was when we found the cave and all the treasure. We divided it up among the Men, for we had promised them a share of anything we found, and they helped us to complete our sad task of burying the dead. There were many bones in that clearing.”

“Is that why we are here today?” asked Estel. “To hunt trolls?”

“We are but seeking signs of them, Estel,” said Elrohir. “You are yet untried in battle, and we would not risk our little brother in such an enterprise. We will search the clearing tomorrow, when there is less danger of being caught. If we see any bones or other signs that the trolls have returned to this place, we will go and get help to destroy them.”

“That is wise,” said Estel quietly, chastened by the thought of having upset his brothers. “I am sorry I grieved you so.”

“We are grieved at the cruelty of the trolls,” said Elrohir, his voice sober, “and the loss of our friends in such a manner. Would that they had grown to old age and died peacefully in their beds. That would be much easier to bear; but we live in evil times, and wickedness oft goes unpunished.”

“We will punish them,” Estel affirmed. “I will do my part and we will defeat them together.”

“If we can,” said Elladan. “They are cunning and very strong. If we do come across one, Estel, you must be careful, for 'tis better to be a living mouse than a dead wolfhound.”

The spur that Elladan had indicated earlier was just ahead of them now, and a fine rain began to fall as they approached it. As they continued on their way, an oppressive silence weighed down on them.

“It is too quiet,” said Estel, who was looking warily around. “I hear no birdsong, and see no signs of animals moving about.”

He had been on patrol with the Elves before, but in places that were reasonably safe. This place had a whiff of doom about it. The air was heavy and the feeling of being watched was a constant sensation that gnawed at his nerves, stretching them to breaking point.

“Aye,” said Elladan, “I also feel the silence. 'Tis more than the weather keeping them still.”

“The tale of Arador seems real to me now, as if the memory was my own,” the young Man said.

“Then be sure to heed the warning in it,” answered the Elf, the image of his brother, who rode at the rear. “Be very careful. They can strike without warning, and the lack of light may tempt them out of their caves.”

The stillness all around them lay like a blanket on the group, who quickened the pace of their horses, anxious to get away if they could.

“Elrohir,” said Estel, fearing to bring a similar fate upon himself as had befallen on the Dúnedain chieftain, “I think they are waiting for us. They know we are coming.”

“It would be better to keep quiet lest your chatter bring them forth,” said Elladan with a deep frown.

“Yes, Elladan,” replied Estel, contrition in his tone. A tight feeling was building up inside him, slowly crushing his lungs. He was finding it increasingly hard to breathe. Finally, he realised he had been holding his breath.

“It was just around this corner, where the spur of the hill cuts into the road,” said Elrohir. “Beware, for they can move quickly, despite their great size.” He pulled his reins in tight, halting his horse, and dismounted.

The others stopped too, waiting for Elrohir to tell them it was safe to proceed. Elrohir bade his horse keep still, then crept along, climbing up the hillside as he did so.

The other two pulled out their weapons, ready to strike at a moment's notice. Estel's senses were sharpened by the impending danger; he was aware of every sight, sound and smell. There was something ahead of them, just around the corner – he could feel it!

“I heard it from one of the survivors,” said Elladan, loudly.

'Be quiet, you fool!' thought Estel. 'Do you want to bring them all out to slay us?' He dared not say such a thing out loud. The son of Elrond sounded as if he was preparing to sit down and eat, not preparing to face a deadly foe. Subterfuge? Probably. Of course! Elladan wanted to cover any sound his brother made as he crawled along, an inch at a time.

“They were waiting in ambush around the corner, and as he rode along, one of them leapt out and seized him by the neck. He had no chance to defend himself, and there was nothing the other Dúnedain could do. He died instantly, and that was a mercy, for trolls are cruel – no better than beasts,” said Elladan. “They have no honour.”

The young Man found it hard to suppress a grin. Clearly, Elladan was trying to provoke them. “I hear they stink like swine and have no manners,” Estel declared, an impish expression on his face. Arador would be avenged if there were indeed trolls lying in wait for them. Surely there was nothing to fear if the sons of Elrond were there.

