Chapter LV: The Last Mile

There was a quiet percussion of soft shoes upon old fallen leaves as those riders who did not carry a light dismounted and stepped past the shoulders of their steeds. Long slender bows with arrows at the ready swept the circle, and bright blades glimmered. The corner of a green cloak swept out the flame of Torbeorn's candle as an Elf bent to pluck the knife from Aragorn's hand. Even if he had wished to resist the Ranger might have lacked the strength. His limbs were limp and his shoulders stooped, and there was a fearful lightness to his head as he drew in quick shallow breaths and tried to rally his wits. Nearby Gollum was still howling, and as three Elves drew in to surround him he sprang up and scurried along the rope to cower at Aragorn's side. He was bleeding from the claw-marks on his flank and on his arms, but his pale eyes were keen and wary and he shrank from the forest-guardians.

'What are we to make of this?' asked the one who had taken Aragorn's small weapon. He was turning it in his hand, looking at the blood-stained blade and the intricate tracery on the hilt. 'Knife of the Noldor in the hands of a Man, who is wandering unbidden on the secret path of our people with a strange little thing lashed to his wrist.' He stepped over Gollum and moved to look at the body of the he-lynx where it lay in a dark stain of blood. 'Hunting wild cats, are you?'

Aragorn wanted very much to protest that the cat had been hunting him. The Elf had spoken to him in the Common Tongue, and he longed to respond in Sindarin so that he might begin to prove himself a friend, but he could not find within him the capacity for any speech at all. Bile was rising in his throat and his sight was so obscured that the world about him was nothing but a blur of red firelight and indistinct shadows. Gollum's cries had dimmed to whimpers now, but at least it was evident that he yet lived.

'How did you find this road?' the Elf asked. 'Have you come through the forest before? What is your name, stranger, and what is your errand?'

Always these same impossible questions, Aragorn thought vaguely. There was a stinging pain low on the left side of his spine, but over his right shoulder-blade where the he-lynx had landed he felt nothing. Yet he felt the hot weight of blood-soaked wool against his back and the slow ineluctable tickle as the thin freshets crept past the border of his belt. If nothing else he had to ensure that these folk would guard his captive if he lost his grip upon the waking world. He had to speak somehow.

Out of the depths of his heart came one last burst of strength to form a careful answer. The words came out thick and slurred, almost unintelligible despite his greatest effort. 'I am a friend… to Gandalf the Grey. The creature is my prisoner, and my errand – my errand is known to your king.'

Swiftly the Elf came back and crouched, beckoning over his shoulder. A horse nickered softly as one of the torch-bearers dismounted and drew near, holding the light low. Gollum whimpered and crept around to Aragorn's right side where his shadow fell. Blinking dazedly in the brightness the Ranger could not quite bring the face before him into focus, but he knew that he was being scrutinized with care. Now, he thought wearily, would come the questions: endless impossible questions that he was too addled to answer safely. In the end he would have to err towards reticence which they would take for defiance, and he would be hauled as a prisoner to the Elven-king's halls. At least then he would be brought at last before Thranduil, who would surely recall all that had been arranged.

But the Elf before him frowned, indistinct features furrowing, and he shook his head in pained wonder. 'Not Aragorn Dúnadan, Lord of the West?' he asked. Long fingers reached to brush against the crest of the Ranger's cheekbone. 'I know the years wear hard upon mortals, but I had not looked for this.'

It was not the years, so much as these last bitter weeks, that had worn upon him; but Aragorn had not energy to make such corrections. 'Forgive me,' he mumbled, courtesy reflexive upon his heavy tongue; 'for I cannot recall how we have met before.'

The Elf laughed, the merry laugh of the woodland folk tempered a little with worry. 'Can you not? You insisted upon trying to escape my cells once, and could not do it. I am Losfaron, Captain of the King's Guard. When word came that a brace of strangers had crossed the stream I was sent with my comrades to investigate, but I did not think to find you. So many years have passed since the arrangements were made – can it be that you have found your quarry at last?'

Aragorn tried to nod, but this sent tendrils of fire across his back and made his head reel. 'I have,' he breathed. He gestured vaguely with one bloodied hand. 'This is the one I have sought for so long, who was to be given into your care.'

The captain stood and snapped his fingers. 'Water,' he commanded. 'What have we for bandages? Lord Aragorn is wounded. Bring the lights closer and lay by your bows. Alas that there is no healer among us,' he added, turning again to the bowed figure of the Man. 'Our scouts reported the travellers were weary but unscathed.'

