Chapter Text
It was late in the evening and clouds, fat and pewter grey hung low in the night sky, a chill Spring rain, the last howl of winter, was blowing in from the North. The waterfalls that cascaded through the rocky green canyon of Rivendell thundered on in a comforting murmur. The many windows of the sprawling house of Elrond looked out into the night and music and laughter came from the hall of fire.
The stables set in the steep hillside below the sprawling house of Lord Elrond, where the elves kept their animals were open and overgrown with trailing vines. The stable keeper, a rustic Sylvan elf named Miridor, was merrily watching the storm and drinking an Elven spirit at a small table with Glorfindel, although they were very different in class and bearing, this was an ancient and abiding friendship, the high elf lord, looking comfortable in soft grey robes with his golden hair falling on his shoulders with effortless grace, and the rough stable elf, more like to a hobbit in mannerisms, but possessing an earthy sort of wisdom, as one who has seen many seasons and knew the secrets of the wind and the harvest, his hair was as yellow brown as a field of wheat. He had his feet up on the table and was standing his ground on a hill he had been defending for centuries.
The prince Elrohir had brought them the bottle of dark Elven liquor himself and the three of them had immediately picked up the thread of an old argument. The prince sat on the window ledge with finely made Dwarven lyre in his lap which he was tuning carefully, bending his ear as he plucked at the strings. His had been one of the first orders sent back to Erebor after news of the death of the dragon had reached Rivendell in the hands of Mad Baggins himself. The instrument was brand new and he had only just tightened the strings for the first time.
“Well that would explain it then!” Miri poked the table with one finger, half laughing.
“Or…” the Elf Lord looked at the dark liquid in his glass, it was perfectly imperfect, hand blown in a delicate teal so that little bubbles became trapped in its puckered base. The drink was flavored with roots and honey and brought on a sleepy warmth.
“No it makes so much sense…” the Stable-master insisted.
“Or, perhaps,” the high elf tilted his head, “Mellon-in, You could be wrong.”
Twong twomg twang
“Nobody says DwarFs, that’s not correct.” The son of Elrond spoke with authority and a hint of frustration. Twong, twong.
“It sounds Rohirric actually.” Glorfindel mused, thinking of all the humans he had loved and bid farewell to. "Where did you hear it?"
But the prince had grown bored with this argument, which he privately thought absurd and strummed a bright chord on his new instrument, “oh I love to go swimmin, with little hairy women and swim between their legs!" Elrohir sang with relish, his angelic voice lifted up in the childish rhyme, "a Dwarven lass will show you some ass and make an elfling beg!" He laughed so hard he nearly toppled out the window.
“Well maybe we’ll just agree to disagree, my Lord.” Miridor drained his cup and Glorfindel became suddenly serious. His arms were folded across his chest and his blue eyes were fixed tensely out beyond the open doors at the gathering darkness where he could hear the distant sound of thunder and feel the barometric pressure drop suddenly. Something was amiss.
Elrohir was just recovering his composure when the valley suddenly rang with the thin, clear sound of one of the guards blowing an alarm… something had passed their borders.
He placed the lyre on the windowsill.
The horse’s name was Fergoth, he was older than anyone could recon and he had developed a large tuft of white whiskers on his nose and chin. He was never, in all his long years, known to be spooked by anyone or anything. He had born lord Elrond's adopted Dunedan princeling about the wilds for many years.
When he charged into the open stable doors, all three elves were on their feet. The horse was clearly distressed, whinnying and stamping, he made circles in the hay strewn floor, hooves clomping expressively on the heavy wood. Three goblin arrows were stuck in his saddle bag and all down one side of his belly there was a stream of red. With a cry of alarm Miri stood and steadied the animal with a gentle touch on the flank.
“This is not his blood.” The stable master said, unfastening the animal’s saddle. Aragorn used no bridle, having learned to ride from the elves, but the necessity of camping in the wild meant that the horse must help carry provisions, which slid to the ground with a crash.
“Shhh,” Elrohir held up his hands, gently catching the animal’s furry nose in one palm, “what happened my friend.” He asked as a clatter at the inner doors of the stable building announced the arrival of his father and twin brother.
“We saw him coming up the main path.” Elrond explained.
“Estel is hurt.” Glorfindel knelt and plucked one of the goblin arrows free from the saddle bag and handed it to Elrond.
“Goblins.” The lord of Rivendell turned the arrow in his fingers, noting its girth and its serrated edges of crude iron.
“This brave old man wills that we go with him.” The prince stroked the horse’s nose and the animal leaned into him affectionately. “Now.”
“Arm yourselves,” Elrond commanded, “we have little time.” Then turning to the stable keeper, “He is most likely wounded, have boiled water, and a clean bed prepared for their return.”
“Who is wounded?” The gentle voice came from the interior door that Elrond had come through, he closed his eyes in pain. “Ada?” Arwen was dressed in a translucent nightgown, she read the room silently, her eyes lingered on the red stain down the flank of Aragorn’s horse and she made a deduction.
"Where is he?" She met her father's gaze.
"We..." he inhaled deeply against his words, "are going to find him, Arwen." He hoped that the noble steed would remember his paths in the dark, "I promise."
