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Chapter Text

Chapter One: A Ranger’s Return

Nestled within the northern reaches of the great Mirkwood forest, Minas Ithil jutted proudly above a canopy of twilight foliage. The tower’s vigilance from atop a sheared cliff left it isolated beneath a soft moon, casting ashen stone in a white silver. Branches of timeless Fána Oaks twined into the grooves and crevices of the ancient stronghold, twisting along a spiraled peak piercing towards a star-littered sky. 

Built by woodland elves many generations before, the ivory watchtower was unlike other structures made from elvish hands, for most Eldarin crafts were surreal and whimsical in their design. Minas Ithil, however, was unusually imposing. Viewed by many as a symbol of fortitude, the lone tower stood as a beautiful intimidation, a stalwart sentinel amidst Mirkwood’s shadowy reputation. 

Beneath the tower, the Isil Valley expanded outwards towards the distant looming of the Grey Mountains. Densely packed by hardwoods, the forest appeared to be an impregnable net of trees and leaves thickly intertwined, a sea of greenery darkened by the evening sky. From within this valley, a ranger from the north spied Minas Ithil through a thinning of entangled branches. Relief eased into the man, for he knew his tireless journey was soon to come to a much needed end. Long days and longer nights had worn this particular traveler thin, and the thought of respite now within reach brought an easy smile to his lips. 

The surrounding woodland was quiet. Early hours of a still-dark morning blanketed the forest in mute tranquility. Mirkwood would not stir for several hours yet, and only at the first glimpse of the sun beginning its ascent would the forest draw from its reticent slumber. Until then, the man remained mindful of his presence, deliberate in his approach so as not to disturb the peaceable silence. A ranger for many years now, the secrets of stealth were no stranger to him, yet he took extra care to cover his tracks tonight. Shadow clung to him, concealing him from the average eye. He would be impossible to spot to someone untrained, and even those wise enough to look would hardly be able to spy the ranger’s silhouette gracefully moving beneath Minas Ithil’s vigilance. 

As the watchtower loomed closer, the ranger’s anticipation grew. His strides were full of purpose as he broke through the treeline and hurried into the tower’s courtyard. With the forest no longer obstructing his view, the man could see more clearly the intricate care in which tree and stone were woven together to fortify the tower, though he did not pay the details much mind as he hastened towards Minas Ithil’s entrance. 

The ranger was welcomed with an easy push of large double doors. They swung inward with a faint creak as the old wood groaned beneath the weight of his hands. There were no torches or lanterns lining the welcoming hall, for there was no need. Free light of the moon and stars filtered through large windows, and just as Minas Ithil glowed from the outside, so too did it shimmer inward. A million glittering stars seemed to live within the walls and ceilings, their twinkling incandescence fading only when a stray cloud passed overhead. 

If this were his first time laying eyes upon the inner tower, the man might have been overcome by its celestial airs. Many visitors were often left awestruck, for Minas Ithil’s beauty was best appreciated during the eve; but while the ranger could appreciate the riveting appeal of elvish architecture, his pace never slowed to admire it with more than a passing glance. 

Breezing his way through the Great Hall, the man followed a twisting stairway leading him up the centermost part of the tower. The profound quiet of Minas Ithil made it seem abandoned, but thus was the reserved nature of the elves who dwelled here. Trained much like the ranger in the art of going unnoticed, the elves of Minas Ithil would only be known if they wanted to be. It was hardly the type of welcome most would expect upon arriving at a fortress of such renown, but the man preferred the lack of customary greetings over the exhaustive manners that would otherwise be exchanged. 

Time was not something he intended to waste here, especially after having anticipated his arrival for many weeks now. 

As he ascended the tower swiftly, the ranger arrived at its summit. He stopped just outside of a room, and while not as grand as those seen in the Great Hall, the door that stood before him was attentive in its detail. Leafy vines skirted along the edges of a rounded arch, a stark contrast against the fair stone of Minas Ithil’s walls. During the day, the vines were a rich, savory green, but at night their leaves roused with a gentle golden light. That golden luminescence shown upon the center of the door where an emblem was inlaid. A large crescent moon was evenly encircled by seven four-pointed stars, each bearing their own white gems, and above those stars was an eighth star, the star of Earendil, shining with the light of Isilmë. It was a crest symbolic of elven nobility, one that signified the Moon’s Majesty. 

Taking a moment to ease his excitement, the ranger knocked lightly. Once, then twice, before he took the initiative to swing open the door and step inside. A glorious sight greeted him upon his arrival, and though the ranger had lived for many years and seen many things, he was not immune to the striking awe that overcame him the moment he entered the chamber. 

His muted attention first took in a bare silhouette basking beneath the watchful eye of the moon. The figure was sprawled out in a manner that revealed nothing of consequence, yet the ranger couldn’t resist imagining what lay beyond his ability to see. Tendrils of silken hair, an ink black bathed in low light, cascaded over porcelain skin. The ever-dark strands lay delicate in their framing of muscle and curvature, tempting in the way they spilled across stretches of unblemished proportions. 

Fixated by the nakedness revealed to him, the man yearned for a glimpse of parts that eluded his gaze, but wisdom stayed his tongue from voicing the thought. Instead, he focused on what he was permitted to see, and that was a form rigid in strength, yet so fluid in its slender shape. He followed a trail of muscular striations leading southward before his attention shifted. His eyes changed course to sweep along a noble chest, up a slender throat, until finally settling on a burning golden glare. 

“You’re late, Shanks.” 

The man blinked upon hearing his name, breathing for the first time since his arrival, “…I was delayed,” Shanks paused before thoughtfully adding, “By river trolls.” 

Thin lips flattened with displeasure as a subtle frown disturbed an otherwise stoic expression, “River trolls?”

Shanks let the door close behind him as an easy smile lightened his haggard appearance, “Three of them. First they came when I was asleep, then they tried their hand at making a stew.” 

Stepping further into the room, Shanks settled on a bench not far from where his companion lay with a relieved sigh, “There was a lengthy debate on how best to cook me. I was more partial to the soup rather than the sauté, but the trolls didn’t seem to care for my opinion on the matter. One of them even suggested a good roasting to bring out the nuances of my flavor—whatever that means.”  

The ranger’s posture was careless in the way that he sat, loose and without a single regard for propriety. Mirth and mischief brightened the reddish gleam of his eyes, and when he spoke next it was to teasingly provoke, “What do you think? Would I be better boiled or seared, Melda?”

“I would prefer you to be punctual for a change, ranger.” Came the sharp reply. 

Shanks minded the attitude not, and instead favored silently watching as the elven lord of Minas Ithil finally deigned to sit up. The flex of the elf’s muscles when he moved was absurdly distracting to the ranger, but nothing was more enchanting then the disgruntled look the elf wore as he came to stand, still unabashedly bare. 

