Chapter Notes:

I am so, so, so sorry for the terribly-long wait! I got distracted by many things during updating… I hope I have not lost your interest…

Here we are going to see what Aragorn is thinking about during the sequence of events shown in the first part. Hopefully it will satisfy at least some of your curiosity. And thank you for those of you who have reviewed (in FanFiction.Net, Stories of Arda and Lord of the Rings FanFiction), those who have put this story into their alert and favourite lists (in FanFiction.Net), Lady Ninianna (I hope I am not typing your pen name incorrectly, and I apologise if I do.) who has encouraged me to write more about this story, and Anwyn who has given me helpful criticisms and good comments during the revision of the first part (into the form now available on the site)!

The part of this piece which is in italics and in between lines of asterycs is Aragorn’s memory. I do not use his proper name here just for the sake of convenience (in my part *blush*) and a bit of mystery (when in the first quarter into the chapter). Hopefully you are not confused or disappointed with that.

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A man, his leather cloak tattared and nearly soaked, struggles along the precarious way of the East Road. He has just recovered from falling face-down onto the carpet of snow covering the hard-frozen ground; his well-worn boots had stepped on a slippery patch of ice.

He is utterly alone. Everything around him is empty of any living being. The continuous ice-cold rain and its needle-sharp large water droplets have made sure that all sensible sencient beings stay under shelter.

He would like to take shelter also, but where? Not many people would willingly give shelter to a Ranger such as he. In such a foul weather, it is most likely that all available places to huddle in for a while are full of hapless travellers as well, so there is less chance of him being received in any of them.

Still, he hopes; living up to his name, he muses wrily. Breeland is not far, and he is going to reach the settlement in any means. He just prays that the capricious gate keeper would be so kind as to let him pass through the town’s entrance.

Well, if not, he could always climb up the wall and down its other side, although the option is not favourable in the list in this kind of weather.

His muscles and joints are tired of the merciless chill and the constant movement. His heart and head feel heavy, and his skin is uncomfortably wet. He is totally miserable. He does not trust himself to be available for arguments. Thus, he ghopes young Harry, the gate keeper, is going to permit him entrance immediately. If not…

He shakes his head and quickens his pace. Dark and dismal thoughts enter his mind easily this last decade. His betrothal with Arwen last year adds to his burdens, somehow, instead of lightening his heart; it also contributes to his grim state.

He half runs when the gate of Bree is in sight, a dark blurry line amidst the white snowy landscape. His eyes are fixed solely on the gate. Therefore, he fails to notice a rather large patch of ice on his way.

A multitude of colourful curses in Elvish fly out of his mouth when he falls over the natural trap; that is, after he has gained back the air that has been knocked out of his lungs when his chest collided with the hard, slippery cold surface covering the earth. He needs a while to scramble back to his feet. During his struggle, there is only one thought in his mind: he prays that nobody from Bree has seen him fall.

When he finally reaches the gate, he is fairly grumpy and still cursing his misfortune. The foul mood dissolves, however, as he notices that there is no one guarding the gate. Where is Harry? His relief of encountering no obstacle in entering Bree wars with his concern of the safety of the good, simple people. He only passes through the unguarded gates without much guilt convincing himself that he has not encountered any possible threat, save for the hostile weather, on his way there.

His first and foremost destination is the best inn there, the well-known Prancing Pony. Hopefully, Barliman Butterbur yet has a spare room for him, or at least a table in the common room of the inn to sit on and a mug of discounted beer…

He strides quickly along the frozen, snow-covered, deserted streets and the – ironically – lively houses. This time, he is mindful of where his foot falls on so that no other patch of ice will trick him anymore. He has been tired of ‘kissing’ the earth so ‘passionately’. Even now, there must have been some bruises forming on his chin, chest, elbows and knees, and people are going to stare at him more oddly than they usually do.

His heart sinks upon his arrival to the stable of the inn. He has no steed, and so he has no real need of visiting the stable. But he can elicit information from the number of horses, ponies or donkeys owned by the travellers lodging in the inn which are sheltered there, as he is doing now, to judge how many visitors are currently in the Prancing Pony.

