Chapter 12 - ‘Ware A Hobbit Throwing Stones

Dawn was still an hour away, although the eastern horizon held the first hints of sunrise. Denlad smiled as he looked at the three sleeping men... or rather two sleeping men and one softly snoring hobbit. Aragorn was sandwiched between Halbarad and Ferdinand. Halbarad had his hand on Aragorn’s left arm, and Ferdinand was curled in a ball with his back against Aragorn’s right arm. Valar help Aragorn if he wanted to roll over, but there was no doubt he was very safely guarded on all sides.

Denlad carefully stepped around all three to kneel by Halbarad’s side. He touched Halbarad’s shoulder lightly. When Halbarad’s eyes immediately opened, Denlad jerked his head toward the fire. Halbarad sat up, blinking and yawning, then climbed to his feet. He glanced at Aragorn, saw Ferdinand and shot a questioning glance at Denlad.

"He’s following your lead," Denlad whispered.

"As should you," Halbarad said in equally quiet tones. "Sleep on my bedroll beside Aragorn. I do not want him exposed to any dangers from the bushes."

"Tempting as that is, considering how much nicer your blankets are than mine, I’ll have to decline. Horsemen approach, from the Road."

"Eledh?"

"The morn is too dark yet for seeing, but that would be my guess, yes."

"It’s so dark they may not spot my cairn, although I used white stones. I’ll go meet them and lead them in–and make sure that it is truly our men and not more Southrons." He started to move away, then looked back. "And thank you for letting me sleep."

"It was nothing. I still have the stamina of youth, whereas you..." He shrugged eloquently and then laughed as Halbarad scowled at him before slipping into the trees.

Aragorn coughed, then winced and opened his eyes in time to see Halbarad disappear. "What’s happening?"

"I hope reinforcements have arrived," Denlad said. "If not, then we may instead have another battle on our hands."

"Valar forbid," Aragorn muttered. He started to sit up but stopped and, like Halbarad, stared at Ferdinand. "What in the world–"

"I deem it a pint-sized bodyguard," Denlad said.

Aragorn edged carefully away from Ferdinand and pushed himself upright with much more ease than he had the evening before. Ferdinand muttered something and, without waking, scooted back until he was again pressed up against Aragorn.

Denlad grinned. "A very tenacious pint-sized bodyguard."

"Or perhaps more likely he is merely cold." Aragorn gently moved the blanket off himself and onto Ferdinand, who mumbled something, rolled onto his back, and resumed his soft snores. Aragorn tossed a knowing smile at Denlad, then gathered his legs underneath him.

Denlad watched him uncertainly.  "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"Quite sure.  I am tired of having every need attended to in full view of everyone."  His eyes held a grim light.  "I desire privacy.  Greatly."

Denlad hid a smile as he silently offered his arm and Aragorn hauled himself to his feet. He swayed for a moment, still gripping Denlad's arm. 

"Aragorn?"

"A moment," Aragorn said, frowing in concentration as he stared at the ground.  He finally took a careful breath and nodded.  He released Denlad's arm. "I was dizzy, but it passed.  I'm better. Much better."

"I’m glad to see you on your feet. Surprised, but glad."

"Just don't tell Halbarad I'm up."

"I won't, if you promise not to collapse and tear everything loose again."

"No fear of that."  He took a step toward the bushes, then glanced back.  "I tend to be a quick healer."

"As long as no Wraiths are involved?"

Aragorn’s smile flashed in the dim light, but he said nothing. He moved off slowly and carefully into the bushes, and Denlad walked to the fire. He wished he might catch a bit of sleep, for all jests aside, he was unutterably weary and more than a bit cross, but Eledh and whoever he brought with him would no doubt be hungry. Denlad stirred the coals a bit, adding some wood to coax enough heat for cooking and then set the iron spider over them to warm.

He held his hands out to the fire. The pre-dawn hours always held a chill that, no matter how warm the summer, Denlad never felt eased until the sun was fully up. He had no real fear of the night, but still, he was always one to look to the sun with relief when it finally climbed above the horizon to push away the darkness. He edged a bit closer to the fire, but kept his gaze away from the flames as much as he could, to preserve his night vision. There was a bit of a rustling noise in the bushes where Aragorn had disappeared.  Denlad wondered if he should go help him. Quick healer he may be, but it was after all only yesterday that his fever broke.  But he remembered the look in Aragorn's eyes and figured he would be granting Aragorn no favors by intruding.  If he needed help, he would call out.

