Chapter 1

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The East Road, Spring, 3008

Halbarad dragged a hand through his greasy hair and mopped his forehead with a grimy sleeve.  Hazy air smothered the Lone Lands like congealed gravy, without even the mercy of a breeze.  For three days now, since a day out of Bree, they had had no relief from this strange early heat wave that made the northern Eriador plains feel like the bowels of Harad.  Halbarad felt beneath the sodden saddle blanket, frowning at the heat emanating from the horse's flank.  Up ahead of him, the back of Aragorn’s shirt was dark with sweat.  Halbarad squinted past the low hills and scrubby oak groves to the faint, scallop of mountains shimmering tauntingly in the afternoon heat.  No seemed no closer than they had been this morning, despite a long day in the saddle.  He heard a muffled sigh behind him and twisted, glancing to the rear as he did so for reasurrance that Weathertop, at least, had finally dropped from view.  He looked down at the hobbit perched behind him.  “What’s the matter, Tillfield?  Tired?”

The face that peered up at him was as dirty, weary, and sunburned as his own, though he supposed  the comparison suffered somewhat from the halfling’s complete lack of grizzled, unkempt whiskers.  “I’m tired and I’m hot,” Tillfield complained.  

He looked hot.  His sandy curls were plastered to his forehead and his neck was peppered with heat rash, though Halbarad envied him the freedom of his hairy feet, swinging blessedly bare in the open air.  His own felt as if they were sprouting mushrooms, and he could not remember when he had last bothered to take his boots off.  Three days ago?  Four?   Suddenly craving nothing more than to plunge, head-first and naked, into the refreshing waters of the Hoarwell, he settled for a swig of tepid water from the skin at his belt.  "I'm hot, too," he admitted.  "

"When will we get to the river?"

"Tomorrow, maybe.  It lies beyond the great bend in the road."

"Can't we go any faster?"

"No,"  he snapped, then rubbed his face and tried again.  "The horses have to last all the way to Rivendell, Dudo."  And so does Aragorn, he thought.  "If we push them too hard, they'll get sick or lame and we'll end up walking the rest of the way.  You have to be patient." 

“Bob?”

“Yes, Tillfield.”  Halbarad reminded himself for the fiftieth time to strangle Aragorn for instigating the bestowal of Bree names. 

“Are we going to stop soon?  It's nearly sundown.”

“I don’t know,” Halbarad said, eyeing the backs of Gandalf and Aragorn, riding abreast and trailing twin clouds of pipe weed smoke that drifted lazily behind them at shoulder height.  It dissipated slowly in the stagnant air, adding a pungent, spicy tang to the gritty mélange of road dust, sweaty horses, and unwashed clothing.   Halbarad wondered how Aragorn had convinced Gandalf to let him smoke.  “We have been lucky with the dry weather, but it can’t hold forever.  Gandalf probably wants to make as much distance as he can while we have a hard road.”  He twisted in his saddle again.  “And Dudo?”

“What?”

“You can stop calling me ‘Bob’ now.  We’re not in Bree anymore.”

Tillfield grumbled something about there being not nearly so many rocks and thorn bushes in Bree. 

Halbarad laughed.  "No, only ruffians, thieves, and spies out to kidnap people."

“Are we ever going to sleep inside again?”

“Of course we are,” said Halbarad.  “When we reach the Last Homely House in Rivendell.”

“Rivendell had better be nicer than that last place we stayed.” 

“The Forsaken Inn?”  Halbarad snorted.  “Don’t let Elrond hear you comparing Rivendell to that flea-infested hovel.  Rivendell is the most beautiful place you’ll ever see - full of beautiful waterfalls and gardens and sweet-smelling flowers.  The beds are plumped so high with pillows you’ll think you’re swimming in a sea of feathers.  There will be more food than you can eat, more wine than you can drink, and all around you, beautiful people singing lovely songs.  How does that sound?”  Halbarad turned in the saddle in time to catch Tillfield making a face.  

“And this is where you live?” he asked skeptically.

Halbarad snorted.  “Eru’s eagles, no, I don’t live there!” 

“But I thought you said…” Tillfield’s voice trailed off in confusion and he crossed his arms impatiently.  "I thought you said Rangers live there."

Not for the first time, Halbarad regretted the lie.  Despite his own mortification at the thought of enduring an Elf-obsessed hobbit all the way from Bree to Rivendell, the truth might have been simpler.   

Gandalf spared him the ethical dilemma by slowing until Halbarad pulled abreast.  The wizard’s face, tanned as old leather, stood out against the white hair he had caught haphazardly in a queue.  Road grime darkened the furrows creasing his brow as he frowned at Tillfield.  “Master Dudo,” he said gravely, “you will find Halbarad’s description of Rivendell to be entirely accurate.  Halbarad simply harbors a healthy suspicion of luxury.”

“I simply remember the lesson of Númenor, Gandalf,” Halbarad retorted.   

Gandalf’s raised an eyebrow and Halbarad flushed.  It wasn't often that he gave in to philosophical flights of fancy.  “And what would that lesson be, dear Ranger?”

Halbarad grunted.  “Know your place.”

Gandalf released a cloud of pipe-weed smoke that drifted aimlessly in the still air as he considered Halbarad’s answer.  “Fair enough.  Think you know it then, do you?”

“I always have,” Halbarad replied, deliberately planting his gaze squarely on the sweat-stained back of Aragorn’s shirt.         

“Halbarad’s place is wherever the rocks are hardest, the flies the hungriest, the trail the steepest, and the game the toughest,” the object of his attention interjected, twisting in the saddle.  Halbarad froze his face into a scowl of irritation to mask his worry at the pallor that even sunburn and road grime could not hide.  Aragorn had been barely fit to travel when they left Bree, and the hard days of travel and an infected wound had drained his strength.  He has no business out here, Halbarad thought for the hundredth time.  He should not be out here, on the road, under the broiling sun.  It had been madness to think he could make the trip across Eriador on horseback.  Realizing Aragorn was still grinning at him, expecting a retort, Halbarad forced himself to rise to the occasion.  “There’s the pot calling the kettle black,” he shot back lamely.  “I believe it is your preference for hard rocks and gamey meat over the comforts of Imladris that has been noted these past years, and not mine.”   

Aragorn's grin faded.  “My duty called me elsewhere,” he said soberly, and turned to face forward. 

Well, that killed the conversation, Halbarad reflected.  Halbarad had long suspected there was more to Aragorn's avoidance of Rivendell than mere duty.  EVer since his return from the far countries more than two decades ago, tension crept into his face at the mention of Elrond.  His visits to Rivendell became rare, and brief, and he had not been there at all since his mother left. 

Gandalf was staring at him.  Halbarad forced a laugh.  “Lord of the biting flies I may be, but I will never be so glad as when I lay my eyes on the Last Homely House.”

“How much farther is Rivendell?” asked Tillfield.

“A little less than two hundred miles,” Gandalf said.  “It should take us no more than four more days, as long as the weather holds and the river crossings are unimpeded.”

Halbarad grunted.  “And as long as it lets us find it.”

“I thought you knew where it was,” Tillfield said.  “I thought you had been there.”

“I have been there.  But Rivendell lies in a secret valley, you see, shrouded in enchantment and hidden from the eyes of mere mortals.  Sometimes even Aragorn has trouble finding it.”

“I do not,” Aragorn called without turning around. 

Halbarad exchanged a smile with Gandalf before answering.  “Perhaps you would care to explain our three-day detour on the way back from the Ettenmoors the year my daughter was born.  And me with a broken wrist.”

“If you had let me take the shot before the troll threw you to the ground, you would not have had a broken wrist,” Aragorn replied.   He pulled back on his reins and halted in the middle of the road, waiting for Halbarad to catch up.

“Let you take a bow-shot at a moving target with me in the way?  Thank you, no.  With a sword you are unsurpassed, but you are a hazard with a bow.  You might have been a bit more help, though; since it was you who attracted the troll in the first place.”

“Pray tell how that is so.”

“Trolls are drawn to you as moths to a flame, Aragorn.  In all my long years in the wild, I have never encountered a troll except when I was with you.  Perhaps it is your odor.  If you suffered to bathe a bit more often…”

“And I suppose your own well-ripened aroma has no effect on them.”   

“Ah, but it is well-known throughout Eriador that it is maidens and not trolls that find me irresistible,” Halbarad replied. 

Aragorn managed a hoarse laugh. “Aside from your wife, I can recall only one maid who found you irresistable, and in that case you might have taken more care to avoid attracting her irate husband as well.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”  

“I'm surprised you don't recall the incident.  It is not every day that two Rangers are forced to flee to Fornost in their bare feet, chased by an enraged Bree farmer after he returned home to find their clothes drying before his hearth.”

“That’s not fair!” protested Halbarad. “Gandalf, we were not barefoot.  At least, we were not once we got our boots back.”

“And our clothes.”

“Gentlemen!” Gandalf admonished, aiming a reproving look at each of them in turn.  “Are you certain this story is fit for Dudo’s tender ears?”

Halbarad could feel Dudo bouncing in the saddle behind him.  "My ears aren't tender!"  he protested.  "I've worked in an inn since I was ten!"

Aragorn pretended to consider the question seriously.  “An excellent point, Gandalf.  Perhaps he is too young to hear the story of a naked Ranger, a farmer’s wife, and a goat.”

"No, I'm not!"

Halbarad scowled at Aragorn.  “You’re awfully cheeky for an invalid!”  He turned to Gandalf, who looked about to choke on his pipe.  “Gandalf, I swear to you, I never touched the woman.  Or the goat.”   

Gandalf raised an eyebrow, and Dudo laughed out loud.  “Tell the story, Aragorn!  Please!” 

Halbarad knew a lost cause when he saw one.  He folded his arms.  

The road was wide in this spot, and the three horses easily walked abreast.  “Well, you see, Dudo," Aragorn began, "many years ago, when Halbarad and I were very young Rangers, patrolling north of Bree, we were caught in an early winter storm.  We took shelter in the hollowed-out bole of a tree, but by morning we were freezing, and Halbarad had developed a worrisome cough.”

“Aragorn,” Halbarad interrupted. “Forgive me, but it is my firm recollection that it was you who had the worrisome cough.”

“On the contrary, Halbarad, I quite clearly recall the sound of your cough. It sounded like a Mumak gagging on a Warg. I was quite concerned for your health.”

“What an interesting observation, since at that time you had never heard the sound of a Mumak, warg-eating or otherwise – “

“Gentlemen!”  Gandalf snapped.  “Enough.  Finish the story before the day grows older than I.”

Aragorn cleared his throat.  “Thank you, Gandalf.  As I was saying, our wet clothes had frozen to our backs, and our hands and feet had gone numb.  Realizing our desperate situation, we set off for a nearby farm, hoping for permission to shelter in the barn.   As we drew near, the dogs began to bark and the door of the house swung open.  A woman stood in the doorway and hailed us.  Would you care to describe the woman, Halbarad?”

Halbarad grimaced, already regretting his well-intended effort to reviving Aragorn to full tale-telling mode. “I’m afraid I don’t remember what she looked like.” 

“I remember her like it was yesterday,” Aragorn said.   “The last drops of sweet youth still clung to her like morning dew.  Her hair was the red of a winter sunset, flowing loosely about her shoulders like ribbons of flame.  She wore a blue dress that stretched tight across her bosom, and her eyes were the green of early pears – are you sure you don’t recall, Halbarad?”

“Vaguely,” he muttered.

“Expecting no warm welcome, we asked to sleep in the barn,” Aragorn continued, “but to our astonishment, the woman opened the door wider and beckoned us inside.  In our weariness and shock, we accepted without question.  Only once we were inside did we realize the woman was home alone.  She told us that her husband was away in Bree, selling lambs, and that he would sooner let a Ranger freeze solid on his porch than give us so much as a cup of broth.  Of kinder disposition, she could not bring herself to allow any creature to suffer in the cold; however she did warn us that she was quite capable of cutting off our – “

“Noses,” Halbarad interjected.

“Noses,” Aragorn repeated, “with her kitchen knife, and that the dogs would rip our throats out if we so much as looked at her the wrong way.”

“Charming woman,” Halbarad scoffed heartily, suppressing a smile.  Aragorn had it partly right:  he did indeed remember the copper tresses and pear-green eyes, but it was the Bree-wife’s plucky spirit that had soured forever his taste for tamer lasses.    

“The woman told us to lay our cloaks and boots by the fire,” Aragorn continued, "and served us a meal of soup and bread.  She spun while we ate and talked with us of little things - the harvest and the weather and the price of wool at market.  When we had eaten our fill, she laid blankets out for us on the floor.   The warmth and food lulled us to sleep in no time, but we had barely fallen asleep, it seemed, when the woman woke us, in a panic.  ‘My husband has returned early!’ she said frantically.  ‘You must get out before he sees you.  Run, quickly!’  That was all the urging we needed.  We lurched to our feet just as the door opened and the farmer rushed in, brandishing an enormous pitchfork.  He was a stout and sturdy Breelander, and having already noticed our boot prints outside in the snow, he had murder in his eyes, ready to slaughter the ruffians who had invaded his home.  Behind him stood a teenage boy holding a scythe.  As soon as the farmer saw us, he let out a roar a warg would envy and lunged at Halbarad, barely missing him with the pitchfork.  Halbarad and I snatched up our sword belts and ran out the door in our bare feet, with the farmer, his son, and three baying dogs in pursuit.” 

Aragorn coughed, and he paused to take a drink.  The effort of talking had left him flushed and out of breath, but he was clearly enjoying Tillfield's rapt delight.  “Somehow,” he went on, “we managed to get into the barn and shut the door in the farmer's face.  We barricaded ourselves inside, but quickly realized our situation was grim.  Our packs, boots, and cloaks were still inside the house, and we watched through a crack in the door as the farmer sent his son to fetch help from the neighboring farms.  Facing the prospect of being pitch forked to death by an angry mob of Bree farmers, I proposed that we make a run for it.”

Halbarad snorted.  “Fortunately for us, even then I had more sense and knew the value of a good pair of boots.  I shouted to the farmer through a crack in the door that we would leave peacefully, as long as we got our clothes and boots from the house.”  

“What did he say?” asked Tillfield. 

Aragorn smiled.  “He threatened to burn the barn down around us.”

“Ah, but that was his mistake," Halbarad said.  "At those words, the farmer’s wife burst into hysterics.  She began screaming something about Buttercup.” 

“Buttercup?” Tillfield screwed up his nose.  “Sounds like a cat.”

“Close,” answered Halbarad.  “Obviously the idea of the barn being burnt down had the farm wife in hysterics.  We thought it would be in our best interest to find out why.  So while I kept watch, Aragorn went to search the barn.  He soon came back, leading a little brown goat by a rope.  It was tamely munching grain from his hand. I petted it on the head and it butted against me just like a cat.” 

“Buttercup, I presume,” said Gandalf.

“Buttercup,” reminisced Halbarad fondly.   

“So you traded the goat for your clothes?” Tillfield asked, looking impressed. 

“Clever lad,” Halbarad said.  “No wonder you made such a good outlaw.  That is exactly what we did.” 

“But what if the farmer hadn’t agreed?  You wouldn’t have killed the woman’s pet goat, would you?”

“What do you think?”

“No!” Tillfield laughed.

“Well, maybe not.  But that doesn’t matter,” he answered.  “It only matters that the farmer thought we would.”

“Unfortunately, the reputation of the Dúnedain suffered in those parts for many years hence,” added Aragorn.  “The farmer spread the story far and wide of how a pair of motley Rangers broke into his house and took his wife hostage.  He saved her by chasing them off with his pitchfork.”

“Aragorn, didn’t I hear that in some versions he chopped us up and threw us into the Brandywine?”

“Why, yes, I believe that version is still widely circulating in Staddle to this day.”

“What happened to the farmer’s wife?”  Tillfield asked.  “Was her husband angry with her?” 

“I don’t know," Aragorn said with a short laugh.  "We made sure never to go near that farm again!  It was many years ago, now."  His face grew distant.  "Many years."

“Husband and wife are both likely dead now,” said Halbarad wistfully.  So it was with the Bree-folk.  How short even Dúnedain lives must seem to Gandalf and the Elves, he thought, wondering how many generations the wizard had seen pass as he wandered this barren stretch of Arda. 

They rode in silence for a bit, as Aragorn’s shoulders gradually slumped and his head nodded.   He roused himself with a start when Gandalf reached to take the reins from his slackening grip.  “Stop worrying, Gandalf.  I promise not to topple from my seat.”

A wry smile deepened the creases of the wizard’s face.  “If you did not ever give me so much cause to worry, dear Ranger, this white beard of mine would yet be black.”

Aragorn gave a short laugh.  “Your beard was never black.”

“And how would you know, young one?” Gandalf asked.  “Elrond has wine in his cellar older than you.”

“Cirdan himself told me that you looked just as you do now the day you walked off the ship.”

Gandalf scowled.  “Impertinent scamp.  Even Cirdan does not know everything.  You would do well to respect your elders.”

Aragorn made a gesture of helplessness.  “I must be the most respectful man on Arda.  What have I, dear friend, but elders?”

Gandalf cocked an eyebrow.  “Well, there is Halbarad, and this young Dudo rascal, but other matters are your own affair, Dúnadan!”  Chuckling at the dark look Aragorn shot him, he turned his gaze westward, toward the setting sun.  “A clear night tonight, and then hot again tomorrow.”

“Too hot for this time of year,” said Aragorn.  “The snow pack in the mountains is the deepest since the Fell Winter.  That year the floods in the spring kept the Last Bridge impassable for weeks, so I have been told.” 

“That bridge may be old, but it’s solid as a Dwarvish anvil,” Halbarad said.  “It will hold.”   He scanned the rolling terrain, studded with stunted, scrubby trees and overgrown thorn bushes.  Wilted spring flowers clung to the side of the road, withering in the unaccustomed heat, and in this dust-choked afternoon it certainly did not look as though a flood was imminent.    

Tillfield tugged on his sleeve.  “I have to get down for a minute.”

Halbarad brought the horse to a halt and lowered the hobbit to the ground. He took the opportunity to get down and stretch the cramps out of his back and legs while he waited for Tillfield.  When the hobbit reappeared from behind a clump of boulders, he was scowling irritably.  “Why is it so ugly here?”

“Do you have to complain about everything?”  Halbarad felt a proprietary surge of pity for the unloved landscape.  “There is much beauty here in the wild, if you care to look.”

Tillfield looked around blankly.  “Where?”

Halbarad supposed on further consideration that he might have chosen a better stretch of the East Road with which to illustrate the hidden beauties of the wilderness.  He looked about at the rangy scrub and ragged hills.  “Take the wildflowers, for example.”

Tillfield cast a disparaging glance at the scrawny daisies sprouting just south of the road.  “Mrs. Butterbur has much nicer flowers in her garden that that.”

Halbarad sighed.  A Ranger understood it in his bones, and as for everyone else, he'd never cared before if the Breefolk saw the beauty in the wasteland.  Now, he found himself at a loss for words to explain that it was not the presence of something admirable that he treasured about this barren place, but the very absence of things that demanded admiration; the unexpectant plainness of the land that stilled all voices except earth, sky, and stars.  “Listen,” he said.

“Listen to what?”  Tillfield asked.  "I don't hear anything."

Halbarad smiled and ruffled his hair, knowing he hated it.  “Exactly.”   He looked up and saw that Gandalf and Aragorn had stopped up ahead as well.  From a distance, he could see that Aragorn was slumped in the saddle again.  Gandalf's hand was on shoulder.  He could not hear what was being said, but when Aragorn shrugged off Gandalf's hand and nudged his horse to a walk, he sighed.  "Enough is enough."

"What's going on?"  Tillfield asked.

"We're stopping here for the night." 

"But Gandalf and Ara-"

“Gandalf!  Aragorn!” Halbarad called.  When he had the attention of both riders, he made a show of examining Star’s left front hoof.  “My horse is coming up lame.  His foot is bruised from a rock.  What do you say we make camp?  Up ahead a mile or so is the campsite by the stream.  It will be shady there, and the horses can drink.”

“But your horse isn’t –" Tillfield protested

Halbarad silenced him with a glare.   “Do you want to make camp or not?”

“Yes,” Tillfield said meekly. 

“Then be still.”

The campsite he referred to was well-frequented by the Rangers, being situated beside one of the few usable streams between the Hoarwell and Weathertop.  Halbarad followed Aragorn down a steep embankment toward the sound of rushing water, into a protected grove carved out by a bend in the spring-full stream.  The air was refreshing, humus-scented, and the grass grew green under the protection of ancient willows.  Halbarad sent Tillfield to find firewood and went to fill water jugs at the stream.  The water was as high as he had ever seen it, tumbling clear and cold with snow melt from the mountains.  He washed the road dust from his face and neck, drank his fill from cupped hands, and dipped the first jug into the water.  A low gasp behind him brought his head around.  It was Aragorn, bent over in pain and clutching at Daisy's mane to keep from falling.  Halbarad rushed to his side, reaching him at the same time as Gandalf. 

“Aragorn?”  Gandalf took his shoulders.  “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Aragorn ground out through clenched teeth.  “It’s nothing.”  He forced himself to straighten, but gasped again as he tried to put weight on his injured leg.    

“My granna’s gooseberries,” Halbarad muttered.  "It's the arrow wound, isn't it?"  Without waiting for an answer, he got Aragorn's arm over his shoulder and levered him the few few to the fire ring.  He lowered him onto a cloak that Gandalf spread on the ground, alarmed at the heat radiating from his body.  Aragorn had been fighting a fever for weeks, but he felt much hotter now.  Halbarad looked over his shoulder.  "Tillfield - water."  He knew what was causing the fever – had seen Aragorn take the wound, nearly a month ago.  The arrowhead had been small, making a clean,narrow entry wound that penetrated deep into the knee joint - too deep to be cleaned thoroughly in the field.  Aragorn had ignored Elladan's pleading to go back to Rivendell to care for the injury, insisting instead on making a meeting with Gandalf in Bree.  When he got there, it was not Gandalf who met him.  Instead, he had walked into a trap designed to elicit his most carefully guarded secrets – secrets even Halbarad did not know.  When at last Halbarad and Gandalf had rescued him, it was with a sword hand smashed into splinters and an arrow wound festering deep in the bone,.  Aragorn had finally agreed to travel to Rivendell.  But now, Halbarad feared, time was running out. 

Halbarad left Aragorn in Gandalf's care and went to take care of the horses.  By the time he was finished, Gandalf was tending several pots bubbling over the fire, and Aragorn was asleep beside it.  “Rest is what he needs the most," said Gandalf.  "Ah, very good, Master Dudo,” he said, smiling as Tillfield dumped a third load of firewood on the accumulated pile.  “I think that will be enough wood to get us through the night.  Would you care for turnips?”

Tillfield groaned.  “Turnips again?  If I eat one more turnip, I’m going to turn into one. And I don’t want to sit anymore.  I’ve sat so long today my bum is numb. I don’t know why I ever thought riding a horse would be fun.”  He dropped down onto the ground dramatically, as if crushed by the weight of Caradhras.  “I’m tired of being hot,” he grumbled.  “And I’m tired of sleeping on the ground and eating dried meat and turnips and waybread.”

Gandalf chuckled.  “Spoken like a true hobbit.”

“Even a Ranger would weary of the pace we have kept,” Halbarad said.  Tillfield had avoided complaining for far longer than he had expected.  “Still certain you want to be a Ranger?” 

“Not if it means sleeping outside in the rain for the rest of my life and eating turnips and old sausages,” Tillfield answered ruefully.  “I guess being a Ranger is harder than I thought.  I thought it would be exciting; but really it’s just smelly and wet most of the time.  With bad food.”

Gandalf guffawed.  “Be patient a while longer, Dudo.  In a few days you will enjoy comforts such as even a hobbit could only dream of.” 

“Rivendell,” Tillfield said wearily.  “I don’t know what’s so special about Rivendell.”

Halbarad smiled.  “You'll see soon enough.  Rivendell is no crossroad of leaning cottages like Bree, Master Hobbit.”

“Right now, I would be happy to see Bree.  At least there are houses there,” Tillfield said despondently. “With roofs on them.”

“Leaky roofs, if I recall,” Halbarad said.  In truth there had been no choice but to bring Tillfield with them.  Left in Bree, he would have been at risk of retribution from the bandits he betrayed.  One way or another, Butterbur would have to find himself another kitchen boy.

Even after the sun set, the heat was slow to dissipate.  The star-studded sky still showed no sign of rain.  Halbarad's sword had not seen use since the clean-up operation in Bree, and Aragorn's before that, but the blowing dust of the past few days would have worked itself inside their scabbards.  Halbarad reached carefully over Aragorn’s sleeping form and unbuckled the sword belt he still wore.  “Be still,” he said softly as his chieftain stirred groggily.  “I'm going to take care of your sword.   Rest.”  He was not sure Aragorn was fully awake, but he settled again and his breathing deepened.  Sitting down cross-legged on the ground, Halbarad laid the weapon across his lap and fished a rag out of his pack.  He had repaired the badly notched blade while Aragorn lay recovering at the Prancing Pony and brought the marred surface back to a brilliant shine.  It would take but a few minutes to clean and oil it now.  He nodded at Tillfield’s dagger scabbard.  “You had better tend to that fine Noldor dagger as well, young hobbit.  You would not wish such a fine blade to become tarnished and rusty.”

Tillfield dutifully withdrew his dagger, but he seemed hesitant as he followed Halbarad's instructions to clean and oil the blade.  In the days immediately after he killed the wolf that would have ripped Aragorn’s throat out, he had seemed proud of his accomplishment.  But as the weeks passed, he seemed to avoid handling the weapon, removing it from its scabbard only when prompted.  Tillfield had killed animals before.  He must have killed hundreds of them while working at the Prancing Pony.  It was not the wolf's death that haunted him then.  He leaned over Tillfield, squinting to inspect his work in the firelight.  “You missed a spot, there.”

Tillfield flinched from his hand and threw the dagger to the ground.  “I don’t care!  I don’t want to be a Ranger anymore!  I just want to go home!”

“Don’t tell me you miss Bree,” Halbarad started to say, but Gandalf shot him a look that could have frozen a troll at twenty paces.

“He has every right to miss Bree,” the wizard said, taking the shaking hobbit into this arms.  “It is his home, after all.”

Halbarad met Gandalf's eyes and mouthed a silent apology.  Sometimes he had to be reminded that Tillfield, despite his uncommon valor, was no Ranger to be chided for wanting to sleep under a sturdy roof with four walls around him, even if they were the four walls of a storeroom in the back of a harness-maker’s shop.  Halbarad picked up the dagger and wiped the dirt from it.  “You know, Dudo, if we are lucky you will get to meet the person who gave me this dagger when we get to Rivendell.”

Tillfield pulled his face out of Gandalf’s cloak.  “Aragorn’s brother?”

“That’s right.  His name is Elrohir.”

Tillfield sniffed and wiped his nose.  “Elrohir,” he said.  "That's a hard name."

Halbarad was seized with gleeful horror at sudden image of Tillfield doling out Bree names to the sons of Elrond.  “If you stop crying, I’ll tell you a secret about Elrohir.”

Dudo’s tearful eyes lit up just as Halbarad had expected.  Nothing could distract a crying child like the promise of a secret.  “What?”  he demanded.

“Elrohir isn't a Ranger.”

“He’s not?”  Tillfield’s eyes darted between Halbarad and the sleeping Aragorn in confusion.  “But he’s Aragorn’s brother.  You said.”  Halbarad couldn't suppress a surge of surge of pride at Tillfield's look of disapointment.  Evidently he still thought Rangers were the most exciting creatures on Arda. 

“Aragorn calls him brother, because he was reared as a son of Lord Elrond, but the fact is, Elrohir and his brother Elladan are Elves.”

Tillfield's jaw dropped in amazement.  “Elves?”

Halbarad was not sure that Tillfield even knew what an Elf was, but clearly he had heard of them.  “Yes.  In fact, everyone in Rivendell is an Elf.”  

Gandalf looked like he was trying to decide whether to enjoy the hobbit’s stunned wonderment or be mortified at the task of containing it.  “There, now,” he said finally.  “Now at least you have something to think about besides the poor quality of the rations.  Are you sure you still want to go back to Bree?”

“Milly says there’s no such thing as Elves,” Dudo mumbled. 

“Who’s Milly?” Halbarad asked.

“Butterbur’s cook,” Gandalf answered. “The thin one.”

“Well, Milly’s wrong,” Halbarad said.

“What do they look like?” Dudo asked.  “Do they have wings?  Do they have silver hair?  Do they ride flying horses?”

Halbarad looked at Gandalf.  “He’ll never get to sleep now.”

Gandalf smiled.  “With a little help, he will.  I have a few tricks up my sleeve that are good for getting Rangers and excited young hobbits to sleep.”

“Like what?”  Tillfield asked, tense with anticipation. 

“Lie down and I will show you,” Gandalf said.  He urged the hobbit into his bedroll and tucked him in.  “Now close your eyes and think of something very pleasant.”

Gandalf waited until Tillfield’s eyes were shut tight before reaching over to push sandy curls gently from his forehead.  True to Gandalf’s word, the hobbit’s breathing slowed, and within moments he rolled to his side with a contented sigh. 

At times, Halbarad came close to forgetting that Gandalf was not an ordinary old man.  Most of the time, he thought that was for the best.  “What about Aragorn?”  Halbarad found himself asking, with an edge of accusation.  “Don’t you have any tricks for him?”

Gandalf’s face tightened, correctly guessing that Halbarad did not mean sleep.  “I have done everything I can, Halbarad.  Only Elrond can do more.” 

“What if we can’t get him to Elrond?”  Halbarad asked.  “It’s too far to go back to Bree. And he can't ride for four more days.  He could barely sit a horse today.”

Gandalf’s pipe glowed in the darkness.  “Halbarad,” he said finally, “remember what I told you, in the forest, south of Bree.  You must have faith.  Now let us all get some sleep.  Tomorrow will be another long day.”

With that, Gandalf laid his pipe aside and settled himself down on his bedroll.  In moments, the camp fell silent, but Halbarad sat awake for a long time, staring into the fire.

Chapter 2

**********

A scream pierced the forest, and Dudo stumbled backwards against a tree, the dagger Halbarad had given him sliding from his nerveless fingers to land on the ground at his feet. There it stayed, useless and forgotten, as he dug his fingers into the bark.  He clenched his eyes tightly closed, waiting to feel hot breath against his neck and wondering if he, too, would scream as the fangs closed on his neck.  He heard a groan behind him and turned, flooded with shame at the sight of the wounded Ranger pulling himself along on his elbows, brandishing a fallen branch as a weapon.  He swung the branch in a weak, glancing blow that succeeding only in distracting the wolf from its prey.  Dudo shut his eyes as it sprang.  

There was a terrible crunch, and the sound of liquid hissing as it splashed against the hot rocks lining the fire pit.  Dudo opened his eyes in time to see the wolf give the Ranger's limp body a last shake before dropping it to the ground.  For one terrifying instant, its yellow eyes swung toward Dudo.  Then, with a contemptuous blink, the wolf turned away.     

“Aragorn!”  Halbarad was across the clearing in two strides.  One vicious swing of his sword took off the wolf's head, and then he fell to his knees by the body of his friend.  He cast aside his sword and plunged his hands into the gaping wound, trying vainly to close it.  Blood washed through his fingers.  It saturated the ground he knelt on and pooled around his abandoned sword.  Dudo could taste it in his mouth, hot and metallic.  Halbarad looked up from the torn body with grief and contempt written on his face.  “Coward!” he screamed, rocking Strider’s body helplessly in his arms, its limp hands dragging in the dirt.  “How could you do nothing?  How could you let this happen?”   

With a sobbing gasp, Dudo sat up, fighting free of his blanket.  His breaths were ragged gasps in the still night air.  He struggled in panic as large hands wrapped around his wrists, twisting to wrench himself free.  “Let me go!  Let me go!"

Calm down, Tillfield,” a rough-textured voice whispered, just as he opened his mouth to scream.  “You’re going to wake up the whole camp.”

With a mixture of relief, helpless sorrow, and dawning confusion, he recognized the voice.  “Halbarad!  I’m sorry!”  Dudo cried, plunging his face into the Halbarad’s shoulder.  “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Sorry for what?”  Halbarad asked, gently pushing him to arm’s length.  In the moonless dark, his face was a featureless blur but for the glint of starlight in his eyes.   

“Strider’s dead!  I let the wolf kill him!”

 Halbarad’s hands instantly relaxed.  “Strider’s not dead, Dudo. You were just dreaming.” 

Dudo rubbed his eyes, struggling to dispel the lingering images that told him differently.  “He’s not dead,” he repeated hesitantly.     

Halbarad patted his shoulder in reassurance.  “You killed the wolf, remember?  We are on the East Road, on the way to Rivendell.  Look, Aragorn is safe.  He's right over there, sound asleep."

Dudo emptied his lungs in one prolonged exhalation.  “I killed the wolf,” he said out loud, to make himself believe it.

“Yes,” said Halbarad, ruffling his hair.  He usually hated it when Halbarad did that but this time it was a needed comfort.  “It was just a nightmare, Dudo, and nightmares cannot harm you.”  He sat back on his heels and for an instant his face tilted toward the hovering mass of silent, shrieking stars that were just beginning to fade in the east.  “At least not the ones from the past.”

Dudo almost asked him what other kind of nightmare there was besides one in the past, then decided he did not want to know. “I was scared.  I couldn’t move.”

“But you did move,” Halbarad said.  “You saved Aragorn’s life.  You’re a very brave hobbit.”

Dudo frowned skeptically.  Ranger name or no Ranger name, Dudo Tillfield knew exactly what he was - a bastard from the backside of Bree who’d inexplicably managed for once in his life to stick a knife in a wolf instead of a chicken.  He twisted out of Halbarad’s comforting grip.  “I wasn’t brave.  I was afraid!”

Halbarad reached for a log and threw it on the fire.  “Are you still afraid?”

Dudo realized with surprise that it was not the memory of paralyzing fear that scared him, but the terrifying, exhilarating moment when he had picked the knife up off the ground with perfect resolve.  “I’m afraid of having to be brave again,” he said with dismay.  Being brave, he was slowly realizing, was not so much about being, after all, as doing.  "I did a brave thing one time.  But next time, maybe I won't.  Maybe it was an accident."     

Halbarad rested his forehead on the steeple of his fingers and peered sideways at him.  In the grey light creeping into the clearing, Dudo could see that the Ranger’s eyes were bloodshot, and his was forehead was creased with lines of fatigue and worry.  He suspected Halbarad had not slept at all.  “Why did you kill the wolf?” Halbarad asked.

"I had to."

"Why?"

"It was going to kill Strider."  

The stubble around Halbarad’s mouth parted in a smile.  “You’ll be all right, Dudo, as long as you listen to that voice.”

”What voice?”

“The one that tells you what you have to do.”   

“Is there a voice to make me not be so afraid the next time?”

Halbarad chuckled lightly.  “If there is, I have never heard it.”

“You’re not afraid of anything!”

“Oh, but I am.  Everyone is afraid of something, Dudo.”

“What are you afraid of, then?”

Halbarad unfolded his long legs and stood up, stretching the muscles in his back as he turned to face the blossoming red band across the eastern horizon.  “It's going to be another hot day.” he said.  “We might as well get an early start.”

***

Lightning ripped across the blackened sky, and Dudo shrunk into a hobbit-sized ball wedged in between Halbarad and Aragorn, his back jammed as tightly as he could get it against the rock face.  Just beyond the narrow overhang, rain fell in sheets, thundering against the parched ground like an army on horseback.    

“I hope you’re happy, Tillfield,” Halbarad grumbled, brushing dripping hair from his forehead.  He was soaked, having been the last to make it under the shelter of the rocks.  “You wanted it to rain.”

“I didn’t say I wanted it to rain,” Dudo said.  “I just said I wanted it to cool off.”  

“Well, stop saying it,” Halbarad said.  “It’ll probably be snowing by sunset.”  He leaned across Dudo and scowled at Aragorn, leaning heavily against the rocks.  He had not moved since Gandalf had helped him to shelter as the first pellets of hard rain began to fall.  “Aragorn, are you all right?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the rain.

When Aragorn did not answer, Gandalf exchanged a dark look with Halbarad and shook the slumped shoulder gently.  “Aragorn, are you awake?”

With visible effort, Aragorn forced his eyes open.  “Can’t a Ranger even appreciate a storm in peace?” he muttered.

Halbarad loosed a half-hearted snort.  “You?  Appreciate a storm?  That would be a first.  It took half a century to undo your sheltered Rivendell upbringing!” 

Dudo raised his head from the shelter of his knees.  “Don’t they have storms in Rivendell?” 

“Not like this,” Aragorn answered; his voice fading to barely a whisper. “Rivendell lies in a steep valley.  The hills protect it from the worst weather.”

“Then I hope we get there soon,” Dudo answered, ducking at an especially loud crack of thunder and leaning closer to Halbarad. “At least in Bree there was a roof over my head.”

“A leaky roof,” Halbarad reminded him.  He grunted and shifted position.  “Master Tillfield, your fine hobbit skull is hard as rock.  Might you kindly remove it from my ribcage?”     

Dudo grumbled and sat up straighter, noting that the rain had subsided to a steady patter, and the sky was brightening a bit in the west, though where the clouds were clearing the sky showed orange. 

“It’s nearly sunset,” Halbarad said.  “We might as well camp here tonight.”      

“Can’t,” Aragorn muttered, his eyes falling shut again.  “No water for the horses.”

“They'll last until morning with all this standing water from the storm,” Halbarad argued.  “They can drink their fill once we reach the river.”

“Ride hard…make the river tonight,” Aragorn mumbled.  His speech was slurring and he was listing sideways against the rock. 

“The horses are exhausted already, and the road will be a quagmire, Halbarad countered absently, nudging Dudo aside to kneel beside Aragorn.  “Believe me, I want to get to the river as badly as you do, but we're not making it tonight.” 

“Halbarad is right,” Gandalf echoed in a tone that brooked no opposition, though by Dudo’s estimation, Aragorn was already past the point of coherent argument.  “We will camp here.” 

Aragorn mumbled something Dudo could not understand and slumped into Gandalf’s arms, while Halbarad expelled a sigh that was part relief and part worry.  “A plague on the stiff necks of Dúnedain chieftains,” he muttered.  He reached into his pack and pulled out a ground cloth.  Apparently deciding that there was no better spot to bed down than the one they already occupied, he threw it down at his feet and went to fetch the horses.

Gandalf was rummaging through his pack.  He pulled out a blanket, and stripped off Aragorn's wet shirt before wrapping him in it.  “Dudo, please get a fire started,” he said quietly, “put some water on to boil, and find some more blankets.” 

"I'll start the fire," said Halbarad.  He dropped an armload of kindling on the ground.  "Trust a Ranger to start a fire with wet wood.  Dudo, get a dry blanket out of Aragorn's pack.  Mine got wet in the rain."

Dudo found the blanket and helped Gandalf wrap Aragorn in it, worried at the chill in the Ranger's skin.  "Gandalf, he was hot before, and now he's cold."

Gandalf's face was grim.  “I know.” 

Halbarad looked up from the blowing on the fire.  “The infection is spreading.  We have to do something.”     

“I have already done all I can.”

“You have done all you can, or all you will?”  Halbarad shot back. 

Gandalf stiffened.  “I have done all that is within my authority.” 

“To Mordor with your authority, Gandalf!”  Halbarad stood up slammed a hand against the rock.  He drew several long, ragged breaths, then leaned his forehead against the stone. 

Dudo started to get up.  “No, Dudo,” Gandalf said quietly.  “Let him be.”

Dudo had seen plenty of people die, back in Bree.  There were people who died of the fever and people who died of wounds that got infected, and people like his mother who just got sicker and weaker until there wasn’t much left of them to die.  He had never seen anyone get better who looked as bad as Aragorn did now.  Even a week’s worth of dirt and sunburn could not mask the gray in his skin, and tiny red spots had blossomed on his exposed chest and neck.  Dudo swallowed hard, glancing up at Halbarad, but he seemed to be beyond hearing.  “Is he going to die?”

Gandalf rested a weathered hand on Aragorn’s head and closed his eyes.  “He is failing.  If anyone can save him, it is Elrond.  He is the greatest healer of this age, and he loves Aragorn as his own son.” 

“But what if we don’t make it --” Dudo began, stopping himself as he saw that Halbarad had pushed himself away from the wall and was returning to them.

“I’m sorry,” Halbarad said simply.  He dropped down beside Aragorn and rested his forehead in his hands.  “I have no authority, Gandalf; over life or death or anything in between.  But I know this.  I will not let him die.”

“I have no intention of letting him die, Halbarad.”

“But you will accept it if he does,” Halbarad said bitterly.  He laid a hand on the blanket that covered Aragorn’s shoulder and stared into the fire.  “I will not.  I was born into a world without hope, Gandalf.  We Dúnedain have lived without it for a thousand years, scrabbling to live amidst the ruins of our past glory, haunted by ancient failures; every year losing ground against the onslaught of evil and decay.  We learned to seek our comfort in the past, never daring to place our trust in the future.  That was all I knew; until one day, when I was sixteen years old, my father came home with a stranger he told me was Arathorn’s son.  A man I thought had died before I was born." 

Gandalf frowned.  “You did not know Arathorn's son had survived?”

“Let it never be said that the Dúnedain cannot keep a secret,” said Halbarad with the barest shadow of a smile.  “My elders knew the truth all along, of course, but it was carefully guarded from the ears of the young.  The day Aragorn returned was the day I began to believe that our legacy will be more than crumbling ruins on an empty plain.”  Halbarad straightened his back, with an effort that betrayed utter weariness.  Weariness, Dudo knew, from a month or more of endless toil, grief, fear, and worry.  But there was still defiance in his bloodshot eyes.  “I will not let him die, Gandalf.  If we ride now, without rest, we can reach Rivendell by tomorrow night.”

Gandalf shook his head.  “Aragorn is far too weak to ride now, and the horses are spent. The road will be nearly impassable after the rain, especially in the dark.  It would be madness to ride this road tonight.”  

It might have been a hint of madness that lit Halbarad’s eyes.  “Then we ride the horses until they drop," he said, "and after that I’ll carry him on my back.” 

“And what happens after you drop?  Is Dudo to carry him?  It is too far.  Time and distance are bent against us, and we are out of favorable options.”  He sat looking at Aragorn for a long moment.  Then, pulling a knife from his belt, he bent down to cut through the bandage covering Aragorn’s knee.  Dudo winced at the sight of the leg.  It was so red and swollen that he knew it must be painful even to the slightest touch.  He did not know how Aragorn had endured a week of riding.  Gandalf probed the wound gently, bringing a faint moan of pain from Aragorn.  “Halbarad,” Gandalf said calmly, “have you a very sharp knife?” 

“Are you going to cut out the infection?”  Dudo asked. “I thought you said it was too deep inside.”

“It is,” Gandalf said.  He looked at Halbarad.  “I did not want to consider this. But it may be the only way to save his life.”

“No,” Halbarad said. 

It was the fury in his voice that told Dudo what it was Gandalf meant to do.  “You’re going to cut off his leg?”

“No, he isn’t,” Halbarad snapped.  “Gandalf, are you out of your mind?”

Unlike Halbarad a moment ago, Gandalf looked perfectly, ruthlessly sane.  “He can rule with one leg, Halbarad.  He can bring hope to the Dúnedain.  But he cannot if he is dead.” 

“He is too weak to survive it. He’ll bleed to death.”

"He is too too weak to survive the journey to Rivendell.  You must choose which risk to take.”

"All right."  Fear was on Halbarad's face.  “But I can’t do it.”

“I shall.”  Gandalf held out his hand.  “Your knife, Halbarad; for I trust your blade is more finely honed than mine, and I would not use his for this purpose.”

Halbarad closed his eyes and exhaled a shuddering breath. It was a long time before he took another.  Finally, he unsheathed his dagger.  Wordlessly, he knelt by the fire and held it to the flame.  Gandalf turned to Dudo and handed him his own dagger.  “Take this and do as Halbarad is doing.  Yours as well.”  The wizard rummaged through Aragorn’s pack, removing bandages, gut, and needles.  He set them aside, then sat back and waited for Halbarad to finish sterilizing his blade.  “Have you ever seen this done this before?” 

“I helped Aragorn sew up Ranuil after an orc took his arm off.  I threw up.” 

“I am familiar with the procedure,” Gandalf said quietly, and Dudo noticed that nobody seemed able to put a name to what they were about to do. 

Halbarad pulled his dagger out of the fire and glanced at Aragorn, who still seemed mercifully unaware of the brutal decision that was about to change his life, or end it.  “Will he feel it?”

“He will react to the pain, but without waking, I think.  I will need you to hold him down.”

Halbarad locked eyes with Gandalf for moment longer; then with a final anguished breath he handed over the knife.

Halbarad’s hands were shaking as he pulled the tourniquet snug around Aragorn’s thigh.  He looked as if he were an instant from fleeing.  “Steady, Halbarad,” Gandalf murmured, scoring the skin lightly with the dagger to mark his incision.  “Dudo, I will need your help.  You must cauterize the blood vessels as soon as I cut through them.  Can you do that?”

"What do I do?"

"You must use the hot knife to burn the blood vessels and stop them bleeding," Gandalf said. 

"Will it hurt him?"  Dudo suddenly realized that using a weapon against a wolf was easy next to using it on a friend.  "I don't want to hurt him!"

"It will cause him pain, but it is necessary," Gandalf said. 

Dudo looked at Halbarad.  He looked sick.  Dudo had strange feeling that Halbarad was looking to him for strength - to him!  He swallowed and nodded.  "All right.  I can do it."

Gandalf turned to Halbarad.  "Are you ready?" 

It was obvious that Halbarad would rather cut his own beating heart out with a hoof pick than do what he was about to do, but he nodded shakily.  “Just get on with it.” 

Gandalf bent over Aragorn.  “Forgive me, my friend,” he whispered.    Knuckles tensed on Halbarad’s dagger hilt, and he carefully poised the blade. 

An instant before it pierced the flesh, an arrow flew past Dudo's nose. 

It slammed into the cave wall with a crack that sent shards of rock flying, inches above his head.  Halbarad was already diving for his sword as ithe arrow clattered to the ground.  Gandalf reached for his scabbard and put himself between Aragorn and the front of the shelter.  Dudo scurried for cover, yanking his red-hot dagger out of the fire on the run.  From behind a boulder, he scanned the nearby trees for movement, as he saw Halbarad doing.  Dudo’s breath came in harsh gasps and his blood pounded in his temples.  His fingers gripped the dagger handle so hard they hurt.  Maybe now, he thought, he would get to find out if he could be brave twice in his life.  

“Unhand the Dúnadan, Gandalf,” a voice called mildly.

Before Dudo could begin to sort out why an attacker would know Gandalf well enough to address him by name, Halbarad expelled an oath and got to his feet, letting his sword drop to his side.  With a backward glance at the fallen arrow, he stepped out from behind the rocks. “Pray tell what that was for?”

A hooded figure stepped out of the trees.  A bow was in his hand, and a sword swung from his hip.  He came toward the shelter with a purposeful stride and clasped Halbarad’s arm. “I wanted to make sure I got your attention,” he replied, turning his gaze to Gandalf.  “It looked as though you were about to do something dangerously permanent.”  He ducked to clear the overhang and knelt on the ground beside Aragorn.  “What has happened?”

“We ran into a little trouble in Bree,” Halbarad said.

“We have been trying to get him to Rivendell, but he took a sudden turn for the worse,” Gandalf added.  “Infection from an arrow wound has spread into his blood, I fear.”

"Not that arrow wound!"  The man sighed.  "I feared as much."

“We,” Halbarad said with a slight glance at Gandalf, “decided that taking the leg was his only chance.”

The man brushed a hand across Aragorn’s pale brow.  “It is too late for that.  If he were awake he could have told you that.”  Gingerly, he examined Aragorn's bandaged sword hand, and cast a wry glance up at Halbarad.  “You call this a little trouble?”

As the man looked up, his hood fell back, and Dudo gasped in amazement.  From Halbarad’s obvious familiarity, Dudo had taken the newcomer for a fellow Ranger; but that, it was now plain, was a mistaken assumption.  Though similar in height and coloring to the Rangers, this man’s face was beardless and smooth-skinned as a maiden.  His features, though not unlike Aragorn’s, were finer of bone and much less careworn.  His movements were deeply fluid and his eyes were brighter.  Even his voice was as smooth and flawless as the black hair that hung down his back.  It seemed to Dudo that this was Aragorn as he would be if washed clean of all stain, scar, and imperfection. 

Sensing the stare, the man caught his gaze and held it.  “Well met, young hobbit,” he said.  “I am Elladan, son of Elrond.”  His smile, though strained and tense with worry, seemed to bathe Dudo with shafts of sunlight, and he suddenly remembered what Halbarad had told him about Rivendell. 

“You’re an Elf,” he whispered.

Elladan’s smiled widened just a bit.  “Near enough,” he said.  “And what is your name?”

“Dudo,” he answered.

“How did you find us?”  Gandalf asked.

“Word came that Estel was hurt, and you were making for Rivendell,” Elladan said, shifting his gaze to Gandalf, even as his hand lingered on Aragorn’s brow. “There is little time.  The Hoarwell was already out of its banks when we crossed it, four hours ago, and it is rising fast.  With the rain, the bridge will be under water by morning.  If we are not across by then, we will be trapped west of the river for at least a week.” 

Without a word, Halbarad strode off toward the clearing where he had left the horses.  It was plain that Aragorn didn’t have a week.  He might not have a day.  Gandalf sighed.  “Our horses are spent, Elladan.  They have carried us from Bree without rest.  None is fit to bear two riders at speed all the way to Rivendell.”

“Ours are,” announced a new voice.  A second man – Elf, Dudo corrected himself – stepped out the trees, leading a black horse and a brown one.  In appearance he was a mirror image of Elladan, right down to his shiny cloak pin and fine, straight brows.  Only his hair distinguished him from his brother; swept back and knotted intricately where Elladan’s was gathered into a loose queue at the base of his neck. He released the horses and ducked inside the shelter to join his brother.  “Gandalf,” he said by way of terse greeting, taking in the blanket-wrapped form on the ground.  “What happened?” 

“Estel ran into a little trouble in Bree,” Elladan answered.  “There is no time to waste, Elrohir.  He is very sick.  As soon as their horses are loaded, we must ride."  Without a word, Elrohir moved off to join Halbarad.  Elladan unclasped his cloak and lifted Aragorn to wrap it around him. 

Roused by the movement, Aragorn moaned softly. “Elladan?” he murmured, struggling to focus on the figure crouching before him.

Elladan worked to fasten the cloak.  “Yes, it is I.  Do you have any idea how worried Father is?”  

Aragorn struggled for consciousness.  “What…did you tell him?”     

“Nothing,” Elladan answered.  “I didn’t have to.  He knows these things.”  Cupping the ashen, stubbled face between his hands, he bent close and spoke softly in some melodious, incomprehensible language that Dudo realized must be Elvish.  Producing a silver flask from a pouch at his waist, Elladan held it to Aragorn’s lips and coaxed him to swallow a few drops before turning to pass the flask to Gandalf.  “Miruvor,” he said simply. 

Gandalf passed the flask to Dudo.  “Drink this, Master Dudo.  It will warm your bones and give you strength for the ride ahead.”

Dudo took a hesitant sip from the flask, blinking at the heat that seemed to flow down his gullet and spread all the way to the tips of his toes.  Some of the weariness of the long day lifted, and the achiness in his shoulders and back eased.  He handed the flask back to Gandalf.  “Aren’t you going to drink some?”

“Save it for Halbarad,” Gandalf said.  “He needs it more.”

“I already gave him some,” Elrohir said, returning to kneel beside Aragorn.  With Elladan's help, he picked him up and carried him to the black stallion.  Elladan held him on its back while Elrohir mounted behind him with the grace of a cat and grasped him securely.  “We will not stop until we reach Rivendell, Gandalf.  If you can keep up, stay with us.  If not, we will send help once we arrive.”  They were still over a hundred miles from Rivendell, Dudo knew.  But there was such grim determination in Elrohir’s eyes that he had no doubt that the black stallion would not stop until it reached the Last Homely House. 

Halbarad, having saddled the horses and crammed the contents of the camp haphazardly into packs, stood beside Gandalf, fastening his damp cloak.  “The horses are ready,” he announced tersely. "It will be dark soon.  We will have to stay close behind Elladan and Elrohir.”

“The moon will not rise until late tonight,” Elladan said.  “We will see you safely to the other side of the bridge, at least.  After that - ”

“We will keep up.”  This came from Halbarad, atop Star.  “Even your horses will be slowed by taking on a second rider.” 

“Gentlemen,” Gandalf interrupted.  “Let us make it past the bridge, and then debate what comes after.”

Halbarad nodded.  “Agreed,” he said, though Dudo suspected he had no intention of conceding custody of Aragorn, spent horse or no spent horse.  He reached down and lifted Dudo onto Star’s back.  “Hold on tight,” he said.  “This is going to be a rough ride.”

Chapter 3

**********

In the long years since he stepped off the boat in Cirdan’s harbor, Gandalf had occasionally had reason to question the terms of his service to Middle Earth and his fitness for the task; but never so much as now.  A guide, he was meant to be; a counselor, and above all a vanguard of resistance to the Enemy.  But it had not been the Enemy’s hand that held a knife over Aragorn this night, not Sauron who allowed desperation to fuel a rash decision that might have destroyed any hope of victory.  Gandalf wondered if he had lingered in Middle Earth too long. With neither the power of the Valar at his disposal, nor, apparently, the wisdom, he might as well be simply what most folk thought of him – a pathetic old conjurer with a bag of cheap tricks.  

And then, he reflected as the horse beneath him stumbled, slamming his pelvis hard against the pommel, there was the questionable choice of a physical form.  Bone-jarring midnight gallops such as this were the province of the young, or at least the perpetually youthful, not decrepit old wizards.  Had he imagined the feats of endurance that would be required of him in this guise, he would have insisted on a sturdier form – that of an Elf, at least! 

A curse from Halbarad alerted him to the presence of some peril ahead, and he pulled back on the reins just as the road dipped suddenly downward.  Struggling to slow his mount’s descent, Gandalf could make out Dudo as a dark blur clinging to the Ranger’s back, but the inky darkness had swallowed up the forms of Elladan and Elrohir.  No slope gentler than the flanks of the Orodruin itself promised to slow their headlong rush to the flooding Mitheithel.  At the pace they had kept so far, it was nothing short of a miracle none of the horses had yet fallen and broken a leg.  If indeed that were a miracle, Gandalf reflected, he sincerely hoped that they were not being counted.       

Realizing that this must be the bluff above the Hoarwell at last, Gandalf struggled to make a half-controlled descent that would allow him to stop short of plunging straight into the river.  Now, as the ground leveled, he could see its steely glint in the gaps between the trees.  The banks were much further apart than they should have been, with flooded ranks of trees marking the river’s usual boundaries.  

He caught up with his companions at the bank, and for a minute they all simply watched the darkly rushing water.  Strangely quiet for being so powerful, only where it roiled against the foundation of the bridge did it give voice to its fury.  “The bridge is an island,” Halbarad said finally.  “It looks ready to go.”  Indeed, the approaches on either side of the bridge were flooded to the height of a horse’s chest.  Churning, debris-laden water moved past at the speed of a running man, and though the bridge’s heavy stone railings were still dry, the bridge deck itself was under a foot of water at its highest point.  The floodwaters poured through the immense granite arches beneath the bridge with such force that it seemed the entire structure would be dislodged from its pilings and swept away. 

“The bridge will hold,” Elladan said.  “A flood destroyed it once, many years ago, and when it was rebuilt my father vowed it would last until the end of Arda.”

“Even if it holds,” Halbarad said, sounding skeptical, “we can’t get to it.  The approaches are flooded, and the water is moving too deep and too fast.”

Elladan glanced at the motionless, blanket-draped form in Elrohir’s arms.  “We have no choice,” he said.  “The river is still rising.”  The bridge would indeed be under water by morning, Gandalf realized, and then all hope would truly be lost.

“If we take up a position slightly upstream,” said Elrohir, gesturing with his free hand, “and charge into the water at gallop, our momentum will carry us to the bridge.  From there it will not be difficult to make the opposite bank, if we take care not to fight the current too much.”

Elladan was in agreement.  “It is the only chance we have.  But my mount is fresher than yours.  It has not been carrying two riders, nor have I been supporting the weight of a man for the last three hours.  Let me take Estel.”

 “Very well,” Elrohir said, easing to the ground, still with Aragorn in his arms.  “But he is too weak to hold onto you, and your hands must be free to control the horse.”

The solution, Elrohir proposed, was to position Aragorn behind Elladan.  Having settled him as comfortably as possible and secured him to Elladan’s back, Elrohir re-mounted his black stallion.  “I will go first and anchor myself to the bridge,” he said with a tone of command that betrayed no uncertainty.  “Gandalf will cross next, and then Elladan will follow with Estel.  Halbarad and Dudo will cross last.”

“Gandalf, wait.”   Halbarad nudged his horse alongside Gandalf’s.  “Let Dudo go with you.  It will be easier for me to handle two horses without a passenger.”    

Gandalf lifted an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic unease in the Ranger’s tone.  Halbarad was no worrier, except perhaps where Aragorn was concerned.  But there was no time to delve deeper, and he had learned to respect Halbarad’s instincts.  He quickly nodded his agreement. 

Halbarad lifted the hobbit onto the back of Gandalf’s saddle and farewelled him with a fatherly pat on the shoulder.  “Now hold on tight, Dudo.  Gandalf will take good care of you.”        

Gandalf saw that Elrohir had positioned himself halfway up the steep riverbank, some fifty yards upstream from the bridge.  With a sharp command, he sent his stallion galloping down the short hill.  With a great splash it plunged into the river, its momentum driving it into the midst of the current.  As planned, Elrohir steered it directly against the current, knowing the force of the water would drive it downstream to intersect the bridge.  It was a tricky maneuver.  If he went too far out into the current, he would be slammed against the bridge abutments and likely drowned in the undertow.  If he did not go out far enough, he would be carried downstream past the bridge.        

As Elrohir came abreast of the first bridge abutment, he reached out for the stone pillar at the upstream side of the bridge.   He missed.  A second before he would be swept past the downstream pillar, he yanked hard on the reins and barked a command to the horse.  With a muffled clatter of hooves against the timber decking, it clambered up onto the bridge.  Elrohir quickly maneuvered it to the highest part of the bridge deck, where water flowed only as high as the stallion’s knees, and raised a hand in a salutation.

Elladan returned the salute but turned to Gandalf as he let his hand drop to his saddle.  “Elrohir’s horse is the strongest one here,” he said tightly.  “And he barely made it.”  Elrohir apparently had the same thought.  Perched atop the broad granite pillar, he had removed a rope from his pack.  Anchoring it to the bridge support, he tied one end to his belt, and with the other end made a loop.  “I see what he plans,” Elladan said.  “He will throw you a loop of rope when you get near enough. Then, if  you tie it to your saddle, he can help pull you in.”

In Gandalf’s view, catching a flying rope while riding a swimming horse and managing to tie it to one’s saddle before being swept away by raging floodwaters was a task for a Rohan horseman, not a doddering old wizard, but there was nothing to be done about it.  He suddenly realized that no one had remembered to ask Dudo if he could swim, but decided this was probably not the best time to bring up the subject.  He glanced over his shoulder.  “Are you ready, Dudo?”

Dudo gave a curt nod, too terrified to speak, and Gandalf nudged the horse up the embankment to the spot Elrohir had selected.  Dudo’s fingernails were digging into his abdomen so hard he thought they might draw blood right through his cloak.  Gandalf cocked his head to the side once more.  “It will be all right, Dudo,” he said quietly.  “I am not finished with Middle Earth just yet.  And neither are you.”  Then, with a battle cry he had not used in decades, he spurred the horse into a gallop. 

The horse’s plunge drenched him in icy water, and an instant later the relentless current took hold, forcing them downstream.  Gandalf tightened his grip as the horse struggled, realizing now that Elrohir had made it look easy.  The bridge seemed an impossibly tiny target in the swollen stream, and he was being driven downstream faster than the horse could compensate.  As he drew nearer the bridge, Elrohir, kneeling atop the pillar, whirled the rope above his head.  It landed short, too far to reach.  With inhuman speed, he reeled it back in and tried again.  This time, the looped end of the rope landed across the horse’s rump.  “Dudo!” Gandalf shouted.  “Get the rope, but don’t fall off!”  He heard a muffled grunt as one small hand detached itself from his cloak. A moment later, he seized the rope as it snaked over his shoulder and twisted it around the pommel.  With Elrohir pulling on the other end, the horse’s downstream momentum halted, and it lurched onto the bridge.  

Standing in the center of the bridge, with dark water rushing by on all sides, was strangely disorienting.  Elrohir, immune to it, probably, managed a smile from his perch on the abutment.  “You see, Master Dudo? All is well.”  He turned his attention to Gandalf.  “Gandalf, you had best continue on to the other bank as soon as your horse catches its breath.  You will not have to fight the current as much since it matters little where you come ashore.  There are no hazards on the other bank that I can see.” 

Elrohir was true to his word; the second half of the journey required merely steering the horse gradually toward the bank as the current carried it downstream.  Finally safely ashore, Gandalf found a clearing above the bank and turned to look upstream, surprised to see that he had been carried 200 yards or more downstream before reaching the bank. 

“Should we go back up toward the bridge?”  asked Dudo.  His teeth were chattering; from fear or relief or maybe even from cold.  They were both thoroughly drenched.    And so would Aragorn be, he realized.