Averting his eyes so he did not see more than what he was permitted to, Shanks cleared his throat and said, “I apologize, my lord. The wilds are not favorable to timely schedules. Though if you deem it necessary to prostrate myself for forgiveness, I can certainly abide.” 

A tap to his shoulder signaled Shanks to turn back around. His companion, now donned in a loose robe, glared at the ranger with another minor frown pressed upon his expression. 

“There’s no need. With how filthy you are, you’d sully my floor.” 

“Come now, are you not happy to see me?” Chuckling warmly, the ranger stood and met the elf lord with a hand laid over his heart and his head bowed: a proper greeting in elvish custom, “Because I am thrilled to see you, Mihawk.”  

Smothered by the weight of Shanks’ heartfelt smile, the elven lord over Minas Ithil, known to those close to him as Mihawk, relented to the ranger with a quiet sigh. It wasn’t as if the elf was truly irritated anyway—if that were the case, Shanks wouldn’t have been permitted in the realm of Mirkwood, let alone the privacy of Mihawk’s bedchambers. 

“I suppose it is better that you are here rather than not at all,” Mihawk admitted, “Even so, river trolls? A man of your stature shouldn’t be deterred by those feeble-minded monsters.”  

In an attempt to plead forgiveness for his mishaps, Shanks gathered one of Mihawk’s hands within both of his own and, after soothing his thumbs across faultless skin, bent to feather the elf’s hand with a noble kiss. 

“My journey was rushed to ensure I could arrive before the solstice.” He murmured against the cool skin beneath his lips, “I was careless and tired. Again, I am sorry.”  

Mihawk said little in response to the apology. Instead, the elf seemed inclined to relish in the attention the ranger bestowed, allowing Shanks the privilege of several close moments before removing his hand from the ranger’s grip. 

“You are in desperate need of a bath.” Mihawk said, wrinkling his nose for dramatic emphasis, “Come with me.” 

When he made a motion for Shanks to follow him, the sleeve of Mihawk’s robe slipped to reveal a pale shoulder. The ranger’s attention was caught by the careless display, but he shook the distraction from his mind to stride after the elf. 

Mihawk escorted him through the quiet halls of Minas Ithil until they arrived at his private bath. Fed by a natural spring, the water was clear and cold to touch, and beneath the night sky it was mirror-like in its dark reflection. The elf lord helped the ranger to strip, aiding Shanks in the loosening of his belts and clasps that held the many tools and medicines he took with him on his journeys. Finally, when the ranger was bare, he sunk into the cool spring waters with a sigh of contentment. 

“It has been so long since I last visited your healing waters,” Shanks remarked with his head leaned back against cold stone, “I had forgotten how wonderful they feel.” 

Mihawk did not answer him directly. Instead, the elf lord reached for a pitcher and filled it with water. Tapping Shanks on the underside of his jaw in indication, Mihawk tilted the ranger’s head back before pouring water over Shanks’ red hair. Then, after reaching for nearby soap, Mihawk threaded his fingers through knots and tangles, easing weeks of dirt and grime from the ranger’s scalp. At the sensation of Mihawk diligently washing his hair, Shanks closed his eyes in utter bliss. 

“Since you were appointed Chieftain of the Dúnedain, I feel that I have seen you less and less.” The elf eventually spoke, prompting Shanks to open one eye and look at him. 

Mihawk didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he focused on his current task. After the first rinse of Shanks’ hair, Mihawk repeated the process of scrubbing and rinsing several more times until he was content with its cleanliness. Following that, he nudged the ranger forward so he could gain access to the man’s back. Shanks obeyed the elf’s whims with little resistance. The lord’s touch was rejuvenating grace as he massaged sore muscles and bone deep aches. With each firm press and scrape of nails across the sun worn tan of Shanks’ skin, it felt as if the ranger was unburdened from one less responsibility. 

In his peace, Shanks could have let the quiet linger, but there was a weight in the silence that settled. Though Mihawk took great care in tending to the travel-wearied ranger, the tension in his posture was unmistakable. 

Unable to ignore his companion’s troubles, Shanks turned to catch Mihawk’s hand before the elf could begin his newest task. 

For his part, Mihawk showed little reaction to the gesture. His quiet staring never once faltered from the ranger as Shanks said, “My leave is not by design, Melda. If I could be here more often, you know I would.” 

The gold of Mihawk’s eyes always showed most brilliantly at night. They were the color of treasure, a glimmer of the most coveted of metals. Some looked upon the elf and found his staring to be eerie, for it was narrow and often unblinking, yet Shanks took comfort in that unfailing steadiness. Ever since he first laid eyes on the elven lord many years before, the ranger found Mihawk to be nothing short of remarkable. Sharp as he was beautiful, refined as he was lethal. Mihawk truly embodied his title’s namesake: lord over the night sky. Mysterious in his darkness, yes, but comforting in the quiet ennui he exuded. 

After holding Shanks’ gaze for another long moment, Mihawk was the first to look away. With a nameless tension between them severed, the elf resumed his previous tasks with focused efficiency. 

Knowing there was nothing to be said if Mihawk was in no mood to talk, Shanks turned to his thoughts. Silence, which usually held more welcome for him, left the ranger feeling uneasy. Since assuming the mantle of Chieftain of the Dúnedain, or Rangers as many knew them to be, Shanks was hardly permitted a moment to rest. There was always some matter or another in Middle Earth for him to tend to, and with a recent uptick in Orcish activity, Shanks didn’t think the demands of him would lessen anytime soon. 

Still, while he understood the responsibilities that came with his title, he couldn’t help but regret his recent absences. Not only did their frequency increase in past years, but so too did their duration. Time was viewed much differently by elves than men. Months and years to an elf would be what mere minutes felt like to a man, but did that same notion apply now? To Shanks, every moment apart from his dearest friend felt like the width of eternity stretching between them. Did Mihawk feel the same? The elf must have, for there was such melancholy in his presence tonight that Shanks couldn’t help but feel ashamed for having been gone so long. 

Though, such distance between them was no fault of their own. Mihawk was an elven lord, and while he had endeavored to accompany Shanks on the ranger’s quests in the past, his importance to the protection of Mirkwood and its surrounding regions meant he could not be gone for as long as Shanks tended to be. Then Shanks, now a leader of the Dúnedain and a man whose destiny reached far beyond even that, never seemed to have enough time to spare. His quests had become more dangerous as of late, and they tended to demand everything he had to give and more. It was fortunate if Shanks was even permitted a moment to sleep, so what time then was left for leisure or the pleasure of Mihawk’s company? 

None, or so it would seem. 

In that regard, Shanks understood Mihawk’s frustrations all too well, but while he could dwell on the unfairness and stew miserably about it, he decided he would much rather enjoy the present to its fullest. 

