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A Long and Weary Way  by Canafinwe

Chapter LXVI: Prospects of Healing

Gandalf did not break his fast in the Ranger’s room the next morning, and so Aragorn overslept himself. When he awoke it was to a parched throat and crusted eyes, his sore body semi-prone to keep his weight off of his back. The chamber was gloomy, for the fire had burned almost to ash. In the faint orange glow he rose clumsily, with much awkward manoeuvering to keep his lame limb from any undue jarring.

Once he had gained his foot and crutches, Aragorn went to the table and drank greedily of the cold water left for him. He drank his fill, until his mouth felt cleansed and his head clear, and his stomach sloshed in disapproval. When he ran his tongue over his lips, feeling the roughness of newly-healed fissures and cracks, he was surprised to find that they did not sting. The scabs and sores were gone; only the hard crust of temporary scars remained.

He lowered himself onto the footstool with his leg stretched out before him, so that he might stir up and feed the fire. Then he climbed up into Gandalf’s chair, which was nearer the washbasin, and set to work with cloth and soap. He had just tugged his shirt back down around his waist when Lethril came in bearing a fresh robe and clean bandages.

It was a quiet afternoon. Aragorn broke his fast as heartily as he dared, and gave his overgrown hair a thorough combing. Then he turned his attention on his ankle, putting it through a series of flexing motions to limber up and strengthen the joint. At his request a plate of bread and cheese was brought to him at noon, and two hours later a dish of broth. By the time he was halfway through that, he was beginning to feel uneasy in his belly. He laid aside the dish. Settling back in his chair, mindful of his riven back, he put up his good leg next to his bad upon the stool in a luxuriant stretch that he felt all up the length of his body. He tucked his arms over his ribs and tilted his head to rest on the high back of the chair. Then, incredibly, he dozed.

He awoke to a soft rap at the door. Though he knew even in that first instant that he was in a place of safety, his body’s reflexes ran deep. His head snapped up too swiftly as his eyes flew open and his right hand jerked not towards a blade that was not there but across to his left wrist, groping for Gollum’s rope. Aragorn grimaced at this display, thankful that he was yet alone, and raised his hand unsteadily to knead the side of his neck where it was tender from its long stretch.

‘Please enter,’ he said, glad that his voice did not creak with the effort. As the door opened and Gandalf came in, the Man made his best attempt at an encouraging smile. ‘You have kept your promise; I thank you. You must have learned something, if you have left him so soon,’ he offered hopefully.

‘The roots of the mountains must be roots indeed,’ Gandalf muttered. He rested his staff against the jamb and reached for the drinking water. He filled both goblets and gave one to Aragorn. Then he picked up the half-empty bowl and frowned at it. When he looked up accusingly, the Ranger raised his hands, palms outward in token of parley.

‘Have mercy upon me, Mithrandir!’ he said. ‘It was my third meal of the day.’

Gandalf’s lips tightened in what was not quite disbelief. ‘Very well,’ he said. He took the other chair and drank deeply from his cup. ‘Your mood seems much improved, at least, if you are ready to make sport of my concern.’

‘I was sleeping,’ Aragorn told him gravely. ‘Having rested comfortably all the night, I found myself drowsing in mid-afternoon. Thus I slept even where I sat! It is most peculiar. I believe it is what the Shire-folk call a nap.’

Gandalf seemed briefly flummoxed. Then he laughed; a deep and earnest laugh that warmed the room. ‘Well, it has done wonders!’ he said. ‘I had worried perhaps that your private wellspring of mirth had frozen along with your fingertips.’

‘What was that you said about the mountains?’ asked Aragorn, taking the opportunity offered by the moment of merriment to raise the pertinent question without peril. ‘Gollum said something like that yesterday, did he not? About their roots?’

‘I believe so,’ Gandalf said. ‘More to the pint, he has said it today. He passed beneath the earth not merely to escape Yellow Face, but to seek all the secrets buried in the deep places.’

