[ EU ] A Gondor soldier tells his child a tale about the mighty warrior Aragorn , son of Arathorn .

`` A fine meal mother, as always.'' 
 
 Calan received the same soft smile and nod he'd seen countless times growing up, his mother still as humble as ever. 
 
 As she cleared the table he eased himself into a chair by the fire, joining his father in the small den he'd played in as a child. The same smells, the same tapestries carefully spaced, the oak timbers darkened with age, and the same old man sitting in the middle. 
 
 Calan was the last of seven children left at home, soon to depart his home for a new warehouse near Brie. The country's love of the Hobbit's leaf had made their small shop into a wealthy purveyor of all things foreign. He'd grown up in a time of peace and trade, in a land of joy and hope. 
 
 And he did so knowing his father helped make that so. 
 
 `` Father'' 
 
 A barely lifted brow was all that acknowledged him. 
 
 `` Father, I'll be long from home this time. I do n't imagine I'll see you for quite a while.'' 
 
 Pursed lips and what could barely be called a nod 
 
 `` You've never told me what it was like... what he was like. Please, just tell me something. If you fall ill I may not make it back in time for-'' 
 
 `` I'm not so frail yet, boy.'' The eyes that met him, though clouded, had never lost the intensity that silenced Calan. 
 
 `` You see that flame there? You see the way it curls and reaches, the way it sears all it touches?.'' He jabbed the base log with a fire poker and sent embers to rising. `` That's what met us in our dreams. That great burning eye with all it's hate and malcontent, it waiting for you to nod off, to let your guard down and it filled you with fear.'' 
 
 A graveled voice sounds odd when it shakes. `` We did n't sleep, all of us we grew distant and suspicious. Neighbor shut his door on friend, and the joy went out of the world.'' 
 
 His wife of so many years laid her hand on the old soldier and closed her eyes as he carried on, a solemn face softly lit by the fire. 
 
 `` He changed all that.'' 
 
 `` Papa, I-'' Calan needed no stern look to be silent this time. 
 
 `` Oh sure, the lads love to talk about the dead bound to that blasted sword, and the ladies swoon for tales of Elves. But child I can not put to word the feeling of seeing hope embodied.'' 
 
 The fire's intensity reflecting on his eyes seemed to come from within now. 
 
 `` They could n't touch him. He flowed like the green death he commanded, a flurry of blade and armor leaving a wake of corrupted bodies behind him. I was bleeding from all manner of wounds'' He brushed a jagged scar on his arm with calloused fingers `` and backing away from two twisted nightmares grunting and howling as they advanced. My fear and despair born from years of haunted dreams and death was cut out of my life as quickly as he cut them down before me.'' 
 
 Calan's father stood tall, his voice carrying the bass and pride of a man half his age. His tone filled the room as he grew louder with each word. 
 
 `` Boy, for the next hour I stood shoulder to shoulder with the savior of Gondor. The hope of Middle Earth, our great King and champion of men carved a new life from the hell that spewed forth from Mount Doom.'' 
 
 `` You've not known strife, nor hunger, nor fear greater than my belt son. But know that if it were not for the Dunedain, the world would not know this peace.'' 
 
 The years seemed to settle over him then, as he lowered himself back into his chair. Something rare happened then, something Calan could keep count of on one hand for all of his life. 
 
 Papa smiled
