Reviews (322)

fliewatuet · 22 March 2006 · Chapter 9: The Secrets of the Dúnedain

This chapter was well worth the wait. I love the insight into Dúnedain culture and intrigues. I would probably also look ready to bolt if I had to face Halbarad's mother :-) But I would have loved to meet his father. Brandol is quite an interesting character, too, and I really liked his mother. She seems like the voice of reason and the source of wisdom whereas Halbarad's mom seems to have too many issues of her own. But I laughed out lout over the thought that she might have a crush on Elladan. And her "boots off!" was outright hilarious. You managed yet again a perfect balance between humour and grimness. The Dúnedain certainly had little to laugh at that time. To abandon the Angle is in that situation the most reasonable choice though a bitter one. I do wonder what Aragorn would think of the whole issue had he just stayed long enough to discuss it. As it is, I am not surprised that he left before dawn. And I'd wager a guess that he will give Halbarad a hard time to track him. But I am quite confident that Halbarad will manage to hunt down his chieftain and that he will manage to get him to talk about what's bothering him. Thanks again for the chapter. It was the perfect read for an otherwise uneventful business trip.

The Karenator · 22 March 2006 · Chapter 9: The Secrets of the Dúnedain

Johnny Halbarad, PI, shook the rain off his back like a Soul Train dancer in the spotlight and kicked open the door to his 'office'. In the sparse light of a day cloudier than Bill Clinton's memory, he picked his way among the detritus that everyone felt free to drop off in the tool shed/ tack shed/ potting shed/ pottery shed/ canning shed/ plow shed/ the all-purpose-but-his shed, to his desk. He moved a half-painted work of art--a woman in a bubble bath whose feet swung up and down like a cork bobbing in water--and sat down. The PI had barely cleaned his space of Barbie’s broken best buddy, Flicka, the Rohan horse of the missing hindquarters, when Brandol charged through the door so caught up in forward motion he looked like rapper propelled by the weight of his jewelry on his way to open-mike night at The Three Sheets to do his imitation of Leonard Nimoy singing 'The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins'. He balanced two mugs of brew, a boom box, a looped whip slung over his shoulder that Halbarad was afraid to think what it was used for, a set of handcuffs, two saddles, six lamps, one Jelly stiletto high-heeled shoe in sparkly pink, a cherry-red bong clutched between his teeth, and a partridge in a pear tree. "Here", Brandol said, "snag these cuffs. I can do the drop on the rest." Halbarad took the suds instead. Brandol let his load slide to the floor into a heap that would have made Uriah green with envy. Halbarad took a drink, a soothing mouthful that washed down his throat like ice on fire. He nodded toward the pile. "What's with the yard sale wares?" The older man settled into the rickety chair across from the PI like Gumby after a day in the desert. He folded up his body and parked, the bong still dangling from his fleshy lips. Before he spoke, he gulped down a quarter of his brew, never once losing his grip on the cherry-red pipe. If Halbarad hadn't been used to seeing this guy balance everything from plates on his nose to the contestant list on 'Let's Make a Deal', he'd have been impressed. But everybody knew Brandol's talents. He was a jack of all trades, a man handy with recycling, and a smoother snake than Kevin Trudeau. "It's all broke," Brandol said in a sentence drawn out as slowly as a puff of smoke trailing off the end of a smoldering pipe the size of Tom Cruise's ego. "Fix it," the PI said eyeing the load of junk like it was being offered on QVC and he knew better than to whip out his Visa. "Can't," Brandol told him. "It's as broke as your mother's personality." There was more than a grain of truth in Brandol's statement. The lot of the Dunadain had been broken since their ancestors had tried to stake claim on Valanor as the New World. The natives weren't welcoming, and the Big Boss had done a slam dunk on the jolly invaders that made them look like Mickey Rooney playing air-ball with Poseidon. The Big Guy had scored a three-pointer all the way to the bottom of the ocean. The Numenoreans were dealt straight crack. Things had been rotten since. "Look at the bright side," Brandol said. "Your daughter and my son are canoodling all the way to Evendim and back. I predict they'll be picking out china and cradles by the time they get back." "What bright side?" the PI asked, downing the remained of his brew before he could choke on the news. He shouldn't have been surprised. Brandol's dull offspring had been hounding his daughter since they were knee high to Lurch. There wasn't much a guy could do when his daughter started hearing the wedding march but play his part as father of the bride. It was a no-win situation. All the females in a radius of fifty leagues got a look in their eyes that said "The Bachelor" had been canceled and started flipping casually through ‘Brides’ magazine, all the while claiming they looked at it only to read the articles. Johnny Halbarad wasn't born in a cave; he'd heard that one before...in fact, he heard it right before he found himself all dressed up in a monkey suit and muttering something about until death do us part. The dinner bell rang, and Halbarad and Brandol trudged through the downpour. His mother, fresh from sharpening her fangs, merely let them glisten in the lamplight until everyone had finished the double cheeses with sides of fries and the new healthy fruit cups in heavy syrup. Once the last peach had been slurped, the crowd split from the scene like full-blooded people fleeing before Dracula. She had the PI pinned. "So when does Aragorn plan to dump the gig of guarding the wee people and get back here to use his muscle to get us on ‘Trading Spaces’?" she asked. "Why don't you ask him yourself?" Halbarad said, sitting on his temper like a chicken on her first production of the day. "I would," Nelaer, his mother, said. Halbarad waited, waited knowing that the Translyvannia Twist was about to be unleashed. "But," she said with a grin that would scare a warg out of the garbage, "it seems he's absent more than Maris on Frasier." "Maybe he's busy." "Maybe he's being fitted for his crown at Rivendell, or," she spat out like spewing a crewman's guts from Alien, "maybe he's on a cattle call for Burger King." The PI gave his mommy dearest a look that ought to have stuck four inches out from between her eyebrows, but since her head was made of kyptonite, it deflected, not even leaving a dent. Throwing his hands up, Halbarad cut his losses and strode out of the house like the loser of the World Poker Championship. He struck a Foghorn Leghorn pose on the fence to contemplate the mysteries of why Beaver Cleaver could never get another job acting, when a voice that made Cruella de Vil sound like Mary Poppins ordered him down and into a sideward leaning shack decorated in the Martha Stewart French Countryside Collection. "I'm going to tell you how burrs get stuck under saddles," Meneliel said pouring two fingers of Wild Turkey into a Daffy Duck jelly glass and putting it in front of him. She sloshed enough to sterilize Dr. Frankenstein's entire surgical tray into a Petunia Pig mug and dropped down across from him. "Where do burrs come from," he asked. "From getting your fanny too close to the bush," she said. "Some would say it comes from love, others...well, others would say it was just a case