Still, he kept an eye on the bushes where he expected Aragorn to return.  The night was quiet, and the shadows seemed to hold little threat...

So it came as a mystifying surprise when a spot between his shoulder blades suddenly tightened.

He spun on his heels to cast a quick glance behind him. Nothing. The shadows were still, the leaves and trees quiet except for the random rustling of small night-hunting animals. He watched, intent but keeping his eyes almost unfocused so he might catch any hint of movement in the dark. The leaves stirred gently, whispering to one another in their secret way, and a soft breeze caressed his cheek, then strengthened enough to lift his hair from his brow and blow it back. He glanced up at the stars. Gil-Estel sailed low on the eastern horizon, and Eärendil gazed upon the earth through a lacy veil of thin clouds coming in from the west. Storms moving in, from the feel of the wind. He breathed deep, but suddenly grimaced. He was expecting the freshness of midsummer and perhaps the metallic tang of approaching rain, but there was another odor, a hint there and gone so quickly he could not place it, but it immediately conjured a memory of healing wards, and sickness, and fouled wounds.

It could not be Aragorn... his wound was not infected, and the wind did not come from that direction. He glanced around the camp but saw no forgotten bandages. He knew he had burned them as he changed them; it was his habit, wrought by tending far too many wounded men. There was no diminishing the importance of keeping a sickroom clean, even one out in the wilds on the dirt beside a fire. He remained motionless, tense, letting the air drift across him. The smell did not return.

Likely it was merely some hapless animal that died out in the woods.

He shrugged then, putting off the unwarranted trepidation to an overactive imagination and too many long days on edge. He turned from shapeless fears to a more tangible problem: the fire, which stubbornly refused to stay well lit. Aggravated, he leaned down and put another log on it, then stirred it some more. At this rate, breakfast would need be served cold if they wanted to eat before noon. A coal suddenly popped and a burning fragment landed in a fold on his shirt. He hopped up with a mumbled curse and brushed it away before it could set his last shirt on fire.

The move saved his life.

First came a hiss from behind, then pain sliced hot across his leg, and an arrow embedded itself in one of the burning logs. With a startled cry, he dove and rolled into the bushes beyond the campsite. Denlad glanced down at his leg and saw a tear in his leggings, and a narrow trace of blood across the skin of his upper thigh. Nothing more than a scratch, thank the Valar. But even as he looked back up, another arrow sped past his head to thunk quivering in the tree trunk beside him. "Ferdinand! Get in the bushes!  Strider, stay where you are!"

Ferdinand stirred, and Denlad had a glimpse of wide eyes before Ferdinand slithered out from the blankets and under the nearest bush.

Knowing despite his call that Aragorn would be moving to affect his own attack, Denlad concentrated his efforts on finding the hidden archer. Staying on his belly, he scooted as quietly as he could to the left, working toward the archer, trying to avoid shaking any bushes and giving away his position. He reached a small boulder, and throwing himself behind its scant cover, he eased his head around to look for his unknown attacker.

First he looked toward the camp, but saw nothing but the now cheerfully burning fire. Of Ferdinand there was no sign, nor of Aragorn. Of Aragorn he had no worries, but Ferdinand... who knows what the hobbit might do. "Stay hidden, Ferdinand," Denlad whispered. "For Valar’s sake, stay hidden."

After a long moment of tense silence in which nothing moved, he chanced to ease away from his sheltering rock. He tried to plumb the shadows, but with no moon, their inky depths held tight to their secrets. He climbed to his feet and, drawing his sword, sprinted through an opening in the brush, still moving to his left, hoping to circle round and find the hidden assassin. He vaguely wondered how far away Halbarad was, and if he heard all his shouting and crashing about, but he could not rely on Halbarad’s timely return. Denlad kept pushing on, every muscle tense, expecting at any moment to feel the deadly thump of an arrow burying itself in his flesh. He was in shadows, but still... a stray glint of firelight on his sword would be all the target a good archer needed.

He slowed, knowing that unless the archer had moved, he had to be just ahead. He wondered at that, for surely the archer had to have heard him blundering through the trees. Likely the archer was moving away from Denlad and toward Aragorn.

Who could this man be? An orc? Or...

He remembered the whiff of foul odor, the memory of suppurating wounds, and a dreadful thought wormed into his mind. "No, surely it cannot be," Denlad breathed, then quickened his pace, knowing he was making far too much noise but if it drew the archer back toward him and away from Ferdinand and Aragorn, so much the better.