Shooting a playful look over his shoulder, Shanks teased, “To think you have become so attached over the years. Are you not the same elf that threatened to disembowel me when we first met?” 

As expected, Mihawk’s expression pinched at the blatant provocation. 

“We have gone over this several times,” the elf chided, “How else was I supposed to react to a strange, filthy man lying naked in my bed?”

“Well…” Shanks began thoughtfully, his insinuation clear, only to have his head forcibly dunked underwater for his impertinence. 

The ranger re-emerged with a bright laugh, all sour thoughts gone in the face of Mihawk’s jaded ire.  

“It was an innocent mistake, Melda,” Shanks excused as he swept wet hair from his eyes, “You were sleeping in what I thought was my room. How was I to know my childhood chambers were on loan to a guest?”  

“You should have inquired about it.” Mihawk insisted in the same prim manner he always did when they had this argument, “But beyond that, what sane man tumbles into bed covered in layers of dirt?” 

“I had just returned from a perilous journey where I was gone for months,” Shifting closer to the edge of the bath, Shanks laid his head near where Mihawk sat, dampening the edges of the elf’s robe, “So forgive me if bathing was overshadowed by my delirium.” 

“Oh?” A brow arched in what would seem like a disdainful expression, but Shanks took no offense to it, “Is that why you saw fit to proposition me like a whore as soon as you were discovered?”

The ranger smirked, “Such foul language! I expected better manners from you, my lord.”

Again, Mihawk did not bother to hide his irritation as his eye twitched. A sharp, dissatisfied breath left him, and with his foot he pushed Shanks and his goading smiles away, “Must you always see fit to mock me?” 

“It is a favored pastime, yes,” Shanks said, drifting closer once more in fearless defiance of Mihawk’s glare, “Mostly because I am the only one permitted to do so.” 

“I should have killed you when I had the mind for it.” The elf grumpily mumbled.

Taking pity on his friend, Shanks situated himself between Mihawk’s thighs and wordlessly encouraged him to let his feet dangle in the bath. Then, once he thought the elf agreeable to it, the ranger cradled one of those slender legs within his hands, soothing his palms upward once before sliding down to grab Mihawk’s foot. As soon as Shanks’ thumbs pressed into the soles of Mihawk’s arches, the elf closed his eyes and tendered a sweet sigh between his lips. 

“Has Beckmann arrived yet?” Shanks asked, firm hands working to ease Mihawk’s tension. 

A hum left the elf distractedly as he answered, “He arrived the day before yesterday.” 

Shanks nodded. After a few minutes of massaging one foot, Mihawk toed him with his other one in a silent request for Shanks to shift his focus. Grinning at the other’s shameless demand, the ranger complied. 

“Mm. Despite being so irritating, you do have your uses.”

Shanks chuckled, sounding both warm and endeared, “Are you sure you want to be biting the hand that feeds?”

“I will do whatever I please,” Mihawk said, shooting him a haughty look, “And you will like it.”  

“Is that so?” Shanks questioned, torn between laughing and becoming distracted, yet again, by the way Mihawk’s robe slipped to reveal more of his defined chest. 

Spying where the ranger’s attention diverted, Mihawk leaned forward, bright eyes demure in their playfulness. Fingers came to grip the underside of Shanks’ chin, correcting his straying gaze so that he was forced to hold the elf’s stare instead. Kept by a deceptively strong grip, Shanks strove to keep his interest from showing, but that was made difficult with Mihawk so near. 

“Just as I thought.” The elf mused, amused by Shanks’ habitual obedience, “Men are so easy.” 

Shanks pulled away from Mihawk with a glare, “Are you having fun?” 

“Plenty.” Mihawk’s smile glinted beneath the moonlight, as sharp and cutting as the rest of him. 

Grumbling under his breath, Shanks ran a hand down his face and over his bearded jaw. 

Elves were beings unfathomable to the average man. Beautiful in ways only art could mimic, the Eldar were the epitome of physical perfection, but beyond their uncanny appearance was their maddening minds. Their long history and endless years made their perspectives a complete mystery to simple-minded men, and although Shanks was raised alongside elves in his youth, that did not keep him from feeling out of his depth when dealing with them. This notion especially applied to Mihawk. The elf lord was the most maddening of them all, and while Shanks’ own heritage granted him the privilege of a life longer than other men, he did not think he would ever have enough time to grasp Mihawk’s confounding ways. 

Tightening his grip on Mihawk’s foot, Shanks figured there was only one way to remedy the insult of Mihawk’s teasing. The elf only had a short moment of realization, a slight gasp of ‘don’t you dare’ sung in elvish before Shanks yanked him into the water alongside the ranger. Retaliation was satisfyingly sweet, even sweeter when Mihawk surfaced like a wet, somber cat.

“Rhaich!” Mihawk cursed, the crude elvish exclamation uttered with a clipped tone and a sharp roll of his tongue, “Dôl gîn lost, Rainë!” 

“Goheno-nin, Melda.” Shanks laughingly apologized before continuing in the common tongue, “But my head is not empty. I can assure you, it is filled with many thoughts.”  

“More like nonsense.” 

Mihawk muttered another string of eye-raising insults. Truly, he could have made a sailor blush if they were privy to the elvish language. Shanks heard them with a grin, pleased by his ability to rile the elf up like no other. 

Still, it did not take long for Mihawk to calm down. A few minutes passed, and while the elf could hold a grudge lasting centuries, he apparently was not all that bothered by Shanks’ childish revenge. He discarded his robe, laying the soaked fabric over the edge of the pool. The darkened waters hid him from the waist down, a small granting of mercy upon Shanks’ sanity. Though, the rivulets of beaded water slipping down Mihawk’s front, shining beneath a still-bright moon, did nothing to lessen the elf lord’s appeal. He was the lord of night, after all. The master of Ithil, the moon, and the one chosen by the Goddess Varda herself to bear the title of eve. Mihawk was truly a phenomenon Shanks would never cease being impressed by. 

“You are fortunate that I am fond of you.” Mihawk sighed out in an effort to dispel the quiet, “But why that is, I cannot say.” 

The ranger thought he might have an answer. It sat on the tip of his tongue, a truth begging to be said. Still, he did not utter his confession aloud, choosing instead to continue his previous intent to bathe. Mihawk observed him quietly, his countenance contemplative. 

After scrubbing away the last remnants of his recent adventure, Shanks’ fingers began to prune signaling the end to his wash. Disappointed to have it end so soon, Shanks hauled himself out of the bath to dry off. Mihawk followed shortly thereafter, and while Shanks did not endeavor to look behind him, he could hear the near-silent padding of Mihawk’s feet tip-toeing around to find a new robe to wear. 