of Viagra not being invented yet. But life is short, kiddo, and some men too, but that doesn't stop us from scrubbing up to a deadly trap. Take the Last Homely Dad's house. I see you know what I mean. Just because something looks like a good ride, don't mean it's gonna do you any good." She slugged back half the Pig glass. "Has your mama never told you about this?" "As far as I know she's never been in the bushes or in the gardens of the Last Homely Dad," he said. "Too much upkeep. The eaves are too high above us. Not even a chorus of Hi ho, hi ho, off to work we go could keep us from being overcome by the desire to paint that scrollwork, to dust those beams, to reach for things we weren't meant to scrub." Meneliel poured another finger of whiskey into Daffy. "Then you're going to understand what I'm about to drop on you. Your mama was a tall kid, and when she wouldn't stop growing, her father feared she'd top out at Treebeard's eye level, so he loaded her up and took her to see if the Last Homely Dad could prune her. It was delicate work, but the Homely Dad was able to use a Dutch Elm remedy that did the trick. But it took months and your mama got used to painting the eaves, the elegance of singing the dust off the rafters, the sheer poetry of living the Miller High Life. When she stopped growing like a twig in mud and came back to us, she was as rotten as a log in a swamp. It took years for her to manage the blight that had crept into her bark, long years, years of knot holes and scale, but when she met your father, she found in him a kindred spirit, a man with a head as hard as a stump and a heart as soft as pine. They boarded up their lives and propped one another up like a new barn, but then, the worst happened." "Gilrean and Aragorn," Halbarad said. "Yep," Meneliel said, nodding like a bobble head doll on Kyle Petty's dashboard. "Short little Gilrean was going to have the life of ease and eaves." She patted the rough paw of the PI. "Don't be too hard on your mama, boy," she said. "She's had a harder time than a Bronze Burch Borer in a steel mill." Before Halbarad had time to follow up on this dirt he'd just been dished, Brandol poked his head in the door and gave them the head's up. “Trouble and one of the doubles just rode in.” Halbarad strode at the old man's side toward the barn. The bookend brother was in the barn trying to figure out the combination of his horse's saddle when the PI spied him. The elf-boy might be good in the eaves, but he wasn't worth spit in the barn. Halbarad flipped the strap like a switch and dragged the saddle off. "So what's up? I didn't think the boss would get out from under the beady eye of your homely dad until the Bee Gees go on tour again." One half of the brothers beautiful shook his head, sorrow dripping off him faster than the puddle of water widening at his feet. "Beats me," he said. "He got more antsy than Dan Brown on the witness stand, muttered something about putting flowers on his mother's grave and lit out." The bookend shook his head like Lassie after rescuing Timmy from a raging river with one paw tied behind her back and rocks tied to her tail. The PI grunted and wiped the spray of water off his face with the back of his hand. "Well, there's nothing we can do about it now," he said. "You know the boss; he can be as ornery as Ralph Kramden missing lunch." The bookend, looking like the top scoop fell off his cone, followed the PI to the house where he ran into the PI's mother. She looked him over like choice beef, flushed the color of the raw hamburger and winked. "Well, mae your Italian grandfather, Govannen, be hanged. How're you getting along, Elladan?" Nearly choking on his own spit, the PI stopped dead in his tracks. His mother blushing like Andi McDowell in ‘Sex, Lies and Videotapes’? Some people were harder to figure out than his tax return. Later, while snuggled up with his wife in bed, it hit him: his mother had called the elf by name, something no one could do or had ever done as far as he knew, unless the mirror-image boys were wearing nametags. He sat bolt upright in bed. "How'd she know?" he yelped. "How'd the old bat know which one of the bookends was here?" His wife smiled. He wasn't sure he liked that smile. "I don't guess you've looked the bookend up and down real careful-like, have you?" "Should I?" he asked. "Not unless ‘Brokeback Mountian’ is your favorite movie," she said. "But ‘9 Weeks’ was mine and every other female this side of the sea. We know what to do with some Jell-o and an elf." He lifted an eyebrow. "Oh yeah," he said. "What would you do with a ranger and tub of Jell-o?" "There's only one ranger I'd wrestle," she said. "Yeah? Who?" "Well," she said, a slow smile lighting up her eyes and face like candlelight on a warm summer night, "I'll show you." The following morning, the PI was all grins when he cracked open one eye to see the sun was already higher than the Today’s Show’s ratings. With no real good reason to give up a little more shut eye, he drifted back off to dream about Jell-o and his wrestling victory the night before. “Yo! Sleeping Beauty!” his wife called. “The king has left the building.” “What king?” he asked sleepily and wondering what his odds were for a rematch. “Our wannabe one, you dozing dolt,” she said. “He’s gone.” Halbarad sat bolt upright. “Anybody see him take off?” His wife shook her head. “Not even the chickens. Your horse is gone too.” The PI snatched his clothes from the floor where he usually left them and yanked his pants on. “Don’t worry, sweet cheeks, I’ll find my horse. I can track an ant over a steel girder.” Ray’s Dog There are several lines that bear mentioning. Meneliel settled herself into her chair heavily. “From desire, most of all. Some would even say love. Men’s lives are short and brutal. But to be forced to look up on that which we can never have is the most brutal test of all. This is lovely and so telling about the hard lives of the Dunadain and the sacrifices they made. Meneliel’s words are a word to the wise, no matter who they are. Envy never works out well. Quite profound. Nothing she saw with her eyes or created with her own hands would ever again rival the beauty of her memories. Another evocative line. I feel the weight of Nelaer’s sorrow and longing here. Meneliel has a deep understanding of why Halbarad’s mother has become the woman she is, and her compassion is admirable. I think the reader is able to gain a perspective on both women in Meneliel’s explanation to Halbarad. But it was then that the worst happened. Her greatest dream came true – for someone else.” The following discussion here between Meneliel and Halbarad is very revealing. Nelaer is jealous, but she’s strong, strong enough to recognize her weakness and act appropriately to prevent discord among the people. The sorrow of loving something outside of her reach has shaped who she is, but she still recognizes the dangers and makes sure her son never suffers such futile longings. Well done. Great insight into this character. The entire chapter is wonderful, but the parts where you delved into Nelaer’s character are brilliant. This could have easily been an information dump, but you crafted scenes that allowed us to see Nelaer’s behavior and seamlessly revealed what had caused her to be so surly. She dealt with her pain as best she could. You gave Nelaer depth and made her a sympathetic character even when she’s being annoying. I absolutely love this part. The wait for this chapter was worth it, but it just makes me want more. Is greed as bad as envy? Let me discuss this with the dog, and I’ll get back with you. Loved it! Karen