He does not like what he sees at all.

`Where should I go?` he despairs silently. He has seldom whined ever since the beginning of his hard, lonesome journeys thirty years ago, but now he does. If only Rivendell were near…

Bracing himself for the worst, he approaches the front door of the inn and knocks. A moment later, a hobbit appears and, with some trepidation, bids him in. The hobbit seems to be new under Barliman’s service and fairly young. He perks the Ranger’s curiosity.

The common room of the inn, directly behind the door, falls silent on the sight of the Ranger. Barliman, who has been serving beer and ale to the patrons, turns around on the sudden change of atmosphere.

“Is there any spare room for me, Barliman? At least for a night or two,” the Ranger asks by way of greeting.

The inn keeper seems reluctant to say anything if not for the grim look on the Ranger’s face. But even when confronted by the forbidding countenance, he still manages to state, “I will take a look at my guest book,” in a clip but nonetheless dignified tone of voice. That is one of the traits the Ranger admires from this stocky, forgetful man.

The Ranger looks around when Barliman has taken leave of him. He spots an unoccupied table upon second, closer inspection. Digging into his store of memories, he recognises the table as his usual place in the common room of the inn. So people avoid the table even when he is not there to occupy it… He does not know should he be impressed of his formidable reputation, or sorrowful because the folk he guards together with his fellow Dúnedain are afraid of him, putting him in such a bad light with blind eyes.

He settles in one of the chairs on the table and puts his oilskin pack by his boots. He itches to be relieved from his sodden cloak, yet he needs its shade to conceal him from the curious and suspicious stares of the other patrons – who are mostly as miserable as he, and thus can be easily triggered into what he would like to call “brawling mood”.

Eyes alert of every detail in the common room, the Ranger slowly lifts a leg and fumbles with the lace of his boot. Once the lace was undone, he tips the boot upside down; it repels an impressive amount of water from inside. He repeats the action with his other boot, then puts both back on. He hopes Barliman or any of his assistants will not notice the puddle of water under the table. He would be in trouble if so.

He schools his visage into impassivity when Barliman approaches his table. The inn keeper seems preoccupied with thoughts, but his hands are free of burdens he usually carries – such as trays and chopped logs of wood for the fireplace. That means only one thing: the portly man is going to talk to the Ranger; whether to shun him from the inn, to inform him that there is a room available for a short lodging, or to ask for news from far-off lands, the latter cannot guess.

Barliman haltes before the table, yet he does not say anything for some time. He wrings his hands nervously and casts his gaze about as though searching for an escape route. The Ranger waits, full of anticipation.

Then the inn keeper speaks in a slow, cautious tone – which also holds a note of apology – surprisingly. “The rooms are full, Strider. The only one left is the best one, and it is rather… expensive.” In the end, the man seems ready to either flee or faint.

The Ranger releases a quiet sigh, hiding his helplessness as best as he could. He considers Barliman from under his hood, then at last nods. “I shall take it if I am able to pay it. How much is it per night?”

Not a minute later, his pack on his shoulders, the Ranger trudges up the stairs by his table to the second floor of the inn. There most rooms are located, and his room is in the end of the corridor, almost set apart from the rest. He has spent nearly all of the money in his purse. In this way, he will not be able to buy some pipe weed to accompany him waiting for a better weather. It is an unpleasant prospect for the coming days he will probably spend there, yet he has seen no other way.

Thus, he looks around his lodging with a slight contempt. As he has guessed, the interior of the room is not as luxurious as one might have thought. But then again, the price is not far higher than the one for the ordinary rooms.

A bed, larger then the ones in the other rooms, is set against the right wall, and on its foot is a simple – rickety – pole of pegs for hanging coats, hats and cloaks. A nightstand, an empty metal basin atop it, stands to the side of the bed, next to a frame on which one can hang a towel or a length of cloth. Next to the frame is a table, accompanied with a chair and a single drawer underneath one side. Lining the left wall is a stand of shelves holding old books and carvings left by the previous visitors. And, opposite the desk, to the left of the door, huddle three stools.

