Title: Awakened Memories

Author: Beregond5

E-Mail: Beregond5@yahoo.gr

Rating: PG-13 for violence and angsty situations

Summary: The Fellowship reaches Caras-Galadhon, where Gimli speaks rudely to Haldir, the marchwarden. That triggers to Aragorn some memories long forgotten about the first time that he passed through Moria – and also the time that he met a most unusual friend…

Disclaimer: 1) Beta-read by a good (and English-speaking) friend. Any possible remaining mistakes are mine. 2) The story, the OC and all other unfamiliar characters are mine. The rest of the names and places belong to Tolkien…

 

 

 

 

Awakened Memories.

 

 

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 “I too once passed the Dimrill Gate,” said Aragorn quietly; “but though I also came out again, the memory is very evil. I do not wish to enter Moria a second time.”

(J.R.R Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, p. 390)

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Chapter 1: An unusual friend

 

 

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Borders of Lothlorien

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Legolas and Aragorn still talked with Haldir, the Elven march-warden that the Fellowship had come across upon entering the woods of Lothlorien. Everyone waited anxiously to see what the outcome of this conversation would be, hardly understanding what was spoken between the three; but all of them hoping it would turn out for the best: they had been through enough hardships already.

  

And yet, one started growing more and more impatient as time passed and by now he had even stopped bothering to hide it. Even though Gimli had been assured that Orcs wouldn’t dare enter the well-guarded realm, he couldn’t help thinking that too much precious time was wasted in, what it seemed to him, idle talk; not to mention the fact that the Elven tongue which he heard constantly being spoken was starting to irritate him to no end. So, the Dwarf decided he could not put up with it any longer.

 

“Enough with the fabled courtesy of the Elves!” he snapped at Haldir, “And speak a language we can all understand!”

 

Haldir cast a glance full of disdain towards the short creature. It was clear that the Elf wasn’t all that pleased to see a Dwarf among the members of the Fellowship.

 

“We haven’t had dealings with the Dwarves since the Dark Days,” he finally said coolly, trying to act as civil as possible. But, unfortunately, that answer wasn’t enough to appease Gimli.

 

“And you know what the Dwarf says to that? Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!”

 

The march-warden’s eyes widened at such words, feeling so shocked that he remained glaring at the short creature. He didn’t understand what Gimli meant exactly, but he was quite certain that it wasn’t any Dwarven pleasantry.

 

However, somebody understood what Gimli uttered. Rolling his eyes dismayed, Aragorn placed a hand on his companion’s shoulder and forced him to look up at him.

 

“That was not so courteous!” he scolded. The Elves of Lothlorien were already reluctant to accept the Fellowship within their realm, and Gimli was far from making things easier for the tired travellers.

 

Taken aback by Aragorn’s just anger, the Dwarf finally fell silent; and he waited patiently once again for the Man to convince the Elves to accept them to Caras Galadhon, where the Fellowship would meet Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel.

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Caras Galadhon

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Aragorn leaned his weary body against the trunk of the great tree that would shelter the Walkers for as long as they would stay within the borders of Lothlorien. He watched the sleeping Hobbits in silence, looking at their intelligent round faces relaxed into heavy sleep, and he was glad to see that at least the little ones were able to get some rest. These four needed as much sleep as they could get, for of all the members of the Fellowship, they were the least accustomed to long hardships and dangerous journeys. And there was also Gandalf’s death to be considered: the loss of their guide and leader seemed to be the worst thing that could possibly happen to the Fellowship and it had left them all emotionally drained, including Aragorn himself. The only thing that the Ranger wanted to do now was to have a few moments of peace and escape, even mentally, the burden of the responsibility that had passed to him by Gandalf’s fall.

 

He shut his eyes, soon to open them again at the sound of heavy footsteps closing in on him. He turned; and he was surprised to see Gimli by his side, smoking his pipe.

 

“You have trouble sleeping?” he asked the Dwarf.

 

“Aye,” replied Aule’s creation with a sigh, the smoke he had inhaled escaping now his lips; “I thought that maybe some pipeweed would help.”

 

Aragorn nodded silently and said nothing more. He was lost once more to his own thoughts, when Gimli spoke again.

 

“Did you know or did you just figure it?”

 

The Man looked up, puzzled at the strange question. “What are you talking about?”

 

“I’m talking about when I spoke angrily to that Elf. Did you understand what I said or did you guess it?”

 

A slight grin formed on the Ranger’s face as he answered: “You said ‘I spit on your grave.’”

 

Gimli regarded Aragorn agape for many long moments, hardly believing his ears.

 

“The Dwarven tongue isn’t to be taught to outsiders,” he remarked in the end.

 

“And I was not taught, Master Dwarf, I assure you. Someone I knew once told me what it meant a very long time ago,” replied the Man calmly. “I hope you are not angry because of that,” he added with slight apprehension.

 

“Angry?” said the Dwarf; “No. On the contrary, I’m glad to know something more about you.”

 

The Ranger’s perplexed look actually made Gimli crack a smile underneath his beard.

 

“I mean that if a Dwarf thought you could be trusted to learn even that small sample of our Tongue, then you’re a worthy man indeed,” he explained, “And now I know that the fate of the Fellowship couldn’t be placed in better hands.”

 

It was then that he yawned wide.

 

“Then you will not mind if I suggest that you should go have some rest?” noted Aragorn kindly. “Have no fear, we are in one of the safest realms in Middle-Earth.”

 

“I will go. And I have to admit that you’re right. It’s a fine place… for one filled with Elves, that is. Have a good night.”

 

“Goodnight, Master Dwarf,” said Arathorn’s son with a chuckle, soon to be left alone with his thoughts. Too late did it occur to him that he could ask Gimli for any tidings of his friend of old: if anyone would be able to tell him, it would be him.

 

‘Then again, I do not think he would know,’ he said within his mind. A voice of the past rang in his ears saying: “My father could prove overprotective at times because of what I am. He was always afraid that no other creature besides the Nogrod Dwarves would accept me with an open mind; and so I haven’t made a lot of friendships on my rare outings outside the city.”

 

Aragorn sighed a bit and then got his own pipe out of his pack. Laughing ever so slightly as another fond memory of his old acquaintance invaded his mind, he lighted the pipe slowly and enjoyed the leaf.

 

“I am glad to be one of the fortunate ones to have met you, Ceranos,” he mused as he still smoked, his eyes closing dreamily. “It will be good to see you again at the first chance.”

 

 

A bright sun shone from an autumn sky, warming and lightening everything with its rays. There wasn’t much wildlife in this particular area of Middle-Earth, near the river of Sír Ninglar, even though there were trees and bushes abundant around. The only moving thing that one could see was a flock of swallows flying above, getting ready for their great journey to the south. On the other hand, the graceful birds hardly noticed below them the lone figure that was travelling north on foot.

 

The young man moved with ease and with the air of someone who had trodden this wild area many times before in the past. His clothes were covered with mud and dust after many leagues of walking, while his gear didn’t consist of much: a blanket, which he had made into a roll and now carried on his back; his small provisions of basic food and water; as well as a sword and a bow. Still they were enough to prove to anyone that the 20-year-old lad was one of the Rangers of the North, a wandering people who offered protection and assistance wherever it was required. But no one would be able to imagine that that young rogue of a Ranger, who some knew and called by the name of Strider, was actually Aragorn, son of Arathorn, descendant of Isildur and rightful heir to the throne of Gondor, the Men’s most powerful realm in Middle Earth.

 

Aragorn had been travelling for almost three full days now and his whole body ached in protest, demanding the breather; nevertheless he didn’t want to stop, at least not yet. The news he had heard from Rivendell was very disturbing and he wanted to return to his home as quickly as possible, even though Lord Elrond had assured him in his letter that Elladan was out of danger. Aragorn didn’t feel he could remain in Lothlorien any longer, knowing that his foster brother was injured. After all, how could he stay at Caras Galadhon, when someone had to go and smack Elladan’s head for his foolishness?

 

‘I need to see him, milady. He might be well otherwise, but a broken leg is still a broken leg. What came over him to follow that deer on such a dangerous ground I will never know,’ he heard himself saying, as his mind involuntarily replayed the conversation he had with the fair and wise queen of Lothlorien. Lady Galadriel too tried to talk Aragorn out of travelling back to Rivendell at least for the next few days. But the Man wouldn’t have it, although he had registered a tone of worry in her voice. In the end, the powerful Elf-queen had to yield to the Ranger’s iron will; but she also advised him, in her ever so enigmatic manner, that he should avoid the dark places of the world. Such a thought had never crossed his mind; so he had every intention of following her advice, no matter what it meant.

  

Aragorn’s musings were cut short when his legs faltered and he stumbled, thus landing himself flat on the ground.

 

“Dash it all,” he hissed under his breath. He rose to his feet and tried to will himself to continue on, only to realise to his dismay that his limbs wouldn’t comply. He had to admit that he was growing too weary to keep up with such a relentless pace much longer. So, sighing defeated, he sat on a rock by the edge of the river, placing his weary legs into the cool water to relax the pained muscles.

 

As the moments passed, he came to welcome the stop, for he felt his strength renewed. He didn’t like the idea that he still had to go such a long distance before reaching his home; but he also realised that there was nothing that he could possibly do to change that. The only other route he could take was south to the Gap of Rohan, and that one was even longer. He had heard that there used to be another path in the old days, and, as a matter of fact, he knew he had passed by it: the long-deserted Dwarven city of Khazad-dûm. That name, however, bore ill among the Elves and whoever spoke of it couldn’t help but also shudder at the implied terrors that lingered there. It was widely known that Orcs had come to live in this place now, even though the Dwarves had tried through time and time again to reclaim what was rightfully theirs; so it was only prudent that he should continue on the course he was taking now. It would take Aragorn more time, true, but the road was much safer; and if he could keep a good pace, he would get to Imladris in about a week or so. Arwen would probably be there by then too.

 

“Arwen…” he whispered slightly, her graceful form and unmatched beauty reflected in his mind. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t help thinking that he was glad that she left from Lothlorien several days earlier. He didn’t want to be the one to sadden her with the news concerning her brother, because he had come to care a lot for her, even from the first time he saw her just a month ago. Frankly, their meeting was a surprise to Aragorn, because, although he had heard a lot about her from his foster father, he had never imagined that he would actually meet her. And now that he had, something had changed within him. It was strange, but he yearned to see her again as soon as possible, and even the mere thought of her made his heart pound happily.

 

“Begging your pardon, fellow traveller. Is the water clear enough for one to drink?”

 

Aragorn turned, startled at the unknown voice he heard so close behind him, and his eyes were cast to a most curious sight: a tall and powerful form which was adorned in thick armour, a large double-headed axe in the gloved hands. Under other circumstances, this strange figure would have made the Ranger jump instantly to fight; but the friendly jade eyes that regarded him through a helmet made all thoughts of worry fade away.

 

“Well?” asked the same strong voice again, a small smile tugging discernibly on the stranger’s lips.

 

It was then that the young Man remembered himself: he hadn’t answered the question!

 

“It is! Pray, go ahead,” he said quickly, smiling in friendliness also. “The river is here for all weary travellers.”

 

“Thank you,” replied the armoured figure, inclining his head a little in a courteous manner; and with a swift movement he unfastened his gourd from the side of his leather belt and knelt down by the riverbank.

 

“Where are you heading?” he asked Aragorn politely as he was filling the gourd with the clear liquid. While he was occupied with this task, he used his free hand to take off his helmet, the heat of the sun finally proving too uncomfortable for him.

 

“Toward the High Pass; and from then on to Rivendell,” answered the Man, marvelling at the long, raven-black hair that was neatly fixed into one thick braid. But when the stranger removed his helmet, he also revealed his leaf-shaped ears.

 

‘An Elf?’ thought the Ranger in disbelief, his eyes falling again on the large axe that now lay beside its owner. That of course explained the stranger’s strikingly handsome and youthful features: after all, Elves were considered the fairest of all creatures living in Middle-Earth. However Aragorn had grown up among Elves, and this was the first time that he saw one carrying such a weapon. It was well-known that Elves preferred swords or bows and arrows, while the axe was most favoured among the Dwarves. Come to think of it, this Elf’s armour was wrought to resemble the ones that the Dwarven kindred wore. Considering the animosity between the Firstborn and Aule’s creations, it seemed a strange thing to the Man that an Elf would choose to be clad and armed thus.

 

“You can’t pass through there.”

 

“What?” asked Aragorn in surprise, since he was too lost in thought at that moment.

 

“The path leading to the High Pass has been blocked by rocks due to some avalanche or other,” said the Elf. “I was heading toward that direction myself when I was forced to come this way.”

 

“When was that?”

 

“Less than a week ago.”

 

“These are unfortunate tidings indeed,” said Aragorn, dismayed. “I am in a hurry and now this had to happen!”

 

“I’m sorry,” replied the black-haired creature, truly saddened by the Man’s predicament. “Perhaps the path has been cleared by now,” he added hopefully.

 

Aragorn looked at the Elf, smiling at such kind words. And yet, besides feeling comforted, he also felt intrigued. It could only have been the Ranger’s impression, but the stranger’s manner of speaking sounded more halting and more pronounced at the ‘r’ than the Elves in Rivendell, something that made this Firstborn in front of him a moving mystery.

 

He remembered himself again when he noticed the Elf still looking at him, waiting for an answer. 

 

“I do not think the path can be possibly cleared completely in such a short time; and I would not want to risk further delay by going on because of some uncertain hope.”

 

“That’s reasonable. Then my best advice to you would be to turn back and travel again at a more favourable time.”

 

“What about you?” asked Aragorn, “You wanted to go through the Pass too.”

 

“I’ll test my luck under the mountains,” murmured the Elf cryptically.

 

The Man’s eyes widened in disbelief when he heard this, because he understood perfectly well what the Firstborn meant.

 

“Through the Mines of Moria?” he exclaimed.

 

“Aye,” affirmed the stranger. “It’s the swiftest way to my destination.”

 

“And the most dangerous.”

 

“Not to one who knows its secrets. Have no fear; I’ll be all right. Good fortune to you, fellow traveller.” And with a slight nod of farewell the creature replaced the helmet on his head, shielding almost all his face but his sea-green eyes and his mouth; then he started walking away, the axe resting on his unusually (for an Elf) broad shoulder.

 

Aragorn had also bowed his head, regretting the fact that he had travelled so far only to turn back now. His eyes caught again the figure of the Elf as he was marching away and, at that moment, an idea formed in his mind.

 

“Wait!” he cried out, hurrying towards the armoured being. The Elf faced Aragorn, his surprise and curiosity quite visible in his eyes.

 

“How about I come with you?”

 

The Elf actually raised an eyebrow at this.

 

“Do you really wish that? You were correct when you said that Moria is a dangerous place. I would have avoided going there myself if I could help it.”

 

“You claim that you know its secrets, something that I believe, since you would not even have considered that option otherwise. And they do say that safety comes in numbers.”

 

“Two hardly makes numbers against the terrors of the mines,” remarked the Elf.

 

“I am a better fighter than you think,” replied the Ranger, grinning. He suspected that the stranger looked down on him, thinking that a Man couldn’t possibly have millennia of fighting practise an Elf did. Nevertheless, Aragorn was indeed considered a very skilled warrior despite his age. Elladan and Elrohir did a remarkable job at training him, teaching him even Elven techniques of fighting. So he wasn’t just merely bragging when he made such a claim.

 

Surprisingly enough, the black-haired creature didn’t snort in disbelief or jeer, as Aragorn had half-expected. The only thing that could be discerned in the Elven features was sincerity as he locked his jaded gaze on the stormy grey one. In the end, the fair creature smiled good-naturedly.

 

“Your eyes tell me that you speak the truth. Not to mention that I see a strong fire burning within them, as I haven’t seen in most people I came across; and, trust me when I say this, I have seen quite a lot during my life. But still,” he added with a slight smirk, “I should warn you that it’s not very wise to travel with someone who you don’t even know by name.”

 

“That can be arranged,” was the Man’s reply, smiling even more broadly. Remembering the Elven way of cordial greeting, he inclined his head, his hand touching his chest and then extending it toward his acquaintance.

 

“Im Telcontar, adan ned Forod. Man eneth lín?”

 

Again the Elf surprised Aragorn by bowing low and taking off his helmet, greeting in a very Dwarven-like manner.

 

“Ceranos Orcbane at your service; and although I understand and speak the fair language of the Elves, I’d rather we keep talking in the Common Tongue.”

 

“As you wish… Ceranos,” said the Ranger, letting the name sink in.

 

“I do, Strider,” replied the noble creature, translating Aragorn’s Elvish nickname in the Common Tongue. “Now let us be on our way. There are still some leagues ahead of us till the city of Khazad-dûm.”

 

And with that, they both headed westward. As they were walking, Aragorn couldn’t help thinking that, if Ceranos was able to surprise him so many times in such a short time after their meeting, he would surely prove a most interesting company.

 

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Certainly enough, Aragorn never regretted travelling with Ceranos; and the Elf seemed to enjoy Aragorn’s presence as well. During their march, they both discovered that the other was an excellent company for conversation, as they exchanged serious talk and humorous remarks with the greatest of ease. So it wasn’t long before they came to like each other.

 

Several hours passed and the first stars started appearing in the sky when Ceranos decided that they should set camp and rest near a small thicket of trees. While Aragorn searched for something edible, the Elf used one of the two hatchets that were also attached to his belt to cut several fallen branches for firewood. Soon enough, they had both settled by the warm flames of a blazing fire, enjoying the rabbit that the Ranger had cooked.

 

“We’re not far from the Dimrill Gate, by my reckoning,” remarked Ceranos, pleased. “We should be able to see it tomorrow morning.”

 

“That is good news,” replied the Man, eating another morsel off the tasty game. “It will be interesting to see this part of the world.”

 

“Note that we will have to walk through swiftly, not only because of the foul things that live now there, but because we’re both in a hurry to reach to our destinations,” reminded him the Elf. After a small pause Ceranos spoke again, facing the Ranger troubled.

 

“Strider, might I ask you something that I’ve been wondering?”

 

“Of course,” the Man assured him, smiling encouragingly.

 

“Are you in some kind of trouble that you wish to speak with Lord Elrond so urgently? Don’t be surprised, my fellow traveller! He’s well-known to give advice to those who seek it of him, no matter of race.”