"You should remain here, my Lord." Glorfindel insisted, mounting Asfaloth gracefully. "In case the lord Aragorn returns home and needs assistance."
"You are right," He sighed and turned to the stable keeper, "send out scouts to look for evidence of goblin attacks."
“And I will prepare a bed in the healing chambers,” Arwen was suddenly hard as wrought steel. Elrond wanted to embrace her but he could tell she would push him away, “he will not die like his father.” She said with authority and swept back up the stairs. He watched her in wonder for a moment before bidding the three elven warriors to make haste. They took basic medical supplies, weapons and a magical lantern which hung from a rod like a fishing pole.
In a few minutes the three elves were armed and mounted. Elladan rode Fergoth at their lead, he sprang from the doors and with a deliberate haste, went clattering up the path towards the ford’s of the Bruinen. Glorfindel rode on Asfaloth and Elrohir followed behind them.
The gathering storm was upon them as soon as they departed. The wind howled and brought with it gusts of sleet that cut through their clothes like knives. The old horse galloped with a mysterious sense of urgency and direction, squinting through the blowing ice.
They were going north for about thirty minutes into the wild country that rose up into the rocky feet of the mountains. The horse followed no road but followed secret paths that laced their way through the rolling grasslands. Now tossed by an angry wind that howled through the rocks down from icy mountain peaks still clinging to winters chill. They passed a few dead Goblins along the trail but the determined horse did not let them stop to examine the bodies. Glorfindel held his long pale bow at the ready with an arrow balanced in his hand.
“What are goblins doing so far from the mountains?” Elrohir asked, he was carrying the lamp attatched to his stirrup.
“Where are the other rangers?” his brother asked, raising his voice over the wind. "He surely wasn't alone?"
“Perhaps they had no warning.”
“could have been an ambush.” Elrohir suggested.
“It only takes one good shot.”
Fergoth stopped at the top of a stony rise, he snorted at the air and Elladan patted his neck. The rain was coming down in sheets and the three of them clutched their cloaks tight around them, sharp eyes peering from dark hoods. The area was dominated by a low scrub that grew everywhere at waist high and could only be navigated by narrow paths. Here and there great oaks dotted the hills in soft tufts of green tossed by the storm.
“THERE!” Glorfindel cried out, he swung himself down from his mount and ran down the slope, disappearing into the swinging shadows under the brush. The twins followed him, soon seeing what he saw. A dark shape lay on his side in the mud, half under one of the shrubs as if he had been seeking shelter from the rain when he had lost consciousness.
“Estel?” Glorfindel turned the mortal gently onto his back, "Aragorn?" he thought of the boy as a nephew, although he was an adult by human standards, a mere thirty five years of life seemed like a blink to him. The lives of men went so quickly. Thunder rolled over them and a great streak of lightning burned across the sky. Aragorn was deathly white and the cold and the wet had sank deep into his core so that he no longer trembled, his lips were slightly blue and his eyes were half shut and rolled back.
“He’s in shock.” Elrohir touched Aragorn’s icy hands and his neck. There were two thick arrow shafts in the Dunedan’s right thigh, one piercing through the hip joint and one going through the muscle six inches further down. Blood soaked his trouser leg and the ground where he was lying.
“We have to get him warm,” the prince looked around and then he removed his cloak and covered the Ranger’s body with it. His thin garments were instantly soaked.
“What do you think? Should we take these out?” The high elf asked, raising his voice over a sudden howl of wind examining the grisly arrow wounds. He was wary around humans, they were brave but delicate and he was unsure how much blood a mortal could lose.
“Break them and stabilize them.” Elrohir ordered. But then Elladan grabbed the shaft in Aragorn’s hip joint and disturbed it, Aragorn woke suddenly with a gasp of agony which became a scream when his own thrashing dug the rusty metal deeper into the sensitive tendons. Aragorn grabbed at Elrohir’s wrist, tears spilling from his eyes. He gasped and his teeth chattered in the cold.
“You’re ok,” the elf sat at Aragorn’s head and held his shoulders down gently. Aragorn twisted to look down at the arrows with distain and confusion, “look at me.” the prince directed the Ranger’s gaze up into his face. “Don’t worry, just breathe slowly, look at me.”
"It took them," Aragorn said weakly, "It's coming back," he felt the elf’s hand push his hair back as with a gentle magic he eased the wounded man into unconsciousness. He looked at his twin with concern.
Elladan snapped the arrow shafts, they were left to plug up the wounds but they were crude, thick things made of rough wood that left brutal bore holes in flesh. All that they could do in the pouring rain was to wrap wet bandages tight, very tight, around the limb. Blood streamed freely down Aragorn’s trouser leg.
They managed to get the unconscious Dunedan onto Asfaloth’s back in front of Glorfindel, he was bleeding enough that it showed up brightly on Asfaloth’s pale flanks. He must have been shot while riding, slain his attackers and fallen from the horse when he had lost too much blood to stay upright. Glorfindel had experience with violence and had seen what a well placed arrow could do to an elf warrior, not to mention a fragile mortal. He tightened his grip around the man’s waist, pulling in his hands, they were cold as marble. Glorfindel could hear him breathing, fast and shallow. Hope was fading.
“Home!” He commanded the horse and it sprang forward towards Rivendell.