“No,” Gandalf said.  “Everyone else will be carried just as far downstream as we were.  Let us stay here and make a fire.  We can warm ourselves and the horses can rest a bit before we continue on.”  He doubted whether Elladan and Elrohir had actually planned to rest before they continued, but building a fire would keep Dudo busy, and not even the determination of the sons of Elrond could get another mile out of a dead horse.     

Gandalf was relieved to discover that while the packs were wet on the outside, a spare cloak buried deep inside one of them was only half damp.  He spread it out on the ground before helping Dudo coax his collection of damp kindling to life.  A tiny fire was sputtering by the time Elladan’s horse staggered up the bank, snorting and dripping.  Gandalf rushed forward and hurried to untie the waterlogged knots holding Aragorn secure to his brother’s back.  Elladan dropped to the ground as soon as he was free of the ties, lowering Aragorn to the waiting blanket.  The Ranger’s face was waxy, and the drenching had not helped, though the icy water had revived him enough to protest when Elladan jostled him trying to remove his sodden cloak.  “I do not mean to hurt you, Estel, but I must have off this wet cloak,” Elladan said gently.  He lowered Aragorn onto the cloak Gandalf had set out. At his coaxing, Aragorn managed to swallow a bit of Miruvor before his eyes drifted shut once more.  Getting to his feet, Elladan went to rummage through his packs, probably looking, as Gandalf had, for a dry garment with which to cover Aragorn.    

Suddenly, a frantic shout was heard from the bridge.   “Let go, Halbarad!”

Gandalf squinted in the darkness.  Elrohir was standing atop the abutment.  Halbarad had entered the water astride his brown gelding, Star, with the chestnut mare, Daisy, in tow.  But the river seemed to have risen in the minutes since Gandalf and Dudo had made the crossing, and Daisy, without a rider to guide her, was trailing too far behind Star.  Halbarad had caught the rope, hauling Star onto the bridge decking, but Daisy remained caught in the current, ten feet from the bridge.  Halbarad was stretched like a man on the rack; his left hand wrapped around the anchor rope and his right around the mare’s lead rope, fighting the current that pulled the mare downstream.    

“Let go, Halbarad!” Elrohir shouted again.  “You have to let go of the mare!” 

“Let her go, Halbarad!”  Elladan echoed.  Unhearing or simply stubborn, Halbarad did not let go.  Then Daisy’s right flank caught the edge of the downstream abutment, and she scrambled up onto the drowned decking, flood water surging around her knees.   

Because all eyes were fixed on Halbarad, no one saw the tree.  One of many uprooted by the flood, it must have floated freely for many long miles until finally it encountered the river’s only obstruction between the Ettenmoors and the shallow ford at Tharbad.  It was a large tree, an oak of perhaps 100 years of age.  Older, and it might have been too large to float so far without snagging against a bank or a submerged obstacle.  Younger, and it would not have been large enough to slam against the bridge with the force of a charging Oliphant. 

A boom rang out across the valley and Gandalf saw Elrohir lunge for a grip on the stone railing.  Halbarad, astride one panicked horse and roped to a second, was not so lucky.  He managed to keep his seat as Star reared, but the gelding slipped on the wet surface and nearly fell onto Daisy, who lunged forward, yanking Halbarad from the saddle like a hooked fish.  He fell into the water and disappeared from sight as Daisy charged forward, still pulling the rope.  Beneath the black water, Halbarad was being dragged. 

Gandalf grabbed Dudo’s arm as the hobbit lunged to his feet.  Elladan was already atop his horse, racing for the bridge at a gallop -- Gandalf had not even seen him mount.  Elrohir dove into the water as Elladan reached the near bank, opposite the bridge.  He urged the stallion into the river, but the rising current was too strong.  He could not get to the bridge.  Gandalf, clutching Dudo, spared a glance at Aragorn, relieved for once that he remained unconscious.  Long seconds passed, with nothing moving on the bridge except the relentless rush of murky water.  Then, just when Gandalf feared that both Elrohir and Halbarad would be lost, Elrohir broke the surface, a limp figure tucked under one arm.  He cut himself loose from the anchor rope, heaved Halbarad and himself over the back of his horse, and charged into the river. 

Halbarad was still draped over Elrohir’s arm, limp and white as a fish, when the stallion crested the bank near the improvised campsite.  Elladan, on an intercept course, dismounted and pulled Halbarad off the horse like a sack of grain.  Sparing a mere second to listen for breath, he rolled him over and began pumping on his back, while Elrohir stumbled from to the ground and sank to his knees, blood streaming from a wound in his scalp. 

“Halbarad!”  Dudo cried, breaking Gandalf’s grip and rushing to the still Ranger, lying askew on the ground with water still dripping from his clothes and hair.  His boots and cloak had been ripped away by the force of the water, and the friction of the rough stones had shredded his shirt and left his entire right side scraped and bleeding.  There was a darker bruise on the side of his chest in the shape of a horse’s hoof.    

Gandalf lifted the struggling hobbit from the Ranger’s side.  “Let Elladan help him, Dudo,” he urged.    

“Breathe, Halbarad!”  Elladan shouted, pumping with all his might.

“No! You’re hurting him!”  Dudo cried, struggling against Gandalf’s restraining arm. 

Breathe!” Elladan shouted again.  For too long, Halbarad’s body remained limp beneath Elladan’s hands, his face slack and pale.   Dudo, who had finally stopped struggling, buried his head in Gandalf’s robe and collapsed in helpless sobs.  Gandalf wrapped his arms around him and stroked the damp curls as Elladan’s brutal ministrations continued for…how long?  It seemed as if hours had passed since Halbarad had gone under the water, but what had it really been?  Two minutes?  Three?    

A choked, half-strangled cough finally erupted from Halbarad, and Elladan quickly rolled him to his side, holding him as he fought to clear his lungs.  Dudo released a breath that sounded as if he’d been holding it almost as long as Halbarad, and Gandalf smiled down at his tearful face, feeling his own breath escape in a long, slow rush.  “You see?”  he said.  “Rangers are not so easy to kill.  Especially not this one.”

Halbarad’s sputtering slowly subsided, but as awareness returned, he curled protectively inward and wrapped his arms around his midsection.  Ribs, Gandalf suspected, remembering Daisy’s flailing hooves.  “Halbarad, let me see,” Elladan ordered, prying Halbarad’s fingers from their protective grip and gently prodding the tender area.  “Broken,” he pronounced momentarily.  “One rib, maybe two.” 

“I’m all right,” Halbarad grunted. 

Dudo shrugged free of Gandalf’s hold and went to kneel by Halbarad.  “I thought you were dead,” he said, tears running freely once more.

Halbarad freed one hand from his ribcage to take Dudo by the hand.  “Aren’t you glad… you didn’t cross with me?” he wheezed. 

If he had, he would almost certainly have drowned, Gandalf realized. He turned to Elrohir, holding him still to examine the bleeding gash on his forehead.  It was superficial but long, and it was still bleeding freely.  Gandalf went to his pack for a bandage, while Elladan gave Halbarad a pat of reassurance and his twin a frown of concern.    

“It is nothing,” Elrohir said to them both, glaring for emphasis and attempting to block the damp cloth Gandalf was aiming at him.  Successfully taking possession of the cloth, he gained his feet, pressing the cloth against he wound.  “You two, see to Halbarad and Estel while I go for the horses.”  Only then did Gandalf realize that Star and Daisy were missing, swept away somewhere downstream. 

“Let the horses go,” Elladan said.  “We do not have time to look for them.”

“With a hard ride ahead of us, we cannot afford to leave sound horses behind,” Elrohir argued.  “If I cannot find them in an hour, I will return without them.”

“Very well,” Elladan said.  “But let me go instead.  You are hurt.” 

“And you are the better healer,” Elrohir countered. “This is nothing but a scratch.  Estel needs you.”  Without waiting for argument, he leapt onto his horse and galloped away.

Elladan turned back to Gandalf with a look of resignation.  “There are bandages and medicines in the packs.  If you will heat some water and keep an eye on Halbarad, I will do what I can for Estel.” 

“Dudo,” Gandalf said, kneeling beside Halbarad.  “Get some water boiling.”

An hour later, there was no sign of Elrohir, but Halbarad had announced his intention to ride to Rivendell, broken ribs or not.  Gandalf scowled at him skeptically.  “It would be better if you remained behind and followed more slowly.  Elrohir and Elladan will set a murderous pace, and your ribs will not take it.” 

“They will take it,” Halbarad said, wincing and clutching his side in what Gandalf assessed as a very unconvincing demonstration of his fitness to ride. “I have not come this far with Aragorn to leave him now.”

Aragorn would be in good hands, Gandalf was tempted to point out, while Halbarad was white as a sheet and still trembling with the shock of near-drowning.  Gandalf doubted he would last ten miles, but there was no arguing with him.  “You are as stubborn as Aragorn,” he said.  “Lie down and rest for a little longer, then.  You will need all your strength if you are bent on such foolishness.”  He stood over the Halbarad until the Ranger eased himself back down onto the blanket, then turned to Elladan, sitting with Aragorn’s head pillowed on his thigh.  “And what of Estel?”

Elladan was holding Aragorn’s hand between his own. “The herbs I have given him will make him more comfortable, but that is all I can do.”  His face was grim, and Gandalf heard regret in his voice.  This eldest child of Elrond had inherited the greatest portion of his father’s healing touch, but the choice of the sword had burned it out of him long ago.  Only the knowledge of healing remained, and there was no comfort in it.   

Seeing Elladan sinking into despair, Gandalf searched for all his usual words of comfort, only to find them hollow and false.  Had his wisdom always seemed like such foolishness?  He sat down before the fire and stared into the flames.  Fear, deadlier than arrows, was creeping up his spine like frost on a windowpane, and he would be useless until he quenched it.  Reaching beyond the thin skin of Arda, he sought out the peaceful realm from whence he had come, seeking the forgiveness and grace of the Valar.  Gradually, the fear began to dissipate, lifting like the morning fog struck by the sun’s rays, and he felt a measure of peace suffuse the brittle, fragile shell he wore.  From beyond a gentle curtain came the tinkle of laughter, and a familiar voice:    Be at peace, Olorin, and remember that everything is not in your hands.   The laughter faded and he resisted the urge to follow it, to the place where his being was not shackled to this rickety, foolish shell; perhaps even further, to steal a glance at the forbidden realm of the future, where formless shadows swirled in a teasing dance at the edges of light.  Clenching his jaw, he shuttered his mind against the temptation and opened his eyes to the worried gaze of a being who was so much older than Aragorn and yet still so very, very young. 

“Are you all right, Mithrandir?”  Elladan asked.  “Elrohir is back, and we must leave.”

Gandalf smiled, and for the first time in days he did not feel like a fraud for doing it.  “I am fine, Elladan.  Do not despair. I do not believe it is Ilúvatar’s will that we lose Estel.” 

“I care little for the will of Ilúvatar at the moment, but I would rather face a Balrog than walk into my father’s house and tell him Estel is dead.” Elladan got to his feet and went to Halbarad.  “I will wrap your ribs, foolish Dúnadan, but I cannot give you anything stronger for the pain or you will not be able to sit a horse.  Are you sure you want to do this?  We will not stop until we reach the Bruinen.”

Halbarad groaned.  “If the Hoarwell is flooded, so will be the Bruinen.  Both rivers spring from the same mountains.”

Elladan exchanged a glance with Gandalf.  “We need not fear the Bruinen,” he said simply, and went to help Elrohir prepare Aragorn for the ride.

*****

The day that had been young when Gandalf left the Hoarwell behind him was waning as he caught sight of the Bruinen.  It, too, was flooded; less wide but more furious than the Hoarwell had been.  They had been expected; a party of mounted Elves waited on the opposite bank.  Their leader was Glorfindel, easy to spot even at a distance.  Gandalf’s heart sank at the realization that Elrond was not with him.  Aragorn, slumped in Elrohir’s arms, had not regained consciousness since crossing the Hoarwell, and there would be another hard ride from this crossing to the Last Homely House.  Halbarad, somehow, had managed to stay atop his horse, but he was doubled over, unable to straighten and nearly insensible with pain.  He sat atop Daisy; Star had gone lame forty miles back and been left behind.  All the horses were exhausted; even Elladan’s and Elrohir’s stallions were lathered, wheezing, and stumbling with weariness.  Gandalf’s insides felt as if they had been worked on by a gang of quarrying Dwarves.  Never in his two millennia of incarnation had he been forced to ride a galloping horse for twelve straight hours, and he sincerely hoped he would see the Blessed Realm without ever doing it again.    

“There’s no bridge,” Dudo observed, leaning around him to get a better view.  “How are we going to get across?”   

Gandalf was fairly sure he knew.  “Be still, and watch,” he answered.  As if in response to his words, the roar of rushing water began to subside, and the water level began to fall as if a spigot had been turned off somewhere upstream.  Drowned grass began to appear on the banks as the water receded.     

“What’s happening?”  Dudo whispered.

“We are crossing a river.  Would you care to cross it in the same fashion you crossed the last one?”

“No!” 

“I thought not.”  Gandalf looked up at the cloudless sky and winced slightly.  It would have been better to cross at night, to conceal the river’s movements from curious eyes.  But Aragorn could not wait for darkness. 

Elrohir was gauging the river’s depth with a studied eye.  “It is almost time.” He glanced to his side.  “Halbarad, are you still with us?”

Halbarad grunted and braced his side.  Raising his head, he frowned at the stream, trickling gently now around rocks that had been submerged mere moments before.  “Where did the water go?” he rasped.

Elrohir managed a thin smile.  “It is waiting for us to pass; so let us go quickly.”  Leading the way down the bank, he rode easily through the shallow water and mounted the far bank.    

Waiting on the far bank, grim and straight-backed, Glorfindel did not bother dismounting.  Nor, it was clear, did he intend to waste time on pleasantries.  “Elrohir, give me Estel,” he commanded.  “Gandalf, take Lindir’s horse and come with me.  Elrond may have need of you.  The rest may follow when they have rested a little; we have brought food and drink for you.”

“I need a fresh horse as well,” Elladan said.  “I am going with Estel.”

“As am I,” said Elrohir.

“Don’t leave me!” cried Dudo, stricken at the thought of being abandoned with these strange Elves. 

Glorfindel looked as if even the urgency of the situation might not prevent him from asking what in the name of Elbereth a hobbit was doing here.  Elrohir exchanged a resigned glance with his brother. Handing Aragorn to Glorfindel, he dismounted, stumbling a little as his stiffened limbs made unaccustomed contact with the ground.  The cut on his forehead had finally stopped bleeding, but there were dark circles under his eyes and he looked almost as weather-beaten as Halbarad.  He lowered Dudo from Gandalf’s horse and put an arm around him.  “No one is leaving you, small one.  I will stay behind with you and Halbarad.”

“Where is Elrond?” Gandalf asked. 

“He awaits us at the house,” Glorfindel said, though the worried gaze he fixed on the blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms betrayed unease at the decision.  “Opening the ford will have cost him greatly, and he will need all his remaining strength for Aragorn.”

“Let us be off, then,” Gandalf said, “or his strength will be for naught.”  He dismounted, making Elrohir’s pained movements look like the graceful flight of a swallow.  He did not think he had the strength to haul himself up onto another horse.  Then a set of reins was placed in his hand and he did just that. 

It was dark before long, and Gandalf once again rode blindly, this time not even caring if Lindir’s horse stumbled and sent him into oblivion.  Oblivion was beginning to look fairly attractive, in fact, by the time the Last Homely House, the most welcome sight of Gandalf’s earthly existence, came into view.  On the porch stood Elrond, stiff as one of the statues that graced his gardens.  He had been standing there for hours, Gandalf realized,  consumed with worry; and only the knowledge that the upcoming ordeal would require every ounce of his strength had kept him there.  Glorfindel spurred a lathered Asfaloth to the very base of the stairs and swept up them like an onrushing tide.  Dodging Elrond’s reach, he barked a sharp, “I have him! Save your strength!” as he carried Aragorn into the shadows of the house. 

Elladan stumbled up the stairs and fell face-first onto the landing as his father turned to follow.  Shrugging to escape Elrond’s steadying hand, he pushed himself to his feet.  “I am all right, Father,” he gasped.  “Help Estel!  He is nearly gone.”  

Elrond’s glance raked across the dirty, pale, and shaking figure of his son, and then he tightened his grip on him and steered him towards the doorway.  “Come.”        

Gandalf handed the reins to the first person who offered to take them and trudged up the stairs with more care than Elladan, thankful for the support of his staff.  He couldn’t have run if Arda depended on it.  An Elf was at his side to guide him, or, he supposed, to pick him up if need be, but he needed no guide in these halls.  Anyhow, even a stranger could have followed Elladan’s muddy footsteps on the polished floors.  Gandalf followed the muddy trail down a short side hallway to a small room Elrond kept equipped for emergencies such as this one.  Aragorn was lying on the bed, its blue covering smeared with mud from his boots.  No one had removed his dirty clothes, though Glorfindel was working on his sword belt.  Elladan was hovering near a table holding tools, medicines, and bandages, but Elrond, bent low over Aragorn, made no move to retrieve or ask for them, nor was he busying himself with Aragorn’s wounds.  With mounting dread, Gandalf recognized the posture and the struggle he was witnessing, and last of his strength drained from him like the water from the Bruinen.  Swaying as the room around him seemed to tip, he grabbed for the nearest chair and collapsed into it.  Glorfindel glided over, wrapping Aragorn’s worn sword belt around the scabbard with unconscious precision.  “Are you all right, Mithrandir?”

Gandalf raised a hand in dismissal.  “Weary only,” he replied.  “And Estel?”   

Glorfindel hesitated before answering, fair features that were built to express joy chiseled instead with the lines of worry.  “I do not know if he was still breathing when I brought him in,” he confided softly. 

Gandalf’s heart nearly stopped.  Using his staff to lever himself to his feet, he moved to the side of the bed opposite Elrond.  Though confident that he would have sensed Aragorn’s passing, and wary of interfering with Elrond’s efforts, he nonetheless braved a surreptitious touch to the Ranger’s still-grimy hand.  As his fingertips brushed the bare skin, he felt Elrond’s healing force surge through Aragorn and into him like water rushing over the top of a dam.  Gandalf pulled his hand back quickly lest he distract Elrond from his task.  He could see now that Elrond was stretched so far outside himself that his own native light was already diminished to a flicker.  Gandalf kept this to himself as he withdrew to the corner.  Though Elrond’s steadfast protector and friend was one of few who fully understood what Aragorn meant to Elrond, Glorfindel’s loyalty would not permit any threat to his lord’s well-being.  “He still lives,” whispered Gandalf, pressing his forehead wearily against his staff.  “But I fear it will be a long night.” 

Glorfindel gestured to the vacant chair without taking his eyes off Elrond.  “Sit, Gandalf, you are exhausted,” he urged.  “I will not waste my breath persuading you to rest, but you must at least take the weight off your legs for a while.  Elladan, sit down before you fall.  There is nothing we can but wait until it is finished.” 

Elladan had availed himself of a washbasin in anticipation of assisting his father.  Now, wiping his hands dry with a towel, he looked up in confusion, as if just noticing the conspicuous absence of sickroom bustle.  An urgent stillness lay over the room, a stillness that Gandalf recognized but Elladan clearly did not.  He had not been here, in this room, watching a scene tragically similar to this one unfold.   “Come,” Gandalf said, nodding to the chair beside his own. “Sit down.  You cannot help your father now, but he will need you later.”

“But Aragorn…” Elladan allowed Glorfindel to guide him to the chair. 

Glorfindel pressed him into it and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder to guide him into it.  “Estel is beyond all aid but your father’s now.”

Elladan looked around at the assemblage of herbs, bandages, powders, and surgeon’s tools that had been carefully laid out on side tables, and then to the pair of motionless forms at the bed.  Aragorn’s face was still coated by layers of mud and grime, and the leg wound lay untouched, still concealed by layers of dirty bandages that showed through the ragged rent in his trouser leg.   His muddy cloak still lay partially beneath him, spilling over the edge of the bed onto the floor.   

Finally Elladan settled back in the chair and let out a great sigh, as if at last comprehending what he was witnessing and how little he could do to help.  The callused hands, stained by the blood of too many orcs, tightened on the arms of the chair.    

As the hours wore on, Elladan’s eyes clouded with sleep and Glorfindel covered him with a blanket, but Gandalf forced himself to remain alert.  Elrond’s face had grown grey with strain, and every so often he swayed slightly, as if blown by a breeze.  Eventually, Glorfindel forced him into a chair that he carried to the bedside, and thereafter Elrond sat unmoving, his left elbow propped on the edge of the bed and his right hand was stretched over Aragorn’s brow.  It was after midnight when a bustle in the hallway signaled the arrival of Lindir’s party.  The sound of Elvish voices and the short, light footsteps of a hobbit echoed through the empty halls.  Gandalf listened for heavier, Mannish footsteps, limping and slow, but there were none.   Halbarad was being carried.        

Elrohir’s head peered through the doorway, and his wordless presence roused his twin.  “You made it,” Elladan whispered, groggy from two hours of sleep when twenty were needed. 

Elrohir’s hand was on his brother’s shoulder, but his eyes were on the bed.  “Estel,” he whispered. He glanced to Gandalf, then Glorfindel.  “Has he been like this the entire time?”

Glorfindel took a twin in each hand, levering Elladan to his feet and steering them both toward the door.  “Both of you, see to Halbarad and the hobbit, and have someone fetch Saerbellas to look after your injuries.  Take a bath and eat something.  Your father will have need of you later.”   

Elrohir nodded but Elladan hesitated, reluctant to leave his father.  Finally he went wordlessly to the table, gathering a sampling of bandages, herbs and medicines and placing them on a tray.  He stopped on the way out and looked at Glorfindel imploringly.  “Please call for me if anything happens.” 

Glorfindel pulled Elladan close.  “All will be well, child,” he said.  “Do not fear.”  He waited until Elladan had left the room before locking his gaze once more upon Elrond, slumped so low now that his head rested on the mattress beside Aragorn’s chest.  Only his outstretched hand, tense with effort against the Ranger’s brow, gave any indication that he was still conscious.  “It is just as well they have left,” Glorfindel said in a low voice.  “I cannot allow this to go on much longer.  Elrond is endangering himself.”

“He will not allow you to interfere,” said Gandalf.  “You remember how he was with Celebrían.”  For three days he had fought for her life, swooning at times only to fight off the hands that tried to pull him away.  When it was over, he had saved her life, but not her love of it, and for many long years Gandalf had feared that Elrond Peredhil was lost to both hope and joy.

“I remember,” Glorfindel said grimly, and Gandalf saw in his face the torture of watching a younger, grief-stricken Elrond cling desperately to Celebrían until all hope for her full recovery was gone, until finally it was clear that there would be no comfort for her in Middle Earth.  “After she left," Glorfindel said softly, “he wandered these halls like a wraith.  Empty and formless, like a sea without a shore.  Nothing here brought him comfort – not the children, not the beauty of the gardens, not the brilliance of the stars.  There is nothing more sad, Gandalf, than an Elf without joy, and she was all the joy in his life.  I could not bear to see him so despondent, but I was helpless to comfort him.  I could not understand why he did not sail, why he did not release himself from his torment.  I asked him, finally.”

 “How did he answer?”

Glorfindel nodded toward the bed.  “He said that he would stay as long as there was hope for Middle Earth.  He foresaw that someday, one would come out of Elros’s line, to restore the kingdoms and make right Isildur’s failure, and he was determined to wait for him.  For all these long years he did not stay for himself, Gandalf, or for this place, or even for his children.  For five hundred years, he waited for Estel.”

“But Elrond did not foresee that he would love him so dearly, I think,” Gandalf said. 

“No.  I fear for him, Gandalf, if Estel dies.”

“Estel’s journey is not over yet, I think,” Gandalf said.  “Elrond has foreseen much of his future.”

“Then I hope that his foresight was true,” Glorfindel answered, and fell into silence. 

When Elladan reappeared some time later, Gandalf realized he had been dozing.  It was still dark outside, and it did not look as if Elrond had moved.  Elladan sighed and lowered himself into a chair.  “Halbarad will be all right.  Erestor is helping him bathe and will put him to bed.  Your little hobbit friend would not leave him, so we have settled him on the couch in the sitting room.”

Gandalf smiled.  “You will be hard pressed to pry Dudo from his side, I think.”

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow.  “I cannot wait to hear what you are doing here with another hobbit, Gandalf.”

“This is no ordinary hobbit, Glorfindel,” Gandalf said.

“No, indeed, I am given to understand that he saved Estel’s life from a wolf,” Elladan added.  “With Elrohir’s dagger.”

“Really?” Glorfindel said, smiling wanly.  “That is a tale I look forward to hearing sung in the Hall of Fire.”

From the bed came a soft gasp, and all eyes turned to Aragorn.  He moved slightly beneath Elrond’s hand, and Elrond heaved a long sigh.  Glorfindel rushed forward like a flash of light, catching him as his knees buckled.  With ease, he heaved Elrond’s limp form into his arms and carried him across the room to a chaise.  One flailing hand gripped his wrist as he lowered Elrond onto the cushions.  “Let me sleep only until dawn,” Elrond murmured as his eyes slipped out of focus.  “There is more to be done.” 

Glorfindel grunted a reply and drew a blanket over Elrond, while Gandalf joined Elladan at the bedside.  Aragorn’s eyes remained closed, but his skin looked less grey and his breathing was steady.  Elladan brushed matted hair back from his forehead.  “He is warm again,” he said.  “His breathing is steady.  Is Father all right?”

“He needs to sleep for a time, but he will be all right,” Glorfindel answered from across the room.  “And Aragorn?”

Elladan dipped a cloth into the basin on the washstand and began wiping dirt from his foster-brother’s face.  “He is very weak, though I think he is out of danger for now.”  Making short work of stripping Aragorn’s clothes and boots and depositing them into a pile on the floor, Elladan sliced through the filthy bandages on his leg with a small knife and carefully probed the puckered and inflamed skin around the old arrow wound.  “There is still some infection here, but I think the worst of it is past.  In the morning Father will want to see this wound, and the hand.” 

Pulling a clean blanket over Aragorn, Elladan straightened stiffly and passed a hand through his disheveled hair.  “Thank you, Gandalf, now please go, and take your rest.  I will stay with Estel and Father until morning.”

Gandalf tried to remember how long it had been since he slept.  A day?  Two?  It mattered little, as long as Aragorn was out of danger.  “No, my boy.  It is you who will be needed in the morning.  I am just a tired old man, and my weariness is of no consequence.  I will wake Elrond if there is need.”

A large hand came down on his shoulder.  “Both of you will rest,” Glorfindel said firmly. “I will keep watch over these two until morning.” 

Gandalf shook his head in surrender.  “Foolish would I be to oppose a Balrog-slayer.”

“You are wise, indeed,” the Elf answered with a dangerous smile. 

Gandalf chuckled.  “Then if you will excuse me, I will take my leave.”

As he moved to go, Glorfindel clasped his arm.  “Thank you for bringing Estel home to us.”

Gandalf found Halbarad in a guest room.  A single lamp burned low on the bedside table, softly illuminating the Ranger’s battered but peaceful face.  Clean and damp-haired, he was dressed in a blue tunic that lay open to reveal the white of a bandage around his ribs.  His breathing was quiet and even, and a light touch on his brow revealed no sign of fever.  Through an open door in a side chamber Gandalf could see Dudo, curled up in a soft blanket like a cat before a fire.  He, too, had had a bath, it seemed.  Soft tendrils of hair curled about his forehead and the hands pillowing his face were scrubbed clean.  The weather was warm enough that a window had been left partially open, and a soft, cleansing breeze drifted through it, carrying scents of pine and spring flowers.  Gandalf breathed deeply, feeling the last of the tension and worries of the past weeks subside, and he swayed slightly as exhaustion threatened to claim him where he stood.  He closed his eyes and leaned on his staff for a moment, resting to gain the strength necessary to drag himself off to bed.  Finally he straightened and retreated silently, careful not to disturb the sleepers.  He made his way down the silent corridors to the room Elrond kept prepared for him.  Someone had lit the lamp and set out a washbasin and a covered plate of food.  Though the scent of cheese and bread brought forth ominous rumbles from his stomach, he did not feel up to the exertion of eating, settling for splashing his face with water.  Then, with a sigh of contentment, he stripped out of his filthy robes, pulled back the crisp white sheets, and plunged into the softness of the feather mattress, asleep in moments.

Author’s Note: 

Congratulations to my parents on their 58th wedding anniversary.

The bridge collapse Elladan refers to occurred in Nilmandra’s “History Lessons:  The Second Age” on this site.  Used with permission.

Chapter 4

  ***********

Dudo awoke with his face pressed against fabric the color of raspberry jam.  He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment, then sat up and untangled himself from a thick blanket someone had draped over him.  Once his head cleared a bit, he realized that he had been sleeping on a colorful sofa, the centerpiece of a tasteful ensemble that also included two floral-print chairs.  His belt and scabbard had been thoughtfully placed within his reach on a low, elegantly carved table at the side of the couch, .  Recalling how Halbarad always took great care to leave Aragorn’s weapons within their owner’s reach, Dudo felt a surge of pride at being deemed worthy of the same consideration.    He reached for the belt, noticing only as a great wad of rolled-up sleeve flopped at his wrist that he was dressed in an enormous, Man-sized linen shirt that fell to his ankles.  His own clothes, which he vaguely remembered being helped out of in preparation for a bath, were nowhere to be seen.         

He stood up to fasten the belt, burrowing his toes into the lush pile of a thick green carpet. The entire room was furnished in what to a Bree hobbit was inconceivable luxury.  In the center of the wall opposite the single window was a large, gilded dresser, and above it, he saw to his amazement, was an enormous mirror, hanging in a gold frame.  Mirrors were rare in Bree  – Butterbur’s wife had a small one the size of a saucer, and there were a few copper pots in the kitchen that would render a slightly distorted image of one’s face when painstakingly polished, but a real mirror wider than a doorway was an undreamt-of novelty.  Unfortunately, it had been hung so high on the wall that even standing on tip-toes he could barely see the top of his curly head.  He dragged one of the flowered chairs over to the dresser and climbed on top of it.  The fellow looking back at him was not a bad-looking fellow -- a bit on the thin side, perhaps, and definitely in need of a haircut; but the eyes were a pleasant enough shade of green and the cheeks, he was pleased to note, were firming into the angles of adulthood.  He was a bit short for his age, but broad in the shoulders.  In fact, he might have cut a dashing figure, if not for the fact that he looked absolutely ridiculous wearing a Man’s shirt, no trousers, and a dagger belt strapped to his waist.

Dudo groaned and fumbled to remove the belt.  “Stupid hobbit,” he mumbled to himself.  He started to drag the chair back to its place but reconsidered and pushed it over to the window instead, drawn by the sunlight pouring between the half-drawn draperies, beyond which could be seen blue sky through gaps in gently waving tree branches.  He climbed up onto the chair to get a better view.    

Breefolk were a largely unsentimental lot.  In his short, hard life, Dudo had seldom seen tears shed, and he had surrendered to them on only a handful of occasions.  In any case, it had never entered his mind that there could be any other cause for tears than grief, loneliness, or fear.  He had not known before this moment, as he glimpsed for the first time the valley of Rivendell in all its splendor, that it was possible to shed tears of joy.  He took a long, shuddering breath as he fought the unaccustomed emotion.  Suddenly, everything he had seen before in his life seemed flat, and grey, and featureless.  From the elegantly wrought bridge that seemed to be woven from stone to the sculpted staircases rising to the houses perched high above the waterfall, everything before him seemed to have been designed for the sake of beauty alone.  Winding pathways traced through lovingly designed flower gardens, where statues and benches had been artfully arranged to maximize the enjoyment of both passers-by on the ground and observers above.  Dudo leaned forward, levering his elbows against the sun-warmed window frame.  Craning his neck, he could see high, sun-drenched peaks far above the tops of the trees.  Scooting forward, he leaned still further out to try to get a view of the building he was in. 

“Please do not jump,” a soft voice spoke in his ear as hands grasped him by the waist.   “I promise to show you a safer route to the gardens.” With a chuckle, his captor lowered him to the floor, and Dudo turned around, seeing by the faint gash above his temple that it was Elrohir.  He was unarmed now, dressed in a simple blue tunic and leggings, but even unadorned with any insignia of rank or authority, there was nobility in the set of his shoulders, authority in the casual strength of the hand resting on Dudo’s shoulder, and wisdom beyond reckoning in his grey eyes. 

Dudo took a step back and bumped into the chair, grabbing hold of it and simultaneously attempting an awkward bow.  “My lord,” he managed to whisper, keeping his eyes averted. 

“Dudo, no!”  Elrohir dropped to his knees and caught him by the shoulders.  Tipping his chin up, he forced him to meet his eyes, smiling ruefully.   “Please.  My father would be most displeased to learn I had frightened a guest.  Although not as displeased as if I had let one fall out the window!”

“This is the most beautiful place I ever saw,” Dudo said. 

Elrohir smiled.  “Me, too.  Would you like me to show you around?”

“Yes, please!” Dudo exclaimed.  “But first, where is Halbarad?  Where are Gandalf and Aragorn?”

“Gandalf and Elladan are with Aragorn now, but Halbarad is right next door, sleeping.” Elrohir said.  “You may see him if you promise to be very quiet.”  Dudo nodded, and Elrohir took him by the hand and led him into an adjoining room.  There, planted deep amidst the mounded bed linens like a seed poked into garden soil, lay Halbarad, asleep.  

“What happened to his face?”  Dudo cried, already forgetting to keep his voice down.  He quickly clapped a hand over his mouth. 

“It is just a bit of swelling and bruising,” Elrohir said.  “He will be all right.”

“No, not that,” Dudo whispered.  He had become accustomed to seeing Halbarad’s face swollen, scraped, and discolored.  The odd thing was the sight of the normally grizzled Ranger with a face as smooth as a hobbit’s. “What happened to his beard?”  

Elrohir laughed.  “Don't worry, it will grow back.  We had to shave the left side to clean the cuts on his cheek,” he explained, tracing the wounds lightly with his hand.  “It would have looked silly for him to go about with half a beard, would it not?”

“I suppose,” Dudo said.  “But why is he still asleep?  Why doesn’t he wake up?”

Elrohir smiled.  “If I know Halbarad, he has not slept an unbroken hour since you left Bree, and making such a hard ride with his injuries was no small feat.  He has been given something for his pain; it may be that he sleeps until tomorrow morning.  Rest is what he needs the most, now.  But I am informed that a hobbit requires regular nourishment.  Would you like something to eat?”

Dudo’s stomach growled at the suggestion.  “Yes!”  he answered enthusiastically, then frowned as he remembered his embarrassing state of undress.  “But where are my clothes?”

Elrohir chuckled.  “I am afraid that your clothes have been taken to the laundry.  But I believe Master Erestor left something for you to wear a little while ago.”  Dudo seriously hoped so, as Rivendell did not seem to be the type of place where people went about all day in their nightshirts.  Fortunately, Elrohir found what he was looking for in the wardrobe.  “Here we are,” he said, handing a folded bundle of clothing to Dudo.  “These should be close to your size.  Later, the seamstress can measure you for something made to fit.  I’ll wait in the hallway while you change.” 

Dudo took the bundle and unfolded the garments skeptically.  Though they appeared to be more or less his size – a trifle big, perhaps – they were not the attire of a Bree hobbit.  Shire garb this was: a green vest, finely tailored with notched lapels and bright brass buttons, fitted trousers that buckled at the knee, and a cream-colored shirt.  He got dressed and resisted the urge to look at himself in the mirror again.  He emerged into the hallway tugging at his vest and feeling slightly silly, but Elrohir’s face broke into an approving smile at the sight of him.  “They fit!  Splendid!  Then let us find the kitchens.”  He guided Dudo through broad hallways of polished stone, down a great staircase, and along more hallways, until Dudo was quite sure he would never find his room again should Elrohir abandon him.  Finally they arrived at the kitchen.  It was twice as big as the kitchen of the Prancing Pony, and much, much cleaner.  Pots and pans hung from racks over a center worktable, and every size and shape of baking dish was stacked neatly in a hutch.  There was a great open hearth, several large ovens for baking, and two enormous wood stoves. A lady was standing at one of them, stirring a pot.  It took him a moment to work out that she was actually cooking, for the simple reason that she looked unlike any cook he had ever seen.  Butterbur’s cooks were both old and bent, with stringy gray hair on their heads and curly black ones sprouting from their chins and noses.  But this….he didn’t even know what he should call her, he realized.  This lady Elf, he supposed, was as beautiful as a sunrise and as tall and lithe as a hawk in flight.  Her long fingers curved around the handle of the simple wooden spoon as if it were a silver chalice.  Dudo could scarcely abide the thought of those delicate white hands twisting the neck of a chicken.  He felt Elrohir’s hands on his back, pushing him forward.  “Tiriel, I would like to present Master Dudo Tillfield,” he announced.  

The cook, for want of a better term, favored Dudo with a sparkling smile that sent shivers down his spine.  “You must be starving, little one,” she said, with a voice as light and melodious as the coo of a dove.  “I know how you hobbits like to eat.”

“You do?”  he answered, and Tiriel laughed. 

“Of course, Master Dudo.” She looked to Elrohir.  “He has not met Bilbo yet, then?”

“There has been no time,” Elrohir answered.  “Dudo only just woke up a short time ago, and I knew he would be hungry.”

Tiriel smiled at Dudo.  “Would you like some soup and a piece of freshly baked honey cake?  It just came out of the oven.  It was intended for dinner, but I suspect the evening meal will be somewhat informal tonight?” 

This last question was aimed at Elrohir.  “That is a safe assumption,” he answered soberly. “Perhaps if you could just keep some soup warmed up.”  Tiriel nodded and squeezed his shoulder briefly.  Elrohir clasped her hand for a moment, and then a mischievous gleam came into his eye.  “Dudo, you have not tasted delight until you have had Tiriel’s honey cake,” he said. “For its sweetness, Elbereth herself would forsake the glory of Valinor.”

“Hush,” Tiriel scolded him, “or I’ll send you to Valinor with the back of my frying pan!”

Elrohir bent over Dudo and whispered slyly.  “Take care not to anger her, Dudo.  Among the goblins of the mountains, the frying pan of Tiriel is more feared than the swords of the sons of Elrond.”  He ducked Tiriel’s swat and raised a hand in defense, laughing.   “Mercy, my lady, I beg you!”

Tiriel ignored him, steering Dudo to a plain wooden table in the corner.  It was no higher than a hobbit's table, with three small chairs arranged around it.  “Sit right down here, Master Tillfield.  We call this ‘Estel’s table’, for when he was a boy he could rarely wait for dinner.  He ate many an afternoon snack sitting here.”

“Who is Estel?”  Dudo asked, as Tiriel laid a plate and a spoon in front of him.

“A little boy who used to live here, a long time ago,” answered Elrohir, wedging his long frame into the chair opposite Dudo.  Tiriel placed cups of tea before both of them and moved to the counter to cut the cake. 

Dudo noticed how Elrohir’s brow had tightened again.  “What happened to him?” Dudo asked.

Elrohir smiled wistfully.  “He grew up, and went away.”

“And then what?”

Elrohir laughed.  “You ask a lot of questions! Very well, then.  He grew tall and strong, and became a mighty warrior, and a great leader of Men.  For years he fought in distant lands, and wandered the wild, far from home, and his family and friends missed him very much.  Finally, when he returned at last, he ran into a little trouble in Bree, and everyone was very worried about him.  They did everything they could to find him and bring him back where he belongs.”

“And now he is back home, safe,” Dudo said with a smile.

Elrohir smiled back.  “Yes he is.”

  *******

The last thing clearly registered by Aragorn's fading mind was the sight of Elladan, bending over Halbarad’s lifeless body.  After that came only fragments of awareness – garbled voices murmuring words he could not understand, the press of an arm around his chest, and the endless rhythmic pounding of a hard gallop.  His senses dimmed, leaving him aware in the end only of cold.  It had almost been a mercy when the clammy chill of the barrow finally numbed his aching limbs.  Now it was creeping into his chest, choking off his breath and crushing his heart like a fist of frozen iron. 

It was said that at the moment of death, men see their whole lives pass before them.  There would have been more mercy in that than the bleak vision he saw instead:  a beloved face, its impermeable beauty marred at last by grief, staring out over the open sea.  So she would sail, he realized with relief – she would sail to that forbidden land where broken Elven hearts find refuge. 

But for the Dúnedain, he saw, there would be no refuge but the grave.  In the years ahead, cairn after cairn would sprout on the broad Eriador plains, until there were too few hands left to build them.  Halbarad, stooped and bitter, would bury his own wife and children and grandchildren, before an orc’s arrow finally released him from the memory of hope.  And in the end, the ragged remnants of Elendil’s people would be swept from the face of Middle Earth, as thoroughly as their kin had been swept from doomed Númenor.  So, too, would the sweet grass of Cerin Amroth be burnt black, and of the white city that had so captured his heart there would not be one stone left upon another.  Rivendell would be crushed, the Shirefolk slaughtered.  And finally, when all had been prepared for him, Sauron would move through the West like a great black shadow to reclaim his prize.    

With the cold knowledge that all he had most feared would now come to pass, Aragorn son of Arathorn quietly drifted free of Arda’s embrace.          

It was the voice that called him back.  Faintly, thin as a gull’s cry far from shore and fading from time to time like a hawk circling a meadow for its prey, it called out relentlessly.  He knew this voice, he realized.  It called to him with promises of light and warmth and love, and it showed him a new vision:  the same flawless face as before, pale from exhaustion and beaded with moisture, but this time from exertion instead of grief.  Joy brightened her eyes instead of sorrow, and he saw the reason for it:  she cradled in her arms a newborn babe no more than a few minutes old.  She held it out to him, and as he reached to take it in his arms he felt a warm presence take hold of him and carry him upward, into the light. 

His mind was slow to rekindle, and his body slower.  It took him a very long time to identify the steady, rhythmic roaring in his ears as the sound of his own breathing.   It was even harder to pinpoint the source of the pain that pulsed through him with every heartbeat.  He shifted slightly, struggling to assert control over his resistant limbs, and eventually he recognized the unaccustomed softness beneath him as a bed.  The smooth coolness against his skin was linen, he realized, and the weight pressing down on him must be blankets.  He risked a deeper breath, taking in the smells of leather and beeswax and dust and ink; mingled with the fresher scents of freshly mulched gardens and blooming vines.  There was only one place on Arda that smelled like this.  He was home.     

Nearly imperceptible amidst the echoless quiet of well-furnished rooms and the soothing rush of distant water was the sound of quiet breathing.  Quiet, but not Elvish.  And if he was not mistaken, there was also a very faint whiff of stale pipe-weed, as carried in on someone’s clothes.  Hearing the faint rasp of a page being turned, he pried gummy eyelids open, blinking as the afternoon sun brought a flash of pain to his head.  Slowly his eyes focused on the figure beside the bed, and he blinked again in surprise; for it was not Gandalf sitting at the bedside, as he expected, but an ancient hobbit in a tidy vest and knee britches.  His face was hidden by a fall of silver hair as he read his book, afternoon sun playing across the pages. The raspy croak that was all the speech Aragorn could produce succeeded in gaining his attention.      

“Oh, my!” he exclaimed, dropping his book and pushing himself off the chair to land with a thud on his short legs.  “You’re awake!”  He hurried to Aragorn and took his hand between his own small ones.  “You are safe now, Estel.  You’re in Rivendell.”  Aragorn, finding his mouth as parched as a Harad summer, failed again to utter more than a croak, and Bilbo’s old face wrinkled with worry.  “You do know me, don’t you, Estel?  It’s Bilbo. You wouldn’t forget old Bilbo, would you?”

Aragorn tried to smile, but his face still seemed oddly stiff and unwieldy.  Somewhere a chill still clutched at him, and the unnamed pain was unrelenting.   He wondered where Elrond had gone, but he could not bear to see Bilbo in distress.  “How could I forget…” he gasped finally, finding that speaking required more breath than his lungs seemed able to hold, “the first hobbit I ever met?”

Bilbo’s eyes brightened.  “That’s my boy.” Leaning over conspiratorially, he lowered his voice to a whisper.  “I have never told Elrond that story, you know.  But what was it I was supposed to do if you woke up?  Water, that’s it.”  He reached for something beside the bed, and Aragorn heard water filling a cup.  Ashamed to be a burden to the frail old creature, he struggled to move, but his limbs and even his head seemed weighted with solid granite, and the pain intensified with his slightest movement.  “Don’t try to move yet, Estel,” Bilbo cautioned. “Elrond said you must not get up for many days.” 

On this point Aragorn ventured no dissent; barely managing to swallow enough water to rinse his mouth before slumping, drained, against the pillows. “Thank you,” he said, letting his eyes drift shut.

He heard the cup being set down, and then a gentle tug as Bilbo fussed with the blankets.  “Better now?” the hobbit asked hopefully.  Though Aragorn forced his eyes open and wrestled the muscles of his face into what he hoped was a reassuring smile, Bilbo remained frowning at him worriedly.  “Perhaps I should tell Gandalf you’re awake.”  

Aragorn glanced toward the window.  It was late afternoon, but what day?  He could not even remember arriving here.  “Where is Elrond?” he croaked. 

“Resting,” Bilbo said.  “He worked over you all night and most of the morning.  When he had done all he could, Glorfindel sent him to rest and ordered that he not to be disturbed.  Gandalf and Elladan watched over you most of the day, but Erestor chased them off a little while ago and insisted that they rest and eat a little dinner.  You seemed to be resting comfortably enough that a hobbit could mind you for a while.” 

Aragorn smiled.  “Yours was a welcome face to wake up to, Bilbo,” he said sincerely.  It had been a long time since he had seen the dear old hobbit.  Something about Bilbo’s account bothered him, though; something was missing.   He sifted through memories still clouded with fatigue and the remnants of a deep chill - stiffening with sudden alarm  as he recalled an image of Halbarad’s face sinking beneath dark churning waters.  “Bilbo – my kinsman, Halbarad.  Where is he?”

Bilbo patted his shoulder.  “Not to worry.  He is being well cared for.  And your guest, Master Tillfield, is enjoying all the hospitality the Last Homely House has to offer.  Dudo – such a delightful child - spent this afternoon exploring the valley with Elrohir.  The young are so resilient, aren’t they?  But I am told that Halbarad slept long today.” 

“He sleeps still,” Elrond remarked from the doorway.  “But that is largely my doing.” He smiled gently at Bilbo, but exhaustion was plainly written on his drawn features.  His normally straight shoulders were bent with fatigue, and his agile frame seemed brittle and frail.  He was carrying a tray that he set down with little grace on the bedside table.  “Thank you, Bilbo, for sitting with Aragorn, but please go to dinner now.  Gandalf and young Master Tillfield are waiting for you.” 

”Why, thank you, Elrond,” Bilbo replied, scooping up his book.  “If you’re sure you I won’t be needed…”

Elrond shepherded him to the door.  “Your assistance is greatly appreciated, Bilbo.  But now you must go and enjoy your dinner.  And keep a close eye on Master Dudo, for I fear the young one is wholly beyond Gandalf’s capacity to supervise.”  Elrond watched patiently as the hobbit made his departure, then pushed an armchair closer to the bed and lowered himself into it.  Without preamble, he leaned forward and brushed his fingers lightly across Aragorn’s forehead, then touched his wrist.  “You feel cool.  Are you warm enough?”

To Aragorn it seemed that he would never be warm again, but it seemed too much trouble to say so.  When he merely nodded, Elrond frowned skeptically.  As he reached for Aragorn’s right hand, lying propped on a pillow at his side, Aragorn saw that it was freshly splinted and heavily bandaged.  Elrond methodically tested the blood flow in the fingertips, then stood and went to the table to mix some potion that Aragorn would no doubt be administered very shortly.  “It was necessary to re-break the bones in your hand and set them,” he said without turning.  “The incision is in your palm.  The pain will be considerable for a time, but you should regain full function with patience.  The leg was very badly infected, and blood poisons had spread through your system.”

“Thank you,” Aragorn mumbled cautiously, beginning to comprehend the gravity of his situation.  Now that it was apparent that he would live, he would be subjected to the full wrath of the Lord of Rivendell.      

Elrond finished mixing his potion and sat back down heavily.  “You were very close to death, Estel.  When I asked Elladan how you were wounded, he informed me you took an arrow when you were only a few days ride from Rivendell but refused to come.  You must have known it would require treatment.”

So Elladan and Elrohir had kept quiet about the botched cave raid, for which they had no doubt already paid the price.  Aragorn felt a mixture of gratitude and guilt that they had withheld the truth from their father on his behalf.  “There was no time,” Aragorn proffered.  “I was already late meeting Gandalf.”       

Elrond’s careful tone failed to conceal his irritation. ”Gandalf would have understood. He would not wish you to place yourself in unnecessary danger.”   

“What is my life, but danger?” he said.  “I have taken wounds such as this, and worse,  in the wild for many years, far from the shelter and succor of Rivendell.”  His annoyance was not helped by the fact that Elrond was right.  He had gambled that the wound would be treatable once he reached Bree and met with Gandalf.  It was a gamble he should have won.  He simply had not counted on being kidnapped.

“So you have,” Elrond said.  “All the more reason to avail yourself of its shelter when you tread within sight of its borders. You will always find shelter here, should you seek it.”

"I know," he said.  It had never occurred to him that Elrond would refuse him shelter; Elrond would refuse no one shelter. But Elrond knew full well what stood between them and what had kept him away.  Of Arwen, they had not exchanged more than courteous pleasantries in more than twenty years, but her presence haunted their every meeting.  To spare them both, it seemed easier to simply stay away.  Elrond was normally as scrupulous at adhering to courtesy as he was; Aragorn realized that his uncharacteristic display was a sign of how badly he had been frightened.  “I humbly beg pardon for offending you,” he said.

Elrond’s eyes flared. “It is not a matter of my offense, Aragorn, but of your responsibility.  This recklessness does not become you.   Others are depending on you.” 

Aragorn pressed his lips together.  "Was it not for the sake of others that I spent seven years of my life crawling through every cave, swamp and muckhole in the Anduin valley?" When he had finally dragged himself back over the mountains, weary and empty-handed and no closer to finding the elusive Gollum that he had been when he started, it had been for the sake of others that he had led a patrol into an orc-infested cave and taken an arrow in his leg that almost killed him.  But that meant nothing to Elrond.  He had proven himself a capable and worthy warrior to the Rohirrim, the Gondorians, the Haradrim, the Corsairs, and the Dúnedain.  But to Elrond of Rivendell, there would always be only one accomplishment that mattered; one that seemed perpetually beyond his grasp - the kingship of Gondor and Arnor.  He was tired of Elrond's expectations; he lacked the strength and the will to either resist them or fulfill them now, with pulsing pain drumming through his body and fatigue threatening to drag him back down into oblivion.  He reached to soothe the ache in his leg and groaned as the movement ignited a flaming explosion of agony.  His eyes clenched shut as a hand pressed against his forehead.   

A faint sigh of dismay escaped Elrond, and his other hand slipped behind Aragorn's shoulders.  A cup pressed against his lips.  “Drink, Estel,” Elrond said softly.  “It will ease the pain.”  When he had swallowed enough of the bitter substance to satisfy Elrond, his head was lowered to rest on the pillow.  Before he surrendered to encroaching darkness, he felt the touch of a hand upon his cheek, and a quiet voice.  “Rest,” it murmured. 

Elrond brushed a strand of hair from his foster-son’s face, frowning at the coolness that lingered in the pallid skin.  His fingers traced faint lines he did not remember seeing before.  How long had it been?  Three years?  Four?  They aged so quickly…his own head pounded and he rubbed at tired eyes.

“Am I interrupting?” 

Elrond turned his head slightly and nodded a greeting.  “Not at all, Mithrandir.  Please, come in.”  That he had not heard the telltale swish of robes or the soft, slippered steps, he accounted to fatigue, but he wondered how long the wizard had been standing there.  He straightened the blanket covering Aragorn and turned around, stretching to ease the ache in his shoulders.  “I thought you were dining with Bilbo.”

“Bilbo promised to tell stories and I have heard them all.”  Gandalf approached the bed, sounding as tired as Elrond felt.  He looked down at the Ranger.  “Is he asleep?”

With a glance at the mug he has just emptied into Aragorn, Elrond twitched an eyebrow.  “I would hope so.”  He leaned over the bed once more.  “Aragorn.”  He paused.  “Estel.”  When there was no response he gave a last tug to the blanket and stepped away from the bed, casting his professional scrutiny over a new target.  “And how do you fare, Gandalf?  Have you rested?”

“I might ask the same of you, my friend,” said Gandalf, “but I already know the answer.” 

“I slept for several more hours this afternoon,” Elrond said, “after Glorfindel threatened to lock me in my room.”

Gandalf smiled.  “I think that he would threaten to lock you in there again, if he could see you.”

Elrond shook his head. He felt wide awake now, and he wanted answers that only Gandalf could provide. “He can hover over me later.  First, I would speak with you privately.  Do you know where Elladan is?  I would have him sit with Aragorn.”

“I believe your sons intend to enjoy yet another re-telling of the Tale of Lonely Mountain this evening along with our young hobbit friend, Dudo.”

Elrond smiled.  “I am sure Bilbo will understand if I ask one of them to excuse himself.” Stepping into the hall, he dispatched a passing Elf to fetch Elladan, then led Gandalf to his study and waved him to a chair by the hearth.  It was really too warm for a fire, but Elrond found himself desiring the comfort of one.  He busied himself kindling it while Gandalf settled back into the cushions of the chair and eyed the glass of ruby wine Elrond had poured for him as if he had not seen one since his last visit.  He probably hadn’t, Elrond realized; Bree favored beer, as he recalled.  He wiped his hands and sat down, nursing his own glass as Gandalf related the tale of Aragorn’s kidnapping and rescue.  The flickering flames warmed the small, book-filled room, and Gandalf’s eyes were soon drooping.  Elrond, conversely, felt tension creeping back into his neck.  “Who was this boy, then?”  he pressed, realizing this was a matter best discussed when sober and well-rested, but feeling too unsettled to let it drop.  “A mere Breelander, you say, and yet capable of commanding beasts?  Of commanding orcs?  Of organizing bands of Dunlendings and orchestrating the kidnapping of a Dúnedain chieftain?  This is no mere boy you describe, Mithrandir.”

Gandalf closed his eyes wearily.  “Rolly was in truth a mere boy, Elrond.  I nearly reached him in the end.  Unnatural authority had been vested in the child, but a child he remained.  I beg you to proceed cautiously with Aragorn in this matter, for he took the loss to heart.”

Elrond rubbed his aching eyes.  Aragorn would indeed take such a loss to heart.  “Estel has yet to accept that all things cannot be saved.”

“Maybe that is his gift,” said Gandalf. 

Elrond’s head was aching steadily now, and he leaned forward and massaged his temples.  “Sauron alone could confer unnatural powers on a mortal, could he not?”   

“The stench of Mordor was not upon the boy.” Gandalf stared into the fire. “His virtue and honor had been twisted and manipulated by a powerful and clever mind.  Yet it was not Sauron, I think.”

Elrond raised an eyebrow, but hesitated before speaking. “If not Sauron, then who?  It could only have been another of his kind.  One with a less obvious stench.”  He winced, thinking that he really must get some sleep.  Or at the very least have no more wine.

“I do not know who it could be.”

Elrond scowled.  “What was it you said?” 

“I said I do not know who it could be.”

“No, not just then.  Earlier.  ‘A powerful and clever mind’, you said.”     

Gandalf shot him a sideways look, and Elrond knew he had read the inference perfectly.  “Elrond, I know you dislike Saruman, perhaps with good reason, but I cannot believe him capable of such conduct.  It would be utter madness. Saruman has no reason to set spies against me.”

“If you trust him, then why have you not told him about Bilbo’s ring?”  Elrond asked.  

Gandalf closed his eyes wearily.  “He is ambitious.  He is vulnerable to temptation, and in any case, it is best if as few of us face temptation as possible, if our suspicions are correct.  But there can be no temptation without knowledge.  It would never occur to Saruman that I possess knowledge worth pursuing.  He thinks me a simpleton, frittering away my time on idle and useless pursuits.”

“Very well,” Elrond said, allowing the matter to drop.  “What was the boy’s purpose, then?”

Gandalf rose and refilled both glasses before dropping back into his chair. “It was a trap within a trap, a scheme intended to arouse Aragorn’s protective instincts toward the boy and use them to obtain information about my interest in the Shire.”

Elrond felt a twinge of irritation.  Allowing the ring to remain in the Shire, hiding in plain sight, as it were, had seemed the only practical solution.  Now it appeared that Gandalf had somehow drawn the Enemy’s attention directly to it.  “We cannot afford to have the Enemy’s eye turned toward the Shire, Mithrandir.  Even the Rangers cannot protect it from an all-out assault.  Frodo may be in danger.”

He regretted the words when Gandalf’s face tightened with guilt. Obviously this was no news to the wizard. “It was I who led the Enemy to the Shire, and to Aragorn,” Gandalf said slowly.  “It is I who must lead him away.”

“What do you mean to do?”

“I must quit the Shire,” Gandalf said.  He bowed his head in utter weariness.  “I cannot bring ruin upon it."

“Where will you go?”

“I will return to the Shire one last time, to escort Master Tillfield and take my leave of Frodo.  And then I have promised to search for Gollum with Aragorn.”

“Aragorn will not wield a sword for months, Mithrandir.  The hand was deliberately ruined.”

“His adversary evidently respected his swordsmanship,” Gandalf said grimly.  “And what of his leg?  I feared to take it, and then I feared that by not doing so I had cost him his life.” 

“There is no blame in this for you, Mithrandir.”  Elrond’s jaw tightened.  “I have spoken with my sons.  They tell me now that Aragorn sustained the leg wound in a battle with orcs before traveling to Bree.” He noted the hoarseness of his voice, as well as his resurging irritation, as signs of exhaustion.  They should both just go to bed; Gandalf looked half asleep already.  “Elladan tried to persuade Aragorn to come to Rivendell before traveling to Bree, but he refused.  He avoids Rivendell even at risk to his own life.”

Gandalf sighed.  “My dear friend, he might have had other things on his mind than avoiding you.  He is weary and discouraged at failing to find Gollum.  He worries for his people and has just finished burying several of them.  He has just lost his mother and has yet to visit her grave, as far as I know.  You are tired, my friend.  Do not dwell on this.  Gilraen is dead now.  Aragorn needs you now more than ever.”     

“I cannot help him if he will not let me,” Elrond said.

Gandalf leaned back in his chair and regarded Elrond with a weary expression.  “Well, tell me, then, friend, what do you intend to do about it?”

Elrond straightened.  “What do I intend to do?”

Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow at him.  “Yes, you, Elrond Eärendilion.  Your daughter stays away in Lorien and your son stays everywhere in Arda but here. What do you intend to do about it?”

Elrond regarded him flatly.  “Gandalf, surely you do not see me as the perpetrator here.”

“Surely you do not see yourself as the victim.”

Elrond shot Gandalf a glare, but the wizard was leaning over to fish a pipe out of his robe.  A bag of pipeweed came out of the other pocket, and he made a show, Elrond thought, of packing the pipe as slowly and methodically as he could without looking at Elrond at all.  Gandalf obviously meant for him to think long and hard about the statement; something that Elrond found extremely irritating.  He forced himself to check his anger, reminding himself that the counsel of a Maia was not something to lightly disregard, no matter how irritating he personally found it.  Had he thought himself a victim?  In truth, maybe he had, just a little.  Had he pitied himself for the price he had been asked to pay for the salvation of Middle Earth? Had he resented the tribute demanded of him, who had already sacrificed so much and waited so long?  Had he mourned the whole, pure joy that would now never be his, even should Barad-dur come crashing down and Sauron be utterly destroyed?  Yes.  He had. 

Gandalf leaned back in his chair and drew on his pipe, a habit he knew Elrond despised.  “You expect much of Aragorn.”

“I expect only one thing of Aragorn, as you well know, Gandalf.”  Elrond’s lips tightened.  “Aragorn has nothing to fear from me. I would never turn him away.  Certainly not injured and in need.”

“It is not your charity he needs, but your approval.”

“He has not earned my disapproval.  Nor will he.”

Gandalf blew a smoke ring that blossomed into delicate fronds, like a fern along a stream bank.  “But suppose he did.  If Aragorn fails to become King, you are released from your promise.  You regain your daughter.”  

Elrond’s eyes closed and he sighed deeply.  He had long ago hardened himself against the possibility.  And he must remain hardened to it, lest he falter for an instant.  “Aragorn must succeed,” he said grimly.  “There is no other option.  Sauron grows stronger.  Even now he seeks the Ring.  If what we suspect is true, he will not be long in finding it, no matter how hard we try to conceal it.  There is nowhere in Middle Earth it can be hidden.  One way or another, this age will end with Aragorn.”

“Indeed, no Man has ever had a heavier doom laid on him, nor at such a young age,” mused Gandalf.  “Yet he has borne this burden well, do you not think?  It has long been his heart’s desire to restore the Kingship,” he continued, “and in so doing to gain everything that has been promised to him.  His burden would be lighter if he did not believe that promise was made grudgingly by one he loves as a father.”

Is that what Estel thought?  Elrond had rarely discussed this topic with Gandalf, and Estel he guessed to be similarly reticent; but the wizard was more cunning than he pretended.  Elrond could not be sure how much of this had come from Aragorn’s own mouth.  Or Arwen’s, or Galadriel’s, for that matter.  He winced at the thought.  “If Aragorn fully understood what he asks of me he would not think me grudging.”

Gandalf released a cloud of smoke.  “It is really not so much his choice, in the end, as Arwen’s, is it?”