'So we were,' whispered Aragorn. Someone offered him a water-skin and he reached for it, but his hands trembled and would not grasp.

'Here.' Losfaron knelt and cupped one hand at the base of Aragorn's neck, heedless of the unwashed hair matted with cobwebs and spider-blood. With the other he raised the skin gently to the man's lips and Aragorn drank, a long and greedy gulp that spread his ribs painfully but restored some order to his thoughts and his sight. He took an unsteady breath and drew another draught. He would have taken a third, but the vessel was withdrawn. 'Easy,' the captain said. 'Too much after the exertions of battle will turn your stomach.'

Already Aragorn could feel the stirrings of returning nausea, and he bowed his heavy head in acknowledgement of the other's wisdom. 'Thank you,' he murmured.

From his belt Losfaron took a small flask bound in gold. 'Take a sip of this too,' he said; 'but only a sip. It will ease your pains and lend you strength a while.'

He removed the stopper and tipped the bottle for the Ranger. He took a sparing mouthful of a sweet and warming liquor, like and yet unlike the miruvor of Imladris, for it was neither so rich nor so blessed. Like the orc-cordial that had borne him up during his hard descent from Torech Ungol, it dulled the aches of his body almost at once – but it was fair, not foul, and it seemed to ease his spirit also. Again he offered his quiet thanks and he reached to chafe a hand against his jaw like one awakened from hateful dreams to a tolerable reality.

An Elf-maiden drew near, strips of linen hastily torn from shirt-hems trailing from her fingers. 'What are your hurts, my lord?' she asked. 'Your back is black with blood.'

'That is the worst of it, I think,' said Aragorn. 'If you can fashion a pad to bind over it, so to stem the bleeding, I can wait to have a healer tend it. We are not far, I think, from your lord's halls?'

'The horses can bear us thither in a little more than an hour,' said Losfaron. 'We set out at sunset to look for you, but we did not expect to find you on this path, nor so soon. If you are well enough to keep a seat, we can be back within the cavern long ere the feast comes to its height.'

This remark brought several approving murmurs from the others, but Aragorn had no energy to spare to thoughts of feasts. Thoughts of food served only to trouble his unsettled stomach: he longed only for a safe and sheltered place to sleep, and perhaps something to ease his pain a little.

The Elf-maiden was folding several lengths of linen into a pad, and she looked to him for approval. 'Is this what is wanted?' she asked. 'I can bind up an arm or a leg at need, but a hurt such as this…'

'It will serve,' Aragorn said. 'Place it over my garments, and bind it in place across my chest.' She moved behind him and with a little more guidance affixed the dressing over the worst of the wound with two tight bands, one running over his shoulder and the other beneath both arms. The pressure of the cloth was deep and reassuring, but with his cote so sodden Aragorn could not tell whether the bleeding had stopped.

At once he realized that Gollum had fallen silent. Anxiously he whipped his head to the right, searching out the lean crumpled body beside him. 'My captive!' he cried. 'He is wounded: does he live?'

'Aye, he is breathing,' one of the archers said, looking down at the creature. 'Swooned away in terror from the looks of him. The scratches are not deep, and they've all but dried up. What manner of thing is it?'

'I do not know,' sighed Aragorn. He lacked the will and the strength to speculate upon Gollum's obvious hobbit-like features. Somehow he got his knees under him and reached to crawl to his prisoner's side. Losfaron stopped him with a firm but gentle hand.

'Bring the creature closer,' he commanded. Two of his lieutenants bent, disgust evident upon their faces, and picked up the limp form between them. Swiftly but gently they bore him around to Aragorn's left side in deference to the rope, and laid him down upon the ground. They withdrew with haste, scrubbing their hands upon their tunics.

Aragorn looked down at the withered form before him. Gollum's head was lolling to one side, but the sinews and the vertebrae of his neck were intact. There was a fine scratch across the side of his skull where the she-lynx had swiped at him, but it was shallow and already clotted. Similar marks, three or four lines in parallel, scored his arms here and there, and four nails were torn deep into their beds from his own violent scrabbling. The wounds on his flank were the deepest, but even these did not reach into the muscle and were bleeding only sluggishly. By rights he ought to have been mauled beyond recognition by the cat, and yet here he lay all but whole.

'There are two rolls of bandages in my pack,' Aragorn said as he felt Gollum's strong pulse with careful but unsteady fingers. 'Bring them and I will dress his side..'

'No,' said Losfaron. 'My folk can see to that. Do you think you are strong enough to ride, or shall we send to the palace for a litter?'

