b2mem | Over the Horizon, by Suzelle (Reply)

B2MeM Challenge: “Aragorn is raised without knowledge of his true name, and presumably without any contact from his extended relatives. What is it like for him to be reunited with his family when he leaves Rivendell to live among the Dúnedain for the first time?” -zopyrus
Format: Short Story
Genre: Gen
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Characters: Aragorn, Halbarad, Dírhael, Ivorwen, Nethril (OFC), Adanel (OFC), Finnael (OFC)
Pairings: Ivorwen/Dírhael
Summary: In the two months since Aragorn’s return to the Dúnedain, he has relied on his extended family to help him adjust to life among the Rangers. But he has yet to meet his grandfather…
Creators' Notes: This is the first chapter of a novel(la) I have been working on for some time, that focuses on the year following Aragorn’s return to the Dúnedain. I hope to have the beast completed before the summer, but in the meantime, this chapter stands well enough on its own, and fit nicely into the above prompt. Thanks to zopyrus and cairistiona7 for the beta!

It took Nethril the better part of an hour to track down Aragorn, and when she finally found her cousin it was not in the blacksmith’s shop, as Halbarad led her to believe, but standing on the ramparts the lined the northern edge o fthe Angle, eyes trained on the horizon.

“Isilmë told me I might find you here,” she said. He turned, and Nethril waved in greeting. “Has swordplay become so tiresome?”

Aragorn shook his head. “Findroch reminded me that I had yet to see the ramparts up close. A fine Chieftain I would be, if I were not familiar with my own city’s protections.”

Nethril hid her smile. In the two months since her cousin’s return to the Dúnedain, he had shown himself to be curious and inquisitive, eager to learn all he could of the heritage that had been kept hidden from him for eighteen years. When he was not training with the Rangers or spending time in the healers’ cottage with Ivorwen, he devoted his time to exploring as much of the Angle as he could, getting to know the blacksmiths and cobblers and farmers he would eventually govern as Chieftain. In some ways, she was surprised it had taken him this long to tour their outer defenses.

“The wall spans the entire width of the Angle, does it not?” he asked.

Nethril nodded. “All the way from the Hoarwell to the Loudwater. The rivers themselves provide enough defense on most sides, but our ancestors constructed the wall several generations back, to provide greater protection from the north. It’s served its purpose…our enemies have encroached upon the outlying villages more times than we’d like to count, but the Angle itself has not had to contend with a full invasion for centuries.”

“It’s certainly impressive,” Aragorn remarked. “Even if a force were to attack, it looks as though you could spot them at least five leagues away and head them off.”

“The sentries do their jobs well,” Nethril said approvingly. “They’re also supposed to keep the riffraff from making a commotion on the walls, but they’ve never been particularly good at that part of it.”

“Don’t tempt fate, lass,” one Ranger said dryly from his post, his eyes never leaving the horizon. “One wrong word from us, and the captains would ban you from the wall in a heartbeat.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Nethril laughed, and turned back to grin at Aragorn. “They’ve indulged my presence here since I was thirteen. Isilmë and I used to spend hours on the lookout for returning patrols.”

“I used to do the same for Elladan and Elrohir, when I was a child.” He smiled, and gestured out towards the horizon. “So, which direction should I be watching, if I were on the lookout for a returning patrol?”

She pointed far off to the West. “There’s a crossing over the Hoarwell about three leagues out. When our grandfather’s patrol returns from the Shire, they’ll take the path along the riverbank.” She turned, and pointed at a barely-visible opening in the trees to the Northeast. “If you had come up here when the scouts returned from over the Hithaeglir yesterday, you would have seen them coming from there.”

Aragorn nodded, and Nethril leaned against the wall and looked back out to the east. Those Rangers with farms to tend to were nearly all in for the harvest furloughs, and the captain’s council was scheduled to begin as soon as the final patrols returned. There would be much to discuss—there was troubling news from over the Hithaeglir, not to mention matters surrounding the subject of Aragorn’s return. It was expected that Lady Adanel would continue to rule as acting Chieftain until Aragorn came of age, but Nethril knew there were some who wished him to take on the mantle of leadership sooner. And the question of an early betrothal still lay in the back of everyone’s minds.

The sentry on Nethril’s left suddenly let out three short blasts on his horn, the signal for a returning patrol. She look at him, startled, and he pointed back towards the bank of the Hoarwell. She strained her eyes, and could suddenly make out a group of horses making their way towards the Angle.