‘I see.’ It sounded much in keeping with Gollum’s grandiose fantasies, bent though all of them now seemed to be on vengeance. ‘And did he find them?’

‘He found nothing but emptiness and the ageless dark,’ said Gandalf, a melancholy note to his words. ‘He is a sorry creature, living only for malice and misery. Almost, I think, he has forgotten the good and lovely things in life.’

‘He remembers how much he hated daisies,’ Aragorn muttered ruefully. Unpleasant memories were assailing him unbidden. The stink of Gollum clung still to the wizard’s clothes, though it was not so strong as in past days. Perhaps the prisoner had washed after all.

‘How he hated them then, or how he resents them now?’ asked Gandalf. ‘After long lifetimes in blackness, is it such a wonder that he would teach himself to hate all that he had left behind?’

‘You pity him, then,’ Aragorn said softly.

‘Do you not?’ Gandalf’s brows arced high with the question.

‘I do,’ said Aragorn. ‘Or at least in certain ways and at particular times I can. It is… it is difficult to separate the aggravation and misery from what I know to be fitting.’ He closed his eyes and groped deep within himself for the clemency and the nobility of heart he needed to forgive Gollum his hatefulness. ‘When I think of what he must once have been, I cannot but mourn the ruin of a life.’

‘That is the very essence of pity,’ breathed Gandalf. Tension left his shoulders, and Aragorn realized that the wizard had truly feared that the ugly journey had wrung the last drops of mercy from his heart. ‘You need not feel any fondness for him to know that.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it, for I feel none,’ said Aragorn dryly. ‘I would be content never to lay eyes upon him again, though I suppose it cannot be avoided.’

The wizard was clearly about to ask what he meant by this in light of their bargain when he abruptly understood. ‘You would not leave without a final inspection of the measures in place to secure him. Ever the consummate Captain.’

‘It is not that I distrust Losfaron and his folk,’ said Aragorn. ‘But Gollum’s size and his wretchedness give an impression of helplessness that is so far removed from the truth that it is scarcely to be believed.’

‘The messengers from Lothlórien said you seemed excessively wary of trusting him into their care,’ Gandalf said mildly. ‘I think the more senior of the two was somewhat offended, though he would not admit it.’

‘We were under the open sky, and close on the border of the wild lands,’ Aragorn explained. ‘A moment’s inattention and he would have been long gone. I did consent to Lord Celeborn’s offer to hold his rope while I bathed.’

Gandalf’s eyes glittered. ‘I am sure he was honoured by the gesture.’

Aragorn smiled earnestly at this, and was surprised to find that the muscles of his face did not strain against an unfamiliar motion. ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked. ‘I am not the only one who must husband his strength for what is to come.’

‘I have asked that a meal be brought here, if you will pardon the intrusion.’ Gandalf said. ‘Thus I may have companionship at board, share what little I have learned, and witness your fourth meal all at once.’

‘Which is but to say you do not trust me,’ Aragorn declared genially. Then more gravely he said; ‘Have you learned anything more from Gollum?’

‘Sméagol,’ said Gandalf. ‘I am striving to use his true name in my dealings with him. If there is any hope for healing, it will begin there.’

‘Healing?’ All trace of amusement faded like a doused candle, and Aragorn sighed wearily. ‘Do you earnestly believe there can be any hope of that in one so twisted with malice?’

‘It is a slim hope, I grant you,’ said Gandalf. ‘The One Ring is a terrible force, corrupting its bearer by degrees until it seems all good is rotted away like a limb slowly putrefying from within. Yet you have saved a gangrenous leg or two in your time, have you not?’

‘Yes,’ the Ranger admitted. ‘But never one so far gone in rot as Gollum is in wickedness.’

‘Perhaps.’ Gandalf watched him wordlessly for a moment before speaking again, very softly. ‘But tell me this, Dúnadan. If it were not Sméagol of the Gladden Fields thus corrupted and brought low, but Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, would you not at least try?’

