from the compendium & addditions of LOTR pastiches thread at MakingLight: nielsenhayden.com/makinglig...tml#005353
I lived long enough to see the Elves depart for the Undying Lands; to see the rise of the Age of Men; to learn ten languages; to realize my mission given me by the Valar to aid Middle Earth in its wars with Sauron; to see the end of the Council of the Wise and of wisdom.
I never thought I’d live to see the day when Keep A-Stridin' Aragorn would decide to become King Elessar until the end of his days.
Aragorn was in his second or third blush of youth when I first met him, sometime late-A3. He was a rangy cowpoke, apparent 40 or so, all rawhide squint-lines and sunburned neck, boots worn thin and infinitely comfortable. He was taking a break from Saving the World, chilling in Bree and bouncing for some poor innkeeper. We hooked up at the Prancing Pony---the PraPo for those who knew---on a busy Friday night, spring-ish. I was fighting an Ent-slow battle for a stool at the scratched bar, inching my way closer every time the press of bodies shifted, and he had one of the few seats, surrounded by a litter of pipeweed junk and empties, clearly encamped.
Some duration into my foray, he cocked his head at me and raised a sun-bleached eyebrow. "You get any closer, son, and they're going to have to write a lay about us."
I lived long enough to see the Elves depart for the Undying Lands; to see the rise of the Age of Men; to learn ten languages; to realize my mission given me by the Valar to aid Middle Earth in its wars with Sauron; to see the end of the Council of the Wise and of wisdom.
I never thought I’d live to see the day when Keep A-Stridin' Aragorn would decide to become King Elessar until the end of his days.
Aragorn was in his second or third blush of youth when I first met him, sometime late-A3. He was a rangy cowpoke, apparent 40 or so, all rawhide squint-lines and sunburned neck, boots worn thin and infinitely comfortable. He was taking a break from Saving the World, chilling in Bree and bouncing for some poor innkeeper. We hooked up at the Prancing Pony---the PraPo for those who knew---on a busy Friday night, spring-ish. I was fighting an Ent-slow battle for a stool at the scratched bar, inching my way closer every time the press of bodies shifted, and he had one of the few seats, surrounded by a litter of pipeweed junk and empties, clearly encamped.
Some duration into my foray, he cocked his head at me and raised a sun-bleached eyebrow. "You get any closer, son, and they're going to have to write a lay about us."
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Scranton
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