'I can ride,' said Aragorn softly, wondering if he spoke the truth; 'but my captive… I do not think he would suffer himself to be borne thus if he were awake, and I would not ask any horse to carry such a hateful burden. I cannot think they would accept it.'

'What then would you do? Carry him across your torn back? You look wan as a wight, my lord, with scarcely the strength to bear yourself. Shall our people guard him here until aid can be sent?'

'No!' cried Aragorn, far more sharply than he had intended or thought himself capable. 'No,' he said again, this time in a weary whisper. 'I will not have him out of my sight until he is locked safe within your dungeons. You do not know how sly and treacherous the wretch is. From the moment he wakes he will be a danger.'

Losfaron cast a slow doubtful look at Gollum, but he did not argue. 'Let us bind him hand and foot,' he said. 'We can wrap him in my cloak to obscure his scent, and I shall see if Moroch will consent to carry you both. She is a fearless steed and will surely wish to aid us as she can.'

He rose and went to the edge of the trees where a fleet-footed young mare was waiting. He stroked her neck and she bent to him, whinnying softly as he murmured to her. She followed him onto the path and picked her way past Aragorn's scattered possessions. She bowed her head to sniff at the Ranger's hair.

'Greetings, fair one,' he said. His exhaustion was rising again in a slow tide of agony. It seemed that there was not a muscle in his body that was not wracked with one pain or another. He could not think how he would manage to hoist himself up onto his crude crutch again and limp onward.

Moroch had paused at the sound of the Elven tongue from the mouth of this begrimed and bloodied man, but now she nuzzled the side of his neck with her nose and stamped one foot.

'Yes, my lovely,' said Losfaron patiently; 'but what of the other?'

He gestured to Gollum and Moroch stepped with care over Aragorn's outstretched leg. She bowed low and caught his scent, and instantly recoiled, ears flat and knees locked. She tossed her proud head and made a piteous sound. Then her master laid his hand upon her forelock and leaned to whisper words she alone could hear. He kissed her proud jaw and she turned to him with a low trilling query in her throat. Then she snorted and shook out her mane and turned to stand ready for mounting.

The Elves made swift work of binding Gollum with strips torn from Aragorn's blanket. His few belongings were gathered up, and the Elf-maiden fastened the cloak about his shoulders. Its weight would help to keep pressure on his wounds, and already Aragorn was beginning to shiver with the cold that came after intense exertion. He would not allow them to cut the tether that bound him to his captive, but was glad indeed when Gollum's stinking bones were rolled into the heavy cloth of the captain's cloak.

At last it was time to mount. Losfaron and one of the others took hold of Aragorn's arms and he managed to haul himself up onto his left foot. His right he kept aside, and he stared down at its distended mass beneath the knotted wool and the broken boot. Then he looked at the horse. She had neither saddle nor bridle.

'I did not think,' the captain said. 'Can you ride in our fashion?'

'I can,' said Aragorn; 'but I do not know if I can mount her. My ankle…'

With a small compliant nicker Moroch stretched out one forefoot and bent the other, kneeling low. Aragorn took the single hopping step that brought him to her side and swung his injured leg over her lowered withers. He settled upon her sturdy back, and the two Elves bent to lift the carefully-wrapped bundle out of which only Gollum's face – still strangely serene in his swoon – was peeping. The horse rose with them, so that the rope should not grow too taut, and the creature was settled before Aragorn with his belly bent across Moroch's shoulders. His covered legs hung by the Ranger's right thigh, and his heavy head by his left.

There was a flurry of swirling cloaks and dancing feet as the others mounted. Losfaron took the steed of one of his subordinates: the horseless Elf and another would remain behind to bury the body of the he-lynx and to make right the sullied portion of the path. Then the torch-bearers fell into formation and the little procession set off.

lar

The Elven horses moved swift and sure through the night, and Moroch was a steadfast and gentle steed. Aragorn sat upon her back in a haze of pain and wonderment. He could not quite bring himself to believe that the last dreaded miles were slipping away beneath his feet. His weary body rocked and swayed with the motion of the horse, and here his exhaustion proved a blessing for he did not need to think about relaxing his muscles to follow her movements: he had no strength to keep them rigid. Before him Gollum lay motionless for a while, and then stirred and tried to struggle. He was too tightly wrapped to make much headway, however, and he soon subsisted into a stiff resistance punctuated by the occasional retching sound deep within his throat. Aragorn rested one loosely curled fist upon the creature's spine, and he did not dare to voice his protestations.