“Come sit over here when you’re finished,” Mihawk called from across the bathhouse, “You’re in need of a shave.” 

Nodding in answer, Shanks finished drying before donning a pair of trousers set aside for him earlier. After that, he ambled over towards the vanity Mihawk waited beside, the elf following his movements with expectant eyes. 

Feeling relaxed now that he was clean, the ranger plopped himself into a chair with a languid sigh. He did not question the straight blade held between Mihawk’s fingers nor did he make more than a small grunt of surprise as the elf settled on his lap. 

Shanks slanted Mihawk a tired look, but otherwise surrendered to the elf’s manhandling with little fuss, “I can groom myself, you know.” 

“Really?” Mihawk feigned following the careful scrape of the blade across Shanks’ skin, “With the way you look, one might be inclined to believe otherwise.” 

Shanks rolled his eyes, “The wilds are not ideal for the continued maintenance of one’s appearance, Melda.” 

Mihawk angled Shanks’ head to the left more firmly than what was necessary, “Regardless, you must take better care of yourself.” 

An offended frown came to Shanks’ lips, “I did not think I made for such a sorry sight.” 

Upon hearing the ranger’s miffed tone, Mihawk turned Shanks back to facing him, “That is not what I meant.” 

“But it is what you said.” 

“Shanks.” The elf huffed impatiently. 

“Mihawk.” Shanks mimicked, undeterred. 

With an annoyed scoff, Mihawk leaned back so that he could better glare at the ranger. He looked to be such a frigid creature with the way he glowered and scowled, so cold in his immortal appearance. Yet his warmth atop Shanks’ thighs was undeniable, and the pliability of his hips beneath Shanks’ hands was most distracting. 

“Am I not allowed to worry about you?” 

In response to Mihawk’s stiff questioning, Shanks said, “I don’t see a reason for you to worry. It is not as if I have returned to you battered and bruised.” 

In wordless defiance of Shanks’ assertion, Mihawk ruthlessly pressed his thumb into a hidden bruise just underneath the ranger’s rib cage. Shanks sucked in a hissing breath, pain flaring along with his annoyance as Mihawk shot him a provoking look. 

“I understand that your journeys come with many hardships and that you will not always have the luxury of self-care, but regardless, you have a terrible habit of neglecting your needs.” Mihawk’s eyes trailed Shanks’ front as if to make another point, “You cannot expect me to be thrilled when you come to me thin and on the verge of collapse. I expect you to be worn and weary, but this?” Mihawk settled his hand over Shanks’ chest where the ranger’s unreliable diet had resulted in a noticeable loss of muscle, “…is unacceptable.” 

Upon hearing the elf’s genuine concern, the rising fight in Shanks abated. He was too tired to argue and it would have been a losing battle if he tried. Mihawk was right, as much as the ranger was pained to admit it. As chieftain, he often scolded his rangers for doing the very thing he, himself, was guilty of. The Dúnedain couldn’t afford to be anything less than at their best, otherwise they were vulnerable to attack and its even more dangerous counterpart: illness. 

Still, being scolded didn’t do any justice to Shanks’ current mood. He had come to Mihawk eager for comfort and company, yet instead the elf’s temperament continued to rile Shanks’ own. 

“I will finish this by myself,” he insisted, gesturing to the trimming of his beard, “And then I’m going to bed.” 

For obvious reasons, Mihawk was not receptive of Shanks’ abrasive dismissal, “Don’t be ridiculous. I always finish what I start.” 

The ranger groaned, “Melda, please. Why are you being so difficult?” 

“I am not being difficult, I am concerned.” Mihawk resumed his earlier task of cleaning up the lines of Shanks’ facial hair, and trimming what had grown past Shanks’ preferred length, “And I have every right to be.” 

“And I appreciate your concern,” Mihawk’s dubious glare forced Shanks to reitierate, “I do, but I would prefer to enjoy my first night of rest rather than be chided by the one whom I most wished to see.” 

Shanks could spy the warring conflict passing behind the golden barrier of Mihawk’s eyes. For a moment, the ranger feared he had truly set the elf off, but instead of allowing his anger to get the better of him, Mihawk took a deep and calming breath. 

“Very well.” He relented, “…Forgive me. It was not the time to bring up such matters.” 

Unable to bear any ill will towards the other, Shanks caught Mihawk’s hand gently with his own. Unblinking, the elf merely watched as Shanks pressed a chaste kiss to Mihawk’s palm. It was a gesture of both unspoken forgiveness and apology, and as Shanks let his mouth linger for as long as Mihawk would permit, he revelled in the rare privileges only he was granted. 

“Do not apologize.” Shanks whispered, feeling his own irritation ebb in the wake of this simple affection, “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

Something tender in Shanks’ heart ached as it always did in moments like this. The sensation was pleasant in a way, yet profound, and tugged at him with a loud insistence to be acknowledged. Oh, and he acknowledged it. In the years Shanks had known this beautiful elf, there wasn’t a moment he went without knowing just how much love he held in his heart for Mihawk. That was a truth carried with him always. Whether it be to the farthest stretches of Middle Earth or even in the small sliver of space left between them, Mihawk never strayed far from the ranger’s thoughts. His most treasured companion. His dearest in more ways than one. 

When Shanks bravely considered closing the remaining gap between them, he banished the thought before he could consider it further. At the mature age of forty and three, Shanks was well enough into manhood even by his long-lived standards, and he knew what he felt for Mihawk was not what he would feel for a friend. The desire itself could be explained, for men often coveted beautiful things, but the depth of Shanks’ feelings went far beyond simple attraction. It was consuming. It was the culmination of having come to know Mihawk so thoroughly in their years of friendship, and in many ways, Shanks’ affection was only natural. 

Mihawk was his best friend, his Melda, and loving him was as seamless as breathing. And yet, Shanks hesitated.

There were many reasons why he did and many reasons why he shouldn’t, but before Shanks could get too lost in his thoughts they were quickly silenced. With noble generosity, Mihawk took it upon himself to finish tidying up the ranger’s short beard. The smooth, experienced caress of his fingers swept away the last vestiges of Shanks’ conflict and put the ranger completely at ease. 

“I am finished,” Mihawk said, “Your appearance is much improved.” 

Having not realized that he closed his eyes, Shanks opened them again to find a soft blush flattering the elf’s expression.

“Already? Must the pampering end so soon?” He wondered. 

Alas, with no valid excuse to remain, Mihawk lifted himself from Shanks’ lap. The ranger was then free to consider himself in the mirror, and the reflection that stared back at him was a much better version of the sorry ranger that initially arrived. A trim and a bath worked wonders on freshening him up as Shanks was no longer the rugged vagabond of the wilds, but rather a man of proper importance. 

Pleased, Shanks turned to thank Mihawk only to find the elf already gone. 

