Chapter 20: The Ranger's Answer
Eight days later, Gorlim returned.
He wasn't alone.
The five riders who accompanied him wore the green and brown of Rangers—weathered cloaks, practical weapons, the lean build of men who lived in the wild. Their leader dismounted first, a man older than me but younger than Halbarad, with sharp eyes that missed nothing.
"Aldric of Amon Hen-dîr." Not a question. He'd already studied my face, compared it to whatever description Gorlim had provided. "I am Dírhael, captain of the northern patrol. Your messenger was... persuasive."
Gorlim's expression suggested "persuasive" was a generous term.
"Thank you for coming."
"Don't thank me yet." Dírhael's gaze swept the settlement—walls, watchtowers, the people who'd gathered to see the arrival. "I came to evaluate, not to promise. The Rangers don't commit lightly."
"Then evaluate." I stepped aside, gesturing toward the gate. "Ask your questions. See what we've built. I have nothing to hide."
Something flickered in his expression. Approval? Curiosity? Hard to tell.
"Three days," he said. "Then we'll talk."
[AMON HEN-DÎR — DAY TWO]
Dírhael missed nothing.
He watched the morning drills, noting how the militia moved, who led, who followed. He inspected the walls Tauriel had criticized and asked the same questions she had. He examined the forge, the food stores, the medical supplies.
On the second evening, he found Halbarad.
I wasn't supposed to be listening. But the watchtower's upper platform offered excellent acoustics if you stood in the right spot, and I'd learned that information was worth more than pride.
"You trust him?" Dírhael's voice carried clearly.
"I do." Halbarad's reply was immediate. "I've watched him for months. He works alongside his people. He bleeds with them. He buried the dead with his own hands."
"That's not what I asked. I asked if you trust him."
Long pause.
"More than any lord I've served. He fights dirty when he needs to—won duel against Gorlim through tactics that would have made my grandfather wince. But he shows mercy. He builds. He thinks."
"He's young."
"So was Aragorn, once."
The name hit me like ice water.
Aragorn.
Oliver's memories supplied context—the heir of Isildur, the ranger who would become king, the hero of the War of the Ring that wouldn't happen for nearly three decades.
"That's a heavy comparison," Dírhael said quietly.
"I know who I'm talking about." Halbarad's voice carried weight. "Aldric isn't Aragorn. But he might be what the north needs while we wait for Aragorn to be ready."
Silence stretched. I pressed myself against the wall, barely breathing.
"I'll tell the council," Dírhael said finally. "No promises. But I'll tell them what I've seen."
[AMON HEN-DÎR — DAY THREE — EVENING]
The verdict came at sunset.
Dírhael stood in the planning corner, his Rangers arrayed behind him. I faced him with my own people—Halbarad, Grimbeorn, Maeglin, the trusted core who'd been with me since the beginning.
"You're either a hope or a danger," Dírhael said. "Time will tell which."
"And the Rangers' decision?"
"We won't join your forces directly. We can't—our mandate is broader than one settlement, one threat." He paused. "But we recognize what you're building. We'll share intelligence. We'll coordinate when our interests align. And if you prove yourself against Ulfang..."
He reached into his pack and produced a bundle wrapped in oiled cloth.
"Ten arrows. Ranger-forged. Worth more than their weight in gold, and considerably more useful." He handed them to me. "Consider them a gesture of intent."
I took the bundle, feeling the weight of more than just weapons.
"What do the Rangers want in return?"
"Success. Stability. A settlement that can hold the Weather Hills without requiring our constant intervention." His eyes met mine. "We've been fighting rearguard actions for generations. Watching the north fall apart piece by piece. If you can hold what you've built—if you can grow it—that helps everyone."
"Including the Rangers."
"Including the Rangers." No deception in his voice. "We're spread thin. Getting thinner every year. A strong settlement in the Weather Hills means we can focus elsewhere. It's practical, not generous."
I appreciated the honesty.
"Then we have an understanding."
"We have the beginning of one." Dírhael's Rangers moved toward the gate. "Prove yourself against Ulfang. We'll be watching."
That night, Halbarad and Dírhael shared a drink.
I watched from a distance—close enough to see, far enough to grant privacy. Two old warriors, grey-haired and battle-scarred, sharing memories and regrets.
They spoke of Aragorn. Of the Dúnedain. Of hope that felt more like stubbornness and duty that felt more like chains.
When Dírhael left at dawn, he shook my hand.
"The Ranger network will send what intelligence we gather on Ulfang. Patrol routes, force estimates, anything useful." He mounted his horse. "Don't waste it."
"I won't."
He disappeared into the wild like smoke. Exactly as Halbarad had once described the Rangers—there one moment, gone the next.
But they knew about me now. They were watching. And what I did next would determine whether I became an ally or a problem.
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