He hangs his cloak on the pole, then he moves to the table and puts his pack there. He is not accustomed to a room with fourniture more than a bed, a table, and a stool to lodge in when he needs to stay in Bree. Thus, he is rather indecisive as to what he should do now. He only stands, puzzled, on the empty space on the middle of the room after he has removed his pack.

Not having anything else to do, he retrieves a set of spare clothes from his pack and changes into them. Afterwards, he brings the pack to the bed and, having climbed onto the cold, damp mattress, he begins to empty it.

His searching hand firstly finds three daggers, his medical kit and two tinder boxes. Delfing deeper, he encounters two bundles – one of herbs and another of more clothes. There is a package of nearly-untouched rations beneath them, the Ranger having no appetite to eat in the last two days of bad weather. And on the bottom of the pack, wrapped in another bundle, are his little treasures. Of all things he escavates from the pack, the last bundle is the only one that sits on his lap.

He unties the cloth carefully and gazed down to the pile of items held there. On top of the small mound is a circular broach with a single golden flower etched on the middle of it, wreathed by small gems in the shape of berries and leaves on a light blue background. The broach rests on top of a small pouch containing quills and two ink bottles, and there is a leather-bound small book also in company of the writing tools. There is another book, just slightly bigger than the former, piled with the other one, yet there is a symbol engraved into the leather cover of it and its pages are all full of writing. A fistful of oval-shaped sapphire pokes out beside them, the shiniest among all the items in the bundle and the most valued of all – both in price and his heart; when light from the oil lamp from the nightstand falls on it, the precious stone reflects it back in rippling biased rays as though sunlight seen through waves in deep water.

Smiling wistfully, the Ranger picks up the sapphire and clutches it in his left hand. Someone dear to his heart has given him the gem, passing it to him from her possession, in order for him to remember that faith, like the vast ocean, cannot be defeated by failures. But he keeps it not only for that reason; the Stone of Hope, as she names it, is his way of reminding himself that in this cold, unforgiving world there is at least someone who always cares for him and loves him as he is, even though his biological mother has left beyond the circles of the world.

Dragging a long, heavy sigh, he tucks the sapphire back to among the other items and reties the bundle. Looking at those reminders of and from his family and friends only pains him now, when he does not know how long he will still be parted from them.

He returns the contents of his pack meticulously to their former places. Throwing them in haphazardly would only cause grief for him when he resumes his somewhat-aimless journey, anyway.

Cloaked and hooded, he returns to the common room soon afterwards. Hopefully, being with other people will be able to erase some of his homesickness, he prays. Perhaps he might also be able to persuade Barliman to part with some of the latter’s stock of pipe weed for a story or two…

Albeit, the reality, as the sceptical part of his mind has predicted, is not as bright as his hopes have been. He is confined to his spot – as people have named it, whispering it behind his back – with nothing to do, except to watch the other patrons interact with each other. If only he had something to do or someone to talk to…

“Barliman,” he greets the inn keeper when said person passes by his table. His hands shoot out instinctively to support the tray the stocky man is carrying, and it is just as well, for if not it would have fallen to the floor and soil the damp, dirty stone with ale.

“What do you want, Strider?” Barliman’s visage tightens a little. The Ranger barely catches himself from raising an eyebrow at the restrained tone he detects there.

“Do you still have some pipe-weed left? I will trade it with a piece of information or story if you would, or a carving,” he asks in the most casual tone he can manage at the moment. He sorely hopes Barliman will say yes to his inquiry and bargain. As for his barter items, he already has a good number of them, save for carvings and such, so he is not worried about the matter.

Well, except if Barliman chooses a carving to barter with the pipe-weed. He might have to carve something for the inn keeper if Barliman chooses so, for he is reluctant to part with those he has been carrying so far in his bundle of treasures on the bottom of his pack.

