The White Wolf

Disclamier: I don't own the characters. I'm only borrowing them for a bit. All characters save for Dinrogion belong to the Tol emp empire.

Aragorn shifted his weight in the chair, leaning away from the gleaming table and settling back against the warm wood. Around him, the others sat in various stages of discomfort, each trying to appear that they could continue the arduous meeting for hours.

Aragorn was close to the point of not caring about propriety and wondering what his advisors would do if he suddenly left the room. Recent lack of sleep had left him irritated, and at no time did he enjoy the council meetings that could last for long hours. He longed for the solitude of his own rooms, away from the pressing matters of state that required his attention on a daily basis. Only there could he manage to let all his guards down.

“The southern farmers are complaining yet again,” Faramir was saying from his end of the table, one piece of parchment clutched in his hands and his booted feet crossed on the table. “Seems there is another pack of wolves savaging the sheep herds. The farmers request that Gondor soldiers are sent down to kill the beasts.”

There was a loud snort from Faramir’s father. “What do they expect? It’s a lean winter in Gondor’s hills, and even the animals go hungry. We have enough problems as it is out of Rohan without having to worry with wasting good soldiers on mangy, stray animals. Tell the farmers to guard the sheep themselves.”

Faramir glanced at Aragorn once, a hesitant look in his blue eyes before he turned back to Denethor. “I would not have brought such a trivial matter before the Council if I did not think it important. It has been reported that this is a larger pack than ever, led by a demon wolf of white.”

Denethor grimaced and began to rail at his older son, complaining about Faramir’s tendency to believe any stray legend or fairy tale that crossed his path, but the words had caught Aragorn’s attention.

The king frowned and straightened in his chair, leaning forward. His movement silenced what would have been a long argument between father and son, and both turned to look at him. “A white wolf?”

Faramir nodded and picked up another sheaf of papers from the table. He sent one smug glance at his father before speaking into the silence. “So say the reports. I rum rumored that he is bigger than any wolf seen in many years, perhaps blood of the old mountain kin. They also say that he is as intelligent as any man, able to lead his pack through the farmers’ traps unharmed. There are some whispers that he is not a wolf at all, but perhaps something else entirely.”

“All I hear is a story of farmers too lazy to see to their own jobs!” came Denethor’s swift reply.

Merugo, Aragorn’s chosen Captain and trusted confidence, spoke up as well, an odd occasion for the silent warrior. “We have no soldiers to spare.”

“And the wolves have their own rights to hunt where they will. Even they must eat, and if sheep fall as easy prey, you cannot blame the wolves for it.” Elladan seemed the most comfortable of the Council, lounging in his chair with all the grace his elven blood bequeathed him, idly twisting a quill in his fingers.

Faramir spoke again, pressing for the right to hunt down the demon wolf himself and in all probability, for the right to prove to his father that his head was not easily swayed by such stories. The murmur of conversation grew as the Council debated around Aragorn, Faramir arguing with Denethor and Elladan, and Denethor’s wife Finduilas trying to calm them all.

Aragorn did not listen to their words. There are some whispers that he is not a wolf at all, but perhaps something else entirely. It could have been mere coincidence that this wolf was white, but some instinct told Aragorn this was not true. Aragorn could not have been more unsettled if Sauron himself had chosen that moment to walk through the door and demand Gondor’s throne. He wanted to believe that it was not possible, but some chill finger of doubt and misgiving crept down his spine.

“Send ten of the boys training to become soldiers,” he said, his words commanding instant silence. “Let Iramir lead them. This will placate the farmers and give the boys a chance to see what life is like outside of the barracks.” Aragorn held up a hand as Elladan began to protest. “Half-trained soldiers do not make good huntsmen, brother, I doubt the wolves have much to worry about. But we cannot let the requests of the people go unanswered.”