The rhythm of Moroch's hooves was so smooth and so perfect that Aragorn found himself drifting on the border of sleep. His mind danced in shallow half-waking dreams and he knew nothing of his progress save that the torches still danced before him and behind him and beside, and now and then the faint silver shimmer of a beech-tree caught the light. When the mare's hooves clattered suddenly on stone he was startled back into the waking world to find that they were crossing the broad stone bridge that led up to the gates of Thranduil's subterranean palace. Beneath he could hear now the rush of swift waters, and about him the wood-elves were calling out cheerfully to one another. Only their captain, riding abreast of the Ranger with wary eyes upon him, was silent and watchful.

Before the great gates they halted, and other Elves came forth to greet them. Losfaron called out orders that Aragorn could not muster himself to attend, and there was much shuffling and laughter and wondering exclamations. The two who had lifted Gollum up came to hoist him down, and the unwieldy bundle writhed as unintelligible cries came from the creature's cloak.

'Hush!' snapped Aragorn, his patience breaking almost at once. He was exerting all of his energies to dismount with dignity, and he had no tolerance left for Gollum's whinging. Shifting his weight with care he slid down from Moroch's back, clutching the strong locks at the base of her mane to keep from sinking to his knees as his weary left leg trembled and his useless right one dangled. At his feet the Elves were unwrapping Gollum, and Losfaron's lieutenant sprang back with a cry as the sharp, sparse teeth snapped.

'Ai! It's as vicious as a viper!' he exclaimed.

Aragorn groped for the rope and yanked upon it with all the strength left in his arm. Gollum's body jerked and sprang free of the cloak with a harsh choking noise. He landed on the balls of his feet, crouching as if to do battle with flailing arms and clawing nails, then looked from one fair face to the other and bolted towards his captor. He shrank against Aragorn's leg, scratching at his left boot.

'Elves, terrible Elveses!' he wailed. 'Touches us, burns us, gollum! We'll be good, preciouss; we promise it! Ever so good, only don't let them touch us!'

Losfaron stood, mouth tight with distaste at the shrill sounds. 'How many miles have you walked with only that for company?' he asked.

Aragorn only shook his head and gave the rope a brisk crack. 'Silence,' he said hoarsely. Gollum's mouth snapped closed, but his scrabbling hands continued to worry at the Ranger's lame leg. He closed his eyes against a sickening ripple of pain and leaned more heavily against the horse.

The gates were opening now, slow and majestic. Someone came forward with a silver-headed pike, which Losfaron handed to Aragorn. 'Perhaps this will serve as a staff, at least for a few steps?' he asked. 'You may have my arm to lean upon if you will take it, but in your place…'

He gestured vaguely, but Aragorn understood and nodded. One soldier to another, they agreed upon this. It was far better to move under his own strength if he might, and he was almost certain that he could. Accustomed to the coarse bark of his makeshift stave, Aragorn's fingers slipped a little as they closed upon the smooth shaft of the spear, but it was stout and strong and he was able to shift his weight onto it with little difficulty. He disentangled his fingers from Moroch's mane and let his right hand bolster up his left. Deep in the bones of each he was still trembling, but he did not think that weakness visible. Only too glad to disrupt Gollum's worrying of his injured foot, he hobbled to the horse's head and reached to stroke the bridge of her nose.

'I thank you for carrying us, fair one,' he said. 'I know how tiresome the duty was, and I am grateful.'

She made a soft noise in acceptance of his thanks and then trotted off after the other horses. They disappeared from the globe of torchlight, and Aragorn set his eyes upon the gate. His steps were awkward and stilted, and he was forced to brace the pike against his shoulder despite the deep burning that came from the spider-bite as he did so, but it was under his own power that he moved between the angled pillars and under the great lintel. Into a passage lined in torches he was led, with Elves behind him and before and the captain close by his side. Gollum, looking wildly from side to side, and back and forward and up and all around, went slinking after him and did not dare to lag too far. Much though he loathed his captor, it seemed Aragorn's familiar antipathy was preferable to the bright eyes and laughing mouths of the wood-elves.

As they walked several of the party broke away, some to vanish down lesser passages and two swift runners sent at Losfaron's command to inform the king of the arrival of a long-awaited guest. The remaining guards hung back when they came at last to the great door that opened on the throne room, and Losfaron stepped forward to open the door.