 

Aragorn chuckled lightly.

 

“No, be at ease. I have only received news that my brother has been injured and I want to see him.”

 

“What was your brother doing in an Elven residence?” asked Ceranos again, his puzzlement only growing.

 

The Ranger actually hesitated to answer this question. There weren’t all that many people that knew of his history among the Elves, nor did he wish for a lot of people to know either. Not because he felt awkward about it, far from that. It simply felt as something too personal to be shared by just any person he would come across. And yet, the very appearance of Ceranos, and the suspicion that had already formed on his mind about the Elf’s background, made him realise that in this case he could make an exception.

 

“The brother I speak of is Elladan, son of Elrond of Imladris.”

 

The Elf let this sink in his mind, and then nodded his head in understanding.

 

“You’ve been adopted,” he noted.

 

“I have,” Aragorn admitted. “Both my parents died when I was young and Lord Elrond took me into his home, raising me as one of his own sons. I have been honoured to call him my father and his children my kin for almost 20 years now, even though I always knew I was different from them.”

 

Ceranos listened to those words coming out of the Ranger’s mouth, a ghost of a smile appearing on his own lips.

 

“I think I know what you mean,” he said in the end. “Our lives are very similar, Strider. I’ve lost a family once too, only to find it in another one. I think I don’t need to tell you among what kindred I’ve been raised.”

 

“Dwarves,” replied Aragorn. “However, it still seems to me a wonder how this came to be.”

 

Ceranos threw another branch into the fire to rejuvenate the flames and then he faced the Ranger again.

 

“I was too young to remember and my foster kin aren’t all that sure either – they could only figure what might have passed. It would seem that Wargs attacked my parents as they were travelling through the forest by the Blue Mountains, near the Dwarven city of Nogrod. Aye, your memory serves you right, there was another such fair city with the same name – the one I speak of however was only named thus in honour to the one that sank beneath the sea. Anyway, my father was found among the bodies of several foul beasts, obviously slain in his attempt to defend my mother and me; while her body was found quite a distance away, lying by a riverbank and still soaking wet – she must have plunged to the river to escape the Wargs. As for me, I was in her arms, alive and without any visible wounds, but in shock due to the severe cold of the water. Feeling pity for me, Thrir, the Dwarf that lead the scouting party and the patriarch of his clan, decided to take me within the city to help me, despite the fact that there were several protests to be heard from the rest of the party. After all, I was an Elf and probably a dying one as well: why should they meddle in such affairs that didn’t concern them in the first place? But, Dwarves are very stubborn and Thrir wasn’t an exception, I can tell you that. On the condition that as soon as I got better I would be handed to my kind, he took me to his home, where, to everyone’s surprise, I was soon healed thanks to his care. And yet, when the time came that I should be given away, Thrir realised that he had grown too attached to me to allow such a thing; and so he let me stay with his family against everyone’s advice. And I couldn’t wish for a better guardian than him, for he has raised me with all the love that a child could wish for.”

 

“It was he that he named you then?”

 

“Aye. He said it was an Elven name for red-top, because my hair was stained by my mother’s blood.”

 

“Red-top?” wondered Aragorn, puzzled, “This does not sound quite right…” The knowledge of the Elven tongue had become a second nature to the Man after all these years under Lord Elrond’s protection.

 

“Who said Thrir knew excellent Elvish?” replied Ceranos with a smirk.

 

The Ranger actually chuckled at this very good point.

 

“And you’ve been with Dwarves for how long?” he asked.

 

“All my life. Almost 800 years now.”

 

“Oh… that means…”

 

“Aye, Thrir is dead. The disadvantage of being an Elf among mortal kindred, I’m sorry to say. I’m living now with my foster brother and nephew.”

 

“But have you been accepted by the other Dwarves?” asked the Ranger in wonder. 

 

“I have. Most of them know now that I’ll do my best to offer my assistance wherever it is needed – even in fighting; for I will never let any harm come to them, me and my axe will make sure of that,” said Ceranos with such passion in his voice that it surprised the Man momentarily. However, he understood his companion’s feelings only too well, because that was what he felt about his own foster family as well. It was then that his eye caught the Elf’s axe. Its glimmering edges made him look at it in admiration.

 

“May I see your axe, Ceranos?”

 

The fair creature was certainly surprised by that kind of request; nevertheless he indulged Aragorn and handed it to him. The Ranger weighed it in his hands, feeling the weapon’s balance. It was excellently wrought, the blades in perfect symmetry and making a beautiful and gentle swishing as he swung it. The handle itself was clothed with straps of leather for better and steadier grip; and in the part close to the cutting edges he could also discern some strange runes, obviously some Dwarven writing. What they could possibly mean, he didn’t know, but he admired the graceful carving nonetheless.

 

“They say: made by my wielder to slay his foes and mine,” explained the black-haired creature.

 

“You made this?” exclaimed Aragorn, his eyes opening wide in amazement.

 

“Why the surprise?” laughed the Firstborn. “Living among Dwarves has made me like many things that the Elves consider unlovely; and the mining and forging of metal is one of them. This axe is my best work yet, if I may be so bold to brag!”

 

Aragorn looked at the weapon agape, his wonder so great that it was some time before he finally handed it back to Ceranos, receiving a brief “Thanks” from the Elf.

 

“Are you going to Nogrod now?” asked the Man again, wishing to learn now everything about this strange creature.

 

“Aye,” affirmed the Elf, “I’ve been wandering for almost six months now in Middle-Earth. I don’t usually wander away from home for so long, but someone had to look for these.” His hand reached for his pack, and he dug out from there several colourful stones.

 

“What are they?” asked Aragorn, watching the gems lightening as their surface was reflected by the flames of the fire.

 

“Stones that we use to ornament our weapons during rituals. Unfortunately, these can’t be found in the mines of the Blue Mountains, so I had to venture to look for them in other rocky areas. There are enough in the pack for the weapons of the chief clan in Nogrod so as to perform the ritual proceeding the festivities in honour of Mahal.”

 

“Mahal? You man Aule?”

 

“None other,” grinned Ceranos. “That’s why I’m in a rush. I wish to arrive to Nogrod on time and avoid my dear brother Nain’s nagging!”

 

“I, on the other hand, will hear my dear brother Elladan nag when he sees me! He hates people getting concerned about him!” said Aragorn, causing both of them to laugh. As soon as their mirth quieted down, Ceranos rose and stretched himself.

 

“I think it’s high time for some rest. We’ll have to wake up early tomorrow.”

 

“Yes, I know,” said the Ranger, stifling a yawn as he also arose and unrolled his blanket. Lying down, he let out a sigh of content, for he hadn’t realised just how tired he was till now. It was then that the sound of two flints being struck made him turn to look at his companion.

 

Ceranos quickly darted his eyes to Aragorn, trying to figure out what it was that the Man had found so funny that he just had to start laughing so hard. After quickly checking himself, it finally dawned on him. Rolling his eyes, he faced the Ranger with a half-teasing, half-serious look.

 

“Let me think… This is the first time you see an Elf smoke?” he asked, the lit pipe still in his mouth.  

 

“I am sorry,” Aragorn managed to say amid his laughing fits, “This was really… unexpected.”

 

“Then get used to it, Strider,” said Ceranos, feigning indignation, “for I can’t sleep if I don’t have at least one puff of Longbottom leaf. I tend to be grumpy in the morning otherwise.” This of course, only caused more laughter from the Man’s side, the fact that these words were spoken by an Elf proving too much for him. Ceranos rolled his eyes once more and turned his back on the Ranger in mock annoyance, letting him still pour out his apologies, while the stars above twinkled as though laughing as well. Even when Aragorn had finally rolled to his side in an attempt to get some sleep, the sight proved too ticklish and he still giggled once and a while.

 

“Oh, just be quiet and go to sleep!” he heard Ceranos say, a very discernible tinge of mock irritation in his voice.

 

“Sorry,” giggled the Ranger.

 

With that they both fell silent, and it wasn’t long before sleep claimed them, their mirthful smiles still tugging on their lips.

 

Chapter 2: The Mines of Moria

 

 

The next day, the two travellers awoke as cheerful as they could be, even though they knew that they would have to reach into a most ominous place. They swiftly packed their belongings and continued on their route to the West, telling with many a jest tales of their childhood amid their foster kin. So engrossed they were to their conversation, that they never realised how swiftly time passed and found themselves on a rocky terrain at the root of a great mountain.

 

“Well, we’ve arrived,” remarked Ceranos, “This is where the realm of Khazad-dûm started.”

 

Aragorn glanced at the great rocks, only to raise an eyebrow of disbelief. Something was missing from the picture and, no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t find it anywhere.

 

“There is a gate here?” he asked wonderingly. He knew there should be an entrance here, because he had seen it in maps and even heard people mentioning it before. And yet there was nothing to be seen that even resembled a door.

 

“Dwarven gates aren’t made to be seen from the outside. Very practical in time of war, but in our case it’s just a dratted nuisance. Hold up your sword and start tapping,” Ceranos said, while drawing out one of his hatchets. “If you hear a sound slightly different, let me know.” And with that, he tapped with the back end of his weapon on the rocks.

 

Seeing there was nothing else for him to do, Aragorn started doing the same, having his ears alert for the slightest sound that his own sword would make on the rocky wall. He had started growing tired, when Ceranos called him to his side.

 

“Do you hear that?” asked the Elf when the Ranger approached him; and he tapped again the piece of rock in front of him. Indeed, a somewhat echoing sound reached the Man’s ears, so Aragorn nodded with a smile, meaning that he truly heard what they were looking for.

 

Answering with a broad grin of his own, Ceranos dug out from his pack a pickaxe and, with the skill of an experienced miner that he was, he strategically scraped some chips of rock from several places. Soon enough, the rest of the rock pieces collapsed off their place, and the outline of a doorframe was visible before them. In less than five minutes the rest of the door was revealed; and Aragorn looked with awe at the meticulously carved wood. Although some of the images had faded, he could still clearly see an incredible story unfolding before him: the creation of the Dwarves by Aule’s hand; the Vala getting reprimanded by an obscure shape, which could only be Eru, the One; and ending with the sleep of the Seven fathers of the Dwarven kindred and their re-awakening.

 

“Behold the Dimrill Gate!” announced Ceranos with a tinge of pride.

 

The Man turned to look at the fair creature, and he noticed how his face had lit up. The strange Elf was obviously happy to have this chance to see the historical city that had belonged to his foster kin so very long ago. The Ranger watched his companion still looking at the door enthralled and his hands reaching for the handles. However, the Elf froze in his tracks just before his fingers touched them, something clearly making him thoughtful.

 

“The doors have to be pushed open in order to enter,” he said, facing Aragorn. “But before we do any such thing, I feel that I have to ask you one more time: do you still wish to enter Moria, despite of whatever dangers are ahead?”

 

Aragorn’s grey depths shone with determination.

 

“You said that you know the way, is it not so?”

 

“Aye. The architecture of the Dwarven cities, whether new or old, is a knowledge handed down to all Dwarves… and to whatever creatures happen to live under their roofs also.”

 

“That is why I know that, if I keep up with you, you will be able to us guide us out both safely. I trust you, my fellow traveller.”

 

Ceranos smiled broadly, satisfied with that answer.

 

“Then let’s not waste any more time. Are you ready?”

 

The Ranger nodded and placed his hands on one of the large handles. As soon as Ceranos placed his own on the other one, they both gave a mighty heave and pushed.

 

It took several attempts, but the doors finally opened slowly, the creaking sound that emanated making the two companions cringe. They stepped inside, gaping at the gigantic structures that towered over them and around them.

 

“It’s far more beautiful than I ever imagined,” exclaimed Ceranos, his voice no more than a murmur.

 

However, Aragorn’s mind quickly drifted to more urgent matters.

 

“Do you think the Orcs heard the doors opening?”

 

“No, I wouldn’t count on it,” replied the Elf. “From what I can see around here, these halls have been well-looted, so they should be of little interest to them. My guess would be that they prefer the lower levels, despite the shadow of fear that covers them. The fear that initially drove the Dwarves away…” he added with a tinge of regret.

 

“Fear of what?”

 

Aragorn’s comrade sighed, pained by what he had to admit.

 

“Durin’s bane. A dark creature unleashed long ago by Dwarves seeking mithril. I’m afraid that they dug too greedily and too deep, and so awoke it from its millennia of lethargy. That proved the downfall of both Aule’s creations and the great city of Dwarrowdelf. Oh, don’t worry,” chuckled Ceranos at the Ranger’s worried look. “We’ll steer clear from the halls where it dwells.”

 

“That’s comforting,” said the Man, breathing out a sigh of relief. “But how are we to do that?”

 

“Well, the halls are constructed so that the main route leads down, going straight and then upwards again as we approach the other side. But,” the Elf said with a grin, looking at his companion, “there are more paths than meets the eye.”

 

“What do you mean?” asked Aragorn. As far as he could see, there was only one flight of stairs before him, which led only to one bridge and one doorway ahead.

 

“When we pass the bridge, I’ll tell you.”

 

It was at that moment that Ceranos searched his pack again and took out two strange large objects. “Take this.”

 

“What is it?” asked the Ranger, eying curiously the rod that the black-haired creature handed to him. He felt the one end; and wondered at the grinding surface his fingers encountered.

 

“A torch, of course!” laughed Ceranos. However, Aragorn’s confused look sobered him. “You haven’t seen a lightning rod before?”

 

“No,” admitted the Man sheepishly. “I have seen torches, but nothing like this. How is it supposed to be lit anyway?” he asked, slightly raising an eyebrow.

 

“It’s simple,” the Elf assured him; “You just strike the rough end on the ground, and friction does the rest.”

 

“Friction?” asked Aragorn again, not really understanding.

 

“I’ll show you when the time comes,” promised Ceranos.

 

And with no other word, they started their long march into the dark places of Moria. Soon both the Elf and the Ranger were down the stairs and across the bridge, entering the main section of the once great Dwarven city.

 

Even though they were several feet below earth, the sunlight still managed to pass through cracks and crevices, thus illuminating the halls that the two travellers passed by and revealing the huge columns that held everything in place. Aragorn couldn’t help but notice the numerous corridors that spread out through every hall and he felt glad that Ceranos was with him to guide him surely and swiftly. Had he been alone in such a place he would certainly lose his way, despite his skills as a Ranger.

 

Meanwhile, Ceranos was always looking up at the reliefs on the walls, not only to find the signs he wished for so as to find his way, but also to admire the extraordinary Dwarven craftsmanship displayed there. While he was growing up, he always listened to his foster kin praising the skill of the Dwarven clans in Khazad-dûm, and now he saw that what they had told him throughout the years was clearly an understatement. It was no wonder that Thrir and Nain spoke with such fondness about this place. He felt his heart filled with disgust and loathing when he thought of the hordes of Orcs prowling through such fair dwellings, defiling them with their presence alone.

 

Aragorn watched his companion clenching his fist, understanding what was in his mind.

 

“Perhaps Dwarves will be able to reclaim the city again,” he said kindly.

 

“Perhaps,” replied the Elf, smiling at his comrade. Just then, the fair creature stopped in his tracks and started feeling the wall to his right. Aragorn saw how the Elf grinned broadly and pressed his hands against the relief depicted there. An odd clicking sound was heard and, to his amazement, the Ranger watched a part of the wall moving aside like a door to reveal a narrow stony path. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see anything else further than that.

 

“Here, we’ll need the lightning rods now. Just follow my lead,” said Ceranos; and with one swift movement, he struck the one end of the rod he had been holding on the ground. Aragorn did exactly the same. He had barely touched the rod on the stones, when sparks broke out and a strong bright flame started burning on its end. The Man got so startled that he would have dropped the rod if it weren’t for Ceranos grabbing his hand calmingly.

 

“I have one more rod, but let’s not waste this one yet, shall we?” he teased good-naturedly. “Let’s go, our ride is that way.”

 

The Man remained still for a while, clearly in turmoil about what he should be surprised at first: the way the lightning rod worked or the “ride” that Ceranos just mentioned. In the end, he decided that his companion was just too full of surprises to get startled by all of them. With that settled, he quickly rushed to the Elf who had already walked ahead, the lightning rod always held up and burning brightly.

 

They hadn’t walked far, when they suddenly reached a dead end. Indeed, there was nothing but stone walls around them.

 

“Looks like we took a wrong turn,” remarked the Ranger.

 

“No, we didn’t,” was the smiling answer, “We’ll simply go down now.”

 

Aragorn looked at his fellow traveller, trying to figure if he was insane. After all, there was nothing here, not even doors. Ceranos understood what that look meant and he answered it with a sly chuckle.

 

“Just hold still, I’ll activate our ride,” he said in an enigmatic tone, putting his hand through a hole on the wall. As soon as another clicking sound was heard, he pulled his hand out again.

 

Nothing had prepared Aragorn for what was to come next. In an instant, he felt the ground sinking underneath him and he thought at first that an earthquake was happening. It took him some minutes to realise that the only thing moving was the stone slab on which both he and his companion were standing, and it was going downwards.

 

“What in the world…?” exclaimed the Man, dumbfounded. The Elf only drew him close to where he was standing, next to the walls.

 

“Have no fear. This will take us directly to the lower levels.”

 

“Are you sure this is safe?” asked Aragorn, not really feeling comforted.

 

“Of course! Dwarves have been using these for centuries. They come in very handy, considering the way the cities are built. It will save us some walking and time.” Ceranos didn’t admit it, but he enjoyed startling his companion and talking about the Dwarves’ ingenuity. The pride and love that all Aule’s creations shared for their work had been passed down to him also.

 

Finally, the stony slab reached its destination and the Ranger quickly alighted, glad to feel stable ground underneath his feet once more. The Elf moved away also and found another lever to activate the elevator again.

 

“There’s no need to leave that to the sight of the Orcs,” he said, justifying his action.

 

“So we are now at their lairs?” asked the Man.

 

“I’m afraid so,” admitted Ceranos. “This will be the dodgiest part, since this section of the city will be swarming with them.”

 

“How long will it take us to get through?”

 

“From this point? It depends. In the best case, it might be almost three days. By the best case I mean provided we don’t get lost – something that will certainly not happen – or, more likely, run into trouble.”