Aragorn was stricken dumb. His innards churned and his throat prickled. Gandalf was right: of course he would try, with everything in his power and to the very end of his strength, if there were the thinnest hope to save Bilbo from such a fate as Gollum’s. In that sickening moment it was difficult indeed to remember that it would never come to that. Bilbo had broken free of the Ring and he was safe, and yet the nearness of that escape was haunting.

‘You see it now,’ Gandalf murmured. It was no question. ‘Fear not, my friend: I would not charge you with such toil. You have already borne more than your share of this. But we will be leaving him in the charge of gentle jailors. Though they must be prudent they may also be kind. Perhaps, given time and due care, Sméagol may be cured of his poisoning and restored to himself in some small way.’

Aragorn was not so certain, but he could fault Gandalf neither for his hope nor for his generosity.

‘So long as they maintain their vigilance, they may be as kind as they wish,’ he said. ‘I doubt that I could catch him a second time.’

‘I doubt that I could ask it of you,’ Gandalf muttered dourly. Then he grabbed hold of the armrests and hauled himself to his feet with a grunt of effort. ‘We had best arrange ourselves for eating now, the better to enjoy a hot meal ere it can cool on us. I confess the morning’s work has left me chilled and weary.

 

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Gandalf had learned little more from Gollum that morning, and he gained still less that afternoon. The following day was a busy one in Aragorn’s little room. The tailor came back with the lining of his cote – thankfully unbleached linen and not a fine sapphire silk or somesuch – to fit the sleeves. Then the king’s cordwainder arrived to make lasts to fit the Man’s feet. The swelling of his ankle was much reduced, and Aragorn thought the fit would be adequate. The shoemaker prepared the sculpted wooden forms on site, so that he could make continual comparisons to his model. He worked with plane and chisel, hands flying with deft skill that spoke well of his talents. While he carved, he talked with Aragorn of pleasant things: of the birthing of spring beyond the palace gates, and of the preparations to welcome the King’s emissaries home from Dale. Aragorn also had tidings (almost a year old but fresh to his listener) of some of the cordwainder’s kin who dwelt in Rivendell.

In the afternoon Helegond performed a thorough examination of his patient. The improvements in the foot were noted, and the spider-bite was pronounced well healed. The bruising on Aragorn’s flank had faded by now to bilious yellow, and upon palpation the organ beneath was tender instead of tortured. His hands, though now hard and horny as a hill-troll’s, were quite recovered from the frostnip. But for the peeling skin, so were his feet. The bites on his arm were cleansed of infection at last.

The one concern was the rattle deep in his lungs, which was still wet and clearly audible to the healer’s Elven ears. He sounded Aragorn’s chest thoroughly and shook his head, but there was nothing either of them could do about the lingering fluid save to wait and hope that time and proper nourishment would remedy it before the problem bred.

Still it had been a day of heartening doings, and when Gandalf came from the cells that evening he found his friend in good spirits. He looked the man over and nodded approvingly.

‘You are much improved already,’ he said. ‘Your colour is better and that worrisome sag is gone from your shoulders. Clearly staying away from our captive and his perpetual reminders of your ordeal has done much to mend your heart. If once we can begin filling out your hide again, you will be well on the path to recovery.’

Gandalf’s day had borne fruit also, though it was neither plentiful nor sweet. He had learned more of Gollum’s life before the ill-fated birthday and, indirectly, of his friendship with Déagol. Gollum was back to insisting that he had no part in his friend’s death. Yet it was clear the memories haunted him.

‘I have also confirmed some of the rumours we heard in Rhovanion,’ said Gandalf gravely.

‘Which rumours specifically?’ Aragorn dreaded the answer, but could not help but ask.

Gandalf’s voice dropped low and he cast his eyes to the fire. ‘It seems we have caught the cradle-robber.’

