Chapter XXXII: Guarded Rest

Aragorn awoke with a concussive start that ripped through his body and summoned a dozen pains from muscles driven too hard and too long and then left to grow cold and stiff. His mouth seemed plastered shut and he could not quite manage to open his eyes, but the terrible realization that he had fallen asleep, after all his desperate efforts to keep from doing so, seized him with intractable force.

His first frantic thought was that Gollum had escaped, and he tried to reach out with his right hand. It dragged the left with it, and the muscles of his shoulders protested – the right most of all. But curling between the soft cord that bound both his wrists was the coil of coarse orchish rope still knotted to his left. His fingers closed upon it and he twitched it, feeling the reassuring weight of his captive on the far end. Only then could he draw breath, laborious and uncomfortable against the curious pressure all down his right flank.

Dimly he realized that he had fallen asleep on his side.

It came back to him slowly as he fought the haze of drowsy dehydration and struggled again to lift his eyelids: the grim realization that he had pushed himself beyond the point where he might sleep safely in the Wild, even without a captive; the interminable days of trudging forward because he had no other choice; the mallorn-leaf in the wind and his last desperate push; the Galadhrim and their whistling arrow of warning. He tried to remember what he had said to them and they to him, but that was lost in the fog of exhaustion that he had still not entirely cast aside.

His left eye finally obeyed him and he found himself staring into the pale, unsettling orbs in his captive's gaunt face. Aragorn was lying curled on his right side and Gollum, bound at hand and foot and mouth and still tethered by the neck, was curled on his left. They were less than an armspan from one another, and the creature's foul scent was not entirely masked by the fragrance of the lately-fallen leaves cushioning the Ranger's aching body.

Aragorn tugged his hands up so that he could look at them. The twists of Elven rope were snug but not cruel; he might even have been able to work himself free of them given time, but of course no Man could outrun these guardians even if he wished. Awkwardly he got his elbow under him and pushed himself up a little. His bound legs felt as if they had been carved from stone and his effort to use them to sit failed quietly. With a soft grunt of discomfort he let his head fall back to the ground. He was not entirely certain that he wanted to sit up anyhow. Truly all that he wanted was to sleep again, but his thirst would not allow it. He tried to remember when water had last passed his lips, but he could not.

Two strong and slender hands closed on him from behind; one beneath each arm. Firmly they hoisted him, dragging his body a little so that his shoulders might be braced against the bole of the mallorn tree amid whose roots he had been sleeping. Startled but free from fear, Aragorn blinked to clear the fog from his sight.

The marchwarden named Aithron was crouched beside him, head tilted thoughtfully to one side. There were questions in his dark eyes, but he did not ask them. Instead, wordlessly, he held out a leather bottle worked all over with delicate silver tracings. The stopper had been removed and Aragorn was able to clutch it almost comfortably between his two hands. He raised it to his lips in defiance of the protesting muscles in his shoulders and back, and despite the urge to quaff down its entire contents took a single prudent swallow of the water within. He lowered the vessel into his lap determined not to overtax his thirsting body.

The Elf was watching him now with something like approval. The night was old around them, and the moonlight offered each a careful inspection of the other's face. Aragorn saw the smooth impassivity of a soldier who reveals nothing to a stranger whose allegiance is yet unknown. He could only imagine what Aithron saw: a haggard mortal visage deeply lined with the strains of the past dreadful weeks, unshorn, unshaven, filthy and pale. Hard grey eyes that had seen too many dark things for three lifetimes in little less the span of one. Cracked lips, prominent bones, fading bruises still evident upon the throat. In short, not a face that inspired trust.

He raised the bottle and drank again, more deeply this time. The water was cold, and clearer and sweeter than any he had tasted since passing through the Hithaeglir long months – had it only been months? – before. He let his heavy eyes close again and inhaled deeply through his nose. Neither his own stink nor that of his captive could taint the moment of bliss that came as he breathed the wholesome air of the Golden Wood. After so long wandering in darkness and desperation and even despair, he could scarcely believe that he had reached this hidden haven.

The Elf-captain was still watching him, now with a faint furrow to his brow. It was plain that he did not quite know what to make of his prisoner. Aragorn took another long quaff from the bottle and tilted his hands awkwardly so that he might dab the back of his right to his mouth.

'Thank you,' he said in the tongue of the Galadhrim. He tried to smile, but his weary lips trembled and failed him. He hoped that his earnest intent showed clearly in his eyes despite the tricks of the moonlight.

Aithron nodded curtly. 'What of your own prisoner?' he asked.

Aragorn looked down at Gollum, still immobile by his side. The pale eyes glowed with hatred.

'I do not know if he would take your drink,' he said; 'but we might try. Only have a care—'

'—he bites,' the Elf finished, something almost like amusement flickering across his face. 'So you have said.'

