INTO THE DARK AGAIN

by Wayfarer
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)

Prologue
Out Of The Mountains' Mist

High in the Hithaeglir the wind blazed forth every September, an early herald of the long march of Winter. Gleeful howls grew increasing loud as autumn waned. It would touch everything with icy fingers, and cover the hardening ground with a fine layer of frost, for its strength it drew from the advancing cold that crept down from the highest peaks.

And oft it was said that things other than winter chill were borne on the shrieking wind, that whispers of secrets echoing in caves deep in the mountains’ bowels were gathered in its scouring grasp and scattered far and wide as it raced forth to claim the lands. So it might seem on a dark autumn night, when deep amongst the high places of the peaks, an unknown cavern murmured, low and guttural. Yet it was not giving up its own secrets, merely repeating to the wind the wails of the creature that hid deep within.

Indignant cries echoed within the cavern: ‘Precious! Where is the Precious?’ On all fours, he paced the stone hollow, bemoaning his loss. Sullen resentment flared, rising ever high for he was angry: with himself for his carelessness, and for the time spent indulging in the game instead of breaking the thief’s neck quickly. But more than all else, it was the bold cunning of the thief that infuriated him.

‘Tricksy thief, Baggins stole our Precious. It cheated us, we hates it and we wants the Precious back!’ He raved, maddened again.

His back against the trapdoor, he pondered the cold walls spreading away from it. Dark nooks dented the stone, running entire lengths of the walls, leading to the blocked cavern mouth.

Behind him, the trapdoor opened onto a tunnel, part of the goblin thoroughfare.

Without the magic of the Precious to make him invisible, it would have been folly to approach the goblin tunnels; but no longer, for they were gone. Their disappearance mattered not at all, save that there was much less meat for him.

In truth he could not care less, if they had not vanished soon after his Precious was stolen.

‘Baggins took it, nasty thief,’ he hissed. ‘We guessed what was in its pocketses, we did -- if only we guessed sooner, precious, Ach!’

Back and forth he paced before the trapdoor, stamping and kicking the pebbles cluttering his way.

Anger quickened his steps, until he began pacing in a circle. Ever wider his course grew, but always it brought him back to the trapdoor -- until it grew so large that it reached the cave entrance.

Surprised at having his pacing suddenly stopped, his anger crumbled, and he fell onto his knees. Feet splayed while gnarled fingers kneaded the hard stone floor, he sat glaring at the boulder guarding the entrance, like a door left ajar in careless haste. Near to his busy hands, an unfamiliar sight attracted his eyes. Though he did not remember when he last saw such light, he tried not to stare at the bright lance cast upon the floor, for he remembered its name.

‘Don’t look precious, the hateful White Face burns. Oh, our eyes! Gollum.’ He squatted just beyond the light’s reach, listening to the mournful wind force its way through the narrow gap in the ponderous stone door.

Shadows flitted past, slicing through the thin shard of light. Startled, he scrambled for the trapdoor, hiding well behind it.

At length, he put his face around the shield of the door. From the safety of his vantage point, he stared again at the gap that led out of the cave.

‘Can we gets the Precious back?’ he asked. ‘Rush us and crush us, it’s beyond the stony door – gollum. But the nasty light, it’ll burn us. We can’t go there, precious.’

Then his voice changed as his other self began to wail: ‘But the Precious, what about the Precious? Baggins must be taking it away, further every day!’

‘Yes, we knows, precious can’t be happy ‘til he gets it back, but we is famished,’ said the first thought. ‘Fissh! Yes, food helps us think. Maybe we’ll finds a way after we eat – sss.’

As time passed, he found himself spending his time in the cave. Always, he sat just beyond the reach of White Face, and thought about the piercing light that kept him prisoner while the thief carried the Precious further and further away from him.

--- --- ---

Once, he entered the cave with caution, and snuffled at the dissimilarity he felt. Yet, his sensitive nose could tell no discernible difference. Confused, he began pacing, wondering.

‘What is it, precious? What’s - gollum - changed now?’ Muttering to himself, he almost walked into the great stone door. Just in time, he stopped, flopping down in a clumsy heap.

He cocked his head at the door. ‘Blesses and splashes!’ he laughed. ‘Sss - White Face doesn’t spy us.’

Indeed, there was no painful lance of light that marked the end of his familiar course.

He remembered then another thing about White Face: it was hateful but it could not watch him every night, for it had to sleep too. And when it slept, it could not hurt his eyes with its unabashed staring. Cackling at the re-discovered weakness of White Face, he clapped and gloated: ‘Sss - it can’t hurt us tonight, precious!’

Beyond the great stone door the wind mimicked his mournful cry for the Precious. He glared at the door. Gaining courage from White Face’s absence, he thrust his head through the gap.

Instantly, he retracted it.

Boneless with stunned senses, he slumped down where he sat.

A glimmering pale covered the distant lands that lied beyond, and his hissing breath misted in the chill. The dark roof of the sky was too far away, and there was nothingness between it and the mountainside. If it was all darkness, it might have gone the better, for had he not lived his life in the lightless bowels of the Misty Mountains? But the nasty stars piercing the black fabric of night: they gave out such dim light that his eyes could bear to see them. Yet, in seeing them, he realised the depth of the sky they were hanging in, and that described the empty space between them and the ground he stood on. The nothingness filling that space overwhelmed him, drowning the ever present thoughts of the Precious for a breath.

Rare were the moments when he did not think of the Precious, and he felt suddenly very small, as he sat there, gulping the cold air.

‘Ach! The Outside is a BIG room, precious. How can we finds the Precious out there?’ He began to wail, ‘Lost, it’s really lost! Baggins, we hates it for ever!’

‘No, no! It can’t be! I promised, its mine and I won’t ever lose it -- I must find it!’ came the answer.

‘Yes, we must, mustn’t we? Must get the Precious back!’ he said with determination. ‘But we needs some fissh before we begins.’

And so he retreated deep underground. Upon his island throne out in the lonely mere he sat, and barely tasted the large-eyed fish that filled his mouth.

--- --- ---

He was in the cave again, wondering about how far away his lost Precious was. The vastness that had swallowed it daunted him. Curses he threw at the hateful White Face gave vent to his seething anger, but not for long.

Though he knew not why, he began to count the nights between White Face’s time of hiding. With effort he strove to keep the memory of his count firmly in his head though it ached; it seemed he could think of nothing but his loss, torn between his fear of White Face and the need to answer the Precious’ pull.

Whenever White Face slept, he would put out his head through the gap, determined to venture forth. But he would retreat, and each time his limbs quavered worse than the soft mud on the banks of his underground home, defeated by the fear of stepping out of the cave, back into the light that he had abandoned. Always his retreat were accompanied by complaints and snarls:

‘O no, we can’t!’ he cried, gasping with distaste. ‘It stinks, the nassty air, it chokes uss.’

‘It hurts, and I’m tired,’ the other thought wept.

‘We musst, we must - gollum - we came with the Precious, no one can takes it away. We wants the Precious back!’

For a moment, there was silence. Then he frowned.

‘Why am I alone?’ asked the other, crying not for the first time. ‘We can’t go back there, and I can’t stay here.’

‘Precious doesn’t needs them!’ he reminded the other. The glint in his eyes was hard. ‘They gave up on uss!’ he spat. ‘We didn’t leaves them, but they grew jealous of our gift, we came because we has to keep the Precious safe!’

The third time he poked his head outside, he was rendered motionless as his eyes swept down from the uncaring stars. He was perplexed anew by the change he saw, for the distant lands had shed the cold pale gleam; mist no longer turned his breath white, for the air itself was growing warm. And the bare tree branches that resembled his gnarled fingers as he strangled his prey, were heavy with things that waved with noise if the wind blew.

He began to remember -- the funny things on the branches were leaves.

As the nights passed, there came to his snuffling nose more and more scents and a feeling that he had long forgotten. Even the cold forbidding crowns of the Misty Mountains yielded to the cycle, and only their very peaks still gleamed as the snows retreated from the lower ranges.

The perplexing scents he tasted told of things strange to him now. Yet, though he disliked what the cloying smells were trying to tell him, still he found himself pushing his nose through the yawning crack, eager to sample more. He waited with impatience for White Face to sleep again, for he chafed with the need to have his eyes give shape to the smells.

Finally, the night of darkness came. The view beyond the cave door was changed, altering itself before his disbelieving eyes. Overwhelmed by things that sat on it, the land seemed darkly green. Everywhere he looked, there was ... growth. Bemused by the teeming life, he sat in wonder.

Amidst the confusing thoughts an idea grew, and he began to shape for himself a plan.

A pale light shone in his eyes as the other voice said: ‘I remember, it’s spring!’ He sniffed again the air, drawing a deep breath. ‘Yes, Spring!’ the other cried in excitement.

‘Yes, yes,’ he replied, impatience grating on his annoyance at the fresh smells that lingered in his nose. ‘P'raps we can go Outside, precious. Leaves and grasses, eggs and mouses, there’s food enough for us, ss,’ he said, eyes gleaming green.

‘But I can’t do it all at once,’ said the other voice, and a note of apprehension was evident. ‘There’s so much nothing out there.’

‘No, we durstn’t, we durstn’t go out all at once, all together,’ said he soothingly. ‘Poor precious, it’ll hurt, but he musst remember.’

The other voice whimpered.

‘Maybe we tries too hard, precious?’ he said, eyes flickering green again. ‘Gollum. We doesn’t swallow fish whole, not even scrumptiously crunchable bones. Maybe we should try this like we eats, first a bit, then another bit, and then another, until we finishes it up.’ Then he poured as much coaxing as he could into his voice: ‘Sss, precious, we looks at the Outside first, get used to the nothingness, yes?’

‘Yes,’ the other thought answered, strengthened by the yearning he felt. ‘I’ll go, back to the Outside.’

And so, he began to look to the slumbering night of White Face, for it was then that he could thrust his head through the gap and begin to be familiar with the vastness he knew he must venture into if he was to retrieve the Precious.

--- --- ---

It was the White Face’s night of slumber again. He knew that the next time it did, it would be one more time than he could measure with all his fingers and toes.

Eyes gleamed as he snuffed at the air, for it brought smells that reminded him of Baggins; scents the thief had brought to the shore of the underground lake -- rich yielding sweetness, the promise of harvest. Autumn was come, cooling the air. His breath raced away in faint mist trails as he cast about, preparing himself.

The last time that White Face slept, he had managed to stand outside the gap for a moment. Upon the ledge he had lingered, not for courage, but for his skinny legs that seemed to have been suddenly cast in stone. Too stunned with the vast nothingness that held him fast, he had struggled to move his feet. Then he looked down and blood rushed through his scrawny neck to reach his overwhelmed mind much too quickly. Countless treetops crowded the mountainside as it sloped downwards into darkness; finally, he tore his eyes away, the cover of the cave his only thought. Step by heavy, reluctant step he slowly put himself into the welcoming dark of the cave mouth. So proud of himself was he that as soon as he recovered his strength, in the shadowed safety of the cave, he capered, a mad dance of skinny happiness.

And this night though he stood shivering even before he began, it was not merely the cold that caused him to shake. For he was learning the truth the smells brought: the cold covered the land again and it would make it impossible to leave for a few more times of White Face’s slumber. Already he chafed with the need to recover the Precious. He knew he had to do more before Winter sealed off the cavern mouth again. And so he had resolved -- this night he would leave, this night he would go after the Precious.

Also on fanfiction.net: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/931862/1/

_{NOTE: Elvish Translations under "Reference" on the Author's Notes page.}

INTO THE DARK AGAIN

by Wayfarer
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)

Two
In Bree Long Ago, A Meeting Held In Haste

'Ranger! Mr. Strider! Ah, there you are, my good man.' Despite the familiar address, the ample landlord's discomfort was obvious. Unconsciously, he wrung out the cloth with which he had wiped the bar, while the object of his remarks turned away from the corner table and came over.