“Is that…” she shaded her eyes against the fading sunlight. “Yes, that’s Dírhael’s horse, at the head of the column.” Nethril did a quick count of the small figures in the distance and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. All six of the original riders were present.

“They’re a week overdue, aren’t they?” the sentry to her right asked.

“You know better than to expect a Ranger patrol to return on time,” his partner chided him. “I’ll bet you anything they were held up longer than intended in Bree.”

Aragorn had gone silent beside her, his fingers drumming gently against the hilt of his sword, and Nethril gave him a sidelong glance. Her cousin was difficult to read at times, but she held little doubt that he was anxious about the prospect of finally meeting his long-lost grandfather and uncle.

“Don’t look so nervous,” she teased gently. “You will get along with them just fine.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “So you’ve said.”

But his troubled expression did not fade, and she sighed. “At the pace they’re riding, you’ve got…another ten minutes at least before they reach the gates. That still gives you enough time to prepare and get yourself cleaned up. And if you truly want to greet them on your own terms, you can simply wait in the Chieftain’s house. Ada Dírhael always makes sure to give a full report to Lady Adanel before he does anything else.”

He smiled in relief and gave her a sheepish glance. “You seem to be forever coming to my aid, Nethril.”

Nethril patted him fondly on the shoulder. “I’m simply making up for lost time, cousin. Now go on, make yourself look smart. It will help you feel better, at the very least.”

Aragorn shot her one final look of gratitude and disappeared down the steps of the tower. Nethril spared one last glance to the horizon, murmured a prayer of thanks, and turned to follow her cousin.

***

A small crowd had already gathered outside the stables, and Nethril threaded her way through the wives and children of the returning men. She paused briefly to greet her uncle Tarcil’s wife Erendis, who held her youngest son squirming in her arms, and finally looked out to see her grandfather dismount from his large bay gelding. He spotted her quickly among the crowd, and held his arms out to her with a wide smile.

“Now, here’s a sight to welcome an old man home,” he said. “You look more like your mother every day!”

Nethril grinned. “Well met, Grandfather.” Dírhael swung her off her feet in a tight embrace, and she laughed as he set her down and kissed her on both cheeks.

“How was the summer?” she asked.

“Quiet,” Dírhael stepped back and surveyed the field before the Commons. “Too quiet. Grateful as we were for the respite, it fills me with unease.”

“Still, that is welcome news,” Nethril said. “The same cannot be said for those who went scouting over the mountains.”

“No, you’ll not hear me complain,” he sighed. “Two months abroad and we’ve suffered no losses—the only true casualty was your uncle, on the road home.” He gestured impatiently towards Tarcil, whose arm, Nethril now noticed, was bound up in a sling. “Perhaps he’ll think twice before backing up into a tree to fend off Orcs.”

“It’s not as if I had much of a choice,” Tarcil broke away from his children to join his father and niece, and drew Nethril into a one-armed hug. “Running the Angle yet, nethben?”

“It’s good to see you too, Uncle,” Nethril gave a wry smile. “And I’ll leave running the Angle to Isildur’s Heir. We’re not quite ready to break that custom, I should think.”

Tarcil and Dírhael exchanged sharp glances before looking back at Nethril. “The rumors are true, then?”

Nethril nodded. “Aragorn has returned. He made his way to the Angle just two weeks after you left.”

Tarcil let out a cry of delight, and Dírhael’s smile grew even wider.

“Your grandmother had foreseen it, just before we left, but I did not dare to hope,” he said. “And Gilraen?”

Nethril hesitated. “She remains in Rivendell, under Lord Elrond’s protection.”

Dírhael’s face fell, but he nodded briskly. “Where is he now? Did he stay in the Angle?”

“Aye. I believe he’s in the Chieftain’s house with Lady Adanel, at the moment.”

“All the more reason to report to her now,” Dirhael said. “Tarcil, can you see to my horse?”

Tarcil nodded, and let out a low whistle as he watched his father stride off in the direction of the Chieftain’s house. “So my sister did not come back. That will weigh heavily on him. Mama too, I’d imagine.”

Nethril looked back up at her uncle and shrugged. “No one can deny it is safer for her in Rivendell.”

“I do not think safety is the reason she stayed,” Tarcil sighed. “No matter. She deserves her peace. And now Isildur’s Heir walks among us once more! I imagine it was an eventful summer.”