Well, he thought with a small frown, he could have said goodnight at the very least. 

No matter, Shanks was familiar enough with Minas Ithil to know which rooms he was permitted to stay in. It did not take him long to find his way to bed and an even shorter amount still before he collapsed with a groan on top of silk sheets. Mihawk’s bed would have been preferred. It was larger and luxurious in a manner befitting of a lord. Though, Shanks didn’t have the mind for complaint. Soon enough his eyes drifted shut, and the night as he knew it bled into the realm of his peaceable dreams. 

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: To Burden a Man

The following day brought with it a bright sun streaming through thin, billowing curtains. Shanks awoke well into the late morning and was only compelled out of bed by the persistent knocking at his door. He groaned tiredly, his body protesting as he stood and sluggishly shuffled across the room. When he opened the door, standing on the other side was none other than Benjamin Beckmann, Shanks’ dutiful second in command and long-standing mentor. 

Beckmann perused him with one single brown eye and said, “You look terrible.” 

“Good to see you as always,” Shanks said with a note of contempt, “And please, hold off on your nagging. I already received an ear-full last night.” 

Beckmann grunted before inviting himself inside. There were several letters rolled up in his hands, along with a book tucked up beneath his arm. Seeing his second’s ledger, Shanks mourned quietly to himself. Beckmann’s ledger meant the man was here to work and Shanks, by default, would be forced to work alongside him. 

He didn’t want to work. He wanted to sleep. 

“Lord Ithil seemed to be in a particular mood at breakfast, which took place well over an hour ago if you cared to know.” Beckmann added with a pointed look. 

In response, Shanks’ stomach grumbled, howling with a low hunger that left him sheepish in the morning light. 

Seemingly expecting this, Beckmann reached into a pouch sewn onto his belt and tossed Shanks a serving of elvish bread. 

Lembas. Of course it was Lembas. As if Shanks hadn’t just survived many weeks off of this very dry and flavorless bread. 

Not willing to deny food when it was so graciously given, Shanks took a bite and gestured for the other ranger to have a seat. Beckmann was a severe looking fellow. Older than Shanks by several decades, the gray-haired ranger wore age like a groaning burden. A harsh scar covered the left side of his face, stealing from him his left eye. Shanks studied the corrupted flesh with a flitting glance; it was a wound given to him by one of the Nazgǔl, fierce generals in service of the Dark Lord, and spoke to Beckmann’s prowess to have suffered such a terrible blight and yet come out stronger for it. He was a fine fit to stand as Shanks’ right hand man, even if he was well-practiced in the art of being insufferably old. 

“So,” Shanks began as he sat, “What is on the agenda today?” 

“More than what you’re hoping, but not as much as you’re probably dreading,” Beckmann quipped without looking. The older man was shuffling through his papers, heavy brows furrowed in wrinkled concentration, “I was warned not to overwork you, and while I would argue writing letters is hardly an arduous task, I’m not willing to test Lord Ithil’s ire. So you will sit there as I write them instead.”  

Shanks offered an apologetic grin, “I’m sorry, my friend. Mihawk and I had a small disagreement last night. He’s only worried, and I don’t think he’s keen on letting the matter drop anytime soon.”

“Rightfully so,” Beckmann muttered with a side-long glare, “I meant it when I said you look terrible, Chief.” 

“Yes, yes, I know.” Shanks said, batting away the other’s concern with a wave of his hand, “But you know as well as I how difficult it can be out there. Some days there’s hardly enough time to eat, let alone rest for any reasonable amount.” 

Truthfully, there were some days Shanks spent eating on the run, choking back whatever he could chew between his labored breaths, but he kept that tidbit to himself. He was trying to reassure his companions—not trouble them further. 

Beckmann stared at him quietly, his dark eye filled with scrutiny. Shanks did not wilt under the weight of the other’s stare, but he felt like he was still being seen for more than what he wished. 

“You may be young, but that does not make you invincible,” Beckmann gravely warned, “Use this opportunity Lord Ithil graciously gave you and rest. Few are bestowed the privilege of witnessing the moon solstice alongside the Tirith Lúna. Do not take that honor for granted.”

“I am well aware of how significant this night is,” Shanks said. That was a given considering his heritage and how he was raised, “And believe me when I say, it is a relief to be among friends. Minas Ithil is as much home to me as Imladris.” 

“Yes, I am certain it is,” Remarked the other man, “It is where your dearest Melda lives, after all.” 

Sensing a hidden meaning behind Beckmann’s statement, Shanks’ glare narrowed minutely, “If there is something you wish to say then you should say it.” 

“I’ve nothing to say that hasn’t been said before.” Beckmann slyly replied, “But on to business, we received correspondence from the Ithiliíen Rangers requesting any men we can spare for additional patrols. Haradrim activity has increased along Gondor’s borders, and Orcs continue to lay siege to Osgiliath under the Witch-King’s command. They cannot manage both fronts with their numbers.” 

Shanks frowned, “What of Gondor’s forces? Is there not already a watch occupying Osgiliath?” 

“If there is, it is not enough to repel the ranks from Minas Morgǔl.” 

His frown deepening, Shanks stood so that he could pace slowly in thought. The spike in activity within Minas Morgǔl, home of Imura’s leading war general and commander of the Nazgûl, the Witch-King, was yet another instance throughout Middle Earth where shadow had begun to rouse from its long slumber. 

Imura, the once loyal servant of the God of Chaos, Morgoth, had plagued Middle Earth for millenia since his master’s defeat in the First Age of the world. He had quickly risen to a position of power in the wake of his lord’s capture, but where Morgoth’s goal lay in the total corruption of all that the gods created, Imura wished to control creation instead. He sought to exercise his dominion across every stretch of the world so that all would be brought to order under him, even the gods, and he once very nearly succeeded. Towards the end of the Second Age during the War of Wrath, Imura unleashed a powerful assault against Middle Earth, and it was only through the alliance of Men, Dwarves, and Elves were Imura’s forces defeated. 

It was believed, incorrectly, that Imura perished during the war, but after the reclamation of the Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor 60 years ago now, it was revealed that Imura’s spirit had endured. His spirit dwelled deep within the realm of Mordor, patient and waiting as he slowly regathered his strength. 

In that time, Orcs only grew in number and boldness. Goblins, too, stirred from their underground keeps. It seemed that on every front, a new threat was emerging, and with the Dúnedain dwindling in strength as years continued to pass, the future of Middle Earth was becoming decidedly grim. 

“I need to hold council with Steward Fergal of Gondor.” Shanks determined after careful thought, “He should withdraw his forces from Dol Amroth. The City of Osgiliath must not be forfeit to prolong his political conflict with Prince Mjosgard. Truthfully, he should have never occupied Dol Amroth to begin with.” 

