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Chapter Text

The light of dawn found her curled on the sand, the sea sighing against the shore that cradled her.

She shifted, her eyes fluttering open to meet a sky washed in the soft gold of morning.

For a brief while, she remained still, aware of the cool, damp ground beneath her and the steady rhythm of her own breathing.

Then she pushed herself upright.

The first thing she saw was her hair, falling smooth as water over her shoulders, the color of autumn leaves caught between sunlight and dusk.

It was a deep, golden red, a living flame licking at the pale linen of her gown.

Then the girl found her ears.

Her fingertips found the curve—down, then up—until they met the delicate point at the tip.

She did not remember this. Did not remember much at all.

The girl looked out to the sea. The waves broke against the rocks below; the tide was quiet, the air still.

Behind her, the land rose into a forest of tall, dark trees, their leaves shifting faintly in the breeze.

The girl stood. She took slow steps forward.

The grass did not yield under her bare feet, as if she were nothing more than a whisper against the earth.

The girl looked down.

She was small—so small the grass could have hidden her if she crouched low.

She went still. This, too, was new.

The girl knew she ought to be afraid. Waking on a shore she had no memory of demanded it. Forgetting the shape of her own life demanded it.

And yet her hands did not shake. Her heart did not race.

Only there was the certainty that she had been somewhere else before this. That she had been someone else. The memories were within her, but they were like fish deep in water, darting away the moment she reached for them.

The forest seemed to lean toward her, its branches swaying, the leaves rustling as she passed by them, all in greeting.

She touched the bark of the nearest tree, rough under her fingertips, and wondered if she had ever done such a thing before.

Had she once known the names of these trees? Had she once known the name of the wind?

The stream found her before she thought to look for it.

Water slipped over old stones, clear and singing. The girl knelt, cupping it in her hands, and drank until the dryness in her throat eased.

The cold of it startled her, sharp and sweet. It seemed to wake her, sharpening her senses as it flowed through her.

A sparrow alighted on a nearby branch, its head cocked as it regarded her.

She heard the rustle of its feathers—each one distinct, like parchment being turned—and the rapid flutter of its heartbeat, a sound that should have been lost beneath the stream’s murmur. 

Behind her, a vole scrabbled through the underbrush, its tiny claws scraping against roots.

The girl didn’t turn, but she knew: the way its breath hitched when it paused, the damp earth clinging to its fur.  

A breeze stirred the trees, and with it came a hundred whispers.

A fox’s padded footfall, three ridges away. The slow unspooling of a snake’s body over warm rock. The distant snap of a twig—a deer, perhaps, or something less familiar.

Her fingers tightened around the damp hem of her gown. These sounds had always existed, but now they unfolded around her, precise as a map.

The sparrow chirped, a bright dagger of sound. For a heartbeat, the world was unbearably loud.

She sat back on her heels. “Lasto nin sui 'wasser, pen nîf gwannatha.” (I am well enough for water. But a little hungry yet.)

The words felt foreign on her tongue, strange for how naturally they flowed.

The sparrow chirped once more, then flitted to a further branch. It paused there, watching her with dark, knowing eyes before darting deep into the forest. The light shifted as she followed, dappling the forest floor in patterns of bronze. Time slipped past—an hour, perhaps two.

The sound of the forest grew as she passed. She tilted her head, listening, though she understood nothing except that they welcomed her, dearly.

The sparrow led her up a slope where the air grew warmer, carrying the scent of thyme. Then, as if stepping through some unseen threshold, the trees parted.

Before her stretched a clearing, wide and sunlit, and at its edge stood a farm.

The farmhouse was small but sturdy, its wooden walls a washed grey. A stone chimney rose from its thatched roof, thin tendrils of smoke curling into the sky. Beyond it, a barn stood with its doors thrown open, and chickens pecked at the ground in a scattered, contented flock.

The sparrow alighted on the fence post nearest her, its tiny chest puffing out.

One hen, bolder than the rest, wandered closer to where she stood, its head bobbing as it regarded her with curious eyes.

The girl knelt and murmured. “Le suilon, sí vi ú-'eriar.” (Hello, we have never met.)

The hen pecked at the ground, then nudged something toward her with its beak—a single, brown egg, smooth and warm. Another chicken joined it, adding a second egg to the offering.

“Hannon le.” She said, before cradling them in her palms. (Thank you.)

The chickens bobbed their heads in unison and waddled back to the flock.

With that, the sparrow vanished into the trees, its duty done.

The girl found little reason to linger. With the same quiet steps that had carried her here, she turned and walked back into the trees, the eggs nestled securely in the folds of her gown.

Though she had walked for hours before, the way back seemed shorter now. She emerged from the forest just as the sun began its slow descent toward the sea. The shore stretched before her once more.

A low-hanging branch beckoned, and without thought, she reached for it, her fingers curling around the bark. She pulled herself up with one hand, the other holding the eggs.

The tree embraced her. Its bark molded to her form, supporting her back while the broad limb became both seat and cradle. She arranged the folds of her gown, watching as the sun slipped beneath the world’s edge.

The girl broke an egg open, swallowing the contents raw. The taste was earthy, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered that this was strange, that civilized hands should cook such offerings over fire. But the voice was faint, easily ignored.

She leaned back against the broad trunk, watching as constellations began to prick through the darkening sky, their reflections shimmering on the restless sea below.

The moon carved its slow arc across the heavens while the girl remained motionless.

Not sleeping, not awake. Her eyes reflected the light of the Moon and stars wheeling overhead, drinking in the cold fire as a child of Men might drink from a spring.

As the night deepened, she realized with wonder that she felt no urge to sleep. The tree's embrace was enough. The distant song of the waves was enough. The light of the Moon and stars was enough.

As the first pale fingers of dawn brushed the eastern horizon, the visions came.

Shards of memory surfacing through dark water. A voice calling. Is it a name? Hands (whose hands?) braiding flowers into copper-red hair. The scent of crushed herbs and distant laughter.

Nerys.

Was she then no spirit of the woods, but one who bore a name?

“Nerys,” she said. The name tasted familiar on her tongue. She turned it over in her mind as the sky brightened.

Dawn broke like a wave upon the shore of night, and what the dark had swallowed, the day returned–wholly, unbroken, hers.

A new restlessness took hold.

Nerys ate the second egg and brushed flecks of dried yolk from her fingers onto the bark. The eggshells lay beside her, brown and brittle. A sudden guilt prickled at her. She should return them to the mother who made them.

The walk back to the farm felt shorter this time. Nerys moved with light steps, the broken shells cradled in her palm.

How strange, she thought, that the world could hold such kindness—that chickens would share their eggs, that trees would offer shelter, that a girl could walk through this twilight without fear.

Nerys placed the shells gently near the chicken's nest.

As she turned to go, she looked up into the face of a man, his features twisted in anger, and he seized her by her arm.

Words she didn’t understand barked from his lips, his grip biting into her skin. She didn’t resist as he hauled her toward a mill.

Inside, a woman stood by the hearth. At the sight of Nerys, she shook her head and spoke in hurried tones to the man.

“This is one of them!” The farmer spat. “Crushing the eggs, loosing the pigs, poisoning the cows—caught her right in the act!”

His wife folded her arms, then stepped closer, studying the girl. “Good Lord,” she murmured. “Look at her. There’s a light about her. She’s not one of the village children.”

The man's eyes remained hard.

The girl tried to speak, the words spilling from her in a language like music, like wind through leaves.

The couple exchanged glances.

“She doesn’t understand us,” his wife said.  

“Then I’ll take her to the village center. Someone will know her.”

“Husband, think... Have you not heard what happens to those who cross the fair folk? She could be one of them! Do you want their vengeance?”

“What harm can come from creatures of nursery tales and grandmother's stories? If they were so mighty, why do they hide in their fading woods while we till the land?” The farmer laughed.

Without another word, he yanked the girl forward—then, with a grunt, hauled her off her feet.

Aragorn halted at the water’s edge, his boots sinking slightly into the damp silt.

The river of Isen was ahead, its dark currents glinting. Somewhere to the east, the White Mountains loomed, their peaks lost in shadow. To the west, the land sloped into the wilds of Enedwaith, where the Dunlendings stirred like wargs scenting blood.

He adjusted the strap of his pack, feeling the weight of his task. Find the creature. Track him before the Enemy does. Gandalf’s words had been urgent, though Aragorn needed no reminders of what was at stake.

The banks of the Isen were treacherous here, pocked with loose stones and tangled roots. His gaze swept the ground. The creature-Gollum was cunning, more so than most gave him credit for, but even he left traces. A scuff in the mud where a foot had dragged. A broken twig, its sap still wet. The faint, sour tang of unwashed flesh and old fear.

Aragorn knelt, fingers brushing a patch of moss. There. A scrape, too deliberate to be an animal’s passing. Gollum had come this way, slinking along the river like a shadow. 

The realization should have brought relief, but Aragorn only felt the familiar heaviness settle between his shoulder blades.

Gollum would be heading north, towards the Fords, where the water ran shallow enough to cross. Or perhaps to Isengard, though Saruman’s grip on that fortress had grown strangling of late. Aragorn’s mouth tightened. The White Wizard’s dealings were another concern, one he could ill afford to dwell on now.

He rose, scanning the tree line. The night was thick with the sounds of the wild—the rustle of leaves, the distant cry of an owl—but nothing spoke of Gollum’s presence. Not yet.

Aragorn allowed himself a moment, no more, to listen to the river. 

The Isen had once run as a clear border—the swift grey division between horse-lords and wilderness. Now its waters seemed but a frayed rope, its strands unraveling into the troubled lands on either shore.

