Chapter 1

**********

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.