“I think they are disgusting,” said Elladan, who watched his brother with a careful eye, an arrow nocked in his bow.

Estel grinned his approval, then turned to observe his foster-brother's progress.

Elrohir moved upwards, the blade of his drawn sword flashing dully in the twilight. The others watched him, tense at the prospect of battle, ready for anything. Elrohir continued, making his way to the top of the spur very carefully while his companions talked loudly, apparently making plans to stop and rest. He stopped near the top and turned around, nodding.

“I think we should make camp here,” said Elladan. “This looks like a good place.”

“I will go and gather firewood,” said Estel, remaining on his horse.

Suddenly, a pair of hill-trolls rushed out roaring. Ten feet tall with bulging arms as long as their bodies, they attacked with surprising speed. They brandished clubs made from tree trunks, and ran forward, lashing out, and tried to swipe the travellers from their mounts.

Estel's horse reared up, giving the young Man a bit more height. He sliced the nearest troll's throat. It dropped its club, and Estel stabbed it in its big round belly as Elladan shot it.

The other one swung at Elladan, who leapt off his horse and shot it in the shoulder. It howled in agony, its small mean eyes shut tight, and lashed out again. Elladan shot it in the chest this time; he pulled arrow after arrow out of his quiver and shot them again and again.

Elrohir leapt down from his vantage point and slashed the first troll's hamstring. It roared, raising its rocky head. Estel, who was still on horseback, drove his sword into the troll's belly where he had wounded it before. It collapsed in a heap, black blood gushing out in a steaming stream as Estel rode around it, turning back to help his brothers.

He saw Elrohir hamstring the other troll while Elladan shot it over and over again. Estel raced towards them and swiped at the trolls' neck as it collapsed. Then he helped his brothers to finish it off. Only Elven blades could have cut through the thick, stony skin of the trolls, and the three warriors found it very hard to dispatch them. Eventually, the trolls stopped moving, and the warriors ended their fight.

The three of them stood panting for a moment over the corpses of the trolls. Estel wiped the sweat off his brow. “Do you think they were the ones who slew Arador?” he asked them.

“I do not know,” replied Elrohir, “but I am glad you are here, Estel. Surely you are a scion of the Dúnedain, for you are truly as noble and brave as they are!”

“Aye, Estel,” added Elladan. “You have distinguished yourself today, and Adar shall know of it.”

TBC...

The journey back to Rivendell was uneventful, but Estel's mind was occupied with thoughts of what Elrohir had told him.

“Surely you are a scion of the Dúnedain, for you are truly as noble and brave as they are!”

The words kept thundering through his mind like the waterfalls at Rivendell. His earliest memory was the kindly face of his liege lord as Elrond picked him up for the first time. Rivendell had been his home all his life. Who was his father, if not Elrond? He felt sick inside, as if he had been walking on a solid floor and it had unexpectedly given way. He was falling, falling, and there was no-one to catch him.

“You are quiet, Estel,” said Elrohir as he rode alongside. “You have been thus since we killed those trolls.”

“It might have been something you said, Elrohir,” said Elladan.

“Aye,” said Elrohir, contrition in his voice. “'Twas in the heat of the moment I said it, brother.”

“That is ever the way with you, brother,” Elladan retorted sternly.

“I always knew your father was not mine,” Estel told them. He felt bad enough as it was. The last thing he wanted was to hear the twins bickering all the way home. “But I did think he was my sire.”

The words had been said, and could not be taken back. A great gulf separated them now, though they rode close together. After a while, Elladan said, “Estel, our father would not, could not betray our mother. Do you not understand our ways?”

Estel said nothing in return. What his bro... what Elladan had told him was true, after all. Was he asking too much? Finally, he replied, “It never occurred to me to ask until now: am I a bastard?”

“Where did you hear that word, Estel?” asked Elrohir. His glare could have fried an egg. Few could withstand it.