Aragorn knew these parts well; he remembered this very village from seasons past, its thatched roofs huddled against the wind like sheep in a storm. The memory of its baker’s good brown bread and the blacksmith’s keen-edged knives decided him. He would restock here again, though the place sat heavier on his spirit now than in former days.

The village smelled of bread and damp hay. Aragorn moved through its narrow lanes, gathering what supplies he needed. The market bustled with farmers and herdsmen. None looked twice at the travel-worn ranger in their midst. 

A shout broke through the peace.

A man, broad-shouldered and red-faced, dragged a small figure through the square by the arm.

The child—barefoot, her dress the color of earth and sea—stumbled after him, her eyes wide but dry. She did not cry out.

In an instant, Aragorn dropped the ropes he'd been examining and stepped forth.

This was a child of six summers, perhaps, with arms and legs like willow shoots and a lightness to her that seemed untouched by the air of the world.

Her hair was the color of autumn’s first leaves, a soft, burnished red.

And then there were her ears—delicate, pointed at the tips, peeking through the fall of her hair.

For a breath, the world seemed to tilt. Aragorn gripped the hilt of his sword.

The farmer shook her, barking something about stolen eggs.

Murmurs rippled through the gathered villagers. Some craned their necks curiously while others turned away - just another stray child causing trouble, nothing worth interrupting their market day.

“Ú-chebin, sí laithon. Nan ú-dhartha mabar lin, bo men ú-chebin!” The elfling's voice rose like a frail melody above the noise. (I didn’t steal, I swear it. And I’d never hurt your animals, not for all the world!)

Now, there was no mistaking what she was.  

An elfling.

In all his years among the Elven kind, from Rivendell's halls to Lothlórien's glades, never had he heard one give their word and speak falsehood. Like a stream cannot flow uphill or a tree cannot grow against the sun, it simply was.

“Unhand her.” Aragorn's voice cleaved through the tumult as a sudden wind parts the reeds.

The farmer wheeled about, his face darkening like a thunderhead beneath his coarse beard. His gaze raked over Aragorn—the worn cloak, the mud-caked boots, lingering only briefly on the sword at his hip before hardening with contempt.

“By what right does some hedge-knight meddle in honest folk's affairs?” he demanded, spitting into the dust at their feet. “This is no concern of drifters and road-worms.”

Aragorn looked upon him, and his eyes were as the sea before storm - grey, fathomless, and terrible in their quiet. “By what right does any man drag a child through the village like a common criminal?”

“She's a menace to my farm! Stealing from me, terrifying my livestock!”

“Terror?” Aragorn's gaze swept over the slight figure - the pointed ears peeking through soft copper hair, the bare feet caked with forest soil. “This child could no more harm your livestock than a moth could darken the sun.”

“Fine words don't fill empty bellies. It is the law that gives me redress.”

Aragorn reached for the worn leather pouch at his belt. “A farmer's livelihood is sacred,” he conceded, counting out pieces of silver coins—and pressing them into the farmer’s calloused palm. “But so is a child's dignity. Let this compensate and end the matter.”

The farmer's fingers closed reflexively around the silver. His grip on the elfling loosened. “She could have just asked—”

“The common speech binds her not, and you would have grasped no word of hers.” Aragorn’s gaze flicked to the elfling, who stood frozen. Her little legs seemed barely capable of holding her upright. The tattered hem of her dress fluttered about knees that were scraped raw. Every muscle in that tiny frame was coiled tight, ready to bolt.

There was a beat of silence. Then the farmer’s posture shifted—shoulders loosening, voice losing its edge. “This is… fair. You want eggs for her? Proper ones, fresh-laid?”

Aragorn followed the man's eyes, sliding two fingers across the pommel of his sword. He smiled, but there was no mirth. “Go now. And pray we do not meet again.”

With that, the farmer retreated, muttering into his beard.

Aragorn knelt in the dust, facing the elfling.

The elfling stood frozen, her gold-flecked eyes wide with animal wariness. Slowly, he extended his open hand.

“Ú-moe edaved, tithen pen,” he spoke. (You need not fear, little one.)

For a heartbeat, the world held still. 

Then, like a startled deer, she spun away - her bare feet kicking up puffs of dust as she fled toward the trees. 

Aragorn moved the moment she fled, his stride long and sure.

But the elfling was quicker, weaving through the trees, her bare feet barely touching the earth before she was gone again.

Even a child of the Eldar, weakened and afraid, could outpace a ranger in the depths of the wild.

The very woods conspired in her flight, branches shifting to guide her way, roots rising less under her step than his. While behind her, the same root would rise against Aragorn's pursuit.

A lesser hunter might have cursed such sorcery. But Aragorn, who had walked in Lorien's golden glades and heard the Old Willows' songs, felt only wonder stir beneath his breath. 

Abruptly, Aragorn slowed, his eyes tracing the signs—a crushed fern here, a single thread of copper hair caught on bark there.

They told him she was not a ghost.

And she was tired. The way her steps had begun to drag in the soft earth told him that much.  

Then, at last, he saw her.

Perched high in the arms of an ancient oak, she clung to the trunk. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her small fingers digging into the bark.

She had run herself to exhaustion, and now she trembled, whether from fear or fatigue, he could not say.  

Aragorn did not climb. He knew the folly of chasing what needed to choose stillness on its own terms… deer, dove, or something far more precious.

This was no mere wild creature to be gentled.

No elfling had graced these lands for an age beyond counting, not since the Eldar, foreseeing the gathering shadows, ceased bringing their young into a world they meant to forsake. 

Two thousand years of fading light, and now…

Perched in a common oak, her bare feet swinging, her hair catching the sunlight like the embers of a fire that had burned before the rising of the first dawn. Such glory even the oldest songs struggled to capture.  

How had she come to be? And why, when all wisdom said such joy had passed from the world? 

“Tolo sí, tithen pen,” Aragorn called. (Come here, little one.)

She flinched but did not answer.  

“Ú-law edraithannen vi, nan noron vín,” Aragorn pressed his palm to his chest. (No shadow of danger will find you here while I tread.) “Sí laithon na Chaeros Eärendil.” (This I swear by the Light of Eärendil.)

The elfling's huge, luminous eyes watched him, unblinking.  

“Nan i·hûr Eärendil, síla enni, ú-chebin le trasta.” (And by the blood of Eärendil that flows in my veins, I will not harm you.)

He reached slowly into his pack and drew out a piece of waybread, placing it on the highest branch his fingers could brush. “Hen lín na, a goston.” (This is for you, if you would have it.)

For a heartbeat, nothing stirred—not the wind, not the birds, not even the dappled shadows beneath the trees.

Then—swifter than a kingfisher's dive, she dropped before him, waybread disappeared into her small hand.

Chapter Text

Aragorn crouched low, making himself small against the oak’s great roots.

“I am called Aragorn,” he said, “and Estel—the name bestowed upon me in the Last Homely House.”

“You are ‘hope’?”

Aragorn exhaled through his nose. How to explain Númenor’s fall, Isildur’s shame, his boyhood in Elrond’s halls? Instead, he plucked a windfall apple from his pack and polished it on his sleeve, the crisp scent rising between them.

“Some names are given as wishes—a hope for what may be,” he said at last, offering the fruit.

The elfling accepted it but did not bite. She sat beside him on the grass. “Why do you help me?” She asked.

“Because the world is wide, and too often unkind to those who walk it alone. Hope was a gift given to me, shall I not offer the same?” The truth came easily.

“You are noble and kind, even when none is owed,” the elfling said softly, “I… The man of the village... his hens gave freely what he accused me of taking.”

“No shadow of doubt touches you in my eyes, child. Did his anger wound you overmuch?”

She shook her head.

Aragorn recalled childhood readings in Rivendell's library, how elflings faded like unwatered blossoms without the twin lights of mother and father. His duty was clear now–to return her to safety.

“Pray tell,” he said, “from what fair glade or hidden dell did your path first lead you to these lands?”

“My home is far beyond my reach.” She said, lowering her gaze. “Not by feet, wing, nor sail can I return, nor will my people come to me. I know it in my heart.”

“Where do your mother and father dwell?”

“My mother passed away.”

“That is a hard parting, I am sorry.” Aragorn's hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Yet even the most distant star may yet find its way home.”

“Where do your roads lead?” She straightened. “I would follow you.” The words came swiftly.

Aragorn's thumb brushed the frayed edge of her sleeve. “The honor would be mine. But first,” he tilted his head to better see her face, “by what name shall I call you when we travel?”

“I am Nerys.”

“Nerys,” Aragorn repeated. “A fair name.” 

He withdrew his hand and gestured northward. “My path leads to Lothlórien, the Golden Wood, where the Lady Galadriel dwells still in wisdom and power. There, you may find both sanctuary and those who can help guide you home. And truth be told, I must go that way regardless, for the creature I pursue has fled toward those borders.”

Nerys ate the waybread as the man - Aragorn spoke of the lands around them: the names of rivers they would cross, the old kingdoms that once rose and fell in these valleys. She listened quietly, offering only nods, content to let his voice paint this unfamiliar world for her.

How different everything was here. Here, it lived openly—the hum of the earth underfoot, the way the wind carried voices that weren’t quite voices. She could feel this new body thrumming with a power that was wilder, older.

She remembered another world, one where magic was hidden, tucked away in wands and words; here, power belonged only to those who knew how to hold it just so. She had been one of them once.

Yet beneath it all remained a piece carried over. She touched her temple absently, but didn't dwell on it. 