Elrond’s jaw tightened, an act that only served to intensify his headache.  “Arwen is young, Mithrandir. Do not look at me like that.  For all her years, she has been sheltered here, or in Lothlorien.  She has never seen sickness, she has never seen war, she has never seen death.  Her mother’s ordeal was the most difficult experience of her life, and yet even in her sorrow she is comforted by the knowledge that Celebrian waits for us across the sea, in health and in peace, longing for the day we will be reunited.”  The thought crushed something inside him, and he shut his eyes to block out the image of what was fated to be bitter reunion.  “Arwen does not understand what it is to watch helplessly as slow decay overtakes the flesh.  She does not understand what it is to be sundered forever from a loved one.  Aragorn does.”  Elrond opened his eyes and looked at Gandalf.  “I do.”

“We do not know what lies beyond the circles of the world for mortals.”

Elrond reached for the decanter and poured himself another drink.  “Let us not debate this all night.  I have given him my terms, and they stand.  He must learn patience.” 

“He is no Elf, to watch mountains crumble as he waits for his time to come.  He is a Man.  His youth has come and gone out in the wild, while here in Rivendell barely a season of Arda has passed.  His time is running out, slowly but surely.  The Shadow lengthens but it does not fall.  Uncertainty begins to creep at him.  Doubt will follow, and then fear.”

“Aragorn is not a fearful man,” Elrond said.

“No, he is not.  But fear lurks within all of us, does it not?” Gandalf puffed slowly on his pipe as the fire licked slowly at the sweet-smelling logs. “Why did you never tell him of Arwen when he was a boy? I have long wondered.”

Elrond stiffened and pushed himself to his feet, setting down his empty wine glass and moving to scrutinize the contents of his bookshelf while Gandalf pretended to doze.  Finally he turned.  “What would you have me say?”  he said.  “That I forgot for eighteen years I had a daughter?”  

“Ah, there you are,” said Glorfindel, advancing his lanky frame through the doorway and raising an eyebrow as he noticed that Elrond had flinched.  “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” answered Elrond, a bit too quickly.  “Come in.  Would you care for some wine?”

Glorfindel picked up the decanter and absently swirled the last remaining dregs.  “I suppose not,” he said dryly, setting it back down.  “You were supposed to be resting, my friend.  Did you know it is nearly midnight?  If you do not rest you will be of no use to Aragorn tomorrow.”

“Yes, Elrond, listen to Glorfindel,” Gandalf said through his pipe.  “You have overtaxed yourself, and must recover your strength.”

Elrond glanced first at one caretaker and then the other.  Clearly they presented a united front, and they also happened to be right. “Very well,” he agreed finally.  “But I must check on Estel first.”

“I just did,” Glorfindel countered.  “Elladan told me he has slept soundly since you left.”  He hooked a hand around Elrond’s elbow and dragged him gently toward the door.  “Say goodnight to Mithrandir.”

“Goodnight, Elrond,” Gandalf said pleasantly, making no move to get up.  “Sleep well.”

Just before Glorfindel succeeded in marching him through the doorway, Elrond wrenched his arm free with somewhat more force than he intended.  “Mithrandir,” he said, turning back to the study.  He waited until the silence forced Gandalf to turn around. 

“Yes, Elrond?”

Elrond smiled, amused at how he always felt better after losing an argument to Gandalf.  “I will speak with him.” 

Gandalf nodded and turned back to the fire, expelling a puff of smoke.  “You will speak with whom?” Glorfindel asked, reasserting his grip on Elrond and and guiding him into the hallway. 

Elrond sighed and allowed himself to be pulled along.  “My son.”

Chapter 5

Morning in Rivendell dawned with its usual sublime perfection.  Puffy white clouds ambled leisurely across the sky, cheery birdcalls echoed through the open window, and the gentlest of breezes stirred dust motes that drifted lazily above the ornately carved walnut bed in which Halbarad lay fidgeting. 

It was not that the accommodations were inadequate, he conceded.  Even the comfortable but spare warrior’s quarters he was accustomed to could scarcely be called inadequate, but the room he found himself in this time was furnished for a king.  From the massive gold mirror above the mantel to the exquisitely painted trim on the wardrobe, every textile, object, and piece of furniture in the room had been painstakingly wrought by craftsmen with patience, skill, and time far exceeding those of any mortal being.  Decades of loom-work must have gone into the massive green draperies, and even the hem of the linen bed sheet bore intricately embroidered rose petals.  Tracing the delicate stitches with his rough fingertips, Halbarad found himself oddly homesick for bare plank floorboards and threadbare homespun.      

Finding himself unattended, he considered his predicament as he idly catalogued his awakening aches and pains.  He had no intention of lying here until someone happened to wander by – given the size of the house, it could be days before anyone remembered where they’d put him, and he guessed by the stubble on his chin that at least one day had passed already since Elrohir Elrondion, traitorous lout, held him down while some vile spawn of Mordor shaved his beard off.   Reminding himself to deal with Elrohir just as soon as he assured himself of Aragorn’s well-being, he threw off the sheet.  An instant later he threw it back on again -- it seemed it would have to be pressed into service as a robe until he found his clothes.  Dragging the sheet along, he wrestled his way across an expanse of mattress as soft and plump as risen dough and swung his feet over the side.  Just as his feet sunk into a mass of plush carpet, pain shot through his chest, doubling him over, and he lurched against the bedpost as a wave of dizziness washed over him.  Clinging to the bed with one hand and the sheet with the other, he clenched his eyes shut and waited for it to pass.  As the buzzing in his ears slowly subsided, it was replaced by the angry swish of robes, fast approaching.     

“Master Dúnadan!” The robe-swishing abruptly ceased, and Halbarad found himself efficiently levered back onto the bed.  “You are not to get up without Lord Elrond’s permission,” a crisp voice lectured, very close to his ear. “Do I make myself clear?”

The voice was vaguely familiar and sounded Elvish, but since it apparently did not belong to Elrond himself, Halbarad allowed himself the satisfaction of swatting the hand pinning his shoulder. “Where is Aragorn?” he demanded.       

“He is being cared for.  Lie still or you will aggravate your wounds.” Forcing open an eyelid wide enough to shoot a glare at his captor, Halbarad groaned in recognition.  His last encounter with this particular Elf had involved an enormous draught of foul-tasting potion and a sewing needle the size of a Dwarvish pickaxe.  This time, the healer was unarmed, though he still presented an imposing figure, in a loose-jointed, wraithlike sort of way; looming over the bed like a winter-bare willow with coloring to match.  The Elf pressed pale lips together in a thin line of distaste as he regarded his captive through narrowed eyes.  Halbarad returned the sour look, trying to remember the name Elrohir had called him by during their unfortunate first encounter.  Regrettably, his attention at the time had been somewhat more focused on the needle he was about to be skewered with than formal introductions, but he did recall that the healer’s name had sounded like a piece of leather gear; something one might strap onto one’s belt, or saddle.  Sword belt, saddlebags...  He grunted with satisfaction.  That was it.  The Elf’s name was Saddlebags. 

Saddlebags, taking his lack of continued resistance for acquiescence, released him and straightened to his considerable full height, tugging at the loose robes he must have disheveled in his rush to the bed.   He cocked an eyebrow haughtily.  “Now let that be a lesson to you.”   

Stuffy prig, Halbarad thought. “How long have I been here?”  

Saddlebags sniffed and turned his back, fussing with something on the cluttered worktable.  “Why are Men so endlessly preoccupied with counting out the minutes of their lives?”       

“Probably because we don’t have an endless supply of them,” Halbarad shot back, wincing at the sound of liquid being poured into a vessel.  He craned his neck to get a look -- he had no intention of allowing himself to be drugged into oblivion again.  When Saddlebags finally turned around, though, Halbarad saw with dismay that it was not the the dreaded vial of potion he held in his hands, but something much, much worse.  “No,” Halbarad protested, scrambling backward until his spine pressed hard against the headboard.  “Get that away from me.”

Saddlebags rolled eggshell-pale eyes upward in a gesture of infinite weariness, then downward at the washbasin he held in his hands.  “My dear Ranger,” he sighed, “it is time for your bath.”  

“I just had a bath last night,” Halbarad explained helpfully – another ordeal for which those two warg’s sons he used to call friends would receive their due recompense as soon as he had the leisure to dispense it.      

“Last night?” Saddlebags sniffed again.  “Hardly.  Two nights have passed since you were brought here.”

“Morgoth’s balls,” Halbarad muttered.  No wonder he felt so stiff.  He looked up after a moment to see Saddlebags still holding the washbasin.  “Why would I need a bath?” he argued.  “I have done nothing since I arrived but lie in bed!”

“What a remarkable talent you must have,” Saddlebags commented.  “I would have expected the production of such an impressive odor to require a great deal more effort.”   

“Odor!”  Halbarad bellowed.  “What odor?  I smell as sweet as meadow grass!” 

“Indeed, you smell nothing like it.”

Mindful of his role as pampered houseguest, Halbarad was trying very hard not to disgrace the noble Dúnedain race, offend his host, and incidentally prove that everything his mother-in-law had ever said about him was true, but he was not going to sit here and be insulted.  “Now, see here.  I have not been this clean since my wedding day!” 

“That does not surprise me at all,” Saddlebags said dryly, advancing on him.

Halbarad pulled the sheet tight against his chest and glowered.  “Where are my clothes?” 

“The...garments,” Saddlebags said, managing to spit out the word out as if it were a piece of hair he’d found in his soup, “you were wearing when you were brought here have likely been burned.  Suitable attire will be provided when Lord Elrond deems you fit to leave your bed.” 

“I’m fit to leave my bed now,” Halbarad said.  “I need to see Aragorn.”

The Elf was unpersuaded.  “What you are in need of is a bath.”

“No, I am not,” Halbarad countered firmly.  He considered his options.  Escape was unlikely.  Not only did Saddlebags block his route to the door, but he wasn’t sure he could even make it that far on his own two feet.  Catching a glint of his sword hilt out of the corner of his eye, he sized up the Elf.  A Man was no match for an Elvish warrior in his prime, but Saddlebags’ fingers were slender and fragile, the skin smooth and unmarred by calluses or scars.  They were healer’s hands; hands that had not held a weapon in centuries, maybe millennia.  In fact, Saddlebags looked like he probably hadn’t held a weapon since -- well, probably since the Last Alliance, Halbarad concluded despondently -- where spindly old Saddlebags had undoubtedly slain more orcs than Halbarad had seen in his lifetime.  He was doomed.

The Elf standing over him smiled dangerously.  “Yes, you are.”

“That will be all, Saerbellas.”  Halbarad looked up to see Elrond at the door, wearing a simple blue robe and an expression of amused forebearance.  “If you would be so kind, go to the kitchen and ask for some breakfast to be brought up for Halbarad.  I am sure his long rest has left him hungry.”  Without waiting for Saddlebags to reply, Elrond smoothly relieved the healer of his washbasin and, to Halbarad’s immense relief, set it down on the table.  Shooting a last contemptuous glare at Halbarad, Saddlebags spun around and disappeared in a rustle of robes.  Only with the healer safely gone did Halbarad sink back onto the bed and release a long-held breath.  Elrond, arms crossed, nodded patiently and regarded him with a benign expression.  “It pleases me to see you feeling better, Halbarad, but I must ask you to refrain from tormenting the staff.”     

Halbarad was struck, for one inexplicable instant, by the impression that Lord of Imladris was teasing him.  He immediately dismissed the notion as symptom of whatever was blurring his vision.  “I meant no offense, Lord Elrond,” he said.  “Please tell me -- is Aragorn all right?”

“It was a near thing,” Elrond answered, reaching for Halbarad’s wrist, “but he will be all right in time.”

Halbarad considered the implications of the statement as Elrond settled in for what was obviously going to be an examination.  The terse reply had left volumes unspoken, but if Elrond said Aragorn would be all right, he would.  Still, he could not be blamed for wanting to see for himself.  “I would like to see him.”

“Yes, of course.  Perhaps tomorrow.”  Elrond turned back the sheet and gently pried Halbarad’s protective arm away from his midsection.  “Try to relax, Halbarad.  The pain will be less.”  As Elrond began probing his ribcage, Halbarad found himself sinking back into the pillows, relaxed as an old dog lying in the sun.  “Your breathing is still shallow,” Elrond said, rousing him from a light doze.  “Are you still in pain?” 

He was not, Halbarad realized unexpectedly.  Elrond merely smiled at his quizzical expression and held a finger in front of his face.  Motioning for Halbarad to track it with his eyes, he waved it slowly back and forth.  “Are you experiencing any dizziness or blurred vision?”   

“My head feels foggy, but I think it is from the potion that Saddle – Saerbellas made me drink.”     

Elrond sat down in the chair and peered into his eyes.  “There was a great deal of debris embedded in your skin – dirt, gravel, splinters.  You were dragged some distance along the bridge deck.  It was necessary to sedate you while cleaning your wounds, but Saerbellas may have given you a bit too much medicine.  He is not accustomed to treating Men.”   

Halbarad snorted.  “I doubt it was an accident.  I think he just likes me better unconscious.”

Elrond’s slight smile conceded the point.  “It has been said that Saerbellas’s bedside manner is better suited to his beloved orchids.”

“Naturally; they can’t talk back.  They probably smell better than a Dúnadan, too.”  Halbarad caught himself grinning and realized with belated horror that he was bantering with the Lord of Imladris as if he were a drinking companion at the Prancing Pony.  He lowered his gaze as a flush spread down his neck.  “Forgive my impertinence, Lord Elrond.”

Elrond chuckled.  “Halbarad, if you do not stop apologizing, I will order Saerbellas to come back and finish what he started.  We are kin, are we not?  Let us not stand on ceremony.  I owe you an enormous debt of gratitude.”  Halbarad looked up to see Elrond smiling at his look of surprise.  “I would like to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For bringing my son home,” Elrond said. 

“My lord?”  A woman in a long blue gown stood in the doorway, carrying a covered tray.  “Here is the food you sent for.”

Elrond rose and took a robe from the wardrobe.  “Thank you, Tiriel.  Leave the tray on the table, please, and we shall see if Halbarad is up to walking a bit.” 

With the robe protecting his dignity and Elrond’s discreet but firm grip safeguarding his balance, Halbarad managed to limp to the table in a relatively upright position.  As he turned to ease himself into the chair Elrond held for him, he caught sight, for the first time, of the painting hanging above the bed.   Elrond caught him as his knees gave out.

“Halbarad?”  Elrond steered him into the chair.  “Halbarad!  What is wrong?  Are you in pain?”

“No,” he whispered.  “The painting.”   

Elrond’s head swung around to follow Halbarad’s fixed stare. “The painting?  It is the city of Minas Tirith.”

“I know.”    

Elrond was eyeing him intently. “Have you been there?”

“No, never.”  The tower was unmistakable, though.  He would know it anywhere.

Elrond’s eyes narrowed.  “But you have seen it before?” Halbarad still transfixed on the painting, nodded mutely, and Elrond moved to block his view, forcing him to redirect his gaze.  “In a vision?”

Halbarad hesitated.  “A dream,” he said finally.

“When, Halbarad?”

So many years ago… “The night Aragorn came back from Gondor.”  He’d been huddled, miserable, by a tiny fire at a camp in a hollow west of Weathertop.  His hood had been pulled over his head to block the incessant drizzle as he half-heartedly stirred a stewpot of three-day-old mutton.  As gloomy dusk descended, Aragorn had managed to walk right up behind him and snap a twig in his ear, launching him into a dive across the rain-soaked ground.  As he bounded to his feet, flinging back his hood and brandishing his sword, Aragorn had nearly collapsed in fits of laughter.  He pursued with one mock thrust, to which Aragorn had raised his hands in gleeful surrender, then they’d embraced, slapped each other on the back, traded insults about Aragorn’s sense of humor and Halbarad’s diminishing hearing, and sat down to break open a cask of Butterbur’s beer that Halbarad was bringing back from Bree.  Aragorn had drained his tankard in one long, blissful draught and pronounced it a finer brew than anything to be found in the east.  He begged some pipeweed then, and sat smoking and spinning tales as the last glow of twilight faded in the west.  The rain ended, the stars came out, and Halbarad settled back against his pack in drowsy contentment as Aragorn told of the thunderous pounding of a hundred mounted horsemen galloping across a plain, the splendor of a white city clinging to the side of a mountain, the glory of valiant sea battles and the loneliness of far treeless places so quiet a man might hear his own heart thumping within his chest.  It was very late when the two Rangers, drowsy and bloated with Butterbur’s brew, slid beneath their blankets.  But when Aragorn’s tales followed Halbarad into sleep, it was not the sunlit, peaceful city of Aragorn’s tales that Halbarad dreamed of, but a city drowning in terror, awash in blood.   Even now a shiver rippled through him at the memory.  He felt the weight of a blanket on his shoulders, and looked up at Elrond.  “Thank you,” he said.     

“Halbarad,” Elrond said, “tell me what you have seen.”

Halbarad hesitated, feeling foolish.  What was one dream to a being who had seen the rise and fall of entire kingdoms?  “My lord, it is you who are gifted with foresight, or so it is said.”

Elrond put on a wry smile.  “As I am sure you have realized by now, Halbarad, foresight is a curse as much as a gift.  I have foreseen a great many things, both joyful and grievous.  Some of them will come to pass, and some will not.  Even I cannot clearly see what lies ahead.”  He stood and went to look at the painting.  “A great shadow lies over Minas Tirith.  You have seen this, have you not?”

The shiver began crawling across Halbarad’s flesh again, and Elrond turned back to him as if sensing it.  Sitting down, he took Halbarad’s shoulders in his hands.  “Tell me about your dream, Halbarad.  It cannot harm you here.”

Halbarad took a deep breath, summoning the will to relive a vision of horror he had spent decades trying to forget.  “I am with a company of Dúnedain, on a vast plain of battle,” he began, stopping to clear his throat before continuing.  “Before us is a towering city.  That city,” he added, with a nod at the painting.  “The sky is roiling with smoke, and in the distance is a mountain spitting fire.  Great siege engines are pounding the city walls, and armies of Men and orcs are battling by the thousands.  We are swept into a battle more ferocious than I have ever ever imagined.  I am carrying the standard of the King, and our foes are drawn to it like moths to a flame.  I cut down orc after orc, and no too few Men as well, but they are relentless in their assault.  There is only option -- I raise the standard, like bait on a hook, and draw them away from Aragorn.  It works.  They follow me like hounds for a rabbit.  But in drawing them away, I have opened a gap.  They rush through it with scimitars raised.  I am surrounded.”     

Halbarad shivered under the blanket, realizing he was drenched in cold sweat.  Elrond’s voice was steady.  “What else do you see?”   

Halbarad shook his head.  “Nothing.”    

Elrond put a glass of amber liquid in front of him.  “Drink this.”

Halbarad downed it without asking what it was.  Fire burned in his gullet, and the smell of smoke and death slowly faded from his nostrils.  He looked up at Elrond.  “I know that if I go to the city, I will not see the days of the king.”

“But you will go to the city regardless,” Elrond said.  Halbarad nodded.  “You are a brave man.”

Halbarad shook his head.  “Is it bravery to seek death in battle, with honor, in service to my lord and my people, or is it vanity? I am a Man, and death is nothing but my fate.  It will find me whether I seek it or not. If the quick hot death of battle is not my fate, then old age will claim me inch by inch.  How much bravery does it take to make that choice?  Among men, only our ancestor, Tar-Minyatur, can truly be called brave, by willingly embracing death when immortality was his for the taking.  If such a choice were put before me, to escape the bitter gift of Men and instead live on in health and wisdom, I do not know if I would find the same courage.”

Elrond sat quietly for a moment.  “Nor I,” he said finally.

Halbarad cringed.  “Forgive me --”

Elrond caught his hand before he could bury his face in it, laughing lightly.  “No apologies, Halbarad.  If you fail to heed my warning, you will truly see the wrath of an Elf Lord.”  

There was a long silence, softened only by the birdcalls drifting through the open window and the faraway rush of flowing water.  Finally Elrond spoke.  “Does Aragorn know of this dream?”      

“No!”  Eru, no.  No one knew – not his men, or his wife, or the sons of Elrond, and certainly not Aragorn.  He had never been sure, until this very hour, that the dream had not been merely the product of a large quantity of ale at a very late hour.  Until now.  He caught Elrond’s arm as he rose.  “Promise me you won’t tell Aragorn,” he said.  “There must be nothing holding him back, when his time comes.  His way must be clear.” 

Elrond stood unmoving for a long moment.  “I promise, Master Dúnadan,” he said finally.  “His way will be clear.”  He went to the bed and reached across it to remove the painting of Minas Tirith from the wall.  “Perhaps we should find another painting for your room.  This one fights the draperies, do you not think?”  With a slight smile, he turned to leave.  “Enjoy your breakfast.  I will inform your friend Dudo that you are awake.  He has been asking for you.”

“May I see Aragorn later?”

“Tomorrow, Halbarad.”  Elrond turned and shot him a stern look.  “Now do promise to stay out of trouble, or I will order Saerbellas to put you to sleep until midsummer.”

Halbarad forced a begrudging nod, but Elrond lingered near the door expectantly, showing no intention of leaving until he received an explicit acknowledgement. “I will stay out of trouble,” Halbarad finally agreed.

Elrond smiled.  “Thank you, Halbarad.”  Turning the painting sideways to maneuver it through the doorway, he disappeared silently into the hall. 

Halbarad watched the open doorway until he was sure Elrond was out of earshot.  “Just as long as you keep old Saddlebags away from me,” he mumbled as he turned to his breakfast.

  *****

The door near the end of the hall was habitually kept shut, though the polished doorknob turned easily in Elrond’s hand and the well-oiled hinges opened without a creak.  The dim, shuttered room smelled of dust and emptiness, and the faint tap of the picture frame against the bare stone floor produced the hollow echo of an unlived-in room.  The rugs had been long ago been rolled up and stored away; the mattress and upholstered pieces were draped with serviceable but plain dust-covers. 

The faintest layer of dust coated the dresser and desk; a maid must have cleaned in here recently.  Elrond picked up a small wooden box from the dresser top, cradling it gently in his hands to protect the ancient, fragile wood.  Its maker had lacked the experience to properly select a hardy grade of wood and to preserve it against decay; and now, nearly three thousand years after it was made as a birthday present for a beloved little sister, it was crumbling with age.  Elrond fingered the intricate carvings carefully, smiling at stray gouges and grooves that were not quite straight – the work was a testament to love, not artistry.  Even at a young age, the box's maker had shown more aptitude for hunting and warfare than fine craftsmanship.  Elrond opened the box to find it empty.  Once, precious treasures had been secreted within, to be shared only with trusted confidantes - a bright yellow bird feather, a seashell, a gold ring with a tiny pink stone.  But like the red velvet lining that had crumbled to dust centuries ago, they were all gone.   

Elrond put the box back on the dresser and turned back to face the painting of Minas Tirith.  It was a startlingly accurate rendition, considering that its painter, Arahad, had died without ever seeing the city.  The work had long been kept in the room set aside for the fosterlings, as a symbol of the hope and destiny of the Dúnedain, and of Rivendell’s commitment to the fulfillment of that destiny.  Elrond did not know whether to curse or thank the lapse in foresight that had kept him blind, until too late, to the sacrifice that would ultimately be asked of him in the service of that commitment.  Now, there were no more choices, merely promises to keep.  He forced his hands to close once more around the gilded frame, to hoist it to shoulder height, and to hang it on an empty hook above the bed.  Then he opened the shutters and let the fresh air in.    

He arrived at Aragorn’s room to find his foster-son resting comfortably, but not in bed – the Dúnadan was napping on the balcony, comfortably ensconced on a well-cushioned bench with his face turned to the sun.  Wondering which of his sons had been brow-beaten into helping Aragorn escape the confines of his bedroom, Elrond lightly brushed a hand across the stubbled cheek.  Satisfied at the warmth he felt there, he turned to face the sun-dappled valley and leaned against the balustrade.  Breathing the refreshing scent of freshly-turned earth wafting up from the gardens, he willed himself to relax.  For now, all was quiet in Imladris; all was well.   Yet Halbarad’s vision was true.  Elrond, too, had foreseen fire in the sky and a vast tide of orcs swarming beneath the towers of Minas Tirith.  If Gondor fell, so would Middle Earth, and then all his trials would be for naught; all his sacrifices would be in vain. Nothing would have been saved -- not Gil-galad, not Elendil or Isildur, not Celebrían, not Arwen, not even Imladris.  And most agonizing of all was the knowledge that this time, he would be a mere bystander.  The fate of Middle Earth would be in other hands.     

Behind him, he heard the rustling of a blanket, but he curbed his urge to turn around.   The six feet separating him from the Man might as well be six leagues.  How had it come to this?  Over the years, each of his decisions had been correct; his words, wise; his intentions, compassionate.  But now, his words came back to him, unbidden:  A shadow lies between us, he had said.  And so it had. 

If there was one shadow in Arda he was resolved and empowered to dispel, it was this one; but for that, he must cast away the mantle of lofty authority with which he had smothered a young man’s resistance.  No Elf lord must he be now; not even a father, but simply – he smiled at the irony – a man.

“Has it always been so beautiful?”

Elrond released a sigh of thanks at the quiet question.  Aragorn would meet him halfway, then.  Allowing his gaze to roam the verdant woodland spread out before him, he leaned more heavily against the railing, still half-wary of chasing the man back into awkward silence.  “Beauty is everywhere in Arda, Aragorn. The cruel peak of Caradhras is beautiful, the pathless waste your friend Halbarad loves so much is beautiful, and the stormy sea that took Arvedui was beautiful.  Imladris has always been beautiful.  It was Celebrían who made it art.”   

Elrond sensed Aragorn’s surprise; never before had he spoken so casually and openly of Celebrían. Aragorn well knew that her departure was a wound barely closed, and Elrond had carefully guarded the affairs of his own heart from scrutiny, even as he had passed judgment on Aragorn’s. “I wish I had known her,” Aragorn said finally.

Elrond turned then, facing the Man, who had managed to fight off the enveloping pillows enough to achieve a sitting position.  “She brought hope and happiness and new life into this house,” he said.  “She was the source of my strength and my joy; a joy that I hope will be yours someday.  No man has ever been more deserving of it.”

“You told me once that I did not understand what I asked of you,” Aragorn said quietly, dropping his gaze in a hesitant way that made Elrond wince. “You were right to say it.  I was young.  Now I do know, with every breath I take, what it is I ask.  And so now I must ask you a different question, and I will abide by whatever answer you give.  What would you have me do?”

Elrond pushed aside a few stray pillows to clear a place to sit beside the man.  Leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, he clasped his hands together loosely. “Tell me, Aragorn – what is the purpose of art?” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Elrond saw Aragorn’s chin tip upward in surprise.  Such discussions were a relic of another time, so long ago that to Aragorn it must seem as if a lifetime had passed since those happier times.  Elrond waited, not realizing until Aragorn finally answered that he had been holding his breath.  “Art mimics the beauty of creation,” Aragorn said finally.  “It preserves a beautiful scene or memorializes an historic event for those who come after.” 

“Just so,” Elrond answered.  “And yet even Elves, whose memories will outlast any memorial or painting, love art as much as you mortals.  Aragorn, the Firstborn have no fear of death, yet we weary of it nonetheless.  We tire of seeing every beautiful thing around us decay and die – Men, hobbits, animals, trees, flowers – even the stones of this house crack and crumble beneath the weight of years.  Someday maybe even the mountains around us may fall, and yet we will endure, untouched by the forces of decay at work around us.  What is art to us, then?  A painting or statue will turn to dust just as the image it was meant to preserve.  We are powerless to save that which is transitory, or protect it from ravages of time.  But as much as you, we would remember all that is destined to be lost - a perfect leaf, a sunset, a mountain, a spring foal, a rose.  How can things we love pass from our sight and be lost forever?  It is a mystery beyond the understanding of any but Ilúvatar.” 

“The gift of Ilúvatar,” Aragorn said quietly.

“Yes.  It is yours, and it could have been mine; but I rejected it for the life of the Firstborn.  For a long time, it was inconceivable to me that anyone could choose otherwise.”

Aragorn’s face was tight; his gaze fixed woodenly ahead.  “Your brother did.” 

“Yes.  He did.”  Elrond looked down at hands that would have been dust ages ago if he had made the same choice.  “I thought him reckless, and short-sighted. And selfish.” 

“If you thought Elros selfish, you must think worse of me.”

“I can call no one selfish, Estel.  I had hoped my greatest sacrifices were behind me, and I desperately wished to save those I love from pain and sorrow beyond my comprehension.  But that which I love is mine to hold in trust only, not to build walls around to shut out the pain of the world.  My brother laid his life down willingly, while I have clung to my own all these long years.  But look; today his legacy is greater than my own. His line has multiplied, producing great kingdoms, great rulers, great victories, great tragedies, and a great race of Men that survives to this day; a race that may yet inherit Middle Earth, if we pass the test that is to come.  And in all those thousands of years, I have produced nothing but three children and this small refuge.”

"But you are a great leader of Men and Elves!” Aragorn protested.  “Your name and deeds are revered throughout Arda.”

“Aragorn, I tell you this so you know that I give my consent to your marriage with an open heart.  A dark time is coming when the fate of Middle Earth will be decided for all ages, and if the Enemy does not prevail, the heirs of Middle Earth will be your people, not mine.  Once we are gone, the memory of our deeds will be quick to fade.  And yet it seems I am given another chance, through my daughter, to share in my brother’s legacy.  In accepting this gift, Arwen will inherit that great legacy, and with it a future beyond my understanding.  She will also know the gift of great happiness, at least for at time.  That she will also know great sorrow does not diminish it.  That too, is a mystery, but it is her choice, and I would not take it away from her.  Or from you.”   

Elrond looked at the man and saw more than an echo of his brother’s strength and resolve.  “Time grows short, Estel.  Soon we will be called to our final test, and will be parted forever, no matter what the outcome.  In the little time that remains, I would have no shadow stand between us.” 

“It will be as you wish,” Aragorn said. 

Elrond took one battle-scarred hand, the one that was not swathed in bulky splints and bandages, between his own.  The rough fingers were bare; the ring that was the birthright of Elendil’s heir now graced a far fairer hand.  “This morning I wrote a letter to Arwen, asking her to return home.” 

Aragorn stiffened, stunned into silence.  When finally he found his tongue, his voice was but a whisper.  “Thank you, Adar.”

Elrond wrapped his other hand around Aragorn’s unruly mane and pulled him into an embrace as he had not done for many, many years. “If I must be parted from my children, at least let it not be yet. Let us waste no more time grieving.”  Releasing Aragorn from the embrace, he leaned back against the bench and caught sight of a grey-robed figure standing on a higher balcony, watching. 

Chapter 6

*********** 

Halbarad leaned back in his chair, feeling the seams of his fancy new tunic strain under the pressure, regarding with dread the dish that had just been placed in front of him.

Elrohir snorted.  “It is only a tart, Halbarad, not a troll that needs slaying.  Didn’t I warn you to eat a light breakfast this morning?”

“You should have warned me,” Halbarad retorted, “that the cook intended to feed this small gathering enough food to provision the Last Alliance.”  

“Well,” Elladan said from across the table, “if you had only refrained from gorging yourself quite so thoroughly on the soup, the roasted boar --”

“The quail --” interjected Elrohir mildly.

“—and the quail, and the cheese, and the bread, and the walnut-crusted trout,” concluded Elladan, “you would have had room for dessert.  My father would be a poor host to send you off into the wild on an empty stomach, would he not?”  

“If I eat one more bite, my stomach will empty, I promise you,” Halbarad answered, feeling put out.  He hadn’t gorged himself at all; quite the opposite.  He’d deliberately consumed only a modest portion of each course, unlike --      

“Halbarad?” 

A massive, three-pronged candlestick blocked his view of the seat directly across from him.  As Halbarad leaned sideways to see around it, he felt the seam under his arm pop.  “Yes, Dudo?”

The hobbit, having not bothered to speak to him all evening, was now pointing hopefully at his untouched dessert dish.  “Are you going to eat that?”

Halbarad suppressed a belch.  “Absolutely not.”    

The eyes fixed on the confection were wide and hopeful.  “Can I have it, then?” 

Halbarad’s jaw dropped.  “You’ve already eaten your own dessert.  In fact, you’ve probably eaten enough food to sustain the entire population of Eriador through the Fell Winter.  How could you possibly eat any more?”   Dudo was looking at him as blankly as if he’d asked him to refrain from breathing.  “All right.  Here.”  Before Elladan or Elrohir could comment on the unforgivable transgression of Elvish etiquette he was no doubt committing, he pushed the plate to the center of the table.  Fast as a frog’s tongue, a small hand spirited the dish to the opposite side, and a silver spoon plunged through the golden-brown pastry crust.  Halbarad shook his head in amazement and stole a look to the head of the table, but Elrond seemed too intent on his discussion with Glorfindel and Aragorn to notice portions being passed.  The chair between Aragorn and Gandalf was empty; Bilbo having quietly departed just after the quail course.  Evidently he had leave to come and go as he pleased from these sorts of doings, a privilege Halbarad envied.  He leaned to the right, where Gandalf was slowly churning his tart into a stew while carefully avoiding getting any of it into his mouth. “Are we almost finished?”

Gandalf laid down his spoon, took a sip of water and regarded him officiously.  “Finished with what, Halbarad?”  He looked irritated; Halbarad guessed he wanted a smoke.

“Dinner.” 

“Do not let Elrond hear you say that,” Gandalf chided.  “This feast was called in your honor, after all.”

“Gandalf, it must be nearly midnight,” Halbarad protested.  “I have a long ride ahead of me tomorrow.  I need to get an early start.” 

Across the table, there was a clatter as Dudo’s spoon was dropped abruptly into a porcelain dish, and Halbarad winced as Elladan’s boot connected with his shin.

“Nice, Halbarad,” Elrohir muttered under his breath.  “We’d almost distracted him from the fact that you’re leaving.”

“I still don’t understand your hurry, Halbarad,” Elladan said with studied mildness.  “Do you find the hospitality of the Last Homely House lacking?”

“Not at all, it’s just that I’ve been gone nearly a month and --”

“He’s worried he’ll become soft,” commented Elrohir.  “Or worse – that he might begin to like it here.”

Elladan nodded gravely.  “It has been known to happen.  Why, his great-great-great grandfather, what was his name?”

“On his mother’s side?  Halagarth, I believe.”

“Yes, that was it.  Didn’t he take to wearing his hair in long, plaited locks and dabbling in the rose garden?  Father quite despaired of ever getting rid of him.”

“Saerbellas was quite fond of him, though, if I recall,” Elrohir said.  “Odd; he doesn’t usually care much for Men.”

Halbarad lowered his voice to a growl.  “Let’s leave my dead relatives out of this.”

“Very well, I suppose we could discuss your mother instead,” offered Elladan.

“Certainly not!” 

“Leave him be, you scoundrels," Gandalf clucked.  "Fear not, Halbarad.  It will take much more than a few weeks in Imladris to make a gentleman out of you.  Now finish your wine.”

“I already finished  --”   Halbarad looked down to find the goblet filled to the brim again.  For the fourth time.      

“Yes?”  Elladan asked innocently. 

Halbarad twisted around, catching sight of the wine server rounding the end of the table.  Confounded, stealthy Elves.  “I cannot drink another drop,” Halbarad announced.   

“Nonsense,” Elladan answered.  “The evening is just beginning, dear Ranger.”

“I thought dinner was finished.” 

“Dinner is finished,” Elladan explained with a cryptic smile.  “It is not of dinner that I speak.”

“What, then?” 

Elladan held his goblet at eye level, swirling the wine gently.  “Why, merrymaking, of course.”

Halbarad had enough experience with Elvish merrymaking to know that at his current level of satiated stupor, he’d be lucky to survive the first hour of it.  He opened his mouth to speak, but a nudge in the ribs silenced him.  “Hark, your host is speaking,” Gandalf whispered.  

An expectant silence fell over the hall as Elrond rose to his feet. “My friends,” he began, “I hope you have enjoyed this feast in honor of our dear friends Mithrandir, Halbarad, and Dudo Tillfield.”  He smiled and waited for the clapping and murmurs of affirmation to recede.  “We rejoice at the reunion with old friends,” he said, nodding warmly first at Gandalf and then at Halbarad, “we extend a warm welcome to new ones,” he said with an affectionate smile at Dudo, “and most especially, we give thanks for the safe return of a beloved son of this house.”  At this, Aragorn moved to stand in acknowledgement, but Elrond’s hand came down firmly on his shoulder and lingered in a clasp of affection.        

“Ai, that is a sight for sore eyes,” Elrohir murmured.

“As we prepare to conclude the feast and adjourn to the Hall of Fire, I am pleased to announce yet another happy return.”  Elrond’s hand tightened once more on Aragorn’s shoulder, and Halbarad glanced to the side.  Elrohir’s noncommittal shrug failed to disguise the calm satisfaction written on his face.  Whatever announcement Elrond planned to make, it was no news to his sons.  “Long has the finest jewel of Imladris been absent from our sight, but no longer,” Elrond was saying.  “Arwen Undómiel, who has dwelt for long years with our kin in Lothlórien, will return to grace our fair valley once more.”

Applause and cheers of joy erupted throughout the Hall, but beneath Elrond’s paternal grasp Aragorn’s expression betrayed no surprise.  Halbarad cocked an eyebrow at Gandalf.  “You knew, too, didn’t you?”

The wizard merely shrugged cryptically and smiled at Dudo, who was excitedly tugging at Elladan’s sleeve.  “Who?  Who was he talking about?  Who’s coming back?”

Elladan laughed as he extracted the small fingers from his tunic.  “Our sister.”

“Your sister?  I didn’t know you had a sister.  Where is she now?” 

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a glance.  “Visiting relatives, on the other side of the mountains,” Elladan answered finally.

Glorfindel appeared behind Dudo’s chair and pulled it back from the table.  “Save your questions for the Hall of Fire, Master Dudo,” he said, extending a hand as the hobbit twisted around to peer up at him.  “It is time for singing.  Do you like to sing?” 

Dudo went along with him gleefully, leaving Halbarad to smile at the memory of what kind of songs the hobbit would have learned at the Prancing Pony.  When the rest of the table had emptied, he dragged himself to his feet and fell in behind the happily chatting throng of revelers making its way to the Hall of Fire.  Once there, he spotted a shallow alcove along the back wall, lowered himself onto a bench, and tugged his belt loose a notch.  Breathing a sigh of relief, he let his head fall back against the cool stone wall.  Even this far from the fire, the room was quite warm, and the music had begun.  As the rich sounds of Elvish singing and lilting Elvish conversation drifted to his ears, he yielded to pleasant drowsiness and closed his eyes.  All he wanted to do in Imladris was sleep, it seemed, even when he was not over-fed and frankly drunk, and he surrendered to a light doze in spite of himself.  It wasn't long after, though, that he was snapped to alertness by an ear-splitting peal of decidedly un-Elvish laughter.  Jerking upright, he quickly scanned the room, seeing with amusement that all eyes were fixed on Dudo.  The hobbit was laughing delightedly and jumping up and down as Elladan demonstrated a magic trick.  Another shriek of delight fractured the carefully cultivated serenity of the Hall as Elladan pretended to extract a silver coin from Dudo’s ear.      

“Valandil taught him that trick,” Elohir remarked, settling himself on the bench and stretching his long legs out before him.  “He's always looking for a new audience.  Tired, Halbarad?”

By some combination of long practice and alcoholic languor, Halbarad had managed to suppress his startle to a bare twitch.  He rolled his head casually sideways without giving up the support of the wall.  “No,” he said.  “Just drunk.” 

“Not drunk enough, I think!”  Elrohir replied, beckoning a passing servant and relieving him of two glasses of wine.  “You’re still too glum.  Cheer up.  Arwen is coming home.”

Halbarad accepted the glass.  “That is good news indeed.  How long have you known?”

“Father told us only this morning.  We are to leave in two weeks’ time to fetch her from Lothlórien.”

“She seems to enjoy it there,” Halbarad said noncommittally.  “Are you sure she’ll want to come back?”

Elrohir smiled and looked across the Hall.  “She will after I tell her about this evening.”    

Following his gaze, Halbarad saw Aragorn seated by the fire with Bilbo, whose earlier absence from the dinner table had evidently been in service of a nap.  Aragorn’s head was bent close to the hobbit’s as if listening intently, and he was smiling as if at a joke - or maybe one of Bilbo’s bawdy verses.  A short distance away, Elrond and Gandalf were speaking quietly to each other as they pretended to listen to the minstrels.  Gandalf’s chin dipped every so often in the direction of his chest, as if fighting sleep, but though Elrond feigned polite interest in the entertainment, his sharp gaze never wandered too far from foster-son. 

Halbarad nudged Elrohir’s elbow.  “Your father hasn’t taken his eyes off Aragorn all night.  Had I thought there was still cause for worry, I would not have planned to leave so soon.”

Elrohir joined the assemblage in polite applause as the minstrels concluded their piece and laid their instruments down.  “Father will certainly watch him like a hawk for a while, but it is not worry I see in his eyes tonight.”

“What, then?” 

Elrohir cocked his head as he looked across the room.  “Peace.  Joy in life is ever mingled with grief, and for Father, at least, there will never again be the one without the other.  But tonight, they are both at peace.”

Halbarad did not need to ask of whom Elrohir spoke.  Aragorn’s throaty laughter was light as it drifted across the crowded room.  He was obviously as comfortable here in these graceful and luxurious surroundings as he was crouched over a sputtering cook fire in the wild.  “He will not feel out of place in a palace someday,” Halbarad observed.    

“Indeed he will not,” Elrohir agreed quietly.  Beckoning another waiter, he refilled Halbard’s glass.  “Have some more wine, friend Dúnadan.  It is a far sight better than that curdled barley you drink.”

“I don’t recall you ever turning your nose up at curdled barley,” Halbarad countered.

“As well I shouldn’t,” Elrohir affirmed with a laugh.  “Those who are destined to straddle two worlds might as well partake of the best of both.  But look, my brother is about to make a fool of himself.” 

“I welcome the return of my dear sister,” announced Elladan, having stepped into the center of the room and taken possession of an abandoned harp, which he began plucking experimentally.  “She is indeed the light of Imladris.”  A murmur of assent rumbled through the crowd, but Halbarad sensed trouble in Elladan’s exultant tone and unsteady stance, and so, by his frown, did Elrond.  “Dear friends,” Elladan continued dramatically, ignoring a glare from Glorfindel that would have dropped a troll in its tracks, “it is indeed good that we gather here tonight to celebrate the homecoming of our dear friends, our brother, and soon, it seems, our beloved sister.  It is customary in this house to honor such occasions with song, and so I offer one to you now.  I present:  The Lay of Dudo Tillfield.”

“What’s got into him?” Halbarad whispered as Dudo clapped with glee. 

“I would say,” remarked Elrohir, “about a gallon of Erestor’s finest vintage.”

Halbarad winced as Elladan overbalanced while bowing to his father and nearly knocked over a music stand, but Aragorn’s laughter seemed to disarm Elrond’s wrathful glare.  With a prim nod at his son, Elrond sat back down as Elladan propped the harp against his chest.  Halbarad frowned skeptically and leaned closer to Elrohir.  “I didn’t know Elladan played the harp,” he remarked.

“Nor did I,” replied Elrohir, wincing as Elladan took another practice pluck, bringing forth hearty laughter from the less inhibited members of the crowd.  Grinning proudly at his accomplishment, Elladan began to sing. 

Rangers tread the marsh and midden,

Risking perils plain and hidden

Without a fear of fang or swarm

Keeping hobbits safe from harm

Wielding blades of bronze and steel

Lest trolls bespy a tasty meal

But best of all by bow or sword

Was one the Rangers called their lord

“By sword, truly,” Halbarad whispered.  “The bow issue is less clear.”

“We tried,” Elrohir answered.  “We did try.”

Now Aragorn was fearless ever,

Showing fear of naught but weather,

His travels took him far from here,

In search of Barley’s tasty beer.

He staggered into Bree one night,

Seeking the Pony’s warming light

How could he have known that there

In Bree, so cosy, safe and fair

Spies lurked out from ‘round the stable

Behind each door and ‘neath the table

In Bree where he’d not dreamt of danger

A plot had hatched to snatch a Ranger

T’was not a troll that brought him down,

Outfoxed he was by folks in town.

Elladan broke off his song as one of the minstrels, pained beyond endurance by the assault on his instrument, approached him and snatched his harp back.  Waving an affronted Elladan an arm’s length away, he raised the instrument to his chest and bowed slightly.  “By your leave, my lord, if you will continue, I will attempt to follow your tune.”

His deliberate stress on the word “tune” brought forth a swell of uproarious laughter, and Elladan frowned in mock outrage. 

Elrond’s lips tightened at the collapse of decorum, and Glorfindel looked weary, but Dudo was laughing so hard he stumbled against Gandalf’s knees, and Halbarad grinned at the delight in Aragorn’s voice as he called to his brother from his place by the fire.  “Carry on, Elladan!”

Elrond waved a hand in defeat and stepped back, folding his arms, while Gandalf snorted smoke from his pipe.   

“Thank you, Estel,” Elladan said dramatically, bowing low to Aragorn.  He directed a cooler nod at the minstrel.  “Shall we continue, then?”  With that he resumed his song, managing to keep nearly in tune with the harp. 

They snatched Estel clean off the road

But how it happened, no one told.

I will not say my brother’s simple

But that letter ruse won’t fool a pimple

But not to fear, lord Dúnadan,

Freedom’s soon to be re-won.

For in pursuit, your faithful liege

With but one thought - his mare retrieve

With mare and Chieftain hauled away

He vowed there’d be a price to pay

And so in haste he fled to Bree,

Where they gathered, rescuers three

Gandalf, stalwart, grey and wise,

His fearsome staff will blind your eyes

Halbarad, morose and dour,

In stubbornness resides his power

And Dudo, though but young and small, 

Never shirked from battle’s call

He held his ground and did not waver

Trusting to an Elven saber.

In the face of death he did not wilt

He sank  that blade up to the hilt

And so we sing tonight of valour,

Of deeds long past and deeds anew,

We sing of Dudo, friend to wizards,

Friend to Elves, and Rangers, too.

Though wolves, I’m told, will flee before him,

Lest they meet the blade he drew.

With a final flourish, Elladan took Dudo’s hand and pulled him into a dual bow, to another round of delighted applause. 

Elrohir drained his glass.  “Somewhere Elbereth is weeping.”

Halbarad chuckled.  He’d heard Elladan’s improvisations before, but never in his father’s great hall.  “The look on Glorfindel’s face was priceless.  Aragorn loved it.  And Dudo will sing it for his grandchildren.”

“You will miss him, will you not?” 

“Aragorn?”  Halbarad shrugged.  “I’ll see him in a few weeks.”   

“No, besotted Ranger, not Estel.  The hobbit.”

“Tillfield?”  Halbarad blinked and took a reflexive gulp of wine.  He paused a long moment, finding it strangely difficult to speak.  “Yes,” he said finally.  “I suppose I will.”

“I thought you had no use for hobbits.”

Elrohir’s familiar keen gaze suddenly seemed bottomless, and Halbarad tore his eyes away from it.  “I don’t,” he replied automatically, shaking off the unsettling awareness of his friend’s impossible antiquity.  He made it a habit of avoiding examining some realities too closely, including the fact that Elrohir had sat in this very Hall and shared a glass with Valandil himself, or that he might very likely do the same with some as-yet unborn Dúnadan, when Halbarad’s bones were dust.  All such things were better left to the contemplation of Elves and wizards.  Looking across the polished stone floor, slowly clearing of guests, Halbarad saw that Bilbo and Gandalf had risen to say their good-nights to Elrond.  Taking this as a sign that he, too, might soon gracefully make his exit, he made to stand.     

An elbow nudged his own, and when he looked over he was relieved to see once again beside him not an ageless figure of legend but only an old friend with a wicked sword.  “It looks as if young Dudo is going to bed without saying farewell to you.”

Halbarad shrugged. 

“He’s barely spoken to you all evening,” Elrohir commented.  “He must be quite put out at you leaving.”

Halbarad watched as Dudo walked ahead of Gandalf and Bilbo to the back of the Hall.   The hobbit paused at the door leading to the family and guest quarters, but did not turn before disappearing into the shadows.  “He’ll get over it,” Halbarad said after a moment.  “Gandalf and Bilbo have it all worked out.  Some nephew of Bilbo’s is to get him settled in the Shire, and sponsor him in an apprenticeship of some sort.  Gandalf will keep an eye on him.  In the long run, he’ll be better off with his own kind.”

“Like you?”

Halbarad chuckled.  “Like me.  But I had better say my own good-nights.  Morning will come soon enough.”

With Elrohir at his side, he worked his way through the diminishing crowd to reach Elrond, detouring around Elladan and Glorfindel to avoid disrupting what seemed to be a spirited discussion about the appropriate venue for drinking songs.  Elrond, having seen the hobbits and Gandalf out, was once again standing beside Aragorn.  As Halbarad approached, he saw that his chieftain was sound asleep in the chair.

Elrohir came to his father’s side.  So alike were their features they could be taken for brothers, Halbarad thought, yet somehow he knew that even a stranger would never think so.  It was not the lines of his face, but something in the set of his chin, the depth of his gaze,  that set Elrond apart as an ancient among ancients, a lord among lords.  Beside him even Elrohir, ancient and venerable in his own right, looked young and untested.  “Estel looks quite comfortable,” Elrohir remarked.  “Will he be warm enough in here tonight, do you think, if I stay with him and keep the fire stoked?”

“He will rest better in his own bed,” Elrond answered.  “But first, go and light the fire in his room.  You are right that it is quite warm here and I would not have him take a chill when he goes upstairs.”

Having dispatched Elrohir, Elrond turned to Halbarad.  “I hope you enjoyed the evening, Halbarad, as well as the rest of your stay.”

“The hospitality and graciousness of your house are beyond compare, my lord Elrond.  Never have I enjoyed such comforts, or such welcome, as I have been shown here in your halls.”

“And yet you cannot wait to leave us.” 

This time, Halbarad did not mistake the glimmer of mirth in Elrond’s eyes.    “I’m afraid you know me too well, my lord,” he answered with a slight smile.  “I am but a simple man.  A mere Ranger, unaccustomed to fine things and houses of stone.”

A hand dropped onto his shoulder.  “You are much more than that, Halbarad.”

Elladan and Glorfindel approached, having set aside their discussion, though Elladan looked flustered and ready to resume it at the drop of a hat.  Glorfindel crossed his arms and regarded the sleeping Aragorn before raising an amused eyebrow at Elrond.  “You used to carry him to bed when he did this.” 

“Spare us that spectacle, I beg you,” said Elladan.  Reaching down, he shook the relaxed, silk-draped shoulder, an effort that resulted in only a mumble of protest from its owner.  A second shake achieved the desired result, as Aragorn opened his eyes and squinted at the four pair of eyes looking down at him.  “Did I fall asleep?”  he asked, pushing himself straight in the chair and rubbing at a crick in his neck.  “That was rude of me.”

“We’ll overlook it this time, since you restrained yourself from insulting my singing,” Elladan said amiably.  He hooked a hand under Aragorn’s arm.  “Come now, off to bed with you.”

“I’ll just sleep in here tonight,” Aragorn protested, trying to curl into a more comfortable position. 

“No, you will not,” Elrond said firmly, getting a grip on the opposite arm.  “You are going to sleep in your own room, so you had better say farewell to Halbarad now.”

Aragorn raised a half-hearted salute to Halbarad as he was hauled to his feet and led away.  “Safe journey, Halbarad.”

“I’m leaving Daisy in your hands again.  See that you take better care of her this time.”   Halbarad watched as Aragorn was led away by the guiding hands of his family, grateful that for once the parting would not be a long one. 

  ******

Stubborn darkness clung to the stable, shrouding stalls, horses, and tack in indistinct shadows even as the first songs of morning birds rang through the trees.  Satisfied at feeling only a slight hitch in his ribs as he lifted the saddle, Halbarad settled it onto Star’s back and cinched the girth strap by touch.  He’d packed his gear and supplies last night, leaving the packs by the door for easy loading.  Most contained gifts from Elrond:  wine, bolts of fine cloth, needles, metal tools, healing herbs, and other goods that were difficult to manufacture in the Angle.  And a cask of Erestor’s wine.  A pack horse was to be lent to him, and Daisy would be left behind for Aragorn’s journey to the Angle in a few weeks.  Halbarad took a moment to pat the chestnut mare in her stall.  “I am leaving you in charge of my chieftain again,” he said softly, “but be sure to bring him home safely this time.”  He shivered slightly in the damp chill of the stable, but outside, the graying sky was clear and he was sure the day would be warm in the lower valley.  It was time to leave.  He’d deliberately said his farewells last night and risen before dawn to ensure there’d be no drawn-out leave-taking rituals to endure this morning, but as he fastened the last pack strap, the rapid, urgent pounding of feet thudded on the cobblestone courtyard outside the stable.  Bare feet.  Hobbit’s feet.  Halbarad turned toward the door just as Dudo burst through at a run. 

“I don’t want you to go!”  the hobbit cried, barreling into Halbarad’s midsection.  “Why do you have to go?”

Halbarad could feel the frantic thumping of the hobbit’s heart against his abdomen, hear desperation in the ragged, sobbing gasps from the face plunged into his shirt.  “Calm down,” he soothed, taking the small shoulders in his hands and kneeling down to smooth damp hair from the tear-streaked face. He wondered if Gandalf was about.  Halbarad had never been good at scenes like this, even with his own children.  “Dudo, I have to go home to my people.  We talked about this, remember?”

Dudo shook his head despondently.  “No!  You can’t leave! I’ll miss you!”

“Dudo…” he patted the hobbit’s back reassuringly.  “You’ll be leaving in a few weeks yourself.  Gandalf is taking you to the Shire.”

Dudo sniffed.  “I don’t want to go to the Shire.”

“But it’s all worked out,” Halbarad said, wishing even more desperately for Gandalf’s intervention.  “Gandalf and Bilbo are going to make sure you’re happy there.”

“I don’t want to be happy there.  I want to be happy here.  Why can’t we just stay here in Rivendell and never leave?”

“Oh, Dudo.”  Still on his knees, Halbarad pulled Dudo into an embrace.  “I was afraid of this.”

Dudo looked up in puffy-eyed puzzlement. “Of what?”

“Tell me something.  Why do you want to stay in Rivendell?”

“It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen, and the people are lovely and kind and beautiful as well.  Everything is perfect.” 

“All right then – what do you think you would do if you lived in Rivendell?”

Dudo seemed stumped by the question for a moment, as if it had not occurred to him.  Finally he shrugged.  “I could help in the kitchen, I suppose.  The cook is very nice.”

Halbarad smiled.  “The cook is really very nice.  And quite lovely, as well.”  He brushed away Dudo’s tears and climbed to his feet.  “Come with me.  I want to show you something.”  Beckoning Dudo to follow, he set off across the courtyard to the path that followed the river upstream.  Winding past the kitchen gardens, the forge, the pottery shop and the woodworking shop, past the cottages that lined the river, it eventually led to a small, unmarked trailhead, barely visible in the gray morning light.  Halbarad set off up the steep path, climbing steadily but slower than his usual pace, surprised at how the light exertion winded him.  The trail was seldom used, and the close-growing underbrush soon soaked his trouser legs with dew.  Back and forth across the heavily forested hillside the path wound, until finally it ended at a promontory with a view of the western flank of the foothills.  An enormous flat boulder dominated the site, overlooking a steep cliff that ensured that the trees would never obscure the panoramic view.  “Don’t get too close to the edge,” Halbarad warned, lowering himself onto a smaller boulder several feet back from the sheer cliff and pressing a hand to his healing ribs as he caught his breath.  Behind him, the sky was red, and below him to the west, the first rays of daylight were washing the grey plains in pale orange light.    

Dudo stood speechless before the view of dawn breaking over Eriador.

“Tell me what you see now,” Halbarad said.

It was a long moment before Dudo answered.  “The whole world.” 

“And right down below us – what there?”  Halbarad pointed to green treetops, a thin slice of silver water, the edge of a scalloped rooftop. 

“Rivendell.”

“Can you see now?” Halbarad asked.  “Rivendell is but a small island, unmoving, unchanging, immobile, like a rock in the currents of time.  It is not for us, Dudo.”

Dudo tore his gaze from the image of tranquility that lay below him to the world on the horizon, one that Halbarad knew had up until now shown him only fear, pain, and uncertainty.  “Why?”

“Because that is our place out there, where everything is not everlasting and beautiful and perfect.  That cook, the one you like so much – she really is very beautiful.  But do you know something?  She looked exactly the same when I first met her - over fifty years ago.  I suspect she looked the same when this age of the world began.  And she will look the same when your hair is as white as Bilbo’s, and when your great-grandchildren sing that lay about you that Elladan sang last night.  You can stay here, in Rivendell, and grow old and die while surrounded by perfect beauty that never changes, or you can go out there --” he waved a hand at the vast expanse of land glowing under the warm touch of morning – “and live your life.  Which would you rather do?”

“But Bilbo gets to stay here,” Dudo argued.

“Bilbo was an old hobbit when he came to live in Rivendell, with a long, full life and many fine adventures already behind him.  He has earned his rest.  Elrond and Glorfindel and the other Elves here, too; even that annoying prig Saddlebags, have struggled mightily for many years, longer than you can imagine, to fight the Enemy and to keep this one place of beauty free of its shadow.  Such is Rivendell, Dudo – an image of what awaits us, maybe, after our toil here is done; and a  refuge, from time to time, from the trials of mortal life.  But we cannot allow it to distract us from the paths we must tread.  We must go out into the world and meet our destiny, not hide from it.”

Dudo looked as if the weight of the world had just dropped onto his shoulders.  “Where is my path, then?  Where is my destiny?”

Halbarad smiled.  “It will be your adventure to find out.  Maybe you will marry a lovely hobbit lass, have a houseful of children and grow old together.  Maybe you will be a cook, an innkeeper, or a farrier, or a weaver, or a pipe-weed trader.”

“But not a Ranger,” Dudo said with a sheepish smile.

Halbarad ruffled his hair.  “You lack not the courage for it, but I think that you do not like sleeping on the ground so much after all.”

“Can I still keep my Ranger name?” Dudo asked.

“Of course you can,” he said.  “You have earned it. It is yours as long as you care to keep it.”

“Halbarad?”

“Yes, Dudo?”  The sun was climbing higher now, and below in the distance he could see the silver glint of the Bruinen, beside which he would later today ride the familiar trail toward home.  Already he could taste the tang of road dust in his mouth, feel the gentle sway of the horse beneath him.  He had sat still too long.

“What is your path?”  

Halbarad kept his gaze fixed on the west, though it was from the east that he felt the tug of his doom.  “My path is with Aragorn,” he said at last.  “Where he leads, I will follow.” 

Dudo clasped his hands in his lap.  “If I go to the Shire, will I see you again?”

“I don’t know.  The Rangers protect the Shire, but we rarely go inside its borders.  The Shirefolk have no knowledge of the perils that you have seen.  They know nothing of orcs, and wolves are a distant threat.  Gandalf believes the Shire’s innocence is a treasure and he would have it preserved.”

“So I shouldn’t tell them?  About the wolves and orcs or any of this?” 

“Why don’t you talk to Gandalf about it, during your journey there.  Gandalf is very wise.  He will give you good counsel.”

“I’ve been learning to write.  Will I be able to write you a letter?”  

He smiled.  “Of course.  Maybe you could send it to Bree, and Barley could give it to me when I come to the Prancing Pony.”

Dudo laughed.  “Maybe I should think of another way! Look what happened last time!”

Halbarad squeezed his shoulder.  “Yes, maybe that isn’t such a good idea. But I would look forward to a letter from you.  I have truly enjoyed your company, young master hobbit.  I am very glad our first meeting was not our last.”

“You were very worried about Aragorn that day.”

He’d been frantic that day, and this lad had seen the worst of him.  He thought back to that day, to the cowering but defiant boy he’d interrogated about Aragorn’s disappearance.  “Yes, I was very worried, and I was very angry.  I’m sorry I frightened you.  You were very brave to do the right thing and tell me what happened.  If you had not…”

“Aragorn would never get to be the king.”

Halbarad sucked in a breath.  “Who told you that?”

“Bilbo,” Dudo answered. “He tells me lots of things.  What does that mean, to be the king?”

Halbarad wasn’t sure he knew.  “It has been such a long time since there was a king that we can scarcely imagine what it would be like.  But I know that there will be peace, and here in Eriador, towns will sprout up, and farms, and markets, and people will live in warm, dry houses with little gray cats sitting on the porch and big fat cows grazing in the pastures.  And soldiers will hang up their swords above their hearths, and some of them will become minstrels, or farmers, or artists.  And in a land far from here, on the other side of the mountains, the King’s banners will fly over a towering city of white stone, and he will look out onto the plain below, and see his people happy and prosperous, and he will be happy, too.  And there will be no orcs, or wolves, or thieves on the road, or any other evil thing, and the Rangers will wander no longer, but rest at last.”

“You make it sound like a dream, like Rivendell.”

“This is a different kind of dream.  This is a dream of a world our children can live in, and build with their own hands, not just admire and envy.”  

“And Aragorn needs you to make it happen.”

Halbarad released a long breath.  There would be many things that Aragorn needed in order to become king, not the least of which were the favor of the Valar, a small handful of miracles, and a great deal of luck.  Whether Halbarad’s presence would matter in the end, he could not possibly know.  “I don’t know,” he said truthfully.  “What I do know is that I need him.  Without him, there is no dream of a brighter future.”

Dudo bent over and fumbled with something at his belt for a moment.  When he straightened and stretched out his open hand to Halbarad, the flat length of a sheathed Elven dagger lay in his palm.  “I want to give this back to you, then.”

Halbarad would know the dagger anywhere.  He had carried it on his belt for thirty-three years.   “No, Dudo.  I gave it to as a gift.  You’ve earned it.”

