Fic: I Ven Eden (A new road) FRT 8/9
Disclaimer in Part One
Definitely kin, Halbarad decided watching the two interact over breakfast in the way that only the closest of family or friends ever did. He found himself wondering if those who were kin to wizards were also wizards in their own right. He’d seen no sign of the lady doing magic, although the way she’d had fought the orcs had been magic, a display of speed and skill that he knew few would be able to match. The twins hadn’t believed that part of his tale … although they’d had to admit there’d been some truth in it, if only because once they’d laid eyes on armour of Araphor - and the man within it - they could hardly argue that he’d simply fallen asleep in Gwedartha’s saddle and dreamed the entire affair.
The Ranger was still pondering the implications of the twin’s revelations. He’d heard the tale of Araphor, elf friend and defender of man - a nephew of the King of the same name, a son of Arthedain who’d loved a woman of Cardolan and had ridden with those Dunedain who had lingered to defend the borders between Arthedain and the wilderness that Cardolan was slowly becoming in those distant days. Halbarad could even claim some descent from him - a scion of Kings, and an ancestor of Aragorn’s -along with many others, of course. King Araphor had died of old age; the Lord Araphor, his namesake, had been killed in an act of tragic betrayal, his daughter seduced by a subtle lord of Angmar and stolen away, leaving her father dying and cursing the creature who’d taken her from him. They must have buried him on the downs, one of the last mortal men laid to rest in Tryn Gothard before the coming of the great plague. The barrow-wights had followed soon after, and the tombs of lords and kings had been cold, haunted places ever since.
The tales of those days, the long war against Angmar and the fall of the northern kingdoms had coloured Halbard’s youth and inspired him to stand against the forces of the shadow as soon as he was tall enough to draw a bow and wield a sword.
And now a man - no, a wizard of not inconsiderable power - was sitting next to him in the common room of the Prancing Pony, wearing the mithril mail that Cirdan had presented to the Lord Araphor as a wedding gift. Recovered - according to his stumbling tale, offered partly in Westron and partly in Sindarin - from the lair of a barrow-wight, from whose clutches he, and the lady he escorted, had barely escaped with their lives.
“It was waiting,” Elrohir had said, carefully returning the sword - an heirloom of the Edain from the long ago wars in Beleriand - to its new owner. “For one worthy to bear it. It was well won, and will serve you well.”
“Better wielded by strong hands and a noble heart,” Elladan had added, “than lying buried with the withering dead. Or stolen by yrch, as they steal all that is worth having in this world.”
“Not all,” his brother had reminded him sternly. “Not while we draw breath. Signs and portents greet us at every turn. The Nine are abroad and swords of legend are once again drawn against them. Glamdring may have fallen into Shadow, but Narsil has been reforged and now this … Galadriel asked us to carry many messages, but as we left she said to us - ‘look for the lost on the old road, the returned, the returning, and one who serves still. The grey mantle has passed to another, and the grey company will have need of his sword and his slayer on their ride …’”
“We had thought to find a dead man, from that description - and perhaps we have.” Elladan had paused there to give the man concerned a wary look; Giles had returned it with equally wariness, as uncertain of their words as they were of the meaning behind them. “I remember Araphor,” the elf had muttered softly. “A stern man, but a loving father. There was much he would have thought unfinished on his death. Unfinished still, even after all these years.”
Butterbur had bustled up at that point, bringing second breakfast - first, in Giles’ case, since he’d risen too late to catch the early service. There’d been a friendly exchange of vocabulary that had greatly amused the inn’s morning gathering of hobbits as the elves countered each sturdy Westron noun with a lilting Sindarin one of their own. Knife, fork, plate, bacon, eggs, eat, drink, butter, salt, tea and beer were all identified and named - simple but essential things for a wizard making his way in a new world - and then the Lady Summer had made her appearance, instantly silencing the twin’s quiet smiles and gentle laughter.
She’d descended the stairs like a shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom in the old forest, all gold and green, bright and breath taking. Every eye in the room had turned towards her, most with curiosity, some with admiration, one or two - Halbarad had marked them well - with a hint of lust, two with startled disconcertion, and one with a smile of warmth, a look of affection, and a distinct sigh of relief.