Smoke filled the common room of the Prancing Pony. A mingling of weed, beer and sweat threaded through the wafting smells of fresh bread and seasoned meats, mounting an odorous assault on all who entered. And the room was crowded, bustling with an endless flow of food and ale. There were men and hobbits, Bree-landers in close camaraderie, sharing tables, beer and yarns in harmony that was not to be had elsewhere. In the corner where some Outsiders huddled with the remains of an extravagant spread before them, a commotion was brewing: Bree-folk surrounded them, eager for news and strange tales from far away. Such good custom graced the inn that there was barely room for latecomers and the harried serving-men had had no opportunity to rest for the past three hours.

Full of bodies and awkward elbows as it was, any who had not staked a place at the busy bar faced a tough challenge to procure a tankard through the crush. Yet, the Breelanders who jostled there obliged with a clear place for the approaching figure. The interruption to their merriment did not dampen the drinkers' spirits. Rather, it was the sheer presence of the man, one of the many Rangers who stopped frequently at the inn. He was robed in a heavy dark green cloak, threadbare in places, and his face was hidden in the shadows of the garment's hood. Grips on tankards tightened as the merrymakers perceived the ominous aura emanating from him. It did not help that his reputation as 'One of them wandering folk', had preceded him.

The man did not pull his hood back, but his gaze was no less intense, seeming to blaze forth from far within the depths of the cowled robe. Barliman glanced nervously at the Ranger as he casually placed a hand on the bar, a fine silver ring adorning one of the long fingers, and suddenly the landlord felt very small.

'Mr. Butterbur?' he asked, bending low to meet the short landlord in the eye.

Barliman's throat went dry, and he wondered why it was so difficult to talk to him -- it had been easy enough to strike up conversation when serving the stranger. Suddenly he wished he had not agreed to the old man's request.

'Is something amiss?' queried Aragorn.

'Of -- of course not, Mr. Strider, take no offence!' replied the landlord. Suddenly gaining courage, he rambled on: 'Why, in fact, I count you among my best customers, though I am much surprised to see you back again so soon.' Barliman stopped as he realized what he had said. Then he quickly rambled on , hoping to cover his embarrassment: 'I may be kept busy with serving but that does not mean I forget about the accounts. Yes, I do appreciate your promptness in paying for the heartfelt services of my humble inn!' He glanced about the crowded room, unable as he was to hold the other's gaze.

The raucous chatter around the bar was suddenly subdued, some of the Bree-folk lowering their voices in guilty mumbling, reminded of their own unpaid bills.

'Then, pray tell, Mr. Butterbur, why was I hailed if not in pursuit of some unknown debt?'

Barliman felt sure he detected a note of amusement, but the Ranger's question reminded him of his task.

'Oh! Yes, someone is looking for you. Been here for, let's see, yes, eleven days now, he has. He has just gone out and asked that you wait for him here.'

'Oh? And what does he look like, this man?' asked the Ranger.

'Well, let's see. I think there is no other word to describe him than grey. Yes, strangely, everything about him is grey. Grey robes, grey beard, and a tall hat. Oh, that was blue though.' He laughed as he scrubbed the bar top, 'I remember how it used to get caught by the threshold, being tall himself and all. And he would curse as he ducked back out to retrieve the fallen hat. Even now, he would forget this old inn has low doorways!'

'I suppose he left a name?' returned the Ranger.

'Yes, yes! In a minute -- oh, pardon me there,' said Butterbur. 'Now where was I? Ah yes, this man -- an old one, name of Gandalf. I happen to know him as a friend in fact, though how that came about -- well, I'm a busy man, and I'm sure you will want your ale and food instead of my ramblings.' He paused, and the other looked hard at him.

'Was I saying too much? Goodness, how can I keep you from your rest? Tiring day? I suppose so, you rangers do walk a lot I must say,' he paused with a smile. After a quick glance at the clock, he said: 'Well, dinner for you I presume? I recommend the venison, not only for the magic the old lady has done on it but it's fresh in today! But then, we always serve the freshest and the best, of course.'

The tall man listened with forbearance, considerately waiting for the flood of words to slow to a trickle before asking, 'Will that be all? Mr. Butterbur?'

A little surprised by the Ranger's polite response, Barliman took a moment before he could offer the Pony's famous brew. 'Oh, and some ale to whet your appetite while you wait?'

'Thank you, I am much obliged.' Aragorn smiled his thanks, looking all the more menacing with teeth gleaming from the depths of the hood.

Barliman smiled in return, a little apprehensively. The Ranger looked no less a rascal to the landlord. The owner of the Prancing Pony, affectionately known among the regular patrons as Barley, wished the secretive Strider and his kind did not visit Bree so often. No doubt they were good custom, always prompt with payment, well-mannered in fact, for Barliman could not recall an instance where a fight was started by one of them. In truth, they kept to themselves exclusively, though upon request, they always obliged with news from the Outside and fantastical tales that, to his mind, trod too far on the wrong side of believable. But, they felt out of place to him, and they did put the other customers ill-at-ease whenever they appeared; often the flow of beer would halt as the men lost interest in their drinks. Barliman was thankful that once they settled down at their chosen tables, the Rangers seemed to melt into the background, so unobtrusive that the merry-making would resume.

The landlord shrugged off his distaste. Rangers or otherwise, it was honest money he got from them and to a busy man who lived by his own effort, that was all that mattered. He returned to the chores at hand, after watching with secret amusement as the Ranger sauntered to the table, bodies parting before him as men pressed back at his approach and moved out of his way instinctively -- an amazing feat in the crowded room.

--- --- ---

Aragorn sat by the fire, warming his hands, his long legs tucked under the stool. The fascinating flames danced, sinuous, shifting.

Behind him, an old man, long beard and hair streaked in grey and white, stood near the window, a smoking pipe in hand while his hat sat on the bed. Despite the semblance of age, he appeared otherwise hale and robust.

The Ranger waited for the wizard to speak. And true to form, it was not of the matters that had drawn him to Bree.

'Barliman should be commended for the fine fare he serves,' Gandalf said, Elvish rolling off his tongue silken smooth.

'Indeed,' Aragorn agreed. 'Yet, I am certain that it is not enough reason to drive anyone to travel so far north. Neither is the prospect of supping on the Pony's fare with a disreputable Ranger!'

They laughed, at ease in the intimacy and isolation of the room, away from prying eyes.

'Mae govannen, Mithrandir,' said Aragorn. 'Long has it been since we sat together thus.'

'Mae govannen!' replied the wizard. 'My apologies for calling you hither. I am relieved that you have spared my bones the agony of the frozen wastes at Fornost! But come now, before we embark on the reason for your summons, tell me how you have fared these past years. News travels far, and my ears have heard whispered accounts of forays into unknown lands, with solitude your sole companion. I hear of great deeds even now cast into legend.'

'Ah, news quickly turns into tales, does it not?' Aragorn laughed. 'The modest virtues that gave them birth grow beyond recognition.'

'Come come, my friend!' said Gandalf. 'Where is your love of storytelling? Surely you would not begrudge this old vagabond thin slivers of your adventures, that I might add to my store of tales to earn my keep at Imladris?'

'Do you not then claim to yourself the business of colourful yarns?'

Gandalf's eyes twinkled in amusement. 'I am chastened before the Lord Ranger! Pray forgive an old man hungry for tales that only the Dúnedain can tell.'

Though Aragorn frowned, there was a merry gleam in his eyes as he replied: 'Very well then! It seems I will get no peace until I have satisfied your hunger.'

And so they began to reminisce, renewing the bonds of friendship, long held in abeyance over time and distance, but as strong as ever they had been. After some time a silence fell and then Aragorn, leaning suddenly forward, said quietly: 'Well? Are you going to tell me why you asked me here?'

'Well now? Worthy deeds indeed, my dear friend,' smiled Gandalf. 'And now, I suppose you are burning with curiosity, and I see concern in your face.'

'I know you too well to believe for a moment that you have travelled this far merely to pass the time of day!' said Aragorn. 'What is it, Mithrandir? Now that we have eaten more than our fill and filled our pipes, must you still put off disclosing your true business here?'

The old man pulled up another chair to the other side of the fire, studying the Man.

'You are in pensive mood, Aragorn.'

'Good food and a fine tankard will do that sometimes,' said Aragorn wryly.

'Well then.' Gandalf searched Aragorn's face in earnest. Then he spoke, in a low voice: 'The Enemy is moving again.'

The Ranger felt relieved, 'Is that all? Forgive my bluntness, but it has been plain to see. Things are astir, and have been so for years now. Yes, even here in the desolation of the North. Increasingly, the reports point to a massing of the Enemy's forces. There has been unusual movement of birds and beasts, ranging around the Old Forest, and all but children are aware it bodes ill. Surely that is not the whole reason for you to seek my company? I have scarcely left Breeland, and Butterbur has barely time to make his peace with my last appearance before I was summoned by your message.'

'No. Despite the drink and my seeming age, I still keep my wits about me,' the wizard responded mildly. 'Yes, it is grievous indeed that I should purpose to test Barliman's sanity so.' He stood up, and began to pace as he spoke. 'I mean that he is moving faster. I have underestimated his ability and will in the matter. Perhaps it is my secret desire for peace that clouds my judgment. I fear that events are beginning to move at a pace, as of a storm gathering speed; I worry they may soon be beyond our grasp.' Aragorn wondered what it was that troubled Gandalf for it seemed that he was much too wary in his words. In turn Gandalf considered him as he returned his attention to the fire. 'I am late of the Shire, Aragorn. While I lingered there, certain matters were given much pause for thought and there is much I have had to ponder --'

Aragorn turned to the wizard, a quizzical brow arched, the air full of questions he did not ask. An odd look of hope and yet of apprehension flared in his eyes.

'What do you wish of the Dúnedain, Mithrandir?' he asked.

Gandalf debated the wisdom of letting the Ranger know everything at once. 'You have questions, and rightly so --'

There was a knock at the door.

'Ah, that must be Nob, come in the nick of time with the ale,' said the wizard with a wink.

He strode to the door, switching to Westron, 'Enter, my fine friend!'

With a flourish, he held the door wide open as a laden tray that seemed to have sprouted legs advanced in stately fashion into the room. Aragorn was pleased to note that on it sat two frothing jugs of the Pony's finest brew.

'Do you require help?' asked Gandalf of the tray.

'No, Mr. Gandalf, Sir,' a flustered voice answered. ''Tis just a small tray, I'll set it down fine. Not a drop will spill from the jugs.'

'Well then! Be so kind as to set this marvellous spread on the sideboard,' said Gandalf with a smile. 'That's a good lad.'

True to his word, the hobbit slid the groaning tray onto the cupboard with neither spillage nor waste. He stood beaming with pride as Gandalf rummaged for coins.

Consternation drowned the smile on his face when he saw the familiar shape of the Ranger by the hearth. Despite the Wizard's expectant look, the serving man did not depart. He shifted from foot to foot, 'Is there anything else we can do for you, Sir?'

Gandalf steered the hapless serving man toward the door. 'Well, Nob, it must be said that there's never a finer time for a grand entrance, nor an exit. Yes, you go now, that's a good lad. Nonsense, you're a sprig of youth in these eyes. No, no, truly, I require nothing else for the moment.'

Giving him a final shove, Gandalf smiled as he shut the door, 'Now I bid you good night!'

Nob stared in wide-eyed amazement, for he was not afforded the opportunity to utter a word, nor put in a grunt of protest edgewise at the Wizard's curt manner.

He brightened as the door opened again.

'Come not to disturb us unless you hear the bell. You and Barley both.'

The low tone in Gandalf's voice caused Nob to shake. It was heavy with purpose, so unlike the usually light-hearted old man. Nob had a sudden vision of skin boiling off his bones amid flaming wrath. But he was a true Breelander and so struggled with his inherent distrust of Rangers, the need to inform Butterbur and the onus Gandalf laid on him.

Then he sighed -- for it was truly the old man's own business whoever he chose to consort with after all -- and went bustling off to the common room.

Aragorn smiled to himself, for he had never seen anyone got rid of so effectively, and returned his attention to the fire.

Gandalf inspected the ale, adding a dash from an exquisite little flask.

