Chapter Ten - There Would Be No Larksong

Halbarad dropped his head as he took a long, shuddering breath. For a moment he knelt, unmoving, then he raised his head. He looked at Denlad, and Denlad had never seen his eyes so bereft of hope, not in the days leading up to this, nor even in those cruel days along the Hoarwell. "Do the Valar hear our prayers?"

Halbarad’s quiet, tortured question shook Denlad. This from Halbarad, the man who, aside from Aragorn, Denlad held to be the most optimistic warrior among them. The one who unfailingly chided Denlad for his pessimism, the man who so often lifted the spirits of all of them, Aragorn included. How had Halbarad’s own hope drained so utterly away? Denlad scrambled to find words. "They must, else Strider would not be with us." It felt a paltry encouragement, but Denlad believed with all his heart that it was the truth.

The barren desolation in Halbarad’s eyes eased only slightly. "Strider tells me that Ilúvatar loves us... but sometimes..." He shook his head, hard. He squeezed the tin cup he still held so hard his knuckles turned white. "I hate this."

"Halbarad, fear not," Denlad said, reaching out to grasp Halbarad’s arm in the way that Halbarad had done so many times for him; indeed, as Halbarad had done only a few hours ago. "He is in much pain, and has a fever, but it is not like last time. It is not. Oft times as the bruising sets in, a man seems to worsen, but it is truly as you said yourself: he is strong. This fever likely will not worsen, for as I said, there is no sign of infection in his wounds. He will recover."

Halbarad nodded. He dropped the cup to the ground and ran a shaking hand over his face and sat with it covering his mouth as he stared at Aragorn. After a moment, he leaned down and as before, rested his hand on Aragorn’s head. "Be strong, my friend," he whispered hoarsely, then laid a kiss on Aragorn’s brow. He tucked the cloak closer under Aragorn’s chin, smoothing it out carefully, and then, without looking at Denlad, he stood and walked away beyond the spring into the brush. He vanished into the trees as thoroughly as if he had suddenly found the gift of invisibility.

Denlad picked up the cup, running his fingers idly over the rim, brushing a bit of dirt from its side. If the Valar were listening, which surely they must else the Faithful were nothing but fools, he sent them a prayer not only for Aragorn but also for Halbarad. Valar, let Halbarad... let me... hear from you, somehow...

He listened to the wind sigh among the treetops, but felt nothing. He stared into the empty cup, then let it drop as Halbarad had. Maybe they were all fools.

Ferdinand, seated at Aragorn’s head holding the compress, interrupted his dark musings. "Is there anything I might do for Mr. Halbarad, do you think?"

Denlad shook his head. "He will be all right. He just...." He stopped. There was no way to untangle his thoughts into anything a small hobbit, one of a race untroubled by any of the sorrows and fears of the greater world outside the Shire, could comprehend. These innocents knew only their own world of farming and family and safety. He would not shatter that illusion while it yet held–tragedy enough that this one had seen firsthand the horrors of this one small skirmish against evil. So he finally shrugged and dredged up what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "He will be all right, with time."

Ferdinand lifted the compress, felt of it and then replaced it with another one that was cooler. Aragorn did not stir but he moaned quietly, a small troubled sound of pain and uncertainty. He muttered something, but Denlad could not make it out. He leaned forward, listening. "Strider?"

"Men... can’t let it get to... men..."

Denlad’s heart sank. In his fevered dreams, Aragorn was back there... at that cursed place along the river. Would he never be free from that nightmare? "Shhh, Strider. It is not here. It was vanquished, remember? We are all safe."

"... the child... save her... have to..."

"Hush, Strider. That is all in the past. You are safe. We are all safe and well." He continued his soft crooning, occasionally even stroking Aragorn’s hair, until finally Aragorn sighed and seemed to sag into a deeper sleep, although sorrow lingered in the lines of his face. Denlad laid his hand against Aragorn’s forehead and sat for a long moment that way, hoping perhaps in some way his own strength might be imparted to Aragorn, but knowing also that he did not have that gift, however desperately he wished for it. He finally sat back, his back creaking a bit from the strain. Aragorn again mumbled something, but Denlad could not make it out.

