Most Precious (L/A), 1/7
Title: Most Precious
Author: surreysmum
Pairing: Legolas/Aragorn (Aragorn as Thorongil)
Rating: R to NC-17 eventually; PG for most of it.
Disclaimer: the astonishingly fertile world of Middle Earth was created by J.R.R. Tolkien. I merely grow a few little weeds in it, without view to profit.
A/N: This story takes place around the year 2960 in the Third Age - that is, almost sixty years before the major events of the War of the Ring. Aragorn spent several decades under the name of Thorongil in the service of Thengel King of Rohan and then Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor. This story is set early in that period.

Most Precious

… to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Shakespeare; Sonnet #131.

Thengel, King of Rohan, stood upon his battlements and gazed unseeing across the rocky hills surrounding Edoras. His fingers twisted and turned where they met behind his back. Thengel King was most uneasy of mind this evening. He turned sharply at the sound of booted feet.

"Your pardon for disturbing you, my Lord King," said the hooded traveller.

"Nay, Thorongil," said the King with a smile of welcome. "Right glad am I to see you returned safely from your errand. Had you success?"

"Merely some town bully-boys, as we expected, my Lord," replied Thorongil, pushing back his hood as he spoke. "They will trouble the farmers no more - a glimpse of real steel and the name of the King reduced them to blubbering in no time flat."

The King clapped him on the shoulder. "I'd venture the name of Thorongil carries no little weight of its own these days." Thorongil bowed gravely at the compliment. His bearded face was that of a still young man, but of serious mien. Some there were who called him grim and mistrusted him greatly for the rarity of his laughter. But Thengel King had in two short years grown to like and trust this Thorongil, this Eagle of the Star.

They spoke in Sindarin, as was their usual custom while alone, the Elvish language giving them some safety from prying ears. Indeed, Thengel rarely spoke his native Rohirric, having grown up in exile in Gondor, where he learned both Westron and Sindarin. Thorongil proved to be equally fluent in all three, although Thengel sometimes speculated that he seemed most comfortable in the language of the Elves. It was just another mystery in the background of the silent young man, who never vouchsafed a word about who he was or where he came from, other than to confirm what was already obvious from his attire: that he was a Ranger of the North. He wore a star as clasp to his cloak, the sign of his particular company amongst the hardy Dunedain. Thengel wondered whether he had a trace of the old royal line of Gondor and Arnor in his veins - it was said that many of them did.

Now he turned a troubled gaze on the younger man. "I have something I must show you," he said, and led the way into the fortress. He stopped in the antechamber of the Throne Room. Thorongil stood at a respectful distance as the King unlocked a cabinet and brought out a large and highly elaborate key, then addressed that key to the huge lock of the richly decorated box which sat bolted to furniture and wall in the corner of the room. Lifting the topmost false lid, the King then drew out the tiny key which he always wore around his neck, and opened the box proper. Reaching inside, he pulled out the glittering contents, and asked Thorongil brusquely, "What is this that I hold in my hand?"

Thorongil frowned at the odd question. "It is your crown, my Lord. The crown of the kings of Rohan, passed down through the generations from your ancestor, the great King Eorl the Younger."

"Are you sure about that?" The King proffered the crown, and Thorongil took it hesitantly.

"It is a counterfeit," said the Ranger, startled. Indistinguishable from the real crown on the outside, the inside bore all the signs of hasty and recent workmanship. Though he had not handled the crown before, Thorongil knew it would have been carefully finished by its original maker, and worn smooth by generations of monarchs since.

"Aye," said the King grimly, "I had it made three days ago under conditions of greatest secrecy."

"The real crown… ?"

"Has been stolen," confirmed the King. "By what means, I cannot tell. The box was intact and fully locked, inside and out, when I found it empty last Saturday morn. The key has never left my neck. Either the deed was accomplished by a lockpick of extraordinary skill, or we are dealing with something supernatural."

"Was no stranger seen?"

"None inside the fortress," replied the king. "But we have several reports of a mysterious black-clad rider in a black helm, his features invisible, galloping northward upon a magnificent coal-black steed that flew like the wind." He gave a wry smile. "My people, of course, noticed the horse far better than the rider. They say its eyes gleamed red in the moonlight, an illusion perhaps." He replaced the false crown in the box, and locked it carefully away, then sat wearily down. Thorongil remained standing respectfully before him.