pipinheart · 22 March 2006 · Chapter 8: Ghosts in the Attic

Aragorn, you have to feel for him here, he is in pain, and knows something no-one else does it seem...Can he not trust elrond to ease his fears...It must be bad if not, and leave when he still isn't recovered... Great!!

pipinheart · 22 March 2006 · Chapter 9: The Secrets of the Dúnedain

Poor Aragorn...Whatever it is haunting him, it would be better to tell someone... Those that love him wouldn't care what it is...And going off alone isn't a good thing.. Please update soon...Love it!!

estel e edain · 21 March 2006 · Chapter 9: The Secrets of the Dúnedain

thank you so much for posting the next chapter and i still really love this story great job

Oshun · 21 March 2006 · Chapter 9: The Secrets of the Dúnedain

I was so happy to read your new chapter. This is a great story and the last few chapters have been quite a read. Loved the stuff about Elladan and his mother and then his wife too! Nice light humor. “Right.” She cocked an eyebrow at him and licked her lips. “Of course, the right man could make me forget I ever laid eyes on a certain Peredhel.” Of course, I'm looking forward to the next one...

Ellie · 21 March 2006 · Chapter 8: Ghosts in the Attic

This such a good story! So intriguing and such well developed characters. I can't wait for more.

grumpy · 21 March 2006 · Chapter 9: The Secrets of the Dúnedain

So Aragorn gone walkabout, and taken Daisy with him. Poor guy is just dazed and confused. Good thing that Halbarad will soon be on his trail. Elladan is another one who is confused, not knowing what is the matter. Not only that he is the male version of Arwin, to the dunadan woman. Oh my, Nelaer blushing, oh my. I do feel better towards her, now that her secret is out. The fact that see moved when Gilrean came back, she was jealous and knew Gilraen was blameless. That takes a good woman. Did I mention, I love your ranger village, and all the rangers in it.