Dudo slid off the boulder and took a step toward the edge of the cliff, gazing off into the distance.  “The Shire is peaceful, you say.  There are no wolves and no orcs, and your Rangers guard it.”

“I swear to you that as long as I draw breath, no harm will come to the Shire.”

“Then I don’t need this dagger,” Dudo said. “And you do.”

“No,” he said again, but when the hobbit lifted his right hand from his knee and placed the scabbard in it, he did not resist.      

-Chapter 7-

As Halbarad descended from Rivendell, the lush pines and ferns of the protected valley gave way to scrubby oaks, bent and twisted by the wind that constantly scraped the flanks of the hills.  He resisted glancing behind him again.  He already knew what he would see:  no trace of his passage.  The path that seemed so obvious ahead would be swallowed up in the brushy undergrowth behind him.  Imladris had hidden itself once again from mortal eyes, even friendly ones.  He could not have retraced his steps now, even if he wished to.  But he had no desire to return to fragrant, blossoming Rivendell just yet.  His mind was set on the bony, windswept lands below, where the silver ribbon of the Bruinen glinted in the midday sun. A shadow flickered over the ground, and he looked up to see a lone hawk soaring lazily in the warming updrafts.  It was a good day to go home.

The silence, at first, seemed strange; broken only by the rhythmic creak of saddle leather beneath him, the muffled thump of hooves on dirt, and an occasional snort from one of the horses.  Gradually his unease faded as he realized he had simply grown too accustomed to the background sounds of rushing water and twittering birdsong that continuously bathed Rivendell.  He stretched, easing a cramp in his back.  He’d been lying about for too long.  It was good to get into the saddle again, to feel the weight of his sword on his hip.  Following the custom of Imladris, he had gone about unarmed during his stay, but felt naked doing it.   A Dúnadan didn't step out his door to use the outhouse without strapping a blade to his belt.

The Bruinen had receded, though the extent of the flooding could still be seen in the thick mud and flattened grasses along the banks.  The horses splashed willingly into the knee-deep water, but Halbarad found himself much less eager to go into the seemingly placid stream.  At first, it had been easy enough to convince himself that he had imagined what he thought he’d seen, weary and hurt as he had been that night.  He found it comforting to believe so; and then Gandalf had appeared at his room a few days after their arrival, alone and moving in that furtive way he moved when he was trying look inconspicuous.  He sat himself down at the bedside and made small talk about the weather and Dudo’s misadventures in the kitchen and Aragorn’s condition.  Finally, he got around to asking what Halbarad remembered of night crossing of the Bruinen.  Gandalf listened patiently as Halbarad related seeing the floodwaters, so rapid and wide they would leave the ford impassible for weeks, miraculously recede to a trickle in a matter of moments.  Then, instead of reassuring him that he'd imagined the whole thing, he leaned very close and warned him to never speak of it to anyone.       

Halbarad tore his eyes from the river and nudged the horses up the far bank, putting aside the thought of what fearsome power Gandalf could command if he turned his mind to evil.  

The trail followed the river south.  At sunset, he camped, fished for dinner, and built a fire.  With the coals toasting both his bare feet and the fish he had speared, to varying degrees of doneness, he leaned back against a pack and relaxed, watching the night sky come to life in the fading light.  When the fish was done, he picked the firm white flesh of the bones with his dagger and ate it plain.  Then he rolled up in his cloak, he curled up on the rocky ground and slept under the stars.  With good weather, he would be home tomorrow before dinner.     

Given his recent familiarity with feather beds, he should not have been surprised at the cramp that seized his back when he tried to rise in the morning.  Propping a hand against his ribcage, he staggered to the riverbank and knelt to splash water on his face. The river was steely grey in the bare light, and felt as cold as it looked.  Quickly loading the horses, he resumed the trail as the first shafts of sunlight struck the treetops.  As he traveled south, the hills grew higher and the woods thicker.  It was nearing mid-afternoon when he came to the mouth of a small tributary spilling into the Bruinen.  He guided the horses down the bank and into the water as if to ford the stream, but instead of crossing it, he turned the horses into the current and followed it into a narrow hollow with hills looming close on either side, thickly shaded by tall trees.      

After a distance, the walls of the draw receded enough to allow passage along the stream bank, and he led the horses up out of the water.  A little way further, he came to a steep rock face topped by a stand of ancient oaks.  Here, there would be a guard posted, ready to fill an intruder with arrows before he knew what hit him.  Even recognizing a friend, the guard would not show himself until he saw an all’s well sign.  Halbarad gave the signal with a wave of his arm, drawing a grey-cloaked figure out from the cover of the trees.  With surprise, he saw that it was not one of the young boys usually assigned to the guard, but Brandol, a scarred and grizzled lieutenant. 

Brandol looked just as surprised to see him.  “By the Valar, Halbarad, I was beginning to think you’d succumbed to Rivendell’s spell and decided to stay!” 

Halbarad guided the horses up a winding, rocky path to the lookout point.  “If I were wise, I would have,” he admitted.  He dismounted and bent to stretch his legs.         

“Our luck that no one has ever accused you of wisdom, then.” Brandol’s single dark eye looked him up and down appraisingly, and an eyebrow lifted.  “What happened to your clothes?”

Halbarad glanced down at himself.  As Saddlebags predicted, his ruined clothes had been burned, or otherwise disposed of in accordance with Elvish practices.  The heavy leather jerkin he now wore still creaked with newness, and the boots on his feet were tanned to an impossibly smooth, buttery luster.  Next to Brandol’s scarred boots and threadbare cloak, they looked positively kingly.  He shrugged.  “Maybe I should take a roll in the mud before anyone else sees me like this.”

Brandol’s deep guffaw was as musical to Halbarad’s ears as the bell-like laughter of the Elves.  “Don’t let Eirien hear I let you consider anything of the sort!”  He slapped Halbarad’s back with enough force to rock him forward and reached to for the pack horse’s lead rope, his one good hand nimbly slipping apart the knot that held it to the saddle.  “I thought Aragorn might be with you. Is he well?”

“Still recuperating,” Halbarad replied.  “And what are you doing out here, you old dog?”        

“There’s a shortage of strong backs around here, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Brandol replied, looking hopefully at the cask strapped to the pack harness.  “Is this wine or beer?  Wine, I suppose.  The fence repairs were just finished last week; I took the watch because everyone with two good hands was needed to dig post holes. Now Hagorn’s patrol is out, and I had to send a few men south, to look into this Dunlending trouble.”

There was always Dunlending trouble.  “What now?”

Brandol set off down the path with the pack horse, leaving Halbarad to follow behind.  “Two or three of the clan chiefs are warring.  People are on the move.  I want to make sure they’re not moving this way.  Last thing we need is a whole tribe of Dunlendings on our doorstep.”

Halbarad was busy doing mental arithmetic.  “Whom did you send?”

The grizzled head ducked but did not turn.  “Hurin and Haerost.”

Halbarad groaned. “Brandol, he’s seventeen.”

Brandol shrugged.  “How old were you the first time we fought orcs on the high pass?”

“Sixteen. That was different.” 

“Why? Because he’s your son?”

“You know me better than that.  Alagos was fighting orcs when he was fifteen.”    That was the difference.  Alagos would have been ready to fight orcs at six, had he been able to lift a sword.  Hurin was a dreamer, a poet.  Eru knew where he got it from.

Brandol had little enough patience with dreamers, either, but he knew enough not to say so.  “Well, it’s done.  They left last week.  And if you ask me, the responsibility will be good for him.  Did you speak to Aragorn about the Shire watch?”

Halbarad sucked in a breath.  The fact that he now agreed with Aragorn’s decision to keep the bulk of their men guarding the Shire borders did not make it any easier to live with.  Or explain.  “I did.”

This earned him a hopeful glance.  “And?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

The battle-scarred face hardened and turned away.  “So nothing is to change.”

“We’ll talk about it later.” Hopefully, before then, he’d come up with something to say.  “What other news?”

Brandol shrugged; out of sorts now.  Halbarad could not blame him.  They walked in silence, and gradually the air became tinged with the smell of wood smoke and the sound of hammering.  As the settlement came into view, Halbarad saw with satisfaction that the light, unweathered posts of the new fence were taller than the old ones had been.  There were signs of recent thatching on many of the roofs, and a half-finished barn stood where the other had burnt to the ground.  As they approached, three dogs that had been lying in the sun-warmed dirt inside the gate leapt to their feet, yelping and wagging their tails.  The dogs fell in as an escort, and a handful of greetings were called out from porches and dooryards as they passed, but the settlement felt empty, and up close Halbarad could see how much damage remained from the orc attack.  The workshops and cottages nearest the north perimeter, where the orcs had breached the fence, were still gutted and roofless.  Brandol took the reins from him at the stable door.  “I’ll see to the horses.  Don't keep keep everyone waiting!”

There was a dangerous gleam to his eye, and Halbarad knew him well enough to know something was up.  He considered digging it out of him, but a tantalizing smell was drifting from the house.  Whatever it was, he would find out soon enough.  He nodded and clapped Brandol on the shoulder.  “Stay out of that wine!”  With a last backward glance at the now openly-smirking Ranger, he headed for the main house.  Halfway across the courtyard, a white-haired figure atop a cottage roof waved a greeting, his wrinkled face breaking into a gap-toothed grin.  “Halbarad!  By the Valar, we thought you’d bought the Pony and decided to be an innkeeper.”

The old man started to climb down, and Halbarad rushed forward to steady the ladder.  “Butterbur wouldn’t sell to a disreputable character like me. I can barely get him to serve me a drink.  Careful coming down!”   

The wiry old Ranger dropped to the ground and brushed off his hand.  “I may not be much good with a sword anymore, but I can still climb a ladder.  We heard what happened to Aragorn – is he well?”

“Well enough.”  Word traveled fast.  Halbarad wondered exactly how much of the story had filtered down from Rivendell, but before he could ask, a small girl shot out of the doorway of the main house and ran straight toward him.  “Granda!”  she shouted, plunging her face into his stomach.  

He grunted at the impact and pried her gently loose.  Holding her at eye level, he planted a kiss on her forehead.   “This cannot be my granddaughter!” he announced sternly.  “Someone has stolen away my little hobbit-lass and left a rangy Dúnadan woman in her place!”

The pert nose wrinkled with distaste.  “They did not!”

He settled her on his hip.  “Surely they have.  Where have they taken my little Pearblossom?”

This earned him a giggle and a yank on his beard.  “Your what?”

“Ouch,” he protested, lowering her to the ground. “Pearblossom.  A lovely name, don’t you think?  Someone gave it to me, but I think it suits you better.  Do you like it?”

The child was diplomatic, at least.  “I’ll think about it,” she promised.

“Very good.  Now, where is your granna?  Has she run off to trade horses in Rohan?”

“Which granna?  Granna Eirien or Granna Nelaer?” 

He tousled her unruly hair into a bigger mess.  “Granna Nelaer is at Sarn Ford, sweetling, with Uncle Alagos.” His hand stopped moving as a kernel of worry began to crystallize.  “Isn’t she?”

To his utter dismay, Elanor shook her head.

Halbarad knelt and took her little shoulders in his hands, remembering to be gentle.  “Where is Granna Nelaer, sweetling?”  He was certain he already knew. 

Elanor pointed to the open door of the house.  “Inside, with the other old grannas.  Granna Eirien said you’d be madder than a hobbit in a hailstorm.”

Having recently been witness to a hobbit in a hailstorm, Halbarad knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was much, much madder.  “Is Granna Eirien inside, too?”

“No.  She’s out in the pasture with Snowbell.  Snowbell is having a foal and I get to name it! I was going to name it Rose Petal, but now I think I might name it Pearblossom instead.”

Halbarad found himself briefly distracted by the promising implications of his granddaughter bestowing another ridiculous name on a horse that Aragorn might someday borrow.  Pearblossom.  It would serve him right.

 “Halbarad, is that you?” 

The voice pushed itself through the open doorway of the house like a troll through a field of daisies.  It never stopped amazing him how much disapproval it could convey with one word.  “So much for a welcome,” he muttered.

“Halbarad!”

With a semblance of a smile frozen on his face, he took Elanor’s little hand.  “Let’s not keep Granna waiting.”

Like most adults, he had to bend to clear the doorframe.  The room he entered was large but sparsely furnished, being pressed into service at need as a military headquarters, an infirmary, a winter dormitory, and, on rare happy occasions, a banquet hall.  At present, he could see three occupants in the dim, smoky light, seated in a semi-circle of folded blankets before the hearth.  They had shawls wrapped about their shoulders and their day’s work had been put aside:  spindles of wool and bundles of freshly-spun thread, an idle loom containing a piece of grey wool, and some half-finished leather gloves.  A kettle steamed over the fire, the source of the meaty aroma that led him here.  The tallest of the three women, a lean but broad-shouldered matron with a thick grey braid hanging down her back, was seated within reach of a kettle, but her attention was fixed not on it but on her fist, which she held poised over an open-topped wooden box on the floor.  Whispering something that sounded suspiciously like a Sindarin prayer, she opened her eyes and flung two dice against the corner of the box.  

“Three,” the smallest woman announced triumphantly, adjusting her shawl and tilting her narrow chin at the dice-thrower.  “Where is your famous luck today, Nelaer?”

Halbard’s mother threw her companion an indignant scowl before turning her scrutiny toward her son as if he were a yearling foal she was thinking of purchasing.  “Where in Arda have you been, Halbarad?  Eirien claims you’ve been gone for a month, and the whole camp in ruins.  Fimenel’s poor Thargil is up on a ladder trying to thatch a roof, for Eru’s sake.”

“He’s fine, Nelaer,” remarked the smaller woman.  “He’s been thatching roofs since before Halbarad was born.”

“That was my point,” Nelaer remarked drily.  She turned back to Halbarad.  “So you’ve been off rescuing Aragorn from Dunlendings.  And it looks as if you’ve been to Rivendell, from your clothes.”

Halbarad crossed his arms.  “Since you seem to know the whole story already, I suppose I needn’t waste time telling you.” 

His mother reached over and stirred the pot.  “And I understand Aragorn popped his head in here a while back.  What a shame he left before I could see him - I’ll probably be dead and buried before he wanders back this way again, just like his mother.”

“Nelaer!” Fimenel exclaimed.  “Show some respect!”

That Gilraen was gone, Halbarad guessed darkly, might have had something to do with his mother’s sudden decision to visit the Angle.  “Aragorn left,” Halbarad explained as slowly and meticulously as he could manage, “to track the orcs that attacked the settlement.  He led the raid on their lair and took a wound that nearly killed him.”  With a glare that Glorfindel would envy, he dared her to open her mouth.    

“Stop baiting your son, Nelaer,” chided Meneliel, a broad-bosomed woman whose missing front teeth were a souvenir of a horse-kick intended for a wolf.  Shooting Halbarad a left-eyed wink that his mother couldn’t see, she took a swallow from a flask that Halbarad suspected did not contain tea, and rolled the dice.  “Twelve.  Pay up, you two.”

Fimenel obediently scooped up a handful of walnuts – they were playing for walnuts, Halbarad realized – and put them in Meneliel’s pile.  With a glance at Nelaer – probably gauging the likelihood of provoking another tirade – she reached up and took Halbarad’s hand. “Halbarad, please tell us -- how is Aragorn?”

“Better,” Halbarad answered.  He leaned to kiss her forehead, grateful for the moral support.  “He plans to come as soon as he’s fully recovered.”

“Ah, it will do my heart glad to see him again,” Fimenel said, her gleaming and distant.  “A kingly man, that one is.  Like to Elendil himself.” 

“Like to his father,” Halbarad’s mother retorted.  “Forever wandering with elves and wizards instead of looking to the welfare of his own lands.”

Fimenel spoke quietly, but with defiance.  “Dunedain lands once reached far beyond Eriador, Nelaer.  Maybe they will do so again.”

Nelaer muttered something Halbarad pretended he didn’t hear and threw the dice against the side of the box with such force that one skipped over the top to land at Meneliel’s feet.  “For a thousand years we’ve been scattered across the wild, hunted by orcs, shunned by decent folk, clinging to tattered legends, and so it will be a thousand years after all of us are gone.  Our days of glory are over.  If you think Arathorn’s son is going to change that, you’re a fool.”

Meneliel picked up the errant die and handed it to Fimenel.  “Three,” she noted automatically.  When she looked up, her eyes were gleaming with anger.  Halbarad fought not to flinch; Meneliel in full wrath could have held her own with Elrond.  “Listen to me, Nelaer. I’ve buried a husband and two sons – and the one I have has lost an eye and the use of an arm to an orc blade.  No one has more reason to be bitter about our plight than I do.  But the day we give up hope we might as well march into Mordor and lie down before the Dark Tower.  Now that boy has just lost his mother. I’ll not stand by and watch you torment him, is that clear?” 

Visions of the Kin-strife were playing through Halbarad’s mind. “Aragorn won’t be here for another couple of weeks.  I don’t expect she plans to stay that long, do you, Mother?”   

“As a matter of fact, I've decided to stay the summer,” she declared.  “Falathren has gone to Evendim and someone needs to look after Elanor.”

“Well, you’re doing a fine job so far,” he retorted, “teaching her our people are doomed!  And what in the name of Eru is Falathren doing in Evendim?”     

“Lower your voice.”  His mother was looking down at him, an impressive achievement as she was sitting on the floor.  “I cannot continue this conversation with you speaking in that tone.  You’re upsetting the child.”

He frothed.  “I’m upsetting --!”   He glanced at Elanor; in his consternation he’d nearly forgotten she was present.  She seemed unscathed by the exchange; strong personalities ran in the family.  “I understand Eirien is midwifing a horse.  I’ll see if she needs any help.”

“Take the child with you,” his mother said.  “Get her out in the fresh air.”

“Let her stay,” Meneliel said.  The dice bounced against the box again.  “Nine.  It’s going to rain.  Besides, you should let Elanor take your turn with the dice.  You need the luck.  Here, love, take them, shake them up good for your Granna.” 

Halbarad’s mother sat Elanor on her lap and wrapped her small fists around the dice, demonstrating the proper technique.  “Don’t tarry, Halbarad.  Dinner is almost ready.”

“I’ll tell the horse,” he replied, and went to find his wife.  Meneliel was right about the rain; he could smell it as he crossed the pasture, heading for a grey mound of pregnant mare sprouting from the grass like a misplaced boulder.  Eirien was stretched out beside her, elbow-deep in mud and mare.  Her eyes were screwed shut and her forehead was wrinkled in concentration – turning the foal, he surmised. He didn’t speak; he wanted a few moments without words, to simply stand over her and watch.  She would never be mistaken for an Elf.  Though tall, slender, and grey-eyed like they were, her face showed faint lines from a lifetime of sun and wind and worry and laughter, and her hair was streaked with grey.  Her capable hands would overpower fine Mithril jewelry, and he could not even imagine her in a flimsy silk gown.  She could bring down a bird in flight, dress a deer in a half hour, and soothe a terrified child with a few whispered words.  No rapturous lays would ever be sung about her flawless skin or melodious voice, except in the private dreams of Halbarad Dúnadan.  It was good to be home.  

She opened an eye and squinted through the first raindrops.  “What are you smiling at, Ranger?” 

“Beauty.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Make yourself useful.  I’m going to try to turn the foal.”  Halbarad knelt and held the mare’s head while Eirien pushed against the flank, fighting for leverage.  Some move Halbarad could not see brought a snort of protest from the mare, and she kicked, rocking to escape the intrusion.   “Keep her down!” Eirien barked.  He knelt there with his face pressed against the mare’s, murmuring into her ear, and after a few moments he looked up to see Eirien smiling at him quizzically from the other end.   “Nice boots.  What happened to yours?” 

He would tell her about the mishap in the river later, maybe.  Or maybe not.  “I lost them.  What is my mother doing here?”

She could spare him no reply; intent again on the inner workings of the animal.  Halbarad stroked the mare’s muzzle, hoping the foal could be turned.  He did not relish the thought of putting the mare down, though he knew Eirien would make short work of it if need be; the dagger hanging from her belt had been put to such use before.  It was raining harder now; her wool dress was soaked.  Finally she gave a grunt of satisfaction and the tension in her shoulders relaxed.  “Word of the attack made it to Sarn Ford.  Your mother was worried and asked Alagos to bring her.”

“Splendid.  He can take her right back with him.”

“He’s left already.”

“Then I’ll take her myself.”

Eirien looked weary.  “Halbarad, she’s your mother.”

“She’s teaching our granddaughter to play dice.”

She laughed at his indignation.   “Really!  I’m shocked.  Everyone knows your mother is the worst dice player in Eriador.  She should let Meneliel teach her.”

“She can’t stay here.  Aragorn is coming and she’ll make a fool of herself, as usual.”

Eirien pulled her arm out of the horse and sat up, wiping mud and blood onto a relatively clean patch of skirt.  “The foal will find its own way out now.  You can let go the halter.” 

Halbarad released the mare and stood up.  He was soaking wet and fairly muddy now, but Eirien looked worse.  She was caked in mud from one end to the other.  He pulled her to her feet and she pushed back a dripping strand of hair, managing to smear a fresh streak of mud across her forehead.  She gave up trying to wipe her hands clean and smiled at him ruefully.  “A splendid homecoming this is for you, after the luxuries of Rivendell.”

“It’s a wonderful homecoming,” he said quietly, and pulled her away from the restless mare.  Her body felt good against his; warm in the damp of the rainy day.  He looked around the immediate vicinity.  “Is this a good spot, do you think, or would it be drier under the willow trees?”

“A good spot for what?”   She looked perplexed, and then corner of her mouth twitched as she correctly read the look in his eyes.  “Halbarad!  Not here!”  

“Maybe you’re right.  It’s too open out here.  The willow it is, then.”

She sighed; it meant she was trying to be the responsible one.  “We should get back.  We’ll be late for dinner.”

The protest was weak; he knew he had her.  “I’m not interested in dinner.”  He got an arm under her and swept her into his arms.

Well-bred Dúnadan that she was, she shrieked with laughter. “You’re insane.  I’m filthy!”

“I know,” he agreed, and kissed her.   

 *********

Author's note:

Yes, Halbarad is  mistaken about who actually controls the Bruinen. 

Chapter 8

*************

Though Aragorn had spent his childhood running up and down these attic stairs, he somehow did not recall them being quite so steep.  In fact, he reflected, leaning against the rough plaster of the third landing, he had never before noticed the absence of a handrail, either.  Adding to his indignity was Dudo’s effortless ascent; the hobbit was scampering behind Erestor like an excited squirrel after a prize nut.  Even as Aragorn paused to wipe an uncharacteristic beading of sweat from his brow, the two of them reached the top of the stairs, and then, with the creak of a little-used hinge, Erestor swung open the door, releasing a draft of musty air and a flood of memories. 

Vast and gloomy, adorned not with exquisite furnishings but stacks of dusty trunks and fabric-draped hulks of uncertain provenance, the attic was one of the few places in Imladris that could be described as scary -- which made it an irresistible destination for a child, of course.  Only in the attic did whispers skip hollowly across bare floorboards and echo from the roof beams instead of sinking silently into the plushness of tapestries, drapes, and carpets.  A chill always seemed to cling to the musty air, even in summer, and strange shadows rose like black wraiths behind the shrouded cargo.  Many dragons had he slain in the attic; together with countless trolls, orcs and wargs.  In his imagination, the attic had become the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, Elendil’s ship, and the fortress of Umbar.  And when he was too old to play orcs and Rangers, but still too young to fully appreciate the orderly, elegant tranquility of the Last Homely House; when occasionally even the fragrant woods failed to soothe his adolescent torments, he would sometimes climb these stairs, seeking the dark silence of forgotten things.       

“Come on, Aragorn!”  Dudo was at standing in the open doorway, bouncing up and down on his heels.  “Hurry up!” 

“Go on ahead,” he called.  “I’ll be right behind you.”

Erestor had turned to stare.  “Estel, are you sure you --?”

“I am fine,” he announced.  Removing his supporting hand from the wall long enough to wave off Erestor’s owlish scrutiny, he straightened, striking his most commanding Captain of Gondor pose.  “Go.” 

With a shrug that pointedly conveyed his opinion of prickly convalescents, Erestor disappeared through the doorway.  Dudo hesitated a moment longer, seeming to weigh the questionable wisdom of following strange Elves into dark places against the greater foolishness of relying on such a lame, wheezing, specimen as Aragorn for protection.  With a last, apologetic glance downward, he too vanished into the gloom.    

Having successfully lurched up the last thirty steps with all the grace of a hamstrung warg, Aragorn leaned against the doorjamb to catch his breath.  Halfway down the cleared path that served as a main corridor through the cavernous expanse of the attic, he could make out Dudo, standing alone.  Erestor he could not see, but the metallic scraping of a latch, the clang of a shutter being thrown open, and a sudden profusion of sunlight streaming across the floor revealed his location and purpose.  A moment later Erestor reappeared, moving around the stacks to open a second window.

Now caught in a shaft of light, Dudo jumped up and down, raising clouds of dust as he struggled to see over the tops of boxes stacked taller than his head.  “What is all this stuff?”

Erestor re-emerged, dusting off his robe.  Aragorn reckoned him to be the only person in Imladris, probably, who could have answered Dudo’s question.  As far as Aragorn knew, no formal records were kept of the heirlooms, castoffs, and forgotten junk occupying the attic.  Should Erestor ever sail, the location of Arvedui’s royal dinnerware might be lost forever. 

Instead of launching into a proud inventory, as Aragorn had expected, Erestor seemed at an uncharacteristic loss for words, as if his intimate familiarity with every last tarnished butter knife, faded heirloom, and shrouded, bulging artifact in Imladris had suddenly failed him.  Finally, with a bemused glance at Aragorn, he shrugged.  “I suppose these are all things no one needs anymore.”

Dudo stared at him with blank incomprehension.  As Aragorn well knew, there was no such thing in Bree as a thing that no one needed.  Belongings of every type were endlessly repaired, stripped for parts or lumber, melted down, sold or stolen or traded for something more useful, and finally, at the abject end of their usefulness, they were burned for fuel.  Dudo looked as if he was trying hard to be polite to a very high-ranking madman.  “Well.  It all looks very old, doesn’t it?” 

Aragorn lifted Dudo and set him atop one of the more stable-looking stacks of crates.  “Indeed; all of it is far older than you can imagine. Especially Erestor.”

“Aragorn, on the other hand, is scarcely more than a child,” Erestor said.  “In fact, it seems to me that just a short while ago he was playing hide-and-seek up here.” 

Dudo gaped at Aragorn as if his ears had just turned green.  “You played hide-and-seek?  You?” 

“I wasn’t born a crotchety old Ranger, you know,” Aragorn said, chuckling at the hobbit’s bald astonishment.  “At one time I was smaller than you, if you can believe it, and quite good at hiding.”  He pointed to a set of high shelves that must have once taken up an entire wall of a room somewhere in the house.  “Once, when I was playing hide-and-seek with Elladan and Elrohir, I climbed to the top of those shelves and hid behind some boxes. As they searched for me fruitlessly for over an hour, I lay perfectly still, trying not to move a muscle.  Finally, Elladan came over to the bookshelf and stood right beneath me, so close I could count the hairs on his head.  He was standing very still so as to hear any sound I might make.”  He smiled at the memory of holding his breath until spots appeared before his eyes.  "I knew he was listening for my breathing, so I held my breath. And even then, I was sure the pounding of my heart could be heard clear across the attic.  But he did not hear me." 

“What did you do then?”  Dudo asked. 

“When I could hold my breath no longer, I reached down and rapped him right on the top of his skull.” 

 Dudo’s eyes widened. “You rapped Elladan on his noddle?”

“I most certainly did.  Ask Elrohir.”

“I thought you said it was Elladan.”

“It was.  But Elladan still claims he knew I was there the whole time.”

Dudo grinned.  “It must have been fun, playing with them.”

“I was good at hiding from Elladan and Elrohir.  The only person I could never hide from was my mother.”

“Mothers can always find you,” Dudo agreed wistfully.

Aragorn smiled.  “Yes, they can.  My mother knew this was one of my favorite places.”

Dudo peered skeptically at the shadowy depths.  “This is too spooky to be one of my favorite places.  I’ll bet there are ghosts up here.”

“Do not be foolish,” Erestor said, squinting to peer at a yellowing tag on a trunk handle.  “There is no such thing as a ghost.  Here is your trunk, Estel.  I’ll move it closer to the window.”   

“Thank you.”  The breeze from the window was fresh and warm, the day to be seen outside bright and cheery, with green leaves rustling in the spring breeze.  Aragorn smiled, imagining what Halbarad would have to say about a Ranger, a hobbit, and an Elf rummaging around in a dusty old attic on such a fine day.    

Erestor set the trunk down beside the window and discreetly pushed another over beside it, clearly intending its use as a seat but mindful of raising Aragorn’s hackles by saying so.  “I’ll leave you now, unless you need anything else.  I suggest that you two leave yourselves plenty of time to clean up before dinner.”  

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Aragorn replied.      

“These are your things from when you were a boy?” Dudo asked, drawn away from the window by the prospect of hidden treasures.      

“Yes,” Aragorn answered.  To be honest, he was not sure what to expect.  He had had no hand in packing the trunk, having demonstrated a boy’s typical disinterest in the maintenance of treasures and heirlooms.  He brushed a layer of dust off the lid and swung it open, revealing stacks of folded clothing.  He set aside the precisely aligned piles, trying not to disturb their smooth creases.  Beneath the clothing were toys.  He recognized them with fondness, and not a little guilt.  He had never stopped to wonder what happened to them once they were outgrown.  They had simply disappeared, to be replaced by ever bigger, sharper, more dangerous toys.  But here they were, lovingly preserved by a mother quietly resigned to her son’s slow but sure transformation from sweet child to hardened warrior:  carved horses, dogs, boars, and deer; painted soldiers, toy swords and knives, little wagons with wheels that really turned.  Dudo, nearly grown by the reckoning of his people and already proven deadly with a real blade, would have no use for them.  They would all go back in the trunk to await another child; a child that Aragorn dared not yet dream about.

Beneath the toys, neatly stacked on the bottom of the trunk, he found what he was after:  books.  Not the wordy tomes that lined Elrond’s study, but children’s books, some written in Elrond’s own hand; gorgeously illustrated with gold leaf and colorful inks.  Fondly he remembered childhood bedtimes curled up with his mother, or sometimes Elrond or the twins, or even, on rare occasions, Glorfindel, listening to these tales and looking at pictures of strange and wondrous things.  He pulled them out and stacked them on the floor beside the trunk.  Recognizing one with a bright red binding and elegant gold lettering, he handed it to Dudo.  “Here you are, Dudo.  This one is about a fire-breathing dragon, like the one Bilbo told you about.”

Dudo’s eyes widened.  “Is that a dragon?  It’s beautiful! Can I really have it?”

He smiled.  “Yes, you may have all of them, if you like.”  As Dudo dropped down to sit cross-legged by his side, absorbed by the book, Aragorn found himself absently turning the wheels on a toy wagon.

“Is this one yours, too?”  Aragorn glanced up, expecting to see Dudo holding a book out to him, but instead the hobbit was pointing to the trunk he was sitting on. “The tag has your name on it, too, I think.”

Aragorn reached down and caught the yellowed tag in his hands, angling it to catch the light.  His breath caught as he read the faded script.  It was an understandable mistake; especially for a boy just learning Sindarin.  The lettering was old, nearly illegible, and only one letter was different.  “Dudo,” he heard himself say, in a level tone almost drowned out by the rushing in his ears, “why don’t you take all the books downstairs and change your clothes?  You are covered with cobwebs.” 

“So are you,” the hobbit pointed out. 

“I am a convalescing invalid,” Aragorn informed him, “and besides, Elrond is accustomed to seeing me dirty.” He frowned at the ponderous stack of books.  It was half as tall as Dudo.  “At least take as many as you can carry.  I will bring the rest.”

“But Lord Elrond says you’re not supposed to carry --”

“Master Tillfield,” he said stiffly, “I am a Ranger chieftain and quite capable of dealing with Lord Elrond.  Now go.”   

He waited until Dudo, pouting and quite displeased with him now, had disappeared down the stairs before unlatching his father’s trunk.  He wondered how, in all the years he’d spent hiding amongst the trunks and boxes, he had failed to notice its existence.  He had simply not been looking, he realized.  Nor would he have recognized the name even had he seen it, he supposed.  The name "Arathorn" had meant nothing to him then.         

He swung the heavy lid open, releasing stale air and a whiff of a scent that stirred a remnant of a memory – a black-bearded face, smiling; large hands lifting him, spinning him around until he shrieked with glee; a flash of a broad white smile, a deep laugh.  There was a brown leather coat laid across the top of the trunk, folded simply in half as if its wearer had taken it off upon arriving home for dinner.  Fashioned in a common Dúnedain pattern, it was cut for a man slightly broader across the shoulders than himself.  The leather was creased and sweat-stained, nicked and repaired in many places, but no fatal blow had pierced the worn garment.  Aragorn knew better than to look for one; the arrow that had killed his father had gone into his eye:  quick, clean, and painless.  At least that is what he had always been encouraged to believe.      

Beneath the coat, he found a grey cloak.  By the way it had been carelessly rolled up instead of meticulously folded like his boyhood clothes, he did not think his mother had been the one to put it here.  A widow, a young mother in her hour of inconsolable grief, would have been spared such duties, if possible.  Her husband’s weapons, his brooch and his ring would have been delivered to her polished and cleaned.  The rest of his possessions must have been packed in the trunk, delivered to Imladris, and carried up here to be forgotten. 

As expected, the trunk contained no weapons -- he had them already --but there was a cleaning pouch with sharpening stones, a vial of oil, and some rags bent stiff with hardened oil and dirt.  There was a worn pair of boots also, one of them sporting a new heel – left behind at home for a repair job its owner would not need.  Aragorn could not resist the temptation to hold the boot alongside his own.  It would have been a trifle too small, just as the coat had been too big.  Other small items were scattered about in the interior as if thrown in haphazardly -- a razor and a comb, some leather thongs, a sliver of soap, several flints, a small towel, a water skin and an empty bronze flask that still smelled of spirits.  The angled shaft of light from the window did not reach the bottom of the trunk; he would have missed the item lying in the very bottom if his fingers had not brushed against the knotted string wrapped around it.  He scooped it up, recognizing it as a flat leather wallet such as the Rangers used for carrying dispatches and letters.  He worked the ancient knot loose and flipped open the flap.  There were several aged parchments inside. 

“It was summer.”

Aragorn started violently, came down too hard on his left knee, overbalanced and forgot not to catch himself with his right hand.  The wallet went flying as he grabbed the edge of the trunk to right himself.  Glaring up at Elladan and gritting his teeth only long enough to formulate a suitable tirade, he realized that Elladan was staring, transfixed, at the coat that still lay across his lap.  Staring as if he had just seen a ghost.  He knew the coat, Aragorn realized -- had seen it before; and from the haunted look on his face, it had been on his father's body at the time.  Aragorn was not sure if he wanted to know whether his father had been alive or dead at the time.  He shook his head.  “What was summer?”

Elladan drew close enough to reach out and touch the coat.  “It was summer when we rode with him, that last time.  There was no need for coats.”

Of course.  If his father had been wearing the coat, it would have been buried along with him, in the same lonely ground where they left him because it was high summer and too far to carry a body. 

Elladan sank down to sit beside him.  “He felt no pain.  He was riding beside me, on his great black horse, his sword raised high as we charged toward the orcs, and in the next moment, he fell.  He was dead before he hit the ground.”  He hung his head.  “I am sorry.”

With his elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped loosely, dark hair falling over his face, Elladan looked suddenly very young.   “A warrior would be grateful for such a death,” Aragorn said.  “And an arrow can come from nowhere.  You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

“Your mother said something very like that, you know,” Elladan said.  “She was a strong woman, Estel.  Even in her own grief, she would not allow us to wallow in guilt.  She told us it was laughter you needed to hear, and so we tried to give it to you.  You returned it manyfold, and there lies the source of my guilt, you see.  All the years of laughter and joy that you brought us - they should have been his.”  He took a deep, shuddering breath and straightened, his gaze flickering to the high bank of bookcases against the wall.  “I knew you were hiding there the whole time.”

Blinking to clear his vision, Aragorn forced a snort.  “You did not.”

“Aragorn, you were eight.  Do you really think you were a match for the senses of the Firstborn?”

“I was nine," he said.  "And yes, with one hand tied behind my back.” 

Elladan slapped his shoulder companionably.  “Then there could be no more perfect opportunity for a rematch than now, Estel! Unfortunately, it will have to wait, though. Father expects us both for dinner, and you could certainly use some cleaning up first.”

Aragorn nodded at the pile of books Dudo had left behind.  “If you carry the rest of Dudo’s books downstairs, I’ll re-pack the trunk and the close the shutters.”

"Very well."  Elladan bent, scooped up a double armful of books, and headed for the stairs. “Do they not have books in the Shire?  If Dudo collects any more gifts, we shall have to lend Mithrandir a wagon.”  

Alone again, Aragorn sat with the coat across his knees.  He did not think he could bear wearing it, and yet he found it hard to seal it back into the trunk.  He traced the creases where his father’s elbows had bent, the stains at the neck from dirt and oil, trying in vain to squeeze some last drop of memory from the faint scents of leather, oil, dirt, and sweat.  Finally, he set the coat down gently inside the trunk and closed the lid.  As he stood up, his foot grazed something soft.  It was the leather wallet of parchments, still lying where he had dropped it when Elladan startled him.  He bent and picked it up, intending to drop it into the trunk – most likely it contained eighty-year-old scouting reports and requests for supplies.  But instead, he found himself sitting down again, and opening the flap to remove the thin sheaf of yellowed parchments. 

He frowned.  It was immediately evident that these were no scouting reports or supply requisitions.  They were personal letters; letters to his father.  The handwriting was decidedly unpracticed, the signature unfamiliar, and the Westron unlearned…he squinted to decipher the tortured, faded penmanship, to sort through the confusing messages.  His blood rose in his ears as the content became horrifyingly clear, and his breathing grew harsh.  He forced himself to re-read the letters two times, three times, giving himself every opportunity to be wrong.  It could not be…               

His normally acute time sense had abandoned him; he did know how long he sat there before he heard the creak of a footstep on the stairs.  He looked up in alarm, noticing only then that the breeze wafting through the window had cooled, and the sun had sunken below the ridgeline, plunging the attic into shadow.  The stairs creaked again and he looked down in panic at the letters he still held in his hand.  Whoever was coming would be on the landing in moments.  There was no time to open the trunk lid and put them inside.  He stuffed them down the front of his shirt just as a white head poked around the corner.  Oh, Eru, he groaned inwardly. Gandalf. 

“Aragorn?”  The wizard was a shadow cloaked in grey, visible only as an indistinct shape standing in the doorway.  “Are you here? Is everything all right?”

It was becoming plain to him that nothing at all was all right, but he needed time to investigate, verify, confirm or disprove, or at the very least, calm down and clear his head before he admitted as much.  He shuddered at the thought of Elrond, Gandalf, the twins, and half of Rivendell calmly sifting through the scattered remnants of his father’s life, analytically discussing how he could have come to such a scandal.  He wondered if any of them could possibly have known.  The twins had been close friends of Arathorn, yes, but they were still the sons of Elrond, from whom Arathorn would undoubtedly have withheld any hint of impropriety. 

Elrond -- At the thought, Aragorn felt the blood drain from his face just as a soft glow illuminated the attic.  Gandalf, apparently unwilling to risk breaking an ankle tripping over a discarded statue of Gil-galad, had ignited his staff.  As he made his way across the attic, Aragorn forced his breathing to slow.  “I’m all right,” he managed to get out. 

Gandalf arrived at his side and regarded him with a skeptical frown.  “Are you sure?  You look a bit pale.”    

It was no accident that Gandalf was here, Aragorn concluded.  He had been selected by a committee headed by Elrond, after some discussion about the finding of Arathorn's trunk and Aragorn's resultant state of mind.  “I was just going through some of my father’s things,” he said, with a glimmer of hope that if Gandalf had any idea what the trunk contained, he would choose this opportunity to speak up about it. 

“I know,” Gandalf said.  “You could have had all his things years ago, you know.  It simply did not occur to Elrond you would want them. Everything of value had already been given to you.” Gandalf’s tone was gentle; his concern fatherly; conveying no alarm, no worry.  His moods were sometimes inscrutable but Aragorn had learned to read them well enough.  He did not know about the letters. “Come,” he said after a moment.  “Dinner is waiting.  Or shall I tell Elrond you are not hungry?”

Though there had never been a time in his life that Aragorn had more desperately wanted to be alone, to admit the same would attract Elrond’s scrutiny, and Elrond’s scrutiny was beyond bearing at the moment.  "No," he forced himself to say.  "I am coming."  With a nod of acquiescence, he rose and followed Gandalf to the great hall.    

Dinner was underway; Elrond having evidently decided it would not be proper to hold it up any longer, or perhaps had thought it would embarrass Aragorn to do so.  It was a small, family gathering, with Elrond at the head of the table in a formal robe. To his left sat Bilbo, Elladan and Elrohir, with Glorfindel opposite Elrond.  Aragorn spotted a vacant place on the side opposite the twins, beside Dudo, and bowed to Elrond before seating himself.  “I apologize for my tardiness, Lord Elrond,” he said formally. 

“There is no need for apology,” Elrond answered with studied mildness. “Soup has already been served, but some can be brought from the kitchen, if you like.”  A glance passed between him and Gandalf, and his mithril-clad brow tensed slightly, but Aragorn read it as simple concern.  Of course he did not know, Aragorn realized.  He could not possibly have known, and make the promises he had made.   So then, no one in Rivendell knew.  Aragorn wondered about the Dúnedain.  Having lived among warriors his entire life, he was familiar enough with the kinds of indiscretions men indulge in when far from home.  He was also familiar with the secrecy that usually surrounded such indiscretions.  A man might brag about a one-night tryst with a tavern wench, but something like this…   

“Aragorn?” He realized belatedly that Elrond was still waiting to know if he wanted some soup, and that the entire table had gone silent to stare at him.

“No, please do not go to any trouble,” he replied hastily, reaching for the nearest serving dish to spoon a dollop of berry sauce onto a plate of roasted pheasant someone had placed in front of him.  “I am sure that such a sumptuous feast will far surpass my appetite as it is.”   Especially since he had no appetite whatsoever.  

“Guess what I did today?”  Dudo piped up.  As if with a collective sigh, the adults at the table turned their attention to the youngest guest.

“What did you do today, Dudo?” Gandalf asked obligingly.

“Bilbo and I went walking in the woods and I saw a baby fawn, and then Aragorn and Erestor took me up to the attic and Aragorn gave me some books from when he was a boy.  He said I can take them with me to the Shire tomorrow.  And Aragorn used to play hide and seek up in the attic when he was a boy, and he fooled Elladan.”

“He did not,” Elladan said, with a warning glare at Elrohir, who chuckled and threw up his hands.

Gandalf chuckled.  “Dudo, if you continue collecting farewell gifts, we shall have to ask Lord Elrond for a wagon.”

“That is exactly what I told him,” Elladan said.

Dudo was not to be deflated.  “Bilbo says when I get to the Shire I will live in a proper hobbit hole with my own room.”

“The Shire is one of my very favorite places,” Gandalf said.  “I should think you will be very happy there.”

Dudo looked wistfully at Bilbo.  “Bilbo has told me so many wonderful things about the Shire.  I only wish he could go with us.”

“I am much too old for traipsing all over the countryside,” Bilbo said, “though I should very much like to see Frodo again.  Pity Gandalf will not let you live with him.”

From Gandalf's strained smile, Aragorn guessed this line of discussion was well-trod ground already.  For both Frodo’s safety and Dudo’s, such an arrangement would be out of the question.  “We discussed this already, Bilbo,” Gandalf said patiently.  “It would not be fair to ask Frodo to take on a ward.  He is too accustomed to the freedom of a bachelor’s life and would likely not adjust well to a rambunctious tweenager about the house.” 

“I had no trouble at all adjusting, when Frodo came to live with me,” grumbled Bilbo. 

“Frodo never ran a spy ring,” remarked Elrohir.

“No, he most certainly did not,” Gandalf agreed.  “But that is in the past.  I am quite sure that with Bilbo’s recommendation and a generous stipend, the Bolgers will be more than happy to take in our small wayfarer.  And perhaps Frodo will be kind enough to look in on him from time to time, as will I.”

“I hope that we don’t have to hurry as fast going back to Bree as we did getting here,” Dudo said.  He looked at Aragorn with sudden concern.  “Won’t you be lonely with all of us gone?”

“I am leaving tomorrow as well,” Aragorn said, instantly regretting the ill-considered statement as Elrohir’s head jerked up and Elladan let out a low hiss.  Dead silence followed, broken only by the clank of Dudo’s knife against his plate.  Beside him, Gandalf exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair.

Elrond’s reply, when it came, was fearsomely level.  “You most certainly are not,” he said simply.  Aragorn kept his eyes on his plate, but the gaze he felt directed at his forehead could have drilled through solid rock.

“I don’t suppose anyone would care for some more wine?” prompted Elrohir.

“I would indeed,” answered Elladan, handing over his glass.  “A most agreeable vintage, brother.  But please don’t tell me this is the barrel we were saving for Arwen’s homecoming.”

“Aye, I thought we could spare a bottle or two.  I do believe the vines on the higher slopes have done better these past few years.  Perhaps it is the level of iron in the soil.”

“There is more afternoon sun,” agreed Elladan, studiously ignoring the level of iron in his father’s unbending stare.  “The lower slopes do not receive enough sunlight to sweeten the grapes.”

Glorfindel harrumphed.  “Enough!  If everyone is finished eating, I suggest we take our delectable wine and retire to the Hall of Fire.”

With a murmur of relieved assent, the dinner party began to abandon the table.  Aragorn pushed his chair back with relief, only to be halted by a quiet command he had half anticipated.  "Not you, Estel.”  He closed his eyes and exhaled, sinking back into his chair.  When he looked up, Elrond was standing over him.  “Would you like to tell me what is wrong?” he asked softly.

He would not.  In fact, in all of Arda he could think of nothing he would like to do less; unless it would be to tell Arwen.  But Elrond’s fatherly instincts and healer’s sensibilities were both fully engaged now, and escape would be difficult.  It would have been better to wait, he chastised himself, to leave quietly in a day or two, with no fuss.  He had not been thinking clearly.  “I have tarried here long enough,” he said.  “I need to confer with Halbarad before he leaves to tour the outposts.”

“You had nearly two weeks in which to confer with Halbarad before he left,” Elrond said, keeping his voice neutral.  “What has changed in a week?  Something troubles you, my son.  Please tell me what it is.”

“I am not accustomed to being idle for so long.”

“Your hand is not fully healed -”

“It can heal at the village.”  Aragorn flexed his fingers carefully.  The hand was still stiff and tender, his grip a trifle weak, but it would serve. 

“ – and neither is your leg.   You are not ready to go back out into the wild.”

“I am not going to the wild," Aragorn said firmly.  "I am going to Halbarad’s house." 

Elrond poured two glasses of wine from a jug Elladan had left behind and placed one in front of him.  “Ah, I see.  Halbarad’s camp.  The one that was attacked by orcs last month, if I’m not mistaken?  A wonderfully safe place.”

“There is no safer place for the Dúnedain,” Aragorn snapped.

“Exactly my point.”  Elrond raised an eyebrow at his glare and took a sip of wine.  “You are not battle-ready  and yet you must be, the moment you pass beyond the shelter of Rivendell.”  Elrond reached out and took his hand.  “Grip my hand.”  Aragorn did so, but Elrond was not finished with him.  “Harder now.”  He did, though the effort cost him:  sweat popped out on his forehead and a grunt escaped him as a jolt of pain shot through the newly-healed bones and tissues.  Only when his point had been made did Elrond relent.  “Enough.  Relax your hand.”

“I have met battle in worse condition than this,” Aragorn said, trying unsuccessfully to free his hand, “and on fields much farther from Rivendell than the Angle.”

“Such indeed has been your fate, and likely will be again.  Until then, you need time to rest and heal.”  Elrond's fingers worked over the healing flesh, but his touch relaxed more than just the strained muscles of Aragorn's hand; he could feel tension draining from his neck and shoulders as well.  “Elladan tells me you visited the attic this afternoon.”

“Yes.”

”I had forgotten about your father’s trunk.  I am sorry; I did not mean to keep it from you.”

Aragorn’s throat suddenly seemed full of dust.  He reached for the goblet in front of him with his left hand and downed a swallow of wine.  “Did you know what was in it?” he asked evenly. 

Elrond's expression did not change.  “I did not.  It was brought here after your father's death.  Your mother did not wish to take it with her when she left.  I assumed it contained personal effects that she meant to leave for you.”

As if the knowledge he already carried was not enough, Aragorn’s jaw clenched with a fresh horror -- what if his mother had known?  Had she kept her silence, securing her son’s future by keeping her husband’s secret, believing that it followed her to the grave?  He pushed his chair back and yanked his hand free.  “I am sorry.  I have to go.”

“Aragorn!”  Elrond caught the sleeve of his tunic as he tried to rise.  “Why must you leave?  Tell me, please.”

Aragorn looked down at Elrond’s hand on his arm.  He had known himself to be the son of two fathers since he was twenty.  He had never before felt so torn between the two.  Anger rose in him at the father he had never known, for forcing him to lie to the one he did.  And lie he must, or at the very least, misdirect, until he was certain of his course.  Misdirecting Elrond, though, apart from its inherent distastefulness, would be no child’s play. It would require an offering in kind; something just as personal, something just as raw.  Only one thing came to mind.  “Being in the attic today reminded me of my mother’s sacrifices,” Aragorn said woodenly. “I was not there for her when she died, but now I ought to at least pay her my respect by visiting her grave.”

“You were fulfilling your duty when she died,” answered Elrond.  “That was what she wanted.”

“To what end?”  he whispered harshly, regret surfacing in earnest now.  “I left her alone in her darkest hour, and returned empty-handed.  I left her for nothing.  I was not with her when she needed me.”   

Elrond sighed.  “She was not alone at the end, Estel.  And she was with you, every day, even when you were far from her sight.  She was at peace.”

“But I am not.”  It was no lie; there had been no time to even attempt to make peace with it.  “I need to visit her grave.”

“Of course, you must.  But surely…” Elrond paused, uncharacteristically hesitant, and Aragorn saw him struggling to put a blunt thing delicately.  “Surely there is no urgency now.  Could it not wait a few more weeks, until you are fully healed?”

It was the wrong thing to say, and Aragorn seized upon it even as Elrond’s face fell in dismay.  He hated what he was about to say, but he told himself that he had no choice.  It was the only way out of this room.  “What would you know about urgency?” he shot back coldly.  “You have all the time in the world.”  He got up from the table, and this time Elrond stood aside. 

-Chapter 9-

Halbarad poked his head out the back door and scowled at the persistent overcast. The rain showed no sign of letting up, and nothing moved in the sodden landscape beyond the doorway but a lone brown cow chewing morosely in the pasture. No roofing would get done again today, and no plowing, either. Halbarad pulled his head back inside and propped a rock against the door to hold it open. Faintly, over the sound of the rain, he could hear women’s voices from the common room – his mother and her friends, spinning and weaving. Suppressing a childish groan at being stuck inside for the third straight day, Halbarad picked his way through the clutter of barrels and grain sacks that lined the walls of the back room.  Above them, on shelves, were neatly arranged jars of oil, picked vegetables, and dried herbs. Reaching his desk against the far wall, he found it cluttered with a half dozen unglazed pottery bowls in the process of being painted. He patiently moved them aside, clearing a space to work on the project he had just been given.

Hearing a jangle of metal at the doorway, he turned.  It was Brandol, dripping rain, standing just outside with two mug handles clutched in his hand and a harness slung over his shoulder. “Get the mugs,” he grunted through the pipe clenched between his teeth.  As soon as Halbarad leapt up and grabbed them from him, he dropped the harness in a heap just inside the door.

Halbarad set one of the mugs on a shelf and helped himself to a drink from the other while Brandol scraped his boots clean.  Savoring the heady, bittersweet tang, he swallowed deeply and wiped his moustache with slow satisfaction. “Butterbur’s finest, eh? Not bad for curdled barley.”

“Curdled what?” Inside the doorway now, Brandol dug a handful of rusted metal pieces out of his pocket as he made his way to the desk.  He threw them down on top of it and sat down in the chair beside it.  “More broken harness fittings. We need all new tack iron. Harness and bridle fittings, rein rings, linch pins. And most of the scythes and spade shoes are in a bad way, too. The next time we trade with the Dwarves --”

“We’ll be buying weapons from them, as usual.” Halbarad held up a broken terret to get a better look. It looked as if it had simply corroded until it snapped from age and strain. “Can't any of it be fixed?”

“No,” Brandol spat out through his pipe, his single eye flaring black fire. “None of it can be fixed. It has been fixed too many times. There is no more fixing it. I can no more fix this lot than you can fix that…that…what is that, anyway?” He pulled his pipe out of his mouth and poked it at the scattering of wooden objects Halbarad had laid on the desk.

Halbarad held up the largest piece for him to see. It was most of a carved wooden horse, missing its legs and part of its back end. “Elanor’s Rohan horse,” he announced. “She left it outside and someone rolled a cart over it.” Unlike the unfortunate harness fittings, however, it would have to be fixed somehow.  That was what grandas were for.

“Rohan horse?” Brandol put his pipe back in his mouth and reached for his mug. “How can you tell it’s a Rohan horse?”

Halbarad watched in fascination, as he always did, as Brandol took a drink from his mug without bothering to remove the pipe from between his teeth. “It was a gift from Aragorn to Falathren when she was barely three,” he explained. “He told her that all the little children in Rohan learn to ride a horse before they can walk. Naturally, she then insisted on being put up on a horse, immediately.” He smiled at the memory of his wife’s reaction. “I thought Eirien was going to kill him.”

Brandol laughed, showing broken teeth. “I wish I had seen that. That must have happened while I was in Sarn Ford.” The lines of his face sobered suddenly, and his eye darkened with memory.  Halbarad could guess the reason - while in Sarn Ford, Brandol's young wife had died in childbirth, forcing his frantic return to the Angle to find a wet nurse for his newborn son, Tologarth.  Several years later, Tologarth had been standing at the door of this very house when Halbarad had carried Brandol’s body across the threshold, bleeding and broken. Falathren’s arms had been around her little friend’s shoulders, and both children’s eyes had been wide with horror. Though they saw more than children should see, they never heard the full story – that Brandol had been left for dead by the orcs, lying bleeding and helpless beside the rotting bodies of his comrades for three days before he was found.

Halbarad blinked to dismiss the memory and put the toy down. “All right. As soon as the patrols come back, you can go trade with the Dwarves for harness fittings.”

“You’re not coming with me? You always enjoy the company of the Dwarves. Not to mention their ale.”

“I’m heading west as soon as the weather breaks,” he said. “I need to check on the situation in Bree, and I might as well drop in on Dírhael while I’m in the neighborhood.”

Brandol smiled. “I can’t make up my mind if you’re leaving to get away from your mother or to meddle in your daughter’s diplomacy.”

“Why not kill two birds with one stone?” Halbarad quipped, but Brandol merely took another drink, eyeing him expectantly. Halbarad sighed. “Go on; speak your mind. You think I’m being an ass about Falathren's trip.” For good reason: he’d blown up like Orodruin when he’d first been told exactly what his daughter was doing in Evendim.

“Here's what I think," Brandol ventured.  "You don’t think moving the women and children to Evendim is a bad idea.  You’re just upset it wasn’t yours.”

Halbarad crossed his arms. Brandol was working on getting under his skin, and succeeding. “Not only was it not my idea, I wasn’t even consulted. Nor was Aragorn. Doesn’t rank count for anything around here?”

Brandol shrugged. “You were missing. You and Aragorn could have both been dead. No decision has been made. So far it’s just talk.”

“Talk opens a door quicker than a key,” Halbarad retorted. “I will not abandon this settlement.”

“We wouldn’t be abandoning it. Even if we move the women and children west to safety, this compound will have to be kept fortified as an eastern outpost.”

“A garrison is not a home,” Halbarad said.

Brandol conceded the point with a nod. “No.  But the Dunedain have abandoned homes before, at need.  What do you think Dírhael will say?”

“He’s a smug bastard, but he won’t turn away his own kin,” Halbarad said. “In fact, it will give him a certain satisfaction to offer shelter to the refugees from the Chieftain’s stronghold. He will agree to it readily enough. It just sticks in my craw to be beholden to him.”

“You sound as if it is your decision to make,” Brandol said, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

Halbarad narrowed his eyes and screwed on an ironic smile. “I would never be so foolish as to suppose that!  After, all, I haven't even got your mother's opinion of the matter yet.”

Brandol chuckled. “My mother happens to be in favor of the plan. Yours, however, is not.”

While briefly amazed to find himself on the same side of a disagreement as his mother for once, Halbarad supposed it would last only until his mother caught wind of that odd occurrence, at which point she was bound to reverse her position just to confound him. “And my daughter organized the entire delegation. Splendid.”

Brandol rubbed his beard, hiding a smirk. “Yes, and what’s more, your mother is convinced that she did it only to seduce my son.”

Halbarad sat up straight. “Oh, really?” Making a note to spend a lot more time at home in the future, he crossed his arms. “And is she right?”

“You know my son has always been fond of Falathren.”

“Your son is as big a scoundrel as you are,” Halbarad said. It was a false accusation; if anything, the boy was conscientious to the point of annoyance. “I should transfer him to the far side of Forochel for his impudence.”

“He is thoroughly smitten,” Brandol said with a shrug and another chuckle. “She has him writing bad poetry.”

Halbarad snorted. “Then maybe he should take lessons from my son. His poetry is quite good.” Halbarad took a drink of beer and pondered the implications of the match. Falathren’s husband had been a flighty charmer, easily luring her away from her dour, taciturn childhood playmate. But after an abrupt and devastating lesson in life’s impermanence, maybe she yearned now for Tologarth’s constancy and solid strength. If she really had him writing poetry….Leaning forward, Halbarad clasped his hands between his knees. “I could ask for no better son-in-law, Brandol. I just think it is too soon for her.”

Brandol fingered the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully before speaking. “She’s old enough to know her own mind,” he said finally. “Why should a woman as young as she go on nursing her grief when there is a chance at happiness? And the child should have a father.”

Halbarad could not argue with that. He had returned the swords of far too many dead Rangers to grief-shocked widows and children over the years. He himself had been one of the lucky few whose father lived long enough to hold his first grandson in his arms. While most were not as unlucky as Brandol, youngest of three sons, who had never known the father killed by orcs near Nenuial before he was born, many children endured the early loss of a father. Brandol had, Eirien, Elanor, even Aragorn. A child could survive such a loss. And a wife could withstand losing a husband -- once. There were many, many widows among the Dúnedain, and Falathren was strong. But Halbarad knew as sure as the sun rose that he could not bear to bring another ownerless sword home to his daughter. “I could not stand to see her hurt again,” he said, half to himself, knowing even as he spoke the words that someday, somehow, she would be hurt, and there would be no stopping it. Maybe you are right,” he conceded finally. “It will be their decision anyway. And then you and I, old friend, can fight over whether our grandson will fish in the Bruinen or in Lake Nenuial.” He reached above him and pulled a rolled-up map from a clutter of scrolls on the shelf above the desk. He anchored it flat with pieces of pottery and traced the outline of Lake Nenuial, scripted in faded ink a finger’s width north of the Shire border. “Fair Annuminas,” he whispered softly.

Brandol stood at Halbarad’s shoulder, puffing smoke that drifted into his eyes. “You see,” he said, jabbing at the map with a scarred finger, “the lake and the Brandywine form natural barriers to the west, east and north, and Shire is a buffer to the south.”

“I give you that it is more defensible than the Angle, and with Evendim a major garrison for the Shire guard, our people would be better protected. But your allegiance to this plan wouldn’t have anything to do with the size of the lake trout in Nenuial, would it?”

Brandol’s face broke into a crooked grin, pulled askance by his scar. “I once caught one longer than your arm, and fatter than Butterbur’s cook.”

Halbarad snorted. “And all the witnesses are dead, of course.” He stared at the map. “I cannot fault the merits of this plan, but it galls me to retreat.”

“We were lucky that this attack left only two dead,” Brandol said. “There will be more orcs next time.”

“Who is to say? We pursued the band and wiped them out before they could report the location of the settlement.”

“At the cost of even more lives,” Brandol pointed out. “They found us once. They can find us again. Whose skull would you have cleaved by an orc blade the next time? Your wife’s, or maybe your granddaughter’s?”

“I hear you.” It had been Halbarad himself, after all, who’d half-seriously challenged Aragorn to move all the women and children - not to Evendim, but to the soft safety of the Shire itself. But he couldn’t tell Brandol that. “I do not know what Aragorn will say about this plan. And the old folk are strong and stubborn. They will not stomach fleeing from danger any more than you and I do. This is their home and they would die to protect it.”

“The Dúnedain have abandoned settlements before; even cities, to save lives and preserve what we are. It is not cowardice to live to fight another day.” Brandol stood up, by habit bracing his limp right arm against his side with his left hand. “Besides, you can tell your mother that the alternative plan is for the women and children to take refuge at Rivendell.”

Halbarad groaned. “Oh, you are devious, my friend! Instead, let me stand behind you while you tell her.”

******

“I’ll not hear another word of it,” Halbarad’s mother declared. “I, for one, am not going to be packed off to live in Evendim at my age. I’ll go back to Sarn Ford, if I must leave at all.” With this, she tightened her mouth into a rigid line and folded her arms across her chest.

From across the table, Halbarad’s wife shot him a warning glare not to take the challenge. He countered with a tight, meek smile, and Brandol paused in the act of spearing a piece of meat to glance sideways at his mother.