 

“Then we had better be careful,” said Aragorn, his eyes darting to every direction and squinting them in an attempt to see beyond the dark places that his lightning rod couldn’t illuminate.

 

“Aye, indeed,” agreed the Elf, “and we must make ourselves as inconspicuous as possible, so I suggest we don’t talk unless we absolutely have to. The rods can be easily thought to be held by Orcs, but our voices will betray us.

 

Keeping that in mind, they both started walking again. Neither knew for how many hours they walked. They couldn’t even understand if it was day or night, because no light illuminated now the halls they passed through but their torches. After what seemed to them a very long march, Ceranos realised that he didn’t hear the Man’s footsteps anymore and turned to see what was wrong. Aragorn was leaning against the wall, clearly fatigued. The fair creature was quickly at the Ranger’s side.

 

“You should have given me a sign sooner,” he murmured in his companion’s ear with concern. “I have more stamina than you and that’s why I didn’t suggest a stop.”

 

“I was raised among Elves, you would be surprised at what stamina I have acquired,” replied Aragorn softly in a defensive manner.

 

“You grew up among Elves, you didn’t become one,” said Ceranos, his jade eyes locking to the man’s stormy grey ones, a small smile appearing on his lips. “This is as good a place to rest as any nearby.”

 

The Ranger nodded his acknowledgment wearily and sat on the floor, resting his back against a rock. Ceranos sat cross-legged across from him and dug out some cram from his pack to offer to his companion. However, Aragorn stopped him.

 

“We will share my food,” insisted the Man. “It will be my way of saying thank you for your guidance.”

 

At first the Elf wouldn’t have it; but he soon discovered that Aragorn’s obstinacy could easily be compared to a Dwarf’s. So, he courteously accepted some lembas that was handed to him.

 

“A few bites are enough,” Aragorn warned him, “So do not eat too much.”

 

Ceranos examined the leaf-covered way-bread, raising an eyebrow of curiosity and then, after breaking off a piece, he nibbled it carefully. The Elf certainly liked what he tasted, because in a few moments he had eaten his entire share, something that made Aragorn smile broadly. Ceranos smiled back; but in an instant he stood rigid, clearly trying to hear something.

 

“What?” asked the Man softly.

 

“I thought I heard something,” replied the black-haired creature, only to prick up his ears again. “And now I hear heavy footsteps coming to our direction!”

 

Aragorn realised of course that, although Ceranos had grown up among Dwarves, his senses were still as sharp as an Elf’s should. He quickly went for his weapons and drew out his bow and arrow, while his companion had already grabbed his axe and was in fighting position.

 

It was then that the cave troll appeared, letting out a hideous growl in threat towards the two travellers.

 

“Aim for the underparts!” cried Ceranos to Aragorn, rushing to encounter their attacker. With a few strides, he was near the monster, avoiding gracefully the club it was wielding and at the same time on the lookout for any opening in the troll’s defence to strike at. As for the Ranger, he started showering their attacker with arrows, following his companion’s advice and aiming for the chest and belly.

 

The Troll certainly never expected that sort of attack by such small creatures; nevertheless he still swung his club in an attempt to hit at least the one that was closest to him. But, he never found his target, the Elf proving too swift for him, whereas the wounds that both the Man and his fellow warrior inflicted on it were getting only more and deeper. Soon, the monster fell down dead, making a great thudding sound as it crashed on the ground.

 

Aragorn quickly rushed to Ceranos’s side.

 

“Are you all right?”

 

“Yes, don’t worry. Luckily for us, it breathed loudly enough for me to hear it,” answered the Elf, trying to catch his breath after such a fight. However, he didn’t stop to rest, but went over to the Troll to examine it carefully. As for the Ranger, he only collapsed nearby, exhausted. He could have easily done without that unexpected visitor.

 

“Well, at least it was not so difficult,” he said tiredly, more to himself than to Ceranos.

 

“Actually,” replied the Elf, his eyes still on their dead foe, “that was too easy.”

 

“Too easy?!” exclaimed the Man in utter disbelief.

 

“And here’s why,” answered the Elven warrior, opening the creature’s mouth wider for Aragorn to see. “The teeth are too small and soft. This wasn’t a full-grown troll yet.” This only made Ceranos’s eyes open wide with realisation and reach for his axe again.

 

“Get ready, quick!” he cried to his companion.

 

“What?” Aragorn couldn’t see what made Ceranos so nervous all of a sudden.

 

“Think about it, Strider!” retorted the Elf, exasperated. “When a young one is around…”

 

Another, greater growl interrupted him and made both of them turn to the door behind them.

 

“The mother is close,” completed the Man slowly, finally understanding.

 

At that instant, out of the darkness of the hall, came a great Troll, the smell of the blood attracting it to where the Elf and the Ranger were. When the monster’s eyes fell on the body of the fallen creature, it let out a great bellow of wrath that echoed through the room and then charged at the travellers, grabbing the same club her offspring had wielded.

 

Ceranos and Aragorn quickly ducked out of harm’s way. In moments, the Elf was gracefully back to his feet and setting himself in a defensive position, while the Man was scrambling to his pack to get the sword that lay there, all his arrows already spent at the previous fight. However the club landing only a few inches ahead of him cut him off. Looking up, he saw the monster raising its weapon again, aiming it at him. Aragorn covered himself protectively with his hands, waiting for the blow to fall.

 

The Troll’s roar made him look up again, startled. To his wonder and relief, the great monstrosity was writhing in pain, its hands trying to reach something at its back. As it turned, still roaring, Aragorn saw the source of its pain: a hatchet buried deep on its shoulder blade.

 

“Nakhu, tarâg!” Ceranos cried challengingly to the great creature, in one hand his axe and in the other the second hatchet. “Let’s see how you fare against an armed warrior!”

 

The great brute regarded the Elf through eyes filled with hate and wrath for a few moments, then rushed with large strides at full speed for the kill. Ceranos threw his hatchet straight on the monster’s chest, but that did little to slow the frenzied pace of the attack. Aragorn watched with horror Ceranos standing perfectly still, waiting for the assault. The Ranger understood that his companion was drawing the Troll away from him, giving him time to pick up his sword; but actually intending to fight back against a creature of this size alone was sheer folly! Without losing any more time, he stretched his hand for his scabbard to get to his weapon.

 

Meanwhile, Ceranos stood frozen, waiting for the creature to reach him. It was only when the monster towered above him, its weapon falling to crush the insolent warrior, that the Elf jumped aside. Landing lightly, in a heartbeat he turned around, both his hands driving his axe squarely behind the creature’s knee, causing a severe injury. The Troll cried out in agony at that and instinctively swung the club around to swat its attacker away. Ceranos saw it coming and jumped backwards to avoid the hit; but he was a moment too late: the club hit him full force on his chest. The impact was immediately followed afterwards by a sickening cracking of bones; and the Elf was sent flying several feet away before he landed in a heap on the floor. Limping due to its wound, the Troll slowly approached the dazed Elf and lifted the club to finish off its prey.

 

It was then that Aragorn threw his sword with whatever strength was left in him, aiming for the monstrosity’s exposed throat. His hands didn’t fail him, for the sword flew swiftly and surely to its target, cutting the Troll’s life vein. The creature swayed for a few moments, letting the club slip through its fingers, and then fell down, already dead before it hit the ground.

 

The Ranger looked on, breathing heavily, half-expecting the Troll to rise and attack again. But nothing of the sort happened, something that assured him that the danger had finally passed. His eyes caught sight of the broken form of Ceranos, still lying where it had fallen. Fearing the worst, he walked at the Elf’s side, his muscles trembling after exerting himself so much, and then knelt beside him. To his relief, the Firstborn was alive and even conscious; but it was heart-wrenching to watch him breath in a shallow manner, trying to block the pain he was feeling, tears threatening to fall and only stopped by the Elf’s pride alone.

 

“Are you hurt?” Ceranos asked the Man with an effort.

 

“No, I am not – thanks to you,” answered Aragorn, touched by his comrade’s concern, only to add with a sad sigh: “I wish I could say the same for you too, my friend.”

 

“I heard something breaking; and it hurts to breath,” moaned the injured Elf.

 

“I do not doubt it,” replied the Ranger, a wry smile forming on his lips. “Ceranos, I need to see how much damage you have taken at that hit. I cannot promise that I will not hurt you more, but I have to examine you. Do you understand?”

 

Ceranos nodded his understanding. Slowly and with Aragorn’s help, he unclasped his armour and lifted his shirt to reveal his chest. The Man felt the ribs with light fingers as carefully as possible, sensing the Elf tensing and a small whimper flowing out of his lips every once and a while.

 

“It is as I feared,” concluded Aragorn. “You have broken three ribs. I do not think any of them pierced your lungs though.”

 

“That’s something. I only wish it didn’t feel like I’ve broken more than three,” commented Ceranos rigidly.

 

“Just hold still, I will find something to bind them in place,” promised the Human. Truly enough, he returned back to the Firstborn, holding long pieces of cloth that he wrapped around the Elven chest with experienced skill, and then put the shirt and the armour back in place over the bandages.

 

“Thank you,” whispered the Elf. “It feels a lot better now.”

 

“Do not thank me, thank my father for teaching me how to do this,” smiled Aragorn.

 

“If I ever see Lord Elrond, I’ll make sure of that,” was his companion’s answer, a small smile finally lighting his face. He pushed himself a bit up, gritting his teeth in an attempt to ignore the pain.

 

“What are you doing? You should stay down!” exclaimed the Ranger, pushing him down again. But Ceranos would hear none of it.

 

“That commotion was enough to bring out the dead, let alone the Orcs. We have to continue on, at least enough till we put some distance between this place and us. Give me my axe, it will help me walk.”

 

Seeing that his companion was right, the Man complied at once. He picked up his own pack and Ceranos’s belongings as well, then helped the injured creature back on his feet. Even though he handed the double-headed axe to the Elf, he wouldn’t give him any of his other things, including his hatchets.

 

“You cannot burden yourself in your shape,” he argued.

 

“And you can?” objected Ceranos. “You hardly had any time for rest, Strider!”

 

“At least my ribs are intact, and I do not run the risk of making myself worse by carrying a pack just because I would not listen to advice,” remarked the man half- teasing, half-serious.

 

Ceranos rolled his eyes and raised his hand in a gesture of peace, admitting his defeat. So they started their march once more, the Elf in the lead, guiding them both to another section of halls that he knew was nearby, and Aragorn behind, carrying the packs and the weapons. They had to make several short stops on their way to rest, since they both realised that they had overestimated their strength; but in the end they reached a secluded room where they could spend a few quiet hours of sleep. At Ceranos’s suggestion, Aragorn closed the doors of the entrance and used one of the hatchets to keep them shut, so as not to worry about patrolling Orcs. Using their packs as headrests, they lay down their weary and aching bodies with many a tired sigh. However, one of them didn’t feel like sleeping before he had straightened something out in his mind.  

 

“Strider?”

 

“Hmm?” replied Aragorn, already half-asleep.

 

“Why did you call me your friend?”

 

The Man opened an eyelid, the question waking him up slightly.

 

“Why should I not?” he asked, not really understanding.

 

“You’ve only known me for two days.”

 

“So?”

 

Ceranos fidgeted, clearly nervous. The Man eyed him curiously, now fully awake. Was that timid, shy Elf the same one that fought so fearlessly against the Troll?

 

“With the exception of Thrir’s family, nobody else I’ve met would be that open to accept me so quickly,” explained the fair creature in a murmur, finally plucking up the courage that seemed to fail him. “I mean, my father could prove overprotective at times because of what I am. Or rather, what I’m not. Let’s face it, Strider, I may not be a Dwarf, but I’m definitely not an Elf either. This was why he was always afraid that no other creature besides the Nogrod Dwarves would accept me with an open mind, a fear that I shared with him; and so I haven’t made a lot of friendships on my rare outings outside the city. And I don’t think anybody would want to either,” he added in the end, averting his eyes from the Man’s gaze.

 

Aragorn looked at his companion for a while, and then took the Elven hand in his own, making the Elf face him.

 

“Ceranos, you think I do not know how difficult it must have been for you to grow up among people that were so different from you is so many ways that, in the end, you felt that there was something wrong with you? I grew up among Elves and I came to share their ideas, their way of thinking and language. But, like you said only a few hours ago, I grew up among Elves, I didn’t become one. And I certainly cannot be considered part of the Men’s race either. It is true that we are both something different, but it doesn’t have to be bad either. In the end, it’s the heart itself that counts. I have known you for only two days; but, believe it or not, even in so small a time, I managed to learn enough about you to understand that you’re a brave and honourable warrior and your skill in fighting and forging can be only compared to your kind soul. You got concerned about my safety more than once; you were ready to share your food with me; and you even stood up against the Troll to assist me. This matters to me the most and this is why I consider you a friend. As for the fact that you have been adopted, I can only say that Thrir would be very proud to have raised a son like you.”

 

Ceranos let these words sink in, clearly touched by such kind words.

 

“Thank you,” he finally said, his eyes locking on Aragorn’s once more. “You have truly grown wise among the Elves and this wisdom can only be compared to your skill as a warrior and a healer, a thing so rare nowadays. I’m glad to have met you… and I’m honoured to be your friend.”

 

“As I am honoured to be yours,” answered the Man with a smile; but his tone changed to concern once more. “Try to sleep. Your Elven power of healing will help you recover, but you need to regain some of your strength as well.”

 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to, but I’ll try,” remarked Ceranos, wincing as he tried to move to a more comfortable position. “I hate it that it hurts so bad. I can’t even smoke,” he added in a grumbling tone as he closed his eyes and drew his blanket over him.

 

Aragorn actually restrained a giggle at this, and finally settled down to sleep too. He closed his eyes, but he snapped them open again, realising something wrong with the sight of the resting Ceranos.

 

His companion, an Elf, had his eyes closed.

 

He watched his friend apprehensively, trying to figure out what to make of that. It couldn’t be his injuries causing worse damage to the Elven body, he had made sure of that; not to mention that Ceranos’s behaviour never showed him a sign that he wasn’t healing. He was about to speak to him and determine the cause of this oddity when, at that moment, the Elven eyelids half-opened to reveal unfocused jade eyes underneath them.

 

Finally it dawned on the Man. He remembered how in his childhood years he would always try to imitate his foster kin’s way of sleeping, keeping his eyes open; a very unsuccessful attempt, since his eyes closed again as soon as he dozed off. It seemed that Ceranos was doing a similar thing too, getting used to sleeping among Dwarves; even though it was apparent that his Elven heritage proved stronger and his eyes opened when sleep claimed the fair creature.

 

Smiling kindly, he turned on his side and closed his eyes too. ‘Ai, Ceranos, you never cease to surprise me,’ thought the Ranger, before he was lost in the land of dreams as well.

 

™™™™ ����

 

 

 

The pain that was caused as he tried to shift in his sleep awoke Ceranos completely. He let out a small sigh. ‘This rest turned out to be a very weary one indeed,’ he thought wryly. Even though he was aware that, as an Elf, his wounds would heal quickly, he couldn’t help thinking that this was taking too long for his comfort. He hated being so vulnerable and weakened.

 

The rods still burned from where they had been placed, lighting the room; so his eyes drifted around the place, checking the carved walls and ceiling, seeing that there was nothing else for him to do. He saw Aragorn fast asleep and he smiled a bit at that sight. He really meant it when he said he was honoured to be the Man’s friend; for he saw in him a person that understood him better than anybody else he had encountered outside Nogrod. He had always thought Men weren’t to be trusted, considering them just power-hungry creatures, ruthless enough to do anything to gain the power they so desire. And yet, this one was different, and that was perhaps why he had grown so fond of him in so short a time: he was modest, kind, sympathetic and honourable. Probably because of the fact that he was raised by Elves, but all these traits were true nonetheless. He regretted that he had to drag him into such a dark, dangerous place, as well as the guilt he felt that Strider had to take care of him, when it should be the other way around – he was the guide after all and the one responsible for both their safety.

 

It was then that he saw the Man shiver and curl even closer to himself, clearly feeling cold. Ceranos looked at the figure, trying to understand what was wrong with the image before him, until it dawned on him: Strider didn’t have a blanket over him.

 

That had the Elf thinking hard. He knew that his companion had a blanket, he remembered noticing it on more than one occasion. But it was nowhere to be seen now. Perhaps he lost it in all the commotion with the cave trolls? That seemed very unlikely.

 

‘Ach, these bandages are too tight,’ he thought dismayed, his hand trying to reach at his chest to loose them just a bit. It was then that he understood what happened to Strider’s blanket – and where the Man had gotten such long pieces of cloth.

 

‘Aw, Strider, why didn’t you tell me?’ Ceranos exclaimed in his mind sadly, his eyes falling to his own blanket. Guilt began to eat away at him even more strongly now. ‘You know I’d have given you mine had you asked. You know I’m not affected by the cold like Dwarves or Men!’

 

In an instant he had uncovered himself and tried to rise with the intention of placing the blanket over his companion. Such was his pain at this that he had to bite his hand so as not to scream. He had to admit sorrowfully that he couldn’t help his fellow traveller this time.

 

‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ he thought in regret. “But Mahal be my witness, I’ll repay your kindness when I get the chance.’

 

Shoving the blanket away, not wishing to keep it while his friend had to suffer the cold of the halls, he closed his eyes and remained still, humming softly a tune, until sleep finally claimed him again, his last thought being his silent promise to Strider.

 

Chapter 3: Trouble Again

 

Aragorn was the first of the two to awake. He stretched, feeling refreshed and restored once more; and then, rubbing the slumber off his eyes, arose to a sitting position. Looking next to him, he noticed that Ceranos was sound asleep, the sea-green orbs still carrying a somewhat pained expression. He could understand that his companion was aching: after all, three broken ribs wasn’t a small matter, even to an Elf. And yet, the Man also discerned sadness and regret in his friend’s eyes, something that he couldn’t understand. He wished he knew what was in Ceranos’s mind that would have caused such feelings… as much as he wanted to know how he managed to kick away his blanket from himself in his condition. Making sure that his companion wouldn’t sense him, he replaced with much care the blanket back over the Elven form; then waited for Ceranos to wake up also, while eating some lembas.  

 

He didn’t have to wait for long. Soon his fellow traveller’s eyes blinked back into focus and the powerful body stirred carefully so as not to cause more pain than necessary. Aragorn quickly went to the Elf’s side and helped him sit up.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asked with concern.