Linda Hoyland · 21 March 2006 · Chapter 9: The Secrets of the Dúnedain

A very interesting relavation about Halbarad's mother.I am glad to see Aragorn and Halbarad back together though it was for all too short a time, I do hope he finds him soon.Poor Aragorn !

RS · 20 March 2006 · Chapter 9: The Secrets of the Dúnedain

Yay, you're back! I am so glad! Right away I was pulled into the Dunedain's way of life and thinking. Before I forget I just want you to know that the description, observation, and subtle movements of your characters bring them so much to life;"Halbarad watched in fascination" "as Brandol took a drink from his mug without bothering to remove the pipe from between his teeth", "..showing broken teeth","...broke into a crooked grin, pulled askance by his scar". I love Halbarad's reaction when he finds out about his mother's stay in Rivendell, .."Wearing gowns in Rivendell? Painting?", "Elrond would have been quite disappointed with my singing". I love his quick-witted remarks! Though now I know what is bothering Nelaer and why she is the way she is, I'm still not sure if I want to like her. Maybe in time. I just about died laughing regarding the Dunedain women and their lust for the twins! Halbarad's mom...blushing!!! HAHAHAHA!! I'm sure I've said this quite often and I will say it again! Halbarad is so endearing! His look on life, how he treats his family and especially his wife, and his devotion to Aragorn! Speaking of Aragorn, I hope my favorite brooding Ranger finds what he is looking for at his mother's grave and hopefully Halbarad will be there to help him.

Nilmandra · 20 March 2006 · Chapter 9: The Secrets of the Dúnedain

I read this fast this morning, before going to work. Now I'm enjoying it more leisurely. This passage stuck with me though: We are the ones, after all, who stole his grief from him so long ago, took from him his identity as Arathorn’s son. Maybe it will help him to be with his own people for a while.” Elladan’s head sank toward his chest, the last words seeming to drain his last strength. Halbarad laid a hand on his shoulder. “You are his people, too,” he said. “You always will be. He just needs time to rest.” Amazing that sometimes the most powerful weapon doesn't need strength or skill to launch it - words off the end of a tongue can damage so much. Halbarad gets it, though. He understands the differences between men and elves very well - and probably now sees his mother in a whole new light. And Aragorn perhaps, for having to straddle both worlds. . “She was blushing, too,” he said. “I think she fancies him. Oh, sweet Valar.” He plopped backwards onto the pillow. “My mother fancies Elladan.” Spew warnings, please. LOL, of course, Halbarad, who wouldn't fancy Elladan? But I must agree with Eirien on this - I'd take Halbarad too. Mortals need to stick with mortals. Halbarad woke up happy. I bet! I was quite happy reading about his happiness. Lucky Eirien! And off goes Aragorn. Silly Ranger. I guess even the most kingly among us have crises.

Gandalfs apprentice · 20 March 2006 · Chapter 9: The Secrets of the Dúnedain

Hi, meckinock I can't tell you how thrilled I was to see you had updated. I was undergoing terrible withdrawal from my meckinock fix. What a great chapter. You portray so well the mixed feelings and views that the Dunedain must have had about Rivendell. The characters are real people, especially Halbarad's mother, whom I'm beginning to be quite fond of. And OMG I am worried about Aragorn. Halbarad to the rescue, again! It's also really fun to see how you portray the Ranger society. Since Tolkien left us so little on that, we can all let our imaginations roam. I like what you have done with the Lake Evendim question. In my (yet again) revised "Sword of Elendil" post, I have expanded my description of the Angle. I'm hoping to update every week or two from now on! G.A.

Bodkin · 20 March 2006 · Chapter 9: The Secrets of the Dúnedain

Halbarad seems as shocked by the gowns as the poetry and painting. OK, I officially feel sorry for Nelaer now. She got caught up in the fairy magic - and we all know that coming back to the mortal world is barely possible. She did a good job in making her son immune to it, though. Perhaps he absorbed the immunity with his mother's milk. And she knows Elladan from Elrohir at first glance. Why is it that Halbarad appears to be surprised that the female Dundedain population fancies the twins? Isn't it obvious that they would? They have all their own limbs, hair and teeth; they're not stubbly, malodorous or grizzled; they can sing, do poetry and remain handsome under pressure. He doesn't seem to have any difficulty grasping that all the males drool over Arwen. (Although it's very sweet of him to say that he wouldn't notice the Evenstar if Eirien was present.) Boy do you do the hard life of the Dunedain well. Widowhood almost inevitable - orphaned children, roofless houses, broken ploughs, worn harness. To such has come the blood of Numenor. Not surprising that Nelaer practises cynicism - and practise makes perfect. Or that she envies Gilraen and Aragorn their years of ease. Although perhaps she should remember what it was like leaving Rivendell after four months. What must it have been like after eighteen years? Aragorn is in no condition to ride off into the night. It's a good thing that Halbarad can track him - and he should have known that taking pleasure in waking up in a comfortable bed near a comfortable wife was a warning of imminent departure to a wet, cold, muddy world. I've missed out loads. But rest assured I love it all. I will read it all again later - it's far too packed to pick up all the nuances in one go. Excellent chapter. I'm left feeling sorry for everyone. Including Elladan.