After a moment, Ferdinand said timidly, "You said to Mr. Halbarad that this was not like last time. And Strider’s words just now, and what you said to him... may I ask...?"

Denlad did not answer right away. Answering the question might reveal too much, might afford too large a glimpse into everything Denlad hoped to keep from Ferdinand’s knowledge. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm. "It was something that happened in the past, and there it must remain."

"I have heard rumors... a town destroyed... women and children killed..."

Denlad cast a dark look toward the hobbit but Ferdinand merely leaned forward, his eyes bright with a probing inquisitiveness that Denlad, with the sinking feeling of defeat, knew would be impossible to parry. "I know that you Rangers guard our lands, and Strider said as much. He and I spoke of evil times coming, of darkness covering the lands, and of war. And I hear things in Bree, hints of spies and far more fearsome things that roam these vacant lands to the east. I would know what it is happening to our world."

"Ferdinand, it is best for you that such things remain only rumor."

"But they are real, not rumor. A man like Strider does not have nightmares over vague stories, nor were his wounds inflicted by hearsay." Surprisingly, anger lit a spark in his blue eyes. "If a man as good as I believe Strider is nearly died protecting our lands, is it not something that the Shire folk should know?"

Denlad looked at Aragorn, wishing he would waken and take over the conversation. So much for the innocence of hobbits, at least with this one. Ferdinand knew much already, so there would be no shattering of illusion if Denlad spoke. Still, secrecy was the rule by which the Dúnedain lived, and revealing that the Nazgûl had entered these lands might open a door that best remained barred. "The work we do must remain in the shadows."

"I cannot believe that. Surely we could work together... there is evil out there. Most of my folk deny it, but I know. I have heard the rumors, seen the eyes of men like you as they sit quietly in the corners of the Prancing Pony, thinking no one pays the least bit of attention to them, or worse yet thinks them scoundrels who are there only to espy who they might waylay in the night. But I see something else... something in their eyes. Sorrow, of a kind, like they have seen too much evil. But yet... yet... there is also a light... a hope that makes me feel like the worst evil in the world could crash down on my head and as long as I stayed near one of those Big Folk, somehow I would still survive. I see it in your eyes, Mr. Denlad, and in Mr. Halbarad’s, and never more keenly than in your friend Strider’s eyes. I have never seen the like of it, and it warms my very soul." To Denlad’s astonishment, the little hobbit’s eyes flooded with tears. "I want to know why you good men allow yourselves to be denigrated and despised, why you stand so proud and so alone."

It took some effort to find his voice. "Ferdinand, you are like no hobbit I have ever encountered."

"Of course not, young man. I am a Took, after all."

Denlad laughed softly, not really knowing what Ferdinand meant by that, but liking the proud jut to Ferdinand’s chin. "All right. I will tell you some of the things that I know. But I cannot tell you all, nor can you then go around the Shire raising all kinds of fear and panic, for though times are dark, they are not so dark that the Shirelings need to lock themselves inside their holes in terror. This world needs the Shire peaceful and intact and free from worry, if nothing else just so we wandering folk can look toward it and let its peace settle our own troubled hearts and remind us why we fight."

"Fair enough. My lips will be sealed. I’ll not even speak of it to my cousin Bilbo."

"Bilbo Baggins is your cousin?" That explained much.

"Aye. He is a Took, like me, on his mother’s side. Now, can you get on with the story? There is precious little that can deter a hobbit from discussing family relations, and tempted though I am to tell you all about the lines of family that bind Bilbo and me, I do think your tale will make the examination of cousins and uncles and forebears rather tedious."

"What a delight you are, Master Ferdinand," Denlad smiled. "I will most definitely proceed, then."

Ferdinand settled back, striking such a childlike, listening pose that Denlad had to chuckle again, but he soon sobered. This was no child’s storybook tale he was about to recount.

"Have you ever heard of the Nazgûl? Ringwraiths?"

"No, I can’t say that I have."