Sixteen years ago, trying to pick up a trail long gone cold, they had come upon a homestead huddled under the eaves of Mirkwood. There dwelt a couple, aged and childless, whose hopes had fallen prey to the strange and bloodthirsty terror that had roamed the wood many years before. Thranduil’s people had heard many such rumours, but it was eerie to have one confirmed first-hand. One night while the woodman and his wife slept, something had come in at the window and snatched their young babe from his basket. Even so long after, the mother’s anguish had been raw and hard to witness.

Now Aragorn shuddered in remembrance. There had been that awful moment in Grimbeorn’s hall, too: when small Svala had gone crawling so blithely to Gollum. No doubt she had thought she had found a new friend, but those quick fingers would have closed so easily about her plump little neck. What madness had seized him, Aragorn wondered now, that he had brought such a deadly thing into that home filled with merry children?

‘What of his capture?’ he asked now, trying to distract himself from horrors real and imagined. ‘Has he said aught of that?’

‘Of his first capture or his second?’ Gandalf asked sourly. ‘Of the second he has much to say. I believe he still harbours a hope of convincing me to join sides against you. What is this about raising blood from a stone?’

Before Aragorn could scoff at Gollum’s latest absurdity, it came back to him. It was shrouded in a fog of fever and hot, purulent agony, but the memory was there. ‘Not from a stone, with a stone,’ he said. ‘I had to debride my arm where he bit me. I think it was that task that first convinced him of my mettle.’

Gandalf clicked his tongue. ‘Doubtless. You cannot perhaps appreciate it, but that is not a performance fit for for the squeamish.’ He sighed tiredly. ‘But in answer to your question, no. He said nothing of his time in Mordor, nor anything about the signs we found in Harondor. He will not admit to ever having been anywhere south of Tol Brandir. He will not even confirm that you caught him at Dagorlad.’

‘I assure you I did,’ Aragorn said with a cynical lilt.

Gandalf rolled his eyes. ‘Then I suppose I shall have to believe you. Yet surely you can forgive my skepticism: you were raised by such a cool prevaricator.’ He sat down and began drumming on the arm of his chair. ‘We do not know when he was captured, or where. So we cannot know how long he was held. As for escaping the dungeons of Sauron…’

‘Only you and Beren have ever managed it, and he with enchanted aid,’ said Aragorn. ‘Fear not: that claim stands untarnished. Either Gollum was set free, or the servants of the Enemy created such conditions as to make escape a virtual certainty. It is no easy thing to get out of Mordor, much less its fortresses.’

‘How did you do it?’ asked Gandalf, his voice swift and grave.

‘Inelegantly,’ Aragorn said flatly. ‘And I never came nearer to Barad-dûr than a half-day’s march.’ He kept the shudder from his voice if not his bones. That half-day’s march had seemed like a handspan. He tried to redirect the conversation. ‘My last whisper of him placed him beneath the Mountains of Shadow two or three years ago. It seems impossible that he was held that long, but he may have dwelt in other caverns or tunnels.’

‘I will see what he has to say about it tomorrow,’ the wizard promised heavily. He raised two fingers to massage his temple. ‘What have your healing arts to offer me for a sore head?’

‘Little wine, much water, and a good night’s sleep,’ Aragorn answered. But he took his crutches and rose smoothly to his feet before his friend could protest.

Drawing near and gripping the props to him with his elbows, he held out beckoning hands. Gandalf leaned forward into his grasp, and Aragorn cupped each side of his skull so that his thumbs were on the temples and his fingers fanned down the back of the wizard’s head.

‘Perhaps I may ease it a little,’ Aragorn murmured. He walked the second and third fingers of each hand in towards his palms until he found on both sides the hind end of the thick shell-shaped muscle that curled above the ear. Thin though they were against the skull, they were fraught with tension.

‘You have laboured long,’ he said in a soothing, melodious voice, pressing firmly with his fingertips and moving his thumbs in small, steady circles in the hollows of Gandalf’s temples. ‘It is trying work, and it wears harder on the body than most heavy toil to which I have bent my back. I know the toll it has taken all too well.’