That first moment in the village square, when the ranger’s gaze had met hers, the visions came like a flood tide. Unasked for. Unstoppable. A lifetime’s worth of roads walked and oaths kept unfolding behind his gaze, the magic laying bare his character as plainly as if she’d walked every mile of his life beside him.

Her account to Aragorn had been truthful: her dark-haired sister who took after their father, and the mother whose leave was both violent and unexpected. 

“She goes on adventures we cannot,” their father had said, voice rough with a smile. “Be happy for her.”

The path to Lothlórien stretched ahead, a pale ribbon of dust lapping at the edge of the sky. Aragorn’s boots left shallow graves in the dirt, each imprint filling slowly with windblown grit. His cloak swayed slightly with each step.

Nerys followed, her steps quick and light, but twice as many. At times she lingered, drawn by the flicker of a bird’s wing or the bend of the path just out of mortal sight.

But always, when the distance between them yawned again. Aragorn's shoulders would slacken, and his pace would slow until her shadow pooled at his heels once more.

The path climbed steadily, the earth turning rocky underfoot. The mountains hunched like sleeping giants, their peaks lost in the mist.

Higher up, the trees thinned, giving way to slopes thick with wildflowers. They spread in reckless bursts. Nerys reached out as they passed, her fingers brushing petals.

Aragorn pointed to a narrow pass ahead. “There,” he said. “The land opens after that.”

She nodded, her eyes already tracing the horizon.

Aragorn proved a steadfast companion on their journey, his knowledge of the wider world a source of wonder to Nerys. 

He had named her kind elf, and appeared astonished when she admitted ignorance of the fact; he nodded as though in thought when she explained that her people called themselves simply people.

The day's travel had filled her ears with legends: of Beren and Lúthien's immortal love, of Manwë's eagles bearing tidings across the skies, and most recently, the beginnings of a curious tale involving dwarves, a hobbit, and a wandering wizard—There and Back Again. 

But here Aragorn had stopped, declaring the story yet unfinished, and turned the conversation around.

“I have emptied my quiver of tales,” he said. “Will you not share some tales of your people?”

“But I’m no lore-master,” Nerys replied. “That duty belonged to the elderly.”

Aragorn chuckled. “Am I so weathered then, that you mistake me for one?”

“There is one greater tale that you have yet to tell me—what drives a Ranger of the North to hunt some unnamable creature across rivers and mountains?”

Aragorn’s expression grew solemn, his brow heavy, his hand settled upon the hilt of his sword. “That I cannot tell you, not in good faith. You have a keen mind and a true heart, but I will not lay such a shadow upon you. The day may come when you must know, but it is not this day. If the Valar will it, that day may yet be long in coming.”

"Is it tied to Lothlórien?"

"No."

"Is it tied to me?"

"It cannot be."

"Am I the creature?"

"No more than I am.” Aragorn said. “The creature is hunted for a darkness it bears, and you are a child of light."

“Is it a wizard?”

“If it were, such a foe would be far beyond my reach. There are but five Wizards in Middle-earth, and two vanished long ago into the East. The three who remain are noble and wise.”

Nerys nearly halted mid-step. Only five wizards? And no witches among them? If this were true, their kind was all but gone.

“What becomes of the witches?” she asked.

“The witches?” Aragorn's brow lifted. “There have been some who bore that name—some still linger in shadow, though most have been rightfully cast down.”

“All witches are evil, you mean to tell me?”

A bow of his head answered her.

“And all wizards are noble and wise?”

“So I have known them to be.”

“I do not understand,” Nerys said. “How many witches and wizards have there been?”

“There have only ever been five Wizards. As for witches—there were some who practiced dark arts in Númenor long ago, and one yet endures. His name I will not speak.”

“‘His’ name?” Nerys frowned. “But witches are women.”

“Witches are those who wield the black arts," Aragorn said, now eyeing her with both puzzlement and unease. "They need not be women. But let us speak no more of such things. The woods and stone see and hear no less than we do.”

“Are some of the wizards women? Are the men of these lands able to bear children?”

A low laugh escaped Aragorn. “Nay, I can assure you that is not so. What puts such questions in your head?”

“I wonder how they then have children?”

“They will father none.” Aragorn said, his voice taking on the measured tone of one recalling ancient lore. “They are spirits of power wrapped in mortal flesh, sent by the Valar to shepherd the free peoples. They have walked this earth for many lifetimes of Men. As will you.”

“You speak as though death cannot take me,” Nerys frowned. Somewhere in the fog of memory, she recalled those in her homeland who had sought such ends—some who claimed them, others who paid dearly for the attempt. 

Aragorn’s gaze sharpened. “Your blood is of the Elven kind, and your fate is bound to this world until its ending. You will never depart from it.” He paused for a heartbeat. “It is my charge—and the charge of others—to guard you until your road turns westward.”

“Auta i Valinor.” (To Valinor.)

The words left Nerys unbidden. She did not know their meaning or where she had heard them.

Aragorn went very still. “How do you speak Quenya,” he said, “yet know nothing of the common tongue?”

She touched her lips, as if they’d moved without her will. “It was a voice from a dream, what it means, I do not know.”

“You named the Undying Lands,” he said. “Where the Valar dwell and the Eldar will sail to in time.”

His grey eyes held Nerys, and her breath fled as though his words were stones laid upon her chest. “There is so much of which I am ignorant. Many and still more–”

The whispering grass stirred about their feet as they stood, two figures caught between the turning pages of some greater tale.

Then, as the wind sighed into silence, Aragorn took her hand—his palm rough with sword-callouses yet warm as hearthlight.

“Come,” he said. “The mountains will open, the road carries all travellers toward their rest.”

They journeyed on as the sun bled westward, until at last the mountains did indeed part before them.

When the light grew too thin for safe travel, he guided them off the road, towards a hunched hunter’s hut. The roof sagged like an old man’s shoulders, but the walls stood against the creeping darkness.

With quick hands, Aragorn gathered the fractured remains of an old hearthstone and tinder-dry grass that clung stubbornly to the hut's crevices. Soon, a small fire leapt to life between his palms, its golden tongues licking hungrily at the damp air as sparks danced like fireflies in the gathering dark.

Aragorn ripped a piece of dried venison in half, offering Nerys a portion. “It's not much, but it will keep the hunger at bay.”

Nerys took it, nibbling at the tough meat. Then, Aragorn rose. "Wait here," he said, and slipped into the gathering dark beyond the firelight.

She watched him go, and marveled at how her eyes parsed the moonlight into layers of silver and blue. Where before she would have seen only blackness, she now traced Aragorn's form moving through the undergrowth as clearly as if through thin mist.

His hands brushed plants with care, fingers testing leaves, pausing at a patch of earth where his knife flashed briefly. When he returned, his palms cradled three pale roots, dirt still clung to their skin, earth’s stubborn claim.

The hut groaned as the wind pressed against its walls. Outside this chamber, the wilderness stretched endlessly, things unseen to Nerys moving through the dark. 

"Wild radish," Aragorn said, scrubbing one clean against his tunic before splitting it with his blade. “Bitter they can be.” He offered her the whitest of the three, its flesh gleaming like old ivory in the firelight.

The root's sharp, earthy scent cut through the woodsmoke, and when she bit into it, the taste was like fire and frost and living stone.

Firelight made the hut’s cracks yawn like mouths, the scent of old woodsmoke soaked into the walls, the cold thrill that curled in her chest when she realized—this life was hers now.

The night, the unknown road, the man across from her who met her gaze without flinching. Aragorn’s presence was as steady as the wall at her back.

The wind crossed the rafters again, but the fire held. Somewhere far off, an animal cried out, a sound like a broken flute. Nerys brought her arms around her knees.

Chapter Text

A weight settled over her shoulders. He tucked her arms into the sleeves of his cloak.

"You will take cold," he said, his voice low in the predawn hush.

Nerys lifted her face to find Aragorn looking at her. She smiled, his eyes kindled in answer.

The cloak carried the scent of iron and grass, of roads traveled and watchfires kept. She drew it closer around her, though the chill had never troubled her.

Aragorn remained beside her, his attention turning eastward where the first hint of day would soon touch the horizon.

They would rise before the Sun, shaking the dew from their cloaks, and resume their march. Aragorn moved ahead, his eyes tracing signs of life invisible to Nerys. A bent blade of grass here, a faint impression in the soft earth there, he would tell her. The trail of his quarry remained elusive to her.

Mist curled about their ankles as Aragorn led Nerys through the dense thickets of the lands. The only sound was the occasional rustle of a hare darting through the underbrush.

"Here," Aragorn said, crouching beside a cluster of plants with broad, heart-shaped leaves. He plucked one carefully, turning it in one hand. "Wood sorrel. Tart but safe. Chew it sparingly; too much will sour your stomach."

Nerys mirrored his movements, examining the plant. "And if I find it near water?"

"Then you’ve found marsh violet instead. Similar leaves, but the flowers are different. Eat those, and you’ll spend a day and night vomiting."

She made a face and tucked the sorrel into his pack.

Aragorn moved on. "The wild is generous if you know its secrets," he said, brushing his fingers over a low-growing vine. "Blackberries in summer, hazelnuts in autumn. But now, in spring, you must look for the greens—sorrel, nettles, wild garlic."

Nerys nodded, her fingers grazing the leaves as if committing them to memory. "And if we were farther south?"

"Then you’d learn the desert’s tricks instead."

A sudden shift in the wind made Aragorn stiffen. His hand went to the hilt of his sword, his gaze scanning the trees.

"What is it?" Nerys kept her voice low.

Aragorn's gaze was grave as he surveyed the land before them. "These lands are not forsaken," he said at last. "More than mere hares inhabit these borders."