Denlad hesitated at this, wondering how to tell him of what happened along the Hoarwell. Despite his claims, how much did Ferdinand truly understand about the world and the evils beyond the Shire? Denlad realized he himself did not know much about hobbits and their ways, despite his years of guarding the edges of their land. Were they all educated in the history of Middle-earth? Did Ferdinand know of Sauron, of Morgoth and the evil that stained Arda from the beginning? Denlad needed to find a way to explain things without launching into a full-scale history lecture, a task he felt well beyond his abilities. Again, he wished in vain for Aragorn to wake up and take charge. Little chance of that, however, so nothing to do for it but forge ahead and keep things as simple as he could and hope for no probing questions he could not answer. "Very well then, I will go back a bit further. Mind you keep that compress on Strider’s eye."

Ferdinand hurriedly replaced the compress, then looked up expectantly. "Well?"

"Have you heard of Sauron?"

Ferdinand nodded. "He is some sort of Dark Lord, although I have to say I’m a bit vague on just what he is, other than the vile sort that wants to put the entire world under his thumb. And I do know that I have heard whispers among the men at Bree that his power is growing, has been for some years now. Strider and I talked a bit about it, in fact."

"All right." Denlad took a deep breath, readying for the plunge. "I can tell you this much: Sauron crafted a ring, a Ring of Power. Why he did so is not so important at this moment as the simple fact that he did it."

"Is it evil, then? This Ring?"

"Very much so. But the Ring has been lost to the ages, probably washed out to sea if... well, if those who study such things are correct. But there are... creatures." He paused, lost in fell memory. He swallowed hard. His throat seemed suddenly filled with dry sand. Aragorn groaned quietly, as if even lost to the waking world he could yet feel the very press of evil from Denlad’s mere mentioning of it. Denlad leaned forward again and touched Aragorn’s cheek reassuringly. Aragorn quieted, and he went on. "Men, I suppose they were at one time but now they dwell neither in Middle-earth nor in the circles beyond, but somehow in the emptiness between. They are neither dead nor living, and how that is, I do not understand. But though it is lost, still they seek after this Ring."

Ferdinand’s eyes were round. "Do they think your Strider has it?"

"No," Denlad said, but he heard the uncertainty in his own voice. "That is, we doubt it very much. There would be no reason for anyone to suspect Strider has it, for it is well known that the Ring is lost. But the Wraiths also spy out the land for Sauron. They are his servants, doing as he bids. Long years ago, one dwelt in the mountains near Angmar, and it was terrible what he did to the land and the people–our people. But he was finally vanquished and no wraith had come into these parts since. But almost two years ago, in the fall of the year, we encountered one, in the hills by the Hoarwell River. Do you know where that is?"

"To the east somewhere. Rivendell lies beyond it, that much I know, and some of my ancestors came to this place by way of those river valleys. But I have never seen it."

Denlad nodded. "We still to this day are not sure why there was a Nazgûl roaming those lands, other than it was likely he was searching for enemies of the Dark Lord." Most likely searching for the Heir of Isildur, although he could not say that to Ferdinand. That Aragorn was chieftain was known here and there, but his royal bloodline was their most heavily guarded secret. Few outside the Dúnedain knew of the connection between Aragorn and Isildur, of the blood of kings that still ran strong in the Chieftain, and thus it must remain for Aragorn’s safety’s sake.

"So what happened when you found this Nazgûl creature?"

"It is a long story that I cannot tell fully at this time, but during the first encounter, Ara– Strider fought him while the rest of our patrol battled the orcs that traveled with him. Strider and the wraith contended sword against sword until Strider could no longer stand. But by then, Halbarad was able to free himself from the orcs and, using fire, drove off the Wraith. There is more to the tale, as I said, but for now suffice to say that Strider was many long months recovering from the ordeal."

"So he was stabbed, then?"

"No, fortunately. He was not stabbed," Denlad said, deciding to forego explaining what happens when a man is stabbed with a Morgul blade. His stomach still hollowed at the very thought that Aragorn might have suffered the fate of becoming a wraith himself. "He was not stabbed, thank the Valar, but the Wraiths put out a sort of poison through the air. Some call it a miasma. The Black Breath. It puts terror and despair in your heart, nightmares in your mind that linger into your waking thoughts. Too long exposure will kill you, unless you find succor at the hands of those who have the healer’s touch with the plant athelas."