The Ranger had noted that one with a quiet smile of his own. He hadn’t known these people long - and he wasn’t the sort of fool that offered friendship purely because fate had brought him to fight on the same side as another for a time - but there was something about the two of them, something that tugged at memory and inspired his heart in a way that the old tales did. There was a sense of … strength in their presence that was hard to pinpoint and even harder to describe. It wasn’t quite the sort of strength that Aragorn carried, deep rooted and echoing with the lineage of kings. Nor was it the remote and ancient aura that had marked every elf he’d ever met, that sense of age that sometimes made you feel as if all the moments of your life made up less than a scattering of knots on the tapestries of time. It wasn’t even the kind of cloaked and hidden power that Gandalf’s kindly presence hinted at if you looked hard enough, although whispers of something like it had surfaced in Giles’ eyes once or twice. It had surfaced elsewhere too - in the fire that had taken the orcs, and in the moment of his impatience at the gate - but all wizards were like that; subtle and cunning, and best not angered if you could possibly avoid it.
No, this was … this was something else.
It was in the grace with which the Lady Summer moved, cat like and seemingly carefree - if you hadn’t seen her dance, hadn’t witnessed the poetry of her swordplay. It was in the way her wizard worked at every word he didn’t know, dredging meaning from sound and subtlety and reweaving it into words of his own. It was in the way … no, he couldn’t pin it down, couldn’t point at it like the colour of a cloak, or the shape of a rune. It just - was, and with it came an echo of old battles, of having survived and moved on, despite hurt, despite pain.
These were not the people they seemed - not just the scholar knight and the courtly maiden they appeared at first glance. Scholar knights didn’t incinerate orcs with a single word, and courtly maidens didn’t wear swords as if they’d been born to wear one - nor did they eat more breakfast than a hobbit would, given half a chance. These two were seasoned warriors, battle scarred and tempered by experience, the sort you’d want at your side, or your back, if you were about to go to war. Aragorn has need of his kin, Galadriel’s message to him had said … The Grey Company must be called to ride. And if the grey mantle had passed, if the tale of Gandalf’s sacrifice were true - then what better place for its inheritor to be, than in the Grey Company? He and his …
“Dagnir, he named her,” Halbarad had realised then, his eyes going wide at the thought. “He watches over her …”
He hadn’t intended to speak out loud, but the words escaped him almost before he’d realised it. His sudden exclamation focused everyone’s attention on him - the twins, with puzzled looks, the wizard’s with a wary frown and the lady …
The lady sighed.
Definitely kin, Halbarad decided watching the two interact over breakfast in the way that only the closest of family or friends ever did. He found himself wondering if those who were kin to wizards were also wizards in their own right. He’d seen no sign of the lady doing magic, although the way she’d had fought the orcs had been magic, a display of speed and skill that he knew few would be able to match. The twins hadn’t believed that part of his tale … although they’d had to admit there’d been some truth in it, if only because once they’d laid eyes on armour of Araphor - and the man within it - they could hardly argue that he’d simply fallen asleep in Gwedartha’s saddle and dreamed the entire affair.
The Ranger was still pondering the implications of the twin’s revelations. He’d heard the tale of Araphor, elf friend and defender of man - a nephew of the King of the same name, a son of Arthedain who’d loved a woman of Cardolan and had ridden with those Dunedain who had lingered to defend the borders between Arthedain and the wilderness that Cardolan was slowly becoming in those distant days. Halbarad could even claim some descent from him - a scion of Kings, and an ancestor of Aragorn’s -along with many others, of course. King Araphor had died of old age; the Lord Araphor, his namesake, had been killed in an act of tragic betrayal, his daughter seduced by a subtle lord of Angmar and stolen away, leaving her father dying and cursing the creature who’d taken her from him. They must have buried him on the downs, one of the last mortal men laid to rest in Tryn Gothard before the coming of the great plague. The barrow-wights had followed soon after, and the tombs of lords and kings had been cold, haunted places ever since.
The tales of those days, the long war against Angmar and the fall of the northern kingdoms had coloured Halbard’s youth and inspired him to stand against the forces of the shadow as soon as he was tall enough to draw a bow and wield a sword.
And now a man - no, a wizard of not inconsiderable power - was sitting next to him in the common room of the Prancing Pony, wearing the mithril mail that Cirdan had presented to the Lord Araphor as a wedding gift. Recovered - according to his stumbling tale, offered partly in Westron and partly in Sindarin - from the lair of a barrow-wight, from whose clutches he, and the lady he escorted, had barely escaped with their lives.
“It was waiting,” Elrohir had said, carefully returning the sword - an heirloom of the Edain from the long ago wars in Beleriand - to its new owner. “For one worthy to bear it. It was well won, and will serve you well.”