 

“I’m healing,” groaned Ceranos, trying to sit comfortably. “Not quickly enough to my liking, but I’m healing nonetheless. The pain has become bearable.” He didn’t let Aragorn see it, but he had noticed the blanket covering him again once more. Understanding that arguing about that wouldn’t lead to anything, he decided it was best to say nothing for the present.

 

“That is good news,” said the Man with relief, unaware of his companion’s thoughts; then broke off a piece of lembas, “Here, you need to eat.”

 

“You don’t have to mother me, Strider,” noted the Elf with a roll of his eyes.

 

“I am not mothering you,” said Aragorn with a teasing smile, “I am only doing what a healer is supposed to: making sure his patient gets his strength back.”

 

“And I have to do what a guide is supposed to do: make sure he gets both himself and his companion to safety,” replied the Elf stubbornly; and with that, he pushed himself to his feet, biting his lower lip in an attempt to ignore the pain that coursed through him. However, Aragorn grabbed his arm and made him sit down again.

 

“You will not guide like that, you are still in a pretty bad shape. Give your body a chance to heal some time more; it will not make a difference if we set off an hour later. Now, please, fill your stomach with something. You need the nourishment if we are to go on.”

 

Sighing, Ceranos admitted to himself that the Man was right and accepted the way-bread. To his wonder, the Elf noticed that with every bite he took he felt new strength within him until his body was humming with life again. It was still painful for him to move too much or too abruptly, but now he felt that he could go on for hours on end without the slightest feeling of tiredness. He rose again with a new vigour within him, his mood certainly much better than when he had woken up, something that pleased Aragorn and made him smile. Ceranos returned the smile, if only a bit tense due to his pain, and turned to his pack and lightning rod, picking them both up.

 

“Shall we start?” he asked.

 

“Lead the way,” answered Aragorn, walking up to the door to remove Ceranos’s hatchet from the door handles and then hand it back to its owner.

 

Nodding slightly his thanks, Ceranos passed the door, holding up his light and using his axe as an aid to his walking. Aragorn followed closely behind and soon they had taken up the main course through the mines of Moria once more. However, their pace had significantly slowed down, since Ceranos had to stop every once and a while to catch his breath and rest his abused body; but it didn’t seem like the Elf was willing to compromise himself to cover less distance than he intended either. He would rise again and open his step, despite the Ranger’s objections of worry.

 

“You said that it would take us about three days to pass the city of Khazad-dûm,” he insisted when his companion arose again after such a stop, “From what I gather, we spent only a day and a half in here. Do not exert yourself trying to get us out sooner.”

 

“There is no need to fall back from our plan either,” replied the Elf, trying to drown his panting. “I have to get us out of this section at least, while we are unnoticed. We’re still in Orc territory, Strider. If any of their patrols find the dead Trolls, they’ll know somebody else besides them is here and they’ll try to find him.”

 

Aragorn looked around in worry, finally understanding what it was that pressed Ceranos to move on. And yet, he heard his companion’s laboured breathing and saw his muscles tensing from the strain they were going under. That was something that made the healer’s side of him protest. The Elf was running the risk of causing more damage to himself and that was a fact.

 

“Is it far from the upper levels?” he asked.

 

“Ten hours march.”

 

“That is too far to take in one effort alone. We will rest here till you get enough rest.”

 

“Strider, listen to me…”

 

“No, my friend, you listen to me. I realise that you feel responsible for us both; but now, like it or not, I am responsible for your health. I did not want to do this, but you are not giving me any other choice.” And with that, he sat cross-legged, knitting his arms in front of him.

 

“What are you doing?” asked Ceranos incredulously, his eyes opening wide in surprise.

 

“I am not moving another inch. You cannot leave without me, so you will have to stay too – and get your rest.”

 

The jade eyes locked onto Aragorn, the Man’s form seeming to pout like a spoiled child and his depths proving the earnestness of his words. This seemed so ridiculous to Ceranos that he actually started laughing hard and, even though he quickly doubled over to hold himself protectively, his chest not able to handle such a thing, the laughter didn’t cease for a second. Aragorn had in a moment sprang up to his friend’s side.

 

“Are you alright?” asked the Ranger in worry.

 

“Made you move,” declared the Firstborn amid his laughter. “Ach! That hurts!” he exclaimed, holding himself even more closely.

 

“Then stop!”

 

“Do you actually think I can?!”

 

The Man stared at his comrade, clearly at a loss as to what to do next. In the end, he just held him close, hoping that he was easing him, unable to restrain a smile himself.

 

It wasn’t long before Ceranos’s mirth subsided. Brushing with the back of his gloved hand his teary eyes and breathing heavily – despite his aching ribs –, he regained his composure; then arose carefully leaning on his axe for support.

 

“How are you?” asked Aragorn, eying his companion.

 

“Aching more than ever… but rested just like you intended,” answered Ceranos with a grin, “We ought to get going through. We’ve stayed long enough.”

 

The Man agreed with a nod. They were just about to start walking again, when they heard voices.

 

“Oh, no,” hissed Aragorn under his breath. He had a pretty good idea what was approaching in their direction.

 

“We have to hide!” exclaimed Ceranos with urgency. He quickly checked his surroundings and his cat-like eyes found immediately what they were looking for.

 

“In here!” he said, pulling his Human companion to the room on their left. The door was already slightly open, but when he tried to push it open further, it wouldn’t budge but a few inches: years of humidity and lack of use had rusted the door in place.

 

“This is not working,” noted Aragorn nervously.

 

But Ceranos wasn’t prepared to give up so easily on their only means of hiding. Alighting himself of his pack and lightning rod, he managed to slide through the opening and into the room. Without losing any time, he beckoned to the Man to hand him their belongings, the lights and the weapons. In a few moments, everything had been passed to the Elf’s side, and now only Aragorn remained. But just when the Man was about to slide through, he heard the Orcs too close for his comfort and he realised that, if he had to hide, he would have to do it now, without losing any time trying to squeeze through such a tight opening. He quickly moved away from the door.

 

“Strider, no!” hissed the Elf, watching from the crack his comrade’s retreat. “Have you gone mad?”

 

He didn’t get any answer; and what was worse, Aragorn was nowhere to be seen anymore. Cursing slightly, Ceranos was ready to get out and drag the foolish man with him, but then the Orcs came into the hall.

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“Halt!” commanded the big brute of an Orc that was leading the patrol. “Did you hear that noise, lads?”

 

A guttural growl was all that he needed for an answer.

 

“The intruder is close! Start searching.”

 

Letting out many a shrill cry of excitement all the Orcs started looking throughout the hall, none of them noticing a pair of grey eyes watching them from above some beams.

 

Aragorn’s heart was thundering against his chest so hard that he felt it would burst out at any minute. Closing his eyes, he forced his every muscle to freeze in the hopes that no one would look up. He was grateful that the beams that were used to keep the walls of the room in place provided a ledge where he could stay protected in the shadows; he was also grateful for his life among the Elves: the Firstborn were by nature agile climbers, able to reach at the top of every tree and mountain no matter how steep the climb was and the Man himself learned fast enough how to keep up with them in such an ability. So he was able to hide there without the fear of bringing the beams crashing down like any other Human would have done in his stead.

 

Still, he knew he shouldn’t feel safe just yet: the Orcs were still searching meticulously in every corner of the place, growling and snarling. He had to admit that Ceranos was right after all: the foul beasts had most probably discovered the dead monsters and now they were looking for the person (or persons) who dared to enter into the Mines. He opened his eyes again to see what the Orcs were up to, and whether they had any intention of giving up their search.

 

Unfortunately, this wasn’t meant to be. Several of them had approached dangerously close to the door behind which Ceranos was hiding and, to make matters worse, they even seemed eager to enter into that room as well. Aragorn held his breath, watching every move that they made, until there was no doubt left that the evil creatures were going for the room: three of them had already extended his hands to push the door open. The Ranger knew that he couldn’t hope that the door would stay in place under the force that the Orcs would put to it. His hands clenched into fists, his feelings of frustration almost choking him now. Ceranos would be discovered and he could do nothing to prevent it. Or could he?

 

The groaning noise of the door snapped him into action. Without second thought, he had jumped among the Orcs, wielding his sword and slaying the ones closest to him. The rest shrieked, startled at the attack, but they quickly recovered and rushed to the Human that dared to challenge them. Aragorn fought bravely, killing several of the foul beasts before they could lay their hands on him. Nevertheless, he was still one against a whole patrol, so it wasn’t long before he was overcome. One of them had already unsheathed his knife and was ready to slit the Man’s throat when the leader of the Orcs intervened. Growling threateningly, he placed himself against his enraged soldiers and the captive, silencing everyone. With that done, he turned to face the Human.

 

“You killed some of my finest men, men that took me years to train,” he hissed angrily at him. “Under other circumstances I would have acknowledged your bravery, tark. But considering how many of us are here, I think you’re only a fool. Did you actually think you could kill all of us?”

 

Aragorn didn’t even bother to answer, but just looked down to the floor. If the great Orc had any intention of killing him, he preferred he did it swiftly instead of having to endure his inhuman speech.

 

“Not talking, eh? Fear cut your tongue?” asked the Orc mockingly.

 

When he didn’t receive any answer again, the foul beast forced Aragorn to face him, allowing himself the luxury of studying the eyes of the prize before finally deciding to kill it. And yet the expression that was held by the one before him had him thinking. The tark was afraid, there was no doubt about that, but there was another emotion to be discerned as well: defiance. It was then that he felt that things didn’t make much sense. He had seen from where the Man had jumped down among them. He admitted to himself that that was a perfectly good hideout and he handed it to the tark for actually thinking about it: but why would he come out of it? He knew that tarks could be foolish at times, but foolish enough to attack when there was a good chance of escape? Unless… he recalled in his mind’s eye that the tark attacked them when some of his men had approached the door behind him. He looked at the half-opened door too… and then his piercing beady eyes shone with realisation. Yes, tarks were foolish enough to attack when they wished to protect something – or somebody. Drawing his knife, he held it against the captive’s neck.

 

“Call to your companion.”

 

“What?” said Aragorn, feigning surprise; but his heart was drumming loudly in his ears.

 

“You might be a fool, but don’t even dare think I’m one as well!” hissed the Orc; “Call to your companion! Now!”

 

“There is no one else here…” started Aragorn, but a fist falling on his cheek cut him off.

 

“You’re not making this easier for yourself, are you? But I won’t give you the satisfaction,” said the great brute, showing his fangs in anger. “You two!” he commanded, turning at the two Orcs closest to him. “Go inside and see what the tark was trying to defend.”

 

“No!” exclaimed Aragorn, trying to pull himself away from the claws that gripped his shoulders tightly, holding him on the ground on his knees. But the leader just laughed at the Man.

 

“So there is somebody in there! Thank you for helping me make sure of this,” he mocked. “Go!” he growled at his inferiors.

 

Aragorn watched the two beasts walk toward the room, sheer horror coursing through his veins. Ceranos wouldn’t be able to fight against the Orcs in his state. And there was another thing that sent chills to his heart. There was great loathing between Elves and Orcs. If Ceranos was caught, the foul creatures would torture him beyond measure, venting off all their hate by taking it out on the Firstborn; while he himself would most likely be spared eventually and finished off once they got tired of him. As soon as the Orcs pushed open the groaning door, he let his head fall forward, not so much because of a nauseating reek that emanated from there, but because of defeat. He heard the foul creatures crying out, but it wasn’t a cry of excitement on their discovery, it was more of surprise and disbelief. He quickly looked up at the room that was revealed before him.

 

It was empty. Empty from living things that is, for the place was filled with scorched bodies of unfortunate Dwarves who hadn’t managed to escape the terror of Durin’s Bane. Some of them were still lying on the ground where they had fallen, their mutilated faces contorted with anguish and pain; others still clinging to their weapons as they had fought a last desperate battle against the devilry that was set loose upon them; and a few others could be seen dead as they crawled to the well in the centre of the room, obviously attempting to escape from the threat through there.

 

The leader of the Orcs snarled in dismay and turned to the Man, ready to hurt him for tricking him. However, he saw the surprise in the captive’s face too and so he understood that at least somebody was supposed to be there.

 

“Well, don’t just stand there looking at me!” he barked at his subordinates, who were at a loss as well. “Start searching!”

 

Clearly hesitating, the two Orcs started looking around, starting from the well and then to all the dark corners of the room. However, neither of them would touch the dead Dwarves. And no one else that was sent in would either.

 

“You know what did this to them,” retorted one of the Orcs when their leader threatened to have all their heads for disobeying. “I’m not touching any of his kills! None of us is and shout all you like!”

 

“I for one, have heard strange sounds whenever everything is quiet!” said another, his nervousness quite obvious. “Mournful cries echoing throughout these halls. I bet it’s their ghosts haunting this room!”

 

At this, everybody stirred uncomfortably, backing away from the bodies.

 

The leader of the Orcs was beside himself now and was screaming at his men’s foolishness and superstition, but Aragorn paid no attention, his mind running in circles as he tried to figure what happened to Ceranos. He was certain that the Elf had heard the commotion outside and so probably took cover. The question was, where? His eyes scanned the room, trying to identify anything that belonged to his friend and so spot him. But he couldn’t see anything. He seemed to have disappeared without a trace.

 

“And I’m telling you that he didn’t just fly out of here!” shouted the leader in answer to his men’s protests, not admitting his defeat. Hitting his scimitar against himself in anger and frustration, he finally made his decision.

 

“Burn the place down!”

 

Aragorn breathed in sharply. Burn it? Ceranos would never escape that!

 

“Ceranos! Lachathar i sammath!” he quickly shouted at the top of his lungs, hoping the Elf would hear – and understand - his warning. The minute these words fled his lips, the Orcs were onto him, beating him to silence. Soon Aragorn was flat on the ground, his mouth and nose bleeding, three of the foul beasts pinning him down while the rest lit up more torches to throw inside, setting the room to flames. In a few moments, the only thing that the Ranger was able to see was the fire, eating voraciously anything its red tongues could reach and all the Orcs standing outside and cheering. He averted his eyes from the sight to hide the tears that spilled down his cheeks. Just then, powerful claws turned him round and he was face to face with a grinning leader of the Orcs.

 

“Don’t worry, tark! I’ll give more than enough reasons for you to weep!” he said malevolently. Then he turned to his subordinates again. “Some of you stay here and wait till the fire dies down to make sure the Elf is dead!”

 

“The Elf?” exclaimed an Orc startled.

 

“Yes, the Elf! Didn’t you hear the language our prize spoke? Now do as I say and keep your eyes peeled! You know where to find us once your work here is done!”

 

With that said, the leader signalled the command for moving back to their lair. And Aragorn got dragged along with them, none of the foul beasts caring for the worried look that the Ranger cast behind him. He did manage to pull himself free and hurried toward the room once. But he was caught immediately; by tying the Man’s limbs with tight bonds, the great Orc made sure that their captive wouldn’t attempt such a thing again. And so it was that Aragorn was taken away, his heart mourning for his companion.

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Aragorn looked around the place that he was brought to. He knew that he wasn’t in any of the halls now, not even in the city in fact. He understood by the Orcs’ talk that they had carried him to the western section of Moria, bringing him to the mines. The entire territory was filled with holes, ladders and rails, remnants of the previous occupants’ existence. As he expected, centuries of dust covered everything; yet it seemed that nothing had been removed or misplaced. He could even see some of the wagons half-filled with mithril, the precious metal that was so highly prized among Dwarfs – and all the free people – of Middle-Earth. Yes, whatever it was Aule’s creation had awoken, it struck them with such swiftness and force that they obviously fled without thinking of carrying anything with them. He still remembered the bodies in that fateful room and shuddered. And something else saddened him even more: now there was a possibility that Ceranos was dead too. His only hope now lied in the fact that he hadn’t seen his friend anywhere when the Orcs searched the place, meaning that he could have escaped before the room was set into flames.

 

He watched the Orcs that were some distance from him, talking and gesturing wildly. He couldn’t hear what it was said, but he could easily guess that it was about what came to pass the last few hours and about him. And by the sidelong glances that they cast at him he understood that they weren’t discussing anything pleasant.

 

The sound of footsteps made him turn. He saw the crouching shadow of the approaching Orcs at the feeble light that the foul creatures’ torches cast on the place and he felt his heart beating fast. He feared greatly what he would possibly see, but he didn’t look away. He needed to know if they carried the body of his companion.

 

Finally, the foul beasts appeared; but they were empty-handed. Aragorn’s eyes opened wide with surprise. Could that mean…? He didn’t dare to think that such a joyous possibility was true, but his hopes were still renewed.

 

“Well? Where’s the body?” the leader asked the newly arrived.

 

The Orcs looked at each other nervously.

 

“Out with it!” snarled the leader, making them jump.

 

“We didn’t find it,” they mumbled apprehensively.

 

“And you came back here because?” asked the great brute, glaring at them.

 

“No creature would survive that fire!” retorted one of the rebuked beasts defensively.

 

“That’s some fine reasoning! Perhaps I should throw you in there next time, to see how true it is!”

 

“If he had survived, he would surely give some signs by now,” said the other; “he would try to save his companion, surely?”

 

“The day is not over… Everybody keep a lookout for anything unusual!” he commanded at the rest of the Orcs. “And as for you three…” he started, when he noticed something that cut him short.

 

“Where’s Aruk?”

 

The two Orcs looked back, puzzled.

 

“He was with us when we searched the room.”

 

“I didn’t ask where he was!” growled the leader, “How couldn’t you see that he’s missing?”

 

“He said he wanted to look at the room one last time and then he would catch up with us later…” started the first Orc, but his voice soon trailed off as he realised what might have happened. The leader eyed him angrily.

 

“No creature would survive that fire, eh?” he said. “Nice going! Fortunately all might not be lost yet. Get to your posts, fools! I’ll have to deal with something.”

 

As the two Orcs hurried away, the leader walked up to Aragorn and, after tearing open the Ranger’s shirt, he unfastened from his belt a great whip, its three tails ending in small razors.

 

“You can be happy, it seems that the Elf lives for the present. And you can be assured that he’ll come to save you as the fine companion that he is. So I think we should give him a warning to what will happen to him should he try that!” Screaming the last words, he started cracking his whip against the defenceless Man.

