Aragorn, son of Arathorn
Dec 16, 2018 8:08:08 GMT -5
Post by Aragorn on Dec 16, 2018 8:08:08 GMT -5
M E N ❂ O F ❂ T H E ❂ W E S T
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Character Name: Aragorn, son of Arathorn
Nickname or Alias:
Thorongil - meaning “Eagle of the Star”
Estel - meaning “Hope”
Strider - a sobriquet given by the men of Bree.
Race: Dúnedain
Age: 79 years
Date of Birth: 1 March Third Age 2931
Place of Birth: Eriador
Current Residence: Wanderer
Occupation: Ranger
━━ ❂ A P P E A R A N C E • • ━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━ ━ ━
From the shadows, he seems but a man.
But there is a spark of the Dúnedain within him. Aragorn stands taller than most, and moves with a dexterity rarely seen in his race. He is a quiet monument; few quickly forget the ranger when faced with the full intensity of that inherent blood. Though they may not know his name or destiny, they will whisper to one another that there was a man here, a man who gave them the faintest scent of hope.
He is both the sun and the storm. Fair skinned, thundercloud eyes, and dark haired, Aragorn has the appearance of any man cursed with mortality. But there is something different about the way he speaks, the way he fights, and the way he exists. The Dúnedain, though hard to see under his skin, marks him as different.
In recent years, this bloodline is difficult to spot. Aragorn is weary, and it has begun to press his shoulders down, and grey his persona. Too much of the world is poised on the success of a handful of men, and he feels unworthy to march alongside them.
━━ ❂ P E R S O N A L I T Y • • ━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━ ━ ━
He is the enigma. Born in human skin, but raised by the everlasting peoples, Aragorn has patience not commonly found among men. By contrast, he is quick to action, for the hot blood of mortality creates urgency in the execution of his decisions. He is the one who waits, as well as the one who charges first. A paradox, to be sure.
Despite the lineage born to him, Aragorn remains humble. He thinks of himself as a servant, a ranger - unworthy of respect he has not earned. Those who know of his destiny are confused by his apparent resistance; but surely this world can find better kings than he. Aragorn is content to love, to live, and to do all he can to stem the tide of growing darkness. And that, of course, requires no crown.
━━ ❂ F A M I L Y • • ━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━ ━ ━
Parents: Arathorn II and Gilraen
Siblings: None
Spouse: Promised to Arwen
Children: None
━━ ❂ H I S T O R Y • • ━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━ ━ ━
The Hunt for Gollum (3001-present)
He comes down from the hallowed Misty Mountains, tasting of ice and iron. A creature who settles his cold body in the Eriadoran sun. And there, it will take root, until the end of all good things.
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But the end comes when the leaves of the black alder curl and give into the hues of fire and earth. The yearling lambs are growing their winter coats, suckling the last of their mother’s milk before the northwind comes to dry it into white memory.
It is there that Strider moves in the secret spaces between shadows. He has all the mystery of the old walkingwoods of Fangorn, and like the ancient Ents, he is more myth than man.
The shirelings avoid him, for they distrust one that watches without word. He is the green and grey ranger, who tastes his ale in the quiet spaces, while all the world outside slips closer to a blistering darkness, that will consume these fine hobbits and their merry music, their warm beer, and their pleasant homes.
It is a fury he is intent to uncover. And it is why he is always alone.
The Wars Against Darkness (2957-2980)
He has felt that fury before, in his days with men, when hoarse voices shouted back the leagues of darkness.
Back then, Strider did not exist, and the man walked as Thorongil. Allie to Thengel of Rohan, and Ecthelion of Gondor, he fought alongside the men of the free west. Together they watched the scorched earth breathe, columns of ash slowly twisting into the skies. Years later, the Rohirrim will remember the sounds of screaming horses, of dying orcs. The men of the White Tree recall the intense smell of heat, the grey burn in their throats from ash. Thorongil, though. Thorongil remembers the colors. Bright white tinged on gold and rose. And then the deepness of the earth as it turned wine underfoot of the destriers who were emptied out, and men choking on the redlife of their belly wounds. The ground was wet, soaked too full to accept anything else. And so, those dying horses drowned with blood in their nostrils.
He will remember the brightness of it until his bones lay in the good earth.
Life Among the Elves (2933-2952)
It is not as bright, though, as some lights. Years ago, he handled pure starlight, and it burned him into memory.
These are the times when he walked not as Thorongil or Strider, but Estel, a mortal man raised among the everlasting beings. He was the wild and free lad that reminded these people how beautiful mortality could be. He burned bright, because in the span of human years, he would eventually burn out.
But oh, the joys of being young, alive, and free.
Estel would have grown content to be bound to those mortal bones, had be not met the evenstar.
Arwen.
Though their interactions have been brief, Estel gave to her the only gift he possessed. Life. For when years must be measured and counted, they are all the more precious.
He has few, compared to her gracious immortality. But they are hers, each of them.
Life As A Ranger (3001-present)
On the south banks of the Brandywine, there is a tavern off the sheriffmuir that has the finest Elven wine in Eriador. Beneath the floorboards, old hands have dug a crawl space where vintages are stored in barrels made of brandy-soaked oak, and smoked cherry. There, wine enjoys the peaceful sleep of temperate nights and mild summers.
And it is there that transformation occurs, guided by the gnarled wrists of time.
Maybe, Aragorn thinks, sitting in a hand-carved chair, staring down at the pewter cup that houses a rather expensive red, he is like that old-world wine. Someone has squeezed the life out of him like wrathful grapes, and into the press he went. Skin discarded. Naked in the dark. The pressure of a thousand tons has changed him into something unrecognizable.
He reaches for the cup and swirls it casually, watching the legs slowly drip down the rim.
Wine, he was told by proud sommeliers, is sunlight encased in glass. It brings joy, laughter, and warmth to the ends of the earth. Aragorn tastes his, eyes unfocusing, and smiles ruefully when he returns it to the table.
Sometimes he wonders if his mother is attempting to warm the corners of his old, Dúnedain bones. But what is that ancestral land to him, anymore? It is nothing but a place of old memory, filled with familial graves.
He swirls the cup again, and shifts in his chair.
In time, he must decide between the paths he might take. Become the king of a people he’s never led; marry the woman he loves, but who is far beyond his worth; or bear the overwhelming burden of pressing back the darkness.
A weary hand scrubs down his face and through his hair, before he pushes the cup back, and stares into the dark shadows of the tavern at Brandywine.
In these moments, Aragorn is aware of his greatest weakness: he is only a man.