Meneliel could always be counted on to take the bait. “That’s all well and good for you,” she replied evenly, “with your own grandson Captain at the ford. He already has his wife and son there. But that post is too small and poorly-outfitted to support a large influx of families and children. Only Dírhael’s lands could possibly absorb the bulk of our settlement.”

Nelaer’s mouth tightened. “I say we strengthen our fortifications and hold out here instead of packing up and leaving. We have survived this long without running at the first sign of trouble.”

Meneliel helped herself to a second serving of boiled turnips and venison. “With the bulk of our forces concentrated around the Shire borders, there are too few men left here to protect this settlement, by the time they patrol to the north and south.”

“Well, that’s the problem. The men need to be brought back here, to where they’re needed.”

Halbarad’s fingers, unbidden, found the bridge of his nose and began kneading.

“Aragorn feels they’re needed to guard the Shire, isn’t that right, Halbarad?” Meneliel replied, as Halbarad reached for the jug of Erestor’s wine.

Brandol held out his cup. “You had better give me some of that, too.”

“What does Aragorn say about the Shire guard, Halbarad?” his mother asked. “Surely he realizes by now it’s a waste of men.”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Halbarad answered.

She smiled insincerely. “Alas, but he never seems to be here, does he?”

The most infuriating thing about his mother, Halbarad decided, was that she was very often correct in her facts. “He will be here within a few weeks,” he said with forced patience. “We should wait until then to make a decision.”

“So Aragorn is to decide what is best for us? Do you have a mind in this, or are you merely Aragorn’s mouthpiece?”

“I am no man’s puppet,” he replied, exchanging a glance with his wife, who alone knew the arguments he had had with Aragorn on this very issue. “But Aragorn is my liege lord and he is right in this, even if I do not fully understand his reasons.”

“It is a fool who follows blindly,” Nelaer said. “I thought your father taught you better than that.”

“Nelaer, please have a care for the child,” Eirien said quietly. Taking a very deep breath, she pushed her chair back from the table and beckoned to Elanor. “Come, sweetling; help me clear the table.”

“And I had best check the pastures to make sure all the stock is in,” Brandol said, not about to miss the opportunity to excuse himself.

Halbarad held his tongue until Eirien and Elanor had disappeared beyond the kitchen doorway.  “You are entitled to your opinion, Mother; but I will not have you speaking of Aragorn like that in front of Elanor.”

“She might as well know the truth,” his mother said. “Where is Aragorn now? Lounging about in Rivendell, enjoying the music of harps and drinking Miruvor from a silver cup? Is this the one who is to decide our fate, who will not even share our lives?”

Halbarad felt his neck burning. He looked to Meneliel, but she had evidently decided to sit this battle out. “Aragorn has toiled long and suffered much that you know nothing of.”

“Suffered on whose account? For his people, or for the glory of fallen Númenor? If he wants to be King, then let him be getting on with it. But I, for one, have seen little in him to bring forth comparisons to Elendil.”

“Contempt does not become you, Mother.”

“Nor hero-worship you.”

Without another word, Halbarad pushed back his chair and strode from the house.

The rain had finally stopped. He climbed the fence at the far edge of the settlement and sat on the top rail, watching the mist rise from the wet fields. Dusk was falling, and early stars could be seen through gaps in the drifting clouds. Somewhere to the north, a wolf howled, and behind him, soft footsteps approached.

“Come down from there, boy.” The voice was Meneliel’s.

“Why?” he asked without turning.

“Because I have some things to tell you, and I have no intention of standing out here in the damp to do it.”

He climbed down then, and followed her to the small cottage she shared with Brandol, taking a seat at her table when bidden. “Hatred does not spring full-formed from the heart, you know,” Meneliel said, bending to pull the kettle from the hearth.

As she poured tea for both of them, and lit the lamp, he leaned his elbows on the table and nursed the small cup between his warrior’s hands. “Where does it come from, then?”

Meneliel settled herself into her chair heavily. “From desire, most of all. Some would even say love. Men’s lives are short and brutal. But to be forced to look up on that which we can never have is the most brutal test of all. Take Rivendell. It is beautiful, is it not? But beneath its beauty is a deadly trap.” Meneliel scanned his expression carefully. “I see by your face that you know what I mean. Has your mother spoken to you of this after all?”

He had no idea what she was talking about. His mother was the last person on Arda he would expect to speak to him of Rivendell, unless it were to tell him it was a load of Elvish rubbish. “As far as I know, my mother has never been to Rivendell. But I have seen its power myself.” He had sensed Dudo’s vulnerability to its seductive beauty, had instinctively sought to harden him to it. “It is too high above us,” he said. “Like moths in the candle’s flame, we will be consumed if we love it too much.”

Meneliel refilled Halbarad’s cup, and when he drank from it this time he found that it was not tea. “Then you will understand what I am about to tell you," she said, "even if it surprises you to hear it. When your mother was fifteen, she fell ill with fever. When she was near death, her father in his desperation took her to Rivendell. Elrond saved her life, though it was four months before she was well enough to return home. In those four months, she fell in love with the beauty and magic of Imladris; the grace and wisdom and elegance of the Elves, the ease of life, the absence of fear and decrepitude and decay and toil. She painted, wrote poetry, sang, danced. She walked in fragrant gardens wearing lovely gowns. And when she came back to us, she was lost.”

“My mother?” Halbarad could scarcely believe his ears. “Wearing gowns in Rivendell? Painting?”

Meneliel smiled. “Ah, yes. When she first returned, she chattered about Rivendell so incessantly that the rest of us girls took to avoiding her. But soon, she stopped talking about it. She stopped talking about anything, really, as if she found nothing else worthy of the effort of speech. She would eat only what was placed in front of her. Work did not interest her, though at last her mother set her to weaving to keep her from idleness. So she dutifully wove, alone, for hours, for days, for years, until she became a master weaver; and yet no matter how beautiful her work, she held it in contempt. Nothing she saw with her eyes or created with her own hands would ever again rival the beauty of her memories. Eventually she came to be of marriageable age and was considered beautiful to look upon, but she rejected all her suitors. Only for Arathorn did she briefly have eyes, for he had spent some little time in Rivendell himself, as a young man. But he had a warrior’s heart, and little patience for pining and poetry.”

“I can’t believe my mother spent four months in Rivendell,” Halbarad heard himself say again. He would not have been more shocked if Meneliel had told him his mother was the daughter of Gil-galad himself. “If she would have no man, however did she come to marry my father? He was as far from an Elf as any man who ever lived.”

“Yes, you are right. An interesting man, your father. In my mind he was her cure.  She sought out the hardest, most independent, stubborn, unsentimental cynic she could find as the antidote to her pain. How he came to be so is a story for another time, but it worked. It was a perfect marriage. They bolstered one another against the disappointments of life. His hardness passed into her, and for a time it must have seemed to her that she managed to bury her memories and weak longings and put them away forever. But it was then that the worst happened. Her greatest dream came true – for someone else.”

“What dream was that?”

“Why, to walk the paths of Imladris under the patronage of Elrond, of course.”

Halbarad’s breath caught. “Oh, no. Gilraen and Aragorn.”

“Yes. Arathorn was dead, and Gilraen and the baby were whisked away to Rivendell – to the life your mother had longed to have. To the life she desired more than anything to give a child of her own. It would be Gilraen’s child who sat at Elrond’s knee learning the ancient lore; Gilraen’s child who painted and sang and read books and walked with the Eldar in gardens of splendor and grace. Nelaer nearly died from jealousy.”

“Elrond would have been quite disappointed with my singing,” Halbarad commented lamely. “Not to mention my painting. Why was I never told of this?”

“Let it never be said that the Dúnedain cannot keep a secret,” Meneliel said with a soft chuckle. “It was none of your business, child. Your mother took care that her pain and yearning did not pass to you. Tell me –have you found yourself tempted by the charms of Rivendell?”

“No. It was like a beautiful dream that one wakes from to face the day; nothing more.”

“You have your mother to thank for that.”

It cast his mother in a light he had never considered, a light that would require much thought. But another thought occurred to him. “Is this why she avoided Gilraen?”

“She never said so. But there was no doubt that Gilraen’s years in Rivendell left an imprint of grace and elegance on her. We all saw it, when she returned. I think your mother realized that Gilraen was blameless, and so, unable to control her jealousy, she chose to depart rather than cause strife. Be sparing in your judgment of her, Halbarad. The world is harsh and not all hearts are built to withstand it.”

Halbarad remained sitting while Meneliel collected the cups. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Meneliel propped sturdy hands on her hips and studied him intently. “I’ll just have to let you think about that.”

The door swung open with a creak, and Brandol stepped inside, not bothering to wipe his boots. “Mother, Halbarad.” He stared at them a moment, perplexed at finding them at the table nursing cups, but then he shook his head and jerked it in the direction of the main house. “I think you should both come.”

********

Halbarad strode beside Brandol along the muddy lane. “Is he alone?”

“No, one of Elrond’s sons came with him. He went to take care of the horses while Eirien took Aragorn into the house.”

Meneliel was making for the house, so Halbarad went to the barn. There he found Elladan, draped in a damp cloak and struggling to unfasten his stallion’s soaked girth strap. “Go into the house,” Halbarad said, batting his icy hands aside. “Eirien will find you some dry clothes and something hot to eat.” Elladan stepped back a few feet but went no further. Halbarad relieved Elladan’s stallion of its tack while Brandol did the same for Daisy.  Then he draped a dry blanket over the horse and turned to Elladan. “I didn’t expect to see Aragorn for another few weeks. Is something wrong?”

The set of Elladan’s jaw said that he had fully intended for Halbarad to not see Aragorn for another few weeks, either. “It was his decision to leave,” he said simply.

Brandol thrust a forkful of hay in front of the stallion and wiped a trail of horse slobber onto his trousers. He looked uncertainly from the stone-faced Elladan to Halbarad. “Unless you need anything else…”

“Thank you, Brandol,” Halbarad said without taking his eyes off Elladan. Brandol returned the curt nod and left. Halbarad crossed his arms. “What’s going on?”

"I do not know."  Elladan shrugged out of his cloak and draped it over a post. “He suddenly became insistent on visiting his mother's grave.  We were quite unable to reason with him about it.  Father thinks it had something to do with finding his father's trunk."

"Arathorn's trunk?"

Elladan bent over to work the day’s ride out of his legs. "Estel took Dudo up to the attic a few days ago, looking for some old books, and he happened upon a trunk of Arathorn’s that was put up there after he died. There was nothing in it but some old clothes, but somehow the discovery seems to have troubled him deeply. He refused to talk about it to anyone, but insisted on leaving immediately to come here and see his mother’s grave. Gandalf and Dudo were leaving the next day, anyway.”

“This decision seems abrupt for him,” Halbarad said. “He did not speak to me at all about Gilraen’s grave when I was in Rivendell.”

Elladan nodded. “Nor to me, until the day before yesterday. I realize that with the timing of his arrival and the unfortunate events that followed, he has not yet been able to visit the grave, but something seems wrong to me. Maybe he will talk to you now, Halbarad. So far, he has repelled all of our efforts to question him by emphatically reminding us that none of us has ever buried a mother.” Elladan patted the stallion’s neck absently as it grazed on the hay. “Father feels that finding his father’s trunk might have been too much for Aragorn at this time – the old loss, re-awakened by his fresh grief.  In any case, there is nothing more we can do. We are the ones, after all, who stole his grief from him so long ago, took from him his identity as Arathorn’s son. Maybe it will help him to be with his own people for a while.”

As he said this, Elladan’s head sank toward his chest, the last words seeming to drain his strength. Halbarad laid a hesitant hand on his shoulder.  He had never before seen Elladan in need of comfort.  “You are his people, too,” he said. “You always will be. He just needs time to rest.”

“Maybe you are right,” Elladan said. “But as things stand, the sooner I leave, the better.”

Halbarad stooped to pick up Aragorn’s pack. “You’ll stay the night, at least?”

Elladan looked more uncomfortable than Halbarad had ever seen him. “No, I’m afraid not. I can stay only long enough to rest the horse. I promised to meet Elrohir and Gandalf at the Last Bridge.”

“Come inside for a while, at least,” Halbarad said. “Eat something, and dry your clothes.”

“Very well,” Elladan said.

Aragorn was sitting close to the fire, pale from the chill of the rain, wrapped in a thick blanket and looking to have been divested of a fair portion of his wet clothing by what means Halbarad chose not to explore. Dry socks were on his feet, a mug was cradled in his hands, and a towel that had obviously been used to dry his tousled head lay draped over his shoulders. His face was pinched and his nod to Halbarad was guarded; he looked ready to bolt. Odd, Halbarad thought, since according to Elladan he had fairly broken his neck to get here. Eirien was kneeling at the hearth, warming up a pot of leftover stew while surreptitiously watching Aragorn. Her brows were knit, and Halbarad guessed she found something she didn’t like in the tautness of his cheekbones and the hollows beneath his eyes.

“Boots off!” Halbarad’s mother barked from the pantry door.

Halting so fast that Elladan ran into him, Halbarad backed up and sat down on the bench by the door to remove his mud-caked boots. Elladan did the same without complaint, and Halbarad wondered if Elrond made his houseguests remove their dirty footwear at the door. His memory of his arrival the Last Homely House was too hazy to provide a clear recollection. Now obediently stocking-footed, Halbarad stood up and stepped into the room. His mother was still standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a plate of cheese and meat and looking as if she had just seen Elendil’s ghost.

“Mae govannen, Elladan,” his mother said.

“Mae govannen, Nelaer,” Elladan said. “I trust you have been well.”

“Halbarad,” Eirien called, interrupting his startled gape, “would you please fill a flagon of wine from the cask in the pantry and get out some cups? Now?” To Elladan she directed a kinder look. “Would you like something dry to wear, Elladan? I’m sure we can find some clothes to fit you while yours dry by the fire.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said with a slight smile, “but do not trouble yourself. I am comfortable enough for now, and I must be back on the road in a little while.”

“Then at least let me hang up your cloak to dry.” As Elladan nodded in acceptance and handed over his cloak, Halbarad went to find dry clothes to change into. As he passed his mother, he saw with shock that his mother was blushing.

*********

“I think Aragorn is asleep already,” Eirien said. “He looked like he needed it. Do you want the shutters open or closed?”

“Open,” Halbarad answered. “I don’t think it will rain any more tonight.” Halbarad unstrapped his sword belt and sat down on the bed, throwing his trousers and shirt over the back of a chair.

“I wish we could have talked Elladan into staying the night.”

“He can take care of himself.” Probably better in the wild than in a houseful of crazy Dúnedain, Halbarad reckoned, considering this evening’s revelations.

Eirien pulled her tunic over her head and picked at a loose thread. “It’s just as well Falathren is gone since the roof’s not finished on Gilraen’s cottage anyway. I put fresh sheets on her bed for Aragorn.”

“He’d have been fine on the floor in the great room,” Halbarad said. “He didn’t want you making a fuss over him.”

“We can’t let him sleep on the floor, Halbarad. He’s not well yet, you can see it by looking at him. And Elladan says we’re to make sure he doesn’t try to carry anything heavier than a mug of beer in that hand for at least a month. Besides, he’s the Chieftain of the Dúnedain; what would it look like if we had him sleeping on the floor?”

“He sleeps on the ground most of the time anyway.”

“Not in my house, he doesn’t. Elanor has been sleeping with your mother since Falathren left anyway, so it’s not like he’s putting anyone out of a bed.” He watched her as she stood by the wardrobe and changed into a linen nightgown that hugged her chest. “I hope he can get some rest while he’s here. He looks exhausted. And he’s too thin.”

“You always say that,” Halbarad said. “He’s just tired from the ride. He looks a far sight better than he did.”

“He was quiet tonight. He looked troubled.”

“Elladan says it’s Gilraen’s death.”

“That’s understandable. There’s been no time for him to grieve her.”

“Elladan thinks Arathorn’s death is bothering him, too.”

“How can that be? Arathorn’s been dead for 75 years.”

“I don’t know. Don’t worry; whatever it is, I’ll get it out of him tomorrow.”

“How did he hurt his hand?” Eirien asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed and unwinding her braid. “Did he go into the river, too?”

“No, he did not go into the river,” he answered, reaching over and rubbing her back through her nightgown. “He ran into a little trouble in Bree. Did you know Brandol’s son is courting our daughter?”

“Of course,” she answered, pulling her feet up into bed.

“Don’t you think it’s too soon?”

“I think she deserves a chance at happiness.”

“That’s what Brandol said.”

“Brandol is a wise man.”

“I don’t want to see her hurt again.”

“You can’t stop it.”

He let his head fall back onto the pillow. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“How do you think I feel, every time you walk out that door?” She leaned over and kissed him. “It makes me feel better that you want to keep her from getting hurt.”

He pulled her closer, letting her head settle in the hollow of his shoulder. He lay there, stroking her hair. “That went better than I expected tonight.”

“What did?”

“My mother. I was afraid she’d say something insulting to Elladan or Aragorn, but she managed not to misbehave too badly, for once.”

Eirien laughed and pulled his arm around her waist. “She’s an opinionated old bird, but her bark is worse than her bite.”

“Meneliel told me about her being in Rivendell as a girl,” he said.

“Ah, I wondered why you were gone so long after you stormed out.”

He cocked his head to look down at her. “How long have you known?”

“Since about six months after we got married. You were off in Fornost and your mother was being impossible. Meneliel found me by the riverbank, crying my eyes out.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

She brushed a finger along the stubble on his chin. “Because you never asked, darling.”

“Women!” He nipped at the finger with his teeth. “I still can’t imagine my mother, in Rivendell, wearing gowns and writing poetry. I’ll bet that’s where Húrin gets it, and all these years I’ve been blaming your side of the family.” Something else was niggling at him, though, something he should have noticed but didn’t. Something his mother had said… “She knew him!” he said finally, shooting upright. “She knew him!”

“Whom did she know?”

“Elladan.”

Eirien reached up and twirled a lock of his hair playfully. “Of course she knew him, Halbarad; everyone knows him.”

“No,” he corrected, twisting to look at her. “Everyone knows them.” Smiling in triumph, he caught her playful fingers and squeezed. “Everyone knows the brothers Elrondion, but few can tell them apart even when they are standing side by side. Fewer still can put a name to one without the other present, in a dimly lit room. She did.”

“Your mother is a more perceptive woman than you give her credit for, Halbarad.”

Halbarad knew female evasiveness when he heard it. With effort, he ignored the hand that was now smoothing the hair back from his temples. “She was blushing, too,” he said. “I think she fancies him. Oh, sweet Valar.” He plopped backwards onto the pillow. “My mother fancies Elladan.”

Eirien laughed lightly and turned away. “Good night, Halbarad.”

He grabbed her from behind and pulled her back before she could blow out the candle on the bedside table. He rolled on top of her, feeling the warm softness of her chest. “She does, doesn’t she?”

“Does what?”

“Fancies Elladan. Don’t be evasive.”

Eirien was trying not to smile, but the tiny crinkles at the corners of her eyes gave her away. “Are you interrogating me now, Ranger?” she asked mischievously.

“Yes,” he said. “And I’ll use any means necessary.”

“Mmm," she contemplated, “that sounds intriguing.” He waited patiently, with her wrists clasped loosely in his hands and his chest pressing against hers, trying not to smile. “All right,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you a secret.”

He loosened his grip ever so slightly. “Start talking.”

“Come closer.” He did, and she whispered in his ear.

“What!” he yelped.

“You heard me,” she said.

“What do you mean, everyone?”

She looked unrepentant. “You asked.”

“I’m shocked at all you women.”

“As if every man who ever laid eyes on Arwen Undomiel hasn’t fancied her.”

“That’s not fair. She’s the very likeness of Lúthien. And I would only fancy her if you weren’t in the room.”

“Right.” She cocked an eyebrow at him and licked her lips. “Of course, the right man could make me forget I ever laid eyes on a certain Peredhel.”

He shifted, allowing her to feel the weight of his body pressing on hers from their chests all the way down to their intertwined feet. “I’m your man.”

She smiled the smile that she saved just for him. “You always have been.”

***********

Halbarad woke up happy. It was late. The sun was already up, slanting through the open window and onto his eyelids. Without opening them, he reached across the bed, frowning when he found it empty. Of course, Eirien would be up, seeing to the fire, to breakfast, to the animals. He should be, too. He lay there half-dozing, putting it together eventually that the sun shining meant he could get the roof on Gilraen’s cottage finally. Well, that was good, he reckoned, since Aragorn was evidently going to be spending some time here. He stretched, enjoying the softness of the bed and the absence of an urgent reason to get out of it.

“Halbarad.”

Eirien. “Mmmm,” he answered sleepily, reaching toward her with his eyes closed, brushing his hand first against her hip – clad in sensible woolen day-wear—and then her wrist. He pulled it towards him. If Elanor wasn’t up yet, they might have time for another --

“Halbarad, wake up.”

He poked an eyelid open and let loose the captured wrist. “What?”

She was standing over him stark-eyed and stiff-lipped, impatient at his lingering drowsiness. “He’s gone. Get up.”

He levered himself up on his elbows. “Who’s gone?”

“Aragorn.”

Groaning, he swung his feet to the floor and strode to Falathren’s room. The bed had been slept in, but Aragorn’s pack was gone.

“I checked the barn. The horse is gone, too.”

“Go see if anyone saw him leave.” Halbarad went back to the bedroom and got dressed. Gilraen’s grave was a half-mile away. He wouldn’t have needed a horse for that. Or his pack. He got his own from the back room and started stuffing food into it, cursing himself. The haunted look on Aragorn’s face last night spelled trouble; he should have seen it.

Eirien was back, shaking her head. “No one saw him. He must have left well before dawn.”

And not by the trail, either, or the sentries would have seen him. “That’s all right,” Halbarad said, strapping on his swordbelt. “I can track him.”

-Chapter 10-

“Really, Aragorn,” Halbarad grumbled to no one in particular, “I'm disappointed in you.  My five-year-old granddaughter can hide her tracks better than this.”  A five-year-old probably could have easily followed the too-obvious trail Aragorn left as well, he concluded with dawning suspicion.  Leading northwest, along the well-worn trail that led to the Last Bridge, Aragorn's tracks followed rather too obvious a heading for such a hasty and surreptitious departure.  If Aragorn had needed to catch up with Gandalf, he could have simply said so - or not bothered to stop at the Angle at all.  Troubled by what was looking more and more like a ruse, Halbarad spurred his horse into a canter, no longer bothering to note each clearly imprinted hoofprint in the soft, wet soil.  If Aragorn was trying to lead him astray, it would not be along this easy stretch of road where he attempted to give him the slip, Halbarad guessed, but at a stream crossing five miles ahead, where the gravel streambed would cover his tracks more easily.  

Arriving at the crossing, Halbarad guided his horse into the knee-deep water and waded up and down the weed-covered, undercut banks, scanning the vegetation and earth with a practiced eye, until finally he spotted the well-disguised gouges in the near bank a stone's throw downstream from the crossing where Aragorn had led the horse out of the water.  It was a clever spot, to be sure, nearly hidden by the low-hanging branches of a willow.   From there, the tracks doubled back toward the southeast, in the direction of the settlement. 

Aragorn's return route ran nearly parallel to the main path Halbarad had followed from the settlement, and in a few places, came with in a few furlongs of it, shielded from view by low hills and woodland.  Clever; Halbarad conceded grimly, wondering what dark  errand of Aragorn's could warrant such haste and deception.  If he had only lingered in the settlement a respectable week or two, he could have simply announced his departure and no one would have thought anything of it. It was becoming clearer to Halbarad with every passing minute that Aragorn's true destination had never been the Angle at all; that had been nothing but an excuse to get him out from under the watchful eye of Elrond so he could pursue his true purpose, whatever that was.  

After curving in a wide arc to avoid the settlement, Aragorn's tracks settled back into a southeasterly heading again, leading directly to the river trail along the Bruinen.  The river trail was straight and flat, and Halbarad urged his horse into a canter.  He could ill afford any more delays or deceptions if he hoped to catch up with Aragorn before nightfall.  The looping double-back diversion had cost Aragorn two hours, he reckoned, and himself three, but now, on a straight track, he could catch up with him quickly enough.  The river was too deep to ford here, and he doubted Aragorn would attempt to swim it.  Despite the furtive nature of Aragorn's escape, Daisy’s tracks along this part of the trail had settled into a workmanlike but unhurried pace - the pace of a man on a journey of days, or longer.   If he was intent on crossing the river, he would do it at Tharbad.   

It was shortly after noon when Halbarad rounded a bend in the path and spotted the dark figure ahead, astride the chestnut mare.  Aragorn didn’t bother turning around at the sound of approaching hoof beats, but merely turned and nodded curtly when Halbarad pulled up alongside. “Halbarad,” he said, his face and voice betraying no surprise and only the slightest hint of irritation.  

“You’re going in the wrong direction,” Halbarad said companionably, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.  “Your mother’s grave is back that way.  About twenty miles.”

Aragorn's jaw tensed.  “I’m not going to my mother’s grave,” he said.  “At least, not yet.”

“That’s strange," Halbarad said, batting away a low-hanging branch, "since Elladan told me that was your excuse for leaving Imladris in such a hurry.”  Halbarad rubbed at his beard thoughtfully.  “That couldn't have been just been a ruse, could it?”  Aragorn continued to avoid eye contact, but to an expert interrogator, there were plenty of other clues.  The shoulders were rigid, the corners of the mouth tight, the back straight, the hands tense on the reins:  the man looked trapped.  Good, Halbarad thought.  “Ever since I figured out you weren't really headed for Bree, I've been wondering where you're really going.   There's nothing in Tharbad except you'd ford the river there if you were going to Rohan.  But I couldn't think of a reason you'd be journeying to Rohan in secret.   Gondor, perhaps?  Though you didn’t bother to take any supplies besides what you already had in your pack, so I’d guess you don’t intend to go any further than --”

“Go home, Halbarad.”  Aragorn nudged Daisy into a faster walk. 

“Well, I’d like to do that,” Halbarad said, easily keeping abreast.  “But I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”

Aragorn’s sigh was weary, his voice impatient.  “Why not?”

“Well, it just so happens  - whoa!”  Ducking a low-hanging branch at the last moment, Halbarad batted another away from his head.  The trail was too narrow for two horses to pass easily, but Aragorn showed no willingness to stop for the sake of conversation.  Obviously he intended to make this as difficult as possible.  Halbarad gritted his teeth and scowled at the offending branch.  “Well, it just so happens I was headed this same direction myself.”

“You don’t say.” 

“Yes, it seems that scoundrel Brandol sent my 17-year-old son down to Tharbad to look into some Dunlending trouble.   Between you and me, Aragorn, the boy has his head in the clouds.  Gets it from his grandmother, I'm afraid.  His mother is worried sick.  She begged me to go down there and look in on him before does something foolish.”

Aragorn nodded slowly.  “I see.  Well, since I’ll be passing through Tharbad, I’d be more than happy to look in on Húrin for you.”

Halbarad smiled.  “That’s very kind of you, but as it happens there are certain other equities that demand my attention in Tharbad.”

There was a longer pause this time.  “What equities would those be?”

Halbarad reached over and patted Daisy’s back end.  “This horse you’re riding, for one.  You don’t have a very good record when it comes to returning borrowed property, you know.  And then there’s this.”  He slapped a palm against the dagger sheathed at his belt. 

Aragorn stared blankly at the sheath.  “Whatever does your dagger have to do with this?”

“Dudo gave it back to me under one condition  - that I put it to use saving your skin.  I intend to do just that.  I don’t know what you’re up to, but you’re not yourself, you’re not well, and you’d better know right now that you're not going to Tharbad or anywhere else without me.”

Aragorn turned his attention back to the trail and rode in silence while he pondered this assertion.  “Suit yourself,” he said finally, and nudged Daisy into a trot. 

He’ll talk, Halbarad told himself, falling in behind him.  Sooner or later, he’ll have to talk. 

~oOo~

Halbarad set down his empty plate and reached into his pack for his cleaning pouch.  Aragorn was gazing inscrutably into the fire, absently kneading his sore knee.  Three days in the saddle had probably done it no good, though arguably more good than three days of walking would have.  His face, shadowed and distorted by the glow of the fire, remained an expressionless, impenetrable mask.  A man who did not know him well would see nothing more than a Ranger's typical reserve, Halbarad thought he saw a glimmer of fear in those hooded eyes, well-disguised and overridden by some terrible, grim purpose that Halbarad had still not been able to discern.  He ran an oiled cloth over his sword, watching the play of firelight play along its keenly-honed edge as he considered his strategy.   Three days, and he’d so far not even managed to elicit their destination from Aragorn.  He had considered the possibility that Aragorn was on another secret errand of Gandalf’s, but Gandalf was currently headed west, toward the Shire, with Elladan, Elrohir, and Dudo, all of whom Aragorn had taken great pains to misdirect and shake off his trail.  No, he decided, whatever this errand of his was, it was a highly private matter.  They were a day from Tharbad now.  If Aragorn kept going south, he could be headed toward Rohan, or perhaps Gondor.  Another thought occurred to him, one that made him shudder.  Surely Aragorn had no secret errand in Mordor?  With a hasty glance at the packs, Halbarad reassured himself that Aragorn had nowhere near enough supplies, not to mention weapons, for such an expedition.  On that basis alone, his destination was likely Tharbad.  Halbarad re-sheathed his weapon and gathered the plates.  Aragorn’s was clean – at least he was eating what was put in front of him, for all that he showed no enthusiasm for it.  When Halbarad returned from washing the dishes in the river, Aragorn was cleaning his own sword, running a whetstone lightly over the blade as it lay across his lap.  Halbarad noticed he used his left hand to grip the whetstone -- he still favored the right, though the swelling was nearly gone now. 

Enough was enough, Halbarad decided.  He was a patient man, but he’d endured Aragorn’s taciturn silence and one-word replies for long enough. “So,” he said, settling down cross-legged on the ground and resting his elbows on his knees, “what’s in Tharbad?”

The soft rasp of the whetstone paused for just an instant, then resumed its slow, rhythmic labor.  Eight more times did it run across the blade before Aragorn looked up. “I didn’t say I was going to Tharbad.”  

“You didn’t have to.  If we weren’t going to Tharbad, you would have corrected me.”  Halbarad snapped the twig he was playing with and threw it into the fire. “Enough, Aragorn.  I am not your enemy.  Why the secrecy?  Why the lies?”

At this accusation, Aragorn's brow tightened.  “I’ve lied to no one.”

“Is that so?  And if I ask Elladan why you left Imladris in such a hurry, what will he say?”

Aragorn’s hands tightened on stone and sword until he had to release the right to knead a cramp out of it.  “It couldn’t be helped.  They would not have let me go, otherwise, and I could not bear their...inquisitiveness.” 

All the tension seemed to go out of him suddenly.  Halbarad recognized the signs - he could tell when a man was ready to talk, and this one was.  He softened his voice.  “This isn’t about your mother at all, is it?

“No,” Aragorn said, barely louder than a whisper. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and peered out from between his fingers almost like a child playing peek-a-boo.  Finally he sighed and tossed the whetstone back into his pack.  “It’s about my father.”

"Your father?"  Halbarad stared at him blankly.  “You mean Elrond?”  Though the Lord of Imladris was like a father to Aragorn, Halbarad had never heard Aragorn refer to him as such in conversation. 

“Not Elrond," Aragorn said quietly.  "Arathorn.”

Somewhere deep in Halbarad's gut, dread flared to life.  What news about a man’s long-dead father could ever be good?  “Is that why you're headed for Tharbad?  Something happened to your father there?”

Aragorn hesitated, then caught his gaze for an instant and nodded tersely.

“When?” Halbarad asked blankly.  Beyond the fact that Arathorn had been dead for nearly 80 years, Tharbad was nothing but an abandoned shell of a town.  Only the ford and a few ruins were left to attest that it had ever been inhabited.  The Rangers patrolled it occasionally, mostly to secure the road that crossed the ford, but there had been no permanent post for decades, and Arathorn had spent most of the last three years of his life on an obsessive troll-hunt in northern Eriador to avenge his father.  Whatever had happened in Tharbad must have taken place even earlier.

Aragorn shrugged deeper into his cloak, dropping his gaze once more to look into the fire.  “The Fell Winter drove some of the Dunlending hill tribes down into the lowlands,” he said, so quietly that the far-off hoot of an owl nearly drowned out his voice.  “They took refuge in the wetlands of the Swanfleet, hunting birds and fishing to get through the winter.  In the spring of 2912, with the snowmelt, all the rivers coming out of the Misty Mountains flooded - the Bruinen, the Glanduin, the Sirannon – and the Dunlendings were forced to move again.  There were feuds over hunting grounds, and some of the refugees started moving north, encroaching on our lands.”

“Sounds familiar,” said Halbarad. “Brandol worries about the same happening now.”

“Maybe for good reason,” said Aragorn, “though the floods this spring were not nearly as bad as they were that year.  My grandfather sent a company of Rangers to keep the peace – or at least to ensure the Dunlendings stayed south of the Sirannon and Glanduin.  The post was manned until 2930, when my grandfather was killed and my father recalled all available Rangers to the north to hunt trolls.”

“All right,” Halbarad said, throwing another log on the fire.  “What happened in Tharbad?” 

He was answered only by the crackling of the fire, and Aragorn seemed to have withdrawn into himself again.  When he finally mustered himself to stand, Halbarad tensed to follow him, thinking he might simply drift away into the darkness of the woods, as he was wont to do when preoccupied with some weighty matter.  But he merely bent to remove a long, flat object from his pack.  “Open it,” he said, holding it out to Halbarad. 

It was an ancient leather wallet, and inside were several pages of parchment, cracked with age.  The night was moonless, so Halbarad slid from his log perch to kneel on the ground, slanting the pages to read the faded handwriting in the light of the campfire.   Behind him, Aragorn paced restlessly as he read.  Halbarad skimmed the letters quickly and thrust them back at Aragorn. “What am I supposed to make of this?”

Aragorn took the letters, handling them as gingerly as if they were molten mithril.  “Do you not see now?”

“No, I do not.  Explain it to me.  Who is this boy the writer speaks of?” 

Aragorn took a deep breath and sat down on the log as if the strength had suddenly gone out of his legs.  “The boy...” he said, pausing and looking at the letters as if tempted to throw them into the fire, “the boy was Arathorn’s first-born son.”

The little Halbarad had managed to decipher of the faded script had led him to the same suspicion, but hearing it said sent the knot of dread that had been forming in his gut straight up to the roof of his mouth.  He felt himself swallow convulsively.  “You are Arathorn’s first-born son,” he said.     

“So I was told.”

“Speak plainly, Aragorn!  Where did you get these letters?  And who wrote them?”

Aragorn set the letters aside and pulled out his pipe and pouch.  Only when he had lit the pipe and taken a deep draw on it did he answer.  “I found them in the bottom of my father’s trunk, in Elrond’s attic.  It was brought there after his death and forgotten, evidently.  The woman who wrote the letters was a Dunlending he met in Tharbad during the years he was posted there.  As you can see, he continued to provide support for the woman and her child even after he was re-posted to Evendim, in fact right up until his betrothal to my mother.”

“How could no one have known this?  If she was sending letters from Tharbad to Evendim, someone must have delivered them.”

“Someone did.  She names him - Arathorn’s good friend Brueglir.”

“Brueglir!”  Halbarad snatched the letters back and riffled through them hastily.  “My father,” he said in amazement.   “Who knew he was loyal enough to yours to keep his secrets?  Well, since he’s been dead for thirty years that will do us no good.  But someone else must have known.  Surely there would have been gossip.”   

“Let it never be said that the Dunedain cannot keep a secret,” Aragorn said with a grim hint of a smile.  “You know as well as I that warriors away from home turn a blind eye to one another's discreet dalliances.  Nor do they bring such tales home to their families.”

Halbarad couldn’t argue with that.  He’d turned a blind eye to a dalliance or two in his day.  He ruffled through the pages, counting nine letters in all.  “There are no dates on these letters.”

“The Dunlendings do not reckon years as we do,” Aragorn said, “But the first letter notes my father’s recent transfer to Evendim.  That happened in 2927.”

Halbarad squinted to read the faded text.  He had to admit, it indeed looked as bad as Aragorn believed it to be.  The woman wrote of how the boy missed Arathorn, how he was growing tall and lean, like his father.  She mused that he would look more like a Ranger than a Dunlending when he was grown.

“The second letter,” Aragorn continued – he must have memorized every word of them, Halbarad realized - “was written the following spring.  She speaks of sowing peas and cabbage in the field.  The cow Arathorn bought her had a male calf that she will be able to sell in the fall, and she traded the silver he sent for an iron plow blade and a copper pot when the trader came through.  The boy fishes in the Greyflood the way Arathorn taught him...”   

Aragorn's voice trailed off, and Halbarad realized he had never been fishing with his father.  What must it feel like to know another boy had gone in his place?  He shook his head to break the spell.  It was not as if he were about to start believing this nonsense.  “Aragorn, this proves nothing.  Did you ask Elrond about these letters?”

“No.”  Aragorn's back had stiffened at the very mention of the name.  “Elrond does not know of this; I am sure of it.  When I mentioned the trunk he did not react.”

“But did you show him the letters?”

“Halbarad, Elrond gave me the tokens of Elendil’s house," Aragorn said, emotion overcoming the toneless monotone of his voice.  "He expects me to claim the kingship.  He would have not done so were he aware of any shadow over my claim to it."

"But surely he could offer some advice --"

 "I could not!" Aragorn snapped, then sighed deeply and shook his head.  "I could not bring myself to tell him about this until I was sure, one way or the other, whether I really am Elendil's heir.  I have to know first, before I tell Elrond any of this.”

Halbarad suddenly needed to be on his feet.  He rose and took several steps, in no particular direction.  “Not Elendil’s heir?”  Dread ripped through him like a cold wind.  Not Elendil’s heir... He raked a hand through his hair.  “This is nonsense.  You cannot seriously be suggesting that a half-Dunlending cur is Elendil’s heir.”

“If he is my father’s legitimate issue, then he is,” Aragorn said quietly. 

“But he cannot be.  Your father was not bonded to this woman.”

“We do not know that.  Our customs are still close to those of the Eldar.  If mutual consent existed for the marriage, it is valid and must be recognized.  No public ceremony is necessary.  Your daughter might be bonded to Brandol’s son at this very moment, for all you know.”

Halbarad snorted.  “I prefer not to think about that, thank you.”  He preferred also not to think of the implications of a prior marriage on the legitimacy of Arathorn’s marriage to Gilraen.  To his knowledge, such a thing had never happened among the Dúnedain.  “Your father ended this relationship.  He cut off contact with the woman.  He would not have done, if they were bonded.”

“No.  She broke off contact with him, when she learned he was to be married to a woman of his own people, out of a desire to spare him scandal." 

Well, that horse might be out of the barn, Halbarad thought.  He stepped over to the provision pack and dug out a jug of ale, helping himself to a hefty swig before passing it to Aragorn, holding it out stubbornly until it was grudgingly accepted.  “Don’t make me drink this by myself, cousin. You know I’m a pitiful drunkard.”

Aragorn obediently but woodenly downed a long swallow and passed the flask back.  “I have to find him.”     

“Find him?  He’s probably dead.  The Dunlendings are not as long-lived as we are.  He’d be over eighty by now.  For a Dunlending, that’s ancient.”

“Eldacar, son of Valacar of Gondor,” Aragorn recited – he’d already considered this, Halbarad realized - “whose mother was a woman of Rhovanion, lived to be 235 years old.  My father’s bloodline is no less strong.” 

“Let sleeping dogs lie, Aragorn.  No good can come of finding this boy.  Man.  Ancient doddering relic.  Long-buried corpse.  Whatever he is.”

“I cannot live another man’s life, Halbarad.”

“You,” Halbarad said with a poke at his chest, “are Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and nothing will change that.  What if you do manage to find this supposed half-brother of yours?  Would you have the Dúnedain be led through our darkest hour by a Dunlending turnip farmer? Or worse, a marauder?  A bandit?  Do you think someone like that ruffian Teburic going to lead us to victory against the Enemy?”  Halbarad leaned forward.  “Listen to me, and listen to me well, Aragorn.  The Dúnedain will not have a half-blooded Dunlending whelp for a Chieftain, no matter who his father was.  I will not, your other captains will not, the people will not, and you are out of your mind if you think Dírhael will stand for it.”

At the mention of his grandfather, Aragorn reached for the flagon.  “I value your loyalty more than you know, Halbarad, and that of the Dúnedain, but there is more at stake than technicalities of bonding customs, or even the Chieftainship.  Elrond will not allow Arwen to marry any man less than the king of Gondor and Arnor.”  

Halbarad felt his jaw fall open, and pouring ale into it seemed the most sensible thing to do.  He'd been aware of Elrond’s displeasure at the surprise betrothal, and it had long been clear that some obstacle still remained to the marriage, but even though he privately believed Aragorn would indeed be king someday, he had never dreamed that Elrond would make it a pre-condition for wedding his daughter.  “All right,” he said after a moment, passing the flask back to Aragorn.  “Becoming king will be no easy task, but I don't see how this prevents it.  Surely the Gondorians are no more eager to see a half-Dunlending on the throne than we are.  After all, they had a Kin-strife over the half-Rhovanion.”

The pipe in Aragorn’s mouth glowed in the gathering darkness.  Unlike Brandol, he removed it before taking a drink of wine.  “Gondor rejected Arvedui’s claim, whose status as Isildur’s heir was uncontested.  It will be much more difficult to prove the legitimacy of one whose ancestors have been wandering the North for a thousand years,” Aragorn replied.  “Yet there are some in Gondor who would not have the kingship restored at all; and chief among them is the current Steward, Denethor. He is proud, cunning, and resourceful, and he will oppose my claim by any means at his disposal.  How convenient would it be if word reached him of an elder half-brother with imperfect blood?”

“Then we make sure word does not reach him.”

“I cannot bury this information, Halbarad.  What if I make a claim on the throne, and Denethor produces this information him as proof that not only is the claimant a second son, but the northern line is so corrupt and polluted as to breed indiscriminately with Dunlendings?”

“That sounds very unlikely.”

“I cannot take the chance.  For more than just the kingship, Halbarad.  For more than Arwen, even.  For my own peace of mind, I must find the truth.  I must know.”

“And in the unlikely even that you do find this supposed brother of yours?  And somehow prove that his position usurps your own?  What then?”

“That will depend on him.”

“Do you even know where to begin looking?  Beyond Tharbad?”

“I’ll find him.”

Allowing a grunt to convey his opinion of Aragorn’s last statement, Halbarad rose to unpack his bedroll.  “I can see there is no reasoning with you.  Very well; let us go to Tharbad, and resolve this foolishness as quickly as possible.  You might as well take the first watch; it is obvious you’re not going to get any sleep anyway.”  He turned his back and crawled under his blankets, and after a moment, Aragorn rose to gather wood for the fire.

~oOo~ 

The day seemed to dawn unusually bright, but as it wore on and the dull pounding in Halbarad’s head gradually eased, he relaxed in the saddle, slackening the reins to allow his horse follow lazily behind Aragorn’s.  He felt better knowing the tale behind Aragorn’s dark mood and urgent quest at last, no matter how bizarre and unlikely he personally found it.  This was a pleasant stretch of road, and the day was fine. Bees lazed amidst the late-spring wildflowers, birds chattered in the treetops and meadows, and the horses snatched at mouthfuls of sweet grass that waved across the trail.   It had been years since he had ridden like this with Aragorn, he realized with regret, and a wave of cold dread washed over him anew with the realization that Aragorn’s long absences, which he had always regretted, had been in preparation for a role he now might never assume.  If Aragorn truly was a second son, as he claimed, and the kingship belonged to another, then in Eriador he would stay.  No banner would fly in Gondor for him, the scepter of Annúminas would go to another - the sword of Elendil as well; and the Ring of Barahir – oh, sweet Eru, the Ring of Barahir, that currently graced the fair finger of Arwen Undómiel, would have to be gotten back. 

Halbarad dismissed that unthinkable image with a shudder.  Aragorn could chase his father’s demons from here to Mordor, but it did not change what Halbarad knew in his heart – that the throne of Gondor was his to claim.  The banner in his dream, the banner he hoped to carry to the foot of Minas Tirith's tower someday, belonged to Aragorn, and him alone.  Still, it was useless trying to deter Aragorn from his quest for truth.  There was nothing to be done but follow, and try to keep him out of trouble. 

The morning’s ride took them to within ten miles of Tharbad.  As they neared the confluence of the Bruinen and the Swanfleet, marshes spread across the eastern bank, and on both sides of the river flattened grasses still remained from the recent flooding, though the river had receded to within its banks, leaving Halbarad optimistic that the ford would be passable at Tharbad.   The trail was flat and easy here, flanked by open oak woodlands.  Birds flitted about in the branches, and spring flowers lined the edges of the path.   It seemed too perfect a day to be pondering the end of one’s dreams.

He heard a soft thud up ahead of him, and instinctively palmed his sword hilt as he glanced up sharply.  In the few moments he’d been admiring the roadside lilies, Aragorn had gotten off his horse.  Even from a distance his bent posture was unmistakable – he was examining tracks. 

“A group on foot, coming from the south,” Aragorn said tersely as he approached.  “They left the trail here, and set off across that meadow, away from the river.” 

There were four sets of shod footprints – A man, two sets that could have been women or older boys, and a child.  Hoof prints overlaid them.  “They were followed by riders,” Halbarad said.  “But were the riders their guards or their pursuers?”

“The people were walking slowly,” Aragorn said grimly.  “The horses were moving fast.” Handing his reins wordlessly to Halbarad, he set off toward the meadow, eyes intent on the ground.    

Halbarad’s pulse quickened with the familiar thrill of the hunt, and he could not suppress a small, dark smile.  Although he would have preferred a diversion less likely to result in bloodshed than combat with a mounted band of rogues, he felt almost childish relief at the prospect of worrying about something besides the history-shaping personal transgressions of Arathorn son of Arador for a short time.  Horsemen, of whatever persuasion, were at least a threat his skills were competent to handle. 

The footprints led up a hill, to the center of a grassy clearing, where they diverged in three directions, running.  Aragorn caught Halbarad’s eye and pointed across the meadow.  No more tracking skills were needed.  The squawking of crows on the far side of the meadow signaled the final destination of the traveling party.  As he and Aragorn drew nearer, Halbarad could see the object of the birds’ interest – a body tied to the bole of a tree.  “Clear the area,” Aragorn said quietly, drawing his sword.   

Halbarad circled around the left side of the meadow, while Aragorn took the right.  In a stand of oaks on the far side he found an area of flattened grasses and churned dirt scoured by the prints of both horses and people.  And blood.  Plainly, the horsemen had captured one of the fleeing foot-travelers, and from here, carried or dragged him towards the tree where the first body hung.      

By the time he got there, Aragorn was kneeling between two bodies on the ground – a woman and a boy.  He looked up as Halbarad approached.  “Nothing,” Halbarad said.  “They’re gone.”

A stench was already ripening in the warmth of the spring sun, and rising above the pleasant droning of bees was the insistent buzzing of flies.  Halbarad turned away from the sight of them feasting on the wounds of the dead.  “The boy’s throat was slit,” Aragorn said shortly, sitting back on his heels.   Halbarad forced himself to look at the woman who lay beside him.  She had received no similar quick mercy. 

The Dúnedain customarily buried their dead quickly, while orcs were piled and burned or, if far enough from settlements or routes of travel, left to rot where they fell.  Halbarad thought it just as well he did not know how Aragorn had come to be so habituated to groping through bloating mounds of decomposing flesh.  He stood back a few feet, embarrassed at his squeamishness.  The woman’s body was lying face-down, and now Aragorn was trying to turn it over.  Stifling a reluctant groan, Halbarad dropped down beside him and pushed against the rigid shoulders.

“Still stiff,” Aragorn said.  “Dead for no more than a day.”

Having clamped his mouth shut against the urge to vomit, Halbarad merely nodded.  The movement of the body had stirred up a fresh whiff of stench, and he started to put his hand over his mouth, stopping only as he remembered where his fingers had just been.  He stared at his hand for a moment, then dropped it uneasily to his side.  Aragorn had meanwhile turned his attention to a pack on the ground, and Halbarad found himself drawn to the man whose body still hung against the tree trunk.  He had been made to watch, Halbarad thought with disgust.  Before they killed him -- and they had made sport of doing it -- they made him watch what was done to his wife.  Fighting down bile, he unsheathed his knife and cut the body down.     

It fell to the ground with a sick thud, and Halbarad knelt beside it to cut the ropes from the wrists, trying not to imagine what it must have been like for this man to run across this meadow in terror, trying to save his family from…whoever the riders on horseback had been.  “Why would robbers bother to torture these people?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Aragorn answered. 

Halbarad sat back on his heels and looked at the face.  It was battered and mottled, heavily bearded and round beneath the chin.  Wrinkles etched the forehead and the corners of the blackened eyes, and a scar ran from the corner of the swollen lips to the edge of the jaw.  Halbarad frowned, and leaned closer.  “Oh, no,” he groaned. “Aragorn.”

“What?”  Aragorn closed the flap of the pack and stood up.  “There should be a fourth body.  Did you find it?”

“No.  I know him.”

“There were four sets of footprints.  There should be another child, an older one – maybe a girl…”  Aragorn abruptly registered what he had said and turned back from scanning the edges of the meadow.  “What do you mean, you know him?”

Halbarad started to run his hand through his hair and stopped just in time.  “His name was Begaric.  Itinerant peddler.”

“Dunlending?”

“I think so.  And as a peddler he was able to move about easily enough."

Aragorn’s brow tightened.  “How did you know him?”

Halbarad’s gaze slipped skyward, where clouds were racing across the sky.  Rain tonight, he noted idly.  “His ability to move about in Dunland was….useful.”

“Useful?”  Aragorn was staring at him.  “He was an informant?”

“On occasion.”

“Why didn’t I know about this?”

“If you’d ever stay around a while, you might know something,” Halbarad shot back, recognizing that his anger had nothing to do with Aragorn.  “I haven’t seen him in over two years.  The last I heard of him was six months ago, when he passed through Sarn Ford.”

“How many children did he have?”

“Two, I think,” Halbarad said, feeling nausea wash over him all over again as the memory of a smiling, dark-haired little boy overlaid the reality of a torn throat and bloodied corpse.  “There was the little boy, and also an older daughter.  She would be about fifteen now.  Maybe she got away.”

The look on Aragorn’s face mirrored his own sick fear.  It was a common enough practice among Dunlendings to take children in raids.  It had been the fate suffered by the boy Rolly, back in Bree, if all his stories were not lies.  A girl of fifteen would be sold as a wife or a slave – amongst the Dunlendings Halbarad had never observed much difference.  “Let’s hope so,” Aragorn said. “Look for their exit tracks.  We have to find out which way they went, and whether they had the girl.”

The tracks bore out their worst fears  – the girl had been run to ground and captured, put atop one of the horses whose tracks led south.  “They’re heading to Tharbad,” Halbarad noted. 

“Your son is there,” said Aragorn.

“Yes,” Halbarad said thickly, trying not to think about what chance his 17-year-old son would have against ruffians who butchered children and tortured women for sport.  He nodded back toward the meadow, where the girl’s family lay rotting in the sun.  “We should bury the bodies,” he suggested half-heartedly. 

“There is no time,” Aragorn said.  Halbarad didn’t argue - they had no shovel, Aragorn could not use one if they did, and there were too few stones lying about to build a cairn.  Burying the bodies would take all day.  “After we reach Tharbad we can send back a burial detail,” Aragorn added.  “But the trail is getting cold.  We have to find her quickly.”    

This time, Halbarad did not bother to ask him what he would do after that. 

-Chapter 11-

Halbarad bit back a yelp as his elbow came down on a rock.  In the blackness of the nighttime forest he could barely see his hand in front of his face.  Night had fallen a few hours earlier, and the thick canopy blocked out any glimmer of light from the moon or stars.  He was on the hunt, blindly slinking toward his prey with the stealth of a fox and the persistence of a hound.  Except a fox’s lower back would probably not be aching quite so much after an hour of slinking, he reckoned.  Ahead, an incongruous patch of yellow light played in the dark treetops.  Ignoring his aches, Halbarad pushed himself toward it, reaching the edge of a short drop-off to see the source of the light below him – a campsite built on a flat patch of land beside the Greyflood.  A few rough tents had been set up around a fire, no more than tarps stretched between tree trunks.  With relief he saw three figures were seated around the fire -- two heavily-armed Dunlendings and a dark-haired girl in a blood-smeared dress.  Her hands were bound in front of her.   

There was a rustling in the leaves behind Halbarad, and a series of muffled grunts.  When Aragorn reached his side, he turned and fixed a weary gaze on him.  “I thought I told you to wait back with the horses. You shouldn’t be dragging that knee across the ground.”  

He sensed rather than saw a look of annoyance as Aragorn turned toward him.  “The girl looks uninjured,” Aragorn said in a barely audible voice.  

“I wonder why.  They certainly showed no mercy to her family.” 

“They'd show no mercy to her, before they finished," Aragorn said.  "From the amount of rubbish strewn about, this isn’t the first night they’ve spent here.  But this is no permanent camp.”

“There’s no sign of the third man,” Halbarad commented, noting the glint of firelight on a sword hilt as one of the men stood to refill his mug from a cask.   His wiry head of hair looked like it had never seen a comb and his ragged beard was salted with grey, but his shoulders were broad and he wore a shirt of rusty mail as if he’d been born in it.  He would not go down easily.  His companion was younger, leaner, and twitchier, and laughing himself sick as he recounted to the older one what he had done to the wife of the peddler.   

“He may have gone scouting,” Aragorn said. 

“We can’t afford to wait for him to return,” Halbarad whispered.  The younger man had sauntered over to the girl and was leaning over her, playing with her hair.  He did not look as if he would be content to stop there.  “He might bring back reinforcements; men who are not plastered with ale.  Our odds are as good as they’re going to get.” 

“But not good enough.” Aragorn rolled to his side and unsheathed a dagger, fisting the handle to test his grip.  “A ground fight under these circumstances would endanger the hostage.  The best tactic will be a surprise attack - take them both down simultaneously, with arrows.”

Halbarad pressed his lips shut.  Under ordinary circumstances, a pair of Dúnedain could easily defeat a half-dozen ruffians such as these, especially if one of the Dúnedain was Aragorn; but the circumstances were not ordinary.  Aragorn was in no shape for a fight, and the hostage gave the Dunlendings an advantage.  “Agreed,” he said finally, shrugging out of his baldric and unfastening his bowstrap.  Untying a sheaf of arrows  - short-tipped hunting arrows; not much good against armor, even the rusty kind, he noted unhappily – he rolled back over to see Aragorn still lying unmoving, his unstrung bow still strapped to his back.  “So what are we waiting for?”

Aragorn slid the dagger back into its sheath and stretched out his hand.  “Give me your bow.”  Halbarad did as he said, and Aragorn took the bow in his left hand and hooked tge fingers of his right gingerly around the string.  He pulled slowly, but when his elbow was not yet fully extended, he stifled a hiss and released the tension on the bowstring.  Taking his injured hand to his chest, he kneaded it with his left.  “Not strong enough yet,” he said. 

 Halbarad picked up the bow and gave it a test draw himself, noticing for the first time the strain on his fingers and hand.  “Maybe we could rig a –“

“We cannot afford maybes.  We cannot afford to miss and we will not get a second chance.”

“Then what --” Halbarad snapped, remembering almost too late to keep his voice down.  “What do you suggest?  If you can’t draw a bow, how do you plan to swing that sword?”  Aragorn’s sword was heavy.  He could wield it one-handed– when he was hearty, hale, and not nursing a game knee.   Halbarad doubted he could do it now.

“I don’t,” Aragorn admitted after a moment. 

“Then what?”  Halbarad asked.  “You just said we can’t risk a ground fight.”

“We are going to have to kill them while they sleep.”   

It was the flat pronouncement of a battlefield commander, dispassionate and non-negotiable.  Halbarad laid down his bow and fingered his dagger hilt, wondering what Dudo would think of his hero’s gift being used to slaughter a man like one of Butterbur’s chickens.  He supposed that Aragorn, as a captain of armies, had killed hundreds of men in battle, but things were different in lonely, lawless Eriador.  Most men, Halbarad had learned, did not want to die, and men with no oath to a king, a general, or a chieftain usually chose not to.  Most violent men were cowards, preying on the weak and fleeing when faced with sure defeat.  The Rangers made it their business to convey that surety.  Halbarad had killed so few men that it took years for him to finally, mercifully lose track of the exact number.  Even those few had died in the hot blood of battle – dirty battle; more often than not – blades, sword hilts, boots, fists, rocks if necessary – but always against an opponent eager to do the same to him.  Never before had he killed a man in his sleep.  There could be no doubt that these two deserved it, if any man ever had, yet bile rose in his throat at the thought of kneeling beside a man, watching his last breath rise in his chest, and slicing quickly through slack, unresisting flesh. 

“Halbarad?”   

He shook off the hand resting on his shoulder.  “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m ready.”  

Aragorn clapped him on the back and lowered himself flat on the ground once more, resting his chin on his folded hands.  “Get some rest, then.  I’ll wake you when they’re both asleep.”

It was Aragorn who should be resting, but his eyes were lit with starlight and fixed on his quarry with a look Halbarad knew only too well.  With a sigh of resignation, he flipped himself over onto his side and pillowed his head on his arm.  “All right.  With all that ale in them, it shouldn’t be long, anyway.”  Better one of them be rested than neither, he reckoned. 

It seemed he had no more than closed his eyes when a clatter and an angry shout jolted him to alertness.  Down in the camp, a drinking mug was rolling to a stop beneath a tree, and the younger Dunlending was stomping around, waving his hands and complaining loudly to his partner.  Halbarad’s command of Dunlendish was something short of fluent, but the words were easy enough to understand.  “Perfect,” muttered Halbarad, pushing himself up onto his elbows.  “A bad drunk.” 

“I’ve had enough of waiting!” the young one was barking.  The ale consumption had slurred his speech,  and his gait was weaving as he paced back and forth in front of the campfire.  “Garstic should have been back by now.  It’s too late to make Tharbad now before daybreak, even if we can get past the cursed Rangers. We’ll end up wasting another night here.”

“Settle down, Malek,” the older one said.  “Pick up your mug and have some more beer.”

Malek turned on an unsteady heel and took two steps back toward his partner.  “What happens when we run out of beer?  What then?  And this is swill!  The useless peddler didn’t even have any good stuff!”  The younger man stopped his pacing and walked over to the girl.  Standing behind her hunched form, he ran his hands through her hair, playfully winding it through his fingers.  “I guess we’ll have to find something else to do while we wait,” he said, pulling the dark hair into a queue at the nape of the girl’s neck.   

“Leave her alone, Malek,” the older one growled. 

Malek kept his grip on the girl’s hair.  “If we have to sit around and wait, what’s the harm in having a little fun?”    

“You had your fun already with her mother,” the other said.  “You know the rules.  The chief gets the young ones.” 

Firelight glinted off an ugly show of teeth as Malek smiled.  “The chief doesn’t have to know, does he?  There’s plenty we can do without ruining his pretty little prize.”  Pulling a dagger from his boot, he reached over the top of the girl’s bowed head and sliced down the front of her dress. 

With her chest exposed, the girl tried to bring her bound hands up to cover herself, but Malek caught them and held them pinned to her abdomen, as the other Dunlending released a deep, throaty laugh.  “Well, that was smart!  Deliver her naked and he’ll know what you’ve been up to for sure.”

“We’ll say she tore her dress trying to escape,” Malek answered, his voice thick with excitement now.  “Are you with me, Halig?”  Without waiting for an answer, he straddled the girl’s shoulders, pinning her torso between his thighs as he cupped her chin and roughly tipped it up, forcing her to look up at him.  She was shaking so hard Halbarad could see her tremors from his perch atop the bluff, yet she made no sound.  “Don’t fight me,” Malek growled, leaning over to force her into a rough kiss.    

Halig set his mug down.  “For the last time, leave her be, Malek.”

Malek ignored him, keeping one hand wrapped around the girl’s head and teaching down with the other to roam in the folds of her skirt. 

Halbarad’s hand tightened on his sword hilt, and he heard his own breath escape in a long, slow hiss.  He turned to Aragorn.  “How far are we going to let this go?”

“Not yet,” Aragorn said, though his hand, too, was on his hilt.  “Get your bow ready.  Try to get a clean shot at the one holding the girl, but wait for my signal before you shoot.”

Halbarad climbed to his feet, nocked an arrow, and sighted it on Malek.  It would have been a difficult shot at this distance in the dark under any circumstances, but with no margin for error it would be nearly impossible.  The Dunlending had managed to position himself so the girl’s body shielded him from Halbarad's position.  Halbarad sighed and sidestepped a few feet to his left, freezing in his tracks as one of the Dunlendings’ horses whinnied and stamped.  Malek broke his kiss and snapped his head up.  “What’s that?”

“Nothing; it’s just Garstic coming back,” Halig said. 

A moment later an answering whinny came from down the trail, and the sound of approaching hoof beats could be heard in the underbrush.  Malek relaxed and spit onto the ground.  “That son of an orc - gone all day and he comes back just in time to spoil my fun.”

A brown horse trotted into the clearing; saddled but riderless, its reins tied loosely to the pommel.  Malek stepped forward and grabbed the reins as it ambled into the campsite.  “Halig, look!  It’s Garstic’s horse!”  Looking first at his companion in confusion, then down the trail in the direction whence the horse had come¸ he called out. “Garstic? Are you there?”

“Quiet, you fool,” Halig hissed.  He was already on his feet, drawing his sword as he moved.  “Something’s wrong.  Get out of the light of the fire.  Into the trees!” 

Halig made for the base of the bluff atop which Aragorn and Halbarad waited, just managing to dart behind the cover of a tree before a new voice rang out from the darkness beyond the campfire’s circle of light.   “Drop your weapons!  You are surrounded!” 