 

Aragorn tried to protect himself with his arms, but it was no use. The razors ripped at his flesh, leaving such a stinging pain that only after a few cracks he was screaming at the top of his lungs. However the Orc had no intention of lessening his torture. He cracked his whip again and again mercilessly, taking pleasure in the cries of agony. Soon Aragorn’s back was filled with cuts that streamed out blood, while the Man’s voice had become hoarse from his cries and he felt his strength flowing away from him.   

 

‘No more…’ he whimpered in his mind at the verge of losing his conscience, biting his lips at every crack that landed on his back. ‘Valar, take me now, please…’

 

It was then that a great rumbling sound echoed throughout the place. All the Orcs froze, trying to make out what was causing it, and then they heard it again.

 

“It’s him!” one of the beasts cried out, “That’s his roar!”

 

“It can’t be!” shouted the leader, joining his men, Aragorn forgotten. “He’s too far away from his own haunts!”

 

They were still trying to understand what was happening, when all of a sudden a barrage of fire-spheres started falling around them, bursting into great explosions as soon as they landed, slaying the foul creatures that happened to be closest at the time and covering everything in darkness. All the monsters started shrieking in panic and headed for the doors, but inches before they had reached them, they snapped closed all by themselves as it would seem. The Orcs stood where they were in numbing confusion. Even the leader himself didn’t know what to do next: he was looking everywhere waiting fearfully for what was to come next.

 

He didn’t have to wait long. At that moment a great battle cry was heard behind them, mingled with the terror-stricken cries of two Orcs falling dead.

 

“Khazâd ai-mênu!” shouted a tall form out of the shadows; then it charged against the rest of the foul beasts, its seemingly claws of iron hewing and slashing with an unprecedented frenzy. The Orcs unsheathed their swords to fight, but how could anybody stand up against such a fury that seemed to be everywhere around them? Some of them that tried to hit their attacker only managed to slay each other, while the rest became too frightened to fight. So it was that soon all the Orcs ended up dead, the leader of the Orcs being the last slain: he was hewn in two.

 

Aragorn watched the scene unfolding before him through half-open eyes in wonder, understanding perfectly well who was attacking. Truly enough, out of the shadows stepped out Ceranos, slightly limping, his hatchets and his fair face dripping with Orc blood. And that was the last thing the Man saw, for then darkness engulfed him.

 

Chapter 4: Escape from Moria

 

The Ranger’s senses awakened once more. At first, Aragorn smelled the odour of dried blood and he understood that it could only be his own. Then the pain invaded him mind and he stirred with a moan, trying to make himself comfortable in the cosy warmth that surrounded him. At that instant he heard a gentle voice close to him.

 

“Sedho, Aragorn.”

 

The sound of the Elven tongue echoed for some reason strangely to his ears, not exactly having the familiar rolling chiming he expected, nevertheless it had a soothing effect on him. Who was talking to him anyway? He willed himself to open his eyes, but everything was a blur before him. He blinked a few times to focus on the person that had wrapped his arms around him, offering him his body warmth, and he finally discerned long, raven-black strands crowning an obscure face.

 

“A… Ada?” he asked, still in a daze, even though somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that it couldn’t be his father. Lord Elrond was many miles away in Rivendell, that much had been straightened in his mind.

 

“No, it’s me… Ceranos,” corrected the Elf, switching into the Common Tongue. “Try not to move, if you can help it.” Strider’s wounds had been superficial, that was true, but they were still many and, even worse, infected with poison from the razors of the Orc’s whip. Ceranos had spent hours trying to bring down the Man’s fever and tending the wounds with whatever limited healing skills he had. He wetted the sweat-beaded face with water from his gourd and used his own blanket as bandages, tying the long ribbons in place using pieces of the cord that held his hair into a braid. Then, he cradled Strider’s shoulders and head close to him, making sure that the Man wouldn’t make any unnecessary movements, dearly hoping that Aragorn’s body was strong enough to fight back. He had also found out quickly enough that Aragorn responded much better to the Elven Tongue in his delirious dreams; so he suffered himself to speak the fair language, despite the fact that he felt uncomfortable because of his accent. It was during those delirious fits that Ceranos had also found out the Man’s true name. He let it slip once by accident only a minute ago, but he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice without letting Aragorn explain himself for the secrecy first. So he intended to continue addressing him as Strider, hoping that Aragorn hadn’t noticed.

 

It didn’t seem that Aragorn had. He merely blinked some more, until in the end his sight cleared completely. Indeed, above him hovered the face of his fellow traveller, smiling at him, his helmet removed and his fine, jet-black hair loose, covering his shoulders like a cloak. The Ranger was surprised momentarily at this, because now his friend looked truly like an Elf more than ever, his armour being the only thing that would remind anyone to which race Ceranos’s heart really belonged. He smiled, his eyes brightening with recognition.

 

“Welcome back, Strider,” said the Firstborn, clearly relieved and happy to see him awaken.

 

“I thought they had killed you,” replied Aragorn, equally relieved, his hand reaching for the Elven face to make sure that he wasn’t imagining things.

 

“Me? No,” grinned Ceranos. “It will take more than mere fire to kill me.”

 

“You heard me, then.”

 

The fair creature nodded the affirmative. “And I thank you for warning me. But what you did in the first place was foolish, I’m sorry to say. I know you meant well, Strider,” he said, before Aragorn started his objections, “but what good would you do to me if I lived, knowing that someone else died in my place? Especially someone that I happen to consider a friend?”

 

“Something tells me that you were prepared to accept that kind of fate for yourself,” replied the Ranger with a smirk.

 

“I never said that!” exclaimed Ceranos defensively.

 

“You did not deny it either.”

 

The Elf never answered, thus proving the Man’s point.

 

“What happened back there anyway?” asked the Ranger then.

 

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with that for the present, you’ve been through enough.”

 

“I need to know,” pleaded Aragorn. “Were you in the room when the Orcs came in?”

 

“I was,” answered Ceranos simply.

 

“But I looked everywhere for you! I could not see you anywhere!”

 

Seeing that there was no way out of this, the Elf started telling his story, intending to keep it as short as possible.

 

“When I saw you retreating from the door, I meant to come and drag you into the room with me.  Just then I saw the Orcs coming, so there was no other choice for me but to stay put and see what the fiends would do next. I heard them near the door and then their shouting when you, from what I gathered back then, attacked them. When I understood that they wanted to come in, I threw both lightning rods into the well and hid myself under the bodies of some Dwarves, face down.”

 

“You hid where?!” exclaimed Aragorn in disbelief. “If the Orcs put their mind to search the bodies they would surely find you!”

 

“But they never did, because none of them even considered the possibility that I could be there. You never thought of that hiding place either,” remarked Ceranos with a grin. “But I have to admit that I was helped unexpectedly by their superstition as well. I didn’t know that the Orcs were afraid of Durin’s Bane! Yes, that’s what killed those unfortunate souls and apparently the fiends knew about it. Anyway, good hiding place or no, I stayed there until they set the room in flames.”

 

“That long? But how did you…?” started the Man again.

 

“I’m getting to that part!” said the Elf with a patient smile. “I’m sure you noticed the large well in the centre of the room. If you threw a torch there, you would probably be able to notice some holes in the wall, holes that a keen eye would see form a ladder, which goes all the way down to the bottom of the well. I went down there before the fire burnt the entire place and, as I was still climbing down, I found what I was looking for.”

 

“And what would that be?”

 

“A small corridor that I knew would take me to the halls again. You see, Dwarves need easy access to the inside of the wells they build to cleanse them occasionally from any mould and also to examine if the water is clear. This was one such corridor, through which I ended up to the hall on your and the Orcs’ right. I watched from there the Orcs cheering and shouting and I watched them taking you away. I wish I could say that I attacked them at that very moment, but I knew that they would kill you before I reached you, making my rescue attempt meaningless. So I waited for the opportune moment to strike. I didn’t have to wait for very long, for soon there were only three Orcs to deal with and two of them departed quickly enough as well. The third went inside the destroyed room, obviously to look around one last time. Little did he know that what he had been looking for would grab him from behind, pin him against the blackened wall and hold a hatchet against his throat. By him I learned where they took you.”

 

“He actually told you?” asked Aragorn in wonder.

 

“You’d be surprised how talkative one can become to stay alive just a few moments longer,” pointed out Ceranos grimly, something that made the Ranger shudder and think that he was glad he was on the Elf’s side.

 

“What happened next?” he asked to distract himself from such thoughts.

 

“Well, I have already told you there are more paths than meets the eye. I used several corridors and secret doors as shortcuts to arrive at the Orc’s lair and enter inside without being noticed, long before the other two Orcs that were left behind arrived in fact. You weren’t able to see me, but I was up at the highest levels of the tunnels in which the Dwarves used to mine, watching the Orcs and you from there. Then it was just a matter of preparing my attack. I wish I had gotten ready sooner to avoid this,” he said, his eyes falling on the ugly welts that marred the Man’s skin.

 

“The rumbling sound was you then. I thought you took advantage of their confusion,” said Aragorn, more in an attempt to distract the Elf from his self-blaming.

 

“Aye, it was. I figured that, since they were so afraid of Durin’s Bane, it would be a nice touch. It’s quite interesting to see how the grinding of an axe against a rock can sound as it echoes through the tunnels…”

 

“And the fire-balls?”

 

“Which?” answered the Firstborn puzzled, but then his face lit up with realisation, “Oh, you mean the detonation orbs – that’s how we call them. It’s the mines here, Strider. There’s plenty of sulphur and other flammable ingredients to make quite a powerful mixture that the Dwarves use to break any rocky walls that pickaxes can’t. After making a considerable number of them and lighting them, I catapulted them against the Orcs; and when the Orcs tried to escape, I pulled an emergency lever to close the doors as I slid down a ladder into the lair. There’s no need to tell you what ensued. I’m afraid my ribs protested at such a fierce fight and I could hardly walk after I had dealt with the Orcs.”

 

“So that’s why you were limping. I thought you had hurt your leg.”

 

“I would be considered pathetic if I hurt myself twice in so short a time, don’t you think?” joked Ceranos with a roll of his eyes.  “Anyway, now you know everything that there is to know.”

 

“Not really. You ‘forgot’ to say that you took care of me. For that, I thank you.”

 

“I was only returning a favour. Not to mention that my healing abilities can hardly be considered good enough to heal anybody. You did it on your own,” said the Elf modestly.

 

“I hope you do not mind if I do not share your opinion on this,” replied the Man smiling. He looked around for a minute and then he added: “We should be moving on, I suppose.”

 

“Aye, we should,” agreed Ceranos. He dug out from Aragorn’s pack another shirt for the Man to wear and then he helped his comrade to stand up. But when the latter tried to stand on his own he felt light-headed, and he would have certainly fallen if it weren’t for the Elf catching him swiftly.

 

“Lean on me,” suggested the good-natured creature, already placing Aragorn’s arm across his broad Elven shoulders without waiting for an answer.

 

“Your ribs…” said Aragorn weakly when he noticed to his dismay that, besides him, his fellow companion had to carry all their belongings as well.

 

“Your back and arms are in no condition to carry anything. Besides, my ribs don’t feel so bad anymore. They’ve almost healed,” Ceranos assured the Ranger. Aragorn was almost certain that his friend was exaggerating about the state of his chest, but he didn’t seem to have much energy to waste it on argument. And so, as soon as Ceranos re-opened the doors, the two friends took up their journey in the darkness of Moria, hoping that they would get out soon.

 

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The Man and the Elf had been walking for quite some time when Aragorn noticed Ceranos’s eyes flashing with joy. It seemed that the Firstborn had recognised the place that he and Aragorn were treading right now for what it was, the hall that was leading to the upper halls, and now he was plotting his next course of action. The Ranger hoped now that his friend would try and find any moving slabs to save themselves some walking, for he didn’t feel like he could take another step.

 

Aragorn couldn’t tell really but, as a matter of fact, Ceranos was very aware of this. Even though his young friend’s system managed to fight the poison in the end, he realised that Strider was still very weak; too weak to exert himself like this. And he understood perfectly well that what the Man needed now was his father’s care. He had heard of Lord Elrond’s skill as a healer, it was quite well known actually even among the Dwarves. So he knew that, if anyone could really help Aragorn, it would be him. Now he had one more reason to try to lead them both outside the Mines of Moria.

 

The Firstborn’s thoughts were suddenly cut off, when the ranger stumbled and almost dragged both of them on the ground.

 

“Clumsy…” murmured Aragorn, embarrassed. But Ceranos eyed him with a raised eyebrow.

 

“This is the third time that you’ve said that, and it is the third time that I don’t believe it,” he remarked. The Man’s state must have been a terrible one however, for the Elf’s hard gaze softened, forgetting all signs of annoyance.

 

“Just hold on a little while longer,” he soothed. “We will soon be at the upper halls. We won’t even have to walk all the way there, I promise you.”

 

All that Aragorn managed to do was nod weakly his understanding and grit his teeth in an attempt to will himself once more to walk, always resting part of his weight on his companion. Ceranos still held the Dùnadan’s arm over his broad shoulders, his other arm wrapped around his hurt comrade’s waist, trying to ease the latter’s walking as much as possible, while his eyes were looking for the signs that would show him the way to the elevator, his Elven vision aiding him without the need of any lightning rods (he wasn’t able to hold any light, not in the manner he was burdened). He actually smiled when he found what he was looking for. He walked into the room on their left and quickly found the stony slab to carry them both upwards closer to the western exit.

 

The Ranger had barely registered the motion of their lift as soon as Ceranos activated it. He then felt his fellow traveller drag him a little farther away from the elevator once it had stopped at its destination; then carefully lowering him on the ground, stomach downwards to protect the injured back from any further harm. The moment that his fatigued body had the chance to lie down, Aragorn’s muscles had relaxed and he had closed his eyes, surrendering himself to a deep, healing sleep. He didn’t even feel Ceranos placing over him a winter cloak, which he happened to have with him in his pack.

 

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As soon as Aragorn opened his eyes, he realised that the numbing pain that he had suffered so far on his back had subsided, and now the only thing to be felt was a stinging sensation that fortunately didn’t discomfort any of his movements. He propped himself up to his elbow and his eyes quickly found the powerful form of Ceranos, sitting cross-legged nearby, keeping vigilance, the axe ready at hand.      

 

“You were awake all night?” the Man asked his companion in wonder.

 

“After all the things that happened, one can’t be too careful,” replied Ceranos. “How’s your back?”

 

“Better. Your ribs?”

 

“Healed at last. I can breathe normally now.”

 

“I can see that,” noted Aragorn teasingly, his gaze falling on the lit pipe lingering in the Elf’s mouth.

“It hastens my healing,” explained the Firstborn with a joking grin, “I certainly feel a lot better now.”

“Of course!” laughed the Man, now trying to lift himself on his feet and hoping that his body wouldn’t fail him this time. To his relief, it didn’t, so now Aragorn was able to walk about once more on his own. He handed the winter cloak back to its rightful owner, nodding in gratitude.

 

“How many miles till we reach the exit, now that we are in the upper halls?” he asked, while Ceranos was folding his cloak and placing it back in his pack.

 

“Not many. We will surely be able to reach it today. Aye, it’s day. Look how the sunlight shines through that window up there!”

 

“That is the best news I have heard in a long while,” said Aragorn, looking up to where the Elf pointed, “I have grown weary of this place.” He bit his lips when he realised that he had spoken ill of the place in front of someone who would only praise it, but he was too late. “I am sorry…” he started, but Ceranos raised his hand to silence him.

 

“You shouldn’t apologise for something that is true,” said the Firstborn kindly, “for I have grown tired of it myself. So the sooner we find the exit, the better for both of us.” And with that, he settled his pack on his back, while he was about to carry Aragorn’s belongings also in his hand. However, the Ranger stopped him, assuring him that he was strong enough to carry it on his own. It took some convincing, but Ceranos complied in the end; and the two companions put one last effort for the Western Gate of Moria.

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Aragorn winced again inwardly. The cuts were getting aggravated as they walked, something that he didn’t mind all that much at first, but the pain was getting worse as the time passed. However, he had no intention of showing that to his fellow warrior. Once they got out of the Mines of Khazad-dûm, he would be able to tend to his wounds properly. The mere thought that the exit was close was powerful enough to give him the strength of will to continue on. So, bearing the pain in silence, he kept following the Elf through the tunnels and abandoned levels of mines, even though he felt at times Ceranos eying him closely, obviously suspecting something was wrong. And yet, it didn’t seem like Aragorn was the only thing occupying his friend’s mind now. The Ranger noticed how the creature would look around warily at the shadows, his hand lying tensely on one of his hatchets. He was clearly sensing something, and the Man didn’t have to guess what he was sensing exactly, for he also felt the unfriendly eyes on his back, making him shudder.

 

“I am surprised they did not attack yet,” he murmured in a hardly audible tone.

 

“Considering that they must have found out by now that besides the Trolls we killed a whole patrol as well, I’m surprised that they even think of attacking,” answered the Elf in the same low voice. “They’re probably holding back till we seem tired and vulnerable enough.”

 

“And if we have reached the gate by then?”

 

“I don’t think they intend to let us live to tell the tale,” hinted the Elf. “But that’s not what worries me most. Your back is still in bad shape. You know this.”

 

“Nevertheless you cannot fight them all on your own,” argued the Ranger.

 

“I wish I could. The cuts won’t heal unless they’re tended; and they won’t exactly improve with your battle against the Orcs.”

 

“I will manage,” said Aragorn with a small reassuring smile. Ceranos looked into the stormy grey eyes, noting the fiery determination reflected there, and nodded his acknowledgment. With no other word, they kept walking into the dark, the sunbeams that passed through the cracks above being their only light. And as they walked on, the Dwarf-made structures became more numerous once again, meaning that they were approaching more halls – the ones that led to the gate.

 

“We are close,” remarked Aragorn with joy.

 

“Yes,” answered the Elf, his senses now more tense than ever. “They know it too. They’ve moved closer.”

 

“You can hear them?”

 

“Aye…”

 

It was then that his hand reached for Aragorn’s and held it. Surprised, the Ranger turned to look at Ceranos, who only motioned his Elven eyes downwards, showing thus two things: his hatchet and Aragorn’s sword.

