Ch. 1 - Gandalf's Ill News

Smoke hid the rafters of the old inn. It had been a long time since the man had visited it. Almost an age, it seemed. Yet, his table waited for him. ‘Do others fear to sit here?’ he wondered absently. He took a swig from his pint, sat back, and perused the patrons. ‘They all look the same as when I was here last, what twenty years ago?’  Drawing upon his pipe, he placed his feet upon the chair opposite, prepared for a long night.

The one he waited for was one to be – tardy - once in awhile. He laughed to himself knowing that he would be reprimanded severely if he said such a thought aloud. ‘Nay,’ he thought, never severely, for after the biting remark, a smile would break from that beloved bearded face and they both would laugh. ‘I should come here more often; news is frequently faster to find its way to this door than to one of my own.’

A shout roused him. He stood, took two long steps forward, and hugged the wizard tightly. “You have been missed, Mithrandir! Come, sit with me.” He pushed a chair out, waving to the fat barkeep all the while. When his signal was answered, he sat opposite the old man and waited.

The wizard drew out a long pipe, filled the bowl, then lit it. Finally, he sat back in his chair and drew a long puff on it. The man waited patiently. ‘Never rush a wizard,’ he had learned many years ago. His eyes closed almost completely. It looked like the wizard was planning to keep him waiting. Well, he would show him how well he had learned to wait.

Butterbur came over with the wizard’s pint, placed it in front and waited for his tip. The man smiled. Mithrandir just took another two or three puffs and the man was forced to tip the barkeep himself. When Butterbur left them, he sat back again, put his feet up on the table and waited.

“Aragorn, have you brought any of your men with you?” Mithrandir asked quietly.

“I have not. Your message only stated that you needed to see me on a grave matter. I deemed it unnecessary to pull men from their duties.”

“And right you were. This is a task that only you can carry out.”

The wizard was silent for another few moments, fingering his staff. Aragorn knew that nervous gesture meant whatever the reason for his summons, it was indeed grave.

“Can you be ready to travel first thing in the morning?”

“I can. I can travel even now. Though I have not yet supped. Would you like to join me? I have a small parlour reserved for us.”

“Let us go there, then. I have much to tell you; things that others should not hear.”

Butterbur had the table set already and Nob carried in their meal even as they walked towards the room. Aragorn smiled. He liked Butterbur’s new serving lad who always seemed ready and willing to help, yet silent as a tomb. He tipped Nob well and closed the door upon the boy’s retreating back.

Aragorn had discovered that Mithrandir seemed to have adopted some Hobbit habits – especially expecting to eat before discussing anything of import. So they ate and Aragorn kept silent.

At last, Mithrandir sat back and relit his pipe. “I have some grievous news, Aragorn.” He puffed again and thought for a moment. “What was the last news from Gondor or Rohan that you heard?”

“In Rohan – Théoden’s sister was to be wed, rumours tell of Saruman trading for Rohirric horses, and winter hit Helm’s Deep hard.” He scrubbed his chin, tilting his chair onto its back two legs. “The news from Gondor is old. The sad news of Finduilas’ death still rocks that land. I have heard nothing else.”

Mithrandir’s face turned a pale white. “You have heard naught of Denethor?”

“I have heard nothing specific. What news have you heard?”

He stood and strode to the fireplace, his back turned to the man.

“Denethor is dead, Aragorn. Killed by an orc blade.”

Aragorn’s chair crashed forward. He shook his head in dismay. “It cannot be. What battle and where?”

“‘Twas no battle; it was a trap. At least that is the rumour that goes about. Returning from Théodwyn’s troth pledge, he was waylaid on the Great West Road. And all his company.”

Aragorn lowered his head, then brought it up sharply. “Who was in his company? Surely Boromir is not… and the Lady Indis?”

“Arciryas, Master Healer and Indis’ husband, was also killed in the attack along with two full companies of the finest of Gondor’s warriors. Faramir and Boromir, along with Indis, had remained behind in Edoras.”

“I knew and loved Arciryas. He tended me many times during my stay in Ecthelion’s army. He will be missed. My heart grieves for the Lady Indis.”

“It will grieve further when I tell you the rest of my news – and – the reason for my sending for you.”

Maddeningly, the old man relit his pipe. Aragorn stood and stepped towards the window. “You bring news even more terrible than this?”

“I do. Please, sit. This news is indeed dreadful.

Aragorn sat, completely ill at ease, wondering what could be worse