'Right, that takes care of that,' he murmured in satisfaction. Then he reverted to the Elvish they were conversing in: 'Very well, Aragorn, this is no time for reticence, so I shall share all that I know. It begins with an account that is long in the telling. Do you remember the "Tale of Riddles"?'

'The story of the riddling game between a hobbit and a most disagreeable little creature of indeterminate race?' Aragorn nodded and said: 'It was the first tale Bilbo told me upon your return from Erebor, and I would have gladly forgone sleep to hear more.'

Gandalf sighed at the memories. 'Surely you understand -- I was being held responsible for the well-being of a child. A wizard I may be, but there is neither spell nor talisman in the world that would afford adequate protection if you were kept from bed!' He smiled and said drily: 'I must say, it was most gratifying to return to Imladris to find that we had earned your belief in the stories we left you with, though I would not have thought to be vouched for by stone statues.

'But I digress; it was more than just a riddling game, that I know for certain now. We shall be at it the whole night anyway, so here is the rest of the tale.' Gandalf paced as he spoke, shaping a tale that aroused a well of long hidden dread in the Dúnadan's mind, while at the same time a sudden spark of passion ignited his heart so that it almost burned him.

'So I fear that Isildur's Bane may yet abide in Middle-earth.' Gandalf finished.

Throughout the tale, Aragorn had been silent. When the wizard first named the Bane, he felt as if he was falling away from the fire, down into an endless pit. Emotions raged, and he strove to listen through the clash of hopes and fears.

'The Bane of my line --' Now that the tale has ended, he felt rather that the bottom of that pit had rushed up much too quickly to meet him. His throat constricted, and he stared at the wizard, trying to gather his scattering thoughts.

'Was it not lost in the vastness of the sea, long ago? Saruman The White -- the Council had presumed so!'

Gandalf shook his grey head: 'Presumptions, as you yourself say. I too hope that it is resting on the bottom of the sea, where it can wreak no further mischief upon the tired land. Yet, we know it is inevitable that such shall come to pass. Even as the Elder Race fade and the Younger arise, this will be another trial along the road.' Then, the wizard seemed to grow straighter and taller, his presence pressing against the confines of the room. 'But ere that comes to pass -- a reckoning of wills, the Sword reforged and a Line restored, and then,' Gandalf paused to draw breath, suddenly reassuming the familiar aspect of a bent old man. There was an abiding sadness as he continued, 'the end of an Age.'

Aragorn looked away, his hands seeking the comforting grip of the knife yet on his belt. Gandalf knew he was feeling the hilt of another blade, lying silent and waiting to be rekindled.

'The time draws nigh, Aragorn,' he said. 'I do not think it a mere whimsy to say the final dance shall begin anon. When and where -- well, not even the Wise can say for certain. But history has a habit of repeating itself.' When Aragorn turned to look at him, Gandalf continued: 'Whether it be by mischief or virtue, the end of things is glimpsed as through a tantalizing mist that cannot be parted, even for the Wise. Surety is what I crave desperately, for I have not the confidence to vouch for what I know. I need proof, and I need you, Aragorn.'

His pale face drawn, Aragorn stood up, reaching for the ale.

'Ai, with the one stroke you kindle dread and hope both,' he whispered as he raised a tankard to his parched lips. Eyes widened, he lowered it. There seemed to be an unusual sparkle to the ale. 'Miruvor? My thanks, Mithrandir.'

He toasted the Wizard and drank his fill, but did not return to the fireplace. Instead he stared through the dusty window panes, where the revelry in the Pony had spilled onto the midnight streets, already dim while the road lamps sputtered, dying from spent fuel.

The cloistered Bree-folk were blissfully unaware that here was a Ranger, the Dúnadan, speaking to a wizard about matters that might yet work irrevocable changes on their uncomplicated world.

'So, the Doom of Isildur will rule us yet.' Aragorn recalled the words that Elrond gifted to him soon after his twentieth year: 'A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin.[1]'  Words that had driven Aragorn's life. At that moment he felt a strange peace as his mind caught up with the turmoil of his heart. Suddenly clear to him now, as the calming of stormy seas, he grasped at the choice before him.

Watching Aragorn's face, Gandalf wondered if he was right after all to disclose so much in such blunt fashion. Yet, there was no avoiding what the fates mete out, especially to one such as he.

Reconciled then, Aragorn returned to his seat.

'So be it!' He spoke quietly, pushing all doubt into a corner of his heart that it may leave him free to do what he must.

The wizard relaxed, relieved when he saw the determination glistening in the Dúnadan's eyes. Plagued by doubt and hesitation he may be, but he would not break, not easily, for he was made of sterner stuff than the common man. Throughout his long life, Aragorn had driven himself, seeking the height of expectation that had been laid upon his shoulders. His face was lined with care and his hair was flecked with grey, but for one of his race he was considered young and yet in his prime and strength. Tireless, he had never allowed himself a moment of idleness and had never turned aside from danger.

'Well, what do you wish of me?'

'Your eyes and skills, the strength of the Dúnedain, nothing and everything.' Gandalf sighed again, and pulled up a chair. The fiery colours of the warm flames masked the grim light in his face. 'Gollum -- it began with him. And I must procure an interview with him,' said Gandalf. 'He has eluded me before. And I have left it alone for far too long. Would that I had persisted in the chase after the Elves had relinquished the hunt!

'But come, there is no purpose, or as Barley would likely say, no profit at all in dwelling on past misdeeds. If Gollum yet lives, and I have no doubt that he does, I know he will make for the Shire again, drawn as a moth to the lamp. To one such as he, the infernal hatred he nurtures will see to that. I hope I can intercept him before he casts himself into the flame. With what I now know, I believe that it is the Shire itself teetering on the brink of disaster. The least that can be done is to set a stronger guard around the hobbits.'

'It shall be done,' said Aragorn. 'To think that the fate of Middle-earth should lie on those small shoulders! Bilbo is certainly an amazing creature. Adventures? His reputation in Hobbiton is not far from what they think of Rangers here then.' He shook his head. 'But for the small folk to be entangled in matters not entirely of their doing is a terrible Doom for a people who walk heedless of the world beyond their borders. And it is scarcely believable, that the Ring-holder had been a shadow haunting the Hithaeglir, and the Ring near at hand, hitherto unknown even to its Master for centuries.' Aragorn sat thinking, absentmindedly preparing his pipe. 'A thought, Mithrandir. We shall certainly strengthen the watch, but as you say, time is of the essence. There is more that we can do and if you will heed my counsel, my sword and my skills are yours to command.

'It grows late, and I do not mean the night. Should we be content with lying in wait for the creature? Do we wait, even if it takes a hundred years? We would be as trolls caught in the sun's light, with no chance for reparation!' Aragorn leaned forward in earnest, his grey eyes kindled with a rare flame, purpose lighting his stern face. 'The trap shall be set, but we shall do more than wait for it to spring. The Enemy is moving, you say. So then shall we, for we may yet reap better harvest if we went after the creature.'

'Yes,' said Gandalf, stroking his beard. 'That is sound advice indeed, and I shall be glad of your skills in this.'

'Good, we shall cast a net both wide and far. But this is a trail that may yet lead us into the Black Land – a plan is needed.'

Gandalf sighed: 'And so it shall begin again. But no more this night --'

The vigorous calls of a distant cockerel were heralding an early dawn, even as the first light of day wended its way into the sky, lighting the crisp autumn air with a fiery glow. 'Or should I say morning. This weary old man needs rest now. A bed before I fall crashing to the ground!'

'Very well, old friend.' Aragorn stood up. 'I shall leave to your rest, quel esta.'

Sleep, despite the long night, was beyond Aragorn, and he desired to begin preparations at once. He crossed the hallway, and descended the narrow stairs with ease; the unlit passage troubled him little for he had traversed it many times. It was only when he reached the main doorway that he hesitated, undecided between the door that led to the outside and the one on his right. Through it the muffled din of the Pony's morning labour could be heard.

A long day was before him, and he knew heavy thoughts required much sustenance. Reaching forth, he pushed at the door, and smiled as the smell of new-baked loaves greeted him. He paused, breathing the refreshing fragrance before entering the common room. Then he stopped beside the bar and waited to be served.

It was early yet, and the candles in the common room were almost spent; the flickering flames harboured shadows that sidled in and out of every nook and cranny. In the waning light, Barliman and his serving men, busy laying the breakfast spread, were as wraiths wandering under a dim sickle moon.

Aragorn frowned at the grim humour in himself, to imagine such dark things within the Pony's confines when the day was so young yet.

Unaware that a Ranger stood at the threshold, those who were breaking their fast within were enjoying the generous helpings, at ease as murmurs of conversation filled the air, accompanied by the rhythmic clash of forks and knives on plates.

The irony of the noisy bustle was not lost on Aragorn. Ever so slightly, he shook his head and continued to wait patiently as Barliman approached the bar.

With the tray deposited at the bar, the landlord turned, and a frown creased his forehead. He wondered that he had not noticed the Ranger before, and how long he had been standing there, watching with that disconcerting calm. He took a deep breath, and tried to greet the man in a manner he hoped would be unobtrusive to the custom.

'Morning, Mr. Strider. Breakfast?' said Barliman. Instantly, the room was hushed. Barliman might as well have announced the Ranger with a bugle call.

Aragorn nodded. The landlord, keen to restore the mood, swiftly led the way to the Ranger's favoured table.

'There's fresh bread or porridge if you prefer?' Barliman asked as he took out a cloth. 'We've got some lovely fruit and honey that will go well with the porridge but bread will be a good complement to fresh eggs and newly smoked bacon.' He finished wiping the table. 'Which will it be?'

'Bread then,' came the curt reply.

'Long night was it?' Barliman continued. 'How about some herb-tea to wake the tired mind up? I'll brew it strong.'

Aragorn raised his head, an unreadable look on his face. It was the most the landlord had ever said to him, of his own will. 'Yes, thank you,' he said.

Under that gaze, Barliman hesitated, though he desired to say more. 'There's cider too, newly passed from late apples,' he offered instead.

In return he got another nod from the impassive Ranger. Familiar with the close nature of these men, Barliman knew better than to attempt to engage this particular one in further conversation; though he was afire with curiosity at Gandalf's anxiety to meet with him.

The news of the past night lied heavy, and the sight of the generous breakfast did not lift his appetite; Aragorn barely tasted the food as he ate. Yet, he knew better than to refuse a chance for a warm meal.

His table soon cleared, Aragorn began to mull over Gandalf's words.

Alone with his thoughts, he opened his tobacco pouch, and out fell a neat square packet, a gift from Gandalf. On it were stamped these words:

'HORNBLOWER
Finest of Longbottom Leaf'

Even tightly packed as the pipeweed was, its legendary pungency tempted Aragorn. He fingered the packet, feeling the smoothness of the waxed paper.

'Fine indeed,' he said. 'I shall have to keep it against this journey's need.' With a touch of regret, he returned it to the pouch, and drew forth another open packet, the weed's lesser quality betrayed by the feeble smell.

Bilbo -- his riddle game had seemed like a light-hearted tale compared to his account of the Battle of Five Armies, bred of violence, greed and vengeance. Yet the true significance of it had only began to surface in the wake of the previous night. It was strange that beside it, a tumultuous event such as the Battle would pale, dwindled into a petty squabble.

A mere span of distance would not daunt a Dúnadan, but time stood between that event and the hunt he purposed. Sixty years was a very long gap to close, and yet Aragorn did not think it a hopeless pursuit for he perceived a detail that was to their advantage -- the Wood-elves had helped Gandalf to track the creature. Known for their woodcraft, they would be able to provide information that would be of aid to the hunt. Still, there was much to see to.

As Butterbur sat newly arrived guests at the last available table and began to fret about the custom he would have to turn away when the empty table in the corner caught his eye. He frowned again, for there was no evidence of the Ranger, save the cold heap of pipeweed ash on the table. He wondered, not for the first time, how those wanderers were able to come and go with such silence.

--- --- ---

The door was brought to softly, and Aragorn straightened his back as he stepped away from the low threshold. The sun had won free of the horizon, but the heavy autumn mists lingered, veiling the street as Bree-hill shielded the village from the sun's cold rays.