“With Prince Mjosgard wishing to secede formally from Gondor, Fergal fears losing control of Dol Amroth’s port.” Beckmann wisely pointed out, “Without it, Gondor loses their trade with the outer lands. The tariffs alone would leave the country destitute.” 

While Shanks knew full well what Steward Fergal’s reasons were for his occupation of Dol Amroth, the current standoff between Prince and Steward did not sit well with him. Gondor’s continued path towards division weakened the kingdom from within, leaving it vulnerable to forces beyond its borders. It was a delicate situation. Prince Mjosgard was not beholden to the Stewardship of Gondor, claiming that only the true king of men could lay claim to Dol Amroth. In turn, Steward Fergal demanded Mjosgard’s sworn allegiance and refused negotiation on the matter. Dol Amroth had always been a vassal state of the Kingdom of Gondor, and so it would remain if the Steward had any say about it. 

“If both men weren’t so incredibly stubborn…” Shanks muttered bitterly. 

Beckmann, for his part, saw fit to remind, “You know the only way to appease Prince Mjosgard, Chief. He cannot stand Fergal’s arrogance and will never bend the knee to a mere steward.” 

Knowing what Beckmann hinted at, the chieftain shook his head, “No, it is not time yet.” 

“Will it ever be time?” 

The cutting question did little to improve Shanks’ mood, yet he did not rise to his second’s bait. Instead, he calmly explained, “We have gone over this, Beckmann. Gondor is not ready for the king’s return. With how my father left…” Shanks’ brows drew together with a notion of grief, a fleeting moment of mourning for a man he both admired and loved, “He gave the people hope of a newfound era, of a proper king after having gone centuries without, only to pass before his reign could truly begin. His forgotten son promising to do the same would not be welcomed nor believed. I need to earn allegiance, not demand it.” 

Beckmann looked as if he wanted to speak more on the topic, but Shanks held up his hand to silence him. He was not here to debate his birthright. There were more pressing matters at hand, matters that required their immediate attention. 

With that in mind, the Chieftain ordered, “Protecting Osgiliath should remain the primary focus of Ithilíen’s rangers. We will send Hongord to address the matter of the Easterlings. If they are willing to hear him out as a prior member of their tribes, then there is hope we can settle this without need for violence.” 

Beckmann nodded, “I will write to Hongord. Last I was aware, he was near the Sutherlands. It should take him no more than a couple of days to reach the Haradrim’s camp.” 

“Good,” said Shanks, “Now what of Gab’s report of the Ettenmoors?” 

“One of the Nazgûl has taken residence within Mount Gram, just as you suspected.” 

Shanks released a low and frustrated breath. That was not the news he’d been wishing to hear. With one of Imura’s Nine Generals lurking in the Ettenmoors, it was only a matter of time before Orcish forces in the west became organized under the Nazgûl’s leadership. 

What next? He wondered tiredly. What other omens could possibly befall him now?

Rubbing idly at his temples, Shanks attempted to soothe away the sharp pang of stress. He only just returned from a long stint in the Coldfells, a wretched land as bitterly cold as it was polluted by goblins and the like. There, he spent weeks tracking a band of slave-traders from Dunland. They’d preyed on the peaceful lands of the Shire for some time before Shanks caught wind of their crimes. By the time he caught up to them, they had neared the Ettenmoors where they planned to broker a deal with a clan of Orcs. Fortunately, Shanks was able to intercept them before they could. He managed to free those the slave-traders had taken captive, but then he was responsible for seeing the rescued folks to safety. They would not have survived the Coldfells on their own, and Shanks would not abandon them to what would be an inevitably frigid and violent end. 

So, given all that he recently endured, it came as no surprise that Beckmann’s sour news only seemed to exacerbate the Chieftain’s exhaustion. What little rest he gleaned after his arrival from Minas Ithil was now overshadowed by the dozens of worries piling atop his shoulders. 

“We will finish this another time,” Beckmann said before long, “I shouldn't burden you so soon after your return.” 

“It is my duty to bear burdens,” sighed Shanks, “…But I won’t argue. Send your letter to Hongord and before tonight I shall send a missive to Prince Mjosgard. Hopefully my words can appease him enough to stop this foolish stand off with Steward Fergal.” 

Having received his orders, Beckmann rose to stand. He was taller than Shanks, a feat that was quite remarkable considering the chieftain towered over most people he met. Granted, being one of the Dúnedain, it was expected that they were larger than the average man. Their strength and longer lives meant it was their duty to protect those unable to protect themselves, and it was a responsibility each and every one of Shanks’ rangers adhered to with unrelenting discipline. 

Once by the door, Beckmann paused long enough to say over his shoulder, “Enjoy yourself while you’re here, Shanks. We will always need you, but you mustn’t neglect your own needs as well.” 

“I will,” he promised, forcing a smile to his lips, “My respite is well deserved.” 

Following Beckmann’s leave, Shanks collapsed back onto his bed. Sleep would not find him again, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t revel in the quiet peace that was Minas Ithil. It had been some time since his last visit to the tower, and not much had changed in his absence, if anything at all. 

The tower was home to the Tirith Lúna, a selective faction of elven warriors chosen to serve at the behest of Lord Ithil, or as Shanks had come to know him as: Mihawk. 

Like the rangers, the Tirith Lúna were faithful guardians of the land, though they did not involve themselves as much in matters of politics. The Dúnedain, and Shanks in particular, were as much advisors to the kingdoms of men as they were protectors of them, but the Tirith Lúna cared little for stately concerns. Instead, they remained focused on combating the growing darkness within the fortress of Dol Guldur to the south and the Orc stronghold of Mount Gundabad to the north. Their efforts fended off Imura from expanding his influence to the central Rhovanion lands of Middle Earth, and without the Tirith Lúna, the forest of Mirkwood and its surrounding region would have sunken into shadow long ago. 

Even among the Eldar, it was considered an honor to receive an invitation to Minas Ithil, for few were ever afforded the privilege. The Tirith Lúna were a mysterious group notorious for keeping to themselves. Mihawk, especially, was renowned for his solitary existence. The reputable Lord Ithil was as elusive as the stars, far beyond reach and only endeavoring to make an appearance when it best suited him. Supposedly, it wasn’t uncommon for the elf to go centuries without visiting other lands, though that isolating habit had changed in recent decades. 

That could be attributed to Shanks’ influence, of course. Shanks, though having only known Mihawk for a fraction of the elf’s life, undoubtedly had the greatest influence upon him. The ranger knew it wasn’t right for Mihawk to remain cooped up in his ivory tower when there was still so much of the world the elf had yet to see. Middle Earth was constantly changing, and what was did not always match the now. Even amidst chaos, there were still sights that stole Shanks’ breath, where even the most unlikely of places left him in awe. One could not see the beauty of the world if they did not endeavor to look for it, and Shanks was not the sort of man to discover treasure and not be compelled to share the wealth. 

