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.”