Nerys tilted her head. "Should we continue?"

"While daylight remains, we must make haste," he answered.

Aragorn set a harsh but merciful pace, pausing only when the midday sun grew unbearable. Wordlessly, he would offer his waterskin.

Nerys drank without complaint. The leather was always warm, and they moved on.

Days were measured by the rhythm of his footsteps ahead of her.

Remembering his words, she had been vigilant at first, jumping at snapped twigs, rustling in the undergrowth.

But as the days passed without incident, she found herself lulled by the constancy of Aragorn’s presence. 

In the evenings, when the fire burned low and the wind grew sharp, Aragorn would take up his knife and turn his spare cloak inside out across his knees.

Nerys watched as his hands that were accustomed to sword grips and bowstrings—worked with surprising delicacy.

He cut the sleeves into strips, fashioning rough boots lined with rabbit fur he’d traded for at the last village. The cloak’s body he reshaped with careful slits and leather cords until what had once been a traveler’s garment became a close-fitting jacket, its edges singed black where he’d sealed the seams against fraying.

“It will do until we reach fairer lands,” he said the first time he handed her a finished piece as if apologizing for its plainness.

Nerys ran her fingers along the stitches, every puncture a different size, each knot drawn firm.

There was once when Aragorn worked on the pieces of clothing, and Nerys attempted the unfamiliar language she had accidentally spoken, ‘ To Valinor’.

“Oiolossëa," she said. (To Ever-white.)

Aragorn’s hands stilled mid-knot. "I have never heard your accent," he remarked, not unkindly. "Where did you learn that?”

"I cannot say for certain." She shrugged as if it mattered little. "Maybe from some traveler's song. It just... came to me."

The truth was, she had no memory of learning these words. Quenya—Aragorn named it, an Elvish tongue older than the race of Men. She would not admit this. She’d rather let him assume some half-remembered lesson than reveal the depth of her ignorance.

"Strange, for such words to 'just come' to one," Aragorn said.

"Should I not say them?"

When Aragorn spoke again, his voice changed; it became richer, slower: "Oiolossëa. Nai hiruvalyë Valimar. Nai elyë hiruva. That is how the full prayer goes. Or part of it." (To Ever-white. May you find Valimar. May you indeed find it.)

“It’s beautiful,” Nerys said.

"The one who taught me spoke thus." Aragorn said, "Lord Glorfindel. His Quenya carried the light of the elder days; a renowned warrior who walked Middle-earth in the First Age, who was granted return."

Nerys plucked a grass stem. "He taught you?"

"A little. Just enough to know a few phrases." A faint smile touched his lips. “Share with me what you know, if you will.”

“Auta i lómë.” Nerys offered. (The night is passing.)

“Anar kaluva tielyanna,” Aragorn replied without hesitation. (The sun shall follow your path.)

Then came a morning when the leaves first caught the golden light. Aragorn stopped so suddenly that Nerys could have stumbled into him. His face, when she saw it, had shed its weary lines.

"The mallorn trees of Lórien," he said,  his voice lightening like sunlight through spring leaves. "We draw near now.”

For one more day, they followed the fading trail until the woods grew confused.

Aragorn would pause for long minutes, fingers tracing marks invisible to Nerys' eyes, his brow furrowed like a man reading a map in failing light.

On the third morning, he knelt so long in contemplation that dew soaked through his knees.

When at last he rose, his face was grim. "The trail turns southeast," he said, brushing dirt from his hands with short, sharp motions.

Nerys watched a droplet fall from his sleeve to the soiled floor.

"The marks speak plain—he was set upon here, and hard pressed. Now he flees southeastward..." Aragorn's voice faltered as his eyes found Nerys. "It would be better counsel to bring you first to the Lothlórien’s borders ere I give chase."

"If he is wounded and flees southeast, his pace must flag. Would it not better serve your purpose to press on, rather than lose days bearing me to Lórien?" She tilted her head. "Every hour you delay, his trail grows colder. Unless this creature matters less than you claim."

"The fate of many rests upon this one creature."

Should Gollum fall into the Enemy's hands ere he or Gandalf found him, and they wrest from him what he knows… No. He would not speak of the Ring, not here, not to her. But visions flashed wildly - the Dark Lord united with the One once more, towers of flame rising where white cities once stood.

There will be no peace, not for a hundred generations of Men.

After they turned southeast, Aragorn’s vigilance never faltered. His eyes tracked every shadow that dared waver. The golden boughs of Lothlórien had faded behind them, and with them, the semblance of sanctuary.

The fate of many rests upon this one creature.

His words lingered in the air, sinking into the silence between footfalls.

What manner of man walked with such quiet purpose, yet bore the weight of many lives on his shoulders? No sellsword or wandering hunter was Aragorn, that much was certain. 

No common mercenary, not with that bearing, nor with a charge that could sway the fortunes of many. The creature he sought was no ordinary beast either. Small enough to pass unseen through the world, yet mighty enough to tilt the scales of many lives. Her imagination conjured grotesque possibilities—a plague-carrier, a shapeshifting predator, some cursed wretch whose death might lift a blight.

Or perhaps the creature carries something precious. Something men would kill to possess.

She knew the truth of that old adage— no lock guards against desperation . If this hunt came down to stolen treasure, then every kingdom’s cutthroat and cutpurse would already be on the trail.

How she wished Aragorn would trust her with the full truth. But the man kept his secrets closer than his sword...

“Stand fast, Nerys.”

Aragorn, who had been moving with the measured tread of a wildsman, went very still. There was a shift in the wind. Two strides placed him between her and the tree line, his body angled as her shield.

She froze, ears pricking at what he had noticed first: the wet snuffling of nostrils flaring, the creak of leathery paw-pads on stone. Then the stench hit—a reek of spoiled meat and matted fur. The first warg slunk into view, its ribs stark as barrel staves beneath mangy hide. Saliva strung between black fangs, muzzle wrinkled in hunger.

Behind it, five more shadows detached from the gloom, eyes glinting.

Aragorn's arm hooked around Nerys' waist, lifting her clear off the ground as he backed toward the hill.

Over field and furrow they made their flight, but ever the wargs drew nigh. The pack's scrabbling claws echoed through the earth, louder with each stride.

Aragorn only managed to hurl Nerys onto the branch before the lead warg lunged. Its teeth snapped shut where her ankles had been.  

She scrambled higher as Aragorn’s sword flashed. The blade sheared through the first beast’s foreleg, sending up a spray of black blood. The warg howled, but it did not flinch.

Nerys gripped the bark so hard it had nearly split beneath her nails, as Aragorn pivoted like a tempest. His blade met throats, ribs, the soft hollow behind ears. Yet for each foe that was maimed, another sprang forth.

Soon it became clear these were no mere beasts of the wild—they moved with the cunning of a pack that had hunted together through many winters. They harried and flanked, snapping at wrists and harrying shoulders. To bleed their quarry’s strength, and then run him to the ground. Even in failing light, Nerys could see the saddles strapped to their backs, the iron collars biting into the matted fur like teeth.

The wargs tore at the pine, stripping bark and splintering wood as if it were rotten flesh. The pine shuddered under their assault, its limbs cracking.

Nerys felt the branch beneath her feet give way. Her first instinct was to climb, but she stopped herself. Better to remain visible, to keep some attention on her.

The beasts redoubled their efforts. Jaws like iron traps snapped through branches as thick as a man's arm, sending showers of leaves raining down.

Then with an awful, splintering groan. The world tilted beneath her.

She had only time to register the sudden lurch before the branch collapsed. Aragorn's sword clattered to stone as he shifted, his arms intercepting her fall with bone-jarring force - she might as well have been caught in a blacksmith's vise.

For a heartbeat, they were a tangle of limbs and panicked breath. The scent of crushed pine needles, the hot gust of a warg's breath, Aragorn's heartbeat thundering against her back. Then he was moving, hauling them both backward into a narrow crevice.

The wargs circled, their silence terrible. No more growls, no more pawing at the earth—just the steady drip of Aragorn’s blood soaking into the soil. They knew.  

So did Nerys.  

She saw it in the way Aragorn’s sword arm quivered ever so slightly. In the way his breath came too fast through clenched teeth. The pack leader licked its chops.  

Two wargs lunged at once. Aragorn pivoted, his blade finding the first’s throat in a spray of black blood. But the second twisted mid-air, jaws clamping onto his thigh. Nerys thought she had heard the sound of teeth meeting muscle.

“Aragorn!” Nerys cried.

She snatched a branch and swung it like a club at the warg’s eyes. The dry wood cracked across its muzzle. It yelped, jaws loosening just enough for Aragorn to wrench free. His boot connected with its ribs, sending it skidding back.

But the reprieve lasted only seconds. The pack surged forward again, saliva flying from their maws as they closed in.

Aragorn’s wound wept freely now, a dark river carving its course down his leg, staining young grass ere they vanished into the thirsty soil. The wargs’ nostrils flared at the scent.

“This is not the end.” Nerys stood still, the air grew heavy around her, and her voice was no longer her own.

“Šebeth ullu, mirub tharkūn. Naškad mirubhōzē, ayanūz pathā!” (Air and water of death, wine of chains. Ring of the Void, the Ainu’s ruin!) 

The power which shaped the stars tore through the wind, each syllable a spark struck from the forge of creation.

The wargs reeled back, hackles bristling, lips peeled from teeth in a snarl that was more fear than fury.

Nerys raised her hand. For a heartbeat, she was no Elf-child of the woods, but a vessel of fire and starlight. "Tharūkānā. Aþāra ulkūm." (I release you. By the First Fire of Eru.)