“Among the men of Esgaroth,” Estel answered. “They said that of a Man who wanted to wed with a woman of the town, the daughter of one of the merchants. The one who said it told him he would not see his daughter joined with a bastard, whose father was most probably an Orc, for no-one knew who he was.”

“That was a grave insult,” said Elladan. “What happened next?”

“The Man answered, 'Speak not of my provenance, Egil. How can you see where you are going while you are looking over your shoulder? Those who look backwards cannot go forwards. Surely there is more to a Man than his family tree.'

“And Egil replied, 'I will not speak of your provenance, Tollac, since we know not what it is. As for what you have become, you are a sergeant-at-arms, a mere guard of the town. I would have my daughter kept in the style to which she is accustomed, and you cannot give her that. Though you have some merit, it is not sufficient to permit me to bind my daughter to you. Go your way, for you have aimed too high and cannot hit the mark.'”

“What happened then?” asked Elrohir. “And how came you to witness this dispute?”

“I heard the Man Tollac complain about it as he drank with his fellow men-at-arms in the tavern when I went to get our drinks,” replied Estel. “Tollac told him that, since his mother was a maid in the service of the Master of the town, it was likely that the Master had sired him, though he had a wife already and would not own Tollac as his son. Egil said that if the Master would provide a letter of acknowledgement and a suitable bride-piece(1), Tollac would have his will in the matter. If not, there could be no agreement. I do not know what happened after that.”

“Since the Master's wife lives yet, I daresay Tollac has not had his will in the matter,” said Elladan with a sigh. “'Tis a shame to so mar the life of a child before it is even born, Estel. I hope you will never do such an evil to anyone. You must control yourself, however hot the fire burns within you, lest another Tollac be born swaddled in shame.”

“I keep thinking of Tollac's mother,” said Estel. “I wonder what happened to her?”

“We know something of the customs of Men,” said Elrohir. “I believe it is likely she went home to her parents, bringing her child with her to be reared as her brother.(2) Sometimes, if a woman is barren, she will offer to take such a child and call it hers. This did not happen with Tollac, for he did not name any Man as his father, but said it was likely that the Master was his sire.”

“You have not answered my question,” said Estel, his tone sullen.

“Your father was Dúnedain, and your mother is his widow, Estel,” affirmed Elladan.

“When I heard what transpired between Tollac and Egil, I thought I might be a bastard myself because no-one speaks of my father, and Elrond does not call me his son, except in private,” said Estel.

“Then why do you say you always knew he was not your father?” asked Elrohir.

“Because, as you just said, Elrohir, a Man may be a father to a child if not his sire. Elrond your father has been kind to me in every way, but there has always been some distance between us, as if I did not truly belong to him. As if he was borrowing me, and meant to give me back some day.” Estel trailed off. His words made little sense, even to him.

Silence sat on them for a while, and they rode along, heedless of the stark beauty of Eriador as they made their way through it. Elladan eventually broke the silence. “You were always loved in Rivendell, and in all the Elven realms,” he said, looking directly at Estel.

“I know,” said Estel, “and I am grateful, Elladan. I just... I have so many questions...”

“Your father was a great man, a brave warrior who gave his life for his people,” said Elladan.

“Then why have I never been told about him?” shouted Estel. “Why was this kept from me? I never really thought about it until recently. I want to know! I have a right to know!”

“Hush, Estel,” chided Elrohir. “We will tell you at the right time.”

“Why must I wait?” asked Estel. “Why is it such a great secret?”

“Because,” said Elladan, “we do not know who is listening. Be quiet, Estel, and we will tell you what you wish to know at the right time.”

Elladan's words hit Estel like a punch to the stomach. Who might be listening? What was the need for all the secrecy? Why could they not simply say to him, 'Estel, your father's name is...' The answer to the riddle had better be a good one.

She was waiting, as ever, on the balcony. It was ever Gilraen's custom to stand there, watching for a first glimpse of her son as he returned from the wilds, since he began his warrior training with his foster brothers.