He came around at last to where the archer’s original position likely had been. Sight was nearly useless, so he felt with his hand. He could not be sure, but it seemed there was an area of flattened leaves, perhaps where the man’s knee had rested. Then he felt something wet. He pulled his hand to his nose. Blood. The man was injured, then, which knowledge only made the knot of dread tighten.

How could I have been so foolish...

Licking his lips, he continued on, following more quietly now. He stopped and listened but heard nothing.

He came up on a group of three trees, grown so close together that their bases had fused into one large trunk. He squatted behind it and peered around one of the boles and finally saw his man, outlined in the firelight, and his fears were confirmed.

It was the Southron he had stabbed and left for dead.

How he had survived, Denlad could not begin to guess, but he cursed himself for not having finished him off when he had the opportunity. No matter, though, for the man was before him now, and even as Denlad watched, he eased his bow upward, aiming toward an unseen target.

With no time to think of the consequences, Denlad leapt out from the tree. "Hey!" he cried, and was simultaneously exultant and terrified when the archer spun and loosed the arrow.

Denlad ducked but the arrow hit high on his left shoulder, the force of it knocking him backwards. He lost his footing and crashed back against the tree. Curiously, there was little pain. He shoved himself upright to try to rush the archer, but pain or no, his legs suddenly wanted little to do with answering him. He dropped to one knee and looked up to see the archer nock another arrow to the string.

Just as he was considering a desperate spear-like throw of his sword, Ferdinand stepped out from the bushes. In his hand was a stone, and quicker than Denlad’s eye could follow, he whipped his arm back and flung the stone at the archer. It hit the back of the man’s head with a sickening thump, and the archer’s arms went slack. The bow fell from lifeless fingers and the man slumped to the ground atop it.

Denlad stared, too numb to speak. Aragorn stepped from the trees, his sword in hand. He pressed it against the man’s neck, and when the man did not stir, knelt and felt for a pulse. "He’s dead."

Denlad tried to speak, to call out "well done" to the doughty hobbit, but pain suddenly consumed him. He felt hot, then cold, then terribly sick. Not bothering to stifle a long groan, he slowly eased himself to the ground and rolled over on his back, trying hard to keep from looking at the shaft sticking out of his shoulder.

He heard startled cries, then, and footsteps. From far away, Aragorn called his name, and then worried grey eyes looked down at him. Hands touched him, Ferdinand's small one grasping his and Aragorn's hands gentle but still lighting a fire of agony in his shoulder. He cried out, and somewhere in his cry he heard a soothing deep voice, murmuring encouragement, and then he heard nothing at all.

--o0o0o--

"Where did you learn to throw stones like that?" Denlad asked. He was sitting beside Aragorn, leaning against a large boulder that Halbarad had dubbed the Rock of Healing, since, he grumbled, they had no House of Healing, despite desperately needing one with the way everyone was dropping like Easterlings before Tuor. As Denlad understood it from Ferdinand’s account, Halbarad had not been happy to return to camp with Eledh and Galadh only to find that the Southron he had thought surely was dead had detoured from his journey to the Halls of Mandos to try to take Denlad and Aragorn along for company. Denlad had been unconscious throughout his stomping tirade, for which he was grateful. It was almost worth an arrow wound to be spared Halbarad’s tongue lashing for not having killed that Southron. Denlad was giving himself plenty of lashings. He didn’t need more from Halbarad.

Self-recriminations notwithstanding, Denlad was recovering well for having had a few days’ rest, though he was by no means ready to tackle any enemies. He shifted his arm in its sling and tried to ignore the throbbing in his left shoulder. Aside from the wound itself and a bloody great bruise blackening the side of his neck, shoulder and upper arm, he was no worse for wear, although try to tell that to Aragorn, who seemed bent on keeping him flat on his back for an entire week. But no, he was well on the road to recovering, in no need of constant bedrest. And more importantly, he needed to satisfy his curiousity about Ferdinand’s stone-throwing prowess.

Ferdinand seemed not to have heard him, so he repeated his question, "Ferdinand, who taught you to fling stones with such deadly accuracy?"

Ferdinand shrugged. "Every good hobbit can shy a stone. We learn it as children, catching rabbits or squirrels or scaring off crows. And he was a far bigger target than the rabbits I usually catch that way. Impossible to miss, really, that big and close."

" ’Ware a hobbit throwing stones," Halbarad smiled from where he was stretched out in indolent ease alongside the fire, between Aragorn and Eledh, relaxed now that it appeared everyone would live.  With Galadh on watch and Eledh's bow adding to their strength, Denlad had to admit he felt more at east himself.     