Without rising off of his heels he skirted deftly and almost silently around Aragorn and reached out for the knotted rag behind Gollum's head. Instantly the creature shrank from his touch, and from beneath the gag came muffled shrieks. Aithron's lips tightened in irritation and he moved as if to seize the creature.

'Do not,' Aragorn said. His concern was twofold. He did not want this sentry to fall afoul of his prisoner, certainly, but the truth was that he felt uneasy about subjecting Gollum to handling by one who so clearly terrified and revolted him. With the burden of the captor came also a certain duty of care. The Elf appeared to understand that, for he drew back his hands and left Gollum to writhe fruitlessly among the golden leaves.

'I might try, if you would see fit to free my hands for a minute or two,' the Dúnadan offered.

Instantly Aithron was on the alert again. His lip curled disdainfully. 'I was not found amid the niphredil this morning, Secondborn,' he said coldly. 'I will not loose your bonds for any reason until I receive word as to what is to be done with you.'

Aragorn almost laughed at his own stupidity. Certainly that had sounded like a ploy to escape the ropes; in the marchwarden's place he would have been equally suspicious. 'Word from whom?' he asked, not quite daring to hope.

'From the Lord and Lady of this realm,' he replied coolly. 'It is for them to decide your fate, not I.'

The Ranger looked down at the vessel in his lap. 'And yet you have allowed me to rest peaceably, and you have given me water,' he said softly. He should have expected no less of the Eldar, but after his recent travails it seemed wondrous, indeed nigh impossible, to be treated with even this much care and courtesy.

'You may have food as well if you wish it,' the Elf said, almost indifferently. He raised his hand as if to signal to one of his comrades, but Aragorn shook his head.

'Not now, I thank you,' he said. He raised the flagon with care and drank again, this time draining it. 'Now I would sleep again, if I may. The night is not spent and I am weary.'

Aithron helped him away from the tree's broad trunk and Aragorn stretched out on his back. He would have liked to tuck his hands behind his head, but knew better than to suggest it. In any case, he reflected as the bare branches above began to dance and blur in his fading sight, his aching shoulders would have protested the motion.

He was all but lost to slumber when he felt something – cloak or blanket he could not say – being draped carefully over his long form.

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He slept through the night and on into the following day. Now and then he woke briefly, and each time one of the four Galadhrim was at hand to offer him water. Of the lady Calmiel he saw no sign. He supposed it had been she who had been sent to Caras Galadhon for instructions. Perhaps she had intended to plead his case, but he had no need of that. His name and his quest were known to Lady Galadriel, and Aragorn did not doubt that word would be sent that he was to be allowed to continue unharried.

Not until he opened his eyes to the gathering twilight, his thoughts clear for the first time in many days, did he realize that he had not given the sentries his right name. Then he lay still, half-dozing even as he strained to remember whether Galadriel would know him by his childhood epithet. He had roamed in her land for a brief blessed season long ago, and during that time had been treated as an honoured guest and closest kindred, but in all those merry spring days had they spoken of the name bestowed upon him by Lord Elrond when he was brought – scarcely more than a babe in arms – into his house? He did not think so, and the thought left him uneasy in his mind.

He knew he had nothing to fear from the Galadhrim, even if he was not at once recognized. At worst there would be a delay of a day or two while the misunderstanding was explained and his exhausted obduracy excused. Yet it was the delay that worried him. This day he did not count lost, and even if it took another for word to come from the city he would take it and be glad… but beyond that he could not tarry. He had not shaken off the fear of pursuit, and he was not at all convinced that the fire he had seen in the sky some nights before was a simple coincidence. It seemed more likely that it had been laid by a band set forth to hunt for him and his ill-starred prisoner. If that was the case then he would be running a deadly race to the Carrock, and with many hundreds of miles of winterland before him he could not be certain of winning.

Yet even this worry could not keep him long in the waking world, and he slipped away once more.

lar

The stars were bright amid the bare branches when he woke at last to the feeling that he might be able tostay awake. With some undignified wriggling that sent up cramps of protest in his long-dormant legs he managed to sit, the blanket tangled across his lap. Gollum was still lying at the end of his tether, and he was asleep at last. It was an uneasy sleep, however, for he twitched and snuffled and whimpered behind his gag, and amid the careful bindings his fingers writhed. Watching the hollowed eyes jump and skitter beneath papery lids, Aragorn could only wonder at the dark dreams that were visiting the creature in this most serene of waystations.

A silvery ladder whispered down from a tree some yards away, and after a moment one of the Galadhrim began to descend from the flet that Aragorn had not noticed until this moment. He was climbing one-handed: in the other he held a shallow round basket. As he approached the enticing scent of Elven bread reached Aragorn's nostrils. His stomach cramped painfully almost at once, and by the time the watcher reached him his mouth was glutted with spittle. He swallowed awkwardly, but it flooded back.