"Athelas! Strider has some in his pack!"

Again Denlad paused, uneasy. Surely Ferdinand’s busy mind had not made any sort of connection between Aragorn and his skill with athelas, a skill that marked him as one in the line of kings. He chose his words carefully. "Athelas can be used for several things–in fact, we should infuse some in boiling water, to lave Aragorn’s wounds. I should have thought of that sooner."

"Ah, so it does indeed have lots of uses, athelas does! Brilliant! You know, I think, when Strider first woke up, he tried to tell me the uses for it, but oh, he was so sick... he never did end up saying anything, and more’s the pity for I might have been able to bathe his wounds right then and he might not have been so weak when the Southron showed up."

Denlad gave Ferdinand a sympathetic look. "It must have been awful for you."

"It was no picnic alongside the Bywater Pool, certainly. But all’s well that ends well, or should be, provided Strider here recovers."

"I think there’s little worry there. He’s strong." Denlad watched Aragorn’s even breathing and felt a deep sense of thankfulness, not least because he had successfully warded off more discussion of the Black Breath. He fell silent, hoping that Ferdinand would forget where the conversation had been leading.

He should have known better.

"So, getting back to your tale and the Black Breath and athelas and all that," Ferdinand said. "Did Strider teach you healing?"

"Yes. All I know of the healing arts, I learned from him."

"The Black Breath... can you heal that?"

Feeling he was sinking into quicksand no matter how he tried to steer the conversation, Denlad shook his head. "No, I cannot."

"But Strider can?"

"Strider has some skill with athelas, yes."

"So he healed himself of this miasma poisoning?"

"No, he did not," Denlad said, relieved that now surely he would be able to honestly divert the hobbit from any further speculation about Aragorn and athelas. "He had to go to Rivendell, to the house of Elrond, who is the greatest healer in Middle-earth and skilled in healing the Black Breath. Even so, Master Elrond was barely able to save Strider’s life. Those were evil days, for it was uncertain whether Strider would live or die. But the strength of his–" Again he stopped and reconsidered his words. "The skills of Master Elrond and Strider’s own strength saw him through."

"Ah. So that is why you say that this time is not like last time. This is bit more... ordinary, I guess you might say? Run of the mill, without a lot of the dire otherworldly mystical bits, I take it."

Denlad nodded. "As you say. This is nothing more than bandits and bad luck. Severe enough in its own way, but Ara–" Would he never quit his blundering? Ferdinand had him so rattled he could barely keep a thought straight. Valar help me if I ever am captured by the Enemy, if I have so much trouble fending off interrogation by an innocent hobbit... "Strider will recover, as long as the fever does not worsen."

"Thrice now you have started to call Strider by another name. Now, I am no expert at Elvish; I only know a smattering, learned from my cousin Bilbo. But I do know that ‘Ara’ refers to some sort of royalty. A king or some such thing."

Denlad schooled his face to reveal nothing. Disastrous enough that in his clumsiness he had revealed what he had. He wondered if to stop his own tongue he should simply feign some sort of fit and keel over...

"And I must say, your Strider has a noble countenance, more so than any of the Big Folk I have ever seen, although I confess I have not seen many Big Folk outside the ones that live in Bree."

Abandoning the idea of fainting, notwithstanding its attractions in escaping difficult conversations, Denlad busied himself with gathering up the soiled bandages from the last dressing change. He tossed them in the fire with a silent curse against his wayward tongue and a prayer that Ferdinand would cease his bloody musings. That hobbit is too clever by halves.

No such luck favored him, though, for Ferdinand continued. "I think perhaps that ‘Strider’ is not all he appears to be. Nor that ‘Strider’ is even his real name."

Enough of this. Time to put an end to this conversation once and for all. "Strider is not his real name, no," he said flatly. "But any more than that you will have to learn from him directly. I will say this much: he is more dear to Halbarad and me than any other man in Middle-earth."

