Submitter: Pecos Date: 2005/12/29 Views: 3241 Rate: 7.00/10

“When something good happens it’s a miracle and you should wonder what God is saving up for you later.” - Marshall Brickman


Esme Fowler came to the park every day, regardless of the weather, to feed the birds and take some air. She’d been doing so for nearly seventy years, and nothing was going to alter her afternoons -- certainly nothing as temporary as a war, despite the best intentions of her granddaughter, nephew and assorted in-laws. Esme had her own agenda.

The pigeons always spotted her arrival first, knowing her schedule as well as she did, and as soon as she’d taken her place on ‘her’ bench the feathered hoards descended. The cracked corn was tossed first, to give the little, less pushy ones something to eat, then she sat back and pulled out the stale bread she’d gotten from the corner baker. It wasn’t really stale…they made an extra loaf every day, called it “Esme’s loaf”, but she was willing to pretend that it was if the baker wanted to call it stale. Business was good, despite the blitz. Even in war, people have to eat - as do the birds.

She carefully cut off just enough of the bread to have with her tea, and then started tearing tiny bits off the remaining loaf and tossing it to the jostling pigeons, calling most by name.

Today she netted a different kind of bird altogether. It was very quiet in the park, only the bustle and ruffle of feathers and cooing to be heard, when she realized that someone had come out of the trees and moved to the edge of the circle of waiting birds. Crouching down as if trying to appear smaller than he really was, the lad was very thin, yet still elegant. His clothes were quite eccentric, leather perhaps, in woodsy colours, and his eyes were lowered humbly.

Esme had seen a lot in her years, but she’d never seen anything like this in London. “Hello, young lad,” she said encouragingly, realizing at once that he was a lost soul. Purple eyes flicked up to meet hers, and he moved a bit closer, lowering his gaze again.

“What’s your story then, lad?” she asked him. The pigeons had stopped cooing, and were more interested in the new arrival than in getting more food. That was by far the most unusual thing Esme had EVER witnessed. Nothing distracted a hungry pigeon.

Inching closer, the boy stayed crouched, and she knew that if they were both standing he would tower over her. But she felt no threat from his quiet presence. His hair sparkled with golden highlights, and was elaborately tucked behind the most charmingly tipped ear imaginable. Lifting his hand slowly, as if trying not to spook a nervous animal, he touched the end of the loaf of bread, letting his fingers linger as if confirming its reality. Then he lifted his other hand, and in his palm lay a tiny silver clasp of worked metal, intricate and delicate. Esme leaned closer and took the little clasp, seeing at once that it matched those on the lad’s under tunic. It seemed heavy, and she would bet that it was real silver.

The young man touched the bread again, and lifted his remarkable eyes in entreaty. She smiled at him. “Hungry, are you, lad?” Esme laid the remainder of the loaf in his hand, then tried to return the clasp to him. “You needn’t pay me, luv. I don’t like to see the wild things go hungry.” A smile flitted across his lips almost too quickly to acknowledge, but she was sure she’d seen it. He folded her fingers closed over the tiny clasp, and his touch was warm and soft and felt like the brush of a spring leaf. “Oh, you are a charmer, you are!” Esme giggled, catching the lovely eyes again. His eyes made her think of spring as well, and of love.

“Auntie?” called a voice from up the path, and Gerald appeared, walking quickly toward her. “Auntie…you know you shouldn’t be out here alone!” His patronizing tone put her back up like a cat’s.

“I’m not alone, you git,” she muttered under her breath, glaring in his direction. When she looked back down the young man was gone. The pigeons gazed up at her as if wondering where he’d disappeared to as well.

Esme glanced around, ignoring the drone of complaint from Gerald as he shooed the birds back, but she couldn’t see any sign of her fairy visitor. Well…if you’re going to start imagining people, at least they should all be that pretty and fey. She let Gerald pull her to her feet, but as he started bustling her toward the gate she realized that her fist was still clenched around a tiny silver clasp.

The distance was greater than it had seemed, and Aragorn was starting to feel tired when he crested the ridge and saw a small settlement spread before him in a hollow of the land. The land here was being farmed, but the furrows of the fields were unnaturally straight and ordered, like lines drawn in the sand, with little heed of terrain or obstructions. Upright buildings with odd, squared corners and fences, broad, smooth paths that shone in the sun. Barns and outbuildings of every size, this had to be a hub of commerce or the base of a large landowner. But nothing seemed even vaguely familiar. Where in Middle-earth had that thrice-damned Wizard led him?

He meant to skirt the area and examine it from afar, but something familiar caught his eye at last. A fenced area held several men and more animals, horses among them. He would need a good mount if he was going to have to travel far…and it looked like he was going to need to do just that. Besides, he had to enquire if anyone had seen a solitary Elf passing through, not that far ahead.

Striding into their midst, the first thing he noticed was that no one here was armed. Aragorn unpinned his cloak and made a hasty bundle around Narsil, where he could still reach the sword but it was not obvious. His daggers and knives were out of sight. He moved closer, studying the curious dress and manner of these strange men. Their speech was the most startling thing of all. Aragorn had heard every manner of tongue spoken in Middle-earth during his years with the Elves and his wanderings into distant lands. This language was completely foreign to his ears. He cursed Saruman again and hesitated in the shadow of a tall building.

The horses were sorry animals; generally bad conformation, shallow chests, dull coats and listless eyes. It looked like the herds had been left to breed at will with poor sires and bad grazing for many a generation. The spark of intelligence was all but gone. The men were gathered around a fenced enclosure, talking animatedly while three individuals worked to saddle a single sweat-soaked gelding held inside the corral. Aragorn laid his bundle down cautiously and moved closer, his heart going out to the poor animal. Head down, nostrils flared, the horse was a colour and breed he’d never seen before. Black mane, tail and socks, the horse’s body was dun…a shade almost as golden as Legolas’ flowing hair. But that was the only thing here that reminded Aragorn of his missing friend.

Legolas would have been appalled at what happened next as one of the men swung onto the horse’s back, aided by two others holding the animal’s head. Then the helpers jumped back and the rider laid steel spurs to the horse’s heaving sides. Shouts and encouragement burst from the watchers as the horse screamed in anger and fear and set about trying to buck off his unwanted rider. The men here seemed to think this was entertainment. Aragorn was quite pleased that the horse won with just a few good jumps, the rider flying through the air and into the fence lined with his associates.

The men gathered around their fallen companion, talking quickly and too loud, laughing and making sport of this barbaric activity. Aragorn watched for a few moments, but his attention was drawn to the horse as it ran back and forth along the fence on the opposite side of the corral, trying to find a way to escape. He ducked through the rails and went to the animal, whistling softly. This was no proud Rohirrim mount, nor an animal fit to bear Elves through quiet glades. This was a rough and untamed beast which had suffered untold mistreatment. Yet Aragorn’s softly muttered encouragement still reached pricked ears, and the horse paused, staring at him sideways, chest heaving and a tremor in its flanks.

Still speaking softly, Aragorn spoke the words of friendship, and the horse came closer, eyeing him questioningly. Even this far removed, some ancient connection still existed - some untold understanding. The horse decided, and came nearer to dip its head in submission. Aragorn reached out a rough hand to brush lightly at the silken nostrils, and when the horse was ready he breathed softly into the animal’s face, sharing scent and speaking of trust. The horse’s eyes were no longer wild, and he knew that in a few minutes this animal would be ready to consider forming a bond and accepting him as a rider on its back. He looked up to see that all the men there were standing outside the fence, staring at him with questions in their own eyes.

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