“That is certainly one way to put it,” Nethril said dryly. “It’s been an adjustment for everyone.”

“Well, you shall have to tell me all about it,” Tarcil swung his good arm around his niece’s shoulder. “And how is Isilmë? It’s thanks to her work on that shield that my arm was only broken and not worse…”

***

Adanel turned her head at the sound of the second horn call and bent her head over the large map that covered the table before her, moving a small stone from Bree back to the Angle.

“With Dírhael’s men in, we only await news from the Greenway,” she murmured. “Preparations for the harvest can begin in earnest, and the captains can ready their companies for the winter.”

She turned from the map and pulled out a small ledger from under the table, and dipped her quill in an inkwell once more. “Now tell me, Aragorn—preliminary forecasts for the harvest have all been recorded here. What would you have me do?”

He stirred lightly beside her and held out his hand. “May I?” She handed him the ledger, and he ran a finger over her calculations, muttering to himself, brow furrowed slightly.

Adanel waited. She could not begrudge the education Elrond had given her grandson—he had trained Aragorn to be a fine warrior, learned in history as well as the finer points of diplomacy and leadership. But Rivendell had always been a land of plenty, and no lessons there could prepare him for the prospect of reorganizing Ranger patrols or rationing out grain to survive a hard winter.

“The reports from Glamren foretell a poor harvest, with the floods,” he said. “But the farmlands surrounding the Angle ought to have more than enough. If we act quickly, we can move some of the surplus here north before the heavy snows hit.”

“And how then do you suggest we transport it? Such a large movement requires manpower that we cannot sacrifice. Would you leave the East Road unprotected?”

“Perhaps the Dwarves can take it? With their caravans when they come through in the fall?”

“Can we afford to give them what they’ll demand as payment?”

Aragorn studied the ledger once more. “Barely. But if we remind them of the protection they’ll have when they return over the Hithaeglir, I imagine they’ll be far more amenable to the deal.”

Adanel smiled. “You’re learning.”

A soft knock sounded on the door, and a young girl poked her head in. “My lady, Captain Dírhael awaits you in the outer chamber.”

“Thank you, Faelhen. Send him in.”

Aragorn closed the ledger, and rose abruptly to stand behind Adanel. She raised her eyebrows. The young man normally carried himself with the fabled composure of the Elves, but it dropped at the oddest moments. In some ways, she was glad for it. There was already enough muttering in the Angle about Aragorn’s upbringing.

But she did not have time to inquire at the source of his sudden discomfort, for the door opened to admit Dírhael son of Naurdir—Gilraen’s father, and Adanel’s most steadfast lieutenant. His eyes widened briefly as he caught sight of Aragorn, but he turned back to Adanel and bowed low.

“And here I was beginning to wonder if you’d been arrested in Bree again,” she motioned for him to rise with a wry smile. “Welcome home, my friend.”

“It is good to be back,” Dirhael grinned in return. “And is this young man who I think he is?”

“Indeed.” Adanel stepped back and gestured to Aragorn. “Your grandson, Captain.”

Dírhael gave Aragorn a long, piercing look, and Adanel wondered what he saw there. He resembled Arathorn so much it was almost painful to look at times, and he had inherited her son’s rather foreboding dignity. But his quiet mirth reminded her more of Gilraen—and he had Dírhael’s own stubbornness, no doubt about that.

Aragorn stepped forward and held out his hand. “It is an honor to finally meet you, Grandfather.”

Dírhael enveloped Aragorn in a crushing embrace. “And a long-awaited one at that! It has been far too long.” He stood back and held Aragorn out at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. You’ve grown a bit, since last I saw you.”

Aragorn smiled. “It is good to be back. And I am grateful to be amongst my kin once more.”

“Have you news of my daughter?”

“She is well…She said to send you her deepest love.”

“Take a seat, Dírhael,” Adanel pulled out a chair beside her. “Aragorn and I were just going over the finer details of Eriador’s affairs. Your report will give us nearly a complete picture.”

“There is little to report,” Dírhael sat down and sighed. “That’s what worries me. The whole summer has felt like the calm before a storm. We ran afoul of an orc colony on the return journey, but that was one band, and easily wiped out.”

“We have had more troubling news from beyond the Hithaeglir,” Adanel said.

“Nethril mentioned,” Dírhael frowned. “What sort of trouble?”