'Aithron has ordered that you are to be fed,' the Elf said levelly, sitting cross legged beside the Ranger and setting the basket between them. Aragorn saw that in addition to the half-loaf there was a helping of hazelnuts, ready-shelled, and an assortment of winter fruits such as grew only in the orchards of the Galadhrim. 'If you are not inclined to eat I must compel you.'

'Not inclined to eat!' A harsh barking sound that was evidently meant to be a laugh tore free of Aragorn's throat. His warden looked at him sharply, startled by the noise. The Ranger smiled a little and shook his head. 'I have not seen such fare since…' The words trailed off as he struggled to remember.

The Elf looked relieved. He had a flagon of water slung over his shoulder and he removed the stopper and set it next to the basket. 'Eat, then,' he said, settling back to watch.

Aragorn reached out with his bound hands and clumsily tore of a piece of bread. Conscious for the first time in many weeks of his dignity, he restrained himself from gobbling like a starving troll. Instead he managed a temperate bite, and was immediately lost in an almost indescribable rapture of pleasure. The bread was soft against his palate, faintly sweet and lightly salted. It tasted of summer sunshine captured in a single moment of glory, rich and nourishing and clean. He had scarcely swallowed the first bite when his teeth were tearing off a second. This one he savoured slowly, chewing with care and trying to trap each tiny flavour in his memory.

After that he took a few nuts and a small piece of fruit, its bright rind already peeled back so that he did not have to fumble too inelegantly with it. The tart syrupy juice tasted as foreign on his tongue as any strange concoction he had tasted in Rhûn or Harad, so long had it been since he had come across such food. Then he helped himself to another hunk of bread, but this time could only take one bite before his stomach protested its fullness. Reluctantly he laid down the rest. He might have had hope of trying again in a few minutes' time, but he did not think it would be wise. He would be out in the wilds again on short commons soon enough, and if he strained his capacity now he would only have to suffer through the hunger-pangs in force again later. He took the vessel of water and drank.

'What manner of creature is it?' the Elf asked softly. He was still staring at Gollum, bewilderment and ill-concealed disgust upon his face. 'Is it a dwarf stricken with some terrible sickness that has worn it to the bone and made its beard fall out?'

Aragorn shook his head. 'I do not know precisely,' he said; 'but he is not a dwarf: of that at least I am certain. He is something like a hobbit, or at least he is not wholly unlike a hobbit in appearance and in the tracks he leaves.' He did not add that in demeanour and disposition Gollum could not have been more unlike a hobbit, but that was how he had thought of his quarry during all the years of hunting him unseen.

His guardian cast him a puzzled look. "And what is a hobbit?' he asked.

It was not an unfair question, Aragorn realized. The Galadhrim were isolated in their land of peace and plenty, and in any case the Shire was nigh on a thousand miles distant from their westernmost border. Hobbits themselves seldom roamed far from their homes, and even Bilbo Baggins – the greatest of adventurers by hobbit standards – had never ranged so far to the South.

'A fair little folk,' he said. 'They dwell near the Grey Mountains, not quite upon the border of Lindon and Eriador. They are merry, great lovers of song and food, sowers of beautiful gardens. And for all their innocence they are courageous at need, or so I have found.'

The Elf's long gaze settled once more on Gollum and he curled his lip. 'Then it seems this creature is nothing like them at all,' he said.

Aragorn tried to gesture helplessly. With his wrists bound his aim went awry and he feared his point was lost, but it mattered little enough.

'And why would you travel in the company of such a thing?' asked the Elf. 'To be sure you are scarcely a portrait of delicacy yourself, but—'

He realized what he had said even before Aragorn had raised a sardonic eyebrow, and cast his eyes away abashed. 'I did not… it is only… do mortals never bathe?'

It was so like the tactless remarks of the folk of Bree-land that Aragorn very nearly bit down on his tongue to stop the acerbic remark that wanted to burst forth. He had to remind himself that he was, at least for the moment, the prisoner of these marchwardens, and if they were inclined to taunt him it was only their due – and nothing that he might not have expected.

'They do,' he said, meekly enough; 'but it is difficult to find the means to do it properly in the empty lands of Eastemnet or on the slopes of the Emyn Muil or amid the meres of Dagorlad.'

The shining eyes went wide and the Elf's jaw slackened a little so that he looked remarkably like some bright golden fish cast suddenly into the bottom of a fisherman's coracle. 'You have walked the plains of Dagorlad?' he whispered in frightened awe.

'There is little enough of the plain remaining in these late days,' Aragorn said; 'but that was indeed my road. I have travelled far to fulfil my promise to Mithrandir, and my journey is not yet half-finished. Perhaps then I may be forgiven for neglecting such luxuries as bathing.'