The hill's shadow would keep the village grey and cheerless in its brooding grasp until late morning. It suited Aragorn well, for it kept late-rising villigers indoors, and despite the morning bustle, the street was already empty, quiet save for faint echoes of coughing fits and protests by children unwilling to rise from beds. Aragorn felt thankful that he was spared the curious covert stares as he sought the South-gate.

Still, his passage did not go unnoticed: as he neared the gate, he heard a flurry of fast light steps that grew loud, then halted before they began again, growing soft as they went away from him; and then the sound of a door shut in haste. It was then that Aragorn reflected that he should have been more prudent in choosing a way other than the open Road. It was too late to retrace his steps and so he continued, drawing nigh a house hidden by tall hedges that looked in need of a good pruning.

From within, a young voice on the verge of manhood was chanting, and as he neared the words rang clear:

There he goes, stick-at-naught Strider
Another good-for-naught ranger
Stealing about in the wee-hours
Last thing he wants is picking flowers—

Aragorn ignored the childish taunt, for the Ferny household had gained a name among the Dúnedain for its hostility, and the boy was merely showing signs of being his father's son. Aragorn only hoped the chanting had not drawn attention to his going.

Swiftly, he moved past the house, and silence enveloped him once more, for that was the last house that lined the Road as it curved to the left, toward the South-gate and the rising sun. The light slanted onto the yellowing grass, marking a clear border between the dawn and the shade of the hill's shadow. Soon he descried the red rays of dawn, mingled in frail tendrils of mist rising above the hulking shade of Bree-hill.

Beyond the gate, Aragorn followed the Road as it led him South. But he did not intend to let it lead him far; soon he stopped and turned to a faint track veering to the North.

There the mist laid dense, held down by the interlacing clutch of tall grass. The cold autumn air tasted pure and its chill touch in his lungs lightened the burden that had borne down upon him. Ghostly shapes of balding trees seem to shift as the sunlight stirred in the clinging mists, and mounds loomed, resembling stone trolls laying in wait, now nigh, now far, at the ready to pounce on the unwary. Yet, the eerie fog daunted him not, for Aragorn was familiar with the lay of the land, and he relied on ears as keen as his eyes for warning of danger unseen. Toward Chetwood he began, his long stride unhurried as he enjoyed the peace of the quiet woodlands.

The tall grass rustled as he passed, the sounds muffled by the blanketing mist, while his robe and boots began to feel heavy, dampened by cloying dewdrops. He held the cloak close that it would not trail and leave signs for others to follow. His pace slowed as the earth began to soften. He would not gain Chetwood before nightfall; but neither the wood nor the little village of Archet was his destination.

The sound of familiar steps came near behind him, seeming in a frantic rush, yet trying at the same time for stealth. It was the Ferny boy and he had done remarkably well to keep apace. Aragorn smiled, for it seemed the boy had learned from his last attempt to trail a Ranger, and had prepared himself by training his body and studying the concealed pathways. But, he had not learnt the lesson well enough, for he still did not admit that Rangers were more than his match. Aragorn quickened his pace, changing from path to path, leading the boy around in circles. When he knew the boy had lost his tracks amid the concealing mists, he resumed his journey. After a half hour, he turned off into a wooded vale.

Concealed within was a clearing. There was a banked fire at the feet of a great elm tree, the remains of a hastily forsaken campsite. The smoke was still rising into overhanging branches.

'I was wondering if the Lord of the Dunedain might have lost his way,' came a voice, behind and to the right of Aragorn.

He turned to see the shadows coalesce into a tall man, garbed in gear similar to his.

'I was delayed,' Aragorn said, his tone mild.

'You were followed?' the man said, disapproval plain in his voice. 'The boy?'

Aragorn nodded. 'He will learn his lesson while we speak.'

'I hope he learns it well this time,' said the other.

'I will see to it,' Aragorn promised.

'What does Mithrandir want?' said the man then. He came forward, and looked closely as Aragorn stood before him. 'You are not returning to Fornost.'

His kinsman smiled: 'None knows me as well as you, Halbarad.'

Halbarad grunted; whether in understanding or disapproval, it was not certain.

He returned to the fire. 'This will be a lengthy council then,' he said. 'There is no reason to shiver while we speak, is there?'

'None at all,' Aragorn agreed.

Silence fell upon the clearing once more while Halbarad coaxed the fire ablaze.

'Well?' Halbarad asked as his hands began to warm again.

Aragorn considered him for a moment. He said: 'What think you of the Shire's watch?'

'The Shire?' Halbarad repeated, as a frown formed on his brow. 'What am I to think? It is part of our care and we watch over it as well as we can, though I would that more was not needed for my peace of mind. But why do you ask?'

Aragorn studied the fire. At length he said: 'There are things afoot -- I would double the watch.'

'There are always things afoot!' retorted Halbarad. 'Dangers press in on the periannath, and the perimeter shrinks, faster than ever with the Old Forest growing more fey with each passing day. They are like the fish of a lake in drought, unaware of their danger, until it is perhaps too late. But we are a dwindling folk -- it is already with much sacrifice that we toil at the watch. Winter comes and with it the wolves from the Waste.' He paused, gathering some wayward thought. Presently, he continued and there was a note of pain in his voice. 'The last one was -- it was difficult enough to endure, and now you purpose to thin the ranks in the Angle despite the coming snow?' he asked. Another moment more he took to compose himself, then he rasped: 'For I do not see how else we can strengthen the Shire's watch; Aragorn, my lord, we need to look to our own!'

'What, then, would you?' Aragorn returned.

Halbarad's eyes flashed, but he said nothing. After a moment he avoided his kinsman's gaze; not many could long endure it and he had no desire to challenge his captain. Already, he regretted the outburst.

'Halbarad, listen to me,' Aragorn said.

Reluctantly, the Ranger met his lord's eyes, and was a little startled by the gleam of earnest purpose he saw in them.

'Let it go,' said Aragorn gently. 'I, too, am learning to endure the grief, for the loss of my people is my loss.' He paused, as his grey eyes darkened at some distant memory. When he resumed, his voice had changed: 'Leastways, I hold the grief as my own but I do not dwell overmuch on matters beyond repair. While the land lies quiet, I was content to let you soothe your sorrow as you will. But now the Lord of the Dunedain requires the strength of his second-in-command; Halbarad, I can wait on you no longer.'

Halbarad looked at his kinsman. Grave of demeanor Aragorn was, but it was seldom that he spoke so sternly nor called attention to his birthright. It was not Strider the ranger who spoke, but Aragorn, son of Arathorn: Isildur's Heir.

With sudden insight, Halbarad recalled his words: 'Things are afoot.'

Afoot indeed if they would cause such concern from the Lord of the Dunedain, thought Halbarad. The Ranger was mindful of his own painful reticence during the past years. The time for his own grief was past, his lord had need of him. He looked up at Aragorn. 'You do not have to wait any longer, my lord,' he said solemnly.

'Thank you,' Aragorn said. Well aware of what it cost his kinsman to utter those words, he knew it had been a cruel way to remind Halbarad of his duty, but he could ill afford the time to prepare his steward nor was it his wont to play at subtlety.

Meanwhile, he sat himself on the other side of the fire. He waited for the questions he knew would come once Halbarad had ordered his thoughts, for he understood it was simply the frustration his kinsman felt that had caused his outburst.

'Can it not wait on Spring?' asked Halbarad.

Aragorn said nothing for it was Halbarad's wont to reason aloud.

'Nay, it would not have been asked if it could wait,' Halbarad mused. 'Danger draws nigh, and it quickens, the activity in the Old Forest is evidence enough.'

'There is more,' said Aragorn then. 'Mithrandir expects one called Gollum to try for the Shire. What he is, I cannot tell you, for Mithrandir himself is not certain. Yet, what little is known of him is enough to help distinguish him: he is of hobbit stature, with a great love of water, but unlike hobbits, he seems afraid of light and is a stealthy hunter. He climbs trees well and has shown a great liking for flesh and has no qualms snatching children from their cradles. He is no easy quarry; already he has eluded the Elves of Mirkwood.'

Halbarad frowned, considering his words. 'And what would the wizard have us do with such a creature?' he asked, though it seemed he already knew the answer.

'Trap him and keep him safe, until Gandalf has had a chance to interview him. Do not allow him to enter the Shire at any cost!' said Aragorn.

'Of course!' he said with a wry twist of the lips. Though he wondered at the wizard's interest in the strange creature, Halbarad said nothing of what he thought of it. Instead, he began to recall the movements of the Rangers.

'Rácadagnir is already at Fornost and Hrívion will cross Chetwood by tomorrow. They have been training the new rangers. While it is yet Autumn, it would be a good time to bring in the ones who have passed the tests and acquaint them with the Shire,' he mused. 'We could leave Aldatur in charge and let them watch over the periannath while Rácadagnir and Hrívion shall see to the northern borders.'

He stopped stirring the fire. 'I too, will travel to the Shire,' he decided. 'Perhaps we will have news of this Gollum -- and I could see to the traps myself.'

Aragorn nodded. 'It would set my mind at ease, to know you will take personal charge of the task.'

'I will not deny that a creature that can escape the Wood-elves' ken is a formidable quarry, a challenge not to be refused!' said Halbarad. He turned then to Aragorn's change of plans: 'Now, what else did Mithrandir say? Surely you can return to Fornost for a visit even if you intend to spend the winter in the Shire?'

'As yet there is much that I cannot say,' Aragorn began. 'And I do not wish to leave you with half-truths --' He paused, lost in thought. It seemed to Halbarad he chose the words with care as he said: 'But it is not to the Shire I am going. Mithrandir requires a guide --'

'Ah.'

'Ah?' said Aragorn, an eyebrow arched.

Halbarad ignored it. 'Never meddle in the affairs of wizards, it is said. Say no more!' he cried.

'You say that, though you availed yourself of his request?' Aragorn said with a wry look, glad that Halbarad's mood was no longer grim.

'And you shall be gone until the next Winter? Or the next decade?' Halbarad countered instead, only half in jest.

Aragorn smiled. 'I do not know, ' he admitted. 'It may be that I shall be gone for two years, but I shall return after that, whether this venture succeed or not.'

'Very well,' said Halbarad as he rose. A few strands of light had strayed in through the balding eaves. 'I should be leaving if I were to gain on Hrívion by tomorrow.' He threw down the faggot and said: 'There is much to do and I would be at Fornost before the Winter comes.'

Wordlessly, Aragorn nodded. 'And I should return to the Pony,' he said. He watched as Halbarad prepared his pack.

'Send what word you can to Elrond,' he said.

'Of course,' replied Halbarad. Soon, he was ready but for one last matter. As he moved to put out the fire, Aragorn stopped him.

'Leave it,' he said. 'I need its company for a while yet.'

Halbarad nodded in understanding. 'Do not linger overlong, kinsman,' he admonished.

'Just for a little,' Aragorn assured him, 'before I return to terrorise Barliman anew.'

Halbarad laughed, and then solemnly, he embraced his kinsman. 'Namarie, Aragorn,' he said before melting into the shadows under the elm.

Noon was nigh when Aragorn left the vale. The day had turned grey, and the mists, though thinned by the sun, lingered still. In the distance, clusters of treetops were visible above the fog, beckoning like a fleet of ships at harbour, hues of red and amber turning the lush treetops into golden crowns.

He would not return by the way he came, for that would surely draw the villagers' interest, to see Strider busy with his secretive comings and goings. There were other, less obvious ways. Before he did, however, he had a piece of unfinished business.

The Ferny boy was near to where he had lost Strider, pacing under some poplars. Panting and muttering under his breath, he seemed more concerned with losing sight of the Ranger, unperturbed that his quarry might return; or perhaps the thought that the Ranger might return did not occur to him.

Through the grey mist, the Ranger watched him for a moment – satisfied that the boy was unharmed, save, perhaps, for his pride. He turned to leave, but the sight of the thicket of nettles caught his eye. He frowned, for the mist concealed another danger nigh to the cruel vines.