Estel could just about see her from where he was on the road that led into the hidden valley, a tiny speck in the distance. But he knew it was her. Only his mother would stand thus. He needed her right now, though he had no idea what he would say to her. Right now, she was the only constant in his life, unless she had a shock for him as well.

Everything had changed. Oh, he knew in his heart that Elrond had not sired him, but he had clung to the delusion nonetheless because it gave him a sense of belonging. Besides, it had stopped him from asking what his true provenance was for many a year. Now that the delusion had been stripped away, he felt naked and vulnerable. Though he was aware that he had no share in Elrond's family, he liked the idea of being able to claim a connection to the revered Elf-lord, who was rumoured to have divine blood flowing through his veins. Now who could he claim kinship with?

But the mirrors of Rivendell showed plainly that there was indeed a link of some kind. How many times had he stood at a mirror and seen Elladan's, Elrohir's or even Elrond's reflection beside his own. They could have been taken for brothers, and among Men, they often were. What was the answer to this mystery?

“We will soon be home, Estel,” said Elladan. “And I did say I would bring a good report of your conduct to our father.”

“Thank you, Elladan,” said Estel, then went back to brooding.

The young Man had no idea what was in store for him, and wanted to be prepared for anything. Whatever was going to happen, he wanted it to be soon. He did not think he could bear the tension of not knowing for much longer – or the thought of being disappointed by Elrond, who might say it was too soon to tell him.

TBC...

(1)http://www.1911encyclopedia.org/Legitimacy,

http://www.philippagregory.com/documents/Thehistoryofthefitzhughfamily.doc.

I borrowed the ideas of royal legitimation to give Tollac a chance to get his girl. I'll write the story if I get enough interest.

(2)http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Illegitimacy#History

A/N: I've borrowed some ideas on Elven hospitality from The Hobbit and from Fellowship of the Ring for the following scenes. Some of the descriptions of the heirlooms are quotes taken directly from The Silmarillion, though I have taken some liberties, adding some concepts lifted from the movie version of Fellowship of the Ring.

Gilraen ran out to meet her son, glad to see him have him home safe and sound. Master Elrond had promised her that Estel would be protected, but she could not help worrying about him. He was her only child, after all. As she watched him dismount, she marvelled at how much older he looked, as if a decade at least had passed in the wild. He was the image of his father, but lacked the sternness that had marked Arathorn. Gilraen had made it her personal mission to bring joy into her husband's life, and each time she saw him laugh, she counted it a victory. Estel, however, was full of joy and laughed easily. With a pang, she realised her child no longer needed her. She was beginning to lose him.

Estel caught her in his arms, picked her up and swung her around, laughing.

Gilraen kissed her son on each cheek and held him at arm's length, looking critically at him. “How did you fare on your patrol?” she asked.

“Very well, mother. I suffered no hurts, and helped slay two trolls!”

She went pale, and her grip on him tightened. 'Trolls slew your grandfather. They tore him apart and roasted him like a rabbit. His grave is out in the wilds. He could not be brought home as he was and buried with the honours due to him, for we are Dúnedain and must live our lives in secret.' She dared not say the words aloud, for Master Elrond had warned her against revealing her son's heritage. The thought of such a fate befalling her son was more than she could bear, and her eyes filled with tears. “Estel, you could have been killed!” she wailed.

“Like Arador?” asked Estel. “Is he akin to me?”

Gilraen froze, clearly perturbed at her son's question. She looked away, but Estel still held her, and would not let go. She returned her gaze to her son, and saw that he was now a full-grown Man. “I cannot tell you, Estel,” she replied, her voice quiet and small. “But trolls are fierce and deadly creatures. I am glad you had the twins with you.”

“Aye, mother,” Estel told her in stern tones, “but I know not who my sire is. Trolls I can slay well enough with an Elven blade.”

