Disclaimer:  This story is non-profit and written for purely entertainment purposes.  All recognized places and characters are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema.  I own nothing but my name.

Whoa!!!  :)  My most sincere thanks to those wonderful souls who left reviews!!  You’ve got me feeling better than any medication--I’m grinning ear-to-ear.  THANK YOU!!!

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~ Chapter 5: A Bit of a Snag ~

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Aragorn lowered himself onto all fours, placing an ear upon the wet earth.  He and Halbarad had been assigned to follow a veteran Ranger as part of their tracking drills.  They had chased the man for better part of an hour, until the tracks finally led them to a pebble-strewn river and promptly disappeared.

Aragorn closed his eyes in concentration.  Arda, the Ranger Chief Guttarion had told them, spoke to those who knew what to listen for.  Aragorn allowed himself a small smile as he began to decipher the different sounds: the rumble of stone, the steady trickle of water, the far-off reverberation of a footfall.

Such tactics would never occur to Elves.  They sensed things through the pitches and chords of Iluvatar’s Song.  But to hear such music, if indeed it could be called so, was inborn and could not be taught.  “I could no more describe colors to a blind man than explain it,” Elrohir had once told him with a shrug.

Impatient movement at the edge of the bank pulled Aragorn from his thoughts.  “If you are quite finished sleeping…”  Halbarad called, kicking at errant pebbles and watching them tumble into the churning brown waters.

Aragorn held up a hand.  “Shhh.  I believe I may have heard footfalls to the North.”  He pushed several locks of hair past his shoulder and again closed his eyes.

“Or,” Halbarad loudly announced, “we might follow the footprints at river’s edge.”

Aragorn’s eyes snapped open.  He sat up, resting on his knees, and shot Halbarad a look of irritation.  “Why did you not tell me this earlier?”

Halbarad grinned.  “I was amused by your attempts to commune with the dirt.”

Aragorn brushed mud from his hands and knees as he stood.  “It does work, you know.”

“I know,” Halbarad absently replied.  “But I find actual tracks far easier to follow.”

The two slid carefully down the bank’s rocky slope.  Halbarad scrutinized the area a few moments before crouching down a few paces away from Aragorn.  “Here.”  He indicated to the track, which was little more than the imprint of a boot heel. 

Aragorn knelt at the tousle-haired Ranger’s side.

“The old Warg wanted us to believe he crossed the river.”  Halbarad rocked back on his heels and smiled confidently.  “He only traveled alongside it.”

Aragorn brightened.  “North.  He was traveling North, then.”  He glanced up the rocky bank, absently pushing errant hair past his shoulder.

“Strider.”

Aragorn turned to Halbarad.  He was immediately alarmed by the gleam in the other’s eye.  Halbarad’s schemes were usually trouble, but it was even more disturbing to see them forming in his head. 

Aragorn tensed.  “Yes?”

Halbarad cocked his head to one side, lips tugging into their customary smirk.  “I believe it time to rid yourself of those pretty Elven locks.”

“You shall not come near my hair.”

“All those ridiculous little braids…  And it is nearly past the center of your back.”

Aragorn stood and scrambled up the bank.  “You are not cutting my hair!”

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Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced as his head was cruelly yanked backwards.  “You are positive you have done this before?”  He leaned back awkwardly and attempted to eye Halbarad, wincing as the young Ranger gave his hair another sharp tug.

“I said,” came Halbarad’s cross reply, “I know what I am doing.”

Aragorn again grimaced, well aware the phrase was only second to, “Trust me,” as far as Halbarad and certain disaster was concerned.

Their tracking expedition had ended surprisingly well—they managed to at last corner their quarry in a cave—and the two were given early dismissal to wash up before the evening meal.  Aragorn was still not sure why, or how, he had let Halbarad talk him into a haircut. 

“Have you finished?”  Aragorn squirmed restlessly while Halbarad continued to awkwardly saw at his hair.  If hair had feeling, Aragorn was positive his would be screaming.

Halbarad growled.  “Stop moving or I shall cut off your head.”

“I fear you shall cut it off anyways.”  Aragorn let out an involuntary yelp as Halbarad gave a forcefully tug.

“One would think,” said Halbarad, “your hair made of braided metal.”  He momentarily ceased torturing Aragorn’s hair and examined his knife with a frown.  “My blade has already dulled.”

“Perhaps it is that you lack the proper strength required to cut hair?”

Halbarad paused.  “Lack the—“  He snorted, then broke out into laughter.  “That was very good, my friend.  A well-placed jab at my expense.”

Aragorn merely grinned in reply.

When at last Halbarad was satisfied, Aragorn sat amidst a small mound of dark locks.  Running a hand through his newly shorn head, he sighed ruefully and eyed the pile at his feet.

It was quite a bit of hair.

“Well?”  Halbarad casually flipped his blade and cocked his head to one side.  “What say you, Strider of the Dunedain?”

Aragorn hunched his shoulders, head feeling strangely light and naked.  “I am not sure.”  He scratched his chin and frowned.  The beard stubble itched madly.  “It seems strangely backwards to me, Halbarad, that I should have long hair on my face and short hair on my head.”

Halbarad threw up his hands in long-suffering disgust and shook his head.  “Truly, you are such a woman.”

Aragorn ceased brushing errant hairs from his tunic and straightened indignantly.  “I am most certainly not a woman.”

Halbarad placed one hand upon his hip.  “Halbarad,” he replied in mock falsetto, “I wish to have a smooth face and long hair.  Halbarad, have you seen my lavender soap?”  He batted his eyes and pouted.  “Halbarad, will you hold this corner while I fold the end of my bedroll?  Halba—OOPH!”