Now it seemed that he could feel his friend’s pain, not merely imagine it: the piercing throb across the brow, coming from deep within, and the outer ache of muscles seized too long in the effort to clamp down upon angry and unproductive words. Aragorn felt the beat of Gandalf’s heart in the vessels beneath his thumbs. His own pulse quickened to thrum along in time. He breathed slowly, deeply, steadily, drawing in warm air through his dry nostrils. The head in his hands bobbed slightly as the wizard did the same.

Nimbly Aragorn’s fingers drummed up towards the crown and then back again, this time right to the root of the jaw where each of these muscles met another, more powerful one. It was warped into painful knots just behind the mandible. Aragorn pressed these with his forefingers. Gandalf hissed sharply was the pain flared, into his mouth and deeply through his head. But after a few seconds of steady pressure Aragorn felt the tension release beneath his touch. Then he placed both palms upon the wizard’s head and drew them swiftly along the contours. Coarse callouses and newly healed cracks snagged on the fine grey hair, but a moment later Aragorn released his hold and reached to adjust his crutches.

Gandalf raised his head, eyes warm with relief. ‘My thanks,’ he said. ‘You have indeed the gift of your kindred, as well as the generosity to ply it in such trivial matters.’

‘Such a headache is never trivial to the sufferer,’ said Aragorn. He shuffled into a turn and swung back to his own seat. ‘Have a care that you do not neglect my other advice. Water and rest, and try not to clench your jaw so often.’

‘It is clench your jaw or bite your tongue with that miserable creature,’ spat Gandalf. ‘I have seen you do the same.’

Aragorn lifted his right foot back onto the stool and began to roll his ankle determinedly into its exercises. ‘That is how I know the pain it breeds,’ he said. ‘You are not immune to the hurts of the body, Gandalf.’

‘No, I am not,’ the wizard grumbled. He was touching his jaw wonderingly as if unable to quite believe the result. ‘I shall have much to say on the matter, should I ever be asked.’

‘Are any of us ever asked?’ Aragorn asked, lightly but not without a certain arch significance.

 

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Gandalf did not come at noontide. He did not come in the drowsy afternoon, when again Aragorn found himself napping before the fire like an aged hound. Nor did he come when Galion brought the evening meal. Aragorn ate more heartily of it than he had at any time in months, even daring to taste of the vegetable dishes. This supper sat uneasily in his stomach, and he passed an uncomfortable hour waiting for it to settle. Still he did not lose the good of his meal and he sat at last, satiated and heavy of limb and of lid.

He knew that Gandalf would come when he left Gollum, for it was his part of their bargain. When he came he would be weary and almost certainly discouraged. Further, he might be in need of counsel or at least a ready ear; for what but some success could have kept him so long? If he came and found his confederate abed, asleep or no, he would force himself to be brief if he tarried at all. Therefore Aragorn kept the watch, so much more luxurious than any he could have imagined on the bitter, wakeful nights of his northward journey. Yet the struggle to remain alert was just as difficult as it had been on any of those cold and sleep-starved vigils. He was exceedingly, almost excessively well-rested now, and he had passed an indolent day. All the same he found himself fighting for consciousness against slumber’s soft allure.

When at last the knock came, it caught Aragorn at the nadir of the cycle of drifting and clawing back. He cleared his throat with a hasty, shallow cough that rattled more deeply than it ought to. Then he bade the caller come.

It was Gandalf, for who else but Gandalf would have come at so late an hour? He had already changed his clothes, and his beard and forelocks were damp where he had splashed while washing his face. Nevertheless he was pale and haggard, hard duty showing in the crevices at mouth and brow and the shadows beneath his eyes. He went at once to the table and poured them each a cup of water. Aragorn accepted his gladly, and rinsed the downy sleep-taste from his mouth as the wizard eased himself into the chair with ginger care.

