Before Aragorn left Rivendell, as Levi expressed his intention to depart, Elrond stopped him with a raised hand and shared another piece of news.
"Around this time next year, the White Council will convene again at Rivendell. I hope you can attend."
"I have a premonition that Middle-earth's situation will undergo great changes."
Levi agreed readily, his thoughts numerous.
Next year—that would be 2953. Many things would happen that year.
Elrond was right. Middle-earth's situation and development were about to enter a new phase. If he had to name this period, Levi would call it the "Prosperous Transition Period."
Nations of the free peoples would prosper and develop, while evil forces would also continuously strengthen. Both sides would fight ceaselessly, yet no large-scale wars would erupt in the short term.
Some things were brewing. Some things were advancing steadily.
Meanwhile, elsewhere, another person received the news almost simultaneously with Levi.
At Orthanc, a grey figure walked to the door and spoke a few words with the servant.
The gatekeeper servant nodded respectfully and entered the tower to report.
Moments later, he opened the door to welcome Gandalf inside.
"Gandalf, what brings you to visit again?"
In the hall, a white figure with his back turned asked coolly.
"Saruman."
Gandalf greeted him with customary courtesy, maintaining all due etiquette and respectful attitude without fault.
"I have come to inform you of news regarding the White Council's convening... but could you turn around?"
"I mean no offense or interrogation, but in my personal view, constantly speaking with one's back to someone is rather impolite."
Brief silence fell within the hall.
Gandalf said nothing more for the moment, simply waiting with the patience of stone.
When he was in the right, old Gandalf could be quite firm and unflinching.
"Hmph."
Saruman snorted coldly and slowly turned around, half his form cloaked in shadow—difficult to see clearly—the other half exposed to light, revealing his features.
Gandalf squinted, studying him carefully.
"Forgive me for saying this, though this might be my imagination—is one part of your face a different color?"
"What purpose do you have in asking such a thing, Gandalf?"
Saruman reacted as if his foot had been stepped on, nearly jumping up from his seat.
"Nothing, just concern for an old friend."
"Then I ask you—if someone expressed such so-called 'concern' to you in this manner, would you feel pleased?"
Saruman said with a dark expression, "Old friend, if you will take advice, do not pry into others' private affairs. Mind your own business."
"Of course, I will not ask you again." The wicked old man Gandalf smiled innocently, looking quite honest and harmless.
I will simply ask others instead.
"I am already aware of the White Council's convening. Do you have other matters?"
"Nothing more. I just wanted to remind you so you do not miss the time. Such an important meeting—the wise Saruman cannot be absent."
"I will naturally be present. I only hope certain... certain people who always enjoy running around everywhere will not be late."
"Your suggestion is quite worth considering."
Gandalf bowed slightly and wisely chose to turn and leave directly.
After all, judging by Saruman's appearance and temperament, he did not seem in the mood to host visitors.
That being the case, better retreat now.
Outside the door, Gandalf mounted his horse and rode away, destination unknown once more.
"A new recruit?"
At Roadside Keep, in the Ranger training camp, an excellent Roadside Keep Ranger graduate looked at the Dúnadan before him, who stood half a head taller, eyes filled with unstoppable curiosity.
"A Dúnadan too?"
At these words, nearby apprentice Rangers all looked over with interest.
A young Dúnadan about their own age!
This was extremely rare.
Dozens of gazes turned simultaneously. Aragorn felt as if needles were pricking his back—quite uncomfortable under such scrutiny.
Facing the Roadside Keep Ranger captain, who was reportedly an excellent graduate himself, Aragorn smiled stiffly and nodded in response.
"Mm... indeed similar. Silent and taciturn like the instructors."
"Then you are part of our squad from now on."
The excellent graduate Ranger who had spoken with Aragorn introduced himself with casual friendliness. "I am Yawen. Starting today, I am the captain of you and the dozens behind you."
"Hehe, quite rare. Never thought I would meet a Dúnadan younger than me. If what you say is true, I am seven years older than you. Seven years ago I was also an apprentice Ranger. Time really does fly—I have already become captain."
"Oh right, do not think I will give you special treatment just because you are Dúnadan. At Roadside Keep, everything is equal."
Aragorn nodded earnestly.
"You fellow..." Yawen sighed and scratched his head with obvious frustration.
This man was too reserved—so taciturn! He just stood there nodding after all that talking.
But this was not really Aragorn's fault. It was not that he was introverted by nature—Rivendell's atmosphere was simply serene and contemplative. Suddenly arriving at such a lively place, he truly was not quite accustomed yet.
"Introduce yourself. I need to register you."
Aragorn thought for a moment, recalling Elrond's parting counsel.
It's best not to easily reveal your identity, even among trustworthy allies.
On one hand, revealing his identity would bring many inconveniences. On the other—
You cannot predict what your bloodline will attract.
"Thorongil. That is my name."
Aragorn chose to use a carefully selected alias.
Thorongil—Eagle of the Star in the Sindarin tongue—this name would accompany him for many years to come.
Roadside Keep was merely the first stop on his journey. The days ahead were still long and distant.