It appears that in this he also has no luck. Barliman agrees to part with some of his pipe-weed for a carving – after a fidgety consideration, which the Ranger has broken when said Ranger has gone somewhat impatient. To make matters worse, the inn keeper warns him that the pipe-weed must wait until all the other patrons in the common room have been served. `Am I not a rightful visitor here also?` the Ranger fumes silently, hurt and sad. He becomes quite moody and silent afterwards. He refuses to talk even when some of the younger and bolder patrons ask for stories from him; those are his chance of finally mingling with the other visitors, yet now that former desire of his has been quenched from his mind and heart.

`At last,` he grumbles dismally when Barliman vanishes into the backroom and reappears with a small package in his hand. He bites back from cursing as, suddenly, the door to the inn jerks open,  and a lone traveller in garb similar to his walks in.

Barliman seems no less grumpy about the new arrival. But, while the inn keeper expresses his displeasure verbally (although in a nervous tone), the Ranger on the corner prefers to keep his opinion to himself – as usual.

He thanks his tactfulness some seconds later. The traveller, whom he has thought to be a man, laughs; it is a woman. Barliman looks to have stuck to the same presumption, for he sees the in keeper flinching. But what matters to the Ranger is not the gender of the traveller. The laughter reminds him of someone… someone whom he has been thinking about lately, along with his other loved ones.

All the same, he does not dare to hope. There have been so many of his hopes dashed currently, and he fears he will not be able to cope with more disappointment.

He flinches, his body rigid, in his chair when Barliman addresses her in a harsh tone. His left hand unconsciously grips the pommel of what remains of Narsíl, which is belted to his side, and his right one is clenched in readiness to fight. If his suspicion proves true…

Has he just been hoping again? Why? Why does he still hope? It might not be her. Her paths have never crossed with his before this ever since he ended his sojourn in Gondor as Captain Thorongil.

Before this?

So it is really she?

But—

“A place safe from the wind and rain,” the woman says. And this time, there is no denying of whose voice it is.

The Ranger’s mind reels.

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“Estel? Where are you, little one?”

A boy hiding behind the rain barrel suppressed a fit of giggling. He heard loud footsteps receding away, and, assuming that they were of the person who had called him, he eased his way out of the hideout.

He shrieked in both surprise and joy when a pair of lean but strong arms clamped down on his waist. They lifted him from the ground and into the embrace of a youthful-looking woman with glossy raven hair and charcoal-grey eyes.

“What were you doing there, Estel?” the woman asked.

“Hiding from you, Nana Dila,” the boy pouted. “I heard you going away… How could you still be here?”

Laughter sounded from the direction to which the footsteps had receded. There stood another woman, identical to the first but for her warm-brown eyes, and she was chortling with abandon, tossing her head from side to side in amused incredulity.

“There, little spy. You were hearing Nana Ana’s elephanty boots,” Dila grinned. Estel laughed.

“And the ‘elephanty boots’ idea is your dear Nana Dila’s, Estel, so beware of her wiles,” Ana snickered. Her eyes twinkled cheekily.

Dila snorted but did not defend herself. She bounced Estel in her arms several times, then let him slide down her front to the ground. “Come on now, little one. Erestor is waiting for you. He said you might be interested with the continuation of his tale. He was telling you about his experiences in Doriath, wasn’t he?” She winked. Estel wooped, and, in just a moment, he already vanished from that side of the Last Homely House, leaving a pair of twins to their helpless laughter.

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`Nana? Nana… Nana!`

His eyes widen. A sundry of emotions whirl in his soul, neither clearly perceived. His heart thumps rapidly, painfully, against his chestbone. At last, he thinks, he will not be alone anymore in waiting for the dreary environment to become milder, and his companion is someone among some whom he has missed terribly. His years as a Ranger have always been a lonesome one, yet, in a place full of people like this, his sociable self makes itself known and does not want to be denied.