The command was given in the Dunlendish language, but it was not the coarse throat of a Dunlending that barked it.  As horrified recognition gripped him in a clammy chill, Halbarad only hoped the Dunlendings were not familiar enough with the Dúnedain to realize that this particular voice was still reedy with adolescence and quaivering with fear.  “Oh, no,” he groaned.   Stealth be damned.  He took a step forward and nocked an arrow.       

Aragorn was at his side in an instant.  “Húrin?” 

Halbarad nodded without taking his eyes off Malek.  "Fool boy is going to get himself killed." 

Malek, through either great luck or more presence of mind than Halbarad would have given him credit for, was still sandwiched between the girl and the horse so that neither Halbarad nor Húrin could get a shot at him.  “My archers have you surrounded,” Húrin nevertheless threatened.  “Drop your weapons and raise your hands or you will be shot.”

Halig stayed put behind his tree.  “Let’s see these men of yours, Ranger!”   Halbarad gave up on shooting Malek for a moment and trained his arrow on the tree Halig cowered behind.  He could not quite get a clean shot from this angle, but if the Dunlending moved just a bit to the left…

“This is your last chance!”   Húrin shouted.  “Haerost, Halbarad, get ready!  On my command, fire at will…”

That was enough for Malek's jittery nerves.  He chanced it, bolting toward the cover of the trees only to fall, screaming, as Húrin’s arrow tore into his back.  Good boy, thought Halbarad.  Malek had barely hit the ground when Halig sprinted forward, heading for the girl.  Before Halbarad could get aim, before Húrin could nock a second arrow, the Dunlending had dragged her into a choke-hold.    

Ignoring the wailing Malek, writhing on the ground several feet away, Halig pressed the blade of his knife against the girl’s throat.  “Show yourself, Ranger!”  he called.  “Throw out your weapons and give up or I’ll kill the girl.”

“You’re outnumbered and surrounded!” Húrin shouted back, in what Halbarad had to admit was a fairly authoritative tone.  “Give up or you’ll be killed!”  With this, Húrin edged forward out of the shadows just far enough to display a second arrow nocked in his bow. 

“You’re bluffing, boy,” the Dunlending chuckled throatily.  “If you weren’t alone, I’d be dead already.  Lower the bow or I’ll cut her throat.”

“Can you take him from here?”  Aragorn whispered in Halbarad’s ear. 

“Not without hitting the girl,” Halbarad answered curtly.   “Should we signal Húrin?”

“No,” answered Aragorn.  “We can’t afford for either Húrin or the Dunlending to startle.”

The Dunlending looked well ready to.  He had slowly backed up to put distance between himself and Húrin’s arrow, and now he was trapped against the base of the bluff.  Still, he presented his side to Halbarad’s arrow, not the broad, safe, expanse of his back.  At this range in the dark, Halbarad could not risk it.  With a nod to Aragorn, he began moving to his left along the edge of the bluff, still trying to get directly behind the Dunlending.  Last year’s leaves crunched beneath his boots; he was moving faster than he could move soundlessly, but it could not be helped.  He did not know what the man might do with his back against the wall, but would not allow Húrin to bear the guilt of this girl’s death.  Halbarad's foot stepped on nothing and he pulled it back from the crumbling edge of the bluff, grasping a sapling for balance.  He could get no better angle than this, but Halig still presented an impossibly narrow target.  If the shot missed him and was lucky enough not to kill the girl, the Dunlending would slit her throat.  It was not a shot Halbarad could afford to take.  Without hesitation, he drew the bow anyway, taking a step backward to stabilize his stance, and cringing as a branch snapped hard under his boot.

Halbarad froze, and the Dunlending spun towards the sound, yanking the girl around harshly to keep her between him and both Rangers.  She screamed as the knife bit shallowly into her throat; the first sound Halbarad had heard from her.  “Show yourself!”  the Dunlending shouted.  “Give up, or I start cutting! I killed her family, don’t think I won’t kill her, too!”  To make his point, he tilted the knife blade against the girl’s pale neck, drawing a faint welling of blood.  Húrin’s arrowhead flashed in the firelight as it wavered a bit from its target, and Halbarad adjusted his aim to the man's groin.  The man still held the girl as a shield to protect his head and torso, but an arrow in the leg might be enough to distract him and give Húrin a clean shot. 

“Hold, Húrin!” Aragorn barked.  His voice came from below Halbarad, from a stand of trees no more than twenty feet from the Dunlending.  How he had managed to get down there so fast, Halbarad did not know.  The Dunlending flinched and whirled to face this new threat.  As he did so, his broad back faced Halbarad and his knife came away from the girl’s throat.  

“Elendil,” Halbarad murmured, and released his arrow. 

The arrow bounced off the mail shirt, but the impact was enough to make the man arch his back and let go of the girl.  She crumpled to her knees, and Aragorn flew from the trees, severing Halig’s head from his body with a mighty sword stroke.  The Dunlending’s body fell like a sack of grain and Húrin stepped out of the trees, eyes wide as saucers and an arrow still nocked in his bow.  For a ghastly instant, Halbarad thought the boy, in his confusion, might shoot Aragorn.  “Húrin!”  he shouted.

The boy looked up, shock and confusion in his face, squinting into the darkness.  “Father?” 

Halbarad took hold of a tree trunk and leaned as far forward as he could without risking a tumble over the edge of the bluff.  “It’s me, Húrin.  Lower your bow.” 

Húrin did as he was told.  He took another few steps forward and stopped, his glance wavering between the headless Halig, the huddled girl, the groaning Malek, and Aragorn, who had knelt beside Malek to relieve him of his weaponry.  He was still standing there when Halbarad got himself ungracefully down to the base of the bluff and took the bow from his hand. The boy sagged, and Halbarad dropped both bows and took his son’s trembling shoulders in his hands.  “It’s all right,” he said softly, pulling him close and noticing for the first time that the forehead he pressed against was now slightly higher than his own. “It’s all right.  It’s over.”   Even as he said the words, he found he did not want to release this awkward, coltish boy from the safety of his arms; this boy who had kept baby rabbits as pets, this boy who had cried when his favorite hen met its destiny in the cook pot, this boy who had drawn portraits of his family on the planks of the barn, this boy who had just tried to bluff two cold-blooded killers.  He did not want to release him back into this world full of orcs and wolves and Dunlendings with knives at children’s throats.  And then he did.  Thrusting Húrin out to arm’s length, he scowled at him clinically, searching for injuries.  Seeing none, he nodded brusquely.  “Are you all right, then?”  

The boy nodded.  His face was pale, his forehead was slick with sweat, and he was staring wide-eyed at Aragorn.  “Is that…?”

“Yes, it is.  Where is Haerost?”

“He rode for Sarn Ford, to get help.  The Karani clan are down out of the mountains, raiding and pillaging the local Dunlendings.  We were trying to guard the ford to keep them east of the river, but there were too many of them.”

“Where is the owner of the brown horse?”

Húrin chewed on his upper lip, as he always had when he was upset.  Except that until recently the lip had not been covered in a dense blanket of dark whiskers.  He nodded to the upstream trail.  “Back there.  I followed him from the ford and he ambushed me.  I think he’s dead.” 

Halbarad’s chest tightened and he clenched his fists to keep himself from pulling the boy back into his arms.  He had not killed his first man until he was thirty, and Húrin was scarcely more than half that age.  He would talk to the boy later, and comfort him when he woke in the middle of the night, shivering, unable to keep their faces from his dreams.   But now, he must help him to be a Ranger; to brutally ration his feelings just as he did his water and food and arrows, salving his hunger and thirst and weariness only in a place of safety.  He forced himself to nod approvingly.  “He was alone?”

Húrin's nod was shaky, but Halbarad saw a glint of pride that his father was treating him as he would any other warrior.  “Yes.  But there are more Karani about.  They’re everywhere.”

“They’re attacking the Ruliri?”  The Ruliri lands were in the low hills southeast of Tharbad.  They were a peaceful folk, as Dunlendings went, rarely causing trouble outside of their own inscrutable internal squabbles.

Húrin nodded.  “The winter was even harder in the mountains than in the lowlands.  There was no food, so parties of Karani warriors came down to the lowlands and began raiding the Ruliri farmsteads and villages.  Yenne’s father told us.”

Halbarad shook his head.  “Who’s Yenne?”

Húrin nodded to the girl.  Aragorn had cut her bonds and wrapped her in his own cloak.  Now he was kneeling beside her, speaking to her softly and coaxing her to drink from a flask Halbarad suspected contained Miruvor.  “Her,” Húrin said, pointing.  “That’s Yenne.”

Halbarad felt his eyes widen.  “You know her?”

“I met her when her father brought the family across the ford three days ago.  They were headed for Bree, to buy gifts for her dowry.  She was just betrothed to the son of the Ruliri chieftain.”  He bit his lip again and Halbarad saw tears in his eyes.  “Her father was so proud of her.  And her mother talked about how beautiful she would be on her wedding day.”

Húrin’s shoulders started to tremble again, but with a glance at Aragorn he squared them and thrust his jaw out bravely.  There were many more questions Halbarad wanted to ask his son, but they could wait.  With a clap on the shoulder, he instructed him to retrieve his and Aragorn’s horses from the spot they had left them.  Once the boy was gone, he turned to Aragorn, but did not approach for fear of frightening the girl.  “Thorongil.  A word, if you please.”  

Aragorn pulled the cloak tighter around the girl's shoulders before standing stiffly and coming over to him.  “Is Húrin all right?”

“He’s fine.  I sent him to get the horses.”  Halbarad stood looking at the headless body of Halig.  “Someday I must get you to teach me that.” 

Aragorn shrugged with a hint of a smile.  "I have tried."  He turned to look at the girl.  “The girl is unharmed, but in shock.  We must get her to a place of safety.  But where?  I do not know if she has any other family – I could not get any information at all from her.”

“Her name is Yenne.  Supposedly she’s betrothed to the Ruliri clan chieftain’s son.  The last I knew, the Ruliri chief was Dugaric, and his village was about twenty miles southeast of the ford.  If she’s betrothed to the chief’s son, surely they’ll take her in.”

Aragorn nodded.  “The girl is frightened and exhausted.  Let us take her as far as Tharbad tonight.  Tomorrow we can take her to the Ruliri.”

Halbarad walked over to Malek’s body – he seemed to have expired as well --  and nudged it with a boot.  “What do you want me to do with these?”

Aragorn’s face was stone as he leaned over and wiped his sword with an edge of the Dunlending’s cloak and then stood looking at the dead face as if studying it.  Halbarad wondered if he would ever again look upon a Dunlending without reflexively seeking a familiar arch to the brow or angle to the jaw line.  Finally Aragorn sheathed his sword and turned away.  “Throw them into the river.”

-~oOoOoOo~-

Tharbad existed in name only.  Abandoned since the Great Plague, the last of its crumbling ruins were finally swept away by floodwaters in 2912.  In Aragorn’s lifetime, there had been nothing to see there but a few scattered piles of stones and an occasional rotten timber pushing up out of the ground.  If not for its strategic location where the North-South Road crossed the Greyflood, even its name would have been long forgotten by all except the Elves. 

They came within sight of the ford as the rising sun painted the sky over the Misty Mountains orange.  Bypassing the ford and the ruins of the town, Aragorn found the trail leading to the cabin the Dúnedain kept atop the wooded bluff overlooking the ford.  The cabin was small and rough, but it was as welcome a sight as Elrond's house to his weary eyes.  His old injuries ached fiercely, especially the hand, and as he dismounted in the dooryard of the cabin a stab of pain shot through his bad knee that left him gripping his saddle until his leg adjusted to his weight again.   

Halbarad’s son was helping the girl down from her horse.  Aragorn needed to speak with him, to find out all he knew, and try to speak with the girl again after she was fed and had rested.  To be truthful he was light-headed from hunger and lack of sleep himself.  Rest would do them all good.  He turned to unstrap his saddlebags and found a battle-scarred hand blocking his way.  “I’ll unload the horses,” said Halbarad.  “Let me see your hand.”

Aragorn dodged his reach.  “It’s fine.”

Halbarad was undeterred, capturing his wrist in a gentle but firm grip.  “Let me see it.  I saw you swing that sword.”

“I swung it left-handed.”

“You swung it two-handed. Unclench your hand and let me see it.” 

Aragorn glanced at Hurin, who had turned to look, and grudgingly relaxed his fist.  “My mother will never be dead as long as you live.”

“Why thank you,” Halbarad said in his most annoying tone, prodding the hand inexpertly.  “It’s a bit swollen.”

“No more so than it was before,” he replied.  “It is fine, Halbarad.”  He attempted to regain possession of his hand, only to yelp in pain when Halbarad failed to release his grip. 

“Not sore at all, then, is it,” Halbarad deadpanned.

Aragorn shot him a warning glare that Glorfindel would have respected.  “If you would stop squeezing it, it would be a good deal less so.”  He shooed Halbarad away and stood kneading his hand.  “Leave me in peace and go do something useful.”

“Excellent suggestion,” Halbarad said agreeably, unstrapping the saddlebag.  “I’ll just unload the horses, then.  If you want something to do, you might busy yourself finding something to put in the cook pot.” 

There was not much to cook.  Between their own provisions, what they had scavenged from the Dunlendings’ packs, and what little Húrin and Haerost had stored at the cabin, Aragorn was able to scrape together a little bread, some dried meat, a few vegetables, and some meal.  To his surprise, Húrin approached as he was chopping vegetables and discreetly took over the preparations, promising stew.  Aragorn happily turned over the cooking responsibilities and relaxed against a tree near the cookfire, relishing the aroma wafting from the bubbling pot.  When dinner was finished to Húrin’s satisfaction, he ladled a healthy portion of lumpy stew over dumplings and presented it to Aragorn with a bow.  Aragorn tasted it and raised an eyebrow at Halbarad.  “This is really good!”

Halbarad chuckled wryly.  “You sound so surprised.” 

“I had not thought it possible to eat such palatable fare while traveling with Rangers,” Aragorn said.  “Húrin, your skill at cooking is only surpassed by your skill at archery.  You made your father and me both proud today.”

Húrin ducked his head in embarrassment but beamed as he handed his father a bowl of stew and went to sit next to the girl.  Her dress was ruined; Húrin had found her a pair of trousers and a clean shirt to wear.  She had washed her face and combed her hair, but although she seemed comfortable enough in the Rangers’ presence, Aragorn had yet been unable to coax a single word from her beyond a whispered “thank you.”  She was a pretty girl, by Dunlending standards, with large dark eyes framed in long lashes.  It was easy to see why a chieftain would covet her for his son.  He knew enough of Dunlending marriage customs to be reasonably sure it was not a love match, though he had encountered many families in Harad who seemed content in such marriages.  The love came later, they said, and he of all people could not dispute the wisdom of such customs.   

Halbarad sat down next to him and handed him a mug of beer.  He cocked his head at the girl, who was at least eating Húrin's stew.  “She seems to be getting on well with Húrin.”

“He’s a very brave young man,” Aragorn said with a smile, “with a heart of gold.  I can easily believe he is your son but for the inexplicable quality of his cooking.”

Halbarad shrugged.  “He has his father's wisdom, bravery, looks, and wit.  It's only fair he gets something from his mother."

"I'm sure she'll be pleased to hear that."

"I fear it will come as no surprise to her.  Sadly, she knows I'm a scoundrel."

"It's no wonder she begged me to take you off her hands, then."

Halbarad's face dropped.  "She did not." 

Aragorn smiled.  "No, she didn't.  Strange; the woman seems so sensible in other matters."

"I have heard the same said of my lord's beloved," Halbarad said innocently, scratching his beard to disguise a smirk.

Aragorn shot him a glare and dug into his pouch for his pipe.  "I have heard your lord does not take kindly to such gossip about his beloved.  It is said the last man who risked such an unkind word found himself posted to Forochel in winter."

Halbarad raised an amused eyebrow and gathered up Aragorn's stew bowl.  "Be careful, I might think Forochel a more attractive assignment than what awaits us tomorrow.  I'll clean up.  You had better get some sleep, if you're still bent on taking the girl to the Ruliri in the morning.”

"I can think of no better place to take her," Aragorn said, though he felt uneasy.  Dunlending clan politics were treacherous, Dunlending social customs impenetrable, and he was not at all certain how a Dunlending chief would react to three Rangers riding up with his son’s betrothed clad in clothes other than her own.  The last thing they needed was any confusion about who was responsible for her being in that state.  "We must be careful, though.  The Ruliri might easily misinterpret the situation and conclude we were responsible for the attack."

“The Karani have been attacking the Ruliri villages for months," Halbarad said.  "Surely the Ruliri will realize they’re responsible.”

“The Karani are their enemies, but still fellow Dunlendings; their own kind,” Aragorn said.  “We are foreigners, and not to be trusted.”  He had learned that bitter lesson over and over again, during his years abroad.  He set his mug down and stretched out his legs.  He would have liked a bed under a roof, but the girl would be allowed her privacy tonight in the cabin.  He, Halbarad, and Húrin would sleep outside, under the lean-to where they kept firewood and muddy horse tack.  “They will instinctively mistrust us.  We must be very careful.”

“Careful,” echoed Halbarad. “I’d rather be lucky.  Let’s get some rest.  Tomorrow is liable to be a long day.”

In the morning, while Halbarad packed their gear and Húrin tacked the horses, Aragorn sat beside Yenne as she finished her tea by the fire.  He had heard no sounds of stirring from within the cabin during the night, but the girl did not look as if she had slept at all.  She still wore the clothes Húrin had given her the night before, though she seemed less shaken than she had and she did manage to eat a little breakfast.  Aragorn supposed it was too early to expect anything more.  He had seen much death, and much grief, but he had seldom seen such brutality as this girl had witnessed.  Not for the first time, he wished for Elrond’s ability to heal the fëa as well as the body, for this, surely, was a fëa that was broken.  If she were an Elf, he had no doubt that she would fade from such a trauma, and his thoughts went unbidden to Celebrían, who nearly had.  At least for her there was an escape when all attempts at healing failed, but for mortals, there could be no release but the final one; no escape to Valinor, no ability to fade from the torment of unbearable memories.  But Aragorn had found in his travels that no matter how strange or unfathomable their language or customs, people across Arda shared a common love for their children, giving him hope that this broken and fragile soul could find comfort and healing in the arms of her kin.  “Today we will take you to your betrothed, Yenne,” he said gently.  “Do you understand?” 

She closed her eyes as if the words pained her, and then nodded once, slightly. 

“Is that what you want?  Is there somewhere else you have us take you?”

She shook her head.  “It does not matter,” she whispered.  Aragorn's instinct was to comfort her, stroking her dark hair or pulling the thin shoulders into an embrace, but she tensed at his gentle touch and he withdrew his hand, realizing it was too soon; the memory of Malek's touch was too fresh.  He sighed and stood.  He supposed it was too early for anything to matter to her but that her family was dead.  "It will be better," he promised, knowing she would not believe him. "You'll see."   

At mid-morning, they crossed the river at Tharbad and continued south.  The day was fine, and the road climbed from the river valley into a land of rolling hills covered in grass and trees.  It was a gentle land that belied the ungentle nature of its people; but though they were unlettered, suspicious, and fierce in their hatred of the Rohirrim, the Dunlendings were not altogether a dishonorable people.  Despite their ingrained suspicion of outsiders, Aragorn held hope that someday the Dunlanders could be allies of the Dúnedain.   A gesture such as this, he reckoned, could go far to allay their instinctive distrust.  Nevertheless, he ordered both Húrin and Halbarad to ride with bows strung and arrows ready.    

“The village was in that valley up there, last time I came this way,” Halbarad said, pointing at a low, wooded ridge to the south. 

Aragorn turned in the saddle.  Húrin, who was riding beside Yenne, leaned over and spoke softly to her, pointing in the direction of the hill.  She looked up and nodded.  She had not spoken since they left the camp, but though Aragorn could not shake a bad feeling about the impending reunion, there was no better solution to be had.  He turned to Halbarad.  “What do you think?”

Halbarad eyed the narrow trail.  “I think we’re taking a big chance.”

“What would you do?  Take her back to the Angle with us?”

“And have the Dunlendings accuse us of kidnapping her?  I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but when they get upset they hold a grudge for a long, long time.”

“Well, then, it’s decided.”  Aragorn looked around the cluster of hills that framed the valley, his gaze coming to rest on a tuft of trees atop a nearby hillock.  “But I have no intention of riding into a trap.  Get Húrin up here.”  Halbarad beckoned to his son, and when the boy joined them, Aragorn pointed to the thicket atop the hill.  “Take the girl up there and hide in the trees.  Keep yourselves concealed.  Halbarad and I will ride to the village.  Do not show yourself, even to me or your father, unless you are given this password – 'Ravenhill.'  If we are not back by nightfall, take the girl and ride for Sarn Ford.  Is this understood?” 

Húrin nodded.  When he and the girl had ridden out of sight on the hilltop, Aragorn turned to Halbarad.  “Are you ready?” 

Halbarad fingered his sword hilt.  “You realize this is suicide.  They’d as soon hack us to pieces as look at us.”

“I have traveled far, Halbarad, and met many strange folk.  But I have learned that most folk behave honorably if given the opportunity to do so.”

Halbarad looked as if he thought that was the most foolish thing he had ever heard in his life, but he nodded.  “I hope you’re right.”

The trail led into deeper woods, sheltered by the close hillsides.  The canopy of leaves lent a dark stillness to the air; the silence broken only by birdsong. Deep leaf litter muffled the sound of their horses' hooves, and Aragorn shook off a chill of dread that had nothing to do with the shade of the trees.  Ahead the shadows lightened, and the woods thinned again as the hills opened up into a meadow.  Tilled fields appeared on either side of the trail, and as Aragorn rounded the last jutted shoulder of a hill, a village appeared ahead of them.  “Is that it?” asked Halbarad.

“We shall soon see,” he answered.  The village was little more than a collection of ramshackle huts and ragged tents, making the shabby dwellings of the Dúnedain look regal by comparison.    Tattered clothing hung on clotheslines, cook fires vented through thatched roofs, but there were few people about.  It must be dinnertime.  A stick fence held a half-dozen skinny cows and four or five horses, while chickens roamed freely between the houses. 

They had been seen – a half-grown boy ran across the barnyard and into one of the larger dwellings, shouting the alarm.  A moment later, a man came out, strapping on his sword.  He called out in Dunlendish, materializing a dozen or so more men from inside various dwellings.  They quickly descended on the Dúnedain with drawn swords, leaving women and children peering from the doors of the houses.  Aragorn dismounted and raised his empty hands in greeting, while beside him Halbarad did the same. 

The first man to have appeared took his time getting to them, striding purposefully across what Aragorn supposed was a common of sorts.  The cluster of armed men parted for him as he approached, and he crossed his arms as he stood before them with his sword still sheathed.  He was bearded, tall, and well-muscled beneath a tunic and leather jerkin, his demeanor projecting an air of confidence and authority.  This was the chief, Aragorn concluded, and he let the man know he knew it.  Ignoring the others, he looked this one directly in the eye as he kept his hands raised at shoulder level.  “We come in peace,” he said in Dunlendish.  “I am Thorongil, Chieftain of the Dúnedain.  I wish to speak to your Chief.”

“The Chief of the Ruliri am I,” the man said.  “Dugaric is my name.  What is your business, Ranger?  Your kind are not welcome in Ruliri lands.”

“A group of your clansmen was attacked by Karani, north of Tharbad.  The trader Begaric and his family.  All were killed save one – a young girl.”

“Yenne!”  the young man standing closest to the chief cried.

The chief silenced the younger man with a glare before turning back to Aragorn.  His dark eyes held a stare for longer than most men could have endured, but finally he blinked and shifted his weight.  “Why should I believe you?”

“Why should I lie?”  Aragorn gestured to himself and Halbarad.  “We are two men against a dozen.  It is we who put ourselves at risk to come here.  We were told the girl is betrothed to your son, is this true?”

Dugaric did not answer, but his eyes flickered to the young man who had cried out.  “Where is the girl?”

“She is safe,” Aragorn said.  “If you assure us she will be well treated, we will bring her to you.”  

Dugaric’s dark eyes flared.  “You insult me, Ranger.  How dare you suggest the Ruliri do not know how to treat their women?  Do you think us savages?  Yes, I think perhaps you do.”

A rumble of discontent was spreading through the gathered Dunlendings now, and out of the corner of his eye, Aragon saw Halbarad’s hand tighten on his sword hilt.  “Hold,” he warned him under his breath, then addressed Dugaric. “I suggest nothing.  I can see that your women here are well cared for.  Is this girl your son’s betrothed, then?”

“She is,” Dugaric said.  “She was in the hands of the Karani, you say?”  Angry muttering rose amongst the men, and one of them spit onto the ground. 

“Yes,” Aragorn answered.  “We rescued her, and killed the Karani.” 

“Liar!” accused a short man with a stubby beard.  “These northerners probably killed Begaric themselves, and took the women.”

“Silence, Melnag!”  Dugaric turned to him and spoke very slowly.  “It is the Karani, not the northerners, who burned our villages and stole our women and cattle.  We have had no trouble with these men and I am not looking for any.”   He turned back to Aragorn.  “Forgive his mistrust.  He is Begaric’s brother.  We are in your debt.  Show us where you have taken the girl and we will restore the honor of her family.”

Aragorn fixed a neutral expression on his face and addressed Halbarad in barely-audible Sindarin.  “What did he say?” 

“Something about restoring the honor of her family.”

Aragorn smiled thinly.  The hairs were rising on the back of his neck, along with the memory of some obscure customs he had encountered in Harad. “Forgive my ignorance of your language, Dugaric, but I do not understand that expression.  Can you explain to me what it means?”

“The Karani dogs have destroyed the honor of Begaric’s family, and mine as well, since the girl is betrothed to my son.”    

“But she was not --” Halbarad broke off, and appeared to be searching for the right word.

“Defiled,” Aragorn said.  “She was not defiled.” 

"How do you know?" asked the chief's son.  

Out of the corner of his eye, Aragorn saw Halbarad kneading the bridge of his nose.  "This was a bad idea," he murmured.

“She was in the hands of the enemy,” Dugaric said firmly. “She has lost her honor.  It must be restored.”   Murmurs of assent rumbled through the assembled men.

Aragorn was not sure he wanted to know the answer to his next question.  “And what will restore it?”

“The girl must die,” Dugaric said.  ‘It is a matter of honor."  He frowned at Aragorn.  "You seem like an honorable man.  Do you not understand such things?”

"Surely there must be some other way," said Halbarad.  "We could take her with us, find a home for her --"

"You see!" shouted Begaric's brother.  "They want our women for their own!"

"This is our way," Dugaric stated.  He crossed his arms firmly against his chest.  "We can not allow this dishonor to stand.  Do you have no respect for a woman that you would allow her to be disgraced in this way?"

"And her family," said Begaric's brother.  "Think of her family!"

“We’re outnumbered," Halbarad whispered.  "In case you haven’t noticed.”

“Very well,” Aragorn said to Dugaric.  “We will take you to the girl.”  Then, leaning close to Halbarad, he switched again to Sindarin.  “And let’s hope your son knows how to follow orders.”

***

Author's note:  If you enjoyed the relationship between Húrin and Halbarad, allow me to recommend "The Circle" by The Karenator,  in which a 15-year-old Húrin encounters both ghosts and orcs on his first adventure as a Ranger.

Chapter 12

~-oOoOoOo-~

Silence fell in the Dunlending encampment as a dozen pairs of dark eyes fixed on Aragorn, awaiting his answer to their chieftain’s question.   

“Well?”  Dugaric hooked meaty thumbs in his belt and stared at him expectantly.  “Where is she?  What have you done with the girl?”

Now that her kinfolks’ intentions for her were clear, Aragorn had no intention of revealing that she was hiding with Halbarad’s son in the woods just beyond the next hill, and yet he could think of no reply that would do more than buy a little time.  “She is safe,” he said finally.  “We left her at our camp at Tharbad. We will go now and bring her to you.”

“They are savages, these northerners!” roared the one called Melnag, the murdered peddler’s brother, jabbing a finger at the Halbarad’s chest.  “You cannot trust them to bring back the girl.”

“You will not insult guests to our camp,” Dugaric warned.  “They came here freely, did they not?”  He beckoned to a boy watering horses in a trough near the barn.  “Telgar!  Take the travelers’ horses to drink.  They have come a long way and are weary.”

Melnag grunted his displeasure and crossed his arms in front of his chest.  “What kind of man would leave a woman alone without protection?”

“It was no Dúnadan who raped a woman and killed her in front of her daughter,” Halbarad shot back 

“Watch your tongue, Northerner!” Melnag snarled, his hand moving to his dagger hilt. 

Dugaric thrust out a meaty arm to stop his kinsman’s advance on Halbarad.  “Silence, Melnag!  Or I’ll cut out your tongue with my own blade!”

“Yen -- the girl is not alone,” Aragorn broke in, fearful that by even uttering her name he might violate some obscure Dunlending prohibition, and suddenly wishing he had devoted a bit more attention to the study of their social customs.  “One of our men is guarding her.  You have my word that she will not come to harm by the hands or neglect of the Dúnedain.”  

“One of your men is with her?”  Melnag sneered. 

“Quiet, Melnag!”  Dugaric’s eyes narrowed.  “Tell me, Ranger, why did you not simply bring her with you?”

“The girl has been through a horrible ordeal,” Aragorn said, “She was exhausted, and frightened.  We were not sure where to find her clan.  With the Karani bandits roaming freely about, we thought it best to leave her in a place of safety and return for her once we found her family.  Now that we have done so, we will depart.”

“The road is not safe,” Dugaric said.  “It would be ungracious of me to allow you to risk your lives thrice traveling through such dangerous lands.  I will send men with you to see you safely to Tharbad and back.”

“That is a most gracious offer, but not necessary,” Aragorn said, as beside him Halbarad stiffened.  “My kinsman and I are well able to look out for ourselves.”

“I insist,” Dugaric said smoothly, spreading his meaty hands in a gesture of magnanimity whose true intent was undisguised.  “I can see that you are weary.  Come, let your man here see to the girl’s return while you enjoy the hospitality of my home.”

“I cannot allow my captain to take this journey alone.”

“Is he not up to the task?”  Dugaric asked, peering closely at a glowering Halbarad.  “He seems fit enough.  And as my guest, you enjoy the protection of this house.  We could do no less for one who has been a friend to the Ruliri.”

Having negotiated with chieftains, princes, and warlords from Rhun to far Harad, Aragorn knew when he had been outmaneuvered.  Irritated at having been so done by Dugaric, he nodded toward Halbarad, whose knuckles were tense on his sword hilt.  “May I have a word with my Captain?” 

“As you wish.”  With a slight bow, Dugaric stepped back and gestured for his men to give the Rangers privacy. 

Once they had it, Halbarad wasted no words.  “Twelve swords, six horses, and a couple of half-grown boys,” he said spat out as soon as the Dugaric’s men were out of earshot.  “We can fight our way out and make a run for it.”

Taking him by the elbow, Aragorn spun him around so his back was to the Dunlendings.  “No,” he said quietly, with a rueful glance at his injured hand.  “The odds would be very poor.  In any case, I do not intend to fight these men unless I have to.  They have done us no harm.” 

“Yet,” Halbarad hissed. 

“Dugaric is a man of his word.  I will be treated as a guest until such time as they realize we have betrayed them.”

“You mean until such time as they realize we don’t intend to deliver the girl to them so they can finish the job their enemies started.  Once that happens, they’ll gleefully slit our throats.”

“I have no intention of being here when they come to that realization.  Tonight, once they are asleep, I will slip out of the camp and make my way north.  I will meet you at Tharbad.”

Halbarad’s face was bald skepticism.  “You plan to sneak out of a camp full of armed Dunlendings, just like that.”

“Believe me when I tell you I have sneaked out of far worse places than a camp full of armed Dunlendings,” Aragorn said.  “You must lead them back to Tharbad, but slowly, to give Húrin and Yenne time to reach safety.  Give your escort the slip before you reach Tharbad and leave me a signal near our outpost.”

Halbarad’s expression remained as rigid as his shoulders.  “I am not leaving here without you.”  

He locked his gaze on Halbarad.  “Yes, you are,” he said.  “Trust me, Halbarad.”

Halbarad opened his mouth, probably to tell him he was a raving fool, but Dugaric had evidently had enough of their private council.  “My men are ready to leave,” he announced, ambling toward them and jabbing a thumb to indicate a group of men standing beside their saddled mounts.  “My brother Veraric will accompany your captain, along with Melnag and his cousin, Tulric.”  

Aragorn sized up the trio with an eye to how much trouble they might pose for Halbarad if he was forced to fight them.  Melnag had already demonstrated a typical Dunlending temperament - hot-blooded, short-tempered, and suspicious of outsiders – but with his scrawny build he would be no match for Halbarad with fists or steel.  The two men beside him, though, strapping hefty packs onto their saddles, were another story.  The larger of the two was built like a bull, and the other was as broad as Halbarad, if not quite as tall.   Curious about the absence of the young man who was betrothed to Yenne, Aragorn cast his gaze about the loose cluster of warriors and onlookers.  “Will your son be accompanying them as well?”  

“My son?”

“The girl is his betrothed, is she not?”

“This is a matter for Begaric’s family,” Dugaric said gruffly.  “It is not for anyone else to interfere.”

“I see,” Aragorn said, wondering if the boy’s absence bespoke dissatisfaction with his clan’s remedy for restoring his betrothed’s tarnished honor.  Dissent could be a useful weakness to exploit.  Turning to Halbarad, he addressed him in Westron.  “Take these men back to where we left the girl, and bring her safely here.”

“Aye, my lord.”       

Halbarad’s short bow and tone of exaggerated decorum told Aragorn everything he needed to know about his kinsman’s opinion of his plan.  Gripping his arm in a comradely gesture, he leaned close enough to murmur a warning.  “Stall them,” he said in Sindarin.  “And watch your temper.”

Halbarad returned the clasp with a press-lipped nod and mounted without a word.  As he nudged his horse forward, a Dunlending fell in on either side of him.  Dugaric was taking no chances.

With Halbarad and his escorts gone, Dugaric invited Aragorn into his house.  The largest in the village, it was nevertheless smaller than the Dúnedain chief’s house that Halbarad’s family now occupied.  It was also far more humble, with dirt floors, a central hearth that vented through the roof, and a simple cowhide flap hung across the doorway.  The interior was dingy and heavy with badly vented woodsmoke.  Dugaric dropped down onto a pile of threadbare cushions and gestured for Aragorn to occupy another.  “Sit down and relax.  You are limping.  Were you injured in the fight?”

Aragorn lowered himself onto the cushions as gracefully as he could manage, and accepted a mug of ale from a woman who emerged from a back doorway.  Whether she was a wife, daughter, servant, or slave, Dugaric did not bother to explain.  “Just an old battle wound,” he answered with a rueful grimace, kneading the muscle above the knee.  “It aches every time the weather changes.”

Dugaric grunted his sympathy and motioned to a plate of meat and bread the woman placed on the floor between them.  “Eat,” he said.  “You must be hungry after your journey.”

“Thank you,” Aragorn said, following Dugaric’s lead and spearing a hunk of meat with his dagger.  It was venison, tough and stringy as an old rope; but at least it was not spoiled, and compared to some of the more exotic regional delicacies foisted upon him during his sojourns in the far countries, a simple plate of ropy meat was a welcome sight.  He noticed Dugaric studying him as he ate, and tried to remember if the Dunlendings attached some significance to eating with one hand over the other.  In some southern tribes, it was considered unclean to eat with the left hand, though at the moment his right one throbbed like a speared Warg, and he had tucked it discreetly in his lap to conceal the swelling.             

“Your men are not seen much in this land anymore,” Dugaric said, relieving Aragorn’s concern by gnawing on a joint of venison with both hands.  “What brings you here now?”

With the ease of a lifetime spent concealing his true identity and purpose, Aragorn had reflexively concocted a plausible excuse, containing some semblance of the truth.  Word had come to the Dúnedain of clan unrest amongst the Dunlendings, he planned to say, and he and Halbarad traveled south to assess any danger it might pose to travelers on the North – South road.  Now, though, as Dugaric expectantly waited for an answer, he found himself revisiting his true purpose for traveling here – a purpose he had put aside in the rush to save the girl.  Though it went against all his most deeply ingrained instincts to reveal his most troubling secret to a man like Dugaric, he was, after all, exactly the sort of man who was most likely to be able to resolve it.  In fact, as he realized belatedly that Dugaric could himself be the very man he sought, Aragorn found himself studying him as he had studied the dead Karani.  Dugaric’s face looked about as careworn as his own, putting him at around 35 or 40 years of age if he were a full-blooded Dunlending.  The cheekbones and brow were heavier, the features coarser than a Dúnadan’s, though.  He realized he was staring rudely and shook himself out of the fixation on Dugaric’s features.  “I seek a man,” he said finally. 

Dugaric tossed aside a bone.  “Any particular man?”

“He was born in the years after the Fell Winter, when the Rangers manned the crossing at Tharbad.  His mother’s name was Bega.”  Though the Dunlendings did not mark the years with a calendar, the memory of the Fell Winter was imprinted on every society in Eriador.   Aragorn had no doubt Dugaric had heard of it.   

“Bega is a common enough name for a woman.  What was his father’s name?  That is how our ancestors are reckoned.”

“His father was a man of my people.”

Dugaric raised a bushy eyebrow.  “I have heard no such tale,” he said.

“No Dúnadan who married a Dunlending woman?”

Dugaric chuckled.  “Do you know how we Dunlendings take our wives, Northerner?”  He whistled sharply through his teeth, bringing the woman who had served the food and drink scurrying from the kitchen.  “Take off your shawl, wife,” he ordered her.  Without a word, she untied the headscarf she wore and pulled it off, revealing faded locks of golden hair in braids wrapped about her head.  With a grunt, he dismissed her and puffed a plume of smoke at Aragorn.  “Do you see?”

“A woman of the Rohirrim?  You would marry one of your most hated enemies?”

“The Forgoil are our enemies.  The women are just women.  Do you not steal wives from your enemies?” 

Aragorn bit back an astonighed laugh.  “No.” 

“Taking the women of your enemies makes a man strong, and destroys his enemy’s honor,” Dugaric said with a satisfied smile.  “I took her in a raid on the Westfold.  She was thirteen years old.  She hated me for a long time, but she is a good wife, now.”

“Is that the only way you find your wives, then?”

“Of course not,” Dugaric said.  “I was a young man when I stole her, not yet a chief or even a man of many horses.  I had not the bride price to buy a woman of our own folk.  For my son’s bride, though, I agreed to pay Begaric three horses, one cow, and two goats. It could be that one of your men bought a wife this way.  If not one of our own girls, then an extra one we got in a raid.”

“If a Dúnadan married a Dunlending girl, it would not bring dishonor on her family?”

“A marriage, no.  A poor family would marry off a daughter to anyone with a scrawny chicken.  And after the bad winter, there were many clanless widows and orphans, with no one to speak for them.  Most of them starved.  Maybe this Bega of yours found a man to put some meat in her cookpot.”   Dugaric chuckled at his joke and reached into a low cabinet behind him.  “Do the Northmen share our weakness for the halflings’ leaf?” 

With a smile, Aragorn accepted the worn leather pouch and sniffed its contents, supposing he should not be surprised to find Longbottom Leaf in the hands of a Dunlending two hundred miles from the Shire.  He was not sure he wanted to know how it got there.  “Some of us do indeed.”  Nodding his appreciation, he packed his pipe and passed the pouch back to Dugaric.  With both men smoking, the sweet scent of pipeweed soon mingled with the ubiquitous woodsmoke, cloaking the sharper smells of too many people, too seldom washed, living in too small a space.    “So you have heard that the Rangers at Tharbad protected the Dunlendings there after the Fell Winter," he prodded.

“Our clan was living further east then, in the shelter of the mountains,” Dugaric said, leaning back to ease his full belly.  “Many starved in the bad winter, or were taken by wolves or orcs.  In the spring, the fields were flooded, so they could not plant crops, and all the livestock had already been butchered for food or eaten by wolves.  There was much raiding amongst the clans, even as you see now.  While our men fought, the women and children fled west, toward the city, but they found it abandoned; the river crossing blocked by the floods.  They were pursued by our enemies and would have been slaughtered, but the Northmen were there.  They protected them until warriors of my clan could drive the marauders back to the hills.  After the waters receded, some of the orphans and widows sheltered in the ruins of the town for a time, because they had nowhere else to go.  I suppose it is possible one of the Northmen sired a child on some desperate, clanless woman.  But surely you know everyone born in those times would be long dead. My grandfather was born the year after the floods, and he died an old man when my son was just a baby.” 

So Dugaric was indeed as young as he looked, and therefore could not be Bega’s son, Aragorn reckoned, though he supposed the grandfather could be.  The Ranger post at Tharbad had not fallen into disuse until about twenty years after the Fell Winter.  “There is no one among your people who is unusually long-lived?  A man who appears younger than his age?”

Dugaric scowled.  “You speak strangely, friend.  Tell me plainly – why do you seek this man?”

Aragorn masked his reluctance to answer with a long drink of beer.  Though he could scarcely abide revealing to a Dunlending a secret he had been ashamed to tell even Elrond, who but a Dunlending would hold the key to unlocking it?  He set the mug down, clenching his jaw with distaste at the words he was about to say.  “The Dúnadan who sired him was my…grandfather,” he said.  It would be too difficult to explain how his own father could have been siring offspring nearly 90 years ago.  “If he is dead, then I must know if there is a son still living, or a grandson.  There is an inheritance at stake.”

“An inheritance!”  Dugaric sputtered, nearly choking on his beer.  “Don’t say that that word so loudly!  You’ll find that every Ruliri in Dunland suddenly recalls having a Northman for a grandfather.”  He chuckled and wiped his moustache with his sleeve.  “How do you expect to find this long-lost cousin?”

It was hopeless, Aragorn was coming to realize.  He already knew the Dunlendings kept no written records, and their shorter lifespans made it extremely unlikely that any still living remembered Arathorn.  He half-regretted not having taken Halbarad’s advice and simply let sleeping dogs lie.  The trail he sought had almost certainly gone cold decades ago.  That Dugaric knew of no man with a longer lifespan than an average Dunlending suggested that Arathorn’s son had not been here for many years, if indeed he ever had been.  A half-Dúnadan boy could have been captured in a raid, sold to the Corsairs or killed in one of the clan skirmishes the Dunlendings were so fond of before he had lived long enough for his lineage to attract any notice.   Finding him would be an unending, years-devouring quest, and Aragorn had not the time to spare for it.  He had already pledged himself to another one.  “I had hoped to find someone who remembered him,” he said wearily. 

Dugaric settled back against his cushions.  “If you cannot find this man, what becomes of his inheritance?”

“It will go to me.”

Dugaric saluted him with a raised cup.  “Then you are indeed a man of honor, my friend.  What kind of inheritance do you stand to gain?”

Aragorn shrugged.  “A bit of land, and a title.”

“We do not go in much for titles here,” Dugaric said.  “What if turns out this cousin of yours does not desire it?”

Aragorn smiled in amusement, but he had already considered the possibility.  To a Dunlending, Gondor would be nothing but a far-off foreign place, and Arnor even less.  A formal letter of abdication could be acquired, if Bega’s son was indeed a lawful heir and had no ambition to rule.  But such a letter, even if witnessed by Elrond himself, would do nothing but provide Denethor all he needed to oppose Aragorn’s claim to the throne.  He need not even bother to question the legitimacy of the document itself -- the mere suspicion that the alleged heir of Elendil had produced pffspring through a dalliance with a Dunlending would be sufficient proof for the lords of Gondor that the northern line of Dúnedain had fallen into complete depravity.  Only if Aragorn could determine that Bega’s son was not fathered by Arathorn at all, or that he had died without issue, was there hope his own claim would prevail.  Realizing he had been staring into the fire again, he looked up to find Dugaric patiently watching him through a wreath of pipeweed smoke. No fool Breelander, this one, to chatter away and tell more than he learned.   “I don’t know,” he said finally. 

“It might cost you, you know.”

“What might cost me?”

“To buy him off.”

Now here was something he had not considered, but given Dunlending mercenary tendencies and social customs, Aragorn could well imagine the son of Bega demanding a hundred cattle and five Rohirrim virgins in exchange for his succession rights.  It would not matter what price he set - to buy the throne of Gondor at any price at all was inconceivable.  Suddenly realizing how bone weary he was, he glanced out through the open door flap.  The shadows outside had deepened, and the insects were singing.  By now, if Húrin had followed orders and not revealed his location, Halbarad should have bypassed him and led the Dunlendings halfway back to Tharbad.  Tonight, with luck, they could both give the Dunlendings the slip.  Aragorn made a show of rubbing the stiffness out of his neck.  “Your hospitality is beyond compare, Dugaric, but I find myself weary from the journey.”

With a snap of his fingers, Dugaric summoned his wife.  “Fetch Telgar,” he said.  “Tell him to make up a bed for our guest in the men’s house.”  When his wife had gone to do his bidding, Dugaric snuffed out his pipe and rose to his feet.  “Come.  You will stay in our barracks tonight, with the other single men.  It is humble accommodation, but it is not proper for a man to sleep under the same roof as a woman who is not his wife.”

Bunking with several burly Dunlending guards would most definitely not suit Aragorn’s plan to sneak out of the camp undetected.  “That is most generous,” he answered, “but I would be quite comfortable sleeping in your barn with my horse.”

“I am sure you would.”  The Dunlending’s mouth twitched beneath his whiskers.  “But I would be a poor host to allow a fellow chieftain to sleep in a barn when I can offer him a bed. Come; let me show you your accommodations.”

Accepting defeat, Aragorn set down his beer mug and allowed himself to be led to the barracks.   

-~oOoOoOo~-

The Dunlending on Halbarad’s right, Veraric, was as big as a bull.  The one on his left was scarcely smaller.  They sandwiched Halbarad between them as they rode, to prevent him from escaping, with the shifty Melnag riding directly behind him for insurance.  Unlike their chief, this lot made no pretense of pampering an honored guest.  It was perfectly clear what status Halbarad enjoyed in their company – a prisoner.  A prisoner who was, for the moment, biding his time.  To Halbarad’s enormous relief, they had passed the place Húrin had been told to wait uneventfully, with no sign of him or the girl.  Now, if the boy followed orders, he would be on the way back to Tharbad through the wild, avoiding the Dunlendings, Ruliri and Karani alike.  All that was left for Halbarad was to wait for dark, lose his escort detail, and head straight back to the Ruliri village for Aragorn.  He had no intention at all of following Aragorn’s ridiculous orders to go on to Tharbad and wait for him there.  He had agreed to this ruse only to give Húrin and Yenne a head start. 

To his great relief, Veraric called a halt as dusk was darkening over the hills.  “Up there,” he grunted, pointing to a clump of oaks atop a grassy hillside.  It was the longest speech Halbarad had heard out of him in six hours of riding.  When the horses were tended, each Dunlending broke into his pack for a cold supper of dried meat.  Evidently they were not much for cooking, Halbarad reckoned.  Since no one offered him any food, he rummaged through his own pack and finally came up with a hunk of dried meat that didn't smell too bad yet.  The Dunlendings did not make a fire, but it was a warm enough night without it, with a mild breeze blowing from the sea, crickets chirping in the grass, and a sky full of stars.  Despite the threat of marauding Karani, the Dunlendings wasted no time firing up their pipes, reminding Halbarad that these were farmers and herders who occasionally passed the time raiding their cousins’ camps for women and cows – stealth was not their strong suit.  Obviously they had never given thought to how far the smell of pipeweed carried out in the open. 

“You don’t smoke, Northman?”  It was Veraric, the two-legged bullock, with his pipe clamped down between his yellow teeth as if he might suddenly decide to bite it in two.

Halbarad smiled agreeably, or at least as agreeably as he could manage while the prisoner of a pack of misguided, bloodthirsty yokels.  “Not much” he answered, somewhat proud of his effort at his diplomacy.  “I suppose I am something of an oddity amongst my kin, for that.”

“We all smoke,” Melnag announced proudly.

“That’s nice.”

“Among our kind, only the women do not smoke,” Tulric added with a sneer.

Halbarad felt his smile stiffen, as words that were most definitely not diplomatic made their way to his lips.  “How convenient for you.  It must make it easier to tell everyone apart.”

The Dunlendings looked at one another, trying to determine whether they had just been insulted.  Predictably, they determined they had.  “Now, see here!” Melnag said, rising to his full, if insubstantial, height.  “You cannot insult our women like that!”

“Why not?” Halbarad asked, cringing slightly as he recalled Aragorn’s warning about his temper.  “Because then you’ll just have to kill them?”

In the next instant his head rocked sideways as Veraric’s fist impacted his jaw.  “Watch your tongue, Ranger!” 

Melnag stomped over and stood glaring down at him.  “We have a responsibility to protect our women’s honor, and that of their families!”

Halbarad rubbed his face, absolutely sure that he should not say the words he was about to say.  “I noticed what a good job you did of protecting your brother and his family.”

This time, Halbarad was ready for Melnag’s punch.  He ducked to the side, letting it glance off his shoulder.  Before Melnag could recover his balance, he was on his feet, landing a blow to the Dunlending’s jaw that snapped him backwards like a sapling in a gale.  Melnag wavered on his feet for a moment, leaning more and more precariously to the left, before falling flat on his face in the dirt.    

As Melnag hit the ground, the point of a dagger jabbed Halbarad in the ribs and stayed there.  “I ought to gut you where you stand, Northman,” growled Veraric.

“Then why don’t you?” Halbarad shot back.  “Afraid of your brother?”

“Not as much as you think,” Veraric answered.  “You’re worth more to me alive.  In fact, you just did me a favor.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Veraric chuckled.  “You’ll see soon enough.” 

In the next instant, a blow like a hammer landed at the base of Halbarad’s skull. 

~oOoOo~

The village bunkhouse was a ramshackle affair with a dirt floor, no windows and the standard cowhide flap for a door, although the chinks in the walls probably let in enough light to see by in the daytime.  Dugaric showed Aragorn to an empty pallet – not surprisingly, the one farthest from the doorway – and bid him goodnight.  Aragorn laid his cloak out on the straw mattress and sorted through his pack before turning to regard his roommates, who sat watching him in the light of the single candle like two very thinly whiskered owls.  Before departing, Dugaric had briefly led them outside to receive what Aragorn had no doubt was a stern warning not to let him out of their sight on pain of death. 

Ramic, the elder by a few years, had clearly taken these instructions to heart. Perching ramrod straight on his pallet, he glared at Aragorn as if expecting him to pull a dagger and slit the throat of everyone in the village.  Telgar, somewhat younger with a babyish roundness lingering in his cheeks, was obviously a much less suspicious lad.  He sat loosely on his bunk, smiling congenially until Aragorn was forced to smile back out of simple amusement.  “You’re a Northman,” said Telgar.

Aragorn nodded in agreement.  “Why, yes, I am.”     

“Don’t talk to him, Telgar,” Ramic warned.

“Dugaric said he’s our guest,” Telgar countered.  “I’m just showing him Ruliri hospitality.”

Ramic turned a look of disgust on him.  “You’re stupid, Telgar.”    

“I promise I’ll be no trouble,” Aragorn assured him.  “I’ve had a hard day and I just want to get a good night’s sleep."  He took in the dim surroundings.   In addition to the pallets occupied by himself and the boys, a fourth stood empty, covered in a thin blanket.  "Does Dugaric's son sleep here as well?"

Telgar looked at the empty bed.  "He's supposed to, but --" 

Ramic cut him off.  "None of your business, Northman."

"I just wondered," Aragorn said.  "I thought he might be upset at what happened to his betrothed and her family."  Telgar's gaze flickered to the glaring Ramic and then down to his shoes.  He shrugged.  "Well then," Aragorn said, reaching into his pack for a silver flask, "this will do just the trick to get the soreness out of my muscles.”  As the boys watched, he uncapped the flask and sniffed the contents with a sigh of anticipation.

“What is it?”  asked Telgar.

“It’s called Miruvor,” answered Aragorn, taking a small sip and closing his eyes in contentment.  “Mmmm, that hits the spot.”

Ramic’s eyes narrowed.   “I’ve never heard of Miruvor.”

“That’s because it’s Elvish,” Aragorn whispered conspiratorially.  “It’s very rare, and horribly expensive, but better than the finest Haradric brandy.”  Telgar, who in all likelihood had never heard of Haradric brandy, either, was licking his lips now.  Aragorn regarded his companions with a skeptical eye.  “You could try it, but…it’s a man’s drink.  It would probably be too much for you.”

“It would not!”  Telgar protested.  “I can hold my drink.”

Aragorn pressed his lips together and looked thoughtfully at his flask for a moment.  “Well, all right.  Just a taste.”

“Don’t do it, Telgar!” warned Ramic.  “It’s a trick!”

“What trick?” asked Aragorn.  “I’m drinking it myself.”  To prove his point, he took another small sip.

“Please,” Telgar pleaded.  “Let me try it.” 

Aragorn handed him the flask.  “Just a little, now.  It’s very strong stuff.”

Telgar took a deep breath and raised the flask to his lips.  His face relaxed in bliss as the liquid trickled down his throat.  When he opened his eyes, he smiled in rapturous satisfaction.  “I’ve never tasted anything like that,” he said.  “Ramic, you have to try this!”

“No chance,” Ramic said.  “It’s probably poisoned.”

“It isn’t poisoned, you fool,” Telgar argued.  “We’ve both had some already.”  He narrowed his eyes at Ramic.  “Don’t tell me you’re scared.”

“Of course I’m not scared!” Ramic yelped indignantly.  Snatching the flask from Telgar, he tipped his head back and downed an entire mouthful that had him gasping for breath once he got it past his gullet.  Aragorn watched as he flushed the color of cherries from his neck all the way up to this hairline.  Still, it was another minute before he could open his eyes.

“Strong, isn’t it?”  said Telgar, reaching for the flask.  “Give it back.”

“In a minute,” Ramic replied, taking another huge mouthful before passing it back.  With a glance at Aragorn, he shrugged.  “It’s all right, I suppose.  Our ale is better, though.” 

Telgar took another hefty swig.  “It is not better than our ale.  Our ale tastes like horse piss.”

“And how would you know what horse piss tastes like?  Have you been drinking your mare’s?”

“Whore’s son.  Give me the flask back.”  Telgar’s speech was already starting to slur, Aragorn noted with satisfaction.  He leaned back against the wall and rested while he watched the boys finish off the flask.  He could not afford to relax completely, not with the small amount of potion in him that he’d been forced to ingest, but he would need all his strength for the long trek back to Tharbad.  Going to the stable for the horse would be too risky.  He would have to leave Daisy behind and walk.

In less than an hour, both boys were lolling senseless on their pallets.   Aragorn rose and retrieved the empty flash from Telgar’s limp hand before slipping outside.  The night was warm and muggy, but he was relieved to be out of the stuffy bunkhouse.  The sky was moonless and full of stars, the houses and tents were silent shapes in the darkness, and he could see no movement in the village.  He took a moment to get his bearings and listen for signs of movement, then he made his way unhurriedly to the privy, counting on his movement across the camp to arouse the attention of any night watchmen.  If challenged at this point, he would have a plausible excuse for his appearance. 

When he emerged from the outhouse, the camp was still silent.  Instead of turning back toward the bunkhouse, he slid quietly around the corner of the privy and made for the edge of the woods, fifty yards away. 

Too late, he heard footsteps behind him.  “I think you took a wrong turn, Thorongil.”

Aragorn stopped in his tracks.  He had one moment in which to decide whether to run, fight, or give up.  With his knee, running was out of the question.  He could kill Dugaric without much difficulty.  Even in the shape he was in, he could spin around and drive a dagger into the chieftain’s eye before he could so much as utter a sound.  He let his hand relax at his side, realizing he was not yet ready to do that.  Instead, he slowly turned around, keeping his hands at his sides.  “Did I?  I must have lost my bearings in the dark.”

“It’s easy to do,” Dugaric said mildly.  “Even I get turned around sometimes.  Allow me to help you find your way back to your quarters.”      

“You’re very kind,” Aragorn replied lamely. 

Dugaric’s heavy steps mirrored his own as the chieftain walked at his shoulder.  “Do you always carry your pack to the latrine?” he asked conversationally.

“Why yes,” Aragorn answered.  “It’s customary among my people.”

“You Northmen have strange customs,” Dugaric said.  “Here we are,” he said, holding back the flap at the bunkhouse doorway.  “I trust you will sleep well the rest of the night.”

Aragorn nodded and ducked back into the dark barracks.  “I’m sure I will.”

Chapter 13

It was not the spiking pain shooting through his skull that surprised Halbarad.  The Dunlending had hit him hard, probably with the hilt of his dagger.  What surprised him was finding himself hanging crossways over the back of his horse with his face resting against soft belly fur and his freshly-healed ribs grinding against the hard edge of a saddle.  When he tried to right himself, he discovered that his hands were tied behind his back and his feet were secured to something on the other side of the horse.  He was trussed up like a sack of wool going to market.       

He cracked his eyes open, swallowing bile as the rhythmically striding legs of the horse came slowly into focus, long dark shapes moving against the dark earth, barely visible in grey light.  Birdsongs echoing in the cool air confirmed the approach of dawn.  He must have been unconscious for hours.  If they were heading for Tharbad, they would have reached it by now.  Setting his jaw against the pain in the back of his skull and the nausea in his gut, he managed to lift his head a few inches to better see his surroundings.  Flat, unfamiliar woodland stretched out on either side of the road.  Ahead of him he could see another horse, a limp figure draped across its back in a posture much like his own.  He could not see who it was.   With a groan, he let his aching head fall back down to rest against the horse’s side.

“He’s awake.” It was Tulric’s voice, calling out from behind him.

Veraric’s answer came from in front.  “We’re almost there.  Just keep an eye on him.”

“Untie me, Veraric!”  Despite his dire situation, Halbarad could not suppress a chuckle at realizing the identity of the other prisoner – Melnag.  “This is not the way to Tharbad!  What is the meaning of this?”

“I thought I told you to gag him,” Veraric said. 

“I did gag him,” Tulric answered.  “He must have worked it loose.   Don’t worry, Melnag,” he continued scornfully, “there will be plenty of time to collect your deflowered little niece later.  Only we've decided to give her to someone who appreciates her market value better than you do!”

Melnag jerked in his bonds.  “Traitors!  Dugaric will make you eat your own balls for this!”

Veraric came into Halbarad’s view, wheeling his horse around to strike Melnag a sideways blow to the head.  “Shut your trap, you little worm.”

Halbarad let his eyes drift closed and rested his head once again against the horse’s warm side, feigning unconsciousness.  Now that it was clear what Veraric was – no blindly loyal and probably stupid clansman after all, but an ambitious, treacherous mercenary who wouldn’t hesitate to slit his throat or sell him to the Corsairs for a galley slave – there was nothing to gain by further provoking him.      

As the sun breached the treeline, the landscape became marshy and patched with wetlands.  It became evident they had spent the night traveling east, away from Tharbad, following the swampy southern valley of the Swanfleet.  As far as Halbarad knew, none now dwelled here, even Dunlendings.  But before much longer, a sentry somewhere ahead of them called out a challenge.  When Veraric answered, and arrows did not fly, Halbarad guessed that they had been expected.  As they rode into a rough camp of ramshackle tents, a crowd of Dunlendings approached them.  Halbarad felt hands loosening the straps around his legs, then he was grabbed by the shirt and belt and dumped unceremoniously onto the ground.  With his hands bound, he was not even able to break his fall.  His head exploded in pain and he felt his knees tuck into his chest, instinctively protecting him from a blow he expected at any moment.   

“What is this?”   Someone poked him in the ribs with the toe of his boot, evoking a gasp and a grunt of pain. 

“A Northman,” Veraric answered. 

“A Northman, eh?  He could be worth something.”  Halbarad sucked in a breath and squeezed open an eye to see a pot-bellied, squashed-nosed Dunlending standing over him with a pipe clenched between his teeth.  “And this other?”  Squashed-Nose slid his boot over a few feet to nudge the prone and squirming Melnag, hurling muffled and unintelligible oaths.  Evidently someone had thought to replace his gag. 

“Melnag, the peddler’s brother.”

Squashed-nose turned to Veraric with his hands on his hips.  “The men you had me send after the peddler have not returned.”

“They’re dead.  This Northman and his chief killed them.  Then they came to Dugaric to tell him they stashed the girl somewhere up by Tharbad.  They were leading us to Tharbad, to turn her over to Melnag.”

“Melnag?  This worm?  What is he to her?”

“Her father’s brother.  He claims the right of honor, to cleanse the bloodline.”

Squashed-Nose grunted.  “My men were ordered to keep their hands off her.  We agreed that she’s mine, to do to with as I please.  As for this Melnag of yours, I care not for his honor, but he’s worth nothing to me.  I don’t know why you didn’t kill him and be done with it.” 

“He could yet be useful.”

“How?  You were foolish to bring him here.  Now he’ll just blab to Dugaric of your treachery.”

Veraric stood looking over Melnag with a sneer.  “I will happily kill him – but not until I can kill Dugaric as well.  I need your help to do it.”

Squashed-nose grunted in surprise.  “You think to do away with your brother, eh?  And why should I help you in this treachery?”

“Dugaric is a thorn in your side, Relnar.  You raid our camps, we raid yours.  Neither of us has anything worth raiding anyway.  As long as this goes on, the Karani and Ruliri are both weak.  United as allies, we would be strong.  Instead of attacking each other, we could combine our strength against our true enemies – the Forgoil and these meddling Northmen.  We could control the roads, the river crossings, the passes, instead of these meddling Northerners.  The Forgoil would bow to us; the Breelanders would pay us for protection.”