daw the minstrel · 20 March 2006 · Chapter 9: The Secrets of the Dúnedain

One of the things I like about this chapter is the way it gives a deeper understanding of Halbarad's mother, rounding her out and making her more plausible, though just as annoying to poor Hal. I too noticed that Halbarad's mother knew Elladan's name. And while I can well believe all the women "fancy" the sons of Elrond, I'm not convinced that's the reason she can tell them apart. I also liked the way everyday life in the Angle is conveyed as Halbarad moves around, touching objects, thinking about chores, pulling off muddy boots. And that he slaps at Elladan's hands. And that Elladan has trouble with the wet girth and has to stretch to get the ride out of his legs. A great read, Meckinock.

Ainu Laire · 19 March 2006 · Chapter 9: The Secrets of the Dúnedain

Oh! Excellent, excellent, excellent chapter! I missed reviewing the last one somehow, though I swear I did... maybe it didn't submit or something *shrugs* Anyways, I am very interested in seeing what exactly was in the letter Arathorn wrote, and why Gilraen's grave is so important. I wonder if there is something that was buried with her that was important to Arathorn... or maybe the letter was from Gilraen to Arathorn... oh goodness, I have absolutely no idea! I must say that you have me stumped; and as it is, I don't get stumped all that often when I read fan fiction. I can usually guess what is going on, but here I haven't a clue. I don't usually fall so quickly for elves or hobbits, but you have me absolutely loving ALL of your characters/characterizations of characters; throughout the fic I have fallen in love with all of the elves, men, and I love Dudo and Gandalf. I hope that we'll be able to see Gandalf again, though I doubt we'll see Dudo in the story again (unless if they visit the Shire or something, which would be a bit unexpected...). And though Aragorn shall always remain my favorite character, I absolutely *love* Halbarad. His character is perfect. His family is great... though his mother definitely gets on my nerves. I cannot stand people such as her, even if I do understand why she is like she is. But man! I want to see where Aragorn is going! Aragorn, I shall follow you and save you! *climbs up on a horse with her Anduril replica and starts galloping off with a cool theme music playing in the background* Cheers, Suvi/Laire/Local Aragorn Fangirl/Mad One/Too many to name

RS · 6 March 2006 · Chapter 8: Ghosts in the Attic

Just want to let you know that I am still waiting for updates! Read this story again (just love it!) and the suspense is killing me. What happened? Just a friendly reminder that I have not forgotten you and am patiently waiting! Hope all is well.

estel e edain · 24 February 2006 · Chapter 8: Ghosts in the Attic

I can't wait till the next chapter to see what aragorn does and what happens. this chapter was my favorite

Elflingimp · 24 January 2006 · Chapter 8: Ghosts in the Attic

Well Ive read this whole story in two days and it has the same quality in it as the first,you have captured all of their personalities so well,I am in awe so I will be waiting( Patiently) for more Thanks for the good read!