`Nana. Please, Nana. Look at me.`

He stares intently at the cloaked figure, who has closed the door behind her back while conversing with Barliman. Myriad emotions and feelings pour out from his eyes, as for once he does not hide behind a mask of impassivity. His joy when the subject of his gaze notices him is abundant. And when she reciprocates his longing, he feels like wanting to dash to where she stands and claim her in a tight embrace.

Well, he does not have to do so, all the same. While he is just beginning to think of it, she has already streaked towards him through the relatively-empty space by the wall. Expecting what is going to happen, the Ranger leaps out of his seat and skirts the table to meet her.

They crash against one another, but neither of them are even shaken by the contact. They draw their heads back and laugh joyously, conveying the happiness beyond words they are feeling. It has been more than twenty years, twenty long years, since the last time they met at all with each other, and the darkening days has made them worry over each other very much. The race of Men is never meant to experience such a long, dreary parting.

It seems as though they were alone in a world of their own. Manners are forsaken in a bout of fleeting euphoria. The woman kisses his cheeks, then cradles his head in her hands affectionately like what she was fond to do when he was small, murmuring loving words to his ears, and his ears only. The Rangers feels like going back through time, returning to his happy, carefree childhood days.

Then comes the part he half-heartedly despises: her inspection. She used to look him over thoroughly when he returned from a camping or hunting trip with his twin foster brothers, checking for injuries and clacking her tongue over the obvious signs of mud-wrestling and pond-wading all over his body and clothes. But it does not mean that he does not welcome the gesture of motherly concern. He basks in her attention, just like he did more than three decades ago; after he has gotten over his rebellious streak, that is.

Besides, he cannot escape from her grip, anyway. Her hands are still as strong as he remembers them to be! Her muscles, slim though they are, seem not to slack alongside her age – which she never discloses to him.

But, as they well know, any bliss in Arda Marred does not last long. They part from each other’s embrace when Barliman stalks forward, addressing Dila: “Miss, you create too much attention here.” His words belies what is suggested in his seeming intention: that Dila is an unwelcome visitor there and therefore must go.

That boils the Ranger’s blood like no other offences committed to him and his fellows by the people of Bree-land – which are numerous, actually. Unable – and not wanting – to rein in his emotions, he gently pushes his surrogate mother to the side, letting his impressive height tower over the Bree-lander and his true power leak out. His eyes glint with a clear, dangerous warning of harm should the inn-keeper try to dismiss one whom he regards highly among his parent figures, childhood protectors and mentors as inconsequencial. For once, he enjoys it when Barliman cowers before him, plainly ready to flee his overwhelming presence.

That ends with a kind of anticlimax which nearly shatters the Ranger’s whole composure with comical surprise. He, ironically, has forgotten about Dila in the moment, and now he sees how her strong hands grip Barliman in place, a gesture he has not expected of her. In a way, now he pities the inn-keeper instead. He avoided her penetrating gaze as much as – or perhaps more than – her handgrip in his impetuous youth, and now she is ‘bestowing’ Barliman with both at once.

But why are there confusion and resignation too in her eyes? Surely she has not yet lost her prior firmness when dealing with Barliman by the front door? And why is she confessing to the inn-keeper that she is unwell? Why does she give out such vital information so freely to someone who is suspicious and unfriendly against her? Why the low tone? Does she think she can elude her unofficial foster son’s keen hearing? She should know better.

She seems to sense his turbulent thoughts and emotions, for then she releases Barliman both from her gaze and hands, and addresses the Ranger instead in Sindarin: “Yes, there is much to talk about, little one, but we shan’t talk about anything here, even in this language. Have you rented a room here when you came?”

The Ranger tries not to appear sulky in front of so many keen-eyed – albeit drunken – people around the common room, who were all watching them as though an unfolding drama. He grunts in ascent and, as a second thought, grumbles only for her equally-keen ears to hear: “I am no longer a little one, Nana. When will you stop calling me thus?” As he has expected, he only receives a low, fond chuckle from her.

When he is about to lead her to his room, though, Barliman stops him. “Where are you going?”

“To my room.” Of course. Where else? What is wrong with Barliman today? The inn-keeper has never been so nosy before, and not particularly to the Rangers.