He strode up to the boy.

'Lor!' the boy exclaimed as Strider loomed noiselessly up before him. Flustered, he stepped back, arms raised to shield his face. He felt the nettles' stinging grasp as they tangled his feet. Backwards he fell, and arms flailed. He closed his eyes, braced for more pain. But there was none, even after long moments had passed.

Slowly he opened his eyes. Then he became aware that he was swinging above the ground, held up by his right arm. The mist had parted, stirred by his struggles. Sharp rocks sat beneath his feet, and lied here and there as the ground fell away into a barren hollow. He would have had a nasty fall but for the firm grip on his wrist. He shuddered.

'Frightened?' said a voice that made his skin crawl, near to his ear. 'Remember how it feels when you are tempted again to meddle in business not your own.'

The boy's eyes widened. 'Let go! Let me go or I'll tell my dad!' he shouted, struggling harder.

'Let you go?' said the Ranger softly. 'Were I to leave you be, you would have taken a nasty fall.'

'You--you scared me!' the boy shouted. 'It's your fault if I fall! I'm going to tell Dad, just you wait!'

The Ranger said nothing, but merely held the arm, though he was careful to keep clear of the boy's thrashings. Patiently, he waited.

In vain the boy cried and struggled. Finally, he quietened down though he trembled still, frightened almost out of his wits to be held thus by the Ranger.

And so it was that he stood for a moment when Strider set him on the ground away from the wicked rocks, stunned that the Ranger did him no harm. Then he scrambled beyond Strider's reach and turned around to spit on the ground between them, proud at his own daring.

Strider merely looked at him. Disconcerted by the unblinking gaze, he turned and ran away.

The Ranger shook his head and turning another way, disappeared into the stand of trees.

--- --- ---

Night came early for the sun had dropped behind a high cloudbank, leaving only feeble rays to fend off the coming darkness.

Gandalf lay in his bed, glad to be able to rest before midnight.

Aragorn had returned in the early afternoon, with assurance that the Shire's watch would be strengthened. And aware that another lengthy council was at hand, Gandalf had asked for food to be brought to his room again. Thankfully, it ended much earlier than the previous night's session.

Aragorn had decided to leave Bree right away while Gandalf was to stay the night, and meet with him at dawn, beyond the South-gate. So this night at least, the wizard would enjoy the warmth of a comfortable bed.

'To Mirkwood then,' Gandalf murmured drowsily as he drifted off in sleep.

His eyes flew open at the sound of light tapping. He turned his head, for it came from the door. He waited.

There came another tentative knock.

'What in--' he muttered as he threw off the blankets.

He drew a breath and with his back still stiff from being rudely awakened, made his way to the door with careful steps.

Someone was speaking through it. 'Gandalf, wake up.' It was Butterbur.

'Yes?' Gandalf rasped, his voice thick with sleep.

'Open the door,' he called.

The door creaked, an ominous warning amidst the silence of the late night.

With a fist on his hip, Gandalf said: 'Well, Barley, I'm flattered that you would miss my company, but it's late and I'm all ready for bed if you can't tell.'

'Late? Why it's morning already!' whispered Barliman. 'It's dawn now, can't you tell? Oh yes, another grey dawn, 'tis autumn afterall.' At Gandalf's look, he said: 'You did ask to be woken before first light.' He peered beyond the window the tall man's fisted arm shaped with his body, and shivered as mist breath escaped his shuddering lips. 'Though first crow would be more apt today.'

'Why do you whisper then?' asked Gandalf, a little irritated.

'I don't want to wake the other guests. Oh, here you go,' he pushed the bundle he was clutching into the wizard's hands. When Gandalf showed no sign of taking the bundle, he explained: 'You seemed eager for an early start, so here's food you can eat on your way.' He hesitated, then said: 'I wouldn't take the South-gate, if I were you.'

'And why would I not?' returned Gandalf.

'Ferny's house sits at the end--' Barliman began.

'He owns neither Road nor gate!' said Gandalf, annoyed.

'Yes, but you were seen with the Ranger--' said Barliman, as he tried again to press the bundle into the wizard's hands.

Gandalf nodded. 'I see.' Reaching forth, he accepted the bundle. Then he smiled at the flustered landlord. 'Thank you, Barley.'

Butterbur dismissed the gratitude with an awkward wave of the hand. ''Tis what any friend would do. Take care of yourself,' he said as he grasped Gandalf's hands. 'I must return to the common room now.' He began to turn away, then stopped. His voice lowered, Butterbur said: 'And I hope you've learnt your lesson --.' He paused, and then he cast a look down the hallway. 'Stay away from them Rangers!' he whispered fiercely. Then he disappeared down the hallway.

Gandalf smiled with fondness. If you but only knew, my dear Butterbur, he thought with a resigned shake of his head. 'Well,' he said then to himself. 'I have yet to find my way to the Road without going through the gate. This would be as a good time as any to try.'

He dressed swiftly and made his way to the main door.

'It is not far. Perhaps if I hurry, --' he murmured as he opened the door.

Softly he closed the door and peered into the unlit street. 'I hope Aragorn has got a nice fire,' he muttered as he shivered. He looked up and down the street. 'Of course, I would need to find him first.'

'Worry not,' said a familiar voice in the common tongue. Then it added in a language not many knew: 'Mithrandir.'

Gandalf peered into the shadows. 'Aragorn?' he hissed.

'This way,' answered the voice as a long-fingered hand beckoned.

Gandalf followed into the dim lane.

The gleam of silver and the soft creaking of leather were all the clues he had to find the Ranger by.

'I thought you might need help in this lightless dawn,' Aragorn whispered, as if he knew what Gandalf would say. 'Come, I know you are tired still -- you shall be able to get many hours of sleep this evening for I plan to stop early.'

'You mean hours of sleeplessness!' Gandalf said, as he pulled his cloak tight against the gathering cold.

'Would you rather travel through the night then?' asked Aragorn, as he strode away to the corner.

Gandalf caught up. 'What, and miss rolling in the hedges?' he shot back.

'It would be more enjoyable than tossing restlessly in a comfortable bed,' Aragorn agreed, leading the way forward.

'And the stars would be better company,' he returned, though a smile spread across his face. Then he followed the Ranger's lead, toward the Road.

<sub>Footnotes
1. The Lord Of The Rings - Appendices; Appendix A, 'Here Follows A Part Of The Tale Of Aragorn And Arwen'</sub>

Also on fanfiction.net: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/931862/1/

INTO THE DARK AGAIN

by Wayfarer
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)

Three
Over Misty Peaks

Heavy with dew, the frigid morning air was stiff with the mist of autumn chill. No sign remained of rain the night past. Pebbles strewn on paths gouged by the downpour sat cold and grey.

Over them Gandalf picked his way with care, probing for false footfalls with his walking stick, and he was not a little unmoved by Aragorn's sure-footed stride. Now he stood ahead, a ghost in the mist.

As Gandalf neared, he saw that Aragorn was casting about, searching as if for something on the edge of his vision.

'Do you hear it?' he asked.

Before Gandalf could ask what it was that held his attention, from afar he heard a sound. It ended quickly, but Gandalf thought it seemed like the clash of stone or bone. He was reminded of stone giants hurling boulders and rocks onto pathways and trolls crushing their prey.

Aragorn too stood still, distracted, maybe, by a faint echo. 'Under the mist, it sounds as rain-drops of a far-off storm were gathered and dashed at once against unyielding rocks. So oddly familiar.' He turned, his brow creased as he bent his thought to chasing memories of the muted sounds. 'I will have a look,' he decided.

Gandalf nodded. When his breath had calmed, he asked: 'Should I wait here?'

The Man shook his head: 'There is no sign of danger. Still, I do not think it safe to tarry here in the open. Keep walking; I will return to you if I may--' He turned toward the peak and gestured: 'Else we shall meet at the stone outcrop three miles northeast. It is not far from the path.' Then he was gone, silent as shadows.

For well nigh an hour, Gandalf had trodden with care over the rocks. But now he halted and turned his eyes to the west, away from the formidable mountain wall. Many times he had crossed these mountains, yet experience did not make it easier for always his lungs laboured to draw sustenance from the air; air that was thin and whispering in a shrill voice, moved and stirred by the wind.

The mist had lifted, and all round was a clear view of the mountains and the lands they straddled. From under his feet rough flanks of stone fell away to the border between bare ground and the fields of grass and trees straddling the mountains' girth. Imladris lay far below them, lost amid the grey-green mounds and clefts of hills and valleys at the mountains' feet then hidden in mist. Tall slopes of the range Men called the Misty Mountains rose behind, cloaked in early snow. The unseen peaks were covered by clouds that raced in from all directions to meet in a mad swirling mist, a dance of frost, ice and rain. Caught by the tall range, like skeans tangled in swords, they lingered, dancing around the peaks even as the harsh crowns rend and break them again and again into the tattered mist veil that gave the mountains their name.

Hidden among the mountain peaks was the High Pass and through it the Forest Road that ran down to the River Anduin and thence into Mirkwood where Aragorn had hoped for aid in their hunt.

Already I am tired! He thought in consternation at the stiffness gathering in his knees.

As his gaze swept over the drear vista before him, he wondered for a moment where in the vastness of the lands was Bilbo. No doubt the Dwarves would care for his safety as well as they would one of their own, and though the risk of the old hobbit had been passed on, Gandalf could do naught but worry.

He is beyond my ken, for now, he thought. The chief danger lay still in the Shire, my concern should be for Frodo and the finding of Gollum. He drew his cloak close as a chill wind arose. And if Aragorn does not return soon, I shall have more immediate concerns to hold my thoughts!

Gandalf turned back toward the scant path, and strained his eyes as he searched the mountainside, lit as if by twilight, for through the sky was bright, the slopes lied under the shadows of the high peaks. No light would touch the ground he stood on until the sun westered.

Of Aragorn there was no sign. Gandalf took the time to ponder the changes in his humour since they met in the Prancing Pony. The questions he had and the swelling of hope and dread was overwhelmed by impatience as they neared the Loudwater, and the Ford of Bruinen -- they were going to Imladris for it was there that they would provision themselves for the crossing over the Hithaeglir. The voice of the rushing river sufficed to remove the cares of Aragorn, for ere they gained the bridge, his step lightened; he did not linger by the Ford and chose to make for the House of Elrond with all haste. In the deepest night they reached the gates of the House, and even at that late hour, there were Elves to greet them, among them Elrond and Arwen.

Gandalf then spent his time with Elrond, closeted in his study. Though Aragorn sometimes joined them in council, he was more often found in the company of Arwen or the brethren, Elladan and Elrohir.

After only five days in the vale, they had bidden farewell to Elrond and his kin. And it was with much reluctance that Aragorn turned again to the road. He was quiet, and kept his thoughts to himself as they made their way out of Imladris. He seemed listless, unwilling, or unable, to share his thoughts and feelings. But Gandalf watched him with a knowing eye.

As they neared the Hithaeglir, however, the fierce alertness so familiar to Gandalf began again to burn in Aragorn's eyes, though he was not minded to say more than a few words even as they sat by the fire at night. A little at first, the Man had shed the pensive mood that gripped him since they departed the House of Elrond. When they reached the foothills of the Hithaeglir, he seemed fully reconciled. It eased the wizard's mind. And as the journey stretched forth, and they neared the peaks, the journey was easier to endure and time easier to pass when there was another to hold conversation with, more so when they were sitting around the fire at night for the incessant crackling and spitting of the burning wood was wearying after nights of sleeping under the silent stars.

Overhead, the fierce cry of an eagle pierced through his thoughts and broke his reverie. Eyes straining against shadowed walls of the grey mountainside, he looked along the path Aragorn had taken. But of the Dúnadan, there was no sign. At length, he began again his climb.

--- --- ---

Among the rocks high over the wizard's head Aragorn stood, his head raised as he frowned intently upon the cliff that stood before him. Strange rhythmic sounds, as of great rocks clashing, rang out from time to time, and filled the air with hollow echoes. Though it seemed it was near enough to touch if he but reached out his hand, Aragorn reckoned that it would take, at the least, three hours ere he gained the cliff-top. Orcs were uncommon high in the mountains' lonely range, but foolish was he who did not guard against attacks. Already he had been away from Gandalf for two hours; and yet he needed a clearer look.