Aragorn fell off her feet. There was no hint of relief in his face, but horror. This was no tongue he knew. The words were guttural, primordial, a language that should never have passed her lips. It clashed violently with the youth still etched in her voice. He knew then he would remember the sound from this day until his last day.

But then he saw her body convulse. Not subtly, not faintly, but violently, as if jerked by unseen strings. Across her skin—her arms, her throat, her face—thin, bloodless wounds bloomed, as though her flesh could not contain the power she had unleashed.

The wargs saw it. Their fear curdled into something darker. No longer prey, she was a threat, one to be torn apart before she could strike again. They circled, waiting for her collapse.

Aragorn moved before the first lunged. He caught her as her knees buckled, one arm locking around her waist, the other bracing his sword. "Stop, Nerys! This blaze you feed will burn you hollow!”

She did not faint. But the wargs did not strike.

For beyond the hill, a Song rose.

Low and humming at first, then rising, keening, a sound that scraped against the mind. It was not beautiful. It was not kind. It was challenge and mockery woven into sound, and it made Aragorn’s head ache with the need to scream.

The wargs turned as one. One, then another, snarled toward the unseen singer. The largest shook its head, as if fighting the call—then broke, charging into the dark. The rest followed.

Aragorn’s grip on Nerys tightened. Blood streaked his brow, his hair a wild tangle across his face. But his eyes were bright.

Chapter Text

When morning came, no trace of the cuts remained - no sting, no scabs, not the faintest pink lines to mark where skin had torn. Nerys ran her fingers over her skin, half expecting some lingering tenderness, but there was none to be found.

She could have believed it all some fading dream, and wished dearly that Aragorn would let the matter rest unspoken.

Yet ever was he true, and truth’s first tongue is words unsoftened. He could not pass such a thing without question – what power she had summoned, what strength of life she had spent.

Nerys found it in her to spin deceit: she knew not the meaning of the words she'd cried, remembered nothing after the wargs' first onslaught. It was but some half-forgotten gift of her father's blood, she said - and in this at least, her tongue did not wholly lie.

Aragorn pressed no further, and for this mercy she was grateful.

Their conversation turned then to hurts that would not fade so swiftly: the deep-wrought bite upon Aragorn’s thigh, the scoring of teeth along his left arm, the ragged marks upon his weapon-hand. To tally them all would be a grim accounting indeed, he said; better by far to let the road mend what time alone could heal.

Nerys watched as Aragorn peeled away the blood-crusted bandage, revealing the angry red flesh wound beneath.

She knelt beside him, fresh linen clasped between her hands. "It pains you still," she observed.

Aragorn took the proffered cloth. "It troubles me little."

"If we rest but one day now, we may gain ten days of stronger travel after.”

He soaked the new bandage in weed-infused water, the sharp, clean scent cutting through the camp's musk. "Our path cannot wait."

"But your body must," her usual light voice gave way to a rare edge. "What good is this hunt if you’re taken by fever?"

His hands stilled. When he spoke again, his voice had softened, though his resolve hadn't. "I know my limits, Nerys. And before that limit, all is but vanity and wind."

"I would trust no man’s judgement in such dire need—nor call it judgement at all." She edged nearer. "Can I help?"

"I thank you for your care, Nerys, but my wounds and I are long acquainted," he said, drawing the cloth just beyond her reach.

Nerys sat back on her heels, her clothes pooling around her. "But perhaps you could own that this one fares poorly."

Aragorn pressed the bandage to his leg, his jaw tightening for an instant. "It will hold."

"Until you can't stand, and I must haul you over every hill between here and Ithilien?" The bitter irony tasted strange on her tongue; it was a weapon she loathed to wield, yet found herself grasping nonetheless. “Was this Gandalf’s design all along? That you should fade upon nameless trails while your quarry slips beyond?”

Aragorn loosed a long breath. “Were Gandalf here, he would say the same. Every moment we linger in some—” his mouth twisted slightly, “—inn, my quarry gains ground toward those shadowed lands.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the wind's quiet hiss. Then, with a tenderness that belied his earlier sternness, Aragorn reached out and drew Nerys close, his arm setting about her shoulder.

“You fear for me,” his voice is low. “That is no small thing. But I would have you trust this, if naught else–I do not mean to die this day, nor any day soon. Not while darkness still walks abroad, and not while you yet stand beside me.”

It was no oath sworn upon steel or stone, yet the words settled upon Nerys' heart with the weight of one. She knew she'd trust him if he'd demanded it outright. Hadn't she placed her life in those scarred hands before?

"When this hunt is ended," Aragorn continued, "we shall claim rest worthy of kings. I will lead you to my foster father's halls, where your displacement, my wounds, and our weariness may find proper tending."

"I suppose all's well that ends well," she murmured.

"So say the wise, and so shall we prove it."

The tension sat uneasily upon Nerys' shoulders, yet Aragorn remained unshaken. His composure shamed her faintly—that he should stand while she wavered like grass in the wind.

Just because the oak does not bend, must the sapling snap? She thought. And just because he accepts my words as truth, must I make them false? But the hour seemed too weary for such weighty matters; there are kinder things.

Their journey these past days had been one of wary progress—alternating between swift strides and cautious pauses, masking their trail as best they might. Yet Aragorn had conceded that if any wargs yet lived, such efforts would avail them little.

"This world holds many wonders," Nerys said instead, her gaze drifting across the rolling downs—that endless country of soft hills and lonely trees, its muted greens and browns gentle as an old tapestry.

"What do you see?" Rather than following her gaze, Aragorn looked at her.

"I look for the singer. I wonder why he would stake his life for us."

"If life were what he spent, that is grief indeed. Yet I deem otherwise." His eyes turned toward some unseen horizon. "In these lands dwell beings both fair and fell, older than the bones of mountains. Most hold a hatred for the Orc-folk deep as their roots—and those wargs bore the mark of orc-breeding, though cast out to hunt."

"You believe he meant to save us?"

"Of that I have no doubt.”

"Do you know him then?"

"I know none who match this description," Aragorn admitted. "A handful possess both the might and motive to aid us against such foes, yet none would conceal themselves after. Had they been of my acquaintance, they would have made their presence known."

"Perhaps we walked too swiftly? Or he lost our trail? Or—" her voice caught, "—he fell?"

"All possibilities, yet not our present concern." Aragorn pointed eastward, where the distant shimmer of water could just be glimpsed between the hills. "The Anduin awaits, and there my quarry must halt—if any sense remains to him, beyond lies such darkness that none seek it save those who court death and damnation."

“What if he does?”

"Then I must silence him forever." Aragorn turned to her then, and in his eyes she saw the sorrow. "Forgive me, Nerys. You should be safe in your father's embrace, not trailing through wild lands on a dark errand.”

"All is not well at home. Strife stirs there—though I paid it less heed than my friends. Perhaps..." She swallowed. "Perhaps I have some part yet to play in this Middle Earth.”

They forded the Great River ere a full day had passed, the water had been shallow where they forded, yet the act itself felt momentous.

Though weariness weighed their limbs, lightness stirred in their chests.

Nerys paused to wring the damp from her cloak, her eyes drawn inevitably eastward.

The Dead Marshes loomed in the distance; it was a vast, mist-shrouded fen where still black waters mirrored a sickly sky. Milky lights danced beneath the surface like drowned stars. No thrush sang nor cricket chirred now.

The marshes awaited.

Aragorn would not let Nerys set foot in the land—not when even standing near its borders turned her stomach and set her mind swimming.

Instead, he bade her climb the tree that stood sentinel at the marshes’ edge, its roots sunk deep in still-untainted earth.

"Wait here and do not come down," he said. "I go only to the outskirts—the creature would not dare the marshes proper."

Though her will strained to follow, not left alone, Nerys' body rebelled—as if the very air thickened eastward, ready to swallow her whole should she take but one step further. With reluctant hands, she grasped the gnarled limbs of the tree.

Up she climbed, clung to the skeletal branches as Aragorn’s form dissolved into the mist.

This tree stood caught in between life and death—its spirit long withdrawn, yet unable to fully depart. No whisper of leaves, no creak of greeting as the oaks of Isen would offer. Not even the quiet gossip of Rohan's solitary trees, who often murmured about the curious pair passing through their lands. This ancient being simply endured, its roots trapped in dread's cold embrace.

Nerys shifted uncomfortably, smoothing knots in the bark to pass the slow hours. It was then, the most peculiar thing came to her.

She thought something had blurred her eyes, soft as spider-silk, in the form of a veil.

It wrapped around her like a mother’s arms, sweet as remembered sunlight, heavy with longing. Strange, she thought drowsily, that she should feel sleep’s pull...stranger still that she couldn’t...quite…

Have the marshes come to lay claim?

Please .

Her words never sounded. Darkness and oblivion rose to greet her.

Neither Nerys—slumped between the branches like a broken-winged bird—nor Aragorn, knee-deep in the fen’s grasping reeds, saw the shadow that moved between them.

The tall figure climbed with a silence that shamed the wind, his gloved hands finding holds where none seemed to exist. He gathered her as one might pluck a single leaf from a sleeping tree.

No cry rang out. No blade was drawn. Only the marshes bore witness as the stranger carried Nerys away, westward—and by the time Aragorn turned back toward the tree with Gollum, nothing remained but memory.

Nerys woke, pressed against wool that carried the scent of salt and ancient pine. The footfalls beneath her moved with long, unfaltering strides that never wavered to scout hidden paths. No Ranger walked thus.

The arms cradling her held the strength of a different kind: not Aragorn’s wary readiness, but the certainty of one who had borne children before, though whether to safety or sorrow, she dared not guess.