“Why does she follow you?” Barliman presses on boldly.

The Ranger frowns in obvious disapproval. His checked ire rises to the fore again. “Do you count me as a dishonourable man, Barliman? I thought you had known me well enough to think otherwise.” He is forced to continue his way up the stairs afterwards, because Dila has surreptitiously nudge him lightly with her fist underneath her cloak. One thing that seems not to have changed in her is her peaceful-when-unprovoked nature and policy, he thinks ruefully.

And she, like himself, tends to disregard her wounds and illness or lie about them. Somehow, he vows to himself, he is going to get her confession about the possible wounds or other illnesses to her body, the manner in which she got them, and if she has truly treated them well, when they have reached his room. She is a competent healer, but—

“Estel… Estel…”

Hearing the sing-song feminine voice underlain with laughter, the Ranger startles out of his thoughts and finds that they are already in his room, and someone – either he or his foster mother – has closed the door. But where is the key? Has the door been locked?

Ah, there. The key dangles before him like an enticing piece of something he has to reach up to get, and it hangs pinched by the thumb and index finger of his playfully-grinning foster mother’s right hand. “I have locked the door, so you ought not to fret about that,” still in Sindarin, she helpfully supplies the detail he has been seeking. He blushes, ashamed of being caught ruminating over things like ever before, just some time into their reunion. Some things indeed never change.

And she still treats him like the child he has been until thirty years ago, too. Despite his earlier resolve to get to the roots of her signs of bodily harm, he cannot resist when she seats him on the edge of the bed like a naughty boy about to be lectured by his elder. He persuades her to join him sitting there, but she refuses, and there is nothing he can do about it. Ah, he is still as helpless against her as ever.

Perhaps he can achieve something by pestering her and whining a little? That did the trick when he wanted to accompany her out of Rivendell before his fifteen year of age…

So, in the same language (which to him is more his native tongue than Westron), he blurts, “Why did you say you were unwell, Nana? Why did you flinch when I hugged you? Have you gotten injured at your side or ribs or sternum? How did you get it? Whence did you come? What is your next destination? Did someone attack you? Brigands? Orcs? Wargs? Nana, can I see your wound, please? I have some herbs still in my pack. Have you treated it yourself? Still, I want to see, Nana. May I?”

His Nana Dila seems to try to restrain her laughter as best she can. Oddly, she clutches only at the left side of her waist instead of both sides as people are wont to do when in the same situation. Seeing that, the Ranger lurches to his feet, a worried gleam in his bright-grey eyes. “Nana?”

“I have treated my injury well, fretting whiner,” she smiles softly and embraces him while bringing him back down to sit on the bed. “Do not worry so, son. And by the way, I shan’t tell you how I got it or where I got it, so you had better go to sleep while I keep vigil. After all, no one can be too careful these days.”

“But Nana—“

“Hush, little Estel.” Her arms still encircling him, she kisses his brow tenderly. “As for my route of journey… we can talk about that – and yours too – when we are both rested enough, okay?”

“But Nana…” His voice sounds meek in his own ears. The Ranger sighs and, with his eyes closed, leans forward to put his head on the crook of her shoulder. “Do you promise so?” he asks in a half-sulking, half-defeated tone. The movement of her head against his tells him what he wanted to know. Reluctantly, he retreats from her embrace and looks away, expecting her to be taking care of her personal needs such as changing her sodden clothes and treating her injury.

Apparently she does, for a while later she announces in the quiet tone they have been using in their conversation that she is done. When he looks back at her, he finds that she had donned a new, dry and clean set of clothes, and is currently sitting cross-legged in the chair with an faint expression of pain plastered on her face. He frowns reprovingly but refrains from chiding her. Instead, he raises his voice in songs they both know, songs the Elven musicians sing to encourage Elrond’s patients to recover swiftly, or to heal trees infected by the Darkness in Thranduil’s ever-dwindling territory in Northern Mirkwood. If he cannot treat her injury directly, he thinks, then this is the best he can do for her. He knows she is meditating to replenish her energy when she is in that kind of pose, since she never truly sleeps, so he attempts to provide her a good environment for her mind to rest awhile from the burdens of the darkening world.