The Karenator · 24 January 2006 · Chapter 8: Ghosts in the Attic

The PI was still in the bushes. Meanwhile, the chieftain was wheezing his way up the steps to an attic dustier than the Munster’s drawing room. The maid rarely made her way to the expanse bat hotel that kept all the discarded mismatched plastic ware and chipped china the elves had accumulated through Ages of soirees and Tupperware parties. When the ranger finally gained the door of the dusty den, he found the punkish pie pixie and his sidekick, Erestor--an elf with the grooming habits of an undertaker--already rummaging around the stacked castoffs and boxed bunkum. Aragorn, as blue in the face as Papa Smurff, hacked his way over to a trunk sporting a fine layer of powdery mildew and bat guano. He flipped open the lid as easily as Mel could flip flapjacks at his greasy spoon. After a few minutes of coughing and sputtering, the ranger yanked out a stack of Golden Books and tossed them to the tactless trumpery tatterdemalion. The compact castoff collector gave the goods a once over and sneezed. “You ain’t got Tomb Raider or John Madden’s NFL?” “These,” Erestor said, looking as grim as Timmy when Lassie didn’t come home, “are books, my dear gormless git, hand wrought by the last homely dad when he was still living in a cave with no electricity and had to trudge through the snow five miles everyday to elvengarten.” The prunish pee-wee poacher grimaced as if he had been eating bad meatloaf and went back to thumbing through the pages while looking for the button to turn on the sound. The ranger looked fondly at his Thomas, the tank engine, until the undertaker left to scare up a cadaver to bore into the grave with his discourses, and the pesky petulant piddler pranced off with his proffered putterment. Another trunk caught the ranger’s eye and he delved into it like it was Davy Jones’s locker. His face fell like Zsa Zsa’a after a lift that didn’t take. There was nothing but a smelly Hell’s Angels jacket, a sweaty bandana, and a creased ticket stub to some long ago rock festival on a farm in the upcountry of Eriador. At the very bottom of the crusty box, he spied a stiff leather wallet bulging with paper. “Summertime,” one of the bookend brothers said from the door, “and the living was easy.” “What are you jabbering about?” the ranger snapped as he tossed an empty bottle of Love Potion number 9 back into a mess as jumbled as Vanna White’s hair. He tore his eyes away from the billfold. Elladan, one half of the twinset, dropped to a knee next to the trunk of truncated tales. “It was the summer of ’69,” he said wistfully. “Three days of music and mud. I was there, you know. Me and Bobby McGee. Elrohir too. Janice was cosmic in blue and nursing Southern Comfort. Country Joe was rockin around the world. The Band was up Cripple Creek. Crosby, Still, Nash and Young were still speaking. It was the time to be a ranger in the wild.” His eyes misted and turned as dark as Barnaby Collins before he chowed down on a juicy jugular. “We were undercover, you know. Word had come down to us from our troll snitches that Sauron had put together a band and was going to give them a test ride at the festival. Called themselves LACE—Looting and Crushing Everything. So we copped a disguise and went in.” Anger shot through his eyes like a Saturday Night Special fired point blank. “We were set up, man. Our worm had turned. Those trolls had flipped so many times we were dizzier than a Gillespie. The trolls had never been trustworthy, but we’d pay them good—hard cold cash and a bucket of Kentucky Fried. Later we came to find out that Sauron had bought them with Gold.” He shook his head with despair. “Never, and I mean, never trust a stoned troll, man.” Elladan jumped to his feet and paced, leaving no footprints on the dusty floor. “As soon as things got to piping, Sauron and his minions pulled their tricks. Orcs came rolling out of everywhere. It was like third down on the ten-yard line. People were being tossed and diced like a salad.” He stopped and squared his gaze on the ranger. “Just before the end, your old man snatched up a naked chick who’d been taking a bath in the pond and carried her to safety. Then it happened: One minute he was riding high next to me and the next second he keeled over like a Weeble with his bottom sheared off. He was gone before he hit the mud puddle.” “A warrior could ask for no better death,” the ranger said. Elladan nodded in agreement. “Your old man didn’t suffer Pinkos and before he went to the big bash in the sky, he took out more orcs than anyone else there. He was hailed a hero.” He placed his hand on Aragorn’s arm. “He still is, you know. Arathorn’s name is still tattooed on many a derriere.” Aragorn wiped dust out of his eyes and pointed to another stack of books. This wasn’t the time to take a stroll down memory lane. “Take those down for the natty niblet and I’ll close up the shutters so the bats won’t get out.” Once the brother skipped the scene, Aragorn snatched up the wallet, hoping to find his old man had left him a nice little nest egg. Instead he found a stash of love notes. The handwriting looked like something he’d need a decoder ring for, but he strained his eyeballs to the point of them blowing up like overfilled water balloons and deciphered the scraggly penmanship. His heart took a leap off the Tallahatchee Bridge. He didn’t know how long he had spent picking out snaky letters and trying to guess the words when Olorin Gandalf spooked his way into the attic. Great! Just what the ranger needed; a science guy to start running tests on the ink and working code. Aragorn stuffed the pack into his shirt and put on his best Howdy Doody smile. “Dinner is served,” the wizard said, “and your can is going to be the main course if you don’t get it downstairs to the table.” Gandalf survey the ranger with the practiced eye of a wizard of odd. He knew when something was brewing even if the Falstaff light had flickered and gone out long ago on most of these goods. “Something eatin’ at you?” he asked. “Nothing a little Nitaway won’t fix,” the ranger told him getting up to follow after the wizard like a puppy caught weeing on the rug. The corndogs had already been scarfed up when the ranger made his way to the table. “You want a fried weenie?” Elrond asked eyeing his foster son like he had just stepped out of drag and the king turned out to be a queen after all. “I’ll pass,” the ranger said. He knew by the penetrating look on the elf lord’s face that he had gotten wind about him raking though tattered trunks. What Aragorn didn’t know was if the last homely dad had ever caught wind about some perfumed epistles piled in personal plunder. “Guess what I did today?” the compact cookhouse collector asked. A collective sigh of relief not heard since the last time the last homely dad had aired out his drawers breezed from the adults at the table. “What did you do today?” the science guy asked with dull enthusiasm. “Bulbous and I went for a walk and I didn’t see one single satellite dish. Then Aragorn and the undertaker took me up to the attic, and Aragorn gave me these things Erestor called books. Did you know that Aragorn is so old he didn’t have a Gameboy when he was growing up?” “He’s always been rather gamey,” Elladan muttered under his breath. “If you keep piling up junk to lug to the Shire,” Olorin said, “we’re going to have to snatch a U-haul.” “They’re presents,” the knee-high knick-knack napper said. “Besides, it’ll help me remember everybody when I’m holed up in hole.” He turned to the ranger. “I’m gonna miss you. Are you gonna be lonelier than Sonny without Cher when I go?” “Sure,” the ranger replied. “But I’m blowing this pop stand tomorrow too.” The last homely dad’s face became pale and hard. “Not in this Age,” he said in a low furious voice that sounded like Rin-Tin-Tin’s growling over a soup bone with a hank of ham still hanging on the haunch. “So,” Elladan piped up like the lead singer for the Vienna Boys’ Choir, “anybody want a cold one?” “Yeah, pop me a top,” Elrohir said congenially. When Elladan plopped the icy brew down in front of him, he kicked it back. After wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he smiled. “These hops are hoppin’ good. I think it’s because they grow on the southern exposure of…the big field…where they grow.” “Indeed, my brother,” the other twin of the set said, “I think it’s all the acid dropped in the dirt back when Leary was growing mushrooms there.” Buffy, the balrog slayer, jumped to his feet. “Can it! Grab a tub and let’s ice down the rest of the suds and get down over at The Firewater.” Chairs scrapped across the floor like nails being dragged over the last homely dad’s board expression. The ranger snapped to, ready to make his getaway, but a hand like a cold vise clamped down on his arm. “Not you, Captain Convalescent.” Aragorn slumped back in his chair and let out a sonorous sigh. The last homely dad stood like a dark tower over the runty ranger and tapped his foot. “So what’s got a burr under your blanket that you’d head for the hills before your hand is handy?” “Dust to dust,” the ranger said, hoping the homely dad wouldn’t mention the rubble he rummaged in the attic. “All the dust bunnies rolling the aisles in the belfry reminded me of my mama. She’s been pushing up daisies for a while now and I’ve not stopped to sniff a one.” “She knew you were going to have slippery fish to fry,” he said, his face losing only enough of the stiffness to give a glimpse of compassion. “What’d you expect of her? She was tired. She squeezed every ounce of juice out of her joy to see that you got a good start. She was with you every minute until the end. Maybe you couldn’t see her. Maybe you didn’t know she was there. But she was. Looking over you like a dame with a heart of gold and a hat to match. She was threadbare, but she was happy. She went like she was meant to, like she wanted. She rounded up peace and shook it out good. So now you’re going to throw away her life’s work by steaming out of here like a clam at a bake? Before you’re ready? You’d break her heart like day-old saltines.” “I owe it to her to at least stop and smell the flowers,” Aragorn said, his own heat rising like Poppin Fresh. “There ain’t no hurry. She ain’t going nowhere.” The ranger hated himself for what he was about to say, but it had to be said. He had to give the homely dad the slip and the only way was to nail him with a well-placed word-punch. “What would you know about hurrying?” he shot back as coolly as a Long Island Iced Tea. “You couldn’t run in that dress if your life depended on it.” He got up from the table, untangled his belt from the table cloth, and walked out. This time the homely dad stepped aside like a bicyclist barely being missed by an out-of-control semi. Ray’s Dog