Prior to his appointment as Chieftain, Shanks would arrive at Minas Ithil only to whisk its lord away on his newest grand adventure. Those early years as a ranger afforded Shanks much greater freedom to do as he pleased, and he always believed freedom such as that was best spent in good company. Surprisingly, Mihawk wasn’t very hard to persuade in that regard; in fact, he took practically no convincing at all to agree to Shanks’ propositions. 

Shanks often thought of those days, and fondly remembered all the weeks and months when it was just him and Mihawk stumbling their way into all forms of trouble. From scalding hot days to frigid cold nights, they had conquered mountains and deserts, woodlands and seas, and all the while they had been side by side, sharing in laughter and woes, in a bond that only ever seemed to become stronger as the years came and went. 

To Shanks, Mihawk was fascinating. He was unlike any other elf the ranger had met, for his whims were capricious and his temper unpredictable. Mihawk was timeless, but unlike his composed kin he had a breath of the wild in him, a lust for something more than what the duties of an Elven Lord generally allowed. Though he was duty bound, Mihawk was an elf who would ultimately do what he wished when he wished to do it, and no one, not even the Valar, had the ability to tell him otherwise. 

What an enviable privilege, Shanks thought. If only he had the courage to do the same. 

Throwing an arm over his eyes, Shanks blocked out the warm sunlight spilling into his room. He hoped the quiet would tempt his thoughts into silence, but no such relief came to him. Well, if that was going to be the case, he refused to lay about and waste what remained of his morning. Soon enough, the ranger dressed and ventured from his room, eager to take in the wondrous sights of Minas Ithil and its surrounding land. 

A couple of short hours later, Shanks made his way towards a large clearing just to the west of Minas Ithil. Nestled within the density of Mirkwood’s trees, there was an archery range where the Tirith Lúna often went to train. At one time or another, Shanks had tested his own abilities with a bow here, and while he didn’t have the pinpoint accuracy seen in Mihawk’s elves, none of his arrows had strayed very far from the center targets. 

Upon the ranger’s arrival, he spied several members of the Tirith Lúna expertly gliding through the course. The quiet thwip of arrows ripped through the air in rapid succession, with the elves being but mere blurs of swiftness within the trees. Settling on a pillow of soft grass to watch, Shanks happily admired the precision and grace of Mihawk’s warriors. Granted, one would expect nothing less of elves hand-picked by Lord Ithil himself. Mihawk did not accept anything less than perfection, and he held those in his service to an impossibly high standard. One might think him harsh, but Shanks knew what enemies the Tirith Lúna were often up against and anything short of excellence could easily spell their doom. 

As a few minutes trickled by, an itch beneath Shanks’ skin urged him to join the elves in their training, but he wisely relegated himself to simple observation. Perhaps if he weren’t so mindful of breaking both his promises to Beckmann and Mihawk to properly rest, he would have happily went for a short jaunt in the trees. Alas, Shanks had a niggling feeling that if he was caught with a bow in hand, the scolding he would receive might leave him wishing he were deaf. 

Beckmann, in particular, had a knack for being quite long-winded. Enough so that at one time, he talked for so long without interruption his voice couldn’t reach above a whisper for the better course of a week. The other Dúnedain teased Beckmann mercilessly about it, but Shanks, who’d been the recipient of the never-ending lecture, could only weep in relief when the scolding finally ended.  

“Mae govannen, Rainë.” 

Idle in his thoughts, Shanks startled at the sudden greeting of a fair-haired elf woman. She approached from the ranger’s left, silent and unnoticed, and like her kin she had a bow in hand and a quiver full of arrows strung across her back. 

“It has been some time since you were last seen at Minas Ithil.” She continued respectfully. 

“Mae govannen, Marguerite,” Shanks welcomed kindly, favoring the elf woman with a smile and nod of recognition, “I am glad to be back.”

Marguerite glanced between the training grounds and Shanks, a thoughtful look softening her otherwise severe countenance. She was the youngest elf among the Tirith Lúna, but her natural affinity to battle meant she was as formidable as they came. She hailed from Lothloríen and on one of Mihawk’s rare visits to the golden wood, Marguerite caught his eye. Shrewd as he ever was in the selection of his warriors, Mihawk tested the promising elfling until she collapsed, unable to withstand the brunt of Mihawk’s combative prowess. Afterward, the elf lord was pleased enough with Marguerite’s fortitude and invited her to join him at Minas Ithil. She was only too eager to accept, believing there was no greater honor than to serve the strongest of their kind—or so, that was the story Shanks was told when last he met the young elf woman.  

Unlike her comrades, Marguerite did not keep to herself. Her youth meant she was fascinated by anything that she had not seen before, and that included Shanks. Before him, Marguerite had never met a man, let alone one of the famed long-lived Dúnedain. Though she tried her best to hide it upon their first meeting, she could not keep herself from approaching the strange ranger, and when Shanks proved receptive to her company, she unleashed a flurry of endless questions upon him. Shanks remembered it being more akin to an interrogation than anything else, but he had fielded the inquiries with a smile. Despite Marguerite being centuries old, her maturity was similar to that of a woman freshly come of age. Not quite a child, but still young enough in Shanks’ mind to find her curiosity entirely innocent. 

Naturally, Marguerite’s friendliness made it easy for Shanks to become partial to her and he happily invited the elf to join him if she so wished. It took only a moment for Marguerite to come to a decision, and while she had obviously come to train, she forewent her initial plan to sit beside the ranger instead.  

“You’ve come for the solstice, yes?” She asked after setting aside her bow and quiver. 

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” Shanks said, smoke billowing lazily between his lips from where he idly smoked his pipe, “It is to be the first true solstice in nearly 500 years.” 

“Tilion’s chariot will bring the moon closer to Arda than it’s ever been, and the light of Isilmë will brighten the world as if it were day,” Marguerite explained, her silver eyes giddy with anticipation, “I have never seen a true solstice myself, but those who have say it is a celestial event unlike any other.” 

Nodding along to the elfling’s excited rambling, Shanks smiled, “With Lord Ithil performing the Liltë Macil, I imagine this will be a night spoken about for centuries to come.” 

“You must be eager to see it yourself, Rainë.” Marguerite innocently stated, though she couldn’t know just how true her statement was. 

“Undoubtedly.” Shanks agreed with an easy laugh. 

When he had first received Mihawk’s letter inviting the ranger to join the elf lord at Minas Ithil, there was hardly a moment that went by where Shanks was not eagerly looking forward to this day. Though the ranger had been delayed in his arrival, he wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Not only was the True Moon Solstice an event of spiritual significance amongst the elves, but it was Mihawk who had wanted Shanks to join him in celebration of it. How could Shanks have done anything other than offer his wholehearted agreement? 

