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

Again, thank you for the amazing reviews!!!  :)  It’s always a thrill to receive your comments and suggestions…  Thank you! 

Now if you excuse me, I must go gleefully frolic in the fields of Review Heaven. Feel free to join me.  (The more, the merrier!  And it really is so much warmer there this time of year.)

*          *            *

_______________________________

~ Chapter 8:  Nowhere to Run~

At the end of the month, Fall lay in its final throes.  The air grew crisper and the land more grey.  Winter was unrushed, watching the Autumn swiftly fade with predatory confidence.  Soon would the Wilds fall to Winter’s icy fury, and even now the land’s inhabitants felt its warning bite.

The Rangers, as Halbarad predicted, were given leave two days’ leave.  And so it was that Aragorn found himself a few hours’ journey from camp, in a town he really had no wish to be in.

*          *            *

Riordan was an obscene and filthy clutter that appeared to have sprung from thin air.  It sat amidst the weed-strewn grasses, seeming to have no discernable purpose other than to ruin a perfectly nice plain.

It smelled terrible—of animals, Men, and dirt—and all the buildings leaned against one another as though someone had been too uncaring to form upright, sturdy structures with hammer and nail.  A majority of the dwellings, Aragorn noted, were fashioned of stone and mud.  Young children, draped in unkempt furs to ward off the cold, ran freely through the muddy streets alongside goats, pigs, and chickens.  Why anyone would raise children in such filth was utterly beyond Aragorn.  ‘Though,’ he had thought, involuntarily jumping back in disgust as several wild youngsters hurtled by, ‘they seem to have more in common with the animals than their own parents.’

Rapid, tumbling reels spilled from raucous taverns and into the single road.  The Rangers—young and old alike—bee-lined for the largest and busiest tavern of them all.

Aragorn balked on the front porch steps.  The polished sign of the ‘Pour House’ creaked cheerfully in the wind.  Yellow torchlight flickered gaily within; feet thumped merrily against wooden floorboards.  There were loud shrieks and even louder bursts of laughter. 

Halbarad shoved him lightly.  “Hurry, I have no wish to stand out in the cold while merriment awaits inside!”

There was a deafening crash from within.  A body flew across the window. 

“Halbarad.”  Aragorn warily backed away.  “I think I shall go back to camp—“

“Melkor’s teeth, you will!”  Halbarad promptly shoved him through the front doors.

Aragorn blinked in the brilliant torchlight and choked.  The air was unnaturally thick with smoke—most likely due to the Rangers’ pipeweed.  Aragorn had no taste for the stuff and doubted he ever would.  He stiffened in alarm as fellow Rangers Caden and Nethiron jostled by.

“’Pologies, Strider,’” Caden called over his shoulder, flaxen hair gleaming in the torchlight. 

Aragorn held up a hand and smiled uneasily.  The Dúnedain had begun to accept him at last—even Crow—though it was still tinged with grudge.  Aragorn suspected besting old Guttarion during a sword match the previous week had elevated his status.  That, and the fact his courtesy never wavered no matter how badly they treated him.  As Halbarad had pointed out, it was no fun picking on one who took all things in quiet, good-natured stride.  “You are too boring,” the Ranger had said.  “They would find better entertainment insulting a passing cloud.”

“Come on!”  Halbarad latched onto Aragorn’s arm and dragged him towards the back of the room to the bar. 

“Halbarad, no.  I do not think this a very wise—“

“Stop whining.”  Halbarad roughly pushed the Heir of Isildur onto a stool and plopped down next to him.  “Ho, Madrun!”  He waived down the stocky barkeep and shot the man a mischievous grin.

The gesture was quickly returned.  “Istari’s bones!”  The burly, grey-haired Madrun released a deafening laugh.  Aragorn cringed.  “If it isn’t Master Halbarad come back to break the bar!”  He set down the mug he was polishing and gave Halbarad a hearty clap on the shoulder.

Halbarad laughed.  “I come for the ladies, Madrun—fear not for your bar.”

“Ahhh.”  Madrun nodded, and gave the other a knowing wink.  “Plenty of the sort here, if I do say so myself.  And who,” he asked, laughing blue eyes coming to rest on Aragorn, “might this be?”  

Halbarad slapped Aragorn on the shoulder.  “This, Madrun, is my good friend Strider.”  He eyed Aragorn proudly.  “You will not find a better swordsman or horseman anywhere on Middle-earth.”

Aragorn hoped his ears weren’t as red as they felt.

“On all of Middle-earth?”  Madrun released another thunderous laugh.  “Well, young Strider—“  He slapped Aragorn on the shoulder.  Aragorn nearly had the wind knocked from him.  “—a friend of Halbarad is a friend of mine.”

“Give us a round, if you will,” said Halbarad, a little too gleefully for Aragorn’s liking.  “And where might we find a table?”

“Over there.”  Madrun pointed a thick finger towards the corner before setting two foaming mugs upon the bar.  Halbarad thanked him, managed to swindle another two mugs from the barkeep, and motioned for Aragorn to follow him. 