“Better wielded by strong hands and a noble heart,” Elladan had added, “than lying buried with the withering dead. Or stolen by yrch, as they steal all that is worth having in this world.”
“Not all,” his brother had reminded him sternly. “Not while we draw breath. Signs and portents greet us at every turn. The Nine are abroad and swords of legend are once again drawn against them. Glamdring may have fallen into Shadow, but Narsil has been reforged and now this … Galadriel asked us to carry many messages, but as we left she said to us - ‘look for the lost on the old road, the returned, the returning, and one who serves still. The grey mantle has passed to another, and the grey company will have need of his sword and his slayer on their ride …’”
“We had thought to find a dead man, from that description - and perhaps we have.” Elladan had paused there to give the man concerned a wary look; Giles had returned it with equally wariness, as uncertain of their words as they were of the meaning behind them. “I remember Araphor,” the elf had muttered softly. “A stern man, but a loving father. There was much he would have thought unfinished on his death. Unfinished still, even after all these years.”
Butterbur had bustled up at that point, bringing second breakfast - first, in Giles’ case, since he’d risen too late to catch the early service. There’d been a friendly exchange of vocabulary that had greatly amused the inn’s morning gathering of hobbits as the elves countered each sturdy Westron noun with a lilting Sindarin one of their own. Knife, fork, plate, bacon, eggs, eat, drink, butter, salt, tea and beer were all identified and named - simple but essential things for a wizard making his way in a new world - and then the Lady Summer had made her appearance, instantly silencing the twin’s quiet smiles and gentle laughter.
She’d descended the stairs like a shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom in the old forest, all gold and green, bright and breath taking. Every eye in the room had turned towards her, most with curiosity, some with admiration, one or two - Halbarad had marked them well - with a hint of lust, two with startled disconcertion, and one with a smile of warmth, a look of affection, and a distinct sigh of relief.
The Ranger had noted that one with a quiet smile of his own. He hadn’t known these people long - and he wasn’t the sort of fool that offered friendship purely because fate had brought him to fight on the same side as another for a time - but there was something about the two of them, something that tugged at memory and inspired his heart in a way that the old tales did. There was a sense of … strength in their presence that was hard to pinpoint and even harder to describe. It wasn’t quite the sort of strength that Aragorn carried, deep rooted and echoing with the lineage of kings. Nor was it the remote and ancient aura that had marked every elf he’d ever met, that sense of age that sometimes made you feel as if all the moments of your life made up less than a scattering of knots on the tapestries of time. It wasn’t even the kind of cloaked and hidden power that Gandalf’s kindly presence hinted at if you looked hard enough, although whispers of something like it had surfaced in Giles’ eyes once or twice. It had surfaced elsewhere too - in the fire that had taken the orcs, and in the moment of his impatience at the gate - but all wizards were like that; subtle and cunning, and best not angered if you could possibly avoid it.
No, this was … this was something else.
It was in the grace with which the Lady Summer moved, cat like and seemingly carefree - if you hadn’t seen her dance, hadn’t witnessed the poetry of her swordplay. It was in the way her wizard worked at every word he didn’t know, dredging meaning from sound and subtlety and reweaving it into words of his own. It was in the way … no, he couldn’t pin it down, couldn’t point at it like the colour of a cloak, or the shape of a rune. It just - was, and with it came an echo of old battles, of having survived and moved on, despite hurt, despite pain.
These were not the people they seemed - not just the scholar knight and the courtly maiden they appeared at first glance. Scholar knights didn’t incinerate orcs with a single word, and courtly maidens didn’t wear swords as if they’d been born to wear one - nor did they eat more breakfast than a hobbit would, given half a chance. These two were seasoned warriors, battle scarred and tempered by experience, the sort you’d want at your side, or your back, if you were about to go to war. Aragorn has need of his kin, Galadriel’s message to him had said … The Grey Company must be called to ride. And if the grey mantle had passed, if the tale of Gandalf’s sacrifice were true - then what better place for its inheritor to be, than in the Grey Company? He and his …
“Dagnir, he named her,” Halbarad had realised then, his eyes going wide at the thought. “He watches over her …”
He hadn’t intended to speak out loud, but the words escaped him almost before he’d realised it. His sudden exclamation focused everyone’s attention on him - the twins, with puzzled looks, the wizard’s with a wary frown and the lady …
The lady sighed.