 

“On my signal,” was all that he mouthed at his friend’s puzzled look. Aragorn nodded slightly and, letting go of Ceranos’s hand, he gripped the handle of his weapon. The seconds seemed to pass excruciatingly slowly as they waited still, looking at the shadows that closed around them threateningly. One by one, the Man forced all his senses to become as alert as possible. Nothing could be seen however, and no noise was heard either. In fact, such silence reigned in the halls now that the only thing that the Ranger could hear was his deep breathing as he tried to calm it down and his heart beating loudly and forcefully against his chest. A thin film of sweat broke out on his face, and even beads had started sliding down his brow. He felt his mouth dry and unconsciously wetted his lips with his tongue, as this waiting started weighing heavily on him. His fingers fidgeted involuntarily, his body ready to act quickly in the prospect of battle.

 

Aragorn’s hair stood up when he sensed Ceranos beside him just as tense. When he turned, he saw the fair creature as still as a statue, his teeth gritting and his blue-green orbs penetrating in expectation at anyone or anything that would come close to him. But it was the face as a whole that made the Man almost exclaim in wondering shock. Whatever Elven traits he had recognised on his companion before seemed to have withdrawn and been replaced by a hardened, expressionless mask, something that was only emphasized by the helmet Ceranos was wearing. No, Ceranos didn’t feel Elven anymore at that moment. Whatever creature it was that stood now next to him could only be described as something frozen, distant, void… and even frightening. Then the Man saw the blades of his comrade’s hatchets glimmering in the semi-dark. It seemed that they were both shining in welcome to the Orc-blood that would be shed soon. Ceranos seemed to welcome such a notion anyway.

 

Still they waited for a few moments, both holding their breath. And then a snarl sounding at their left and back broke the spell of that silence.

 

“Now!” screamed Ceranos.

 

The first Orcs to attack were unfortunate enough to encounter the Elf and the Man’s weapons, which were instantly in their hands. And yet that didn’t slow down the attack in the slightest. Wielding their scimitars, the Orcs tried to get their hands on the heads of those insolent intruders, regardless the cost.

 

Standing back to back, the two warriors faced the charging beasts, Aragorn cutting down his opponents one after the other, the Elf slashing every fiend that dared challenge him, his hatchets almost invisible at the speed by which they swirled about his hands and his body. And yet both of them knew that they couldn’t win this battle. More Orcs would take the place of every hewed one, growling and shrieking their hatred at both tark and Elf. The two friends understood that they had to move towards the exit, hoping that they would last till they managed to get out.

 

“This way!” cried Ceranos at the Ranger. And they both started fighting their way stubbornly to the direction of the gate, bodies of Orcs falling to their right and left. Aragorn fought on fiercely, when at that moment he quickly saw more Orcs standing in formation a little ahead, and he shuddered involuntarily. He understood what was happening. They were going exactly where the Orcs wanted them to!

 

“Ceranos…” he started, running his sword through a beast’s chest.

 

“I know! Hold on!” interrupted his fellow warrior, his hatchets beheading another attacker.

 

“But… ”

 

“Just do what I say!” snapped the Elf. In a flash, one of his hatchets had flown to meet the face of another Orc that was ready to hew Aragorn. “Trust me and keep fighting!”

 

The Ranger grabbed with one hand the hatchet from the Orc, passing it swiftly to his friend, and he fought on, watching the Orcs coming closer to view, dearly hoping that Ceranos knew what he was doing and he wasn’t crazed by battle frenzy. For indeed it seemed that that was the case as he watched from the corner of his eye Ceranos’s handsome face now heavily distorted in wrath, shouting at the top of his lungs as his hatchets killed off two, sometimes even three Orcs in a row. Many Orcs were dismayed, but even more of them pressed the two friends by circling around them, almost surrounding them.

 

Just when it seemed that the Orcs that had been waiting by would attack as well, Aragorn felt Ceranos grabbing him and pushing him to the right to a narrow bridge that, apparently, his friend had known about and had waited for the opportune moment to dash in the direction of before they were completely surrounded. The Elf wasn’t gentle in his touch, that was for certain, and Aragorn hissed in pain. He turned to protest despite their situation, when he saw an Orkish scimitar ready to land in his friend’s back.

 

“Look out!”

 

If Ceranos was swift while he was fighting with his weapons, the flowing motion that he displayed now could only be compared to lightning’s; for before Aragorn could even blink, he had whirled around and had hit the Orc squarely on his jaw with his pack, pushing him against the rest of their would-be murderers. Without a word, he again prodded his companion onwards and, after a few long strides, they had crossed to the other side. The Orcs hesitated for a moment, but they started following too, one by one. Aragorn was about to start running again, when he noticed that Ceranos had crouched down with his pack.

 

“What are you doing?” he cried to him incredulously.

 

Ceranos didn’t answer, but he quickly took out a small bundle (the only one that was left from his attack against the Orcs that held Aragorn), and the remaining lightning rod.

 

“No time for flints…” he murmured more to himself than to his companion. He struck the lightning rod on the ground and instantly a flame broke out which he used to light the small bundle. Without losing any time, he flung it against the Orcs, making sure that his aim was good. The moment that it struck amongst the foul beasts, it went off, destroying both the bridge and the Orcs that were on it alike. The rest were left stuck on the other end, shouting words of hate at both the Man and the Elf.

 

Ceranos turned towards the Ranger, who stood agape at the scene that unfolded before him. A smile shone on their features as they finally felt that they were out of danger. They started walking away, when to their dismay more Orcs stepped out of the shadows in front of them, snarling and growling, their scimitars already in their claws.

 

“I do not know what you said, but I utterly agree,” said Aragorn in answer to Ceranos’s low swearing. He swiftly set himself to fight again, but he was stopped.

 

“No, we run!” cried the Elf, dragging his comrade away.

 

And run they did, before the Orcs could lay their hands on them. They ran as fast as their feet could carry them to the only way that was open to them: a flight of stairs that led to a single room. They quickly turned the handles and threw themselves inside, only to find that they had entered the Dwarven cemetery. Indeed the place was filled with great stone boxes, holding inside the bodies of Dwarves that had long since passed to the Waiting Halls of Mandos. Hearing the Orcs coming up as well, they hardly lost any time. With a few mighty heaves, they pushed one such heavy stone box to hold the doors in place. They had barely made it in time when they felt the Orcs trying to push the doors open. Three times the fiends tried to break in and at each time both Aragorn and Ceranos felt their hearts jumping out of their places. In the end though, everything grew quiet once more.

 

The two friends let out a breath they hadn’t realised they had been holding, and then sat down to rest their backs against their improvised barrier, closing their eyes. However they opened them again in an instant for they saw something that neither of them liked at all.

 

There was no other exit. If there ever was one, it was now buried amid the rumble of a collapsed wall.

 

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Aragorn and Ceranos’s predicament seemed now darker than ever. They had looked everywhere for any possible way out of the room, but there was none to be found. To make matters worse, the Orcs had started their attempt to break in again and both the friends could hear the heavy clank and low creaking of the doors, as armour and wood slammed together. In the end, Aragorn sat on the floor, resting his head on his hands, resembling at that moment the embodiment of desperation.

 

“We are trapped,” he murmured, “I suppose it is in our fate to die by their claws.”

 

Ceranos didn’t speak immediately. He stared at the doors for several heartbeats, watching how they slowly yielded to the strength of the numerous Orcs that kept pushing them forcefully.

 

“There’s no need to make it any easier for them,” he finally remarked. With eyes flashing with resolution, he slowly stepped close to the doors, wielding his axe.

 

“What are you doing?” exclaimed Aragorn in disbelief.

 

“The first Orc to enter will find out,” answered the Elf, setting himself in a fighting position. He had been taught well from his foster family that one should keep fighting even with his last dying breath. And he was ready to do exactly that.

 

Aragorn looked at his companion as the Elf’s legs planted firmly on the ground and his hands gripped the handle of his weapon tightly. He was still wondering at him when he felt something brush by him swiftly. He looked up to catch a glimpse of the thrush as it was still flying away. It wasn’t that that made him smile however, but rather where the thrush flew through.

 

He quickly stood up and placed his hand on Ceranos’s shoulder to show him the small hole over the rumble. Ceranos looked up and grinned broadly, understanding what was in his comrade’s mind. Helping the Man up to the top of the rumble, they both went close to the hole. It wasn’t a very big one: a man’s fist could barely go through. The wall itself wasn’t very thick though, and both friends felt that behind that crack on the wall lay their only means of escape.

 

“Can you widen it?” Aragorn asked the Elf, trying to disregard for the time being the crashing noise the Orcs were making against the doors.

 

“I’ve been digging through walls for seven centuries, Strider; and this one certainly won’t prove any different,” answered Ceranos, opening his pack. “Although…”

 

“What?”

 

“Remind me not to use my pack as a means of defence next time,” replied the Firstborn, revealing his pickaxe out of his bag. Its handle had broken in two and a mere splinter was the only thing that kept both ends together.

 

The Man would have actually smiled at the face his friend made because of his ruined tool, but the racket of the continuous crashing that rung throughout the room didn’t give him that chance.

 

“Let us hope there will be a next time,” he said with a slight smirk. “Now hurry!”

 

Ceranos didn’t have to be told twice. Holding the pickaxe with both hands, he hit the wall swiftly and surely at several weak points. He didn’t let himself be disturbed by a frightening sound of a wooden board snapping from the doors or the happy shriek of the Orcs as they were finally managing to break in; and soon a bright light rushed through the large hole that now stood before Man and Elf.

 

“No time to make it any bigger I’m afraid,” said Ceranos, looking momentarily back at the quickly yielding doors. “We’ll have to squeeze through, head-first. Go!” he told Aragorn.

 

Aragorn wouldn’t have it, wishing his friend to pass safely through first, but Ceranos grabbed him and shoved him through the hole. He quickly got out too, and they both welcomed the beams that now fell on them from a bright sun in a blue sky. But neither of them had the time to cry joyfully, for they both saw instantly that the rock they were standing on was the only thing standing between them and a waterfall. They were still trying to figure out what to do next when they heard above the roaring echo of the waterfall an even louder crashing sound. Aragorn looked through the hole to see to his dismay the doors finally breaking. He looked down at the foam that rose from the water as it fell violently down and then turned to Ceranos, who was glued against the rock wall, not daring to look down himself.

 

“We have only one choice and that is to jump!” shouted Aragorn at his friend. “Get ready on the count of three!”

 

“Strider?” shouted the Elf, grabbing the Man’s shoulder, his eyes locking to Aragorn’s stormy-grey ones.

 

“What?”

 

“There’s something I should tell you!”

 

“Now?!” cried the Ranger incredulously; but the Elven eyes made him understand what was the problem. “You cannot swim!”

 

“At all! I can’t even paddle!” admitted Ceranos.

 

“What kind of an Elf does not know how to swim?” cried Aragorn again, still not believing what he was hearing.

 

“One that was raised by Dwarves, do we really have to discuss this now?” retorted Ceranos, clearly frustrated.

 

“All right, calm down! We will have to think of something else.”

 

“We will?” said the Elf gladly.

 

“Yes. And I have thought of it already!”

 

“Well?”

 

“Hold on to me tightly!”

 

“What?!” cried the Firstborn, trying to figure what was his companion saying. It was then that the Man’s fingers grabbed his armour, dragging him along on his own leap down the waterfall. “ARAGORN!!!” he screamed, feeling himself falling while Aragorn was still holding him.

 

Even during their fall Aragorn had registered Ceranos screaming his name, but he didn’t have the luxury to wonder at it at the particular moment. He took a deep breath and quickly extended his arms and body in a diving position, hoping that Ceranos had the sense to do that as well. He hit the water and without losing any time his eyes searched for the Elven form. He quickly found what he was looking for and he almost panicked to notice that Ceranos was sinking fast, clearly stunned after the impact with the water. The Ranger swam behind him, then wrapped his arms around Ceranos’s body and quickly swam upwards to the surface of the water before he became too desperate for air. He dragged Ceranos to the riverbed and, using all the strength he had, he pulled himself and his friend out off the water. The Elf’s closed eyes made the Man immediately act by quickly rolling his comrade on his stomach, removing his helmet, and pressing with both hands down the Elven back to force the water out of Ceranos’s lungs. Ceranos responded instantly, coughing out violently all the water that he had unwillingly swallowed.

 

“Do not fight it, just cough,” said Aragorn encouragingly.

 

The Firstborn couldn’t help but comply. Soon he was once more breathing in precious air, his whole form trembling at every heavy breath, since the fierceness of the coughs proved too much for his body to handle.

 

“Are you all right?” the Dùnadan asked softly in concern, his hand gently stroking the Elven back in the hopes of soothing the tremors away.

 

“I am… now,” whispered Ceranos after some effort and then turned to face his companion, his hand trying to move the wet hair off his face. “You know, Strider… this isn’t the best way… to keep a friendship…”

 

“You still consider me a friend then?” asked Aragorn, grinning.

 

“Aye, I do…” answered the Elf with a grin of his own, lifting himself to a sitting position, his strength slowly returning. “A half-crazed one, but a friend nonetheless…” he added, wringing the water out of his hair.

 

“I am glad,” said the Man, smiling warmly. It was then that he remembered what happened while they were falling.

 

“Ceranos… How did you find out my real name?”

 

The Elf blushed guiltily. He was hoping that Aragorn wouldn’t pursue the matter, but the Man’s look clearly showed that he wouldn’t get away that easily this time.

 

“I heard you say it,” he murmured, “after I attacked the Orcs that had captured you.” And with a few brief words, he explained to his friend about the poison that had invaded his body and the fevered dreams it caused.

 

“I didn’t mean to find out,” concluded the Elf after his narrative. “I understood that you had your reasons to keep it a secret and I intended to respect that. I had no right in knowing anyway, since we met only four days ago. It would be foolish if you had confided in me from the start, knowing nothing about me and my character.”

 

Aragorn gazed at the guilt-ridden Ceranos as the Firstborn fumbled his hands nervously, his eyes locked stubbornly on the ground. Cupping with one hand the Elven chin, he prodded the jade orbs to look up at him.

 

“You did nothing wrong,” Aragorn assured him. “I only wish you could have found out because I had told you about my true identity, not because of some mere accident. And yet, I do not regret you knowing. It has been only four days, as you say, but I would gladly tell you now my real name had you asked it.”

 

Ceranos’s lips did tug to a small smile, but his eyes still were filled with guilt and they tried to avert the Man’s gaze. So the Ranger extended his hand to prove his point.

 

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur’s heir and the heir to the throne of Gondor.”

 

Looking from the corner of his eye, Ceranos took his friend’s hand in his meekly.

 

“Glad to meet you,” he said in a soft tone. He had heard of Isildur as a name of old in a time long forgotten, when the Shadow was still plotting to cover the lands of Middle-Earth in darkness and war ensued to stop the Great Evil from spreading. Other than that, the name mattered little to him, except for the fact that Aragorn now chose to confide it in him as something very important; and that honoured him greatly.

 

“Are you feeling better now?” asked Aragorn smiling, placing a playful fist on his friend.

 

“Actually,” answered the Elf with a slight grin, all feelings of remorse fading at last, “I’ll feel a lot better once we start moving again. And after I do this.”

 

He rose on his feet and turned to the direction of the waterfall and the Mines of Moria, aiming his next words at the Orcs that he knew lingered there.

 

“Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul, rakhâs!”

 

“What did you say?” said Aragorn curiously when Ceranos turned back once more.

 

“I’ll tell you as we walk,” answered the Elf, grabbing his pack. “Let’s go.”

 

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The rest of the journey was uneventful. Ceranos had asked Aragorn if he could escort him till the borders of Rivendell, an offer that the Man had welcomed happily. He was concerned at first that Ceranos wouldn’t arrive in time for the festivities in Nogrod, but the Elf had assured him that he preferred to see him reach his home safely. Besides, his way wasn’t so difficult anymore. There were lots of main roads that led straight to the Blue Mountains. So they both walked onwards to Rivendell, the terrors of the Mines of Moria soon to be remembered as a bad dream. The only thing that reminded them of their adventure was Aragorn’s injured back.

 

Oddly enough however, neither of them seemed to have regretted their journey through the darkness of Khazad-dûm; for even though it was a journey that could have cost both their lives, it was also a journey in which they had met each other. That somehow made up for the hardships and fears they had to go through during those particular four days. That was also the reason that both their hearts were heavy on the day that they had reached the border of Imladris, the realm that sheltered the Last Homely House, ruled by Lord Elrond, Aragorn’s foster father. Aragorn looked at the now familiar trees near which he had ridden along with Elladan and Elrohir so long before, and then at his Elven companion. He didn’t wish to say goodbye, not yet.

 

“Let us sit here for a while,” he suggested, sitting down on the fallen trunk of a tree and beckoning Ceranos to sit beside him.

 

The Firstborn sat down too; but neither of them spoke for many long moments, for neither of them knew what they were supposed to say to ease their parting. It was finally Ceranos who broke the silence.

 

“I’m glad to have met you, you know,” he said. He couldn’t bring himself to look his Human friend in the eyes, knowing that this would only make things more difficult for him. “We were a good team, considering all the trouble we had to face.”

 

“I was about to say what a dreadful team we are for the same reasons,” exclaimed Aragorn, causing both of them to laugh a bit. But Ceranos grew serious once more.

 

“There is something I want you to have,” he blurted out, his hand quickly searching his pack and digging out his pipe. “Here.”

 

Aragorn’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

 

“This is yours! You smoke your pipeweed with it every night!” he exclaimed.

 

“Nevertheless I want you to take it.”

 

“Ceranos, I do not smoke. How can you hand your pipe to somebody you know will never use it?”

 

“You don’t have to smoke, you can just put it in a corner of your room,” argued the Elf. “It can still serve as a reminder of our adventure and our meeting. Please accept it.”

 

The Man stood silent for a few minutes, clearly indecisive; then reached for the pipe.

 

“Thank you. I only wish I could give you something back in return.”

 

“There is something you can do for me,” murmured the Elf, finally locking his gaze on the Ranger.

 

“Then say it. You know you only have to name it.”

 

Ceranos swallowed hard, clearly concerned about something and his mind in turmoil. In the end, he took a great breath and sighed.

 

“Don’t watch me go.”