Keeping to his lighthearted ambiance, Shanks went on to say, “Numerous people have seen fit to remind me how honored I should be to bear witness to Liltë Macil. Every letter I’ve received from Lord Nefatarí of Imladris has contained nothing except strict instructions on how I must conduct myself. Really, you would think he didn’t have any faith in my knowledge of elvish custom, despite teaching me these customs himself.” 

Marguerite giggled and the jingle of her laughter was a tinkling and musical sound. It was so unlike the boisterous manner of men or the gruff amusement of the dwarves, and Shanks was reminded yet again just how absurdly otherworldly all elves seemed to him. 

“But you must understand Lord Nefatarí’s worry, yes?” Marguerite said between her laughter, “Not even he has been invited tonight, and he is a member of the Golden Council. One of the oldest and wisest lords in Middle Earth!” 

“Lord Nefatarí is very wise, yes, but he worries too much,” Shanks said goodnaturedly, “Though I hope Mihawk hasn’t caused any offense with the other lords and ladies with my being here.” 

To this, Marguerite scoffed, “As if my lord could ever be bothered with the offense of others.” 

“That is true,” murmured the ranger, unbearably fond as he blew out another ring of smoke, “Some might say he is never bothered enough.” 

“But is that what you think?” The fair elf wondered in a ploy to try and understand the inner-workings of Shanks’ mind. 

Upon seeing Marguerite’s head tilted in silent expectation, her silver eyes wide in their impatience, Shanks found himself terribly amused. To be the subject of the elfling’s inquisitiveness was both endearing and strange. Generally, it was mankind who held fascination with the elves, not the other way around, yet Shanks did not mind it. 

And, in response to Marguerite’s question, the ranger shook his head, “Mihawk is my dearest Melda. I hardly find any fault with him.” 

Marguerite mulled over his reply, brows furrowed and lips comically drawn. Her expressiveness was another key indication of her age. The elves of Imladris, and the ones who raised Shanks since he was a young boy, were considerably more subdued. Their reticence was a byproduct of having stood the test of millennia, their minds and bodies weathered into calmed stone by the ages come and gone. They were careful with their emotions, and even more deliberate with whom they shared such sentiments. Always so poised, and yet Marguerite was a picture of puzzled where she sat. 

“…You do not mind his temper?” She asked, careful so as to not be overheard. Then, as she leaned closer to Shanks, she whispered, “There is a common saying among the Tirith Lúna: we fear Orcs less because we fear Lord Ithil more.”

Shanks took a moment to process the elf’s shared secret before he erupted into a fit of loud laughter. Marguerite was quick to shush him, but Shanks could not keep from falling back with a bright cackle on his lips. 

“Rainë, please!” Marguerite slapped at him hastily in an attempt to quiet his hysterics, “It is no laughing matter!”

“It is too!” He gasped happily and wiped tears from his eyes, “He likely knows full well what you whisper about him. I am certain he does, actually.” 

Silver eyes went wide with concern, but Shanks eased the elfling with a comforting hand on her shoulder, “Fear not,” he managed through his laughter, “Having such a fearsome reputation would please Mihawk more than anything.” 

Discovering that the Tirith Lúna believed the most ferocious being in Middle Earth to be Mihawk’s attitude, even over Dark Lord Imura himself, sent Shanks into another fit of laughter all over again. Oh, the ranger couldn’t wait to bring this up later on. What a fearsome lord Mihawk must be! 

Marguerite crossed her arms with her nose upturned in offense, “Not everyone can be as fearless as you when invoking Lord Ithil’s ire. It must be a trait of men to be as brave as they are foolish.” 

“Aye, you’re even beginning to sound like him,” Shanks said, and then, in a more sincere manner he continued, “Your lord cares deeply for his people. No matter his ferocity, know that it stems only from a place of love. He would rather your lessons be harsh and well remembered, than see any of you dead at the hands of an Orc.” 

His words did well to soothe the elfling. Marguerite’s posture softened and her silver eyes shimmered. She seemed to look upon Shanks in a new light, seeing him not just as the rugged ranger who frequented Minas Ithil, but as a voice of Middle Earth itself. His tenderness underlied by a wisdom far beyond his years ensured his words were not only heard, but taken to heart. 

“You must care deeply for my lord, to speak so warmly of him.” 

Shanks’ smile shifted in tone as it became more wistful. Young as she may be, even Marguerite could see the tender love Shanks held in his heart for Mihawk. Did she think him foolish for housing such sentiments? 

“As I said before, Mihawk is a very dear friend to me.” 

Mihawk was far more than that, but the ranger could barely acknowledge this truth within himself, let alone say anything of the sort aloud. 

However, before Marguerite could say anything in return, a rustle in leaves above Shanks interrupted the moment, and with a glance upward the ranger spied a streak of gray slicing through the canopy. In the second that followed, a bird emerged, swift as a blink, and settled itself on Shanks’ shoulder. 

Marguerite’s mouth parted in surprise, “Is that not Huinë’s falcon?” 

Surë was the falcon’s name, and indeed the bird belonged to Rayleigh the Silver, the wandering wizard. As a member of the Istari, an order of wizards that oversaw matters of Middle Earth on behalf of the Valar, Rayleigh’s letter was likely concerning something of grave importance. 

A frown darkened his expression as Shanks stood in a rush. Whatever news Surë carried would not bode well for the ranger. Not well at all. 

“Rainë?”

“It has been a pleasure Marguerite, but you must excuse me,” he said, offering a small bow of apology, “And please, I would ask that you keep Surë’s arrival between us.” 

Marguerite rose to meet him, “If Huinë has sent a message we must notify Lord Ithil—“ 

“Alcarë, Mellon-nin.” Shanks eased, settling both his hands on the elf’s tense shoulders, “I will handle it. There is no need to trouble your lord. Please,” he appealed again, “Can I count on your discretion?”

Rayleigh the Silver rarely sent missives personally to Shanks, but when he did it was never trivial correspondence. No, this was likely a concern the wizard could only entrust to Shanks, the Chieftain of the Dunedaín. The timing was less than ideal, but trouble hardly ever cared for convenience, or Shanks’ sanity for that matter. 

Though she was still unsure, Marguerite must have sensed Shanks’ severity and agreed to the ranger’s demand with a slow nod of her head. 

Thankful, the ranger bid her a quick farewell before taking his leave. A sinking feeling heavied Shanks’ heart, a hollow foreboding following him all the way back to his room. He did not know what exactly Rayleigh would ask of him, but given the state of Middle Earth at present, there was little doubt in the ranger’s mind that he would soon be called upon once again.