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Sadly handsome, Aragorn son of Arathorn stood on the rocky cliffside and surveyed the peaks of Caradhras.
The still-not-king lay a calloused hand upon his sword hilt, cloak dirty and tattered, canines improbably polished. Long had it been since Strider Dunadan Mithardir-Or-What-Have-You had seen such beauty in the Age of Men, while hobbits (like sensible folk) remained within their cozy holes and let rangers tidy their borders.
He shook his tangled mane of hair, half midnight, half malty beer, well-full-thirds a maiden’s dream. Strong walls and bright swords his eyes foretold, irises grey as the herald of a storm, firm mouth hinting at dark secrets. Spotting the grass the frosty peaks had yet to touch, he smiled at the flowers gathered at Caradhras’ base, the dewdrops trembling on each petal reminded him of Arwen Evenstar’s —
“Have a care, Master Hobbit.”
Meriadoc Story-Master, designated purveyor of Longbottom’s best leaf, gave a sudden start, with a squeal unbefitting a gentlehobbit of Brandybuck. Aragorn, emerging from the shadow on the edge of camp, knelt by the fire and tossed a branch into the flames.
“Legolas. Gimli. Boromir.” He nodded to each in turn. “My good hobbits.” Though he struggled to keep his lips straight, Aragorn’s eyes sparked with mischief. “I am lucky Gandalf wished to take counsel, or I would never have heard such flattering descriptions.”
“Begging your pardon, Strider,” Merry said, blush deepening with his smile. “It’s a hobbit pastime, you see, telling tales ‘round a fire, prodding spirits as well as sticks, though with a fuller fare (and better-smelling company) than we have here. My good lad Frodo” —the ring bearer groaned good-naturedly— “told me of your journeys, and the Adventure we mean to take. But seeing as Pippin and I were more preoccupied with the leaf-stock, you might say, the gaps in our knowledge needed rather more elaborating.”
“And quite moving elaborations,” Boromir added, arm slung over Merry’s shoulders. “You were bound to slay a dragon with a song, if this one continued.”
“A fitting tribute to any ranger in the company of such illustrious hobbits,” Aragorn replied. “It has been long since cheer accompanied our quest. I have no such weak hold on honor that mine is threatened by tale, or such dry wit that laughter cannot kindle good humor.”
“But if you would bring the Lady Arwen into your sport…” His voice grew soft. “Then, I would take a care. She is not here to revel, and I would not hear her mocked.”
Boromir chuckled. “Just like a ranger,” he grinned. “All silent duty until the South forgets them, all forbearance until love enters the bargain.”
“Come,” he said, turning to Merry. “If Aragorn will not enjoy your sport, I open myself for arrows. Tell us what the Hobbits think of Men.”
“We knew very little of them, before we joined this quest,” Pippin spoke from behind his pipe. “But being such capable and intelligent hobbits,” he continued, waving the smoke away with a cheerful grin, “we’ve made careful study of the ways of men and honor.”
“Pip…” Merry warned.
“Come now, Merry. You know I can’t resist a good story!”
“Take some rest,” Aragorn murmured. “These borders are well protected.”
Boromir tensed.
"I have no patience for rest, my lord, and no peace for sleeping. My father, King of Rohan, expects me to—”
“You don’t even know where I’m from!”
“I knew it was one of two…”
“Ungrateful hobbit.”
“Ungrateful listener, more like. I do not let such trifles from the Big People get in the way of a good story. In any case…”
My father, the Steward of Gondor — “happy?” — expects me to bring the ring. Or a weapon like it. He looks to me to save my people, to make things right. And I will do it if I can, I will—”
It is not like Boromir to weep, especially in a stranger’s hall. But Aragorn takes him in his arms, and guides him to the bench. Four hours the Steward’s son had stood sentinel in Riverdell, waiting for the sun to rise and the journey to begin. His shield was slung over his shoulders. A heavy weight, a familiar weight.
And Aragorn’s hand on his leg. A warm hand. A loving one.
“I begin to dislike the tale.”
“Then you’re talking too much. Hush.”
“Have you ever seen it, Aragorn?”Boromir’s voice caressed the ranger’s ear. His grey eyes gleamed as they locked with Aragorn’s. “The White Tower of Ecthelion.” His lips tickled against the other man’s hair. “Glimmering like a spike of pearl and silver.”
Aragorn’s voice grew ragged. “Not here, Boromir,” he whispered. “We must wait until the journey begins. Not in the land of the elves!”
“I long to follow you, my brother… my captain… my—”
“I take back what I said,” Boromir broke in. “Hobbits are vile creatures full of mischief and ill feeling, who speak of things they do not understand.”
He made as if to smile, as though he jested to a point. But his eyes did not look merry to Frodo, or indeed as though angered. They looked wounded, and somehow sad.
“I think enough has been said, of hobbits and of men,” Frodo broke in. He turned to Legolas, staring into the stars. “I suppose elves are too high to be reached for a jest?”
“Ha!” Gimli, an avid listener. “You have not heard dwarf songs, so I forgive your error. Strange are the ways of Men, but stranger are the ways of the Elves. I remember a particular song…”
“If this is the tale of how elves sprung from a union of noodles and water lilies…” Legolas began wearily.
“Begging your pardon, Mister Legolas, Mister Gimli,” Sam broke in. “Only, I’ve heard many tales about dwarves from Mister Bilbo, and of the elves from Mister Frodo. But I know nothing, well, near as nothing about wizards.” He dropped his voice. “And seein’ as he isn’t here, and we’re having such a good set of funny tales—”
“You thought to add a wizard’s shame to your own, Samwise Gamgee?”
Gandalf stood a little ways from the fire, but the wizard’s presence cast all about him back from the shadow. He seemed to shine white-hot in glow of the moon, eyebrows sticking out over blazing eyes and a furrowed brow, beard bristling around a downturned mouth.
“No one dares tell tales of wizards, Master Hobbit. As well no one should!”
Suddenly the great wizard seemed to vanish, and only a laughing friend remained. “For, after all, they would be ashamed to follow! As a hobbit named Belladonna Took once remarked, my stories remain the best.”
Now let me tell you a story of a wizard named… Zaruman… who decided to wear a cloak of many colors…