“More organized attacks on the Redhorn Pass, orcs coming down from the mountains, and fears of a new power rising in the East, though there is no name for it yet. Gondor is tightening her borders.”

“Well, that does not count for much,” Dirhael snorted. “Gondor is always tightening her borders.”

“Nevertheless, knowledge that such troubles have not reached farther west brings me comfort. Things have been quiet here, as well. With luck, we will make it through the harvest season with little strife.”

“Luck would be a blessing,” Dirhael agreed. “We’ve had precious little of it these last years.”

“The captain’s council shall be called as soon as Brécharn’s company returns,” Adanel said. “There is much to discuss, particularly with Aragorn’s return. But until then, I advise you to get some rest, my friend. We will have plenty of time to talk in the days to come.”

“Now that is one order I will have little trouble obeying,” Dirhael rose and winked at Aragorn. “Come by our home whenever Adanel can spare you, Aragorn. I look forward to getting to know you better.”

Aragorn looked back at Adanel, who smiled and waved a hand.

“Go on. It’s well past time the two of you got to know each other.”

Aragorn grinned, and ducked out the door after his grandfather. Adanel watched them go and let out a small sigh.

Now the real work would begin.

***

Between introducing Aragorn to Tarcil and tending to the affairs of his men, it was nearly nightfall before Dírhael finally made his way to his own home. Ivorwen was already seated beside the fire, stirring a pot of soup above the coals. She gave Dírhael one look, and he knew it would be pointless to try and hide the disappointment he had been fighting since his return to the Angle.

“Gilraen did not come?”

“We knew it was a fool’s hope, my dear.” Ivorwen gave a sad smile and drew him into a warm embrace. “Elrond has afforded her a place in Rivendell for as long as she is willing. I think we would be hard-pressed to convince her to leave.”

“I know,” Dírhael rested his head against hers and let out a heavy sigh. “But I had hoped, if they deemed it prudent for Aragorn to return…”

“It was his time, not hers,” Ivorwen ducked into their bedroom and returned with a worn piece of parchment clasped between her hands. “Here. She asked Aragorn to give this to me, his first night here.”

She handed it to Dírhael and he opened it eagerly, scanning the letter once before reading it more carefully a second time, his throat constricting at the sight of the familiar handwriting. The ink had begun to bleed between the creases, a sign that Ivorwen had likely had the letter memorized for weeks.

Dear Mama and Ada,

I hope you will forgive my absence. I thought long and hard about returning with Estel, but the time did not seem right…

The letter did not go into much more detail, for fear of being intercepted, but it was longer than any missive they had received from Gilraen in all the years she had spent in Imladris. He read it again a third time, and looked up to see Ivorwen watching him intently.

“She hopes to make a visit next summer.” Ivorwen echoed the letter’s final paragraph. “When Aragorn has had a full year to establish himself. Truth be told, I think it is good she is not here. He has had to rely on his own wits to prove himself.”

“With help from you and Adanel, I presume,” Dirhael said.

The corners of Ivorwen’s mouth twitched. “A little. Halbarad as well. He has taken it upon himself to make sure Aragorn feels at home among the Rangers.”

“A task he is well suited for,” Dírhael nodded in approval. “Has Aragorn been out in the field yet? How much training did the peredhil give him?”

“You will have to ask Halbarad, my dear,” Ivorwen gave him a knowing look. “They have been out on a few short scouting missions now. From what he has told me, Aragorn is a fine warrior, but he does not have the familiarity with the terrain that we’ve come to expect from our men.”

“Hmph,” Dírhael snorted. “No doubt the peredhil did not think it prudent to bring him too close to our borders in their training. Did they think he would remain in Rivendell forever?”

“Hush,” Ivorwen said. “There has been more than enough murmuring against the Elves since his return. We both supported the choice send him there, painful as it was, and now we must live with the consequences.”

Dírhael did not answer, but sank back into a chair by the fireplace and lit his pipe. He remembered all too well the debates that had led to Gilraen’s departure, and though he supported his daughter’s choice, he had never liked it. The secrecy and safety afforded them barely seemed worth the long years of separation.

“So. What do you make of our grandson?”

Ivorwen’s eyes lit up. “He is every bit Gilraen’s child. Polite almost to a fault, and curious about everything around him. And a healer, too. Elrond taught him well. He’s served alongside me every day Halbarad has not had him out in the field.”