Estelcontar · 21 January 2006 · Chapter 8: Ghosts in the Attic

Wooooooooooohooooooooooo, thought I when I saw your new chapter. Here is my favourite ranger back, and not only is he back, but now he's in for some quiet time basking in the comforts of Rivendell, and happy, for once, in the company of Elrond and the twins, waiting for Arwen to arrive. And what happens? Bang, he's right there again in the middle of another major angst trip. Well, you've done it again. Now I'm going to wait even more anxiously for your next chapter because I just have to know what Aragorn found out. "Aragorn looked down at Elrond’s hand on his arm. He had known himself to be the son of two fathers since he was twenty. He had never before felt so torn between the two. Anger rose in him at the father he had never known, for forcing him to lie to the one he did." That sounds so true to character that I can just see Aragorn agonising over it.

Gandalfs apprentice · 21 January 2006 · Chapter 8: Ghosts in the Attic

Hi, meckinock Great chapter! It seems I'm always falling back on the same words at each of your postings. With each chapter the story gets more intense and more interesting. Good heavens, it must be that Arathorn had another son who was born before Aragorn. But wouldn't that be a threat to his position only if the son was from a legitimate marriage? I'm agog, as usual. I was out of town when you posted and read the chapter then, but I couldn't leave a review as I couldn't log in. Looking forward to chapter 9! G.A.

Oshun · 20 January 2006 · Chapter 8: Ghosts in the Attic

What an interesting chapter. So evocative. Hmmm, broader shoulders, smaller feet. Loved your comment in a review: "He's having a bad heir day." Surely, you wouldn't do that to us? Well, you've definitely hooked me now. As my daughter would say, "he's such a man!" A woman would have had it all out with Elrond right on the spot and got him involved in it right then and there. Oshun

grumpy · 19 January 2006 · Chapter 8: Ghosts in the Attic

What a great and wonderful chapter. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall, in that attic. Whatever was in those letters, sure has Aragorn in a tizzy. I wonder if Elrond and I, can wrestle Aragorn to the ground and make him tell us. But I suppose that spoil the story, and might hurt the ranger. Thou I would love to get in close contact with him! Erestor said there were no ghosts in the attic, and the place was packed with them. Whatever did Arathorn do? Love it that the toys in the trunk had been replaced by bigger, sharper and more dangerous toys. Also loved the image of Aragorn comparing the boots to his own feet. So looking forward to more.