“Who has told you this, Estel?” asked Gilraen. She was visibly worried, her breathing fast. How in the name of all the Valar had Estel discovered this? And how could he be kept safe if others now knew of his provenance? What could she do to protect her son now? Tears spilled down her face as her fears overwhelmed her.

“Why is it such a great secret?” Estel shouted, shaking with frustration. “Why must I not know?”

“If you did know, others might also learn; and for your safety, we deemed it wise to keep the knowledge from you, Aragorn,” said a calm, fatherly voice.

Estel turned from his mother. Behind him stood Elrond Half-elven, Lord of Rivendell. “Come, my son, for I have much to tell you,” he said.

Estel followed the Elf-lord into the house.

An Elf appeared at Gilraen's side and put a handkerchief into her hand. Her vision was blurred from weeping, so she could only say “Thank you.” When she had recovered her composure, the Elf was gone, and she stood alone with her thoughts on the balcony. Everything was changing, but she did not know if it was for the best.

Elrond's office was a large, airy room. Scrolls and books of various sizes lined bookcases that ran from floor to ceiling, and on the wall there were cupboards and shelves filled with sheets of parchment, pots of ink, quills and other items Elrond and his scribes needed. There were two oaken desks and several chairs.

“Sit down, Aragorn,” said Elrond in a kindly voice, indicating a seat by his desk. He went into a side room and returned with some items wrapped in black velvet cloth. “These belong to you.”

Estel's... Aragorn's mind raced. Everything had shifted, as if he had been standing on a rug which was pulled from beneath him. He felt as though he had got drunk the night before, then woken up unable to remember where he was. He knew Elrond was not his sire, but he had never had the slightest inkling that Estel was not his name. “Why did you change my name?” he asked in a small voice.

“To protect you,” Elrond answered as he sat down behind the desk, his voice calm and level. “I see you have come early to manhood. Now the time is right to tell you who you truly are, and set you on the path of your destiny.”

Elrond watched him carefully, apparently looking for signs of weakness or unworthiness. Estel said nothing. After a while, it seemed to Estel that Elrond was satisfied, and the Elf-lord continued, “You are Aragorn son of Arathorn, chief of the Dúnedain. They are the last of the lords of Arnor. They are descended from my brother Elros. You are descended from my brother Elros, and while one drop of his blood flows in the veins of any Man, I am bound to care for him as best I can. I kept your name and provenance from you to protect you from Sauron, who has a deep, abiding hatred for those Men of the line of Elendil.”

“Nothing has been heard of Sauron since days of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men,” said Estel.

“But his servants are many, and they harry your people still,” said Elrond. “Your numbers are few now, and there is but one direct descendant of my brother's line alive.”

“Aragorn son of Arathorn,” said Estel, locked in wonderment. Surely this was a dream. At any moment, he would wake up and be Estel, who lived in Rivendell as a foster son of Elrond. “And I am the last of your brother's line*.”

“There are Men who can claim kinship to him, and one now sits on the throne of Gondor,**” said Elrond. “But you have the greater right, for your line is unbroken from the days of Arvedui. The line of Eärnur ended with his death.”

A flash of insight filled Estel's mind, and for a moment he was silent. “This is why I look a little like you,” he said.

“Indeed,” replied Elrond.

“And the reason why you call me son.”

“Yes.” The Elf-lord unwrapped the bundle and spread the contents out on the table.

Estel watched his liege lord, taking in the lineaments of his fair face, noting the set of his shoulders and the colour of his eyes. Many of the features of his foster father were mirrored in himself. The weight of the news began to settle on him. He understood the need for secrecy. How could he be expected to lead his people at his tender age? There was still so much to learn; and whatever he had said to his mother, the truth was, if the twins had not been with him at the Coldfells, he would have been cruelly slaughtered. He was not yet ready to take on the responsibility of being a lord. It had been so much easier when he was just Estel. Aragorn. The name felt strange in his mouth. His name was Estel. It was the first word he had learned to say.