 

Aragorn was certainly taken aback that kind of request.

 

“What? Why?” he faltered.

 

“It’s an old Dwarven belief,” replied the Elf, his cheeks flushing. Ach, he should have kept his mouth shut! Aragorn was a Human, he wouldn’t understand! But it was too late; he had already intrigued the Man too much.

 

“And?” asked the Dùnadan, trying to see where his friend was getting with this. It was still a wonder to him how Ceranos could slip from bravery to shyness so quickly.

 

“And,” continued the Elf, plucking up courage, “one shouldn’t watch the other go, because it means they will never see each other again.”

 

“It seems to me that not only Orcs are superstitious,” Aragorn teased mildly, and yet realising what the Elf really asked of him: that they should meet again. Deeply touched, he placed his arm over the Elven shoulders and placed a playful fist on Ceranos’s chin, making his comrade smile.

 

“We will see each other again. I am afraid my destiny lies elsewhere for the time being; but I will come to the Blue Mountains and visit you at the first chance.”

 

“Is that a promise?” asked Ceranos, his eyes shining hopefully.

 

“It is a promise.”

 

Smiling broadly, the Firstborn held Aragorn in a warm embrace, an embrace that the Human quickly returned. Both remained like this for several moments, saying in this way their last goodbye.

 

“Stay safe,” murmured Ceranos.

 

“You too, my friend,” replied the Man in the same soft tone.

 

They had just released each other, when the Ranger’s ears pricked up to a familiar sound. He quickly stood up and walked a few steps toward the wood, straining to listen carefully, to hear the jingling of bells and a neigh again.

 

“That can only be Asfaloth,” said Aragorn with a smile more to himself than to Ceranos. “Sí! Over here!” he cried joyfully.

 

“You have to meet Glorfindel at least,” he continued, his words aimed to his companion this time. “He is one of the best warriors Rivendell could possibly have! You know he actually fought against a…” His voice trailed off when he turned and realised that he was alone. Ceranos was gone. He looked everywhere, but there was no sign of the Firstborn.

 

“You made sure that I would not watch you go,” he murmured in regret. He would certainly miss that strange Elf he had come to consider a friend. He was still watching the direction he guessed Ceranos had taken when Glorfindel appeared on Asfaloth.

 

“Ai! I knew I heard that voice well! It is good to see you here, Estel!” said the great warrior cheerfully, addressing Aragorn with the name Elrond had given him long ago.

 

“It is good to see you too, Glorfindel. What news of my home?”

 

“I can tell you, but you will not like what I will say. Lady Galadriel informed your father by a travelling pigeon that you were venturing towards home despite her warnings. Needless to say that Lord Elrond, knowing about your skill of getting into trouble, got worried about your safety. He was ready to send warriors to retrieve you if you were even one day late from the average time that takes one to travel from Lothlorien to Rivendell. Luckily you made it just in time.”

 

“He should worry more about Elladan, he is the one with the broken leg!” retorted the Man teasingly, but at the mention of his brother’s name he grew serious again. “How is he?”

 

“He is all right, considering he has to stay in bed. But come, you will see for yourself once we get back to the Last Homely House. Gather your stuff, Asfaloth can carry us both.”

 

Aragorn did just that, being careful not to discomfort his back, which was still throbbing at times. But Glorfindel wasn’t blind. He quickly saw the stiff manner in which the Man walked, so he quickly alighted and went close to him.

 

“So… care to explain what happened this time?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.     

 

“I ran into trouble,” confessed the Man shyly.

 

“That much I can understand. Let me see.”

 

Aragorn showed him his injured arms and back, something that made the blond Elf sigh.

 

“They seem pretty bad, but perhaps Lord Elrond can treat them properly and make sure no scars are left. You were saying something about Elladan, erneth?” he said, tussling Aragorn’s hair and winking. The Man only rolled his eyes, but that didn’t stop Glorfindel from laughing. He helped the Ranger on the horse and, as soon as he was up too, he whispered to the steed to start cantering home.

 

“Comfortable enough, Estel?” asked the Elf, as they rode on.

 

“Ai, yes…” said the Man sleepily. The rocking motion of the horse was quickly lulling him to sleep. “I only wish you could have met Ceranos,” he added, his memories drifting back to the black-haired creature.

 

“Who?”

 

“A friend I met. He helped me… when I was captured by the Orcs.”

 

Glorfindel actually smiled.

 

“It seems to me that you have a very interesting story to tell. I would very much like to hear it; and I am sure Lord Elrond and the twins will love to hear it also… even though your father will probably lecture you again about not being careful. You can tell us all about it at dinner at home, after you have taken a relaxing bath.”

 

“Home,” echoed the Man in a sigh, his heart warming at the prospect of finally returning to his family. He would probably see Arwen there, too. Resting his head on the Elf’s back, he finally gave in to sleep, the image of the beautiful maiden still lingering in his mind’s eye.

 

Chapter 5: A Promise Kept

 

 

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Caras Galadhon

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The sound of laughter awoke him. Aragorn opened his eyes in a slumbered surprise and quickly identified its source: a very joyful Merry, playing tug-of-war with Pippin and Boromir. It didn’t take a great mind to see that the two youngest of the Hobbits had taken a great liking to the warrior. But the Gondorian seemed to have become quite attached to them too, and he was enjoying the game as much as the little ones did. Then his eyes drifted to the other members of the Fellowship. He saw Sam and Frodo talking about the beauty of the elanor flowers that sprouted now as spring was settling while Legolas and Gimli were still eying each other warily, keeping their distance from each other and hardly exchanging a word. ‘When will these two intend to start getting along?’ thought the Ranger with a shake of his head, amused. For indeed the Man’s spirits seemed to have been lifted up ever since they arrived in Lothlórien and he was sure that that was the case with the rest of the Walkers as well. The peace and tranquillity of the Golden Wood, which was endowed upon it by the power of Queen Galadriel, had a soothing effect on them all; something for which he was grateful after the pain and sorrow they suffered all this time, especially after Gandalf’s death.

 

‘Ai, Gandalf,’ thought Aragorn, his mind taking him back to the moment the wizard fell into the chasm at the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. His heart saddened again when he thought how many misfortunes could have been avoided had things been done differently in the Mines of Moria. He looked at his pipe and again remembered Ceranos (for indeed that was the very same pipe that the Elf had given to him on their parting) and sighed. He regretted that he couldn’t remember the path that he and his friend had taken long ago and there were times that he missed the black-haired creature’s guidance through the endless tunnels of the Dwarven City. They could have used the stony slabs that the Firstborn had shown him, or even the hidden corridors and halls that the Orcs couldn’t possibly know about! But Aragorn knew within his heart that that wasn’t meant to be. Ceranos wasn’t among the Nine Companions and he himself wouldn’t be able to guide the Fellowship on his own through Moria. Gandalf was the only one able to do that, and he paid the price with his life. Now it was left to Aragorn to continue what Pilgrim Grey left undone: to lead the rest on to Mount Doom. He only hoped that he would be able to carry out that task successfully, for he still remembered the Queen’s words: “The Quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and it will fail to the ruin of all.” It was true that he preferred not to be welcomed by such grim words; nevertheless he was glad that they had this chance for a stop in Lothlorien. He knew both Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, and he also knew that they and their people would help the Fellowship in the best way possible, not only to recover, but to give them the necessary means and provisions to help them carry on with their Quest.

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Aragorn didn’t err in his assumptions. Truly enough, after a month’s rest that lifted the spirits of all the members of the Fellowship, they were ready to set off again. The Elves had bestowed them all with gifts both beautiful and useful for their journey, like cloaks to keep them safe from both the cold and the enemy’s eyes and boats by which they would travel till the Falls of Rauros, the closest area to the borders of Mordor. The boats were already tied on the riverside and they were filled with lembas and fresh water. In one of them would be Boromir with Merry and Pippin; Aragorn would be in another one with Sam and Frodo; and in the third one would be Legolas and Gimli.

 

All the preparations were done swiftly, and soon almost all the companions had settled down in the boats, ready to row away. Almost all.

 

“I’m not getting into any of these contraptions!” shouted Gimli once again, despite all the reassurances that he didn’t have to fear anything.

 

“Master Dwarf, you are holding us up!” cried Boromir; “Please, get into the boat!”

 

“No!”

 

“Why not?”

 

“It’s not safe. It… it might capsize!”

 

“With an oarsman like Legolas?” said Pippin, puzzled.

 

“And this is an Elven boat, they don’t just capsize!” seconded Merry. “We have boats in Buckland too. They never turn upside down, even though their craft is nothing compared to the Elves’! That’s something, right?”

 

“An Elven boat and an Elf for an oarsman! And you expect me to be comforted now?!” cried the Dwarf exasperated.

 

“What’s wrong with Gimli?” Frodo asked Aragorn softly.

 

“He is afraid of the water. All the Dwarves are afraid of it, because of what they were created of. If you remember, Frodo, they were made of stone, and water corrodes stone. Gimli will not melt, of course, and he knows it, but the fear is there nonetheless and he prefers to avoid any contact with water if he can help it,” answered the Ranger. “Is it not true, Master Gimli?” he added, turning to Aule’s creation. But the latter only turned crimson and refused to answer.

 

Legolas looked at the short creature, raising an eyebrow.

 

“If your kind is so afraid of water, how do you cross rivers or lakes?” he asked in genuine curiosity.

 

“We build bridges of course! Your kind could make use of those!” retorted Gimli angrily. But Legolas only laughed, intending not to let his mood be spoiled by an irritating Dwarf.

 

“I fear we cannot afford enough time to wait for you to build a bridge all on your own, Master Dwarf!” said the Firstborn with a smirk. “So, you will have to settle for the boat or travel on foot on the riverside. I hope you will be able to keep up!” he added, grinning broadly as soon as he saw Gimli’s eyes opening wide.

 

Gimli remained still on the edge of the river, one eye looking with disgust at the water and the other throwing daggers at the always-smiling Legolas. Finally he quickly landed with a light jump on the boat.

 

“I hate the water, I hate getting wet… and I hate you,” he said slowly with a growl at the fair creature, and then he sat down with a huff.

 

Legolas’s gaze locked momentarily on Aragorn, who was looking at the scene; then rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath “Dwarves…”

 

“Elves!” snapped Gimli, hearing Legolas quite clearly.

 

The Ranger actually chuckled at this, but he made sure the Dwarf didn’t notice him by turning to the front again. It was then that the thought that perhaps he would take Gimli with him when he would visit Ceranos occurred to him. Yes, he was certain that Gimli would like that Elf.

 

“Is something the matter, Strider?” asked Sam, noticing the Man lost in thought, and yet smiling.

 

Aragorn raised his head quickly as though woken from a dream.

 

“No, my good Sam,” he assured the Hobbit kindly, “just memories of old.” And he quickly gave the signal to the rest to start rowing away.

 

 

 

Thundering hooves made all the birds and creatures jump out of the cantering horses’ path. A team of knights rode on, always following their king, who wished to visit all the realms of Middle-Earth and renew the alliances between them and Gondor. Even though the king had been told by his advisors that representatives of his could do that for him, the king himself wouldn’t have it, wishing to deal with such matters personally. It was clear only to the ones closest to him, like his comrades-in-arms and Arwen, his wife, that this was a fine opportunity to wander Middle-Earth the way he used to in his days as a simple Ranger, unburdened by the responsibilities of a kingdom on his shoulders. The same way that only these few knew that he meant also to keep a promise that he had given to a friend more than 70 years ago.

 

Gimli was also with him, wishing to meet the strange Elf that Aragorn had told him about. They both regretted that Legolas couldn’t join them, but they understood their friend’s wish to visit Mirkwood. The woodland realm had been also under attack during the War of the Ring and Legolas needed to see that the forest – and its king, his father – was all right. But they intended to meet on their way to Gondor once their visits were over.

 

Gimli leaned sideways to have a look at the path that Aragorn’s back obscured as the Dwarf sat behind him.

 

“The Blue Mountains!” he exclaimed, recognising the rocky slopes that could be seen clearly in the distance.

 

“Yes, indeed, Gimli,” said the Man, smiling. “We will camp as soon as nightfall settles in and, if our pace tomorrow is as good as it has been today, we should reach the gates of Nogrod tomorrow.”

 

“Ach, I will welcome the rest gladly. My back is killing me after so many hours of riding.”

 

“So is mine, and I am sure Brego will be more than happy to rid the saddle for a while,” replied Aragorn, patting the horse’s neck kindly, something that made the noble beast snort and shake his head in joyous response.

 

“I hope this Ceranos will remember you, otherwise we would have suffered all this riding for nothing,” noted Gimli thoughtfully. “Seventy years is a long time.”

 

“Not to an Elf, so it is not that that concerns me. I have changed during all this time and I am afraid he will not recognise me.”

 

“Is that why you have the pipe with you?”

 

“Yes. Hopefully it will not have to come down to that, but if there is need, I will show it to him.”

 

“Ach, you haven’t changed that much. Who knows, he’ll probably recognise you at once and greet you heartily. Now that will be a nice reunion.”

 

“It will be indeed. I really cannot wait to see him,” admitted the king. Seventy-two years was probably a small time for an Elf, but it was a very long one for a Human like Aragorn. All sorts of thoughts crossed his mind: questions about what Ceranos had been up to all these years, what kind of answers there might be, and hopes that his questions would be answered soon.

 

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The next day Aragorn and Gimli set out for the Dwarven City on their own, fearing that a large number of soldiers would alarm the Dwarves and even make them nervous. Riding both Man and Dwarf on Brego, they quickly reached the gates of Nogrod before it was even noon. They found them quite easily, since Gimli knew the city’s whereabouts, and, moreover, the doors were wide open, guarded by two sentries wielding spears. As soon as the guards saw the strangers they put their weapons forward.

 

“Stand and unfold yourselves!” commanded one of them sternly.

 

Aragorn halted Brego obediently and let Gimli speak first.

 

“I am Gimli, son of Glóin from the Mountain Erebor, at your service. You know my father as one of Thorin Oakenshield’s companions.”

 

“I am Thran, son of Fali, at your service and your family’s,” replied the guard, answering Gimli’s greeting courteously, “and aye, Thorin Oakenshield and Glóin’s name are well known to us. All in this city have praised their victory over Smaug to reclaim the fair kingdom of the Lonely Mountain. Can you answer for the Man that accompanies you?”

 

“I can answer for myself, Master Thran,” said Aragorn proudly and yet not meaning any discourtesy. “I am Lord Elessar of the house of Telcontar, king of the Realm of Gondor and Anor,” he added, using the name under which he was crowned.

 

Apparently Thran had heard of the name before, for he instantly bowed low, removing his helmet in respect.

 

“Forgive me, Lord Elessar. Had I known it was you, I wouldn’t have shown such disrespect.”

 

“I was not offended, I assure you,” said the Man with a smile. “May we enter the city?”

 

“Aye, my lord. But you should state the nature of your business first.”

 

“We’ve come to see one of the dwellers of Nogrod,” answered Gimli. “The Elf who is known as Ceranos Orcbane.”

 

Thran’s eyes opened wide at the mention of the name.

 

“It’s a wonder to me how you’ve come to know of him. His outings to the lands far beyond were few and only whenever there was great need.”

 

“I know him,” said Aragorn. “We met seventy years ago and I have considered him a friend from then onwards, although I must admit that I haven’t heard news of him since. Tell me, Thran, how does he fare?” he asked, eager to hear whatever tidings there might be.

 

A small pause clearly showed that Thran hesitated to answer that question.

 

“My lord,” Thran finally said slowly, “Ceranos perished during the War of the Ring, almost two years ago.”

 

These words made Aragorn’s heart contract violently as soon as they were uttered and it was several moments before the Man managed to speak around the lump that had formed in his throat.

 

“How did he die?” he asked softly.

 

“Honourably. Fighting with his brothers-in-arms against the charging armies of Sauron.”

 

Gimli bowed his head solemnly. He understood that Thran was talking about the Men of the East that attacked Dale, the Dwarven Realm closest to Sauron’s lands, and he was also aware that the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains had immediately sent reinforcements to help their fellow clans: as soon as they heard news of the impending attack. He clasped his friend’s shoulder, realising how hard the news was to the King even though he tried not to show it.

 

“Were you with him when…?” Aragorn tried to ask, but the sea of emotions that were raging within him prevented him.

 

“No, my lord,” answered Thran, understanding what the Man meant to say. “But you might want to talk to Nôm, son of Nali. He’s from Thrir’s clan, so he was always close to Ceranos – and he was also the one to have last seen him alive.”

 

“Where can we find him?” asked Gimli.

 

“At his home probably,” said the sentry with a shrug. “If you ask around, somebody will surely take you to him.”

 

“Thank you kindly, Master Thran. Good fortune to you.”

 

“And to you, Master Gimli. I bid you farewell, Lord Elessar,” replied the guard, bowing low.

 

“Farewell,” whispered the Man absentmindedly, his mind still lingering on the news he had heard only a few moments ago. With his heart and shoulders heavy in grief, he let Gimli inquire about the whereabouts of the Dwarf they were searching for. And so he didn’t realise when his companion had finally led him to Nôm.

 

The particular Dwarf seemed to have seen his own share of the War of the Ring, just like Gimli and Aragorn had. He was holding a sturdy staff that helped his faulty walking and his left eye was missing, replaced by a deep scar that started from his eyebrow and ended close to his beard. Nevertheless he was still a strong Dwarf, that much was obvious, and his wounds only made him seem older than he actually was. Nôm’s good eye sparkled with vitality as the war-beaten Dwarf looked at the two warriors before him, especially Aragorn.

 

“I’m told you wanted to see me about one of the members of my clan,” he said after the customary courteous bows and greetings, beckoning them to sit on two chairs.

 

“Aye, about Ceranos Orcbane,” answered Gimli, sitting down. Aragorn didn’t speak a word, but only nodded.

 

“Ach… Rakhâs-Ûdrig,” sighed Nôm, his face mellowing in memory. “That’s a name I haven’t heard in some time and yet my heart still grieves for him. He was a brave and kind lad… or perhaps not so much a lad,” he said, correcting himself, “for he had already been part of Thrir’s clan for almost six hundred years when I was born.” He chuckled a bit to himself, and then turned to his visitors, his eye darting to Aragorn’s silent form. “You know what I speak of, my lord. You came across him as well.”