Near at hand was a ridge and it likely overlooked the cliff-top. Judging it to be a short climb to its peak, Aragorn turned toward it, and lengthened his stride.

Half an hour later, he gained the peak of the ridge, his breath light despite his rapid climb up its steep flank. To another, it would seem as if ants were milling about the cliff-top, but for Aragorn a clear view was afforded. He smiled as he took in the sight, a little relieved. Shapes of many goats greeted his eyes, the sure-footed animals that lived among the sheer cliffs of the Hithaeglir's lofty ridges. It was the rutting season and the great rams were caught up in a frenzy of battles and mating: it was the clash of their mighty horns that filled the chill mountain air.

Yet he knew that where the herds grazed, hunters were sure to be near. The cliff on which they gathered was too near to Aragorn's intended road -- they would have to seek another path. And though he much desired to linger and watch the great rams at their contest, he knew he needed to find Gandalf. With one last look at the majestic animals he turned again, and descended quickly the steep slopes. Toward the south and west he strode, following the path laid out by long use and kept by the Beornings, hopeful of gaining upon the wizard within the hour. His plans, however, soon changed.

Tis true, the orcs stir, he thought as he studied the tracks that drew his attention. Fresh! His eyes swept through the hooded slopes, keen to the smallest movement. He was in no danger. He cast his glance downward again, brooding over his discovery. Very bold indeed to venture this near to the Road. What drives them ---- Quickly he stood up.

As thoughts of what might befall Gandalf pressed upon his mind, Aragorn lengthened his stride and was soon sprinting toward the stone grove. At times he broke his stride, stopping to read again the signs left by the orcs, careless in their boldness. Even at this great height, where stone and cold earth did not easily yield, it was not impossible to see marks that told of the passage of many feet. Yet, trained to the use of his rare gift of keen sight as he was, even the Dúnadan required time to read the tracks. Loath he was to do so for it caused more delay to his already late quest. But to risk losing time later over a wrong decision was an even worse thought to bear. And so, at times flying over the rough ground, at times sifting through scattered scree, Aragorn drew ever nearer the orcs. To his dismay, they showed no sign of veering away from the stone outcrop where Gandalf would no doubt be waiting.

Slowly weaving his way through rock-smothered slopes, he began to despair of reaching Gandalf before them. In his mind he began to lay out plans as he thought of the possible manners of his eventual reunion with the wizard.

--- --- ---

The sun had yet to gain the peak of her climb: with barely enough light to banish shadows from the day, the mountain flanks were still a drab world. Stones and boulders strewn upon the pathway and lying near seemed as wan sentries under the false twilight sky. Concealment was easy among their tumbling mess, and danger sometimes lurk within.

With great care, Gandalf neared the stones. Often, he stopped and listened while with his eyes he searched for shadows that moved of their own volition. He found himself wishing for the light of the westering sun, to burn away the doubts of the darkly shapes that sat in his mind.

Then he would begin his walk again, marvelling at the many shapes and sizes of the stones that now flanked his passage, for some were no more than very large rocks and yet others were of such a size that they seemed to be mountains reduced by wind and rain into shades of their former might.

The wind was rising again, and he pulled his cloak closer, the other hand on his hat.

A sudden gush of cold air rushed in through the gaps of the uncaring stones, butting against the slope, urgent as a herd of Kine that would cast down the mountain with their might. A roof is what I need, Gandalf thought, as he tottered and struggled to hold on his hat. Then with his staff in an awkward grasp, mixed among a handful of his cloak, he looked for shelter. Beneath one large boulder he sat, huddled at the mouth of a small cavern carved, no doubt, by the wind.

At length the wind softened, and among its whisper, Gandalf heard the soft crunch of unshod feet on the grey slate that covered the ground and the larger rocks. The sounds were faint, as if the owner, or owners, was coming from the sides of the boulder he was sheltering under. With a swift move, he reached for his staff and retreated into the cavern belly, careful to make no noise.

His heart began to race as he discerned more sounds, nearer this time, as of feet scrabbling on the steep flank of a boulder. His grip tightened as he listened for footfalls as they moved overhead, hoping they were the blithe steps of some passing animal.

Suddenly, a shadow flickered across the cave mouth. Though intent on the sounds, still he was alert enough to deflect with a quick parry the rock hurled by the form that appeared at the cavern mouth. The cave echoed with the sharp crack of the stone hitting the wall.

The orc growled and backed away as the pellet dropped to the ground, a little surprised at the quickness of the old man's reflex. He stopped retreating as one orc after another joined him, each one larger than the last. The cavern mouth was soon crowded. They began to quarrel, and the first orc was cuffed.

While they bickered, Gandalf drew his sword. As it left its sheath, the orcs stopped their quarrelling, distracted perhaps by the whisper of metal. Their eyes grew wide as it seemed to flash for a moment though there was no light strong enough that would reflect off the blade. The smallish orc begin to whimper. The largest one, clearly the captain, slapped him again. Then he stepped into the cave, his eyes gleaming with interest at the sword as Gandalf swung it in warning. He took a step nearer and then crouched down.

'Well, what's this?' he demanded. 'That's a nice toy, old man. How'd you get it?'

The orc captain seemed to fill the cave-mouth, and Gandalf's thoughts raced. To use his power was perhaps the quickest way but it would not be the safest.

'Well?' the orc said. 'Can't be the cat got your tongue eh?' he pressed. 'None of those skinny things found up here.' The others laughed and clapped at their leader's wit.

'Could be a cat bone stuck in his skinny throat, Grushluk!' hooted a lesser orc.

He took critical glances around the dim cave. Well, at least this is a defensible position, and they can but come one by one. The staff he balanced in his left hand, and his grip on the sword haft tightened. Would that Aragorn were not far off, Gandalf thought with fervour. Then he braced himself. 'Come closer then and have a look,' he invited.

A little amused at the Man's insolence, Grushluk took another step forward, his spear loosely held. But he stopped there when he marked the competent manner in which the sword was held. Eyes narrowed as he considered the old man, taking his measure and the clearly precious sword. He began to wonder too, why a man was travelling alone, in these times when crossings over the mountains were rare and when it was more likely to be trading bands of dwarves who risked the road from one side of the range to the other.

His eyes strayed to the sword again, compelled by foreboding. The sight of it brought him a strange chill. An unreasoning urge to leave quickly welled up. It annoyed him for this mountain was under his charge and he refused to be cowed by nameless fears. Yet he could not help but to shiver as the blade gleamed again----

Suddenly he howled, surprising his troop. They shouted in dismay, backing into each other and growling in reply.

Grushluk roared a command and all but the small Orc were suddenly still. He was reduced to whimpering.

'Shut up, Snoga!' The orc captain kicked the limp body aside. As one of the other orcs crowded behind him brandished something, Grushluk lunged.

At once Gandalf reacted, raising his sword to deflect the blow. It never came.

Yet, a flash of pain followed and he fought to keep his balance, clutching at his side. Warmth filled his hand as blood rushed out of the wound. As his breath caught for a bit, he leaned into the stone behind him. Still he was aware and as an orc rushed in, strangely silent. He shifted his position quickly, and adjusted his grip of the sword heft and sidestepped.

The orc's own forward thrust was against him. Twisting in the tight confines of the cave, his grip on the spear could not be adjusted quickly enough to ward off the stroke he knew would come. He resigned himself to the pain he would have to bear with until they returned to the caves, and the damage to his armour that would need repairs. Yet, he need not have fretted. His eyes widened as in one swift move, the sword swung upward and out, slicing through armour, cutting into flesh. There was no scream, only a loud grunt as the orc's gasping breath was driven out by the impact of crashing into the cavern wall.

Quickly, Gandalf turned the sword as he adjusted his swing. A dull sound echoed as another stone hit the blade. He looked up to see the other orc move away from the concealing bulk of his captain, in his hands and plainly visible was a small catapult. Clever! thought Gandalf. The lunge had been a ploy by the captain to draw his attention, leaving him open to the attacks.

Grushluk grunted: the ruse worked well enough. And yet, it was clear the old man's abilities were above that of common Men – that he was able to react so swiftly was proof enough. The captain did not doubt trickeries would work no longer. Already one was lost, and he was not inclined to risk personal damage to life and limb. He decided upon force. Yet even if he chose to do nothing, the old fool would bleed dry likely before the cursed light reached these sheltered slopes. He grinned at that thought. 'Get the others, Orskash ---- I want that sword and I'll personally squash any maggot that's not here in thirty minutes.'

Throbbing pain lanced through his side. He winced and gasped, leaning against the wall lest he fell. How inopportune if I were to lose consciousness, he thought The flow from his wound, he knew, must be stemmed.

Thirty minutes before the orcs try again. At the least, Gandalf thought. Until then, the sting of Glamdring's bite would hold them off. Wait was all that was left for Gandalf to do, until fear of the sword wore off and the orcs try again or until they were driven off. Or----, the thought trailed off as he felt the blood flow through his fingers anew.

He retched as a gust stole into the little cave. The dead orc was beginning to smell, but the body would serve. With care, he shifted himself. Slowly and painfully, he positioned it to offer what scant concealment it could.

In the dimness, he began to fumble with his cloak. Then holding the garment by the edge, he used Glamdring to begin a cut. With one wary eye on the orcs outside, he pulled at the rent cloth, careful to keep the noise of tearing fabric as soft as he could. Then, a long strip of his cloak in hand and some dried herbs from his pouch, he began to dress his wound.

The pain, finally, faded. As well as he could, Gandalf made himself comfortable.

Long moments passed, and he kept his eyes locked on the cavern mouth and the shapes that hovered there. Still it seemed his mind began to drift much too soon. As sleep threatened to take hold, he struggled to keep awake.

His eyes flew open at the sound of a loud yelp. The outline of the shape lying on the ground caused Gandalf to nearly jump up. He panted as shards of pain shot up to his mind, and blinked to clear the fireworks blurring his vision. Then his mind came awake and he remembered: it was the slain orc.

But something, he knew, was afoot. Daylight would not be far off, for the cave was growing quickly warm, and time was not on their side: the rising sun would force their hand. Likely, the orcs desired to bring him and Glamdring with them as they retreated into the dark.

Sweat beaded his brow as he pondered the state of affairs for he had no desire, dead or alive, to enter again the orc-tunnels that threaded through the bowels of the mountains. Yet he could do naught but wait. The sun would soon set the western faces of the mountains alight and maybe he would be free of the cave then; whether in the company of Aragorn or the orcs, he would not guess.

--- --- ---

Aragorn was no longer alone, that much he was aware from the footfall echo that sounded a moment after his own, the occasional rustle of dry faggots and the crack of brittle scree. Before him, the way onward was a sliver of flattened earth wedged between sharp stone fangs, a dry runnel shaped by bare slopes, little more than a breach in the cliffside just broad enough for a man. He knew once he pass the tall rocks, the sheer walls and narrow passage within would offer no means of defence. But it was a trap he walked into willingly.

Nine paces into the cleft, it turned dark for a moment.

'Hold!' a deep voice growled.

Aragorn stopped, and with a slow deliberate move, pushed his hood back. He looked up to see a face with a great shaggy beard, and noted the spear aimed between his eyes. The man was astride the crevice lips.

Another shadow loomed beside the man, looking down upon him. 'What business brings you away from the path?' an even deeper voice demanded.

'I am tracking orcs.'

For a long moment, all was still.

Then from beyond the cleft, the same voice rumbled. 'This way,' it ordered.

Aragorn emerged to see a tall Beorning waiting, fist on hip and leaning on a huge axe.

'Tracking orcs?' he asked, none too pleased. 'Have the rangers run out of sport?'

'These orcs are in my way,' Aragorn said. 'They move toward the stone grove south of here, where I fear Gandalf----'

'Gandalf?' the Beorning said, suspicion creeping into his voice. He beckoned Aragorn forward.