"Are you brothers?"

"No. Halbarad is his kinsman–a cousin. I am... well, I am merely one of his men, and blessed beyond measure to be considered even among the lowest members of that great company."

"Yet you are not so lowly, I think. Strider spoke well of you."

Denlad felt his face grow warm. "Strider holds even the poorest of his men in high esteem."

"From what I have seen of you, his esteem is well earned. You seem both a valiant warrior and a compassionate healer."

Denlad could think of no possible reply to that, so he steered the conversation back to safer shores. "Whatever regard Strider has for me pales to what I hold for him. To continue to serve him is all I wish for, save that we were indeed brothers in flesh."

"You love him."

"I would die for him, yes."

--o0o0o--

Denlad moved a branch aside. Drained as he was from the conversation with Ferdinand, he needed to find Halbarad, not only to simply to ensure Halbarad was all right but also to enlist his aid against Ferdinand’s insatiable curiousity.

He pushed past a bush and found Halbarad at last, sitting with his gaze fixed on the plain stretching toward the Road, his back against a large oak tree. He didn’t seem to realize Denlad was approaching. Or more likely chose to ignore the fact. Denlad had not bothered to hide the sounds of his approach.

"Will you hide here all day, then?"

Halbarad grimaced but said nothing, nor did he break his concentration on the horizon.

Denlad crawled under the low-hanging branches of the oak tree, pushing past a small bush to sit beside Halbarad. He grunted as he settled himself into a comfortable position and then let out a long sigh. He was tired, no two ways about it. Too tired for trying to inject some cheer into Halbarad, but needs must, so giving into his own fatigue would have to wait. Still, for a moment he merely sat beside Halbarad, eyes shut, breathing in the loamy dampness of the forest, waiting for words that evidently were not going to come. He looked once toward the heavens and then took the bull by the horns. "You told me not to assign blame."

"It is not blame."

"Then what is it that has you brooding beneath the shrubbery?"

A long silence. "Fear."

Denlad nodded. He felt it too, every time Aragorn came into peril.

"What if..."

"What if Aragorn should fall?" Denlad finished for him when Halbarad’s voice failed him.

Halbarad nodded.

Denlad thought for a moment, studying the sky and the hills and even the leaves above their heads. A lark sang his song to the world, and a dragonfly landed on a leaf not far from Denlad’s head. The wild beauty of the land smote his heart. If Aragorn fell... the Second Darkness would consume all this. There would be no larksong, no sun shining bright on ripening grasses. And there would be no glad laughter of children, no smiles from mothers, no more secret sighs in the night as husband and wife held each other in tangled passion. He pictured his own wife, and the stepson he loved as his own, and the baby just starting to gabble ada and nana, and the thought of losing them was like a dagger through his soul.

But he did not think such musings would provide the answer Halbarad sought. "You gave me another bit of advice, not a day ago. You told me to try not to let fear take my heart."

"I seem full of fine advice for others that I cannot follow myself."

"We all have our dark moments."

Another long silence, then Halbarad spoke again, so softly Denlad had to lean close to hear. "I keep having a dream, a nightmare really. There is a bridge... one of those frail constructs of rope and rotten wood held together by hope and not much else. Below it is a chasm, a seam in the earth through which darkness beyond imagining escapes the hold of the deep. And with that darkness comes a cold wind, alive with evil. My heart fails, but we have to cross the bridge; there is no other road. So we try. We run and we run but the ropes are unraveling faster than we can move our feet and the bridge disintegrates.... I have had this dream many times. I never reach safety."

"The bridge will hold."

Halbarad took a shaky breath. "Aye. It will. It must."

"Come back to camp now? I could use your help."

Halbarad answered by getting to his feet. He held a hand down. Denlad grasped it and let Halbarad haul him upright. "Thank you," Halbarad said.

"I did not do anything."

"You came. And you listened. That is your gift." He eased through the branches and disappeared.

Bemused, Denlad stared at the spot where Halbarad vanished for a moment, then picked his own way through the trees and back to camp.

Behind him, the lark again cast his song into the sky.