He is paid off. The pained expression vanishes from her features, and she relaxes visibly. If he did not know better, he would say that she is asleep while in a sitting position, slumbering in the way everyone else in the race of Men do. His question of why she is never able to sleep properly has never been answered, and he does not want to pose it to her now, given her condition and the fact that they have long been separated from each other. (An argument or discomfort between them would not do at all in this unlooked-for reunion, especially when neither knows when they will meet again.)

And there is a bonus to it. His nana approaches him after her meditation with a smile on her now-peaceful countenance. Without thinking about a gulp of water to slake his thirst after singing nonstop for who knows how long, the overgrown boy scrambles into the covers and looks up at her invitingly, unabashedly. She just chuckles and proceeds to comply to his unspoken wish: tucking him in for a nap – or perhaps more. A gleeful grin lights his contented visage.

“You are fifty, Estel!”

“So?” He replies her in a sleepy mumble in the same language: Westron. They are alone anyway, to his knowledge, so there is no one to witness this. Besides, he is tired of acting as a chieftain and a protector all the time; he wants a respite, just a short reprieve, from his duty and responsibilities, to be a mere son loved and looked-after by his mother.

Vaguely, he hears Dila talking and someone else, a man, replying, but he just continues his light sleep, trusting his mother to guard him. He slips into a deeper part of his dreamland when the conversation ceases, and more when Dila claims a portion of the bed for herself. Instinctively, he snuggles to her, resting his head above her heart so that he can hear her heartbeats which is a music to repell all nightmares and restlessness in his youth. Any other man would be appalled by such action and simple comforts, but the physically, mentally and emotionally weary Ranger does not care about it. After all, most of his race have never experienced a life such as his, and the proverb “One never loses if one never possesses” never fails to prove itself true in many situations.

She hums a lullaby gently and snakes her arms around his torso in a motherly-affectionate way. A small smile graces the Ranger’s lips and he falls into full oblivion. Now he is not Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of the fallen Arnor and the heir of Isildur, but Estel Elrondion, and, for once, he is proud of it. There are many dark, difficult paths to tread ahead, but if he has the constant support of the people closest to him, he has faith that he will prevail against those obstacles in the end.

Hope has returned.

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End Notes:

Lame? Bad? Horrible? Totally OOC? I have a reason for the last, but the first and the second are unexplainable, unfortunately.

Why did Aragorn act like a toddler towards and in the end? Because, to me and in my version of him, he never quite leaves his carefree, happy childhood and often resorts to it unconsciously when he is rejected or when he is facing a seemingly-impossible difficulty. People have layers of ‘shields’ in their minds, I found some time ago by experience, and those shields can crak and break when pressure is put on them… until what left is the innermost core, their last sanctuary, whatever it is.

Why did he crave for companionship and emotional warmth? Because he is just a human despite all his pedigree and power and responsibilities. He experiences 20 years (more or less) of near bliss under Elrond’s protection. Then he stays with his own, true people for ten years (since I think, however mad Elrond is with him, that the Half-Elf is not quite willing to relinquish this last son of his) in which he takes his first taste of bitter life and daunting future. And last – but not the least – comes another 20 years of living a nomadic, wild life almost a far cry even from his years as a Ranger among his people. So I guess he longs to go back to his first 20 years of existence…

Living for twenty years away from contact with his closest souls, roaming the wild, dangerous lands and not knowing if he will return alive (or at all) to them can also make someone leap madly on the chance of having a family within his reach, on second thought…

So flame me if you wish. But constructive criticisms are much more welcome, or at least comments on how things have been going here. Review, please? (And please forgive my sour tone in this additional blabbering. Frankly, I am not quite satisfied with how things are turning out myself.) The last part will come out… umm… ermh… well… when I am ready. :shifty eyes: Sorry! I promise I will work on it as soon as possible…