Beyond the North Stair by Certh

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'Do you not know, Boromir, or do you choose to forget the North Stair, and the high seat upon Amon Hen, that were made in the days of the great kings? I at least have a mind to stand in that high place again, before I decide my further course.'

    - The Fellowship of the Ring, Book 2, Chapter IX


Nightly quiet engulfed him as he sat watch on the dark lawn of Parth Galen. As the hours wore on and the moon began to wane, Aragorn let his gaze wander. Slowly, his eyes travelled up to the summit of Amon Hen.

It now seemed years beyond count that he had first beheld the high Seat of Seeing, a marvel of old surrounded by a crumbling battlement. He had been young, a Lord of the Dúnedain journeying to the land of his forefathers, and eagerly ascended the many steps to the stone chair. When he had settled into its cold embrace, he had looked about him, west and south and east, seeing the wide plains of Rohan, and the High City where Anárion had been King, and the black mountains of Mordor.

He had gazed at the far-away sights with wonder, and then his eyes turned northward, to the Mountains of Mist where the home of his childhood lay. His heart within his chest had leapt, knowing that he would return thither one day.

Now, on the most perilous journey he had ever undertaken, Aragorn could not foretell if he would set eyes on the Hidden Valley and his heart's desire again. He looked south where Rauros boomed endlessly on and drew a deep breath. Come morning, the Fellowship would have to make a choice long postponed, and he hoped that the view the high place upon Amon Hen offered him on the morrow would at last reveal his path.




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