She kept her eyes shut; there was the shadow of hope that Aragorn’s voice might yet call out from behind, spinning some reasonable tale for this stranger’s presence. But there was only silence.

Her bearer gave no sign of noticing her wakefulness. Nerys let her body remain limp, committing to the act.

When dusk fell and the stranger’s vigilance waned, she would steal her first look at him... and perhaps a chance to flee.  

“Does some hurt trouble you?”

The sudden voice struck her out of her thoughts. The arms about her now felt like chains.

Nerys lifted her gaze to meet his countenance.

The Elf’s hair flowed dark as storm-lashed kelp, yet shimmered with a glow no mortal could claim. But his eyes—ah, his eyes burned like twin stars veiled by thin clouds, their light neither comforting nor cruel, but terribly present.

"Who are you?" She breathed.

"You may call me Aerandir," (sea-wanderer) spoke he. "I am a minstrel who lives awhile yet among the Secondborn." His gloved hands adjusted their grip as she squirmed. "To Mithlond I shall bear you, the Straight Road may spare you this land’s decay."

Now she knew him; he was the one who had driven away the wargs. His speech was fair in the way of a chant of old, and his song was surely his blade.

"Has my companion been told of this design?"

"I know what he hunts, and what price rides upon his quest. His path leads to peril, but yours must turn westward, lest shadow take you both.”

"Yet even a lord of old would grant a man the courtesy of farewell," she countered. "He is a good man, and would count such parting as a sacred trust.”

"Of his quality, I cast no doubt, child. Yet consequence outweighs intent. These lands leech at your spirit as they would any of the Firstborn - a slow drain his mortal blood cannot perceive.”

"Strange customs you keep," said Nerys, "to spirit away children while they fell unconscious."

"Strange indeed," he admitted, "yet that ancient bough would not have stayed your fall.”

Drawing upon Aragorn's stories - that no Elf-born is wholly fell, and all hold the young in reverence, Nerys gathered her courage: 

"Strider told me no Elf-child has been born for an Age of this world. My coming is... otherwise. Powers stir in beyond my ken - visions of paths untrod, speech of tongues unlearned. I think I was not sent here only to flee upon the next ship's tide.”

Careful, she was to name only his Ranger's title, the one he was known for in the North.

"My fate is woven with his. To abandon this would be to sever my own life's cord. Should you force this course..." Her voice dropped softly. "The next cliff may yet provide swifter passage.”

The Elf grew still as stone. When at last he spoke, his words were heavy with old grief: "That I shall not allow. Your words ring with a truth too dire to dismiss. We need not retrace our steps - your companion follows close behind, and comes not without his prize."

Chapter Text

He named himself Aerandir —wanderer of the seas. Yet what mother, in joy or in sorrow, would gift her child a name that spoke only of exile? What father would bind his son to the endless road of the waves, to a life without haven or rest?

Aragorn had told her that names among the Eldar were not lightly given—they were reflections of hope or memory, as enduring as their tie to this world.

If the ways of her people here were anything like those of her old, then parents wished prosperity and peace for their children, bestowing names that held hope and sang of light.

Even those who felt no such love had the decency to pretend, because they understood it was a failure of the heart not to wish well for one’s own babe.

But what did she truly know of Middle-earth? The better part of nothing. 

Aragorn had told her something of history—of the First Age, which ended in fire and ruin; of the Second in the slow fading of glory. But the lives that had filled those years—the names, the choices, the loves and losses—remained phantoms.

Guesswork, if she wished.

She stood at the edge of a great tapestry, unable to unravel more than a few frayed threads.

Nerys held her silence before Aragorn, withholding the truth that she understood neither the force she had summoned nor the harsh tongue that had broken from her lips.

In her secrecy, she hoped that this veil of mystery might make her seem less a lost child and more a being of hidden depth, one to whom he might feel compelled to reveal his own withheld truths. She longed for her own control, more than his protection.

Yet it shamed her, this deception. To mislead a man whose own heart held no falsehood felt like sin. He was true in word and intent; it was precisely because of that that he believed her. The weight of that trust, so freely given and so carelessly betrayed, settled heavily upon her spirit. She had wrapped herself in mystery, but the veil felt less like armor and more like a cage.

Nerys decided that the next time they stood alone, she would hold nothing back—she would tell him all she had seen, all she feared, all she could not explain.

She would confess the cold fear that sometimes gripped her heart, and the unsettling power that had spoken through her in a tongue she did not know. No more secrets, no more half-truths woven to appear wiser than she was.

But for now, in the presence of this enigmatic Elf, her approach must shift from confession to questioning. Many were the things she might learn from him.

“When did you first resolve to lend us your aid?” Nerys inquired.

“From the moment I saw you by the shore,” he said. “I would have guided you hence, but your companion came before I might make myself known.”

“Why not speak to him then?”

“I knew he was fostered in Imladris, under Elrond Halfelven’s care. He carries himself as one of that house, and unbroken by the weight he bears. Yet between his forefathers and me, there lies a grief no words can mend. I trusted him to guard you, but now your path leads into the shadow where even he may not follow unscathed.”

What? How could he know?

She had spoken no word of Imladris, nor of Aragorn’s past. Had her mind been read?

A chill seized her hands even as heat rose in her neck; a subtle pricking crept along her scalp. Abruptly, she became aware of the sun’s warmth blazing upon her hair, of every stray strand clinging to her dampened brow.

Her thoughts scattered like crisped leaves faced with wind, yet she forced her voice to steadiness. “You believe he was fostered in Imladris?”

“The Lord of the Last Homely House fostered the descendents of his brother regularly. Your companion’s lineage is written in his bearing,” the Elf replied. “He is one of the Dúnedain.”

His brother? That meant nothing to her, yet the certainty in his tone sent a ripple of unease through her. She dared not reveal her ignorance or confirm his guesses. She must turn this away from Aragorn, and quickly.

“You said you were a minstrel,” Nerys ventured, hoping the shift did not seem too abrupt. “What kind of songs do you write?”

“The music of Arda is already sung, I am but its keeper. I attend to its echoes, and preserve what has been.”

“Then… will you tell me about the Years of the Trees? I only know that it was before the First Age.”

A true, unfeigned smile touched Aerandir's lips for the first time, softening his features. “You wish to know of the Years of the Trees? You ask for the light before the Sun,” he began, his voice taking on more of a rhythmic cadence than they usually possess.

“Then I shall tell you of the awakening of the Quendi by the waters of Cuiviénen. I shall tell you of the coming of Oromë of the Valar, the Huntsman of the West, whose horn echoed in the primeval forests and whose heart was filled with love for the Firstborn. It was he who brought the summons, the invitation to a land of everlasting light, free from the shadows of the East.”

He settled against a great root, and though he still held her, his gaze was turned inward, to a world of memory.

Nerys felt a strange compulsion to draw nearer, as if he were a window into a world she had only ever glimpsed in dreams. Yet even as she leaned slightly closer, a wariness stirred within her. This nearness felt like standing at the edge of a precipice: thrilling, yet full of unseen depth and danger.

“And so began the Great Journey, the long, wearying trek of the Eldar across Middle-earth. Some turned aside, choosing the forests or the depths of the caves—these are the kindreds you may yet meet in the woods of the world. But others, my own forefathers among them, pressed on. They were led by the great Ingwë, Finwë, and Elwë, who had seen the bliss of Valinor and would lead their people to it.”

His voice warmed. “And what a land it was! For there, in the Realm of the Valar, grew the Two Trees of Valinor. Telperion the Silver and Laurelin the Gold. Imagine a light that was also living song, a radiance that nourished the soul as well as the soil. Telperion’s dew was silver, and Laurelin’s rain was gold, and the whole land was bathed in a perpetual, shifting twilight of unspeakable beauty. We sang, we crafted, we learned from the Powers themselves. 

“In that light, the Eldar built cities of pearl and crystal, Tirion upon the green hill of Túna, and Alqualondë, the Swanhaven.” His voice was rich with the love of one describing a beloved, lost home. 

“The Blessed Realm is your home?”

“Tirion was my city, and the city of the Noldor.”

“What about Alqualondë?”

A shadow passed behind his eyes.

He became silent for a moment, as if weighing. The stillness seemed to stretch into Ages past.

“It was fair,” he spoke at last, his voice was low and careful. “The sea-songs there were endless, and its ships were carved like swans, and its people were a people who loved the sea above all else, and asked of it only peace and the freedom to sing.”

Nerys thought it most strategic to speak no more of Alqualondë. 

Aerandir looked at her again. “We created wonders that now seem but a dream, so potent and pure was that light. It was a time of making, of poetry, of joy unshadowed. No sickness, no fading, no conflict.”

“Yet no light, however brilliant, can forever keep discord at bay. For in the fullness of that bliss, the Great Foe, Morgoth, who had been chained, was released upon his plea for pardon. And with honeyed words and cunning lies, he began to weave a shadow through the hearts of the Noldor.”

He stopped, not abruptly, but as if he had heard a distant note in a song only he could perceive.

Nerys waited, but when he did not continue, “And then… there was discord?”

Aerandir’s head tilted slightly. “I will speak more of this another time, if you still desire to hear it,” he said.

“You’ve yet to tell me of Morgoth, and why he is the Great Foe.”

“Then the telling will come. But for now, he is here.”

Nerys blinked. “I hear nothing.”

“Your companion comes, and he does not come alone.” He listened for a moment longer. “The one he hunts is with him. It struggles and it whines.”

A minute passed in silence before Nerys’s own ears finally caught what he had discerned: the faint, crunch of boots on the forest floor, and a higher, wretched sound of sniffling and protests.