Elrond picked up a silver ring, saying, “Here is the Ring of Barahir, the token of our kinship from afar.” He handed it to Estel, who examined it carefully.

The young Man remembered the text in his favourite history book, 'The Tale of Beren and Lúthien.'

For this ring was like to twin serpents, whose eyes were emeralds, and their heads met beneath a crown of golden flowers, that the one upheld and the other devoured; that was the badge of Finarfin and his house.

He was holding a piece of history in his hand! Beren, their mutual ancestor, had borne this ring on his forefinger. Estel tried it on. It fit! His face lit up with joy for a moment, but a cloud passed in front of the sun in his heart. What if he failed to live up to the promise of his blood? He looked uncertainly up at Elrond.

“Yes, my son,” said Elrond, looking proudly on, “it is indeed the Ring of Barahir, and now it is yours. It is well that it fits you.”

“Aye,” said Estel, “but am I fit to bear it?”

“Beren was but a Man like yourself,” said Elrond. “The deeds he did were for the love of Lúthien the Fair. Were it not for her, I doubt he would have done as much as he did. And a great doom was upon him.”

Estel felt the cold metal of the ring against his skin. “I will try to live up to the standards of my kin,” he said soberly.

Elrond handed him some pieces of a broken sword, with a stern look in his eye. “Here also are the shards of Narsil. With these you may yet do great deeds; for I foretell that the span of your life shall be greater than the measure of Men, unless evil befalls you or you fail at the test. But the test will be hard and long.”

Test? Estel sat up straight. “Test, my lord?” he asked in respectful tones.

“I do not know how things will be for you, Aragorn,” said Elrond, “but I am certain of this: you have a long, hard road to travel. At the end, there will be either glory or shame. You alone can decide this through the choices you make.”

Estel was still trying to get used to his new... his real name. He picked up one of the shards of the sword that lay before him on the table. “Is this the sword that cut the Ring of Power from Sauron's hand?” he asked, his grey eyes wide with amazement.

“It is indeed,” replied Elrond. “It is yours, now. A symbol of the courage of the Men of your line.”

The young Man sat there, overwhelmed by the importance of the news. It was just as well he was sitting down, for his legs felt like they were made of straw. He looked again at Master Elrond, whose dark hair and grey eyes looked so much like his own, and compared his liege lord with his reflection in the piece of blade he was presently holding in his hand. They were akin.

Elrond picked up a short silver staff from among the objects on the table. “The Sceptre of Annúminas I withhold, for you have yet to earn it,” he said, holding it up.

Estel dared not take hold of it, or even ask for a closer look. He knew that the last Man to hold it was Arvedui of Arnor, whose claim to the throne of Gondor had been dismissed by the Steward Pelendur. He could imagine the consternation Arvedui felt when he arrived at Gondor only to be sent away in favour of a Man with a weaker claim. The young Man said nothing.

“Aragorn,” said Elrond, “these things are yours to do with as you will.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Estel replied. “For a while now, I have wanted to know whence I came; but now that I do, I find that it was easier to be Estel. I like my true name, though, and will do my utmost to live up to it.”

“That you will, my son,” said Elrond, “that you will.”

It was a young Man called Estel who had sat at that desk, but Aragorn son of Arathorn who wrapped his broken sword in the velvet cloth, picked up the bundle and stood before Elrond. “I thank you, my lord, for telling me this, and for all you have done to protect me. Everything I do, I will do for my people, and for love of the Elves.”

Elrond stood and nodded, and Aragorn bowed low. The young Man straightened up and said, “By your leave, I will go and tell my mother what has passed between us, for she was distressed that I had asked about my father.”

“That you may do,” replied Elrond, “but be careful of whom you speak of these matters, for these are perilous times, and you are the last of your line.”

With a smile, Aragorn bowed again and left the room. He knew who he was now, and, more importantly, what he could become. Elrond's words rang in his ears: “The Sceptre of Annúminas I withhold, for you have yet to earn it.”

One day, he would earn it indeed.

The End.