 

“I did,” admitted the Man.

 

“Might I ask when exactly and how?”

 

Trying to drown his sigh for being reminded of such memories when the Elf with which he had shared them was dead, Aragorn told of their adventure through the mines of Moria, keeping it as short as possible, but without omitting anything of importance. Nôm listened intently and so did Gimli, for this was the first time that he had heard the full tale told also. When the king had finished, Nôm shook his head sadly.

 

“Yes, I remember the particular festivities very well, for he told us of that tale upon his return also. It was the last journey to lead him far from home before war broke out.”

 

Nôm lit his pipe, his brow furrowing at the memory of the War of the Ring. But he didn’t let these dark memories linger for long. There was plenty of time to tell of that later.

 

“Ceranos always meant to return to the city of Khazad-dûm one day. He always told Nain, his foster brother, so, even though the latter would hear none of it, fearing for his kin’s safety. And yet it was clear that, even if Ceranos hadn’t vocally expressed his wish, he had loved that place from the first time he had set his eyes upon it, despite the dangers he faced on that particular journey.”

 

“I still remember his face when he looked on Moria for the first time,” said Aragorn with a small smile. “He seemed like a pilgrim visiting a holy land.”

 

“Aye, that sounds like Ceranos,” grinned the one-eyed Dwarf, “He was an Elf and yet his love for the darkness of the caves could only be compared to a Dwarf’s!”

 

It was then that another sigh escaped then his lips, his face growing grave once more.

 

“Most of the Dwarves that live today had known of Rakhâs-Ûdrig ever since they could remember; some had even associated him with the Blue Mountains themselves, me no less. We believed that the world could come to its end, but the Mountains and he would still be around, the only truly immortal remnants of a time long gone. How little did we know…”

 

Aragorn bowed his head low at this and so did Nôm himself, neither of them speaking for a long time. It was finally Gimli who, feeling the silence weighing too heavily on him, decided to speak, even though he felt uncomfortable for actually doing this.

 

“The guard, Thran, told us that you were with him when he was slain.”

 

“Nay, I was not with him when he died, more like I was the last to have seen him alive. But perhaps I should tell you my story from the beginning, so you will understand.

 

“Before the War of the Ring broke out, Sauron had sent his vile servants to the Dwarves of Dale more than once, seeking an alliance with them and promising them Rings of Power and even the kingdom of Khazad-dûm. Two times did the Dark Lord’s messengers go to King Brand, offering him naught but two choices: to offer his services to the Enemy or die. And two times did King Brand answer naught, wishing to gain some time while he sent words to us and our brothers at the Iron Hills to come to his aid as swiftly as possible; for the foul messenger had warned Brand that if upon his third visit received not a satisfactory answer then it was war till the last Dwarf was slain. We had already heard of Men from the East becoming bolder and an army of them approaching dangerously close to the borders of Dale, just as we knew that our fellow clans in the Iron Hills were aware of it as well. And so, before the year ended, about the time that we knew the dark messenger would seek an answer from King Brand, a thousand Nogrod Dwarves marched toward Dale by our king’s order, each clan led by its own patriarch. Nain was in command of our clan, along with Rakhâs-Ûdrig.”

 

The surprised looks on both Aragorn and Gimli’s faces made Nôm nod in assurance.

 

“Yes, Ceranos was a patriarch. He had been ever since Thrir’s death. Thrir himself placed his foster son in that rank as he was still lying on his death bed.”

 

Gimli’s eyes widened at this, something by which the Man became even more puzzled.

 

“In the Dwarven realms, a King has to rule many different clans and that makes his work difficult. So the patriarchs, that is, the lords of the clans, aid him. The patriarch represents his clan in whatever gatherings might take place, sees to the well-being of the people under his protection, and even takes care of whatever small matters might arise between the members of his clan without the interference of the king. One could say that a patriarch is a king of his clan. The more rich and powerful a clan is, the greater influence and respect he has,” explained Gimli. “What I didn’t know was that others besides Dwarves could assume such a title,” he added, facing Nôm.

 

“They don’t usually,” replied the one-eyed Dwarf. “The patriarchical right goes either to the lord’s firstborn son or, should there not be any, to a clan-member of the lord’s own choice. Ceranos was adopted before Nain was born and, despite his race, he was still considered Thrir’s firstborn child.”

 

“But he did not take up this position, did he?” asked Aragorn at that point, even though he suspected what the answer would be. After all, only one answer could explain how come Ceranos had gone on an errand such as mining out stones when he had first met him.

 

“No, my lord, he didn’t,” answered Nôm, verifying the Man’s suspicion. “Not until much later. He realised that, at the time Thrir chose him as patriarch, a lot of dwarves from other clans, even the King himself, would frown upon such an arrangement and, if things became heated enough, the harsh words would be soon replaced by the spilling of blood. So, even though he knew he was going against his foster father’s wish, he placed Nain in his stead until the time would come that all the Dwarves accepted him as part of Nogrod. Nain and all of us that belonged to the clan were somewhat disappointed by this, since we knew that Ceranos would make a good ruler; but we understood our comrade’s hesitation, more or less. And by the look on your face, I think you understand too, my lord.”

 

Aragorn nodded solemnly. Yes, he understood Ceranos’s decision as well. Hadn’t he himself chosen to become a Ranger and denied his kingship for similar reasons almost seventy years ago? Only to accept that kind of power during the War of the Ring, when it seemed that the world of Men was in a desperate need for a leader?

 

“Anyway, all this changed during the War,” continued Nôm. “Nain’s stout heart couldn’t be matched by his aged body, while his son, Loin, was too inexperienced to lead men, even though he was already an accomplished warrior. Because of this, Ceranos was the one who assumed the command and led our march to Dale. Nain marched by our side despite his age, wishing to fight too, but also because we had decided not to reveal that Ceranos had taken up his rank yet, not wanting to cause any discomfort to the other Dwarves at such news. So everyone else believed that Nain was still the patriarch of our clan, but we knew better.

 

“Just as we had expected, Ceranos was a prudent commander, dividing our rations wisely and with care, setting the watches and every Dwarf to his appropriate task and position so everyone would offer the most efficient service possible. It was through Ceranos’s careful planning that our march didn’t prove tiring at all and, in fact, our pace was so good that we would arrive in Dale much earlier than we reckoned at first. But it was much later that Ceranos proved just how good a leader and a diplomat he truly was: when we reached the borders of the Woodland Realm.”

 

“How so?” asked Aragorn, but it was Gimli who answered.

 

“Because of the Elves. They didn’t suffer thirteen Dwarves to pass through Mirkwood, why should they allow a whole army?” Gimli remembered well the injustice that was done to his father, when Lord Thranduil ordered his men to place him, Thorin Oakenshield and the rest of their comrades in the dungeons of Mirkwood. Even though Gimli had become friends with the Elven king’s son, thinking about what happened to Glóin still annoyed him.

 

“You’re right, Gimli, Glóin’s son,” said Nôm. “We had reached the woods when we were stopped by the Elven march-wardens, forbidding us to go any further at the king’s command. I suppose Lord Thranduil already had to face his own share of enemies from the East and he didn’t want to worry about Dwarves trampling in his realm as well. After all, there isn’t much love between the Firstborn and us, even though an Elf did grow among Dwarves, earning a place in our hearts.

 

“But I stray. For whatever reasons, we weren’t allowed to enter Mirkwood. It seemed that we would have to go around the forest, hoping that we wouldn’t be too late, when suddenly Ceranos stepped out and asked the march-wardens to lead him to Lord Thranduil, for he wished to speak with him. I don’t know at what the Elves wondered most, at the boldness of that request or that there was actually an Elf among the Dwarves and even acted as one of them; nevertheless their surprise was such that none denied his wish. Ceranos was taken to the city, while we all remained behind, hoping that Lord Thranduil wouldn’t be offended or angered, and that Rakhâs-Ûdrig would be able to convince him to let us through the forest.

 

“A whole day passed and then morning arose again, but Ceranos hadn’t come back. Then night fell again, and we started getting nervous, fearing for our patriarch’s fate. It was on the dawn of the third day, when the first whispers of worry that Thranduil imprisoned Ceranos had sounded throughout our camp, that our lord came back. His face looked tired, clearly showing everyone that he hadn’t slept much, if at all; but there was a strange glint in his eyes and there was a remarkable vigour in his movements as he stepped on a rock and addressed us.

 

“‘Dwarves of Nogrod!’ he cried out. ‘Lord Thranduil was patient enough to listen to what I had to say about the predicament our brothers are in and what will happen should Dale fall because we weren’t able to go and aid them. We both agreed that at these dark times there is only one enemy, and it’s neither the Elves nor the Dwarves. It’s Sauron!’ and at that moment his voice boomed with loathing at that foul name, ‘He who cares nothing but for the domination and corruption of all the peoples of Middle-Earth. The only one who takes pleasure in the hate between Ilúvatar and Aule’s creations, counting on it to succeed with his own planning and scheming. But he doesn’t understand that no matter how much hate exists between the two races, it can be easily surpassed by the love they both share for their freedom! We shall make him understand that!’

 

“As soon as these words were uttered, a great number of armed Elves came out of the shadows and stood behind Ceranos.

 

“‘These men,’ continued our patriarch, ‘were sent by Lord Thranduil to join forces with us and fight on our side, since the Elven king is aware that our disadvantage lies in ranged combat. I would have some of us join the Elves in their own battle against Sauron and cover their own disadvantage, but Lord Thranduil said that none of the Dwarves is obliged to do so if they don’t wish it. You know how I stand in this… What say you? What do the other patriarchs say?’

 

“There was silence for many long moments, and then one of us stepped forward.

 

“‘I’m Thrond, son of Bain,’ he cried out for all to hear, ‘and my clan is ready to offer its services to the Mirkwood Elves!’

 

“‘I’m Darin, son of Druin,’ cried out another patriarch, ‘and aye, me and my men are ready to help as well!’

 

“‘And I’m Omi, son of Nami, and my men’s axes are on the Elves’ side too!’

 

“Ceranos looked at all three patriarchs and bowed low at them, thanking them thus silently for their offer. Then he turned to the commander of the Elves.

 

“‘You heard our answer, what will you say to that, Master Eregdos?’

 

“The Elf looked at all of us for a while, and then he faced Rakhâs-Ûdrig again.

 

“‘On behalf of our king, we accept your help gladly,’ he said, something that made all of us cheer, while it brought a broad smile to Ceranos’s face.

 

“‘So be it,” he said softly and the two Elves clasped each other’s arms, sealing the agreement. Then Ceranos turned to us once more.

 

“‘Even though these two days haven’t been wasted, there’s no point in starting now. Thrond, Darin and Omi will stay with their men in Mirkwood, but we must press on to Dale, where King Brand still awaits our help. We must keep marching till we reach the Lonely Mountain without any more stops, so to ensure that we will arrive in time. I know that what I ask is difficult, but bear in mind what our forefathers used to say: a warrior knows true rest once he’s dead! To Dale!’

 

“‘To Dale!’ we shouted all in one voice, our blood boiling with the urge to rush to our brothers’ side. In less than a half hour we had set off, and Ceranos was marching by Nain and Loin once more, his tall form standing out among the Dwarves, while the Elves marched close behind us as well, proud and erect, their bows at hand.

 

“‘You’ve done well, my brother,’ I heard Nain say to his foster kin, his eyes shining in admiration.

 

“‘But there is something troubling you,’ said Rakhâs-Ûdrig, obviously noticing some other feelings mingled in Nain’s face. “You think I shouldn’t accept Lord Thranduil’s help?’

 

“‘No, no, far from that,’ Nain assured him. ‘I’m merely not sure how Brand and Grór will react to that.’

 

“‘If the situation is as bleak as I fear it will be, neither the King of Dale nor the King of the Iron Hills will object to the Elves’ presence,’ murmured Ceranos with a smirk.

 

“‘What makes you say that?’

 

“‘Lord Thranduil,” replied the Elf, and he lowered his head to make sure that only those he trusted would hear him. ‘Some of his scouts noticed armies of the Men of the East marching toward Dale. They are many, Nain… Too many.’

 

“‘You mean…?’

 

“‘Aye…” sighed Ceranos, his face saddened.

 

Nain’s eyes opened wide, frightened at the realisation.

 

“‘Great Mahal… we’re marching to our deaths,’ he said softly.

 

“‘All of us,’ replied Ceranos nodding. ‘Elves and Dwarves. Thranduil isn’t sure he will be able to last against his own foes either.’

 

Nain remained silent for a few moments, clearly pondering the situation.

 

“‘Once we fall, nothing will stop Sauron from sweeping everything in his path, taking all Middle-Earth as his own. But you know something, my friend and kin?’ he said in the end. ‘I’ll welcome death, if it means that I died for my freedom.’

 

“‘And I’ll welcome it on my family’s side as well,’ stated Rakhâs-Ûdrig proudly, his hand resting on the old Dwarf’s shoulder.

 

“‘I know you will, Ceranos… I know you will,’ whispered Nain kindly, looking at the Elf’s eyes.”

 

™™™™ ����

 

Nôm quickly brushed away with the back of his hand the tear that flowed down from his eye, while Aragorn and Gimli felt the lump that had formed in their throats almost choking them now. And yet, they still waited patiently for the war-beaten Dwarf to carry on with his tale.

 

“So it happened. We reached Dale in time, and the Eastern Men were many indeed, but we didn’t lose heart. For five days we fought desperately, killing foes till our axes and hands were soaked in blood, and the Elves always by our side with their bows and arrows. However, all of us knew the horrible truth, even though none of us dared utter it: that we were growing fewer in numbers, while the Easterlings only grew more.

 

“It was on the dawn of the sixth day that our enemies struck the hardest, forcing us to retreat slowly but surely toward the Mountain, even though we tried to stand our ground. I chanced to be fighting just a little ways away from Ceranos, Nain and Loin on that day, and I could clearly see them all taking out their foes one by one whenever I had the chance to look. Our patriarch was deadly as he proved swift, and Loin’s axe claimed the lives of many Easterlings also. But Nain had soon grown tired, his age finally catching up with him. It was then that it happened: while he wasn’t careful enough, an enemy arrow struck him in his chest.

 

“Ceranos was the first to react. He shouted to all that were closest to him to come to his side and cover him, while he tried to carry Nain away to safety. All of us responded to that call and fought fiercely to defend our fallen comrade. The Easterlings tried to grab the body and claim it for their prize, but Loin and me drew them off quickly, giving time for Ceranos to reach Nain. The Elf quickly cradled his foster brother’s body close to him, trying to help him somehow. But it was to no avail: Thrir’s son was already dead.

 

“All Dwarves, Elves and Easterlings froze momentarily to hear the cry that cut through the air like a knife, easily drowning the battle cries and the clash of armour; for it was the scream of anguish for a loved one now gone. Then Ceranos arose, wielding his axe with such fury as I hadn’t seen before and threw himself against our enemies. His madness was so frightening that none dared to withstand it, and the Easterlings even tried to keep away from him, startled. We, however, took a new strength of heart and it seemed for a moment that the attackers had become the attacked.

 

“But that didn’t last long. For in that moment, a barrage of flaming orbs started falling among us, bringing us all to disarray. At that moment I felt it was only me that stood his ground and I turned around, trying to look for any of our own comrades, when my eyes fell on Loin and Ceranos’s forms. It was in that instant that one such orb hit the Elf, knocking the helmet off his head and stunning him enough to fall on the ground. Loin immediately rushed to his side and I tried to fight my way to them as well to help them; but more Men came and pushed me even further away. And when the patriarchs shouted at us to retreat behind the walls of Dale, there was no choice for me but to leave them behind.

 

“For three days we stayed in Dale under siege, each day seeming blacker than the previous one, until, when it all seemed lost, the joyous news came that Sauron was destroyed, something that made the Easterlings retreat, frightened. We didn’t know how that came to pass but we didn’t care; for what mattered to us was that Middle-Earth had won its freedom. However, it was only a bitter victory that we had earned, for everybody in the clan still remembered those who died fighting, Dwarves and Elves alike. Even Brand and Grór had died in battle; so all we could was smile bitterly and collect the dead that were still lying in the battlefield in order to give them a proper burial in the place they fell. That’s where Nain is buried too.

 

“And Ceranos?” asked Aragorn hoarsely.

 

“I tried personally to look for his body and Loin’s, but neither of them was anywhere to be seen. I fear the Easterlings grabbed them and defiled them by stripping them of their armour and beheading them. Such were the Easterlings’ foul ways, curse them!” said Nôm, flaring up at the memory. “Several of the Dwarves and Elves that died during the battle had a similar fate, so I wasn’t able even to recognise them among the bodies. I fear the only thing that I was able to find of Ceranos was this,” he added, rising and going to a corner of the room. When he returned, he was holding in his hands a great double-headed axe, too big to be wielded by a Dwarf. This it was that Nôm handed now to the Man sitting before him.

 

“You recognise it,” he said, noticing Aragorn’s eyes shining.

 

“I do,” said the king. “He had made it himself.”

 

Nôm smiled a bit and then, after a small consideration, pushed it gently towards his guest.

 

“It’s yours.”

 

Aragorn looked at Nôm in shock.

 

“This should stay with the clan,” he said, attempting to give the axe back. But Nôm stopped him.

 

“It should stay with a friend and I’m sure he would like you to have it. Take it and think of him from time to time.”

 

The Man sighed, defeated, and clenched his hands around the weapon, placing it at his side.

 

“Thank you,” he said simply as he finally arose.

 

“You’re welcome. I only wish I had better news to tell you then of his death. Farewell, Lord Elessar. And farewell to you too, Master Gimli.”

 

Both king and Dwarf inclined their heads in courtesy and then left. It was with a heavy heart that they walked out of the gates of Nogrod to find Brego, who was grazing nearby. Gimli stood by the horse, ready to set out, but Aragorn didn’t wish to leave just yet. Having the axe still in his hands, he turned to face the rocky slopes of the Blue Mountains.

 

“I kept my promise, my friend. But it seems the Valar have decided otherwise,” he murmured with a sigh. He returned to his comrade’s side, and they both settled on Brego and then set off to find the king’s escort, Gimli sitting behind Aragorn. Even though he couldn’t see it, Gimli was aware that his friend was shedding tears as they were riding.

The End.