The undergrowth eventually parted, and Aragorn emerged from the shadows of the trees, his eyes finding Nerys’ first, ensuring she was whole, before sweeping over the stranger with a swift, assessing glance. 

Nerys’s heart struck a single, heavy blow against her ribs. In Aragorn’s eyes lay something near to fear—a look she had never before seen in him, and one she hoped never to see again.

Nerys glanced toward Aerandir, then crossed quickly to Aragorn and took his hand. In one swift motion, he lifted her into his arms.

“You did not run away?” It was less a question than a statement. They had traveled together long enough for him to know Nerys was not given to childish impulse. She did not take risks without cause.

“No, Strider. I fell unconscious… he found me. His name is Aerandir.” She did not know whether there was still value in hiding Aragorn’s true name—not if this Elf already knew he was the heir to the throne of Gondor. But names held power, and some truths were better left unspoken until necessary.

Aragorn’s eyes met hers, and in that brief glance, understanding passed between them. He gave a slow, neutral nod before turning his full attention back to Aerandir.

“He was the one who saved us from the wargs,” she added softly. “He had seen me since I was on the shore.” He is not some chance traveler.

“I see my charge is safe,” Aragorn said, his voice level. “You have my thanks for that… though I would have preferred to be consulted before she was moved.” The courtesy was a thin veneer over the steel beneath.

Aerandir regarded Aragorn, his gaze briefly falling to the creature writhing at the Ranger’s feet before returning to his face.

“It was wrong to take her thus, without word,” the Elf bowed his head, his voice a resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in the stillness. “But the air near the Marshes poisoned her spirit. She was overcome; the tree could not have held her. I felt compelled to bring her down and see her safely to the Havens, where the Sea-longing might grant her peace.”

As he spoke, Nerys’s sense of him deepened. Just as she had known, upon first meeting Aragorn, that he was true—a man of hidden lineage but open heart—so now she perceived this Elf: ancient, woven into the very weave of time itself.

Hhe was fair and ethereal as all the Firstborn, yet he carried the look of one profoundly troubled, as though a great and private grief dwelled in the marrow of his soul.

Aragorn’s eyes did not miss a detail: the unbraided hair, the common-spun clothes, the gloves. “You travel far from the paths of the Eldar, Aerandir. And you do so with hidden hands. Do you bear an old injury?”

Nerys frowned. It was a probe into the stranger’s secrets. There was no way of knowing what this Elf would or could do. Let caution be their shield.

“I dwell apart from the world, and seldom do I walk among the Free Folk of these later days. As for these, it was an old fire,” he said, lifting his gloved hands slightlyt. “The wounds never healed as they should. The gloves began as a necessity and became a habit. A small vanity, you might name it.”

The answer changed nothing. Aragorn's distrust was a palpable thing. He looked at Nerys, and his voice, for her alone, lost its edge. “And you? The sleep that took you was unnatural.”

Nerys saw Aerandir prepare to answer, and she jumped in, her voice firm. “It was the Marshes and it only, Strider. It pulled me under. It was no one ’s doing.” She held his gaze, trying to pour every ounce of meaning into her eyes. He is dangerous as he is old. Don’t push him.

Aragorn read her meaning. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “I see,” he said, the words clipped. The matter was closed.

Desperate to change the topic at hand, Nerys pointed a finger toward the creature at Aragorn’s feet. “Who—or what—is that?” she asked, her voice pitched with a performative mix of revulsion and curiosity.

Aragorn’s expression darkened. “He is the one we have hunted these many weeks. His name is Gollum. He bore another once, but the memory of it has long been devoured by the dark. Pay him no mind, and do not draw near.”

“Did he kill someone?”

“The counsel is wise. This is a matter best left to those who can bear its weight,” Aerandir interjected suddenly.

Nerys fell silent, turning the words over. Aerandir, who had spoken freely of the Great Foe Morgoth, now clammed shut. Why? Because Morgoth was a horror of a finished Age, a tale whose ending was already written?

Was Gollum, then, part of some new and unfolding peril? Gollum was a pitiful, snarling thing, crawling on all fours, muttering in a frenzy of misery and spite. He did not look like a tyrant who could make war on kingdoms. He looked broken.

Neither Aragorn nor Aerandir seemed ever slightly wary of him. Watchful. But not alarmed. Aragorn’s restraint was that of a hunter securing dangerous prey, not a warrior facing a foe.

The tongue Gollum spat and snarled in was a choking thing—though Nerys recognized it was the same speech the farmer and his wife had used in that small village near the Isen. Westron, Aragorn had named it—the Common Tongue of Men. And though she understood its shape, Nerys could not wield it.

“Did he take something? Something that was not his to take?” Nerys asked again.

“There are paths ahead that demand much strength,” Aerandir said. “This is not the hour for dark tales.”

“I cannot disagree,” Aragorn said. “This is no place to linger.”

“There is one place where she must go, and that is the Havens.” Aerandir said.

Nerys looked toward her original companion, seeking his answer.

“I must deliver Gollum to the Elves of the Woodland Realm. That is my charge,” Aragorn said, his voice grim.

“And you would keep him at the very doorstep of the Enemy’s old fortress?” Aerandir’s tone was not challenging, but heavy with misgiving. “Many may call Dol Guldur abandoned, but shadows have long memories. What was once forsaken may be reclaimed. I do not speak this distrust lightly—the vision of that place grows darker with each passing year. There is a stirring there. And you cannot expect the child to fare well in such a place.”

Aragorn fell silent. The truth of the words was plain in his eyes—these were fears he himself had long carried. Yet his duty was clear. “It is not mine to decide his prison. The White Council has spoken. If you know what Gollum is wanted for, perhaps you also know of their wisdom.”

“I know enough to respect their judgment, yet not enough to silence my own sight,” Aerandir replied. “I have seen the slow return of darkness to that tower. I do not question the Council’s intent—only the safety of its choice.”

“Do you intend to travel with us?” Aragorn asked plainly.

“At least until we are free of the Emyn Muil. There is but one safe path out. I would see you all clear of it. I feel that I bear some responsibility—for Nerys, and for what may yet come.”

“I thank you for your aid against the wargs,” Aragorn said sternly. “But your secrecy, and taking the child without word—these are not the acts of a ally. Will you swear an oath that you mean no harm to Nerys, and that you will not hinder this quest?”

“I give you my word. But I will swear no oath. You know enough of the Elder Days to understand that even oaths sworn in good heart can weave generations of grief.”

“Then I will hold you to your word,” Aragorn said. “And I agree—Nerys will not go near Dol Guldur. We will travel north along the Anduin. When we reach the midpoint between Imladris and the Woodland Realm, I will send word to Ilmadris. Her riders can escort her to safety before I turn east.”

“Then it is settled,” Aerandir said softly.

Chapter Text

The return journey followed familiar paths. Nerys recognized sights as they passed—the great oak split by lightning, the shallow grey ford, the standing stone carved with runes no one could read.

Yet now she saw differently. It was as if a layer had been peeled back, revealing meaning where before there had only been shape. The world seemed full of colors she had been blind to before.

This new sight came not from the world, but from the company she kept. Where before the company had been two, there were four now: a Ranger of kingly blood, an Elven minstrel and warrior of old, a being of misery entangled in greater shadow, and herself—a Seer lost between worlds.

They were each alien to the other, yet bound to the same road.

Aerandir took it upon himself to clear their path of lesser shadows. Be they wild beasts that strayed too near, restless spirits drawn to their light, or pools of lingering malice left by the Enemy’s servants.

He bore no sword, only a long knife of simple make, such as one might use to shape wood or prepare a humble meal. Yet ever he returned without scratch or strain, his dark hair ever smooth and settled upon his shoulders, though it remained unbound.

By night, he kept the watch, reading the wind. At times, he would vanish into the gloom, and when he returned, whatever ill sound or presence that had troubled the landscape was gone, replaced by a watchful peace.

It was Aerandir, too, who managed Gollum best. Who began whining for a change of fare, hissing about raw fish and flesh. 

Without a word, he took his knife to a sturdy branch, shaping it with swift skill into a bow, a few arrows, and a length of strong cord. Then he slipped away and returned ere long with a fresh-killed hare. Gollum fell upon it with wet, eager sounds, and was for a time content.

From that day forth, Aerandir made certain to hunt something each day—a rabbit, a grouse, sometimes a young venison—things he himself would not eat, yet which pacified their most fractious companion.

It was a small price for Gollum’s compliance, and the creature’s mood grew marginally less sour with a full belly.

In time, an understanding settled between Nerys and Aragorn, one that needed no words: Aerandir was not their enemy, nor any servant of the Enemy. He was simply… unusual.

His ways were strange, his name veiled, his past a mystery. Yet his actions spoke clearly enough: he aided them truly and asked for nothing in return.

Had he intended harm, it would have made little sense to guard them ever closer to Lothlórien, where the power of the Lady held sway. With each passing league, the chances of hidden treachery grew slimmer.

So they accepted him as he was: a solitary Elf, perhaps made strange by long years spent wandering far from the havens of his kin, or by too much time spent among mortals.

Where Aerandir guarded the path ahead, Aragorn guarded what mattered most: their purpose and their charge. His eyes rarely left Gollum. He noted the twitches not only as signs of deceit, but as echoes of some deep, private torment. When Gollum muttered, Aragorn listened. There were moments, fleeting and faint, where something like the ghost of a River folk’s courage flickered behind those pale eyes—a reminder that what he hunted was also what he sought to save.