‘May I never again endure such a day,’ he said, and his voice was hoarse. He drank, blinked ponderously, and said a little less roughly; ‘I do not think there is any question posed in these many days that I did not repeat today.’

Aragorn scarcely dared to ask whether Gandalf had made any progress, for neither his tone nor his expression suggested the smallest triumph. Yet neither of them had ever shirked from unpleasant truths. ‘Did you learn anything of use, then?’

‘Of use? Perhaps not,’ said Gandalf. ‘Of interest, certainly. Perhaps most importantly, I have firmly established the limits of his knowledge of Bilbo.’

‘And?’ Aragorn braced himself against this. What they had already learned was damaging enough.

‘And it is less than I had feared. From Bilbo himself, dear foolish hobbit, Sméagol learned his name. From the songs and tales of the Men of Dale and Esgaroth, he learned of the Shire and of hobbits, and much of Bilbo’s role in the slaying of Smaug. He knows that Bilbo had extensive dealings with dwarves and that he came with Thorin Oakenshield from the West.’

Aragorn’s dismay, unsurprised but no less stricken, must have shown in his face. Gandalf smiled kindly. It softened the lines of exhaustion and despite the circumstances it was heartening.

‘Remember, dear boy, that not all Men share Strider’s broad understanding of the scope and vastness of the world. Nor do they all assume the Misty Mountains to be the great dividing line between East and West.’

Aragorn nearly laughed, as much at his own stupidity as with relief. ‘Of course!’ he said gladly. ‘To the Men of Dale, from the West would mean west of Anduin.’

‘Precisely,’ said Gandalf. ‘In fact, the earliest intelligence they seemed to have had to provide to Gollum was of the respite given my little band of adventurers by Berorn. It seems the Dwarves did not care to boast of being driven up fir trees and rescued by Eagles.’

‘But surely Gollum himself must know that they came through the mountains,’ said Aragorn. ‘He met Bilbo beneath them, after all.’

‘True: he did. But again, what seems a road straight and true to a widely-travelled scholar of maps may not be nearly so apparent to one who has never wandered with a course and a method.’ Gandalf raised his eyebrows comically. ‘Gollum knew of Bilbo’s theft of his own Precious. He learned of the dragon-hoard and the abduction of the Arkenstone. In his eyes our friend was a burglar indeed, travelling far and wide to deprive good folk of their rightful possessions. To our captive’s way of thinking, Bilbo’s travels were driven not by geography so much as by advance intelligence of the locations of the great treasures of the world. His Ring, naturally, being foremost among them.’

‘Naturally,’ sighed Aragorn. The words my Precious would dog his dreams for years to come.

‘It took many years for Sméagol, or what by then was left of him, to grow desperate enough – hungry enough – to come forth from his hole and brave the Sun to search for the Ring. We know he went to Esgaroth, and even to the foot of the Lonely Mountain itself. Then, it seems, he went off in search of the Shire.’

He took another long draught from his cup and shuddered slightly. Aragorn wondered how many twisted byways of enraged gabbling the wizard had been obliged to follow in order to string together such a straightforward narrative.

‘He began his search, so far as I can tell, in the lands his own folk had populated so long ago,’ Gandalf went on. ‘It was a natural enough assumption, and he made a thorough search of the west banks of Anduin before reasoning that perhaps the vales on the other side might hold the land he sought.’

The convoluted search pattern was almost humourous: east, then west, then east again, and west. Then a third time east, it seemed. Small wonder that their own hunt had proved so tangled and senseless. Aragorn’s chest seemed to ache with exhaustion at the mere memory.

‘It was during this stage of his quest that Gollum heard another rumour: a rumour of a great power gathering in the South. It had no love of Elves or Dwarves, no affinity for the woodmen or the Beornings who drove him away from their cots and henhouses. It was a power that promised great rewards for loyalty, and revenge upon the West. Knowing as he did that Baggins had come from the West, Sméagol believed that they would be only too glad to help him find his Precious.’