Relnar considered this while chewing on his pipe. “I already have men in Bree, and I am near to controlling the southern road.  What do you have to offer me?”

“Tulric can be trusted.  Send him back to Dugaric with a message that you are holding me, Melnag, and the Northman hostage.  Offer to exchange Melnag and me for the Northern chieftain.”

Relnar’s head cocked with interest.  “He has the Northman chief as well?”

Veraric nodded.  “He is holding him hostage for the return of Begaric’s daughter.”

“Yes,” Relnar murmured.  “He could be quite a valuable prize indeed.  I know a party who would be quite interested in the chieftain of the Northerners.” 

“Dugaric will agree to exchange the Northman for me and Melnag,” Veraric continued, “and as my own dear brother, and our chief, he will lead the treaty party himself.  Right into ambush.”

“What do I get out of this?”

“Me, as an ally.”

“What else?”

“Begaric’s daughter, and both of the Northmen, to do with as you wish.”

“And what do you get?”

Veraric’s face broke into a dangerous smile.  “I get to be the Chief of the Ruliri.” 

Relnar mirrored his expression with a crooked grin. “A fair deal, my friend.”  He clapped Veraric on the shoulder, then, without warning, walked over to Tulric and slugged him hard in the stomach.  With Tulric doubled over, he smashed the hilt of his dagger into his temple and then opened a gash in his upper arm.  Wiping off the blood on Tulric’s own shirtsleeve, Relnar grinned at Veraric, showing a mouthful of broken teeth.  “We might as well make this look good.”

~oOoOoO~

Aragorn started to consciousness, realizing only as his eyes slowly focused on a dirty straw mattress that he had fallen asleep at all.  He rolled over and sat up, groaning in disgust at his weakness.  After Dugaric escorted him back to the bunkhouse, he had lain down on his pallet with the intention of resting for just a few hours, hoping to outlast the chieftain’s vigilance and slip away before dawn.  But evidently his exhaustion had finally betrayed him; and now, with morning light filtering through the chinks in the rough plank wall, escape would be impossible until dark.  He scratched absently at a flea bite and looked around, trying to recall what it was that had awakened him.  Clearly not the two Dunlending boys still sprawled senseless on their bunks.   Though the plan had worked, at least partially, he now regretted giving them all of the Miruvor.  A swallow of the restorative cordial would have been most welcome.          

“Disobedient whelp!  I should kill you for your impudence!”

The voice was Dugaric’s.  Aragorn strode to the door without bothering to lace his boots, stepping outside in time to see him backhand his son across the face with enough force to send the young man staggering into the arms of an onlooker. 

“And you!”  Dugaric redirected his fury at stooped figure in a threadbare cloak, standing beside his son.  “You were warned never to return here!”  Though Aragorn could not see the person’s face, he guessed by the short stature and frail build that it was an old woman.  Strands of wiry grey hair escaped from a hood pulled over her head, and she was bent so far forward over her walking stick that she looked as if she would fall over if it were removed.  The fingers clutching it were gnarled and twisted with age.  Dugaric took another step towards her and raised his hand as if to strike her.    

“No!”  Dugaric’s son rushed forward and blocked his father’s raised hand.  “Leave her alone!”

“Get out of my way, Veric,” Dugaric growled, shoving his son hard. 

Veric recoiled, then regained his balance and held his ground, preventing his father from reaching the old woman.  “Father, please allow the denigha to examine Yenne.  Her life can be spared if the denigha can prove her honor has not been lost.”

Dugaric face was dark with loathing as he looked at the old woman.  “This is no denigha,” he spat.  “This is just a decaying old witch.”  He shouldered past his son and stepped closer to the old woman, towering over her like a stolid oak over a withered fern.  “The penalty for violating banishment is death.”

“Suit yourself,” the woman answered with a voice as brittle as the cackle of a crow.  “I was invited here by your own son.”

“That is a choice you can be sure he will regret,” Dugaric said.  “As for you, I should have killed you long ago, and I swear on my father’s sword that if I ever see you again I will.  Be gone from our sight before your ill spirits poison our women’s wombs.”

“There are indeed ill spirits in this place, Dugaric son of Hilnag, but they are not of my making.  It is not my poison that fouls your women’s wombs, but the bitterness within your own hearts.” 

There was silence in the yard, broken only by Dugaric’s harsh breaths.  “If there is bitterness in my heart, it is you who sowed it,” he said finally.  “You have until dark to remove yourself from our lands.  After that, if you are seen again, you will be killed on sight.”  He turned to his son.  “Shall I banish you, too, or shall I kill you for your defiance?”

The young man flinched, but kept his eyes fixed on his father.  “Are you going to kill everyone?”  he said softly.  “What will you do then?”  Without another word he turned and stalked away. 

“You ought to listen to your son, Dugaric,” the old woman said.  “He is wiser than his father.”

With a curse, Dugaric went for his dagger.  Aragorn stepped forward and caught him by the wrist.  “Leave her be.”

Dugaric shook his arm free, his dark eyes flashing with rage.  “Don’t interfere, Northman!  This is none of your business.”

“She is but a crippled old woman – hardly a threat to a chieftain.”

“Think you that, do you?”   Dugaric spit in contempt, but lowered his hand to his side, staring at the woman with loathing.  “You don’t know her like I do.” 

“A Northman!”  The old woman clawed her hood back and squinted at Aragorn through filmy eyes like black dots of coal in her heavily lined face.  “Yes, I see it now.  You have those same eyes, the color of the sun hidden behind a rainy sky.”

“The same as who?  You have seen my kind before?”

The withered face broke into a shapeless, gummy smile.  “Long ago, long ago,” she began to chant in a crackly, sing-song voice.  “Long ago, when the world froze and the river rose, the Northmen came.  But they are all gone now.  Gone whence they came, to the west, like the sun when night falls.  West they stay, though in the East shall they find their doom, when comes the King again.”

“Enough nonsense!”  Dugaric roared, seizing the old woman’s arm and roughly spinning her around.  “Be gone with you!”

Aragorn caught other stick-thin arm, more gently, and bent close to the wiry grey head.  “What do you know of the King?”  he whispered.

The old woman looked up at him with deep black eyes, deep as the waters of Evendim, eyes that seemed to see right through him.  She began to chant again.    

“Out of the west the tall kings sailed, 

With gleaming swords and eyes of grey;

O’er cursed Mordor they prevailed;

And kept the world from ruin

Their footsteps still the stones remember,

The time will come for their return,

From the east they will come hither

Whence the evil mountain burns.” 

“There, that’s it,” she chirped.  With a satisfied nod, she began to hobble away. 

“Wait!”  Aragorn called out.  “Where did you learn that verse?”  Seeming not to hear him, she kept walking away, leaning heavily on her walking stick and humming to herself. 

He took a step after her, but Dugaric caught him by the shoulder and held him back.  “Let her go,” he said.  “The denighal spout nonsense like that all the time.  Pay her no mind.”  At last noticing the cluster of onlookers that had gathered to watch the spectacle, he waved a hand to shoo them away.  “Get out of here!  Go on; go back to your houses.  There is nothing to see here.”  He glared at them until they began to disperse, then with a curt nod beckoned Aragorn to follow him home.  “Come.  My wife has breakfast ready.”

Aragorn would have much rather followed the old woman.  Not only did she look old enough to have at least met his father, she knew some very interesting verses.  But Dugaric obviously had it in for her.  For her own safety, as well as the privacy of the conversation he wished to have, it would have to wait until he could speak to her alone.  He had no idea where she had come from, but given her decrepit condition, it could not have been too far.  He could find her again later.  Reluctantly, he turned his back on her retreating figure and followed Dugaric to his house.  Taking the proffered seat before the fire, he accepted a steaming cup of tea from Dugaric’s wife.  “What is a denigha?” he asked, glancing up to gauge the expression on his host’s face. 

He was not surprised to see Dugaric’s mouth drop into a resentful glower.  “Midwife,” he said after a moment.  “Herbmistress, healer, seer, witch.  They claimed to speak to our ancestors, to the spirits in the water, in the mountains, in the trees.  In the olden days, every village had one.  They are all gone now.  There are no more.”

Aragorn refrained from commenting that recent evidence suggested otherwise.  “What did your son mean, when he said she could examine Begaric’s daughter?  Is there a way to prove the girl was not dishonored by the Karani?”

Dugaric took a drink from his mug.  “Hmm.  There is no need.”

“No need?  Is the girl’s life worth nothing?”  Even inured as he was to obscure and distasteful cultural practices, Aragorn found himself recoiling at the callousness of Dugaric’s pronouncement. 

Dugaric studiously stirred his bowl of porridge.  “Among our people, the honor of the clan is more important than any person’s life.  In the past, it was the denighal who examined girls before marriage, to guarantee that they were healthy, unspoilt, and would bear children.  If there was a question about a girl’s honor, the denigha was called to settle it.  But no such proof is needed in this case.   The girl was in the hands of the Karani - you saw what they did to her mother.  She is ruined; of that there can be no question.”

“Would it not be harmless to at least let the denigha examine her?”  Aragorn

“It is Melnag’s family, it is his decision.  But I tell you, there are no more denighal.  The one you just saw was the last, and she is a fraud.  I did not lie when I said I will kill her if she sets foot in this village again.”

“What has she done to deserve death?”  asked Aragorn.

Dugaric swirled the tea in his mug, his lower lip stiff against his teeth.  Finally he rubbed a meaty hand against his beard and shook his shaggy head as if to dispel a memory.  “She killed my daughter.”

Aragorn stared in disbelief.  “That old woman?”

Dugaric’s eyes flashed in the firelight.  “She slit my little girl’s throat.  I saw it with my own eyes.  My little girl…” he rubbed his face again and glanced back at the kitchen.  “I would have killed the witch that day, with my own hands, but they dragged me away.  Later they convinced me to banish her instead.   She went out into the forest.  I have not seen her since that day.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Aragorn said. 

“Have you ever lost a child, Thorongil?”

He had seen enough children die that he dreaded ever seeing it again; had seen the hopeless grief in the eyes of mothers and fathers as they held the limp little bodies one last time.  It was a pain he hoped he would never have to endure.  “No, I have no children,” he answered.

“After more than ten years, I can see my daughter’s little face smiling at me, hear her laughter.”  Dugaric’s face seemed to brighten as he spoke, only to tighten with pain again.  “And I can still see her face white and cold atop her funeral pyre.  It is a hard world we live in, Thorongil.  That witch took from me the only pure and good thing in it, and for that I will never forgive her.”

“Could it not have been an accident?”

“It was no accident!”  Dugaric erupted, thrusting himself to his feet.  “My daughter choked on her own blood as I held her in my arms.”

“I am sorry,” Aragorn repeated dully.  Whatever had happened, there would be no convincing Dugaric it was not murder.    

Suddenly Dugaric frowned at the sounds of hoofbeats fast approaching.  Aragorn reached the doorway a second behind him, just as a Dunlending staggered through, supporting a bloodied, reeling figure.   

Together they lowered him to the floor, and Dugaric bent close to his face.  “Tulric!”  Aragorn scanned the battered face – the eyes and nose were so bruised and swollen he had not recognized him.  His hair was matted with blood from a gash in his scalp, and his shirt soaked in blood from a cut in his arm.  Dugaric hurried to unlace his shirt, pushing it aside to reveal a ribcage and abdomen dark with bruises.  “Tulric, where are the others?” he prompted, getting only a cough and an incoherent mumble in reply.  While he coaxed a cup of water into Tulric, Aragorn went to look outside.  In the common were only a few villagers milling about, talking amongst themselves.  When they saw him watching, they fell silent.  Another man was tending to a lathered horse; presumably the one Tulric had ridden in on.  It appeared uninjured, and Aragorn could see no sign of damage to the leather.  Of Halbarad and the two other Dunlendings who had gone with him, there was no sign.  Aragorn went back inside and dropped down beside Dugaric.  “He came alone.”

Dugaric laid down the cup he had been holding to Tulric’s lips and began mopping blood from his face with a wet rag.  “Tulric, speak to me.  What happened? Where are Veraric and Melnag?” 

Tulric fought to focus blackened and swollen eyes.  He opened his mouth, but the effort to speak sent him into another coughing fit.  No doubt his bruised ribs were hampering his breathing.  “Karani,” he croaked after he had finally gotten his breath.  “Attacked our camp.”

Dugaric’s lips pressed into a thin line.  “Where are the others?”

“The Karani have them.”

Aragorn glanced at Dugaric, then leaned closer to Tulric.  “My kinsman, Halbarad.  Do they have him as well?” 

Tulric nodded, sitting up with Dugaric’s help and wincing as his chief examined the cut on his arm.  “They have them all.  Veraric, Melnag, and your kinsman.”

“What about the girl?”

“Don’t know,”  Tulric choked out.  “The Karani attacked before we reached Tharbad.”

Aragorn sighed with relief.  At least he could hope that Húrin and the girl had reached safety. 

“Where are they?” Dugaric demanded.

“A camp, at the edge of the marshes.  But they could be anywhere by now.”

“How many Karani?”

“At least twenty.  Maybe more.” 

Dugaric cursed, and Aragorn found himself uneasy with Tulric’s account.  Halbarad would have had no motive or inclination to fight the Karani – he would have been far more likely to use the attack as a cover for his escape than to join in the battle.  Nor was he the surrendering sort.  Aragorn could scarcely imagine him allowing himself to be taken captive – by anyone.  Having been forced into combat, he would prevail or go down fighting.  More implausible still was the notion that this Dunlending had managed to escape while Halbarad evidently had not.  But then, Aragorn realized, he had not claimed to escape.  “How did you manage to escape your captors?”  he asked frankly.

Tulric ducked his chin, avoiding Aragorn’s frank stare.  “I didn’t, exactly.”

“What then?”  Dugaric’s eyes flashed with impatience.  “Speak plainly!”

“They sent me back to give you a message.”

Dugaric’s face darkened.  “What message?” he asked thickly.

Tulric’s gaze darted to Aragorn for a second before settling uneasily on Dugaric.  “The Karani want a trade.  Veraric and Melnag in exchange for this Northman.  You must deliver him into their hands by sunset today.”

Dugaric hurled an oath.  “Or what?”

“They promised to start cutting pieces off your brother and feeding them to the dogs.  Starting with his manhood.”

Dugaric spit out another curse at no one in particular, then frowned in skepticism.  “What do they want with the Northmen?  They are of no use to the Karani.”

“They claim to know someone who will pay a lot for them, especially for the chief.”

Aragorn’s jaw stiffened as Dugaric’s hard gaze swung to rest on him.  Still recovering from his last turn as a captive of Dunlendings in the hire of some shadowy agent of the Enemy, he had no intention of falling into their hands again.  Nor did he plan to abandon Halbarad to a similar fate.  “Dugaric, this is nonsense.  Together we can rescue your kinsmen as well as mine.”

Dugaric eyed him expectantly.  “What have you to offer?”

“My sword.”

Dugaric’s skeptical gaze swept over him, taking in the swollen hand, the knee that had not stopped throbbing since he left Imladris, the gauntness of recent illness still etched on his face.  “You are but one man, and already injured, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I am not so injured that I cannot fight.  And I can call upon more Dúnedain as well.”

“I see none.”

“They must come from Sarn Ford.”  That was a problem, he knew – Sarn Ford was two days’ ride from Tharbad.  The Karani could slice Dugaric’s brother into stew meat before reinforcements could be summoned.  His only hope was that Haerost had reached Sarn Ford safely and was already on the way back with help.

Dugaric dismissed his offer with a curt shake of his head.  “Too far.”

“One of my men rode for aid several days ago.  They should already be on their way.  Let us work together.”

“The Karani will not harm your kinsman as long as they think they can sell him,” Dugaric said.  “But my brother and Melnag are of value only as long as the Karani believe they can be traded for you.  I have seen what they do to captives.  We cannot wait for more men to arrive.”  He went to the doorway and glanced at the sky.  “It is half noon already.  We must leave as soon as the warriors can be assembled.”

Aragorn was hesitant to state the obvious, but he felt obliged to ensure Dugaric did not overlook it, nevertheless.  “This could be a trap.”

“I know.”  Dugaric smiled thinly.  “Don’t worry, Northman; I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Aragorn nodded.  “Very well.  I will be in the barn, saddling my horse.” 

Dugaric had twelve warriors at hand, as near as he could tell.  That was assuming he did not elect to leave some back in reserve against the very real chance that the prisoner exchange was a diversion to facilitate a raid on the undefended village.  He was not at all happy with the odds.  Twelve Dúnedain would have made quick work of twenty Dunlendings, but Aragorn had no reason to believe Dugaric’s fighters held any appreciable edge over the Karani.  Dunlending battle tactics were typically lacking in organization and forethought.  The fight could well be a bloodbath for both sides.  As he finished tightening the girth strap around Daisy, he considered that his best option might be to simply leap onto her back and bolt for freedom.  Alone, he might well have a better chance of finding and rescuing Halbarad than he would with a dozen Dunlendings in tow.    

His decision made, he gave a last tug to the girth strap, realizing as Dugaric appeared in the barn doorway that his opportunity to escape had already vaporized.  The chieftain was flanked by a half dozen armed warriors.   Three were archers with arrows nocked and bows drawn – aimed at him.    

“What is this?”  he said quietly.

Dugaric’s face was solemn but resolute.  “I am sorry,” he said.   “Drop your weapons now.”

Aragorn kept his boots planted where they were but slowly slid his left hand from Daisy’s bridle to the pommel of the saddle.  “You mean to turn me over to the Karani.”

“I have no choice.  They have me outnumbered and I cannot risk it.”

“You do have a choice.  I told you I would fight with you.”

Dugaric shook his head.  “It is not enough.  I know the Karani.  If we attack them, they will slit the captive’s throats before they can be rescued.  This is the only way.”

“I thought you prided yourself on being a man of honor,” Aragorn said, hearing disgust color his voice.  “What honor is there in betraying an ally?”

“Honor has just become a luxury I can no longer afford,” Dugaric retorted.  “My duty is to my own flesh and blood.  Surely you understand.”

Halbarad would have understood.  Possessing the same fierce, unquestioning instinct to protect his own, he would have been unsurprised at Dugaric’s choice.  Aragorn supposed he might even make the same one.  Most men would.  It was one of many lessons he had learned as a perpetual outsider, a stranger, pledging his sword to other men’s armies, fighting for the safety of other men’s fields, and homes, and children, keeping the wolf at bay simply because it was the wolf, without regard for whose throat was spared.  Many men had fought at his side, shared a pipe, tended his wounds, even called him brother, yet hadn’t he always known what their choice would be, if faced with Dugaric’s choice?  He had not let it matter.  He had always known that their choice could not be his, that he could not allow his loyalty to be so simply bound by blood.   But now, this once, he would choose as other men did, to protect his own kin, his own blood.  With silent thanks to Dugaric for releasing him from his offer, he tightened his hand on the pommel and tensed his good knee.  “I do now,” he answered, and launched himself onto the horse.       

If Daisy had been a warhorse of Rohan, he might have had a chance.  She reared as he mounted, caught off guard by his abrupt weight.  It took him a moment to get her under control, costing him the surprise he would have needed to get through the barn opening before the Dunlendings could react.  He charged toward them anyway, and an arrow flew past his shoulder.  A blade swung toward him, and he smashed it away with the hilt of his sword as Daisy reared in panic.  Metal sliced into his leg, and then hands were upon him, dragging him to the ground.   A knee between the shoulder blades pressed him into the dirt, his arms were yanked behind him, and hands groped at his waist, removing his sword belt and daggers. 

When he was disarmed, his hands were roughly bound with a leather thong, and he was rolled over onto his back and pulled to a sitting position.  Dugaric knelt beside him and peeled back the already blood-soaked fabric of his trousers.  “Bring me some bandages,” he ordered one of his men.

“Why bother?”  Aragorn asked, wincing against the throbbing that had begun as soon as he saw the wound.  With some relief he noted that although it bled freely, the wound was on the outside of the thigh, clear of nerves and arteries.  “Afraid the Karani won’t honor the bargain if you show up with damaged goods?”

Dugaric pushed a wad of cloth onto the cut and wound another around the outside of his thigh.  “I truly mean you no harm,” he said.  “I am only doing what I must.”

With the bleeding staunched to Dugaric’s satisfaction, Aragorn was lifted to his feet and put on his horse.  As they departed the village heading north, he was positioned near the front of the line, behind Dugaric, with a guard at his side holding Daisy’s reins.  He tried to relax as best he could and save his strength, but found that with his hands tied behind his back and his left knee still weak, it required a moderate amount of effort just to maintain his balance on the horse.  The constant flexing of his leg muscles and the jarring motion of the horse soon left the bandage around his thigh soaked with blood that dried dark red in the warmth of the sun.  Following Tulric’s instructions, Dugaric was leading the party toward the marshy lands at the mouth of the Swanfleet.  Aragorn counted thirteen warriors besides himself in the column, riding silent and watchful.  As they traveled, hills flattened into marshy flatlands studded with lowland shrubs and trees.  Aragorn shifted in the saddle, testing his bonds for the twentieth time, becoming resigned to the prospect of capture by the Karani. Though a quick escape now seemed unlikely, the situation was far from hopeless.  Once reunited, he and Halbarad together had a good chance of escape, and as long as they had value as hostages, they would not be killed.  Aragorn was more than slightly curious about the identity of the mysterious buyer interested in acquiring the Dúnedain chieftain.  It seemed an unlikely coincidence that within a span of a few months, two groups of Dunlendings suddenly developed a keen interest in kidnapping him.  If he allowed this situation to play out, he might be able to solve the mystery that the boy Rolly had died to protect – the identity of his mysterious master.  Something about this prisoner exchange rang false to him, though – something he could not quite put his finger on.  He thought back to Tulric’s injuries.  They were colorful, but at the same time superficial for a man who’d just been in battle with his sworn enemies.   Aragorn could not recall seeing any defensive wounds on his hands or forearms, such as a man would have suffered before being taken captive.  And his weapon…  “Dugaric,” he called out.  “I must speak with you.”

The broad back in front of him did not react.

“Dugaric!” 

The Dunlending riding beside him leaned over and cuffed him.  “Shut your trap, Northerner!  Or you’ll be gagged.”

Dugaric twisted in the saddle.  “Leave him be, Morgab.”  The Chieftain slowed his horse until he came abreast of Aragorn.  “What do you need to say?”

Aragorn glanced behind him.  Spotting Tulric at the back of the column, hunched over from the pain of his bruised ribs, he leaned closer to Dugaric and spoke in a low tone.  “Did you examine Tulric’s sword?”

“No.  Why would I?”

“A blade that endured a battle with twenty adversaries would be bloody and nicked.”

Dugaric’s face darkened.  “What are you saying?”

Aragorn looked at him unflinchingly.  “I am saying his blade should show signs of battle.  Ask him to show it to you.”

Dugaric held his stare for a long moment, then wheeled his horse around and gestured for the column to move ahead.  When Tulric came abreast of him, he halted him with a raised hand.  “Draw your sword.”

Tulric’s eyes darted back and forth between Aragorn and Dugaric.  “Why?”

“Because I said so,” Dugaric snarled.  Without another word he reached across and pulled Tulric’s sword from its scabbard.  Its edge gleamed bright and sharp in the afternoon sun.   “Explain this,” he demanded.

“Explain what?”

Dugaric turned the blade this way and that, letting sunlight play off the smooth, undamaged surface.  “No blood, no nicks, no damage at all to the blade.  Were you in a fight or not?”

“Of course I was!”  Tulric’s voice was rising with panic.  “I cleaned and polished the blade before I arrived back in the village.”

“You stopped to clean your weapons on your way to deliver a ransom demand?”  Dugaric sneered.  “You are either lying or stupid.”

“His hands were covered in his own blood when he arrived,” Aragorn said.  “If he had stopped to clean his blade, they would have been wiped clean as well.”

Dugaric lowered Tulric’s blade until the tip was poised inches from his throat.  “You’d better think of a better story than that. Quick.”

Tulric’s eyes widened as the sword tip scratched against his skin.  “It is the truth!  Why do you take the word of a foreigner over mine?”

“The truth speaks for itself.”   Without lowering the sword, Dugaric motioned to the warriors who had moved in to flank Tulric.  “Seize him.  And get some rope.  It won’t take me long to get to the bottom of this.  And untie the Northerner.  It seems we might need his sword after all.” 

~ Chapter 14 ~

“This is a good sword.”  The Karani chief cocked his head, squinting to sight along the blade he held extended in front of him.  “I think I’ll keep it.”

Veraric’s jaw dropped with indignation.  “Why should you get the Northman’s sword?” he asked.  “I’m the one who delivered him to you!  I’m the one who told you where to find the peddler.  I’m the one who told you how to get rid of my brother.  What do I get out of this deal?”

“I let you have his kit.”

“It didn’t even have any pipeweed in it!”

“And his boots,” the squashed-nosed Karani pointed out.

Veraric scowled at his feet, newly shod in supple Rivendell cowhide.  “Only because they were too big for you!” 

“All right, then.”  Yielding to Veraric’s insistent glower, Relnar pulled a smaller scabbard from his belt and flipped it to him with studied nonchalance.  “I suppose you can have this as well, if you feel cheated.”

“I have enough daggers,” Veraric grumbled as he snatched the sheath from the air, though his face softened as he ran rough fingers over the smooth, finely tooled leather.  “Pretty thing, though.”

Halbarad’s jaw clenched at the sight of such a noble weapon in the hands of a brigand like Veraric.  The prize the Dunlending grudgingly accepted as a lesser reward was priceless and ancient beyond his comprehension.  Twice had it been gifted to Halbarad – first by a son of Elrond, and then, with no less honor, by a very special hobbit. 
Watching helplessly as it was tucked snugly into Veraric’s belt, Halbarad let his aching head drop back down to the rocky ground.

In short order, the Karani finished their preparations for the ambush and took to the trail, riding out of camp in a chorus of raucous battle songs, leaving Halbarad and Melnag lying side by side, trussed like market geese and watched over by a couple of resentful stragglers.  Halbarad twisted uselessly in his bonds for the hundredth time.  By now his hands had been tied for so long behind his back that he could no longer feel them, and even the burning in his wrenched shoulders had subsided to the same cold ache that gripped his cracked skull and his bruised ribs. 

Faced with a wretched and no doubt unacknowledged doom, he supposed his least thought should have been for the loss of his weapons, yet his thoughts kept wandering to the nakedness he felt at his hip.  The sword was no family heirloom – Alagos carried that; handed down from his grandfather.   Halbarad’s weapon held no special heraldry or honor.  It was simply the sword he had always carried; the one he had always expected his wife would receive after his death.  For so long, Eirien had endured his long absences, the risks he took, his mad dreams of glory on the plains of Gondor, without even daring to expect to someday share peaceful old age with her husband.  Her only comfort, and his, was knowing that someday, when he was gone, she would hold in her hands the last thing he had clutched in his.  He could not bear imagining her left without even that cold comfort, though he knew that even against that unspoken possibility she had planned.  She didn’t think he noticed how a single unwashed shirt went missing from the laundry each time he packed for a campaign, only to reappear freshly washed a day or two after his return.   He cringed to imagine her holding one of those sweat-stained garments to her cheek as she lay down to sleep at night, treasuring it long after the last of his scent had faded away.   He wondered how long she would look for him each day over the rise of the hill, how long she would hang onto hope while he coughed out his last phlegmy breaths in the bowels of some Haradric mine.

With effort, he turned his thoughts to Aragorn.  If Aragorn escaped, if he survived, then at least all was not lost, but he realized with mounting despair that once Aragorn gave up waiting for him at Tharbad, he would work his way south, searching for him.  He would find the place where the Karani had taken him captive and track him until he walked right into the hands of Relnar and Veraric.  Invincible as Aragorn seemed at times, he had no chance of defeating an entire band of armed Dunlendings in the shape he was in.     

Burning with the realization that his failure would lead inevitably to Aragorn’s capture, Halbarad heaved himself painfully over onto his side, casting an appraising eye on the guards.   There had to be a way out. 

They made an unimpressive pair of sluggards; lounging around the fire, grumbling about their lot.  “It’s not fair,” one complained.  “I’m at least as good a fighter as Krolnar, but I get left behind to guard the prisoners while he rides off to the raid.”   

“Krolnar’s the chief’s nephew,” the other said with a shrug.  “Of course Relnar’s going to take him over you.  What about me?  I’m a better bowshot than Larneg.  He got lucky with that orc.  I saw it with my own eyes; he was so scared he released the arrow with his eyes shut.”

“Lucky shot,” the first guard agreed.  “And now Krolnar will probably get his first blood today, and we’ll have to endure a big feast in his honor when this is over.” His pudgy fingers tensed on his sword hilt.  “How am I supposed to get my first blood if I never even get the chance to draw my sword?”

“I know how you can bloody your sword,” came a nasal voice at Halbarad’s side.  He rolled partway over and twisted his neck to gape incredulously at his fellow captive.  The words had been the first out of Melnag since Squashed-Nose’s men had finished beating him to a pulp and dumped his battered body on the ground next to Halbarad.  Now, clearly, he had some scheme in mind.

“What’s your plan, Melnag?” Halbarad whispered harshly.

“You figure it out,” Melnag replied.

“If you tell me we can work together.”

“Why should I?” Talking with his nose full of dried blood made Melnag sound like a man with a bad cold.  “You’re just getting sold to the Corsairs.  I’m the one Veraric swore to strangle with his bare hands as soon as he gets back from killing my brother.”   Melnag raised his voice again.  “Come on over here, lads; it’s safe.  I’m in no position to bite.”

The youths looked at each other uncertainly.  Finally the pudgy one got up and walked over to stand over his prisoners in a very unconvincing imitation of Squashed-Nose.  “Say what you have to say, worm,” he growled.

“If one of us should escape,” Melnag said, “you’d have to chase him down, wouldn’t you?  And if he resisted recapture, you might be forced to kill him.  Very unfortunate, but necessary, don’t you agree?”

The one who fancied himself an archer ambled over and checked both prisoners’ bonds.  “The straps are good and tight,” he announced proudly.  “No chance you’re escaping!”

“The chief would blame us if they slipped their bonds, anyway,” the first concluded unhappily. 

“Why should Relnar blame you?”  Melnag asked.  “It wasn’t you who tied them, was it?  What if this foreigner -” he indicated Halbarad with a jerk of his head – “got loose because someone did a sloppy job tying him up?  You’ll get your warriors’ blooding and be praised as heroes for preventing his escape. And if he resists and you have to kill him, well -” he shrugged with feigned regret.  “Things happen.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”   Halbarad interjected.  “Your chief wants me alive.” 

“That’s right,” the first guard said.  “He’s worth a lot to somebody, the chief says.  Now, you, Ruliri worm, are worth nothing to anyone.”

“And does your chief plan to share the spoils with you, when he sells the Northman to the Corsairs?”  Melnag prodded.  “How will he reward you for missing out on the battle, by giving you his boots to clean afterward?  You were left behind to watch prisoners like a woman tending children.  Is that how you want to be seen?  This is your chance to prove them all wrong and show them your true worth.”

The first guard looked unconvinced.  “I’m not sure this is a good idea.  We could get in trouble.”

The archer’s face, on the other hand, had taken on the expression of a cat keenly eyeing a very unfortunate bird.  “It beats sitting around here waiting for Krolnar to come back with warrior’s blood smeared across his face, along with a grin as wide as the Greyflood.  Unless you’re too scared of getting in trouble.” 

The first guard squared his shoulders and yanked his dagger from its sheath.  “Who’s scared?  Should we give him a little head start, just for sport?”

“Why not?”  The other guard leaned over his bow to string it.  “I’ll show the chief what kind of archer I am!”

“Just don’t kill him too quick,” the first one warned, kneeling beside Halbarad’s bare feet.  “Leave something for me to do.  Are you ready?  I’ll cut the ties on his feet.”  

In Halbarad’s estimation, Melnag’s scheme was flawed on a number of counts, not the least of which was its failure to get him untied as well.  Likely, he hoped the guards would be distracted long enough chasing Halbarad to buy him enough time to make his own escape.  But whatever Melnag’s no doubt self-interested motive, Halbarad reckoned that any plan involving his feet being untied was better than no plan at all.  With silent thanks to the weaselly Melnag, he held perfectly still as the first guard sliced through the leather thongs binding his ankles.  The instant they were cut, before the rush of blood to his deprived extremities could overwhelm his mind with pain, he drew his knees toward his chest and thrust out both feet.  His heels impacted the guard's chin, snapping his head backward.  Without waiting to see if he would stay down, Halbarad struggled to his feet and tackled the second guard like a charging bull, using his skull as a battering ram.  He didn’t waste time trying to pick up a fallen weapon.   His hands would not have been able to grasp one. 

“Wait!”  Melnag cried after him as he staggered into the trees.  “What about me?”

The beatings and dehydration had taken too much out of him.  Halbarad felt his strength rapidly faltering as he ran through the forest with clumsy strides, his breath ragged and gasping.  Pain pulsed through his hands, forced past the constricting restraints with every beat of his pounding heart.  His bare feet, too, screamed as they slapped the ground, still clumsy but now fully aware of each rock and twig.  Branches whipped against his chest and stung his face.  Several arrows flew past, not even close – the Karani chief was correct in his estimation of the guard’s marksmanship, he noted with a faint glimmer of amusement.  He heard hoofbeats approaching fast from behind, then a man’s running footsteps, and then a weight thudded hard against his back, knocking him down.  The impact of the ground drove his breath away, and he fought back from blackness to find a pudgy arm wrapped around his chest and the chill bite of steel against his throat.  He arched his back, but his backwards head butt landed against the disappointing solidity of collarbone.  He thrust his torso violently to and fro, trying in vain to break the hold.  It was no use.  His head was yanked violently back by the hair, until he could smell his captor’s breath and see the leer on his round face.  “Your friend was right,” the guard said.  “That was fun.”

“He’s not my friend,” muttered Halbarad.

“My turn,” came the voice of the second guard, the one who fancied himself an archer.

“You had your chance,” the pudgy one argued, not moving his dagger from Halbarad’s throat.  “You missed him three times.”

“There were trees in the way,” the archer protested.  “I couldn’t get a clear shot.  Let him go again and I’ll shoot him as he runs toward the meadow.”

“Oh, all right,” the pudgy one said.  He gave Halbarad a shove that sent him face-first into the dirt.  “Go on, get up,” he ordered.

Aside from the fact that Halbarad saw no point in playing the fox for his captors’ amusement, he did not think he would make it half a furlong this time.  Even the miserable archer would have no trouble hitting him. “Go practice archery on someone else,” he croaked through cracked lips.  “I’m done.”

“Get up!” the pudgy one repeated, and once more Halbarad felt the bite of steel against his skin.  This time it was the point of the blade, poised between the vertebrae on the back of his neck.  “Get up, or I’ll end it now.”

At least it would be quick, Halbarad reckoned.  “I’m not running,” he managed to wheeze.  “Go ahead and do it if you’re going to do it.” With a silent prayer for all that he still held dear, he laid his pounding head down on the ground and waited for oblivion.  

To his surprise, the next words he heard were neither the grating bark of Dunlendish nor the sweet soothing tones of Elbereth.

“Drop your weapons!”  Húrin shouted.  “You are surrounded!”

“Oh, no,” Halbarad muttered, fighting the tug of unconsciousness.  “Not again.”

~-oOoOo-~

When Dugaric’s men began stripping Tulric naked and tying him spread-eagled on the ground, Aragorn led Daisy to a nearby patch of grass and released her to graze.  Spotting a wide oak within earshot of the interrogation, he sat down with his back against it, stretching out his sore leg and taking a swallow of Miruvor to bolster his flagging strength.  He could not afford to doze off.  He had seen enough torture dispensed in his lifetime to be uninterested in Dugaric’s particular brand of it, but he needed to hear what the prisoner had to say under interrogation; whether indeed the Karani had captured Halbarad or if that was just part of the ruse.  As he waited, he took what rest he could, letting the warm sunlight soothe his closed eyelids and easing his weary body against the sturdy support of the tree.  There was a time when he would have flinched at the screams of the prisoner, when indeed he might have tried to intervene.  Such impulses he had left behind in the far-off dust of Gondor and Harad, along with other youthful qualities such as irrepressible cheeriness and the innocent belief that a happenstance of birth made the world his for the taking.  The man who trudged warily back to Imladris twenty-eight years ago was a far different man than the scrawny, newly minted Heir of Isildur who had left it; just as he had left Lórien a different man than when he arrived. 

He had been even wearier, then, he recalled; though not so much in body as in spirit.  The long years abroad had imprinted on him too much of Arda’s hardness.  He had seen too much, learned too much, even, if he admitted it, done too much.  The eager youngster entranced by his Tinúviel was gone, leaving in his place a grim, hard man who did not know what he hoped to find in Lórien, besides rest; could not say what impulse drove him there, other than a desperate, urgent need for renewal.  He had not even been thinking of Arwen.  He had not dared to.  When unsuspecting he fell into Galadriel’s gossamer net and realized belatedly just what she was up to, it was absurd fear rather than joy which first overtook him – fear that just as he had once been far too young for Arwen, he had somehow, in the space of just a few decades, become far too old.  Upon his shoulders now, and written upon in his sun-lined face, was not the agelessness of Elves, but the weary weight of years as mortals bear them.  If the guileless boy had little to offer Arwen, maybe the world-weary man had even less.  But then she had smiled at him, a smile that made him believe she had been saving it all these thousands of years, just for him.  She lifted the weight from his shoulders, at least for a bit, and restored in him a hope to sustain him through all the bleak years ahead.  Only later did he realize that in his whole life, only that single season in Lórien would ever seem perfect and whole.  Only in Lórien, bathed in the tranquil yellow light of Cerin Amroth and adorned with showers of falling niphredil blossoms, had he been able to pretend, for one blissful moment, that the world was made for the two of them.  Only there had they been allowed, for one swift moment, to love without guilt, without cost, without pain, without soul-splitting sacrifice.  It had been a dream, and he had wished never to wake from it.   

“They have your man.”  He opened his eyes to find Dugaric standing over him.  “They’re planning an ambush.”

“I heard,” Aragorn said.  He looked at Tulric’s unmoving body.  He could not tell if it was dead or alive.  “What do you propose?”

“I know the place Tulric described,” said Dugaric.  “It’s the ambush point I would have chosen myself; a natural chokepoint halfway to the place he was to tell us to meet the Karani – the valley narrows there, with low bluffs on each side.  But there is another valley running parallel to it.  If we move up that valley, we can come over the ridge right on top of their position.  Are you ready to fight?”

Aragorn had never felt less ready to fight in his life.   At the moment, it seemed as if simply standing up was beyond his strength.  But for Halbarad, he would have to.  He accepted Dugaric’s outthrust hand and allowed the Dunlending pull him to his feet.  “I’m ready,” he said, steadying himself with a hand on Dugaric’s shoulder until the dizziness passed.  “Let’s go.”

~oOoOoOo~

“I don’t see Halbarad,” Aragorn said.  He was lying on his belly atop a low ridge studded with oak trees, looking down at the approaching raiding party; a sloppy column of riders rounding a bend in the trail.  In the lead rode Dugaric’s brother, alongside a heavy-set man whom Dugaric identified as Relnar, the Karani chief.  Behind followed at least twenty more fighters.  Aragorn glanced around at Dugaric’s dozen men.  They would be heavily outnumbered, which meant any chance of success lay in tactical superiority; a dubious prospect by all appearances.      

“Melnag is missing as well,” Dugaric said.  “The prisoners must have been left behind in camp.  The attack will be simpler with no hostages to worry about, but we’ll have to take one of the Karani alive, to find out where they’re being held.”

“I concur.”  Although Aragorn would have no difficulty following the Karani’s tracks back to wherever they had left Halbarad, he had his own reasons for taking a prisoner alive.  He very much wanted to learn the name of the party who was so keenly interested in acquiring Dúnedain prisoners.  According to Tulric, only the Karani chief knew his identity. 

Below, the column of riders had halted and assembled into a loose ring of horsemen clustered around the chief.  Plainly oblivious to the threat from above, he ordered the battlefield, gesturing in turn at this or that promontory.  It was easy to guess his plan – place his archers on the high ground, the mounted troops on either side of the trail.  Aragorn glanced at Dugaric as the chief finished and the warriors began to drift away. “Dugaric!” he hissed.  “Now, before they disperse and take to the high ground!”

Dugaric was already on his feet, bellowing an order to attack.  An instant later, a volley of arrows rained downward onto the raiders. 

Shouting a war cry, Dugaric’s fighters poured down the hill as if chasing them.  Hampered by his knee, Aragorn descended haltingly, using his scabbard for a support.  He reached the valley floor to find the opposing sides already fully engaged.  Taking a moment to catch his breath and take stock of the battle, he saw a few arrow-riddled bodies on the ground, though most of Dugaric’s bowmen seemed to have missed their marks.  The battle zone was constricted by the bluffs rising steeply on both sides of the narrow path.  Men were fighting tight against one another as if fighting in a cave.   Dressed similarly to their cousins and bearing no distinguishing clan marks, the Ruliri would appear nearly indistinguishable to his eyes from the Karani; nor did he care to bet his life on the Ruliri recognizing him as a friend in the grip of battle frenzy.  He scanned the clashing warriors until he saw his objective – the Karani chief.  Drawing his sword, Aragorn began pushing through the throng of hacking fighters, parrying blows without returning them, shoving aside obstructions in his path with the pommel of his sword.  The air was already thick with churned-up dust, making it hard to see, but he could gauge the chief’s position by the strength of resistance to his advance.

Aragorn had learned long ago that all battles, no matter how well-ordered, quickly fall into chaos once the first blood is spilled, but he was reminded now of an old captain of Gondor, who once told him that if he had to choose his battles, he should choose those over a piece of land.  Without a piece of land to capture or defend, the officer said, the only objective of a battle is slaughter, and men will not stop until they have enough of it.  Aragorn could see slaughter all around him now - well over a dozen men lay on the ground, though without being sure whether they were Ruliri or Karani, he had no idea which side was winning.  He could see Dugaric still fighting, off to his left, his eyes fixed not on his Karani counterpart but his own traitorous brother. 

Aragorn smashed aside an axe aimed at his midsection, staggering backwards from the force of the impact until he collided with the back of another combatant.  Spinning, he raised his sword and poised it to strike, holding his killing stroke when in the last instant he recognized the man as one of Dugaric’s.  As he fought to recover his balance, another hand grabbed hold of his hair and yanked him backwards again.  He dropped the sword and drew his dagger, stabbing viciously upwards into the soft flesh of his opponent’s midsection until the grip on his hair fell away.  He staggered forward, finding himself at last facing the bent-nosed Karani chief.  There had been no time to retrieve his sword.  As he parried the Karani’s sword swipe with his dagger, he recognized with sick horror that the blade wielded against him was Halbarad’s and pressed the attack with new fury, moving inside of arm’s reach to neutralize the advantage of Relnar’s longer weapon. 

They ended up on the ground, wrestling for control of the dagger, and Aragorn was losing.  He bucked and twisted, struggling to evade the blade moving slowly but inexorably toward his throat.  With no gripping strength remaining in his right hand anyway, he released his hold on the knife with that hand and thrust his fingers straight into Relnar’s eye.  With a yelp of agony, the Karani clapped a hand to his face, but his defensive recoil had jerked the dagger upward with the other, out of Aragorn’s reach.  “Bastard,” he snarled, raising the dagger high above Aragorn’s chest, blade downward-pointing, poising for a killing stroke that Aragorn had no hope of defending against.

The next words they heard surprised them both.

“Drop your weapons!  You are surrounded!” 

Before Aragorn could begin to register what Halbarad’s young son was doing here, an arrow whizzed past his head and buried itself in Relnar’s throat.        

~oOoOoOo~

“The Dunlending received a bad beating,” Alagos said with a nod toward the glaring Melnag, “although you’d think by his attitude that we were the ones who dispensed it.  As for Father,” he turned toward Halbarad, “he’s fairly well bruised around the middle, and he complained of blurry vision and a headache.  His wrists and feet are torn up pretty badly, and I don’t think they gave him anything to drink.  He gulped down an entire flagon of water when we found him.  He was complaining of pain in his hands so we gave him some poppy extract.”  

Aragorn knelt beside Halbarad and gently lifted his shirt.  The skin along his ribs was bruised and scraped, but gentle probing brought forth no guarding or evidence of internal bleeding.  The wrists were rubbed raw, the hands swollen and mottled.  Replacing the shirt, Aragorn pulled the blanket back over his lieutenant's shoulders and gently inspected the gashed scalp.  “You are going to be fine,” he bent close to say, “as long as you manage to stay out of trouble until we get you home.” 

“Make sure you get my boots back,” Halbarad murmured. 

Alagos chuckled.  “Maybe we should leave you barefoot for a while, Father, lest you’re tempted to wander off and fall into enemy hands again.”

Halbarad cracked open one blackened eye.  “Whatever you say, Captain.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow.  “Your father has never been so exceptionally obedient to my commands, Alagos.  Will you share your secret?”

“Threatening to tell Mother that he trades her special stew for Meneliel’s as soon as he’s out of sight of the village usually works.”

“I do not,” mumbled Halbarad.

“What about you, Captain?”  Alagos turned a concerned pair of grey eyes on Aragorn.  “If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t appear very well yourself.”

“I am well enough,” he answered, forcing himself to his feet and moving woodenly to where Húrin, Yenne, Haerost, and Alagos’s men stood a few feet away.  “Well done, men.  You have my thanks.”  He clapped Húrin on the shoulder.  “I must hear how you managed to summon reinforcements in the nick of time.”

Húrin smiled bashfully.  “Actually, they found us.  Yenne and I got to Tharbad and waited for you and Father.  You didn’t come, but Alagos and his men did.  Haerost had made it to Sarn Ford and brought them back.  Together we worked our way south, looking for some sign of you or Father.  Finally we came upon the place where Father was taken captive, then tracked him east along the edge of the swamplands until we found him fighting with the Dunlendings.  He said something about them using him for target practice.”  At this, Húrin shot a glance at his father as if not certain he was allowed to be amused.  “He told us about the ambush they planned.  Without knowing whether you had escaped or not, Alagos reckoned we had better make our way here as fast as we could.”

“It was good that you did.”  Aragorn took stock of the bloody ground.  Nearly half the men on each side were dead, many more wounded, and the few remaining Karani had leapt onto horses and fled when the Dúnedain reinforcements arrived.  In a thicket near the wood line, Dugaric stood alone, staring down at the body of his brother.  Aragorn approached him unsure of what to say.  He settled for simplicity.  “I am sorry.”

“Do you have a brother, Thorongil?”

In spite of himself, he could not suppress a bitter chuckle.  “I don’t know,” he wanted to say, settling finally for “I was my mother's only son.”

Dugaric shook his head.  “I was taught my whole life to trust my own kin and distrust a stranger.  I learned that it is not whose breast you sucked that makes you a brother, but whose shoulder you stand beside.  Maybe it is time to change some of our ways.” He bent down and pulled Halbarad’s boots from Veraric’s feet, unfastened his dagger from the sword belt.  “Here.  I can never repay you, but I will give you whatever you ask.”

Aragorn glanced over his shoulder to where Yenne stood looking out at the field of carnage with eyes that had already seen too much of it.  “There is just one thing I would ask of you.”

~oOoOoOo~

“How long have they been in there?”  

Aragorn’s head jerked up.  Blinking sheepishly out of a doze, he saw that Halbarad was awake, propped gingerly on one elbow and scowling at the denigha's cottage.   With a glance at the westering sun, Aragorn shifted to straighten his back against the tree he leaned against.  “A few hours.”

“What could be taking so long?”  The denigha’s house was nothing but a shack in the woods, built of leaning sticks and thatched with moldy straw from which smoke filtered into the overcast sky.  A few chickens pecked listlessly in the dirt in front of the door.  “What are we going to do if the denigha says the girl isn’t pure?”

The only thing worse than making life and death decisions, Aragorn considered, was standing back and letting other people make them.   Yet that was precisely what he had promised to do.  “I gave Dugaric my word I would accept the denigha’s decision,” he said quietly, wondering as he watched the Dunlending from across the dooryard if this was a promise he would come to regret. 

Halbarad lay back down and rested his battered head on an arm, keeping his gaze fixed darkly on Dugaric.  “Aragorn, if you are telling me to stand by and watch them kill an innocent girl, I do not know if I can do it.” 

Aragorn let a hand fall to rest on Halbarad’s shoulder.  “I do not think it will come to that.”

“Why not?  Dugaric was eager enough to kill her before.”

“That was before.” 

“Before what?”

“Before today.”  Aragorn nodded toward Dugaric, standing beside his son at the edge of the denigha's tiny clearing.  Only the four of them remained.  Alagos had led the Rangers east in pursuit of the Karani, and Dugaric had had Melnag hauled off forcibly when he protested Dugaric’s decision to allow the denigha to examine Yenne.  To Aragorn, Dugaric's posture seemed apprehensive, but far from murderous.  And it was telling, he thought, that the chief had taken the precaution of removing Melnag.  “Do you think he looks like a man bent on shedding innocent blood?” 

“I wouldn’t want to bet my life against it,” Halbarad said.  “What happened to his famous honor?”

“I think he may be coming to understand that honor is a more complicated matter than he had supposed,” Aragorn said, “and that a leader can shape customs for the benefit of his people instead of following them blindly.”  He looked down at Halbarad with a weary hint of a smile.  “In any case, I do not believe either of us has one more fight in us today.  Have faith, Halbarad.”

“In Dugaric, or in the denigha?”  Halbarad asked.  “She must be over ninety – ancient, for a Dunlending.  I wouldn’t trust her eyes to tell whether the moon is full or half.”

“I have a feeling that old woman sees exactly what she needs to.”  Aragorn sighed and let his head fall back against the solid bulk of the tree.  His eyes drifted closed of their own accord, but Halbarad’s skeptical huff of breath carried to his ears well enough.  He chuckled.  “Have faith that goodness will prevail over evil, then.” 

Halbarad laughed openly.  “Now you really are delirious.”  

Aragorn had no doubt that for himself, goodness would not have long survived without abiding faith in its ultimate supremacy over evil.  He realized he had never actually thought to ask if Halbarad felt the same way.  When Aragorn chanced to return home, talk was always of births and deaths, droughts and orcs and the quality of Butterbur’s ale.  Only on rare, lonely nights in the wild, around a sputtering fire with a sky full of stars overhead, might a Ranger share his most deeply-held hopes and doubts.  Aragorn could not recall if this one ever had.  “Do you not believe, Halbarad, that good will prevail over evil in the end?  How can you find the strength to go on, if you do not?” 

“I do not know what will happen in the end,” Halbarad said.  “But I will tell you what I believe in.  I believe in you.  All my hope is in you.”

I gave hope to the Dúnedain.

Only now did he fully understand those words, Aragorn realized; only now did he feel the full weight of their irony; now that a world of hopes hung in the balance.  “I pray your hope in me was not misplaced,” he said softly.

With a groan, Halbarad sat up, looking him straight in the eye.  “I said my faith is in you, Aragorn son of Arathorn,” he said, his own voice barely a whisper.  “My hope is in you.  Not in the heir of Isildur - in you.”  Cocking a weary eyebrow, his cracked lips parted in a wry smile.  “Why don’t you take some of your own advice?  Have faith.” 

The door of the hut squeaked on its hinges, and both of them struggled to their feet.  The denigha emerged alone, leaning on her walking stick and peering up at Dugaric’s expectant face.  “Well?”  he demanded.  Beside him, under his protective hand, his son stood pale-faced, knuckles white on the pommel of his sword.

The denigha gave Dugaric a twitch of a wiry eyebrow and stiffly turned back toward the doorway.  “Girl!  she croaked.  “Are you dressed yet?  People are waiting.”   A few moments later, Yenne appeared in the doorway.  She walked wordlessly to the denigha’s side, though the furtive, hopeful glance she exchanged with her betrothed left Aragorn optimistic about the denigha’s verdict.  He only hoped Dugaric would accept it.     

“Well?”  Dugaric repeated.   His hand tightened on his son’s shoulder.  “Is the girl defiled or not?  Speak up!”

Yenne flinched at his tone, but the denigha wrapped a skeletal arm around her and guided her forward.  “Do not be afraid, child,” she croaked in her rusty sing-song manner. “His bark is worse than his bite.” Thrusting herself upward to her full height, which amounted to barely above the middle of Dugaric’s chest, she announced in a thin but firm voice, “The girl is untouched and undefiled.  She is suitable for marriage.”

Dugaric’s son emitted an audible gasp of relief, and Yenne’s face flushed bright red.  “Are you sure?”  Dugaric asked.

The denigha stomped the point of her walking stick into the ground.  “Don’t ask stupid questions.  Of course I am sure.  Now take her home and give her something to eat.  Poor thing is exhausted.”  As if surprised at the group hovering about her still, she turned and shook her stick at them, shooing them back from her cottage.  “Go on, go home now.  Leave me in peace.”

It was Dugaric, finally, who thrust his son forward.  “Take your bride,” he said.  “Take her home.”

Grinning broadly, the boy led his horse to Yenne.  “Ride my horse,” he said.  “I’ll help you mount.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, concealing her own smile beneath a fall of her hair.  When she was settled in the saddle, Veric handed her the reins and walked beside her as she rode from the clearing.   

“True love,” Halbarad pronounced with satisfaction.

“Nothing good will come of it, mark my words,” Dugaric said gruffly, though Aragorn did not miss the smile leaking from the corners of his bearded mouth.  With a heavy sigh, he heaved himself up onto his horse.  “Are you coming, Thorongil?  We have a wedding feast to prepare.  I need to get these two married off before anything else can happen.” 

Aragorn waved him along.  “We’ll follow shortly.”  He glanced at Halbarad.  “There is another matter I need to discuss with the denigha.”

“Do not trust her.”  Dugaric’s face darkened as he glared at the old woman.  “She is as murderous as she is crafty.”  When Aragorn did not respond, he shrugged.   “Well, it is your affair.  You have proven you are a wiser man than I.”

Aragorn indicated the betrothed couple. “Are you satisfied with the outcome?”

Dugaric shrugged.  “I am simple man, and hard-headed.  Maybe my son will learn his lessons an easier way.”  With that, he mounted his horse and nodded farewell. 

The denigha watched the Dunlendings until they had passed out of sight around a bend in the path, then turned her attention to Aragorn.  “I always thought the men from the north would come back someday.”

“You have seen men who look like us before?” Halbarad asked.  “Rangers?”

She nodded. “Rangers.  Yes.  Long, long ago they came here, the men like you.”

For the first time in days, Aragorn felt the stirring of hope that his quest would not be in vain.  “I would speak to you about them.”

The denigha shifted her gaze from one Ranger to the other, squinting as if to better focus her rheumy eyes, finally pointing a gnarled finger at the center of Aragorn’s chest.  “With you, I will speak.  That one,” she said, indicating Halbarad, “will wait outside.”

“Now, just a minute --”   Halbarad objected.  He leaned closer to Aragorn and lowered his voice to a growl.  “Tell me you don’t mean to agree to this.”

It was the voice of a man whose last nerve was close to unraveling, a man who would need at least a month before even entertaining the notion of letting his chieftain out of his sight again.   Aragorn kept his gaze leveled on the denigha, whose piercing, obsidian stare had not wavered.  “It is all right, Halbarad.  I think she will do me no harm.”

Halbarad shook his shaggy head in disbelief.  “You heard what Dugaric said about her!  She killed his daughter!”

“I think Dugaric may have been mistaken,” Aragorn said, still staring at the denigha.  “Why don’t you tell us what happened to the child?”

The old woman’s deeply hollowed eyes clenched shut.  “I was trying to save her,” she said softly.  “The child could not breathe; her windpipe was closing.  I had seen it done once when I was young, the cut on the neck to open the windpipe.  There was no time, nothing else left to do.  Dugaric walked in to see his daughter choking and a bloody knife in my hands.”

“Did you explain this to Dugaric?”  asked Halbarad.  “He thinks you murdered his child.  It’s a wonder he hasn’t killed you.”

“I met Dugaric the day I brought him into this world by his feet,” she answered.  “He has had a hard life, and become a hard man because of it.  If he truly believed I murdered his child, he would have killed me that very night.  He knows in his heart it was the gods who took her, not I.  But a person is a much more satisfying thing to hate than the gods.  I am strong enough to shoulder his blame.   Who knows?    Maybe I even deserve it.”  She unclenched a hand from the stick and waved it at the forest, in the direction of the village.  “He banished me from the village, but he knows the women still come to me in secret.  When they say they are in the forest, gathering berries and roots, they come here, seeking my wisdom – how to have a baby, or not have one,  how to ease a child’s coughing or the aches that come with age - they come, one by one.  They drink my potions to bring them strong sons, and take my remedies home to their sick husbands and children, and no one is the wiser.  In a moon or two, Dugaric’s wife will bring Yenne back to me, sweet child, and I will tell her whether she bears a grandson for the stubborn old goat.  Still, he hates me.  Oh, well.  This is not such a bad life, I suppose.”

“It is a lonely life,” said Aragorn.

“I see in your eyes that you know something of loneliness, Dúnadan.”

Aragorn flinched at hearing the unexpected word, perfectly pronounced, issue from the denigha’s deeply lined lips.  “Where did you learn that word?”

She cackled her delight at his astonishment, baring a cryptic, gummy smile.  “Come inside, and I will tell you.”

“Be careful,” Halbarad hissed just before the door shut him out, and Aragorn thought he heard a muffled curse just afterward.  Suppressing a faint, irrational chill of alarm as the denigha drove the bolt home, he noted it was a simple bolt at least, with no locking mechanism.  The gooseflesh rising on his forearms belied the stuffiness of the room.  Illuminated only by slivers of daylight peeking through chinks in the wattle-and-daub walls and a deep glow from smoldering embers in the central hearth, the room was close, airless, and overhung with an aging mixture of cloying, musky odors.  Forced to inhale it, Aragorn felt the beginning of a headache in his temples.   As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out a few pieces of furniture shoved against the walls, and pegs slung with shapeless objects.  A dark curtain separated the main living area of the shack from what was presumably a sleeping area in the back. 

The denigha bent over the fire to light a candle, then shuffled around the room with it, lighting a handful of others that did little to illuminate the soot-blackened walls and ceiling.  On one side of the room she bent over a rickety workbench, busying herself for a few minutes with a collection of pottery jars.   After dropping pinches from several of the jars into a mortar, she ground them, sprinkled a few drops of water on top, and set the bowl of ground herbs atop the coals of the fire.  Within seconds, they had begun to steam, releasing a vapor that made Aragorn’s head swim.  He took a step backward until his shoulder bumped into a wall he could lean against.  

The denigha crumpled into a stack of cushions by the fire and pointed to a similar pile nearby.  “Best to sit down,” she cautioned him.  “The herbs aid memory, but they can make you a bit dizzy.  I see you already know what I mean.”

Already beginning to regret allowing the denigha to lock Halbarad outside, Aragorn lowered himself awkwardly onto the cushions and rubbed his stinging eyes.  “What kind of herbs are you burning?” 

“Many kinds,” she answered enigmatically.  “Their names would mean nothing in your language.”

“Few Dunlendings know anything at all of my language,” he answered.  “Where did you learn it?”

“Why, from them, of course,” she said.  “From the Dúnedain.”

“Where did you meet them?” 

“I was just a little girl; I did not know their names.  I remember they were tall and immensely handsome, and they were kind to us children.  They gave us little gifts; food and bits of ribbon and once, a pair of socks.   They were kind to our mothers, too.  The men of our clan are rough, you know.  They are not evil, but our people are lost, and lost people, listening for a voice to guide them, often listen to the wrong ones.  When I first heard the voices of the Dúnedain, the spirits told me it would be a voice like that which would lead our people out of darkness.  A voice like yours, Dúnadan.” 

Aragorn felt a shudder of renewed alarm at being called by his rightful but carefully guarded title twice in the space of a few minutes.  There was no way this woman could know his heritage; surely she meant to use the term in its generic sense, not realizing that when applied to him it attached a unique and ponderous specificity.  She could not possibly know, yet the word hung in the already heavy air with the weight of all the fears and hopes he had carried here with him.  “I came here to find one with a voice like mine,” he said.  “A boy born to a Dunlending mother of a Dúnadan father, in the years after the flood.”

“Ah,” she said, climbing laboriously to her feet and pouring something from a flask into a pair of earthenware cups.  Handing him one, she raised her own in a Dunlending toast and tipped her head back, swallowing the contents in one gulp.  Breathing a sigh of satisfaction, she calmly refilled her cup as he, following custom, dumped the contents of his down his gullet.  He nearly choked on the vile liquid even before she uttered her next words.  “Bega’s son.”

He stared at her.  “You knew him?”

“He was my playmate.” She refilled his cup.  “He was just a little older than me.  His mother, like most of our mothers, fled to after the famine took her husband and children.  She had no other family, none who would claim her, anyway, and my mother said the Northerners took pity on her and paid her to cook and clean for them at their post in Tharbad.”

“Then the boy was born after Bega began working for the Dúnedain?”  Aragorn’s heart sank.  He had held out hope that the boy was nothing but a Dunlending orphan for whom childless Arathorn had taken on the role of surrogate father, partly out of pity, partly, maybe, out of a long-suppressed longing for a son he did not yet have.  Aragorn’s recent experience with the orphan Rolly had taught him how quickly and dangerously such attachments could be formed, how easily long-buried instincts could be aroused. 

“Crandic was his name,” the denigha said.  “My mother said he was one of you, said he looked just like his father, and she would not have said so were it not true, because she was jealous of Bega.  She pretended to be scornful of her for having let this foreigner beget a child on her, but even as a child I knew she was secretly jealous that the Northerners took care of her.”

Aragorn sat in silence for a long moment after the denigha stopped talking, staring into the embers of the fire.  “What of the boy’s – what of Crandic’s father?” 