Aragorn set his crutch before him and swung painfully over the threshold into the splendid cavern. Its vaulted ceiling was held aloft by pillars exquisitely carved of the living stone, and the polished walls were hung with tapestries and arrases of rich and beautiful colours. All the trees of the forest were represented in their turn in these woven pictures, and the great deeds of the king and of his long-departed father had been stitched in silken threads upon vast rippling canvases. There were statues of woodland creatures in the alcoves, their eyes of glittering gems, and the torches hung in silver brackets from the walls.

In the midst of all this richness like a monarch of old sat Thranduil upon his carven throne. He had been but lately summoned from his revels and could not have arrived in this room many minutes before the escort, and yet he sat tall and regal as though he had been waiting many hours. His raiment was of rich green velvet and cloth-of-gold, and upon his golden hair sat his winter crown of holly-berries and snowdrops. His expression was impassive and patrician as he raised his arm in greeting.

'Welcome, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Lord of the Dúnedain,' he said grandly. 'Long have I waited for the day when your pledge should be fulfilled and your quarry should be found. I have kept ready the lodgings that were arranged and—'

Suddenly the cool aloofness faded from the face of the Elven-king, and his brow furrowed. The wafting arm fell to grip the ornate wood of the chair and one foot in its jewelled slipper slid forward as he leaned to the edge of the throne. 'Are you wounded? Are you unwell?' he asked, anxiety apparent in his voice. 'What misfortune has befallen you? Alas that my realm is fraught with danger in these dark days!'

Aragorn took another swaying step into the hall. Gollum was sheltering now in a fold of his cloak, quaking and hiding his eyes from Thranduil. 'I have had some misfortune,' the Ranger said, wishing that his voice would not tremble so. 'I shall have need of care when my duty is discharged. Yet I have brought you the creature Gollum, as was long agreed.'

'So I see,' said Thranduil, rising to his feet and stepping down off of the dais. He tilted his head to one side, trying to catch better sight of the creature. 'Yet where is Gandalf? Did he not travel with you?'

'He did not,' said Aragorn; 'but word has been sent to him of my success.' His eyes drifted closed for a moment and he swallowed with some difficulty. 'I have hope that he will come as soon as the tidings reach him.'

'Well, you have done what you set out to do, however long it took you,' said Thranduil. 'And it seems that you have walked strange and wretched paths to do it. Let us take charge of the thing, that your hurts may be put right.'

Then Aragorn was seized by an abrupt and inexplicable reluctance. His fingers twitched as though they ached to let go of the stave that held him upright, that they might grasp the rope again. After journeying so many weeks in constant hope of this moment, he found that he did not wish to hand over his burden. It was no sympathy for Gollum and his fear of the Elves that bred this, for he had no sympathy left in him after these last miserable days. It was the anxious need to see the wretch secured; to know that he was watched and he was guarded and he could not escape. The constant twisting malice and scheming had taught Aragorn caution, but the wood-elves had none. Though there was no hope for Gollum of getting out past the enchanted gates, he might hide long and well in the labyrinthine caverns of these beautiful halls – and after all, there was another way out.

Losfaron was at his elbow, a shining knife drawn to cut the rope. Aragorn curled his right hand over the hated knot. 'With your leave, my lord, I would sooner see him to his quarters,' he said. 'Not until he is locked fast within your dungeons shall I be able to find my rest.'

Thranduil frowned. He was near at hand now, studying the Man's filthy and careworn face with grave eyes. 'You may not remember after all these years, Dúnadan, but the cell that was chosen is as deep and secret as any cavern in my palace. The way is long: a mile or more. Surely you would be wiser to lay by your cares and let the healers tend you.'

'When I have seen him safely imprisoned,' Aragorn said. He had the dim thought that his inherent obduracy was getting the better of his common sense, and then he was struck with the image of these twisting tunnels abuzz with anxious hunters looking for one wily little wretch in a place with thousands of dark and secret corners to hide in. He fixed the Elven-king with what he hoped was a firm and earnest eye. 'I have come so far; I can walk a little farther.'

And walk he did, though his left leg cramped and his right leg burned; though his arms ached to their marrow and the pains in his back grew deeper and more dreadful with every forward yard. Thranduil led the way and Aragorn followed him, Gollum whimpering and snivelling at his heels and Losfaron bringing up the rear. Through twisting and interlacing passages they walked, moving ever deeper within the hillside. The torches lit their way and the air remained pure, but to Aragorn the world grew close and dim as his body began to resist these miserable exertions. The Elven cordial had long ago worn off and he was struggling now just to keep himself upright. Yet despite his enervation and his pain and the hot waves of shivering illness that kept creeping up to drown him he pressed forward. This was the last mile of all his weary journey, and he meant to walk it himself.