"Good, Thorongil. From now on we are comrades in the same squad."
Yawen looked at Aragorn appraisingly. "But I must confirm your level. Everyone here has undergone the strictest, most brutal training imaginable."
"Let me see your capabilities. Do not hold back."
The sparring came immediately.
Yawen picked up his practice weapon with easy confidence.
Aragorn also drew his sword, his expression deadly serious.
The commotion immediately attracted a large crowd of onlookers who quickly surrounded the area, leaving sufficient space for combat before beginning to cheer and encourage with practiced enthusiasm.
They looked quite experienced and professional—the atmosphere was instantly charged with energy.
This commotion even attracted two Dúnedain instructors who approached to observe.
But when they saw the tall Dúnadan called 'Thorongil' in the center, both Rangers suddenly felt a powerful sense of recognition.
"Wait, is that...?"
They exchanged meaningful glances, both seeing the same realization in each other's eyes.
Best remain silent for now.
Clang!
In a blink, the two in the field's center had already engaged, sword meeting sword with crisp, ringing sounds that echoed across the training yard.
"Oh?"
Yawen felt genuine surprise. This fledgling Dúnadan actually possessed such tremendous strength—this sword strike was both steady and accurate, coming down without the slightest tremor.
Having trained almost self-destructively for over ten years, he had nearly failed to withstand this fellow's opening assault.
Truly worthy of coming from the instructors' homeland.
During Yawen's brief moment of surprise, Aragorn opposite him also felt his heart sink with concern—clearly not feeling relaxed at all.
The two separated, exchanging several more moves in rapid succession, fighting evenly with neither breaking through the other's defenses.
In a certain sense, they came from the same school of combat.
Swish!
Sword light flashed brilliantly. Aragorn suddenly bent at the waist, displaying extremely high flexibility honed through years of training, then pivoted sharply—
But a sword gleam magnified in his eyes, impossibly fast.
Scrape! In an instant, Aragorn raised his sword, blocking Yawen's counterstrike with desperate speed.
The two were deadlocked, entering a raw contest of strength and will.
So strong.
Aragorn breathed heavily, staring intently at Yawen opposite him—who was also grimacing with effort but somehow still had the presence of mind to raise his eyebrows twice playfully upon meeting Aragorn's gaze.
Whether it was his imagination or not, from this person opposite, he always felt he could see some shadows of Uncle Levi's influence. No—not just him; even the surrounding onlookers carried that same quality.
It was a wondrous temperament, very difficult to capture with specific words.
The competition remained deadlocked. Just as Aragorn planned to concede, Yawen suddenly relaxed his grip and waved his hand.
"Not fighting anymore. You've got real skill."
"Captain lost?" Several mischievous squad members immediately piped up.
"What do you mean, lost?" Yawen's face flushed as he launched into protests about "just friendly sparring" and "we were holding back," which drew genuine laughter from everyone.
"Hearing this, Yawen flushed red with good-natured protest. 'What do you mean, lost? It was just friendly sparring—we were both holding back!' His protests drew genuine laughter from everyone.
Seeing this camaraderie, Aragorn smiled. He inclined his head. "I concede."
"Draw—call it a draw," Yawen said with a grin.
"That works well."
Aragorn had no objections.
"You have got skill, newcomer."
Just arriving and already matching a Ranger captain's level—this was quite unusual indeed.
Especially a Ranger captain from Roadside Keep. As for what was special about Roadside Keep Rangers, one need only ask about the healing effects provided by beacons and the brutal daily routine of training to near-death—as long as you did not actually die.
"Alright, go collect your equipment. We are preparing to depart for the wilderness hideout."
Aragorn immediately complied with purpose.
Thus he received a set of finely crafted standard equipment plus regular supplies, including preserved food, milk, and a healing potion in a crystalline vial.
"You did not graduate from Roadside Keep, so there are some things you might not recognize. I need to explain them to you."
The captain gave him thorough explanations, going through all the items' functions methodically.
This truly surprised Aragorn with each revelation.
He had thought that bottle of milk was merely for nutritional supplementation!
"This healing potion can pull you back from the brink at critical moments, making your wounds recover with remarkable speed," Yawen explained seriously.
"But we usually do not use it—unless truly at death's door or in extremely dangerous urgent situations."
"Because we have heard that every time a batch of potions is consumed, Lord Levi must make a perilous journey to that realm called the Nether to collect medicinal materials. Just from the name alone, that is clearly not a pleasant place."
"I understand." Aragorn nodded with newfound respect for the resource.
"Then let us depart."
"Our journey might be rather far. A hideout at Eriador's northernmost point near the Ettenmoors was exposed recently. We heard trolls and orcs wander together at night in organized bands."
"Be prepared—those are our enemies."
Trolls.
Hearing news of these monsters, Aragorn's hand gripping his sword hilt tightened unconsciously.
His father, the fifteenth Dúnedain Chieftain Arathorn, had been killed by hill trolls—those powerful monsters whose hide ordinary swords could barely penetrate, where ordinary warriors would fall into serious injury from just grazing contact.
"Then let them come," Aragorn said quietly, his voice carrying steel beneath the calm surface.