'Yes, Gandalf, who is Mithrandir to the fair folk,' Aragorn said gravely. 'I am his guide, many know me as Strider.'

The Beorning frowned, considering his words. 'A guide to Gandalf, so you say.'

Aragorn spread his hands. 'My word is all I have, and this.' Bending slightly to the side, he drew forth a small dagger from his booted calf in a slow deliberate move. On it could be seen runes as only Elves could make. Despite the faint light, the blade was an unusual hue, sheathed in a ghost blue sheen.

'I am Baran,' the Beorning said at last, giving his name in return. He frowned, thinking on the changes he had to make to his plans. 'Time runs short. Now tell me your tale, quickly.'

Aragorn shook his head as he returned the blade to its hiding place. 'Time runs short as you say. But unless I have guessed wrong, we pursue the same quarry, though for different purposes,' he said. 'Let me hunt with you.'

Baran stared darkly at the stranger whose calm gaze caused his own to deepen into a black scowl.

'I must get to Gandalf,' Aragorn pressed.

'You can do nothing that we can't,' he said.

Hand on the hilt of the knife on his belt as was his wont, there was a note of steel in Aragorn's voice as he said: 'I seek merely to do my duty.' He locked eyes with Baran. 'Gandalf's safety is my charge.'

The Beorning glared at Aragorn in a manner that caused him to wonder if perhaps he would have done better to continue on his own. Then, in a move that surprised him, the Beorning merely looked down the bridge of his nose at him.

As a cast between grimace and displeasure flitted across his bearded face, Baran called: 'Bereg!' A stout fellow stepped forward, gripping an equally stout bow. 'The ranger joins you.' Bereg nodded, and eyed the stranger with a critical glance, taking note of the small bow he carried. 'And you, Strider, follow Bereg's lead closely.' He leaned near and said in his slow rumbling manner: 'I know of duty and charges.' Then he motioned for Bereg to lead the ranger away. 'We are already delayed,' Baran said as the ranger moved past him. 'I do not want my plans changed, Strider.'

Aragorn nodded, 'Gandalf is my chief concern.'

'Come,' Bereg said then. 'How good are you?' he asked. His gaze was fixed on the ranger's bow.

'I can take a bird, in flight, at thirty yards,' came the reply. Bereg shot a quick glance, but the ranger looked as grave as ever. He grunted. 'We must hurry.' So saying, he broke into a run, leading Aragorn into the boulders encircling another of the Hithaeglir's nameless peaks.

Arms folded, Grushluk stared at the scout. As Orskash prepared himself, he could feel the others retreating further back. 'Gutless maggots,' he said under his breath.

'Well?' asked Grushluk.

Orskash swallowed hard. 'I couldn't find the others ----' He jumped back as something hit the ground with a dull thud, bounced and came to rest at his feet. He looked down to see a leering head. The gruesome face grinned madly at him, sickening in its familiarity. It was Snikdúsh. With a sudden horrifying clarity, Orskash understood -- it was not the burning light that caused the other scouts to abandon their posts.

Clear as the cursed day, the answer was far worse than he could ever imagine in his miserable life. Among the cliffs circling the grove were movement. His lips curled into a snarl as he stepped back.

''Ware!' Grushluk shouted as men swarmed forth. 'Bear-skins!' Already Orskash had an arrow nocked, and took aim at the rocks from where the head was thrown. Quickly he released it and dove behind a boulder as a rain of arrows answered his shot. He could see the cave: Snoga was cowering before it. Of Bog and Ogluk there was no sign. For the others, their fates were certain. They were caught in the open, with nowhere to hide; they were quickly surrounded, out-numbered and out-flanked. Shielded by the boulder, Orskash watched in helpless anger as the others were overwhelmed, falling from arrow wounds, and mighty blows of staffs and axes. He shuddered as Sguk's throat was torn with bare hands. Never had screams of the dying bothered him but this time he found in the noise an echo he could not ignore, for in it rang his own end.

But there was no place for self-pity. Quickly he let fly another, aimed at the man trying to drag his fallen brethren to safety. He roared as the arrow sank into the bear-skin's chest. Then he began to pick off men within bow-shot.

Suddenly, an arrow shaft protruded from his arm-guard. For a moment he stared at it. Then he shouted and threw down his bow. Quickly, with his free hand, he pulled at the arrow, while he searched for the man who had shot him. It was not a bear-skin but a man nonetheless. Orskash snapped the arrow shaft, oblivious to the pain. Then he jumped out, and picking up a spear that lied nearby, hurled it at the man as he turned back.

For a moment Orskash stood stunned, for the man had side-stepped the spear: no man could move with such speed. Then swinging his axe, Orskash leapt over the boulder, and charged, only to have a Beorning jump into his path

Orskash forgot the strange man as he engaged the Beorning. In a few quick strokes, he had overpowered the man, the blade of his axe bit into the bear-skin's torso, crushing his chest as he struggled. A satisfying sound of bone breaking greeted his ears.

Quickly, he pulled the axe loose, and took aim at another bear-skin running at him.

Iron clashed upon iron.

It took nearly all his strength to block the blows of the heavy-set man, but he was the stronger and soon, the tables turned. Seizing an opening, he aimed low and chopped into the man's legs. Then as the man paused in shock, Orskash hacked into his shoulder, loosening his hold on his weapon. As the man dropped onto his fallen axe, Orskash relaxed his grip on his own, panting. Threading through his ragged breath was a pitiful chorus, moans of the dying. Annoyance quickened his bloodlust, and he turned to the still living man. Orskash did not stop to consider the danger of being in the open overlong; again and again he let fall his axe, pressing the man down by his foot, unmoved by the man's cries. Not until his chest became a mess of soft red pulp did Orskash stop. At last, he realized his own danger.

As he muttered thanks to Azog for watching over him while he gave vent to his folly, he turned, seeking the safety of the nooks among the stones. But he stopped as he saw Grushluk run his spear through a Beorning. As the man flailed, Grushluk pulled the man nearer. He snarled and sunk his teeth into the dying man's face, muffling the screams. Then he spat out the bloody flesh and pushed the dead man off his spear.

Orskash saw movement and shouted: 'Grushluk, behind you!' The captain spun around, brandished his spear as a huge bear-like figure rushed at him, holding a staff aloft. The Beorning's roar resounded as he swung the staff. Grushluk yelled in reply as he loosed his spear, cursing as it flew wide. Then he drew his scimitar, just in time and wood clashed upon metal. They leapt back, and the orc staggered from the might of the attack. Quickly he swung his scimitar; it dug into the ground, stopping his backward fall. He held firm, and glowered at the hulking Man.

The Beorning glared back. He circled the wary orc, probing for weakness, while Grushluk tried time and again to attack. Then the bear-skin lunged, swinging his staff again. Grushluk pulled his scimitar up, deflecting a blow that left his sword arm aching from the jarring impact.

Orskash watched in fascination. The scimitar was not usually a match for the longer reach of the bear-skin's staff, made from some strange wood that metal could not easily break. But Grushluk was a giant among orcs, and he had never been troubled by the bear-skin weapons -- until now, for this Beorning was big. He was raining blows that Grushluk could barely avoid while the orc was increasingly angered by his inability to fight back.

The Beorning would swing the staff, sometimes feinting. And when Grushluk reacted, he would find himself hit in another place. He took a heavy blow to the head when he was protecting his side. Orskash flinched from the sound he heard, sure that the captain's head was cracked, despite his helm. Then the staff whirled again, and hit Grushluk's leg. He roared in pain and jumped back.

Enraged, he rushed back in, attacking the bear-skin in a frenzy, aiming for the head, the arms or any place that seemed open. Always the man reacted with a swiftness that did not seem possible for his size. Suddenly, the Beorning's staff broke, splintered by the might of Grushluk's blow. The captain howled, and ran at the bear-skin as he began to step backwards. Grushluk raised the scimitar for what Orskash thought was a fatal blow, but the bear-skin dove and the scimitar bit into the ground. Quick as a cat, the bear-skin jumped up and Orskash groaned to see the axe in his hand. As Grushluk struggled to free his blade, the axe cut into his side, In pain, he yelped and fell to the ground. The Beorning followed, hacking at him with increasing efficiency. Soon, Orskash realized there was no blood pouring from the axe wounds: it was too blunt to bite through flesh, but it was certainly still able to inflict pain.

Already, Orskash could barely open his eyes, for they hurt from the strengthening brightness. The sun would soon shine on the western slopes, and Orskash knew once it did, all would be lost.

Grushluk's head was bleeding, he was favouring his left leg and Orskash could see he no longer wielded his scimitar with quite the same force and his strokes seemed slower. With a sudden speed, Orskash dove back into the place where he had thrown his bow. Grimly, Orskash fitted another arrow and took aim at the bear-skin. His armguard glistened with blood and his arm shook with effort as he drew the bow.

Just then, hearing a growl behind him, Orskash swung around, his bow raised. Another bear-skin crouched on the rocks. In haste, he released the arrow, grunting at the strain on his left arm. It caught the man in the side, penetrating with a dull thud as he shouted an oath and leapt. But for Orskash, it was still too late. He fell backward, his wind knocked out as he hit the boulder that had shielded him. Gasping for air, he clawed at the hands closed around his throat. He flailed and struggled, frantic for breath. Moments passed and as his tongue lolled, his head fell to the side. His eyes still wide open, he saw the big bear-skin swing the axe into Grushluk's already bloodied face. The captain staggered. His head hung, and he no longer held his scimitar. Then he laughed, an odd gurgling sound, as if his throat was filled with liquid he could not swallow.

'Azog take you!' Grushluk spat. 'Burn in the pits of Darkness!' He sunk onto his knees and fell forward.

Orskash saw no more.

Panting lightly, Baran stood over the fallen orc. Though he did not understand the words uttered, the malice in the orc's curse was plain. The force of it surprised him and for a moment he was trapped among vengeful goblins, in the tunnels under the mountains. Shaking his head, he shrugged off the distasteful vision. Then extending the axe, he turned the body over. One side of the face had caved in, the eye hung by a thin sliver of flesh while the other stared sightless, and from the gaping mouth dark blood flowed. Baran grunted and looked up.

The sun, at last, lighted the dusk-grey mountain flanks. Bodies laid everywhere, upon the rocks, covering the ground, most of them goblin carcasses. Against the now bright slopes, Baran squinted and turned to the stone grove.

'Strider?' he called.

'Here.'

He went among the stones, going toward the voice. The ranger was outside a small cave, tending to an old man. Nearby was the body of a small orc, his hands clawed at his throat where the fletching of an arrow sprouted.

The ranger's sword laid near his hand. Baran stopped just beyond reach.

He looked up then, and Baran found himself staring again into those strange grey eyes, and for a moment it was as if a different man was cloaked in the Ranger's raiment. He was overwhelmed, as if the Ranger could touch the sky if he but stretched forth his hand.

Then Strider spoke and the moment passed. 'He has lost blood. He is not fit to travel, but I would have him far from here.'

Baran grunted. 'Dress his wounds. We move soon.'

'Strider,' called a Beorning. 'Gandalf wakens.'

Aragorn nodded and returned to tending to a Man with an arrow wound. He worked swiftly and then returned to the cave.

As Aragorn had feared, Gandalf struggled for breath. He knelt by the old man's side, and waited.

'You're late,' Gandalf complained when at last he could speak.

'I was delayed.'

'Really?' Gandalf returned. He coughed again. 'Since you've tended my wounds, I forgive you this time.' He leaned against the rock, and closed his eyes.

Gently, Aragorn checked Gandalf's pulse and the dressing. Pleased that the bleeding has stopped, he left Gandalf to what rest he could. He climbed the stones, and watched the Beornings at their tasks.

Soon, Baran returned, still holding the bloody axe. Orc-blood stained his tunic. Wrapped around his arm where it was bruised a grisly mix of purple and black was a band of cloth, and across his chest was a long wound, likely inflicted by a scimitar.

Aragorn leapt down from the boulder. 'He no longer bleeds. But he would not be able to move at any speed.'