“‘A healer and a renewer,’” Dírhael echoed his wife’s words from over twenty years before. “May it be so.”

Ivorwen looked down at her hands and shrugged. “We shall see what these next years bring. Life is no less complicated for his return, but—there are more possibilities now. And, at the least, there is more entertainment. I think you will enjoy watching how he argues with Halbarad.”

Dirhael laughed. “Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

***

The final patrol from Sarn Ford arrived two days later, and the captains’ council was scheduled to begin the next day. Ivorwen called for a family dinner the night before the council, and their home was soon filled to bursting with their children and grandchildren. Their son Dirlaeg’s widow, Finnael, came with Nethril and Halbarad, and Tarcil and his wife Erendis brought their two small children along as well. Aragorn slipped in last, apologizing for his lateness, and took a seat to Halbarad’s left at the end of the table.

Dírhael waited until Ivorwen had placed the last dish upon the table, and raised his mug of ale.

“I will say little here,” he began, “beyond that I have dreamed of this day since I first bid farewell to Gilraen eighteen years ago. It is truly a gift to have us all together once more—let us celebrate it, as well as remember those who cannot be with us tonight.”

All raised their glasses to toast those present and absent, and Aragorn met Dírhael’s eyes briefly in gratitude before his face reddened and he ducked his head.

Tarcil’s young daughter Haleth spent the meal peppering Aragorn with questions about his time in Rivendell. “Do the Elves really live forever? Can they do magic like Ada says?”

“I do not know if they would call it ‘magic.’” Aragorn looked bemused by his young cousin’s questions. Dírhael wondered if there had been any Elven children in Rivendell. “But yes, they have the gift of immortality. Lord Elrond himself has seen nearly six thousand years.”

“And yet for all his years he cannot seem to give a straightforward answer,” Tarcil said around a bite of meat pie. “I must say, Aragorn, I find it baffling that my sister kept your true name a secret for all these years. It does a disservice to you and to us. Did she ever give a reason?”

The room fell silent, and Aragorn shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Halbarad raised his eyebrows and said, “Surely there is another time—“

“No, let him speak,” Dírhael said, ignoring the look of exasperation that Ivorwen shot his way. “I would like to hear this for myself.”

Aragorn glanced down at his plate, his expression unreadable.

“I do not know,” he said quietly, looking up to meet Dírhael’s gaze. “I know that my mother and Lord Elrond agreed to keep my true name and heritage hidden from me, but they gave no details beyond that. All they would say is that they did it for my protection.”

Dirhael stirred in irritation, and even Ivorwen pursed her lips in disapproval.

“It seems to me that the Valley itself would have been protection enough,” Tarcil said. “Are the fabled defenses of Lord Elrond failing? Or does he now think the Dúnedain cannot be trusted with their own affairs?”

Aragorn’s eyes flashed, but before he could say anything Ivorwen broke in. “We would do well not to question the wisdom of Lord Elrond, ion-nín. Our memories would be short indeed if we did not remember the assistance the peredhil have brought to us throughout this Age.”

Tarcil opened his mouth to retort, but at a stern look from his mother he shrugged and busied himself with refilling his glass of ale. The rest of the meal progressed with the usual amount of good humor and cheer. Halbarad and Nethril entered into a sharp debate about Mellaer’s latest translation of the Lay of Lethian, which Ivorwen and Erendis took as the cue to clear the supper dishes off the table. Amidst the barely-organized chaos, he saw Aragorn slip quietly out the back door. Dírhael shook his head and started toward the door to follow him, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. He turned, and his daughter-in-law, Finnael, fixed him with a mock-stern glance.

“Let the boy be, Dírhael,” she said. “He has enough on his mind, and this is his first meal with all of us together…it’s no surprise he’s a bit overwhelmed.”

Dirhael crossed his arms and let out a soft hmph. “What is there to be overwhelmed about? He is with family.”

She gave him a knowing smile. “Do you remember the first night Dirlaeg brought me to dinner in this house?”

“You were quiet as a mouse. He had only just proposed, yes?”

Finnael nodded. “The gathering was smaller than this, mind, but somehow seemed every bit as chaotic. Gilraen and Tarcil bickered until the sun went down, and you kept telling the most terrible jokes to try and get me to laugh. Dinners with my own family were always so solemn—it was a bit of a shock, to say the least."

Dirhael smiled and shook his head at the memory. It was difficult now to think of Finnael as anything less than his own daughter. “You got used to us quickly enough, as I recall.”