"I for one am glad that you’re as handy with those stones as Strider tells me you are with everything else," Eledh said. After he and Galadh had arrived, with horses, they had taken over the watches, and apparently some of the nursing duties. Denlad had awakened at one point to find Eledh sitting beside him, keeping watch over him. Denlad had felt such an overwhelming relief that help had finally arrived that he had promptly fallen back asleep, not waking until the next morning.

"As am I grateful," Denlad said fervently. "Had that Southron had time to sling another arrow at me, it might have hit more than just muscle. I’m not sure we can afford to turn you loose, Master Hobbit. Saving Rangers is a rare talent among hobbits, and one I’m not sure we can easily deny ourselves."

"But deny ourselves we must," Aragorn said. His voice was strong again, and he was eating and drinking and showing every good sign of recovery well in hand. Though his face was still a bit wan and sported several large black bruises, the swelling was gone. "Ferdinand, you belong in the Shire, with your people. It is too dangerous out in the wilds, and it will only grow still more perilous as each dark day passes. I’ve a feeling the Shire will need your services far more than we will, much as we appreciate all you’ve done."

Ferdinand blushed at the praise, but his eyes were sad. "I would far rather follow you men. But I suppose I cannot. One small hobbit likely cannot save the world, after all."

Denlad looked across the fire at Ferdinand, who looked more than a bit forlorn, and gave him a gentle smile. "No, it does not seem likely, does it? But who knows what strange turns fate may take. The doom of Middle-earth may yet be decided by one so small but doughty as you."

Ferdinand tried to smile, but it failed to reach his eyes. Denlad and the rest of the men fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts, until finally Aragorn stirred. "Enough of this melancholy! We are all alive and more or less whole, if not still a bit pummeled and punctured. Let us save worrying over the end of the world for another hour. What we need now is music! I haven’t the breath yet for song, but what say you, Ferdinand? Have you a song for us?"

A spark finally shimmered in the little hobbit’s eyes. "Ah, a song. Yes, I do believe I can come up with something. Let me think...." He tapped his chin, staring at the gathering night. He took a breath, then began softly:

"Home is behind, the world ahead,

And there are many paths to tread

Through shadows to the edge of night,

Until the stars are all alight..."*

His voice trailed, then he gave a funny little laugh, a wistful sound that gave Denlad a queer sort of ache in his chest. "I suppose I shall have to leave the world behind and get back to my home and bed now."

Denlad heard Aragorn release the softest of small sighs, then he walked over to Ferdinand. He slowly bent to one knee–recovering he may be, but Denlad could tell his wounds still pained him–and looked Ferdinand eye to eye. "Do not let your heart be heavy, dear friend. You have shown us your very high quality, and few have such opportunities in life to stand up and count for something as you have done. Should you do nothing more than return home to farm quietly in your Shire for the rest of your days, what you have done for me, and my men, is no small legacy."

Ferdinand looked at Aragorn for a long moment, then looked at Denlad and Halbarad and finally, with a bit more shyness, at Eledh. Then he looked back at Aragorn and it seemed to Denlad that his countenance was suddenly like the clearing sky after a rain. "Right you are, young man!" he cried. "Go you sit yourself down, and I will see what I can come up with that’s worthy of such fine men’s fire."

After Aragorn settled himself with a small grunt, Denlad leaned over and whispered, "That is why you are Chieftain and I am not. You found the words to cheer him when I could only offer empty platitudes."

"Is that the only reason why you are not in charge? Because I can cheer up woebegone Shirelings and you cannot?"

Denlad thought for a moment, then winked. "The only one I can think of."

Aragorn chuckled but any retort he may have had he kept to himself, for Ferdinand had picked up his spoon and was banging a beat on his spider. He paused the spoon. "A song, then, my friends, and one better suited to the occasion, for it is nigh suppertime, and I for one am feeling a bit peckish. Here we go then!" He resumed the beat and began:

"Fancy it roasted, fancy it toasted,

Fancy it served on a platter

Drink a good ale, sing a good tale..."

Aragorn threw back his head and laughed, then joined in, "A song of the heroes that mattered!" The men all gave a cheer, and Ferdinand blushed and waved a deprecating hand as he went back to preparing their supper.

Aragorn watched him, a smile still playing about his lips. "You are a hero, Master Hobbit," he whispered. "A hero indeed."

_______________

*From The Fellowship of the Ring, "Three is Company".