‘No doubt they would,’ muttered Aragorn. ‘Help him find it? Assuredly. Let him take it? Never.’

Gandalf inclined his head in agreement. ‘He was no doubt drawn thither by more than whispers,’ he said. ‘That same bedevilment that has plagued Gondor and Wilderland would have had its effect on him, too: the dark muster of wickedness to the secret summons of Mordor. Yet he was clever. He shunned the Black Gate on sight, and if ever he came within eyes of Imlad Morgul he will not admit to it. Neither does he cringe or cry overmuch at my admittedly secondhand description of the city. I think he followed much the same path you and I reconstructed: creeping near the border between Mordor and Ithilien until he came to the – ah – conducive climes of Harondor.’

‘Bog and swamp and mild winters,’ Aragorn said sardonically. ‘And from there, in the end, he passed into the Ephel Duath.’

‘Yes.’ Gandalf plucked at the sleeve of his night-robe and shook his head. ‘How long he lurked there, snooping and prodding and risking disaster, I do not know. Yet there is no doubt that in the end he was caught, and questioned, and put to terrible torment. There is no doubt that he told all that he knew. And I believe you when you tell me he could not have escaped unaided.’

‘And as for why he was permitted to escape?’ asked Aragorn. ‘Would he say nothing of that?’

‘Nothing,’ Gandalf confirmed grimly. ‘He is adamant that he had no aid: that he got away by his own wits and wiles. He will not admit to being taken, but he is most effusive about getting away. When I pointed out that he had not even managed to escape from you, a lone Man short on sleep and sustenance, he hissed at me and would say no more on the matter.’

Aragorn pinched his lips into a moue of affected hurt. ‘I am saddened to learn how little you think of my abilities, if the slaves of Sauron must be the more diligent guardians.’

‘I have no strength to soothe your pride tonight,’ Gandalf rejoined. ‘If you know not your own worth by now, I can be of no assistance at this late stage.’

There was a contemplative hush. Each nursed his cup of water while the fire crackled and the stillness settled soothingly over the room. At last Aragorn was able to pluck a coherent question out of the cloud of muddled musings that circled his head.

‘How long do we try to squeeze more out of him ere we admit it cannot be done?’

Tired eyes lifted to find his face, and Gandalf’s shoulders shrugged leadenly. ‘I must have a day of rest myself. Mayhap spending that day alone and without an audience for his acrobatics will soften Sméagol’s resolve to silence. I am loath to give up on it quite yet, but I fear that we are nearing the end of any reasonable expectation of more. Even his fear of my staff pales before his terror of Mordor, though one is in the room with him and the other hundreds of leagues away.’

‘We have learned more than I would have thought possible,’ Aragorn admitted. ‘And what we do not know firmly is plain enough to deduce.’

‘I will try once more, regardless,’ Gandalf decided. ‘But today’s gains were slim gleanings indeed. There is little left in the field.’

Aragorn was silent. He was but two days into his week’s trial, and though he trusted his friend’s word he also knew his temperament. If Gandalf made swift work of Gollum and Aragorn’s recovery dragged on, would the wizard find the patience to tarry with him?

 

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Aragorn returned from a walk in the quiet stone corridors to find a guest in his chamber. It was late afternoon, and Gandalf had gone to bathe. He too relished the rare luxuries of a pleasant waystation, so rare in the Wild. The Ranger had taken the opportunity to venture out on a longer excursion with only one crutch. With each step he placed a little weight on his bad ankle and the rest on the prop under his opposite arm. The first few rangar were sharply painful to walk, but he found a rhythm and the flare dulled to a dim, glowing ache. He misliked the trembling weakness that gripped the whole limb, not the ankle alone. It only drove him to strive harder, however, and he made a broad loop through the tunnels. Ache stormed back into anguish before he was done, and he took the last two dozen strides awkwardly hopfooted, his right foreleg tucked up behind.