The mention of such things was raising a creeping itch over much of his skin: beneath his arms and across his scalp and up and down his spine and, strangely, in the hollow behind each knee. Hands hampered as they were he was powerless to do anything constructive about it. He resisted the urge to squirm inside his grimy clothing, for he knew it would avail him nothing. Still the Elf seemed to sense his discomfiture, for he made a small apologetic motion with one slender hand.

'Perhaps when your travels are ended?' he asked.

The thought of enduring another four hundred miles or more in this state increased the longing to scratch tenfold. All that saved him from madness was the half-hysterical thought that if the time ever did come that his travels were well and truly ended, he would bathe thrice a day. At the moment, however, if he could not wash at least he wanted to stop talking about it. In the hope that silence might serve to communicate this point, he reached for the water and took another savouring swallow.

The Elf cast an eye on the basket of victuals and frowned. 'Is that all you intend to eat?' he asked.

Aragorn's stomach was still straining to accommodate what he had taken and he nodded. 'At present,' he said. With his exhaustion eased and his throat wetted and his belly satisfied he was becoming aware of another need neglected through the long hours of leaden slumber.

When he made mention of it to his guard the Elf's brow furrowed. 'I cannot unbind your hands,' he said, almost regretfully; 'but if you wish to withdraw apace I can sever you from your… from the… from that…' He wafted his hand at Gollum.

Without thought Aragorn's left hand closed on the coarse rope still running across his palm. 'No!' he said, more emphatically than he had intended. He might trust his life to these faithful sentries of the Golden Wood, but he was not prepared to entrust them with his prisoner. At first he could not think why, but it came to him soon enough. They did not believe that Gollum was a threat. Despite his warning that the creature was wont to bite, they thought of him as a harmless – if repulsive – trespasser. So indeed he looked now, trussed up in rags and curled upon his side, mewling uneasily in his sleep, but Aragorn knew that was only an illusion and the Galadhrim did not. He could not be separated from his hard-won prize even for the minute or two it would take to relieve himself.

Therefore he took care of the matter as best he could without loosing the halter or waking his prisoner while his own jailor politely strode a small distance away and averted his eyes. The most difficult part of the proceedings was the arranging of his garments afterward, for his bound hands hampered him and his cote and hose were rent into ragged straggles that tangled about his fingers – still chilled in the winter night. In the end he accomplished it, however, and managed to creep awkwardly back to the place he had lain before. The blanket was crumpled amid the leaves where he had abandoned it, and with three awkward snaps of his bound wrists he managed to spread it across his legs from the top of his boots to his loosely drooping belt.

As he eased himself first onto his elbow and then onto his back a sharp, knotting cramp seized his right thigh where the spider-claw had riven it so many long days ago in the foul passages of Torech Ungol. He closed his eyes and locked his jaw as the pain rippled up into his hip and down to his knee and up again. His ankles jerked involuntarily, battered boots chafing against one another beneath the circlet of Elven rope. With a hot burst of will he commanded them to be still. His feet obeyed, but the long rebellious muscles in his shank would not. He could do no more than lie there, forcing slow and steady breaths as he rode the waves of this latest trial.

In the end, of course, it ceased, and the leg that had been first driven past its limits of endurance and then left to knot and stiffen all day while he slept and finally subjected to the difficult task of moving as one with its partner gave up its protestations. Aragorn let his jaw untangle, panting shallowly now. He was used to such things, though not ordinarily complicated by a deep and newly-knit scar, yet somehow he could never quite master them. A trickle of perspiration ran along his left temple and into his ear and he reached to wick it away. A warning quiver along his right scapula stopped him, and he tried instead to ignore the crawling tickle.

He opened his eyes again and saw his warden standing over him, doubt writ across the smooth brow.

'This duty does not suit you,' Aragorn observed with the eyes of a captain. 'If you cannot stomach your prisoner's discomfort then you are not fit to keep prisoners.'

'And can you stomach that thing's discomfort?' the Elf asked. His tone was hard but his eyes betrayed his unease and uncertainty.

Aragorn turned his head a little so that he could see the emaciated shape with its great head. The nimble fingers were still encased in windings torn from his cloak, but as he looked at them the bruises on his neck began to burn again as they had not in days. 'Yes,' he said, and he knew his eyes were cold.

The watcher pursed his lips in a distaste no longer meant wholly for Gollum. It was the look of one who has led a life sheltered from the ugly struggle for survival that the West had been quietly waging for years uncounted. Sheltered, Aragorn thought, by himself and others like him. It was the look of one who could not comprehend the peril in which this vagabond had come with his deadly baggage in tow, and who could not imagine what still lay ahead. It was the look of ignorance, somehow easier to bear from the uneducated men of Bree than it was from one of elder race who dwelt on the very cusp of the coming storm.

'I would sleep,' he said hollowly, jerking one shoulder forward and the other back in an attempt to make himself comfortable despite his bonds. 'Leave me be.'