"That same black horse and rider were seen riding north from Minas Tirith ten days ago when the White Staff of the Steward was stolen," he went on, taking grim pleasure in the look of shock that passed over Thorongil's usually imperturbable features. "I have had a secret letter from Ecthelion, the Steward, this morning. But not only that, I am hearing rumours that other, most precious, objects have also been stolen from other realms."

"You wish me to ride north, my Lord," concluded Thorongil.

"I do not expect the impossible, Thorongil," replied Thengel. "And if I had the faintest inkling of who this dastardly thief might be, I would send you with a troop of armed men. Find me some information, some clue as to where to send that force, if you can, and I will be more than grateful." He smiled. "Remember you are not an army, young friend."

Thorongil nodded. "I will be swift and inconspicuous, my Lord."

"Take Brego. He too is swift and inconspicuous."

Thorongil was gratified at this great favour. Though far from the highest-bred or most beautiful steed in Thengel's famous stables, Brego was one of the king's favourites. In addition to his speed, he was even more intelligent and loyal than his stablemates.

"I am honoured, my Lord," said Thorongil.

Before the sun was fully risen the next day, the Ranger was many miles north of Edoras.

Upon an impulse, Thorongil set off to the north-east towards Mirkwood with the idea of trying to gather information at Thranduil's court. Though not known for travelling outside his own borders, there was little that occurred in northern realms that was unknown to the Woodland King, the Ranger wagered.

It would be a long journey over much barren land. To ride directly north to the Golden Wood might seem the wiser course, for there Galadriel, powerful Lady of Lorien, might be persuaded to peer into her mirror, famed in Elvish lore, and perchance give him the knowledge he sought. But Thorongil had his own reasons, barely acknowledged even to himself, for avoiding the Golden Wood.

Brego needed no spur. Swiftly they flew across the land, hilly and pathless though it was, making their way to the nearest crossing of the mighty Anduin. A journey that might have taken an ordinary traveller several days was accomplished by nightfall. They stopped just short of the river in a dry and tree-sheltered hollow, and, once relieved of saddle and saddle-bags, Brego wandered off a slight way to satisfy his appetite on a nearby patch of long grass, while Thorongil swallowed his coarse travel rations, hardly noticing their taste.

The sagacious horse soon returned to his master and lay down accommodatingly so the man could rest comfortably against his flank. Thorongil gazed up at the stars dotting the clear sky, lost in thought. Anon he spoke aloud, whimsically.

"Have you a favourite mare, Brego, whose company you would rather be keeping than mine?"

The horse nickered softly, almost as if he understood and were laughing.

Thorongil's face split in a broad grin. "Aye, I'm with ye there, horse. We have a lot of galloping and adventuring to do, you and I, before we can bear to live tamely in a stable and be put to stud." He frowned at himself half-heartedly for the irreverence of the comparison, then shrugged. The Lady upon whom his heart was set was so unreachable, so truly beyond both his grasp and his deserving, that such nonsense did not come close to touching her fair image. He laid down his head and slept.

The next morn found Thorongil, astride Brego once more, surveying the swift-flowing and swollen Anduin with a worried brow. This stretch was usually safe to swim across, albeit a little strenuous at times, but Thorongil was not at all sure that was the case today. Brego, however, started to wade impatiently in. Thorongil made to pull him up, then changed his mind. The horse knew his own powers. Instead the man pulled the saddlebags up around his own neck, to spare them the worst of the water, and gave Brego his head. The horse struck powerfully out into the current.

Nigh on an hour later and a few miles closer to the Falls of Rauros, they reached the further bank. Thorongil hauled himself ashore at once, threw the saddlebags aside, and carefully assisted his trembling steed ashore, murmuring soft words of praise and gratitude. As he was rummaging in the bags for means of making Brego more comfortable, a piping voice said, "A fine horse indeed."

Thorongil's sword was out before the sentence was finished.

"Now, now, take care good sir, I meant no harm," babbled the short and unattractive being before him.

Thorongil sheathed his sword. The little man (for man he was, not hobbit or dwarf) was obviously no threat, except perhaps to the contents of the saddlebags, where his sly and covetous glance kept straying. "What would you with me?" asked Thorongil brusquely, turning his attention back to Brego and the extra cloak he was using for the nonce as a horse blanket to soak up the extra water and warm the animal a little.

