Word count: 200
Disclaimer: Tolkien fecit – Kortirion embroiders round the edge.
Notes: A double drabble, sorry about that, I needed the space.
He read the signs, bent grasses, broken twigs; the trail was obvious… too obvious. He followed it cautiously. Ranger’s tales of the ‘Old-Man-o’-the-Woods’ were tantalising; never seen, but always there, sometimes aiding, always watching. Aragorn wanted to meet him. Mithrandir had shrugged, youthful curiosity, - “go if you must, but be wary.”
He was two days into the Old Forest. In his path, a jug of water and sticks laid for a fire, a tacit invitation to camp. He searched the trees – no one, but… He set his pack down, reddening skies told of sunset. It was not cold, but the fire’s crimson glow was comforting; he was confident nothing ill would be drawn there. Aragorn drank the water, still refreshingly cold – immediately, he fell asleep. A merry voice sang:
Kings under the Mountains,
Kings of Golden Hall,
All shall be as friends to you,
If they do not fall.
Lord of Silver Tower,
Lord of Broken Horn,
He shall ne’er be lost to you,
Even though you mourn.
Come away my Elfstone,
Come away Tom’s dear,
Though red dawns shall sing to you,
You must never fear.
His dream faded on awakening, but he left the forest strangely comforted.