“I never met him,” she said.  “He was gone already by the time I was old enough to befriend Crandic, though Crandic never stopped talking about him.  He had built Bega a little house, with a proper chimney for a fire, and bought her goats and chickens.  He taught Bega to use a bow and Crandic to fish, though he was still too little to be much good at it, I think.   There was another Northerner, another Dúnadan, who used to visit, after Crandic’s father left.  I think he was delivering letters.  Crandic showed me the letters once, told me how the markings on the parchment were really words.  It didn’t make any sense to me, and I accused him of making up lies.  That man was gruff and stern and didn’t take Crandic fishing.  Crandic didn’t like him very much.”

Halbarad’s father, Aragorn thought with foggy amusement.  “I never liked him much, either,” he heard himself comment dryly.  Startled out of a creeping stupor by his own unguarded candor, he corrected his leaning slump and blinked to clear his strangely blurred vision.   The soup of cooked herbs floating in the air, combined with whatever was in the denigha’s home brew, was making quick work of his already beleaguered consciousness.  “What happened to him? Where is Crandic?”

“Gone,” the denigha answered.  “Come spring one year, both of them were gone.  That winter, the snow was thick, and we could not make the trip to Bega’s house for more than two turns of the moon.  In the spring, when my mother took me there to trade for chickens, we found the house abandoned.  There was a fresh grave mound in the pasture, and a wooden marker, but I couldn’t read the writing.”

“Gone,” Aragorn repeated dully.  The glimmer of embers in the hearth seemed strangely bright

“Gone just like a hundred other widows and orphans in those hard years.  But you have not said why you have come looking for him after all this time.  Crandic was older than me, and I am very old, so he should be dead now.”

“Maybe he is dead,” Aragorn said, for the first time putting voice to a possibility that tasted like guilt in his mouth.  He now regretted even passively accepting oblivion for a young boy whose only offense was being born in another’s place. 

“Bega once told my mother something strange,” the denigha said, throwing more herbs into the smudge pot.  “She said that her lover looked like a man barely out of boyhood, but that in truth he was older than her father.  I sense that you, too, are older than you look. The spirits say our people will fall into a great darkness, but a Northman will come out of the south to save us.  What do you think that means, Dúnadan?”

Aragorn wished she would stop calling him that.  The faint sizzle of dying embers rose in his ears until it sounded like an inferno, and the heat of the fire burned his face.  Suddenly smothering inside his shirt, he fumbled with the lacings, desperate for air.  He pulled himself to his feet but stumbled over something on the floor.  He lost his balance and crashed into the table laden with herbs, falling on top of it as it collapsed to the floor.  In the distance there was the muffled sound of something pounding, and as he lost consciousness, he heard Halbarad’s insistent shouts to open the door.    

~o0o~

Thanks to everyone for reading.  The story will conclude on October 6. 

~Chapter 15~

“Open up!”  Halbarad heaved his shoulder into the door.  “Open the door!”  He paused to listen, taking the moment to steady himself against the doorframe.  He was panting from the exertion; sweating even in the cool shade of the clearing.  The crashing sounds from within the denigha’s cabin had subsided, leaving silence.  “Aragorn!” he shouted, forgetting to use another name.  “Open the door!”

Halbarad looked around for something he could use to bash it in, cursing himself for agreeing to yet another hare-brained scheme.  If simply allowing Aragorn to go into the denigha’s shack alone, exhausted, injured, and driven to distraction by the specter of his long-lost brother hadn’t been a bad enough idea, allowing the old woman to drive the bolt home surely was.  Yet he had waited outside, increasingly impatient but submitting to Aragorn’s judgment and desperately hoping the denigha could give him the answers he sought.   That failed strategy had ended with disturbing sounds of crashing and shouting from within.  Seeing a smallish axe stuck in the woodpile he unthinkingly reached for it, yanking back his hands with a gasp as helpless agony flared in them, crushing pain as if grinding his hands between blocks of stone.  When it subsided enough to permit movement he went back to the door and heaved himself against it again.  This time the hasp broke free, sending the door flying open and Halbarad lunging headlong through a cloud of pungent smoke into the dim interior of the shanty. 

Stumbling through the haze, he tripped over a body on the floor.  He felt familiar long limbs, sprawled atop shards of what felt like broken crockery.  As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he saw that it was broken crockery, scattered on the floor beside an overturned rack, with powders and indistinguishable crushed herbs spilling from the broken containers.  Coughing in the smoke, he rolled Aragorn onto his back and jammed his deadened hands beneath the limp shoulders, dragging him toward the shaft of light slanting from the doorway.    

He dragged him as far from the cabin as he could then laid him down as gently as he could and collapsed on the ground beside him, gasping and clutching his side to ease the fierce burning of his ribs.  After a moment, Aragorn began to shift restlessly, moaning slightly as if waking from a dream.  “Aragorn!”  Halbarad whispered, gently brushing strands of sweat-soaked hair from the clammy forehead.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the denigha poised in the doorway of the cabin, framed by wafts of smoke drifting out around her.

“Dark is the Shadow,” he heard Aragorn mumble.

“What?”

“The spirits took him on the paths of memory,” the denigha said, dropping down beside him.  “They are slow to leave him.”

“What did you do to him?” Halbarad snarled.

A flailing hand touched his arm.  “It is all right, Halbarad,” Aragorn said weakly.  Halbarad helped him sit up, as the denigha scooped water from a bucket Halbarad had not noticed before.  When he had drunk a dipper of water, Aragorn shrugged off Halbarad’s supporting arm and wiped blood from a cut above his eyebrow with his shirt sleeve.  “I am all right.  I think I just needed some air.  I do not think she meant to harm me; though her curiosity may have gotten the better of me.”

Halbarad glared at the denigha anew.  “Her curiosity about what?”

“The Dúnedain,” Aragorn said in wonderment and a little sadness.  “They have fascinated you since you first met them, haven’t they?”

“I had never seen anyone like them,” she said, her coal-chip eyes distant with memory.  "We Dunlendings walk in the darkness like the blind; not knowing why we live or die, why we fight or raid or suffer or starve, only that it has always been so.  Our hatred of the Forgoil consumes us, yet the Forgoil are not the cause of our misery.  It is our own despair, our own hopelessness that rules our lives.  It was hope that I sensed in the Dúnedain. These men were tall and noble and fair, filled with wisdom and kindness and generosity -- generosity even toward strangers, and that is something unheard-of among my people.   They carried within them some light of truth hidden from my kind.  I craved that truth.  I have spent my whole life seeking it.”

Aragorn looked thoughtful.  “Did you find truth then, today?  You shared my visions, didn’t you?”

“I saw the light beyond the darkness,” she answered.  “Though I do not think I will live to see it, it gives me hope.”

“Let us hope we may all see the light beyond the darkness,” Aragorn said. 

“And did you find the truth you came here seeking, Dúnadan?”

“What you have told me is more than I knew, but less than I sought to know.”

She pushed herself upright and leaned on her walking stick.  “If there is more truth for you to find, it is not here.”    

Aragorn nodded.  “I know that now.  There is just one more thing I would do before I go home.”

~oOoOoOo~

Where Bega’s cabin once stood, now only a low mound studded with rotting planks marred the expanse of grass and spring wildflowers spread across the clearing beside the gurgling stream.  Drawn to the water, Aragorn stood on the bank for a while, smiling at the tiny, silver-scaled fish darting beneath the ripples and wondering if this was the place where Arathorn taught a little boy to fish so long ago.  Pulling himself away reluctantly, he found Halbarad on the opposite side of the clearing, standing over a barely detectable depression in the grass some distance from the remains of the house.  “The grave, I think,” Halbarad said.

Though any wooden marker was long since decayed, the dimensions of the depression were suggestive of a grave.  “Did the woman bury the boy, did the boy bury the woman, or did someone else come along and bury both of them?” Aragorn wondered aloud.

“There’s one way to find out,” Halbarad said.

Aragorn doubted either of them could hold a shovel, even if they had one.   Nor was either of them in any condition to dig up an 80-year-old grave by hand; though he suspected Halbarad would do it with his teeth if he but gave him the word.

Aragorn stood staring at the forlorn spot of earth that might finally hold the answers he had been so desperately driven to find.  Had he found this place a week ago, he might have made a different choice, but now he shook his head.  “No.  I will not disturb the rest of whoever lies here.  Let them remain in peace.”

“And what about your inheritance?  What about the kingship?”

“The boy is gone,” Aragorn said, echoing the denigha.  “That will have to be answer enough.”

“Will it be enough for you once you leave here?”  Halbarad pressed.  “Will it be enough to make you forget about the letters?  Forget about all this?”

Aragorn looked at him sharply.  “Forget this?  No.  I cannot forget it.  But I have made peace with it.  And I have other tasks to attend to, that I have neglected for too long already.”

Halbarad stepped in front of him squarely, gripping him as firmly as he could with those swollen, painfully mottled hands.  “Then leave them here, Aragorn, I beg you.  Leave Bega and her son buried here and never mention them again.  The boy has been gone for close to eighty years.  No one but us need know he ever lived.”

“I know he lived,” Aragorn said.  “And the Dúnedain deserve to know the truth.”

“The Dúnedain have all the truth they need.”

“You mean you have all the truth you need, Halbarad.  Do you presume to speak for all the Dúnedain?”

“If need be.”

“I appreciate your loyalty but I cannot allow it.”

“Damn your honor, Aragorn.”  Halbarad dropped his hands to his sides.  “Why can you not leave this matter to rest, even now?  Where else can you search?  You stand over a grave. Do you intend to dedicate your life to finding a ghost?”

“No.”

“Then what will you do, if you cannot find him and you cannot forget?”

“I will go on.  Just as you do, and just as every other Ranger does who wakes up in the morning and pulls on his boots and straps on his sword to go out into the world and do what he must.  When the Shadow deepens and finally falls, will you not fight the Enemy with all your strength, with no promise of reward except the knowledge that you have done your part?” 

Halbarad nodded.  “You know I will.”

“Then how can I ask less of myself?”  He turned and walked back to the steam, seating himself on a rounded boulder on the bank.  Below, sun glinted off the gently riffling current.  After a moment, Halbarad came and sat by his side.  “Do you know what my mother told me, the last time I saw her?” Aragorn said.  “She said she had given all her hope to the Dúnedain, and kept none for herself.   How can I do less than go on with no hope for myself, Halbarad?  Middle Earth was not created for me, whether I am the heir of Isildur or not.  I am a servant of the light, not the light itself.  When I am finished with my duty I will die, just as every other man.  It is not for me to demand any reward for it.”

“Can you forget about Arwen so easily?”

“I did not say I would forget.”  Closing his eyes, Aragorn could see her, just as he had in the denigha’s herb-drenched dream, laughing as she ran beneath the clear blue sky of Cerin Amroth, black hair and blue gown streaming behind her as he chased her through fields of tiny white flowers.  His heart seemed to clench in a spasm of longing.  “I was a fool to ever hope for the hand of Elrond’s daughter, so maybe a fool’s hope will be enough to sustain me now.  But I must tell her, at least, and let her decide for herself.”  And then there was Elrond, he reminded himself.  Elrond must be told as well.  He lifted his tired eyes to the perfect sky, then glanced over his shoulder to where meadow grass waved gently over the jutting boards of the collapsed cabin.  Weary in the depths of his body and soul, he found something in this restful spot that threatened to undo his last threads of resolve.  He felt that if he did not get up in the next minute he might never find the strength to do it.  “Come, Halbarad,” he said, bracing a hand on his bad knee and forcing himself to his feet, pulling Halbarad up with him, though he supposed it would not be strictly clear to the boys watching from a distance who was helping whom.  “It’s time to go home.”

~oOoOoOo~

Eirien ran out into the rain, wrapping a supportive arm around Halbarad’s midsection as he dropped unsteadily to the ground,.  “Help Aragorn,” he protested, allowing himself one brief squeeze back before trying to break free. “I’m fine.”  

“You look fine,” she replied dryly, tightening her grasp as he swayed slightly. 

“He’s barely on his feet,” said Húrin, pulling the opposite arm over his shoulder.   “The Captain’s in bad shape, too.  They both refused to set an easy pace on the way back, too.”

“Whose side are you on?” Halbarad complained.  “I think we need to have another talk about the Ranger code of loyalty.”

Brandol, his good arm fastened tightly around an unsteady Aragorn, grunted at Haerost through his pipe.  “Take the horses to the barn.” Then to Húrin, scowling, “What has your father gone and done now, run afoul of trolls?”

“Worse,” Halbarad threw over his shoulder.  “Dunlendings.”

“Later,” Eirien said firmly, dragging him toward the house.  “Let’s just get you all inside and out of the rain.”

Succumbing to being force-marched into the house, Halbarad ducked into the doorway to find his mother, Meneliel, and Fimenel spinning at the fireside, their dice box occupying the floor between them.   “Ah, Halbarad,” his mother said, looking up from seizing a sizeable portion of Fimenel’s chestnut pile.  “You’re back.  I cannot wait to hear what grave perils have taken you away from honest work about the house this time.”

“It’s lovely to see you too, Mother,” Halbarad said, sinking down onto a bench near the fire and batting at the towel ruffling his dripping hair.  “I’m fine, Eirien.  Stop.”

“And Aragorn is here, too,” Nelaer spouted.  “What a surprise.  We can only hope he decides to stay for breakfast this time.”  

“Hold your beak, Nelaer,” Meneliel said, kneeling to place a fresh log on the fire.  “Can’t you see they’re wet and cold?”   Turning from the hearth, she scrutinized each of them in turn.  “And there are injuries.  I’ll get some water boiling so we can clean them up and get a better look.”   

“Granda!”  Elanor scooted into the room ahead of Fimenel’s husband, and threw herself at Halbarad.  “Granda, you’re back!  Hello, Húrin! Do you want to see the new bed Thargil made me?  I don’t have to sleep with Mama anymore!”

Halbarad managed to get his hands out of the way, but grunted as Elanor’s hard little skull impacted his sore ribs.  “Hello, sweetling,” he wheezed. 

“Elanor,” Eirien said, “Granda is all dirty.  You can show your bed to him later, all right?”

Elanor happily redirected her attention to her uncle, taking him by the hand and leading him toward her bedroom.  Fimenel produced an armload of blankets, draping one over Aragorn’s shoulders and handing another to Eirien.  As Halbarad reached to take it from her, she gasped and took hold of his hands.  “Dear Eru, what happened?” she whispered, running her fingers across the bandages on his wrists, gingerly touching the swollen and mottled flesh of his hands. 

“We ran into a little trouble in Tharbad,” Halbarad quipped weakly.  Extracting one hand from Eirien’s grasp, he pulled her toward him until they touched at the forehead.  “I’m fine, love,” he said in a voice for her ears alone and reaching around her to pull her close until he heard her long release of breath.  “I’m fine now.”

Her shoulders relaxed, and she kissed him on the forehead.  “Thank you for coming back in one piece,” she whispered, “and for bringing our son home safe.”

“Actually, it was more the other way around,” he admitted, chuckling at her surprise.  “Húrin would have made you proud.  They both would.”

“Alagos was there, too?  I cannot wait to hear the story – later.  Now you need to get these wet clothes off.”  She unfastened his brooch, pulled free his cloak and knelt to work loose the grime-encrusted ties of the shirt he had not had off since before Tharbad.   When she had him bare to the waist, she wrapped the blanket around his shoulders loosely again, then pulled off his wet boots and wrapped another blanket around his feet. “It seems you might need some help dressing for a while,” she murmured for his ears alone. 

He leaned close.  “I’m looking forward to that.” 

She squeezed his knee and scooped up the wet clothes, leaving him to look across the hearth at Aragorn enduring similar, if somewhat less tenderly administered, treatment from Brandol.  Though warmly wrapped in blankets now and holding a hot mug of tea in his hands, he still seemed to shiver slightly.  More than cold, Halbarad realized, he looked uneasy; eyes darting restlessly around the room as if making up his mind to do something.  With alarm, Halbarad realized exactly what that something was.  No, he mouthed silently, just as Fimenel crossed between them, carrying a basin of water and some cloths that she set down next to Aragorn. 

“Here, now, wash your hands and face at least, while the bath water heats – it will take quite a while, you know; that much water.  We’ll have the stew warmed up in a little while and you can eat while you wait to bathe; you all look as if you could use something hot in your stomachs.”

“I’ll fetch some more potatoes and carrots from the larder to throw in,” Nelaer said.  “We weren’t expecting to feed this many tonight.”

Aragorn spoke up as she turned to leave.  “Wait.”  Taking a drink from the mug, he rose to his feet.  “I have something to say to all of you.”  It was the tone of a command, and with it all talking abruptly ceased.  Fimenel stopped stirring the soup pot, Meneliel paused in pouring tea, and even Nelaer’s hand came to rest against the side of the dice box.

“Tell them later,” Halbarad pleaded.  “Later; after you’ve rested.”  Later, when you’ve had time to reconsider the idea entirely.

“I need to say this now,” Aragorn said quietly, “while I still resolve to say it at all.”      

Brandol, with his infallible ear for trouble, already had a hand around Húrin’s arm, turning him toward the door.  “Come, lad,” he grunted through his pipe, “Let us see to those horses.”

“Let him stay,” Aragorn said.  “This concerns him.  It concerns you all.”

“Aragorn,” Halbarad said helplessly. 

Trusting in Halbarad’s look of desperation, even if not knowing the reason for it, Eirien turned toward Aragorn with a sympathetic smile.  “Aragorn, you must be exhausted.  Whatever you need to tell us, surely it can wait until you’ve had a hot meal and a good night’s sleep.”

The smile Aragorn gave her in return was tentative and fleeting.  “The truth has waited for too long already,” he said wearily.  Barefooted and cloaked in a green blanket, he stepped into the center of the room and looked around at each of them in turn.  “When I returned here, as a boy not much older than Húrin, announcing myself as your Chieftain and heir of line of Elendil, I did so in an honest belief that it was so.  But I have come to learn that while I was indeed Arathorn’s son, I was not his first.  What bearing that discovery may have on my eventual claim to the kingship of Gondor I dare not yet consider.  It is for all of you, and ultimately for our kin elsewhere in Eriador as well, to decide what bearing it has on my claim to the Chieftainship.  Whatever your decision, I promise to continue to serve the Dúnedain with all honor and faith.”

Meneliel was the first to break the silence.  “Are you certain of this, Aragorn?”   

“I knew Arathorn since childhood,” Nelaer said, less gently.  “He had no other son but you.”

“Where could you have heard such a thing, Aragorn?”  Eirien asked.  “Was it Elrond who told you this?”

“No,” Aragorn was quick to reply.  “I do not even think he knows.”

“This is nonsense,” said Nelaer, her attention already turned back to her dice box.  “Halbarad, has he been struck in the head?”

Scurrying forward, Fimenel waved a hand in front of Aragorn’s eyes.  “Aragorn, how many fingers am I holding up?”

“Three,” Aragorn answered patiently.  “I have not been struck in the head.”

“Humph,” Nelaer grunted.  “Maybe he’s feverish.”

Fimenel peered up into Aragorn’s eyes and brushed a hand against his forehead.  “No fever, but he certainly looks peaked.”

Halbarad rose and gently pulled Fimenel away from Aragorn, while Eirien snatched the dice away from her mother-in-law’s raised hand.   “Everyone, please sit down.”  Pressing Halbarad back down onto the bench, she sat beside him and took his hand carefully in hers.  “Now, Aragorn, please explain what is this about.”

Aragorn lowered his gaze.  “My father took a mistress during his posting at Tharbad, before he married my mother,” he said quietly.   “A Dunlending woman.  He fathered a son on her.”

Meneliel exchanged a sharp glance with Eirien, and Halbarad’s mother crossed her arms.  “Rubbish,” she pronounced. 

Old Thargil had his hand out to Elanor.  “Come, sweetling; help Uncle Thargil feed the chickens.” 

“Yes, that would be a very good idea,” Eirien said tightly.  “Go on, Elanor.” When the child had left, she turned to Aragorn.  “I think you’re mistaken.”

Shaking his head wearily, Aragorn sat down at the table and rested his elbows on the rough plank surface.  Cradling the mug between his hands, he closed his eyes briefly as if summoning the strength to impart the distasteful tale.  “When I was at Rivendell, I found some letters to my father from a woman named Bega.  Halbarad and I journeyed to Tharbad and learned he met her while he was posted there after the Fell Winter.  Later, after Arathorn moved to Evendim, Brueglir himself carried letters from Bega to Arathorn for several years.  We found an old Dunlending woman who confirmed this.” 

“The old woman showed us a grave,” Halbarad interjected hopefully.   “Both the woman and her son are likely dead.”

With a weary sigh, Aragorn straightened his shoulders.  “But if by chance Bega’s son is still alive, he could make a claim as the heir of Isildur’s line.  As could his sons.”

“Orc spit.” Halbarad’s mother snapped.  “You are the rightful heir of Isildur, Aragorn.  There has never been another,” She held her hand expectantly in the air.  “Fimenel, if you’re finished hovering over Aragorn, it’s your turn.  Eirien, give me back my dice.”

“I think we should tell him, Nelaer,” Fimenel said meekly.

Halbarad frowned. “Tell him what?” Some kind of unspoken communication was flowing between the between the women in the room, like a hidden current under the smooth surface of a lake.  He could sense it but could not make sense of it. 

“I told Gilraen to burn those letters,” Nelaer grumbled. 

"And I told her not to," Meneliel said sharply. 

“Oh, Valar, Meneliel – this mess has been dead and buried for eighty years now.  Must we dredge it all back up again?”

Fimenel was looking at Aragorn with affection and pity.  “Arathorn was a good, honorable man.  We simply cannot allow Aragorn to go on doubting him.”

“No, we cannot,” Meneliel said softly. 

Nelaer set her cup down on the mantle hard enough to splash Meneliel with ale.  “Very well, then.  If you insist.  You, Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” she proclaimed, standing before him and punctuating her words with one pointed finger, “are the rightful heir of Isildur, Elendil’s son of Númenor.  Your father had no mistress in Tharbad, and no son.”

Aragorn shook his head.  “The letters --”

“Are not what you think they are,” Nelaer said sharply.  “Some truths are best kept hidden, lest they wound the innocent. You do not know what wounds you have just reopened.”

“Enough, Nelaer.”  Meneliel made her way to the table and lowered her angular form onto the bench across the table from Aragorn.  “It is me she is trying to protect.”

Aragorn frowned in amazement.  “You?”

Meneliel smiled at him.  “Your life has been so hard, child, and it will be so much harder yet.  If I had known you would stumble onto this secret, that it would cause you such torment, I would have told you long ago.  I would never have spared myself pain at your expense.  But now the time for secrets is over, and I will tell you the truth of what happened with the Dunlending woman Bega.  She did indeed bear a son whose father was a Dúnadan.  But it was not Gilraen’s husband who sired him.  It was mine.”

“Yours?”  Aragorn gaped at her.  “But the letters…”

“Ah, the letters.”  Meneliel took a mug that Brandol handed her and patted his scarred hand.  “This is a sad story, but also a happy one.  Life is like that.  But I suppose I should begin in the beginning.”  She took a drink from the mug.  “When the Rangers at Tharbad met Bega, she was hungry, cold, and grieving - her husband and baby had already perished from famine or fever.  Taking pity on her, the Rangers brought her into their camp and allowed her to do their cooking and cleaning in exchange for food and protection.  At that time in Tharbad Arathorn was Captain; and then there was his best friend Lathron, my husband, and Nelaer’s husband, Brueglir.  One day, Lathron was thrown from his horse and badly injured.  The others nursed him until he was out of danger; then they left him in Bega’s care while they resumed their patrols.  When Arathorn returned to Tharbad many weeks later, he noticed a change in the way Lathron looked at Bega, and the way she looked at him.  He confronted Lathron with his suspicions, and Lathron confessed their transgression.   Enraged, because Lathron was a married man and a father, Arathorn ordered him to Fornost to remove him from further temptation.  Since no one could be spared to accompany him, he left for Fornost the next morning, alone.”  She paused and took another drink.  “He never made it.  Two weeks later, his horse was found with an orc arrow in its flank.”   She lowered her head as long-hidden pain etched her strong features.  Brandol’s hand gripped her shoulder, and she clasped it with her own.  After a moment, she looked up, blinking unshed tears.  “It was only after Lathron was killed that Arathorn learned Bega was carrying his child and swore, in his grief and his guilt, to care for her and his friend’s son.  Yet out of shame for Lathron’s indiscretion, he swore Brueglir to secrecy.”

Aragorn seemed to digest this with difficulty.  “If everyone was sworn to secrecy, then how do you know all this?”

“You were not the first to find those letters,”  Nelaer said flatly.  “Gilraen found them first.”  She nodded at Aragorn’s expression of dismay.  “Yes, she was devastated, as you can well imagine.  She and Arathorn had been living in Evendim since their marriage, but when Arathorn became Chieftain he brought her back to the Angle.  It was then, while she was carrying you, Aragorn, that she found the letters in his trunk.  She came to me in tears, heartbroken, believing the worst, just as you did.  I felt so sorry for her that I rode off to find Arathorn myself.  I confronted him with the letters and he told me the truth.”

“By then, he had lost contact with Bega,” Meneliel said.  “Though Brueglir agreed to ferry Bega’s letters after Arathorn went to Fornost, he never approved of the arrangement.  He informed Bega of Arathorn’s betrothal to Gilraen and convinced her to cease writing the letters.  Then he convinced Arathorn that he had enough trouble with his father-in-law without explaining why he was corresponding with a Dunlending woman.  Not long after that, Arador was killed, and Arathorn summoned Brueglir and all the other Rangers to the north, to fight trolls.  By the time Gilraen found the letters, nearly two years had passed with no word from Bega.  And yet I knew I had to find her if I could – her, and my husband’s son.”

Halbarad stared blankly at her.  He had always known Meneliel was strong, yet he felt puny and weak in comparison to the strength was now witnessing.  “You had lost your husband,” he said disbelievingly, “and then discovered that before his death he had betrayed you, yet still your only thought was for the care of the child of that ill-founded union?”

“Not my only thought,” she said with a sad smile.  “But the child was innocent, and the mother…well, who can say what was in her heart?  I could not leave them out in the wild to starve.”

“Meneliel insisted we go find them,” said Nelaer.  “She spoke to Arathorn, and explained to him she could not allow an innocent child to suffer for her husband’s sins.  So the three of us, together, went in search of Bega and the boy.”   

“Well,” Halbarad said, “Did you find them?”

“The woman was in the house, dead,” Meneliel said.  “She had been dead for a while.  The little boy must not have been big enough to bury her.  At first we could not find him, and we nearly gave up, thinking he had run away or been taken.  But Arathorn kept calling his name, and finally he came out of the woods, half-starved and feverish.”

"So you found him after all!"  On the edge of his seat with anticipation, Halbarad nonetheless noted that the women in the room exhibited a uniform lack of curiosity about the whole affair, and now even Aragorn was wearing a strange half-smile as he looked at Meneliel.  When no further information appeared forthcoming from any of them, Halbarad looked around the room in frustration.  “Well, what happened to him?”  The more he heard, the less of it made sense.  He frowned at Brandol.  “I don’t understand how Lathron could have had another son.  You were Lathron’s youngest son.  You were born…” his voice trailed off in disbelief.  “You were born after he died.”   

In confusion he looked to Aragorn, who was smiling at Brandol like a long-lost brother, which Halbarad realized with dawning, dumbfounded astonishment was ironically close to the truth.  “Brandol?” he said in amazement.

“He’s you, isn’t he?” Aragorn said to Brandol.  “You’re Bega’s son.”

“Aye.”  Brandol’s shaggy head ducked in embarrassment.  “I was once, a long time ago.”

Meneliel pressed a reassuring hand to his arm.  “He's been my son for 80 years, and no mother could have ever hoped for a better one.”

Halbarad could barely collect himself enough to speak. “I’ve known you my entire life,” he said, amazement warring with confusion.  “How is it I never knew of this?”   

“There was no need for you to know,” Nelaer snapped.  “Brandol came here before you were born, he became Meneliel’s son, and the past no longer mattered.  We had no wish to set him apart or bring painful events back to light.  No one imagined Bega’s letters would ever be found.”

Chuckling softly, Eirien leaned into Halbarad’s shoulder.  “Never let it be said that the Dúnedain cannot keep a secret,” she teased softly. 

Halbarad twisted in his seat to gape at his wife.  “Even you?  You knew?”

“Do you think you men are the only ones with secrets?  Yes, dear,” she said soothingly.  “I knew.  And you could have known as well, if only you had ever asked.”   

“I feel very foolish,” Aragorn said.

“You should,” Halbarad’s mother said.  “Now, you listen to me, Aragorn son of Arathorn.  The Chieftainship is yours.  The Kingship, Eru willing, will be yours someday, and your mother believed with all her heart that it would be.  Don’t you dare disappoint her.” 

Aragorn bowed his head.  “I won’t.”  Moving to Brandol, he opened his arms and stood before him in amazement for a moment before embracing him.  “I was right in believing it was a brother I searched for.  My only mistake was in thinking I had to travel a hundred leagues to find him.  He was right in front of me the whole time!” 

Brandol’s single eye glistened as he returned a one-armed embrace.  “It was plain by the way your father treated me,” he said, “that he longed to have a son of his own someday.  It broke my heart to see him taken from that son so soon.”

Still overcome with wonderment, Aragorn stepped back and shook his head.  “My mother told me that you were very special to my father,” he said, “but I never knew why.  I would like very much to hear about your time with him.  I understand he taught you to fish.”

“Aye,” Brandol chuckled.  “That he did.  Though as I recall he was no better at it than you are.”  He clapped Aragorn on the arm a last time and turned to Halbarad, more hesitantly.  “And what of you, Halbarad?  Will you suffer your daughter to marry the son of a Dunlending?”

Still stunned, Halbarad realized the entire room was staring at him, waiting for his answer, and yet he could not find words, could not stop simply staring at Brandol.  The moment lengthened uncomfortably, and he saw Brandol swallow nervously.  With sick horror, he realized his dumfounded paralysis had been misinterpreted and Brandol did not know – no one in the room knew, what he would say.  With dismay at his own thoughtlessness, he stepped forward, now so eager to administer a reassuringly hearty slap on Brandol’s back that he forgot his injuries.  Yanking his hand back with a gasp of agony, he cradled it to his chest as he endured Brandol’s laughter with a grimace.  “Of course your son can marry my daughter, you old dog” he managed to choke out, laughing in spite of his pain, “just make sure you keep your hands off my knife.”  

Still clutching his blanket, Aragorn limped over to his pack and knelt to fumble with the packstraps.  Seeing him struggle, Brandol imparted a last slap to Halbarad's aching shoulder and moved quickly to nudge him out of the way.  "Let me do it," he said through his pipe.  "I'm used to doing things one-handed." 

"And I could never hope to match your skill,"  Aragorn said with a smile as leaned back to allow Brandol to nimbly unfasten the buckles.  Then, reaching deep inside the open pack, he withdrew the ancient leather wallet Halbarad knew only too well.  He rose stiffly and went to Meneliel.  "I think these belong to you," he said, holding out the wallet. 

Meneliel smiled affectionately at Aragorn, but instead of accepting the letters herself, nodded at Brandol.  "They belong to my son.  After we brought him here, I asked Arathorn what he planned to do with the letters.  He proposed to keep them, so that one day, when Brandol was old enough to understand the truth of his parentage, he would learn also that the Dúnedain did not scorn him for it, and he would know that he was loved - not only by us, but by the mother who gave him life.  I agreed, though at that time I wanted no part of the letters - the grief and  betrayal were too fresh in my mind.  And so Arathorn and Gilraen put them away.  For them the letters carried no shame, you see; only a testament to love and honor.  But too soon after, Arathorn was killed, and Gilrean and you were spirited away.  I never knew what happened to the letters. When she came back to us, I refrained from asking about them.  I did not want to remind her of that difficult time."

"I found them in a trunk in Elrond's attic," Aragorn said, "along with some of other of my father's belongings.  It did not look as if it had been disturbed since it was placed there when we arrived in Rivendell."

Brandol stepped forward and took the wallet from Aragorn.  He brushed calloused fingers across the smooth leather, then flipped open the flap and withdrew the yellowed pages.  A smile broke across his battered face as he caught sight of a scrawling script that must have seemed familiar to him and yet long-forgotten.  An  uncharacteristic gleam brightened the corner of his eye as he read.  "I remember her bent close over the table, with a candle beside her," he said softly.  "She worked so hard at writing, so intent on forming each letter just as he taught her."  He looked up at Aragorn.  "I thank you for this gift, Aragorn.  I feel close to her as I have not felt in nearly a lifetime, and I remember Arathorn's wide smile and his strong arms as if I saw him yesterday.  I only wish you could have known him as I did." 

Aragorn smiled.  "It is enough that through you, I feel as if I did."  To Halbarad it seemed as if his eyes glistened as he turned and went to warm his hands by the fire.

~oOoOoOo~

“I will never forget how you believed in me,” Aragorn said, barely hearing his own voice over the whisper of the breeze in the tall meadow grass, “expecting nothing for yourself.  I feel your hope in me every day.  Yet sometimes it feels that the weight of all this hope will crush me.  I wish you could have lived to see the day all these hopes are realized.  You deserved far more joy than you saw.”  He looked out across the flower-filled field, so different now than when he had come over the mountains just a few months before, barren and marred with fresh graves.  “I must go now, to face Elrond.  I owe him a rather large apology.  Did you know you raised such a foolish son?  Then I must travel east again with Gandalf.  It will be good to have some company this time.  You were right to say I spend too much time alone.  I do not know how long I will be gone; but I suppose you are not surprised to hear that, either.”

With a sigh and a last brush of his hand against the stone, he pushed himself up from his knees; surprised when he turned around to see Halbarad standing beside Daisy, absently stroking her neck.  “I didn’t want to disturb you,” Halbarad said, nodding at a package he held in his hand.  “You forgot this.”

Aragorn took the package with a smile.  “Your mother’s biscuits.”

“She was horrified that you tried to leave them behind.”

“You’ll tell her it was an oversight?”

“Of course.”  Halbarad smiled.  “She really is very fond of you, you know.”

“Oh, yes.”  Aragorn laughed as he tried to find a place to secure the package to his already overloaded saddlebags.  “As a warg is fond of a yearling calf.”

“Well, yes,” Halbarad said agreeably.  “Good luck with Elrond.”

Aragorn winced.  “Whatever he has planned for me is nothing more than I deserve.” 

“True,” Halbarad agreed.  “You are quite infuriatingly muleheaded at times.”

He bowed his head slightly.  “I am indeed.”  Then, clasping Halbarad’s arm, “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“I know.”  Halbarad rested a hand on his sword hilt.  “We’ll be ready, when you need us.”

“I know.”

Riding away, alone, he felt a familiar sense of rootlessness overtake him; torn between many homes, he yet belonged to none.  Even now, Halbarad would be walking back to the house through the tall hayfields, helping himself to the leftovers of Aragorn’s going-away feast.  Later he would wander to the barn to putter with Brandol at repairing harnesses, pore over patrol reports and schedules, play with his granddaughter: utterly at home in this place where Aragorn, Chieftain or not, would always be a visitor. There was no one and nothing to blame.  Life here was simply normal without him.  In Imladris, too, no matter how warm his welcome or how meticulously Erestor maintained his rooms, his presence disrupted the normal state of affairs, which only resumed normalcy upon his departure.  He wondered if there would ever be a place he did not have to leave; a place that would not seem more normal with him than without him.

Both the weather and his well-rested state favored his journey, and he pressed on into the night of the second day, arriving at the Last Homely House well after dark.  He dismounted in the deserted courtyard, waved off a helpful stable hand, and looked up at the warm-lit house, gripped by a flutter of trepidation.  He did not know how much lasting damage his misbehavior at his departure had done, coming so quick on the heels of his reconciliation with Elrond.   He dared not hope Elrond had allowed Elladan and Elrohir to make the trip to Lórien for Arwen after the way he behaved.  With a sigh, he led Daisy to the stable and began working loose the girth strap.  He was tired from the journey and not up to a confrontation tonight.  He pulled off the saddle, half-considering simply sleeping in the stable tonight and facing Elrond in the morning.   

“Welcome back.”       

The mild voice froze him in mid-stride.  Setting the saddle down, he turned and bowed slightly, averting his eyes from the intense gaze being directed at him.  “Lord Elrond.  I beg your pardon.  My behavior was inexcusable and -”

“Estel.”   Elrond moved toward him slowly, as if approaching a skittish horse.  “Do you know how worried I was about you?”  He reached out with a hand, gently tipping up Aragorn’s chin.

“I am sorry.”  Seeing not judgment but worry in Elrond’s eyes, Aragorn shook his head in dismay at his own thoughtlessness.  “I didn’t mean any of the things I said.  Please forgive me.”

“You are forgiven,” Elrond said, “but that is not what matters.  What matters is that you are here, and you are well.  Aragorn,” he said, taking Aragorn’s shoulders and eyeing him with concern, “are you all right?”

Aragorn nodded.  “I am now.”

“Good,” Elrond said, “because there is someone here who will be very happy to see you, and I would not want to disappoint her.”

Aragorn’s breath caught.   Reluctant to speak her name lest Elrond explain he’d meant the cook, he swallowed and looked toward the house.  “Do you mean - ?”

Elrond smiled.  “Yes, Arwen is here.  She only just returned three days ago.  She was very disappointed to find you gone; and worried, when she learned of the manner of your departure.”

“Oh, no,” Aragorn murmured.  “I’m sorry.  The last thing on Arda I would ever do is cause her worry.”

“Why don’t you tell her yourself?”  Elrond said, gently turning him toward the stable door.   There she stood, framed by the light of the courtyard lanterns, hair flowing loosely over a long blue gown. 

“Estel?”  She stepped into the stable, joy radiating from her face.   “It really is you.  I was so worried when Father told me you’d left in such a rush, and not at all well.”

She was as beautiful as the day he first met her.  “I’m sorry,” he said, taking her perfect hands in his rough ones, wondering how worn he must look to her now, even as she herself had not aged a day since Lórien.  “There was something I needed to do, but it’s finished now.” 

Arwen pulled him closer.  “It is so good to see you.  Please say you can stay a while,” she whispered.  “Just a little while, before you have to leave again.”

He kissed her lightly and wrapped her in an embrace, inhaling the clean fragrance of her hair, feeling the soft fabric of her gown against his cheek.  Opening his eyes, he mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ to Elrond before cupping Arwen’s face in his hands and nodding.  “I can stay,” he said, mirroring her smile.  “I can stay a while.”

*

The End

*      

Author’s Note:

Mothers and fathers are people who give us all their hope, forgive all our transgressions, and expect nothing in return.  This story is dedicated to my biggest fan, my mother, who supported me, believed in me, and loved to read my stories and reviews (she was especially fond of Raymond Chandler's Dog.)  Since I wasn't able to fulfill her wish of seeing this story completed, I am concluding it on her birthday, October 6, as a special tribute to her. 

A short epilogue will follow.

-Epilogue-

S.R. 1420

“Evening, Dudo!”  A smile spread across Lily Grubb’s face as she hurried toward the shop, gathering her skirts to keep them out of the mud of the street.  Reaching the porch, she jumped lightly up the steps and stood looking at him expectantly.  

Dudo ignored her and kept sweeping, though after a minute he was forced to put down his broom to keep from sweeping dust onto her feet.  He leaned against the broom and looked at her. “Evening, Lily.”

“Your uncle asked me to fetch you home.” 

“All right; as soon as I’m finished and close up shop.”  When it became evident she was not going to move out of his way, he maneuvered around her and resumed sweeping.

“No, now!  Right away.”  When he merely nodded and resumed his work, she followed behind him, panting in his ear.  “Aren’t you going to ask me why?” 

He turned in annoyance, withholding his retort only upon seeing her push a stray strand of damp chestnut hair out of her eyes. Belatedly, he realized she was breathless as much with excitement as with the exertion of running all the way from his uncle’s house.  Obviously something terribly exciting was afoot, and he would not get rid of her until he indulged her enthusiasm. “All right,” he said, forcing a slight smile.  Why?”

“Visitors have come calling for you.”  She leaned close to him and whispered conspiratorially.  “Important visitors.  Don’t you want to know who? ” 

Dudo shrugged.  He could not imagine what visitors she might be referring to, and he didn’t particularly care.  The only noteworthy visitor he could think of who would ask for him by name was his uncle’s old friend Mr. Frodo.  It had been Frodo who had unlocked his shackles and carried him out of the lockhole in Michel Delving.   But though Frodo Baggins was always a welcome visitor, he would be no novelty to Lily Grubb.   In the months since the Troubles ended, Frodo seemed to will himself into obscurity, and the Shire folk, eager to forget about the bad times, were only too happy to oblige him.  While Frodo’s fellow Travellers, by some combination of chance and desire, were becoming important and influential hobbits, most decent folk of the Shire viewed the odd Mr. Baggins more as curiosity than sensation.

With a huff of exasperation, Lily snatched the broom out of his hand.  “I swore not to spoil the surprise, but if I were you I would hurry on home.”  She spun him around by his shoulders, pushing him toward the street.  “Go on, I’ll finish sweeping and close up the shop.  Go on!”

With Lily’s tinkling laughter grating like broken glass in his ears, he yanked off his apron and hung it on the peg by the door.  “Oh, all right,” he grumbled. 

She swept the broom playfully at his feet to chase him off the porch.  “Try not to be quite so rude to your guest, after he came all this way to see you.  Oh, dear!” she chided herself, planting a hand over her mouth.  “I shouldn’t have said that!”

Dudo was now certain he did not care to meet whoever it was that waited for him at Uncle Fredegar’s hole.  He had no friends from afar that he ever cared to see again.  “Thank you for minding the store,” he remembered to tell Lily as he set off down the lane.

It was but a short walk to his uncle’s hole, a tidy affair with a cozy parlor and a view of one of the few apple orchards that had miraculously been spared the ruffians’ axes.  As he drew near, he saw two horses standing outside:  a small, sleek gelding wearing a silver-studded black bridle, and a splendid white stallion, much, much too large to be the mount of any hobbit.    He turned to leave. 

“There you are!” Fredegar called from the doorway.  “Dudo!  There you are, lad!  Come inside!”  Before he could protest, his uncle scurried out, snatched his arm and herded him through the door.  Inside, with his back to Dudo, stood a tall, dark-haired hobbit, wearing a black cloak, gleaming mail, and a sword.  Though his recollection of their only meeting was vague, Dudo knew he could be none other than Pippin Took.  He and Meriadoc Brandybuck were fast becoming notorious in the Shire for riding about on their silver-bedecked war ponies as if dressed for battle, laughing and singing.  Pippin was facing a seated figure, but his back blocked Dudo’s view.     

“Here he is!”  Fredegar announced, and Pippin turned to look, partially revealing the white-robed figure seated behind him.  Fredegar’s delighted smile began to fade as Dudo remained rooted wordlessly in the doorway.  “Dudo, we have guests,” he prompted.  “Surely you remember Peregrin Took?  And Gandalf, who brought you here so long ago.  Come in and greet them, boy!”

Dudo stared in amazement.  It was indeed Gandalf who sat there, but a gleaming, bright Gandalf, like a silver candlestick with all the tarnish scrubbed off.  “Hello, Dudo,” Gandalf said.

The warm, familiar voice reached for something lost deep within him, but Dudo swallowed hard and pressed his lips together, restraining his reaction to a hesitant nod.  “Master Pippin,” he said, bowing minutely to Pippin.  Staring at Gandalf, he said, “The King said no Big Folk can enter the Shire.”  

“I am not under the authority of the King,” Gandalf said with a smile.  Raising himself to a hunched stoop, he extended white-robed arms toward Dudo.  “Come here, Dudo.  Do not leave an old man in despair.” 

Nudged hard by Fredegar, Dudo reluctantly stepped forward and stiffly submitted to the wizard’s embrace. 

“I was just telling Gandalf how fine the harvest will be this year,” Fredegar said cheerily, evidently sensing that the reunion was off to an unpromising start.  “I have never seen the corn so tall this early.” 

“The corn is taller than the trees they left uncut,” Dudo said, extracting himself from Gandalf's robes.

“The Shire will bloom more brightly than ever, but its time of innocence is over,” Gandalf said, looking suddenly less bright and far older.  He sat down.  “And yet the damage done here was only the faint scorch of a falling ember.” 

“If that was the ember, I wish to never see the flame!” Fredegar said.

“You would not wish to, but many did,” Gandalf said.  “Frodo and Sam, Pippin and Meriadoc, Aragorn and Halbarad, and countless others faced the flaming eye of Sauron with but scant hope of victory.”  Gandalf’s hand tightened on his staff, and Dudo could see an echo of that flaming eye in his black ones.  “But the flame of Mordor has been extinguished, and now will come a time of peace.”

“We didn’t have a flaming eye here, but Sharkey’s ruffians were bad enough,” Fredegar said.  “You should have seen how Dudo fought them.  Fearless, he was, even when they locked us up.”

“He has been fearless before.”  Gandalf smiled.  “But then, young Dudo has fought Sharkey’s ruffians before.”

Dudo frowned.  “I have?”

“Hold out your hands,” Gandalf said.  When he did, Gandalf dropped a handful of small gold-colored baubles into them.  “Where have you seen these before?”

Rolling a half-familiar bubble of glass between his fingers, Dudo fought to recall a long-faded memory:  broken bits of rounded, yellow glass scattered on a dirt floor…the dirt floor of a shack in the woods where a Dunlending spy had kept Aragorn captive.  “Teburic!”  he exclaimed.  “These are just like the baubles we found in the cabin where Teburic kept Aragorn locked up.  Do you mean Teburic was working for Sharkey, too?”

“Yes,” Gandalf said.  “though he likely did not know it.  Saruman was clever; he revealed himself only to a trusted few.  The boy Rolly was surely one of them.  It should have been plain to me by the way he looked at me, the way he spoke; but my eyes were blinded by my loyalty to Saruman.”

“I don’t understand, Gandalf,” Fredegar said.  “Where did these yellow beads of yours come from? And who is Saruman?”

“I found them in Sharkey’s lair,” Gandalf said grimly.  “It is called Isengard.”  He plucked a bauble from Dudo’s hand and fingered it.  “These baubles, when broken, release a medicinal powder that confuses the mind, makes it more vulnerable to suggestion.  Has no one told you who Sharkey truly was, then?  His name was Saruman, and he was a wizard, like me.”

“A wizard?”  Dudo recoiled in revulsion.  “A wizard like you?  How can that be?”

“Saruman was the greatest and wisest of my order,” Gandalf said.  “But he fell deep into the hands of the Enemy – slowly, and without intending it, like a moth entranced by the flame.  Though I knew him best of anyone in Middle Earth, even I did not suspect his treachery and was ensnared by his trap, almost to my ruin.  But I have since learned that Saruman's jealousy and suspicion of me long preceded that encounter.  For years he set spies against me, and against my friends.  It was Saruman, I now know, who dispatched Rolly to organize spies in Bree; Saruman who ordered Aragorn kidnapped to satisfy his curiosity about my dealings in the Shire.  Had Aragorn not resisted him, resisted these -” he emphasized, displaying the bauble, “the Ring might have fallen into Saruman’s hands and all would have been lost.”   He smiled at Dudo.  “And had Dudo not been so fearless in his defense of Aragorn, Gondor would not now be celebrating the coronation of a new King.  Pippin and Fatty have told me you showed enormous courage fighting the ruffians, Dudo.” 

“It didn’t matter,” Dudo replied tersely.  “Hobbits still died.”  That boy still died, he heard himself say to Halbarad, so many years ago, when first he had found his courage and it had not been enough.  “And we got locked up and beaten and the Shire was destroyed.  So what good was any of it?” 

Gandalf’s dark eyes tightened with sadness.  “Struggle with the Enemy comes at a heavy price, but the cost does not erase the deed, Dudo.  I thought you learned that long ago.” 

Dudo huffed in disgust.  “I thought I learned a lot of things long ago, but it turned out that none of them was true.”    

Gandalf’s face fell.  “What was not true, Dudo?”

“Everything Halbarad told me!”  Dudo exclaimed scornfully. “Where was he when Sharkey’s men took over?  Where were his Rangers when the ruffians burned the houses and cut down the trees and made off with everything they could carry and locked us up?” The despair of the lockholes surged through him anew, along with shame for allowing Halbarad’s promise to sustain him through those long, dark days.  He had foolishly clung to the memory of Halbarad’s desperate, single-minded determination, all those years ago, to find a missing friend at any cost, had foolishly sustained himself with the memory of a grim-faced Halbarad carrying a bloody, battered Aragorn out of an orc cave.  He had not lost faith until rescue finally came – not at the hands of a Ranger but a solemn-faced hobbit with nine fingers.  Dudo hung his head.  “Halbarad promised the Rangers would protect us.  He told me that as long as he drew breath, no harm would come to the Shire.  But he lied.”

“Halbarad did not lie,” Gandalf said softly.  Leaning close, he took Dudo’s hands in his large, gnarled ones.  “Dudo, listen to me.  The Rangers were summoned east, to Mordor, to fight an enemy so powerful that defeat would have meant enslavement for not just the Shire, but all the lands of Middle Earth.  Halbarad led his men to Aragorn’s aid in his time of need, just as he promised.”

“He could have come back!"  Dudo protested.  “The war was already over when Sharkey’s men came.  Pippin was in the war, and he came back.  Meriadoc Brandybuck came back.  Mr. Frodo came back.  Why didn’t Halbarad come back?”

Gandalf glanced at Pippin, nodding slightly.  “The King asked me to give you something, Dudo,” Pippin said quietly.  He reached beneath his cloak and held out a burnished leather scabbard.  “He said you would recognize it.”

Dudo took in a sharp breath.  The dagger Pippin held was of Elven make, impossibly old, and twelve years ago Dudo had saved Aragorn’s life by sinking it hilt-deep into a wolf.  “I don’t want it,” he said, keeping his hands at his sides. “I gave it back to Halbarad.  He was supposed to keep it, to protect Aragorn.  Tell him to keep it.”  He closed his eyes, and if he could have, he would have closed his ears.

“It is no longer of any use to Halbarad, Dudo,” Gandalf said so gently that Dudo opened his eyes, seeing that Gandalf now held the dagger.  “He did protect Aragorn.  He carried the King’s standard into a mighty battle.  He fought bravely and slew many foes before he fell.  This dagger was found in the body of an Easterling.  It was the King’s wish that you have it.”

 “I don’t care what the King wants!” Dudo cried, though his hands blindly sought the object Gandalf held and snatched it to his chest. 

He felt a gentle hand stroking his hair.  “Don’t despair,” Gandalf said.  “It is no failure to die fulfilling the duty of one’s heart.  Halbarad would have been nowhere else than by Aragorn’s side in his hour of need.  He is at peace now.  And you should be at peace as well.  Keep this dagger, as a remembrance of Halbarad’s friendship, but know that he gave you a far greater gift than this.  Do you know what it was?”

Sniffling, Dudo shook his head.

“He helped you to find your own courage.  When the ruffians came, you found the strength to protect yourself.  You weren’t afraid of them at all, were you?”

“No,” Dudo said scornfully.  “I’d seen their kind before.”

“And in the end, who defeated them?”

Dudo looked at Fredegar and Pippin.  “We did, didn't we?  Hobbits.  We did it all on our own.”

Pippin smiled.  “Yes, we did.” 

“The King - Aragorn – asked me to give you a message,” Gandalf said.  “He wanted you to know that Halbarad’s grave lies where he fell, beneath the open sky, within sight of the King’s banners that he fought so hard to realize.  King Elessar told me it is the first thing he looks for when he opens his window in the morning.  Someday, he would like you to come to Minas Tirith and see it yourself.”

“Halbarad would like to be under the sky.  He said he didn’t belong in fine halls of stone,” Dudo whispered, his voice cracking.  “He dreamt of seeing the King’s banners flying over the city.  Did he get to see them before he died?”

Gandalf enfolded him in his robes and held him as he wept.  “He saw them, Dudo,” the wizard said softly, his voice rough with unfallen tears.  “He saw them long ago.” 

Author’s Note:

Some references in Dudo and Gandalf’s conversation are to events that occurred in “In the Hands of the Enemy.”

A heartfelt thanks to all readers for allowing me to share my love of Middle-earth with you. 

Those signed up for chapter alerts might see an alert in the next few days when I plan to post a timeline and cast of characters.  Other than that, the story is complete. 

I.  CAST OF CHARACTERS:

The Dúnedain:

Eirien: Halbarad's wife

Alagos: Halbarad and Eirien's elder son, posted at Sarn Ford

Falathren: Their daughter, widowed with a young child

Elanor: Falathren's daughter, about five years old

Húrin: Halbarad’s younger son, 17 years old

Nelaer: Halbarad's dice-playing, sharp-tongued mother

Brueglir:   Nelaer's late husband; just as cantankerous as his wife (although not quite as good at dice)

Meneliel:  Nelaer’s best friend, a stalwart and wise matron 

Lathron:  Meneliel's husband, died in 2920 en route to Fornost

Brandol: Meneliel's son; a Ranger very fond of his pipe

Tologarth: Brandol's son; fancies Falathren

Fimenel:  Another dice-playing granny

Thargil:  An old Ranger (but not too old to patch a roof )

Haerost:  A young Ranger

The Dunlendings:

Teburic:   Head of the spy ring in Bree (appears in “In the Hands of the Enemy”)

Begaric:  Ruliri peddler, victim of Karani bandits

Malek, Halig, Garstic:  Karani bandits who attack Begaric and his family

Yenne:   Begaric’s 16-year-old daughter, betrothed to the son of the Ruliri chief

Melnag:  Begaric’s weaselly brother

Dugaric:  Chieftain of the Ruliri

Veraric:  Dugaric’s brother; large and untrustworthy

Tulric:  Yet another Ruliri with loyalty issues

Relnar:  Squashed-nosed Chieftain of the Karani; knows someone interested in the Dúnedain

The denigha:  A mysterious old woman

Elves:

Saddlebags: A healer with a bad bedside manner

Tiriel:  A very pretty cook

Other Assorted Characters:

Dudo Tillfield: bastard son of a n'er do well Bree hobbit and a runaway Shire lass; chicken gutter, erstwhile spy and honorary Ranger

Rolly: An orphan who fell in with a bad crowd (appears in “In the Hands of the Enemy”)

Daisy: Not a Rohan warhorse.

Spike: A very unfortunate kitten (referenced in "A Time for Joy")

II.  TIMELINE:  

Warning:  The following timeline contains spoilers for story events.

Note:  Canon events appear in bold text.  The source for canon events is Appendix A or Appendix B unless otherwise noted.

2911-2912       Fell Winter

2912                Great floods devastate Minhiriath and Enedwaith.  Tharbad is ruined  and deserted

c. 2913            The Rangers establish a post at the ruins of Tharbad to secure the ford and the North-South Road. 

c. 2919            Dunlending refugees fleeing strife and famine in the foothills of the Misty Mountains seek refuge in the ruins of Tharbad. 

2920                Posted at Tharbad, Rangers Arathorn, Brueglir, and Lathron make the acquaintance of young Dunlending widow Bega.  Later that year, Lathron is killed near Fornost.

2921                Bega gives birth to a son.   

2925                The denigha is born.

2921-2926        Arathorn remains Captain at Tharbad, with Bega and her son under his protection.

2927                Arathorn is posted to Lake Evendim.   

2928                Arathorn begins courting Gilraen.

2929                   Arathorn and Gilraen are betrothed. 

2929                  Arathorn marries Gilraen

2930                  Arador, Arathorn’s father and Chieftain of the Dúnedain, is slain by trolls in the Coldfells (north of Rivendell.) 

2930               Upon becoming chief, Arathorn recalls the Rangers from Tharbad and moves with Gilraen to the Angle. 

2930               Gilraen discovers letters from Bega to Arathorn in a trunk.  Distraught, she confides in Nelaer, who confronts Arathorn.   Meneliel, Nelaer, and Arathorn travel to Tharbad in search of Bega.   

2931              Aragorn is born

2933                 Arathorn is slain, Gilraen and Aragorn are taken to Rivendell.  Halbarad’s father, Brueglir, becomes Acting Chieftain

2935               Halbarad is born

2938               Eirien is born

2951                 Elrond reveals to Aragorn his true name and ancestry; Aragorn meets Arwen; Aragorn goes out into the Wild.

2951               Aragorn takes his place with the Dúnedain and meets 16-year-old Halbarad.

2953                 Being jealous and afraid of Gandalf, Saruman sets spies to watch all his movements, and notes his interest in the Shire.  He soon begins to keep agents in Bree and the Southfarthing.

2955               On patrol north of Bree, Aragorn and Halbarad make the acquaintance of a certain farmwife and her goat, Buttercup. 

2956                 Aragorn meets Gandalf and their friendship begins.

2957-2980       Aragorn undertakes his great journeys and errantries.

2967               Halbarad marries Eirien.

2975               Halbarad’s son Alagos is born.

2980                 Returning from “perils on the dark confines of Mordor” Aragorn enters Lórien and plights his troth with Arwen. Upon his return to Imladris, Elrond informs him Arwen will be the bride of no man less than the King of Gondor and Arnor.  Elrond also tells Aragorn, “A shadow lies between us.”

2980                 Aragorn goes forth again into “danger and toil.” 

2980               Brueglir is killed. Halbarad becomes Aragorn’s second-in-command.    Halbarad’s daughter Falathren is born (Events of "A Time for Joy")

post-2980        Gilraen leaves Imladris “after a few years” and returns to her people

2982               While at Sarn Ford, Brandol’s wife dies in childbirth.  He returns to the Angle with his newborn son, Tologarth.

2990               Brandol is maimed in an orc attack.

2991               Halbarad’s son Húrin is born.

c. 3000             Saruman’s spies report that the Shire is being closely guarded by the Rangers.

3001                 Gandalf suspects the Ring to be the One Ring.  The guard to the Shire is doubled.  Gandalf seeks for news of Gollum and calls on the help of Aragorn. 

3002                 Bilbo goes to live in Rivendell

3002               Alagos’s son is born.  Nelaer moves to Sarn Ford. 

3003               Birth of Halbarad’s granddaughter Elanor to his daughter, Falathren.

3004                 Gandalf goes to visit Frodo in the Shire, and does so at intervals during the next four years.

3005               Falathren’s husband is killed by orcs.

3006               Dunlending thieves under the control of Teburic establish a foothold in     Bree.  

3007?               Aragorn makes a last visit to his mother.  She tells him she gave all her hope to the Dúnedain and kept no hope for herself.

3007                 Death of Gilraen

3007               Saruman dispatches Rolly to Bree to supervise efforts to spy on Gandalf. A young employee of the Prancing Pony is recruited by Teburic to spy on inn’s patrons; particularly Gandalf and the Rangers.   

3008               Early spring:  Aragorn returns from hunting Gollum east of the mountains, intending to meet with Gandalf in Bree.  He finds the Ranger settlement at the Angle has been attacked by orcs.  The events of in the “Hands of the Enemy” ensue. 

3008               Summer:  The events of “A Matter of Honor” conclude with Aragorn’s return to Rivendell.  Gandalf remains in the Shire until autumn, settling Dudo into his new home and saying his farewells to Frodo, realizing his visits to the Shire have attracted too much unwanted attention.

3008                In the autumn, Gandalf pays his last visit to Frodo.   

3009                Gandalf and Aragorn renew their hunt for Gollum.  Elrond sends for Arwen and she returns to Imladris  

Note:  I fudged the Appendix B timeline a little bit here – to accommodate requests for an Arwen-Aragorn reunion I had to get her back to Imladris in 3008, before Aragorn and Gandalf left to hunt Gollum.  However, Appendix A seems to imply she might have been  in Imladris even prior to Gilraen’s return to her people “after a few years,” so I took the liberty of assuming the issue may be open to some interpretation.  

III. FANON ALERT:

Where canon and/or other Tolkien references existed, I did my best to follow them.  Where they were in short supply or unclear (at least to me), I extrapolated to the best of my ability.  However, in the following few instances where source material was lacking, I simply made stuff up.      

Halbarad

Canon fails to supply Halbarad's age, marital status, or any biographical information other than that he is Aragorn's "kinsman."  From context it is clear that he is of fighting age and highly trusted by Aragorn at the time of the Ring War.  My decision to make him four years younger than Aragorn and a happily married father of three was made purely for dramatic purposes.  Other authors have given him more of a mentor/father-figure role toward Aragorn, but I figured that with Elrond and Gandalf as father-figures, and having grown up as the youngest sentient being in Imladris by several thousand years, what Aragorn really needed was a close an age-mate peer and friend more than another father figure.  Just my choice.  All other interpretations are equally valid.   Eirien, Alagos, Húrin, Brandol, the dice-playing grannies, and all the other Dúnedain OCs in the story are purely my invention. 

Dunlendings

The clan structure and culture of the Dunlendings as presented are purely speculative, and are based on a hodge-podge of ancient and modern tribal cultural practices.  Tolkien tells us only that the Dunlendings were a primitive and superstitious people who hated the Rohirrim (Forgoil.)  During the Ring War they were aroused by Saruman but afterwards they sent an embassy to King Elessar, so are presumably redeemable.  All the Dunlending OCs in this story are purely my invention.   

Dúnedain at Tharbad

The Dúnedain post established at the ruins of Tharbad after the Fell Winter (TA 2911-2912) is also pure invention, although the Dúnedain's interest in securing the crossing and the southern borders of Eriador during that unstable period seemed reasonable to me. 

All other cultural/sociological/ psychological/canon interpretations in the story, including the socio-economic structure of Dúnedain society and extrapolations of character motivation and interaction, are the result of my own somewhat reasoned but by no means infallible analysis.  If you're interested in how I arrived at any particular interpretation, please feel free to E-mail me, as I welcome discussion/debate.