“That I did,” Finnael laughed. “But it did take time, and I did not have the added burdens that Aragorn does. Give him a chance to sort himself out. I’m sure he has enough on his mind, with the council meeting tomorrow.”

“Exactly. That’s why I should go to him. Valar knows he could use some reassurance.”

Finnael raised her eyebrows. “The young will seek guidance in their own time, Dírhael. Surely you remember how fiercely independent Halbarad wished to be at that age.”

“I suppose we all did, in our own way,” Dírhael sighed. “But it is difficult to know how to guide him if he does not ask.”

Finnael gestured toward the kitchen, where Nethril had gone to help her aunt and grandmother with the dishes. “You have been both father and grandfather to my children these long years,” she said. “And for that, I will be forever grateful. I have no doubt in your ability to fulfill the same role for Aragorn. Just give it time.”

Dirhael squeezed her shoulders in a brief hug. “Halbarad and Nethril have been blessed with a wise mother.”

Young Haleth tugged on Finnael’s skirts, eager to demonstrate the latest Sindarin words she had learned, and she followed her niece to the other end of the room. Dírhael waited until Finnael’s back was turned, and strode quietly out the back door to look for Aragorn. The sun had not yet set behind the trees, and his grandson sat in the fading light against the back wall of the house, his expression distant. One of the barn cats had snuck into the yard, and Aragorn scratched it gently behind the ears.

He looked up at the sound of Dírhael’s approach and smiled. “This little one won’t leave me be. What is his name?”

He snorted. “The children call him Dírhael’s Bane. The beast belongs in the stables, but seems to have it in his head that we’ve adopted him.”

Aragorn gave a small chuckle. Dírhael sat beside his grandson, and the cat leapt into his lap and butted his head gently against his shoulder. “Incorrigible,” he muttered.

Aragorn looked back at Dírhael, almost shyly. “When I was a child, my mother would tell me a tale she said that her father told her. The legend of Tevildo, Prince of Cats, the most evil creature ever to have stalked Eriador.”

“She told you that one, did she?” Dírhael chuckled. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I would tell it to try and keep her from bringing home rascals like this one, for all the good it did.”

Aragorn laughed and leaned back so that his head rested against the stone wall of the house. Dirhael looked over his grandson carefully. Ivorwen had warned that he tended to keep his thoughts to himself, but even here he could sense the young man’s underlying disquiet.

“’Tis a joyous thing, Aragorn, having you home,” he said at last. “I do not remember the last time I’ve seen your grandmother look so happy. But I haven’t heard much on how you’re weathering all of this. The weight of our bloodline is difficult to bear at the best of times, not least for the Heir of Elendil.”

Aragorn sighed, and stared down at his hands. Dirhael was suddenly reminded vividly of Arathorn, who so often would spend council meetings lost in thought before he ever ventured forth his own judgements.

“I keep thinking I will get used to it, but the oddest things catch me off guard,” he said at last. “Meeting you now, and Uncle Tarcil—my mother never mentioned any of her relatives by name, and the older I got, the more I wondered at it. I did not know if her parents were still alive, if they missed their daughter—and even now, there is still so much I do not know.”

“If I know my daughter, she taught you a thing or two without you even realizing it,” Dírhael said gently. “Even Tevildo gives you a common bond with your cousins.”

Aragorn gave a weak laugh.

“I have heard so many tales of you, and my father, since I have been here,” he said. “I am eager to do my part, and take over from Adanel as Chieftain when the time comes. But I do not know how to be Arathorn’s son. How can I hope to measure up to a man I never knew?”

“None of us can ask more of you than what you are able to give,” Dírhael said. “And from all I have heard, it sounds as though you’ve given plenty.”

“Well, we shall see what they say at the council tomorrow.”

“I’m sure Halbarad has filled your head with all manner of tales about the captains you will meet tomorrow. Remember that my eldest grandchild exaggerates. A Ranger’s bark is forever worse than his bite, and the council will accept you with open arms. By all accounts, they already have.”

Aragorn nodded, and Dirhael patted him on the shoulder as he stood up and stretched. The cat squawked and leapt down from his arms.

“Come back inside, when you are ready,” he said. “Your aunt will have a song or two to sing for us before the evening is out.”

“I will,” Aragorn said. “That sounds lovely. Grandfather?”

Dírhael turned.

“Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it, my boy.”