“Nice meeting you, Strider!”  Madrun gave him a final painful slap on the shoulder before turning to greet another familiar face.  Aragorn gritted his teeth and settled for mentally slapping the man in reply.

*          *            *

Less than an hour later, Halbarad had managed to gather quite a large contingent of female admirers around the corner table.  Aragorn wondered how the tousle-haired Ranger remembered all their names, until he realized Halbarad was using generic pet-names.  Every one of them was a “Dear,” a “Darling,” a “Lady,” a “Love,” or a “Beautiful.”

“Who is your friend, Halbarad?”  A raven-haired beauty with large brown eyes sidled next to Aragorn.  He sat up a little straighter.

“Yes, we’ve never seen him before.” 

Aragorn jumped.  There was a blonde at his back.

An extremely curvy woman with dark wavy hair joined her.  Aragorn’s skin prickled.  The three maidens eyed him hungrily.

It vaguely occurred to him this was what a rabbit must feel when thrown into a den of wolves.  ‘Or Vampires,’ Aragorn decided, watching the blonde draw back full lips in what was supposed to be an alluring smile. 

“Dooo tellus Halllburrraddd.”  A slender redhead dissolved into drunken giggles as she fell onto Halbarad’s lap.  The young Ranger didn’t seem to mind.

“We grew up together, Strider and I,” said Halbarad, managing to take a sip of frothy ale without removing his arm from female company.  “We were raised by Elves, you know.”

Aragorn choked into his mug of ale.  The pack of females emitted high-pitched squeals of delight. 

“You never told us that before, Halbarad!”

“Ah, well,” Halbarad toyed absently with a lock of the redhead’s hair and smiled fondly at her.  “You know I do not like to brag.”

Aragorn again choked, and decided to stop drinking.  He found the ale disgusting as it was, though had wisely declined to complain about the matter.  The dark-haired maiden trailed a finger up his arm and smiled coyly. 

Aragorn gulped down the mug’s remaining contents in the hopes he might pass out.

A scuffle broke out on the opposite side of the room.  Irritable Crow had managed to pick a fight with a burly stonecutter.  Wood splintered as Crow threw the man into a rickety barstool.  Several mugs crashed to the floor and shattered.  The stonecutter lurched to his feet, chest heaving in rage, and launched himself at the Ranger.  Crow’s fist met his jaw with a sharp CRACK! 

The entire tavern roared in furious delight.

The two fighting men suddenly became four.  The four seven, the seven ten…  until at last every room in the Pour House was a mass of flying fists and unchecked tempers.  Cards fluttered from the ceiling and dice rolled across the floor as the gamboling tables met airborne bodies and collapsed.  Bar maidens picked up their skirts and screamed in mock terror.

Aragorn watched in a dumbfounded haze, the scene made even more surreal by the amount of ale he’d consumed.  The Rangers and townsfolk actually seemed to be enjoying themselves.  ‘Where,’ he thought, ‘in holy Eru AM I?’

Halbarad leapt to his feet with a whoop.  “Come on, Strider!  Let’s go punch someone!”  His face was flushed, though it was impossible to tell whether from excitement or alcohol.

The blonde pawed piteously at Aragorn’s sleeve.  “Bee carrreflle,” she slurred. 

Aragorn jerked his arm away as though he had been stung.  No more—this was pure and uncivilized madness.  And he’d had enough.

“Strider?”  Halbarad stopped mid-charge.  “Strider!”

Aragorn pushed his way through the brawling bodies, ducking and dodging when necessary.  He had to get out.  It was simply too much to handle.

It was with no small relief that he reached the door.  Throwing himself forward, he burst into the freedom of night and was hit by air so cold it took his breath away.  Tumbling down the front stairs, Aragorn practically staggered into the street.  He inhaled greedily, the crisp night air clearing his sluggish mind. 

Stables.  His horse was in the stables. 

“Strider!”  Halbarad bounded down the rickety steps.  “Where are you off to?”  He sighed in exasperation when Aragorn didn’t answer.  “Bloody Void, Strider.  Lighten up.”

Aragorn hunched into himself, attempting to ward off the biting cold, and began walking down the deserted street.  His footsteps echoed loudly.  Muted strains of music and leaping torchlight spilled into the night.

“Aragorn, is it too much to ask that you act as a Man for at least one evening?”

“They did not act as Men,” Aragorn called in reply, not bothering to turn.  “They acted as beasts—disgusting, filthy beasts!  I could not breath in there.” 

“Strider—“ 

Aragorn quickened his pace.  The stables loomed silently ahead.

“Strider!”

He heard Halbarad release a strangled cry of frustration.

“Fine—keep running away!”

Aragorn stopped and turned crossly.  “I am not running away.”

Halbarad snorted.  “This is the Wilds, Aragorn.  Everyone is running away from something.”

The caustic bitterness in Halbarad’s voice was new to Aragorn.  Though—strangely enough—it wasn’t unfamiliar.  Aragorn briefly wondered where he’d heard it before.

“I am not running away,” he said flatly.  “I have never run away.”  Adjusting his scabbard with a sharp tug, he turned and continued walking towards the stables. 