And always, his attention circled back to Nerys. He walked often at her side, his presence a barrier between her and the creeping Night that clung to the edges of their company.

When Aerandir spoke of ancient battles or sorrows, Aragorn watched her face, measuring how much she should hear.

He trusted Aerandir’s strength, but he did not trust their fate to anyone else. This quest was his burden, the risk, the duty.

The Elf might clear the road of monsters, but Aragorn would clear it of doubt.

They had made camp on a rare stretch of dry ground north of the Wold, not far from the Field of Celebrant. With Gollum curled in a fitful sleep and Nerys drowsily nibbling at a stalk of grass.

The Ranger and the Elf spoke more freely, their words turning to the lands they had left behind.

Aragorn stood before a stone twisted in its shape, his hand resting upon its weathered surface. “The earth here bears a deep hurt,” he said.

Aerandir came to his side. “There are wounds time cannot mend.”

“About the Dead Marshes,” said Aragorn. “Men say they were made in the days of the Last Alliance.”

“Men see the most recent chapter of a long tale,” replied Aerandir. “When the War of Wrath was ended and the Black Foe cast out, the bones of the world were broken. Seas fled their beds, plains sank into fens, and hills rose where none had been. What is now swamp was once the floor of a sea whose name is forgotten.” He laid a hand upon the dark, layered stone. “This rock remembers waves that have not touched it for an Age.”

“And the Dead Marshes? Do they hold the fallen of Dagorlad?”

“They do. But long before the Last Alliance marched, that ground was already heavy with sorrow.”

For a time, they stood in silence along the edge of the firmer ground.

Aragorn reached into a small, oiled pouch at his belt and drew forth a ring, which he placed upon the index finger of his left hand. He had removed the heirloom before venturing into the Dead Marshes, fearing its loss in the treacherous fens.

Aerandir’s eyes fell upon the ring, a look of recognition in his gaze.

The silver band caught the firelight, but instead of reflecting the red and orange of the flames, it gleamed with a cool green light. It was wrought in the likeness of two serpents, intricately coiled, their scales finely detailed.

Their eyes were twin emeralds, sharp and alive. Between their jaws, they held a crown of golden flowers—one serpent seemed to uphold it in reverence, the other to devour it in hunger.

“I have seen that ring before,” Aerandir said softly, his voice distant. “Though in Valinor, and with a different bearer.”

“It is an heirloom of my house,” Aragorn replied.

“It is said that Finrod Felagund, King of Nargothrond, owed his life to a Man of the Edain. In token of that debt, and in pledge of friendship between our kindreds, he gave to Barahir the ring bearing the emblem of his father.”

“That is the truth you have heard,” said Aragorn. “Barahir was my forefather. Though I deem you had already guessed as much.”

“Your lineage is not easily hidden from one who knew Elros Tar-Minyatur.” Aragorn showed no surprise that Aerandir had seen through his alias. He smiled. “I would hope to resemble him in deed as well as in blood.”

“You and your folk in the North do a work both valiant and needful.”

“With every year, our protection wanes. The world changes swiftly—even we perceive it. To you, it must seem a sudden and violent turning.”

“It is not so strange,” Aerandir answered. “Beleriand taught us that much.”

“Did it also teach you the raising of children?” Aragorn asked, his eyes shifting to where Nerys rested.

“That was a gift granted to me and my house—more than we deserved. And she… she too is a gift.”

“It troubles me that we understand so little of where such a gift comes from,” Aragorn admitted.

“Such questions are rarely answered directly,” Aerandir said. He paused, then added thoughtfully, “Yet the quality of her spirit… it reminds me of Dior.”

“The son of Beren and Lúthien?” Aragorn frowned, and his expression deepened when Aerandir nodded. “You believe she shares his lineage?”

“Not in blood, I think. But in power—yes. I have not felt a presence so akin to his since the days of Doriath.”

“You knew him?”

“I saw him only once. But the hour was such that he was revealed clearly—his strength, his light, his character.”

Aragorn seemed to weigh this. Then, without further word, he moved to where Nerys lay. She was drifting in that quiet state between waking and dreaming, it was the closest an Elf-child could come to mortal sleep. Her breathing was soft, her features peaceful.

For now, in the stillness of the night, with the stars watching overhead and the fire burning low, they had peace.

When the golden eaves of Lothlórien first appeared in the distance, Nerys noticed a change in Aerandir.

He did not cease his tasks—he still scouted ahead, hunted, kept watch, but the easy flow of his words dried up.

He spoke only when spoken to, and even then, with a reserve that felt less like rudeness and more like retreat, as though words had become perilous.

Even Gollum sensed it. His muttering sharpened, syllables tangling into hisses. His face contorted in rapid, nervous twitches, and he curled away from the firelight as if it burned.

One evening, while Aerandir was away hunting along the river, Nerys ventured closer to where Aragorn knelt, striking flint to tinder.

“Who lives in Lothlórien?” she asked, her voice low and thoughtful, trying to piece together what—or who—might be causing such visible unease.

“The Galadhrim, wood-elves. Their lord is Celeborn, and their lady is Galadriel.” A spark caught, and he leaned down to gently breathe the fledgling flame into being.

“They must be ancient,” she said, gazing toward the golden haze between the trees. “The whole forest feels old.”

“Many were born in the Second Age, or early in the Third. They have walked this world for three thousand years or more.”

“Perhaps Aerandir is from their time, or even older.” 

“Perhaps. But he would not be older than the Lady of Light. Few in Middle Earth are.”

She felt thoughts coiling tight in her chest. There was much she wished to say—questions about Aerandir’s silence, his sorrow, the way he looked toward Lórien as though it pained him.

But she did not speak them. More than once, the Elf had returned without a sound, appearing as if from a dream just as words of doubt or wonder began to form on her tongue. She would not risk him overhearing her gossip.

After the campfire was lit, they drew their cloaks about them for warmth, using them as both pillow and blanket against the chill of the night. 

Nerys had scarcely settled when she felt a shift in the air. She looked up again to find Aerandir’s light grey eyes.

His glance was brief, and she chose to ignore his presence altogether.

Nearby, Gollum had begun to move in a manner Nerys could only describe as a frenzied, ritualistic dance. He whispered and hissed to anyone who might listen—Aerandir, Aragorn, Nerys, even the shadows around himself.

“What is he saying?” Nerys asked Aragorn.

“‘She sees, yes, she always sees… It isn’t safe here, it was never safe…’” Aragorn translated quietly. “The same words, again and again.”

“Should we be concerned?”

“He speaks from fear, not foresight. Rumors haunt these woods, tales spun by Men, Dwarves, and other folk who know little of the realm.”

“The Lord and Lady of Lórien hold this land,” Aerandir said, his voice sudden and clear. “There are few safer refuges left in all of Middle Earth.”

“Then why do we not seek shelter within?” Nerys pressed.

“You are bound for Eriador,” Aragorn answered firmly. “In Rivendell, you will find greater safety still. Our path opens up North, with all the speed we can muster.”

“But you have said it, our supplies wear thin—would not the Elves trade with us more freely than Men? They would not take us for vagabonds or phantoms.”

Aragorn did not reply. He had clearly reached some earlier understanding with Aerandir and would not be moved.

“I am not welcome in Lothlórien,” Aerandir said, his tone edged. “My presence would cast suspicion upon you all. We dare not risk delay.”

“You are at odds with an entire realm?”

“I have grievances with many, including the Lord and Lady themselves. Some wounds even time cannot erase.”

So this was the reason for his exile—not merely a wanderer’s choice.

The question Who are you? burned upon Nerys’ lips.

But even unnamed, she could sense the shape of the sorrow within him. “Did you love her?” she asked instead, her voice soft but clear in the hushed air. “The Lady of the Golden Wood?”

Aerandir went very still. “What makes you say such a thing?”

“I see the world clearly at times. When I look upon a flower, I can see all that made it—the seed, the soil, the rain that gave it life. But you, and Aragorn, and Gollum remain to me like a shadowed pool. I cannot see your depths, only feel the weight of them. And when your thoughts turn to her, there is light… and great loss. Did you not love the light?”

“She is kin to me,” he replied, his voice strained. “Though little kinship was acknowledged between her father’s house and mine. The strife of our fathers became our own. The years between us were long, and the shadow of our deeds longer still. I sinned against her people—against her and her lord husband. I brought ruin where I should have brought aid. She has never faltered in her grace, her goodness. She is the last of my blood in these lands and has every reason to turn me away.”

“Will you now reveal your true name?” Aragorn’s face was graver than Nerys had seen it in many weeks.

“The hour for hiding is past,” Aerandir said. “It had been past since the moment I first saw the child upon the shore—when I turned from the Sea’s call to follow your path.”

“I once wondered if you were a lord of Gondolin, or of Eregion—one of the many great souls lost to fire and sorrow,” Aragorn said. “I see now I was not entirely wrong, but you were lost to the Sea and longing.”

“What name would you call me, then, Strider of the Dúnedain?”

“Do I dare invoke your true name, after it has lain silent for two Ages and more?”

“I had set my feet upon a new road, and into the world,” the Elf was calm.

Nerys rose slowly from where she sat, coming to her knees so that her eye level might reach theirs. Wide eyes moving between the Ranger and the Elf.

Near the edge of the firelight, Gollum ceased his movement and assumed the pretense of sleep. He lay still, but his pale eyes were fixed intently on the scene unfolding before him.

Aragorn drew a steady breath, and when he spoke, it was with the cadence of one reciting history. “I name you as my teachers have named you to me in the halls of Imladris. You are called Macalaurë, Kanafinwë, and Maglor Fëanorian in the tongue of the Sindar.”