"Naught, naught at all," said the man. "I was but curious - we get few visitors in these parts. I am Maglint, a trader."

Petty thief, and quite likely a smuggler up and down the river, supplied Thorongil's suspicious thoughts.

"And yourself?" pursued Maglint, when Thorongil failed to respond in kind.

"Thorongil. A Ranger."

"A Dúnadan. I thought so! You are right welcome here, Ranger!"

Thorongil doubted it. He and Maglint's kind were natural enemies. He clicked to Brego and started to walk him around in a small circle, wanting the horse to be dryer before he started to curry the mud from his legs. Maglint stood in the centre of the circle, shifting in place rather ludicrously as he followed them around. "That is a choice silver star you wear on your cloak, Thorongil."

"Aye," said the Ranger. "It is not for sale."

"Nay, I never supposed it," replied Maglint, his eyes following the sparkle of the clasp.

They both fell silent for a long while. At length, Thorongil rested Brego and cleaned him up as best he could, then turned his attention to his own rather soggy person. When he pulled out his dry - or rather, drier - pair of breeches from the saddlebag, and Maglint made no move to leave, Thorongil shrugged, turned his back, neatly stripped his lower half bare, and reclothed himself. When he turned back, Maglint had his eyes turned away in embarrassment, but continued to stand his ground.

Thorongil sighed. "What do you want of me, Maglint?"

Maglint's eyes flicked sideways towards the river. "Nothing in particular, good sir; it is lonely around here and good to have company," he said, with an oily attempt at charm that was positively blood-curdling.

Thorongil began to suspect that it was his absence that was actually desired - that there was a boat-load of goods waiting just out of sight on the river that he was on no account to be allowed to see. As if to confirm his suspicion, Maglint looked again, more nervously, in the direction of the river. Well, there was one way of confirming it. Thorongil drew out his pipe and his weed pouch. "Will you join me in a smoke?" he offered.

"You have pipeweed?" The eagerness and then sudden indecision in Maglint's face was comical. "Ah well, mebbe - mebbe just a quick puff." He pulled out of his jacket pocket a pipe that had seen better days, and not much use lately. They sat with their backs to a pair of trees, and once the pipe-bowls were packed, Thorongil courteously supplied the spark from a quick glance of his hunting knife off his sword.

"Have there been many strangers passing this way lately?" he enquired.

"Nay, nothing out of the ordinary," replied Maglint. "Barring yourself, of course. But the one you'd want to ask about that would be my cousin Halvman. He keeps practically the only wayfarer's stop between here and the Running River. It's north-northeast of here, just west of a high mountain that spouts fume, a long day's ride. In fact, if you left now, you could probably reach it before nightfall with that fine horse of yours."

Thorongil smiled quietly to himself around his pipe. Suspicion confirmed. He was half tempted to linger and put paid to the smugglers' plans. But he had a quest to fulfil. "I do not often travel through the Dry Lands," he said aloud. It was the truth; he had not used this route before. "Are the wells well-marked?"

"Wells? There are precious few of those. You will need to carry much water." Maglint jumped to his feet and rummaged in some pack he had hidden amongst the bushes. "Here, I have some extra waterskins, large ones. Pray accept them. A gift."

Thorongil shook his head, and pulled a silver piece from his pouch. "I am a great believer in honest commerce, my friend," he said significantly. Maglint accepted the silver piece with laughable eagerness and retreated.

It took but a few moments to fill the skins and saddle Brego. Thorongil heaved a great sigh of pleasure and relief as they settled into their gallop and the wind of the dry plains began to whistle through his streaming hair and Brego's mane. Humankind could leave a bitter, dirty taste in your mouth, and other races, particularly the Elven ones, were simply perplexing. But this - swallowing up the miles in the thunder of a fine horse's hooves, with a straight path and a clear and righteous purpose - this was what he was born for. Here he could leave behind all the falsehoods and pretence and doubts that had been forced upon him by his unwished-for birthright. Here, with the breath going deep into his lungs, the sun squinting his eyes, and the grit stinging him sharply, honestly, in the face as they went ever faster - here he was not silent, moody Thorongil, nor indeed little, loved, tolerated, inferior Estel, human fosterling in an Elven house. Here he was Aragorn.

tbc