“Oh no?”  Much to Aragorn’s chagrin, Halbarad fell into step beside him.  “You escaped the world of Men when you were small, and then you ran away from the Elves when you were older.  Aragorn—it seems to me you have done nothing but run away your entire life.”

Aragorn lifted his head to the crisp black night and sighed in exasperation.  The last strains of tavern music faded into the wintry shadows.  “My life is more complicated than that, Halbarad.”

“There are times when we need to simplify, Strider.  It keeps us from getting ahead of ourselves.”

Aragorn blinked and glanced at the other in surprise.  Where had that come from?

Halbarad’s somber face broke into its familiar grin.  “Then again, these words do come from the mouth of one afflicted with the tendency to exaggerate.” 

Aragorn chuckled in resignation and threw an arm over Halbarad’s shoulder.  “You were beginning to sound like a Ranger, my friend.  I was worried.”

Halbarad returned the gesture.  “Yes, and so were you.”

The two laughed quietly and walked down the street, swaying carelessly like two drunken revelers. 

“Strider,” Halbarad asked at last.  “Why did you leave Rivendell?  I admit, I have oft wondered.”

Aragorn dropped his arm and grew momentarily silent.  “Lord Elrond declared I could not take Arwen’s hand until I recaptured my birthright.  Until I became King of Gondor.”

Even in the darkness he was able to see Halbarad’s astonishment.  “He told you what?  And you agreed?”

Aragorn smiled wryly.  “No, I ran away.”

“King of Gondor…”  Halbarad shook his head and released a low whistle.  “I would have told the old peredhil to go and boil his head, then I would have grabbed the fair maiden and eloped.”

Aragorn shuddered, imagining the look on Elrond’s face should he tell the Elf lord to, “go and boil your head.”  “I do not think that would go over too well.”

Halbarad snorted.  “What kind of madman demands such from his daughter’s suitor?”

“First,” Aragorn replied, “Lord Elrond is an Elf, not a madman.  And a very wise one at that.  Secondly, he has foreseen my future—“ 

“Oh no.”  Halbarad held up a shadowed hand.  “No, no, no.  I do not believe in ‘foresight.’  Speak naught of it.  It is no more than foolish nonsense.”

“How so?”  Aragorn glanced at the other in bemusement.

“Strider,” came Halbarad’s pointed reply.  “They walk around claiming to see visions and hear voices.  Just as any normal madman.”

“Yes, but—“

“If I ever start hearing voices in my head, I should think it insanity rather than foresight.”

“It is different,” Aragorn insisted, chuckling in spite of himself.

“Nay, it is not.”

The two stopped in front of the stable doors. 

“You head back to the tavern,” said Aragorn, noticing for the first time Halbarad had put no cloak on in his haste to catch him.  Aragorn felt a surge of affection and gratitude for the other.  It quickly grew to concern as he saw Halbarad suppress a shiver.  “Go!  I know my way back to camp.  I shall be fine.”

“Truly?”  Halbarad vigorously rubbed his hands up and down his arms for warmth and searched the other’s face.

Aragorn caught the brief yet bright flash in Halbarad’s grey eyes.  “Yes, truly!  Now be gone—before you freeze to death.  And,” he added dryly, “the ladies are probably miserable in your absence.”

Halbarad laughed and turned down the path, retreating back to the tavern at a brisk jog.  Aragorn watched him go, a dark and confident figure moving swiftly against the muted glow of tavern lights.

‘Guttarion,’ he realized with a start.  That was why Halbarad’s tone had felt so familiar.  Pausing in the doorway, Aragorn furrowed his brow and idly wondered what it was Halbarad was running away from. 

*          *            *

The night weighed heavily upon Aragorn, as did the ale, by the time he reached the encampment.  Sliding wearily from his steed, he gave the horse a quick rubdown.  “Rest well, Foliar,” he murmured, giving the stallion a few pats on the neck.  The horse nickered fondly in reply.

He passed the wooden cages and pens on the way to his tent.  The fact that he bid them goodnight, Aragorn decided, was due purely to exhaustion.

Crow’s lamb bleated.  “’Night Fluffy,” Aragorn mumbled.

Nethiron’s badger grunted; Caden’s mole shuffled.  “’Night Stripes, Diggles.”

A tiny squeak was emitted as Aragorn stumbled by.  “’Night Lord Halbarad and NoName the Second—I mean,” Aragorn grimaced and stifled a yawn, glad Halbarad hadn’t been around to witness that mix-up.  He would never hear the end of it and probably be forced to start calling Halbarad ‘Lord.’  “—Goodnight Halbarad the Second and Lord NoName.”

A weary sigh of relief escaped his lips as he rounded the tents.  Reaching his own, he lifted the heavy flap and allowed himself another yawn.  It was good to be home—even if it was freezing and smelled of musty canvas.

Aragorn threw himself onto his bedroll, not even bothering to take off boots or cloak.  So what if they were muddy.  ‘Everything else is, too.’

And with that final thought, Strider the Ranger fell into blissful slumber.

************************************************************************