Finduilas stopped all further arguments by standing and bowing to Aragorn before straightening out her skirts. “A noble idea, my king, and one that I’m sure will please everyone. And I beg thee forgive my hastiness, but the hour grows late. Perhaps we could adjourn and continue this discussion tomorrow?” She bowed to the rest of the Council as well before turning back to face Aragorn, her eyes sparkling as she winked once in a sense of shared conspiracy.

Aragorn sent her a grateful look; glad yet again that he had included her as an advisor. Her patience and dignity were well needed many times when tempers flared, and she had taken to watching after Aragorn as if he was her own son. “Of course, Lady Finduilas. I believe that will be for the best.” He stood and headed for the door as the others pushed away from the table, smiling as he passed Finduilas.

Merugo immediately left for the Guards’ Tower, while Elladan slipped off on his own business. Finduilas captured Denethor’s arm and began to drag him protesting from the room, leaving only Aragorn and Faramir behind.

Faramir studied the table with an absent look on his face before he gathered up his few papers and began to make his way to the door. Aragorn would have bet a great deal that Faramir was wishing he could take his younger brother’s place in the upcoming trip. He reached out and stopped the young son of Gondor with one hand.

“I need to ask a favor, Faramir.”

Faramir looked up, his eyes clearing of their far-off look as he smiled. “Anything you ask, Aragorn.”

“I want you to keep track of these stories.” Not that Aragorn had any doubts that Faramir would without prompting. “And especially those of the white wolf. And keep me informed of what you hear.”

Faramir warmly clasped Aragorn’s shoulder, grinning in delight. “Of course I shall. You have my promise.” Faramir turned and left, a childlike excitement adding speed to his steps.

Aragorn watched him go, smiling slightly. Though Faramir was only a few years younger than he, sometimes his imagination turned him into a young child. Aragorn was almost envious of his ability to see life with such a boyish gaze. He had not found such peace or joy in the world in a very long time.

It was thatthat he did not have any reasons to be happy. After defeating Sauron, a restful peace had settled over all of Middle-Earth for five long years before tempers and countries once again began to clash. Aragorn was not alone in the White City, even though he and Arwen had parted several years ago, much to the relief of them both.

And yet, though thousands lived in the same city as he, sometimes wal walls grew too close, and he grew too lonely. Blood and training made him a Ranger, and he longed for the older days of traveling through the forests and over the old roads, no responsibilities to account for but those he gave himself. He was never meant to be king.

With a sigh, he started down the long halls to his own quarters. Given the chance, he would have left the throne to someone else and turned back to his former life, but no one else was willing to take the job. At least no one that Aragorn would feel comfortable with as king. And even were he to become a Ranger again, there were no guarantees that life would be the same as it had been.

It had been a life of danger, true, but a life of great impact and odd meetings as well. Such as the time Aragorn had been traveling the borders of Mordor before the Fellowship had formed, and had happened to stumble upon an enormous white wolf, bloodied and badly beaten, fending off a band of orc alone. It cannot be you, and I will not think of this again.

His rooms were located near the cente the the palace, set at the end of a lonely corridor, far from any other rooms as he had requested. It was his one sanctuary, his one place of rest. And even that had been troubled lately, plagued by strange dreams and hazy nightmares.

The doors opened onto three large rooms. The first area was separated from the second by an intricate elvish partition, the twining limbs carved to appear real. His bed occupied a humble place near the door, and the other half of the room had been transformed into his study. His desk occupied the largest space, and every inch of available wall had been covered with shelves.

He gladly shut and locked the door at his back before moving into the room. Anyone that might come seeking him that night would only have to wait until the morning. Servants had been in to clean his rooms, and one of them had left the balcony doors open. A draft of bitterly cold air swept into toom oom from outside, a razor sharp hint of snow carried by the wind. Four winter birds sat on the balcony railing, all but one singing.

He watched the birds for a moment, and loath to scare them away, he left the balcony doors open and retreated into the warm, tiled bath to wash away as much of the day’s worries as he could.