'He will reach the Pass, even if I have to carry him there.'

'Since when have Beornings and Rangers began the habit of delicate discussion,' said a drowsy voice. They turned to see Gandalf leaning against the cave wall. He glared, hand pressed against his side.

'I merely thought you would appreciate the consideration,' said Baran.

'I am wounded, not losing sleep from overly sharp ears,' he said, the irritation in his voice unmistakable.

'Then you would agree that it is best to reach the Pass as soon as we may?'

'Of course!' Gandalf shot back. Then he frowned and thought for a moment. 'I will not be carried like a sack of potatoes!'

'You will not,' Baran said.

Gandalf looked ready to retort, then thought better of it. 'I suppose there is no other way, is there, Strider?'

Careful to keep the look on his face grave, Aragorn shook his head.

'We leave in five minutes,' said Baran.

Aragorn turned to the Beorning. 'Before we do, let me tend your wounds.'

Baran looked down at the gaping hole in his tunic. The chest wound caused by the orc captain was shallow and the blood had dried, but it had began to itch, and his arm too needed to be seen to. 'No, no delays,' he said.

Darkness covered the mountain peaks with a swift decisive hand. And for that small mercy, Gandalf gave much thanks. He was ready for the day to end, even if it meant chancing discovery by the orcs. For in spite of Aragorn's care, he felt himself at the end of his endurance, no longer able to bear riding upon a Beorning's back. They had moved over uneven ground, at a pace both brisk and careful. Rocked by the rhythm of the Beorning's gait, he wakened from time to time. And yet, he could do naught even as the steady pace lulled his tired mind, coaxing it into unconsciousness: he was falling back into darkness every time he managed to open his eyes.

And as with all meals the Beornings took on the mountains, dinner was cold, save for the drink of hot tea that Gandalf was made to take. But even the generous heap of athelas Aragorn steeped in it did not suffice to cheer his spirits nor waken his appetite. Not a word was uttered, even as Aragorn check again his wound dressing. And he soon lay down, asleep even as his eyes drew shut.

Through the night, as Aragorn sat by Gandalf, he observed the Beornings as they disappeared at regular intervals. Baran had finally allowed him to dress the wound, and was inspecting the camp boundary.

The calls of hunting wolf-packs would sound in the distance and time and again it would seem that some large animals prowled beyond their camp, their huffing breath and grunting growls plain to hear.

The next morning, they began early and the task of bearing Gandalf was taken in turn by the Beornings. Mostly, Gandalf slept, waking during the brief stops for Aragorn to check his dressing. So it went for many days until the wizard began to heal. The journey proceeded in silence. Aragorn saw naught of the Beornings except the one who was carrying Gandalf though he knew they were near. Even at night, the Beornings were not inclined to conversation, and Aragorn was left watching the sleeping wizard. For the first two days, they moved with great care, hiding quickly at the slightest hint of danger, and even breaking camp when the frenzied cries of wolves seemed to gather near.

But at last, the danger waned and they took to easier paths. Gandalf's appetite returned, slowly but surely. Aragorn was heartened. Soon, Gandalf was walking by himself, first for a few moments, then a few more until he was walking by himself for half the hour before rest was needed.

One day, Baran stepped out onto the path after Gandalf had passed. 'The orcs draw near,' he rumbled, as Aragorn drew abreast. He stroked his beard, his brows seamed as a speculative look spread across his face as he examined the thoughts in his mind with his deliberate manner. He threw a glance in the direction where the wizard sat with his human mount. 'Is he mending?'

'Yes.'

Baran weighed his reaction. 'And if we were to walk longer?'

'He will be able to walk at length, on his own for some of that time,' said Aragorn.

The Beorning nodded. 'And if ----'

'And if the need arises, he can run and keep apace, for a little.'

Baran eyed Aragorn. 'Good,' he said.

That evening, as the fire burned low in its pit, Gandalf turned to Aragorn. 'Well?' he asked in a considerate whisper. 'It is just the two of us now. Since you thought me well enough to risk walking on my own, I am well enough to hear the tale, yes?'

'I found orc tracks,' Aragorn said. 'Then Baran who was hunting the orcs.'

'And I suppose you walked up to him and introduced yourself?'

Aragorn said nothing as a Beorning passed by. Then he resumed, filling in the gaps for Gandalf.

Gandalf sat for a moment. 'The orcs are bold indeed,' he whispered, as if talking to himself. His eyes flicked for a moment toward Aragorn. 'And the Beornings seemed to have found new interest in ranging the western slopes far beyond the Pass.' Aragorn nodded. Gandalf pursed his lips. 'Did you hear tell of when it began?'

After a moment's silence, Gandalf said: 'I see you've managed to keep to the wrong side of Baran's humour.'

Aragorn returned a pained look. 'There was no time for a proper introduction.'

'Yes,' said Gandalf. 'Yes, I know.' Then he looked gravely at Aragorn. 'But I am glad,' he said. 'For your timely arrival.' He smiled, lost in thought as he stared into the fire. Then he took a deep breath, 'Now, I suppose I should see about getting some information.' Pushing down on his staff, he stood up and beckoned at a Beorning. 'Tell Baran I would like to speak with him.'

'They never ceased trying,' Baran said as his brows creased into another scowl. He began sharpening the axe-head he held and the dry sound of whetstone against blade joined the hiss of the small fire in chorus. 'And we were always able to hold them back,' he said, shaping each word with obvious scorn. 'But thirteen years ago, it turned suddenly.' The crackling fire reflected in his eyes as the whetstone struck the axe-head with increasing force. 'We lost many,' he said. 'I have never seen such a thing. It was madness, and it was as if they were driven to try the impossible.' Then he gave an odd laugh. 'They took us by surprise, but only for a while.' It was a short bitter sound of triumph laden with hate. His fists were clenched, trembling as he calmed himself. 'After that first wave, we forced them back. It was a slow and painful task. But we have kept at it.' Then he turned silent, pouring all his attention to sharpening the axe.

'Well,' said Gandalf. 'I heard of trouble.' He looked at Baran speculatively. 'Strange but there was no word on the magnitude of it.'

Baran laid down the whetstone then, and fingered the sharpened edge. 'Not many know, aside from the Woodland Elves and the northern villages,' he said softly. 'We controlled it, order was restored, and the pass remained open.' He picked up the whetstone again, and then thought for a moment. 'There was no need to spread such news and cause unnecessary worry.' As the scrapping sound of stone striking iron began again, Baran spoke. 'Strangely there was less plundering, for they had more trackers to a band then we had seen since then.' He turned then to Gandalf. 'This isn't a matter of passing interest to you,' he said.

Gandalf returned his gaze with a thoughtful look. 'No,' he said then. 'Some knowledge is not meant to be shared.' It seemed to Baran that there was a note of pain, or maybe tiredness in the wizard's voice, as if he had answered this question far too many times. Gandalf squinted at him, and said: 'But trust me when I tell you this: keep up your vigilance. For a time may soon come when your control of these mountains will weigh on the balance between victory and defeat. And even before then, maybe the Beornings will be called upon for what aid you may spare.'

Baran stared hard at Gandalf. 'As ever, you speak in riddles,' he glowered.

'You will have your answers, Baran, all in good time,' Gandalf said with a smile. 'All in good time.'

The Beorning rose then, hefting the axe as wolf howls sounded in the distance. 'I shall think on your words.'

Late one evening, Gandalf approached Aragorn as he stood looking out toward the setting sun, a lone dark figure against the fiery blaze of the last light of day. He stood by Aragorn, wondering what it was that the Dúnadan was searching for, or what he was thinking on. He waited, and watched Aragorn, as the red flames that lit his face flared briefly before fading with great reluctance in a feeble lingering light.

'Could he, or it be here, do you think?' Aragorn asked finally.

Baran's words echoed in his mind. Indeed, what else would drive the goblins forth in such reckless numbers? In his turn, Gandalf peered into the dark creeping swiftly up the mountainside. 'I do not know.' A sudden urge to walk again the path Bilbo had trodden all those years ago seized him. But to what end? Only the hobbit had been to the creature's lair, and he had been lost. To retrace his steps was not an impossible task, but it required time, time that seemed to be in short supply. He shook his head. 'I know what you think, but I feel it a far better choice to begin our search from a trusted source, than to grasp at shadows in the mounting dark.' He turned back toward the campfire. In the faint distance, one of the Hithaeglir's nameless peaks gleamed pale. Somewhere beneath it was the High Pass. 'We can do no more here, but in this we are certain: the Enemy does not have him either. We may yet gain on them.'

Night had claimed the sky, scrapping away all signs of the sun, and replaced the sunset fires with the cold light of stars.

Aragorn walked by his side. 'You sound as if it were a simple task we are to do.'

Gandalf's pace slowed. 'There is always hope, and that is what I hold on to, in this as in all tasks I do.' He turned to face Aragorn. 'It lightens the burden,' he said with a wink even as he covered his healing wound with a hand. Then he sniffed at the air. 'Ah, I believe the water is boiling. Dinner!' He smiled and continued toward the campfire.

As he watched Gandalf walking away, the Dúnadan thought upon his words. He raised his head, searching for the brightest star. Then he too smiled, a faint wisp of mirth that faded quickly. 'Yes, there is always hope,' he whispered as he followed Gandalf.

Early the next afternoon, they halted before a wending path that quickly vanished between two steep flanks of stone. Only Baran was with them.

'Boron awaits you at the pass,' he said. 'Farewell and good luck with what you seek.'

'Farewell,' said Aragorn.

Gandalf said: 'And good luck with your hunt.'

'Always,' Baran growled. He turned, quickly claimed by the stones falling away into the grey day.

--- --- ---

Clouds swirled and scuttled across the air, obscuring the Vales from time to time, while flocks of birds flew at lesser heights, winging their way through wisps of churning cloud, sometimes scattering them to the wind.

Anduin lied far below, thin as a thread running long and silvery against the sun's glare, rushing as ever into the embrace of the unseen ocean away in the South. The land swelled and dipped in myriad shades of yellow, green, grey, marking valleys, hills and groves of trees. Away from the fallow plains on the River's eastern bank a great expanse of dark greenery spread, blanketing the distant horizon -- Mirkwood Forest, brooding and drear.

Three days' journey behind them was the High Pass, hidden again by mists and looming peaks that seemed to grow paler with each passing day as the snow that covered the frowning peaks crept ever downward, engulfing the grey mountain flanks.

'We shall break for the noon-day meal,' Aragorn said as he strode up. 'There is a clearing a little more than three hundred yards away, well shaded.'

Gandalf nodded. 'Lead on then.' He was mending. His wound troubled him no longer and he was not breathless as when they were still crossing the peaks: here on the lower slopes the air was thicker and easier to draw in. Still, the journey tired him for they kept a little off the Forest Road itself, always seeking cover among the stones that lined the grey slopes for aside from the Beornings, there were other watchers of the Road, and they did not wish to draw the attention of unfriendly eyes.

Gandalf still leans far too heavily on his staff, he observed as he led the way. Well on the Road now, Aragorn voiced naught of his concern at the slow progress they made; he was mindful of the need to think of Gandalf's health.

Quick as thought, his hand was on the fletched end of an arrow as a shadow caught his eye. Then he relaxed as he recognized the familiar shape. And yet, despite the toll to the Beornings that ensured their safe passage, still he was wary for though he knew it was inevitable that the Enemy would be alerted to their movement, he wished that the moment of discovery be delayed to the utmost.

The Road wended through the eastern escarpment of an unnamed peak. As he awaited Gandalf, Aragorn looked to where Mirkwood beckoned. He stared at the dark shapes on the horizon, and recalled his last journey into the Forest. Then his thoughts strayed and he turned to the South, Who knows when I will visit again----, he stopped himself as a frown settled upon his brow. Nay, live not in days still beyond reach, though your fate begins to take shape, Aragorn son of Arathorn. He raised his hood then and turned his thoughts to the path ahead.

Also on fanfiction.net: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/931862/1/

=== NOTE: All Elvish Translations is under "Reference" on this page ===

INTO THE DARK AGAIN

by Wayfarer
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)