He was pale and perspiring when he reached his door, and he swung it open upon the discovery that he was not alone. He had to fight to hide his discomfiture.

‘Your Majesty,’ he said courteously, inclining his head to the fair figure occupying his usual chair.

‘It is good to see you once more upon your feet, even if you presently have three,’ said Thranduil earnestly. ‘Your healers speak well of your recovery, and from my Captain I have learned you have been to question the prisoner yourself.’

‘I have,’ Aragorn said. He stood on the threshold, trying not to look awkward or taken aback when in truth he was dithering. He could not stand here swaying on one foot; he was already worn and light-headed from his exertions. But maneuvering with one crutch was ungainly business, and he was unaccustomed to the available chair. ‘I am more grateful than my words can tell for the hospitality and care I have been so freely given.’

‘Freely and gladly,’ Thranduil pledged warmly. ‘You will always be made welcome in my realm, Lord of the West. You have proved a most genial and undemanding guest. But will you not sit? You have taken your exercise and must surely be tired.’

A thin smile was all that Aragorn could manage. With tremendous concentration far disproportionate to the small act at hand, he navigated around to sit. It went more smoothly than he had feared, which was fortunate because Thranduil watched his every move with appraising eyes. When he was seated at last, laboured lungs gurgling with each quick breath, the Elven-king relaxed in his chair.

‘You do look much recovered,’ he said, perhaps a little too brightly.

‘But not fully, I fear,’ said Aragorn. He looked down at his hard-weathered hands, this time scrupulously clean. ‘I do not know whether Gandalf has spoken to you,’ he ventured softly; ‘regarding our plans for the return to Rivendell.’

‘He has not,’ Thranduil said. ‘I assumed you would both remain in my court for some time yet.’

‘For some time, verily,’ said Aragorn. ‘But not over-long. I will not be fit to march the mountain passes for many weeks, and I cannot linger here so long. I must take council with Master Elrond and return to my people. When it is time for me to depart, I would esteem it a great boon if your Majesty would grant me the use of a horse. I can make arrangements to have it returned by the messengers of Imladris.’

The request hung humbly in the air, sounding suddenly piteous in the silence. Aragorn’s eyes dropped again to his lap, and his ears prickled uncomfortably. Then Thranduil laughed quietly, and Aragorn’s eyes snapped up to his smiling face.

‘Forgive me!’ the King chuckled, clapping his palm on the armrest. ‘Forgive me, Lord Aragorn, but I had naturally assumed – I mean to say that with the crutches and the want of boots, the length of the road and the long years’ delay in these tidings, whatever they be, I assumed you would need a mount. Particularly as Gandalf has one himself. I did not expect you to trot along beside him like a sheepdog.’

‘Oh!’ Aragorn smiled abashedly. ‘I feared to trespass still further upon your generosity. If you will grant me this I will be deeply indebted to your kindness.’

‘There are no debts between friends,’ said Thranduil. ‘Tell me, will you be recovered enough to join in our revels three nights hence? The envoys who wintered in Dale will be returning, and we shall welcome them home with all the splendor we can: as a King welcomes his cherished ambassadors, and as a father welcomes his son.’

Aragorn was not at all certain he would prove equal to such pageantry, but he could refuse his host nothing in good conscience: certainly not so pleasant an invitation. Surely he would be able to sit quietly in a corner and watch the Wood-Elves at their merrymaking. There would be good food and glad company, and it would certainly go some way towards convincing Gandalf that he was indeed well on the road to healing.

‘Good King,’ he said with a gracious smile; ‘it would be my honour and my delight. Provided my garments are finished, nothing could prevent me.’

‘Oh, they will be finished!’ Thranduil vowed, eyes twinkling with play. ‘I shall drive my tailor like a dray-horse until they are.’

Then cheerfully he took his leave, and Aragorn was able to rest.

 





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