Aragorn’s tackle caught him by surprise.  The two grappled within the browned autumn grass until Aragorn managed to pin Halbarad on his stomach.

Pushing his knee into Halbarad’s back, Aragorn wrapped one arm around the other’s neck and pulled upward.

“Mmph, very well, argh—you win!”  Halbarad hissed as Aragorn gave him a final yank for good measure.  “Careful, you great oaf!  The ladies will not be pleased should you mangle me.”

“Ladies?”  Aragorn released Halbarad and offered him a hand.  “Halbarad, we are in the middle of the Wilds.  I hardly expect there shall be any ladies here.”

“Ah.”  Halbarad winked and grinned cheekily.  “But you have not yet been to Riordan.”

“Riordan?”

Halbarad nodded, running a hand through his tousled hair and dislodging bits of dried grass.  “The finest settlement in all the Wilds.  There are taverns full of ale and games.  And the ladies…  Ai, Elbereth!  They are never in short supply.”

Much to Aragorn’s horror, Halbarad proceeded to do a very lewd version of an ancient Elven begetting day dance.  Aragorn’s face went crimson.  Never, ever, would he be able to view the dance in the same way.

And if that wasn’t enough, Halbarad threw back his head and belted forth lyrics no tongue, as far as Aragorn was concerned, should ever utter.

“HALBARAD!” 

Halbarad stopped mid-stanza and innocently looked back.  “What?  You dance and sing all the time.”

“Not-not-not-” Aragorn managed to stutter, blush spreading clear down to his neck,“-like… that!”

Taking note of Aragorn’s mortification, Halbarad burst out laughing.  “You priss,” he managed to gasp between fits.  “Do you even know what a woman is?”

Folding his arms across his chest, Aragorn waited until Halbarad’s merriment subsided.  “Are you finished, then?”

“Quite.”  A final snicker escaped Halbarad’s lips nonetheless.  He eyed Aragorn as they gathered their gear and prepared to return to camp.  “Riordan is the destination we head to when granted leave near the end of the month.  Come Strider—even a pure soul as you cannot deny the company of a woman would be welcome.  Especially after the grueling exercises we have been through.”

Aragorn threw his pack over one shoulder with a heavy sigh.  “I desire none save the one I have already given my heart to.”

Halbarad snorted.  “You jest,” he cried incredulously.  “You and I are too young to fall in love.  Why waste your affections on one, say I, when there are several to be had!”  He grinned, pack bouncing jauntily on his back at his light step.

“Oh, but you should see her.”  Aragorn gazed dreamily into the darkening autumn forest.  “Her eyes sparkle as the dews of twilight, her skin pale as the moon, and her hair as blackened velvet as the night sky.  Her soul shines brighter than—“

“Strider, if you continue I do believe I shall retch.  And for Valar’s sake, wipe that moon-struck look from your face before I remove it for you.”

“My heart aches to have parted from her,” Aragorn said softly.  “And I know she feels the same.”

Halbarad rolled his eyes and groaned loudly.  “Istari’s bones!  I finally get him to realize he is no Elf, only to discover him lovesick!”  He shook his head.  “Rangers do not fall in love.”

“How do you know?”

“I—“ Halbarad blinked, somewhat taken aback.  “Because I just do.  It turns us to pudding.” 

“Pudding?”

Halbarad sighed in exasperation.  “Yes—pudding.  It makes us gloppy and…  and…”  He searched for a suitable word.  “Well… bluurrggh.”

Aragorn supposed the oddly boneless jiggle Halbarad performed was some sort of bluurgh impersonation.  He made as though the check the other for unseen injury.  “Did you hit your head while bathing?”    

“Bah!  Leave off!”  Halbarad swatted him away.  “Who is this beautiful woman, anyways?”

Aragorn sighed dreamily.  “Arwen Undomiel.”  Her name was sweeter than honey upon his tongue.  He would repeat it forever if he could.  ‘Arwen Undomiel…  Arwen Undomiel…  Arwen Undomiel…’

“Sounds rather elvish,” Halbarad commented, shifting his pack.  The telltale haze of blue smoke and flickers of flame through the trees announced the Dunedain encampment ahead. 

“She is an Elf,” Aragorn replied, still lost in pleasant daydreams of Arwen.  “The daughter of Elrond and fairest beauty in all the land.”

Halbarad stopped walking.  “Elrond, who raised you?”

“Yes,” Aragorn absently replied.

“Then that would make—“  Repulsion flashed across Halbarad’s face.  “ARAGORN!  That is disgusting!”

Aragorn’s daydream vanished at Halbarad’s shout.

“She is your sister!  You are in love with your sister!”

“I am not,” Aragorn hissed.  “She is not my sister!”

“She is.  Ugh!”  Halbarad backed away from the other.  “Your sister!  Three do I have, and never would I—ugh!”  Turning smartly on his heel, he began marching purposely towards the encampment.  “I do not know how Elves view such matters, but I, for one, will not tolerate it.  We are going to find you a real lady, my friend.  One who is neither Elvish nor related to you.”

Aragorn lifted his newly shorn head to the twilit heavens and sighed.  No matter what the outcome, he was positive it would not be favorable.

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ROMANCE!

(Hopefully that caught your attention.)  Um, I’m curious as to general consensus in regards to an “encounter” between a son of Elrond and Gilraen.  Unrequited and nothing more than tension and angst, so no canon violations…  I didn’t mean to write it, but it sort of ended up that way…  And basically I haven’t worked up the nerve to officially add it.  I tend to avoid things that could be construed “romantic,” particularly if they’re more serious in nature.  It’s a stretch for me.  But trying new things is good, yes?  *cringe*  I’m anxious to hear any thoughts on the matter!

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