As they had so many times on this bitter road, his thoughts turned to Bilbo. Turning another corner and passing through another sloping corridor he could well imagine his dear friend, alone and frightened and miserable, stumbling through these same passages to find his companions; stealing food where he could, snatching a few shallow minutes of sleep now and then, and managing despite everything to escape undetected with thirteen dwarves in tow. The image brought tired lips a faint twitching that wanted to be a smile, and with it the grim hope that Gollum would not prove half so resourceful as his old adversary.

At last Thranduil came to a heavy wooden door and gestured to his captain to come forward. Losfaron produced a heavy ring of keys from his belt and fingered through them until he found the one he wanted. He unlocked the door and led the way into a little guard-room. There was a table and a trio of chairs, a sideboard and a washbasin and an unlit charcoal brazier. The Elf took one of the waiting torches and stepped back into the tunnel to light it, then moved about to illuminate the room. Three more stout wooden doors opened off of it: each leading to a small cell furnished with a low wooden cot set with a straw pallet. The innermost one was indeed made ready for a prisoner. There was a blanket folded neatly on the simple bed, and a brass pot tucked into one corner.

'Here it is,' said Thranduil. 'You yourself have tested its impenetrability: you were satisfied then, and I trust you are satisfied now.'

Aragorn leaned heavily against the door of the cell and looked around, trying through the thickly brewing fog to make a proper assessment. 'Yes,' he said at last. 'It is all as we agreed.' He twitched an unsteady finger at the door to the corridor. 'Lock it. It must always be locked when the cell door is open, and the cell door must be locked when the other is not.'

Losfaron chuckled softly as he complied. 'I know well how to secure my prison,' he said.

'Your predecessor did not.' The words came out flat and cold, and Aragorn felt a flush of heat rising in his grey-hued cheeks. 'Your pardon, my lord,' he murmured. 'I did not intend…'

Thranduil waved him off. 'Think nothing of it,' he said. 'Thirteen dwarves hidden in empty barrels. We had a pretty time puzzling about how they managed it, and it will not occur again. While this thing bides with us there will be a constant watch kept on the water-gate, even as we will set one in this room. I fear that will be the more pleasant duty, with the store-rooms and the kitchens so near at hand, but we will find folk for both.'

'Now let me take him,' said Losfaron, coming forward and drawing his knife again. 'Your duty is ended, and mine only begun.'

Aragorn let his weight fall entirely upon the door and gripped the pike with his right hand as he held out his left. There was a glint of polished steel and a soft snick of severed rope, and the bond was cut. At once it seemed as if a millstone had been lifted from his back. Aragorn seized his improvised crutch and dragged himself hastily out of the way as Losfaron drove a writhing Gollum into the back corner of the cell. The creature let out a thin warbling shriek as the Elf knelt and sheared off the noose. The halter with its wrapping of rags fell to the ground; a broken crescent of useless fibre. Losfaron scooped it up and backed out into the guardroom, drawing the thick door closed. Deftly he turned a key in the lock and tried it. It was shut fast.

Awestruck relief like the ebbing of an all-consuming wave swept through Aragorn's body. It was over at last. His prisoner was secure – secure, and no longer his prisoner. The hateful toil was ended: others would take up the labour now. At last, at last he was relieved of his burden and he was free. He was free.

The last desperate shreds of strength vanished all at once from his body. His left knee trembled and buckled. He tried to brace himself with the pike, but his arms were quaking and his torn hands would not grasp. He felt himself falling, powerless to do anything to arrest his descent. Then a strong arm clad in rich fabrics slipped around his body: Thranduil, bearing him up with no thought for the blood still sticky on his garments, or the ingrained grime of his long road. Aragorn knew that he ought to be thankful, but the pressure of muscle and bone upon his battered right flank and the grip of a firm hand where the claw-marks burned with shallow torment was more than his spent constitution could bear. He did not cry out, but he felt his last tenuous hold on consciousness slipping from his grasp.

'Forgive me,' he mumbled vaguely. 'I cannot walk back.'

Then someone was bolstering up his other side, and his foot flapped dead and heavy against the stone floor, and in his right ear a low voice murmured; 'A little farther, Dúnadan. Only a little farther and you may rest.'

He felt the change in the air as they passed into a narrower room, and his knee struck something hard and unyielding, but before his torso was lowered onto the thin mattress he was lost to blessed oblivion.