Dot · 19 January 2006 · Chapter 8: Ghosts in the Attic

So. This is great! I think it might be bribe-the-beta time again, though… What’s going on??! I must say, no-one has ever made me want to go into an attic so much. This line is gorgeous: ‘Only in the attic did whispers skip hollowly across bare floorboards and echo from the roof beams instead of sinking silently into the plushness of tapestries, drapes and carpets.’ And in the following few lines you create a very vivid and wistful picture of Aragorn’s life in Imladris, where he played and laughed and cried and sought excitement and solitude, just like any other child and adolescent. Of course, it also shows his difference too, that he would go to the darkness and silence when he needed time alone with his thoughts rather than seeking the comfort of the trees and beauty outside. And even an injured elf probably wouldn’t wheeze and groan their way up that stairs! I had to laugh at Aragorn thinking of himself as a “commanding Captain of Gondor” and Erestor seeing him as “prickly convalescent”!! That great moment when Dudo asks Erestor what all the stuff in the attic is has me pondering elves and heirlooms. On the one hand, how do you sum up the history of an entire people to someone who could never truly comprehend it? Especially someone who has no real understanding of keeping items instead of re-using them. And yet, with elven memory and immortality, what would make something important enough to hold onto like that? Would they keep these things because they are special or would they have things like swords and rings and whatnot on display and then, like us, shove everything else up to the attic. Because what else do you do with Arvedui’s royal dinnerware? ;-) Hmmm. Books! And some of them tales written down by Elrond himself. Oh, I would love to get my hands on them! “I am a Ranger chieftain and quite capable of dealing with Lord Elrond.” *cough* Silly man. That’s where the warning bells went off in my head, though, and had me wondering what was in the trunk! The scene with Aragorn going through his father’s belongings and seeing the snatches of memory evoked is lovely, as is the conversation with Elladan. It’s easy to forget the friendship that was there between the twins and Arathorn, how in some ways they would have felt the loss more than Aragorn – something that was there and no longer is rather than something that should be there but isn’t. I thought it was a very poignant moment when Elladan admits how guilty he felt at all the times they shared with Aragorn that Arathorn should have shared with his son. It must have been hard for Aragorn to hear too. I love that they can slide back into teasing one another, though. A hide-and-seek rematch would have been fun. And those mysterious letters! To say I’m intrigued would be putting it mildly. I was actually wishing Gandalf would sod off and let Aragorn look at them in peace and give us some idea what was in them. So let’s see. It’s something scandalous. Aragorn thinks that he may not be the one with the right to the throne in Gondor – and Arwen’s hand? Which suggests that he isn’t Arathorn’s son. But it’s Arathorn’s secret and not Gilraen’s so it sounds like there’s another child, older than Aragorn. Yes? No? Hold your horses Dot? And the letters were written by someone who wasn’t used to writing and/ or couldn’t speak much Westron. If you hadn’t used the word “tortured” I’d be wondering if it was a child! Ok, so maybe it wasn’t Halbarad’s mom (though I bet she fancied him once upon a time and that’s why she didn’t like Gilraen) but she might know. Oh holy God, it wasn’t an elf, was it?? No, not possible. Of course, I’m not sure I think it was anything at all but Aragorn seems fairly bothered… I suppose I just have to wait and see. But that’s hard! The dinner scene was done so well. I thoroughly enjoyed the discussion of what will happen to Dudo (the Bolgers?? I’m guessing that’s not a random choice on your part!). I could really feel Aragorn’s tension and distractedness and was so afraid that he was going to do something like leave instead of talking to Elrond. Which, it seems, is exactly what happened. I loved the effort on the twins’ part to carry on as if nothing happened. This was brilliant: “Perhaps it is the level of iron in the soil.” “There is more afternoon sun,” agreed Elladan, studiously ignoring the level of iron in his father’s unbending stare.” LOL! As for the conversation with Elrond… well, ouch. I thought it was very father/son actually, from Aragorn maintaining that he’s going to “Halbarad’s house” in the way a child would to knowingly hurting Elrond and Elrond’s realisation that he can’t protect Aragorn as much as he would like to. I imagine he knows too that there are some things this man will not share with him, even when they both know that he wants to help him. I understand why Aragorn did what he did. There’s a sense of him just needing desperately to get out of there, and away from Elrond too. And he needed Elrond to know that it was for a personal and painful reason that would not wait. And he clearly does still need to come to terms with his mother’s death. But I’m still left feeling worst for Elrond. Especially as they’ve only just reconciled. He feels he has to tiptoe around Aragorn, he thinks he has hurt him deeply, he himself has been hurt and it looks like he’s just been thrown aside and everything he has done disregarded. Poor Elrond :-( And I have the feeling it may end up a you-should-have-just-asked-Elrond-in-the-first-place situation… So it looks like Aragorn is off. I’m wondering if he’s really going to tell Halbarad, though. I hope so, even just so that he won’t be alone. Ooh, send the twins! *looks at watch* I’m sure it must be time for another chapter now, yes? :-)

Linda Hoyland · 18 January 2006 · Chapter 8: Ghosts in the Attic

You have me very curious about what the letters say! I love your eye for detail,whether it is for Aragorn's recovery(how nice to find a realistic story for once)or the contents of the trunk.Poor Aragorn,I am very worried now about his state of mind too !Gripping as ever.