Note: I have nothing but admiration for Bilbo: this suff is NOT easy!

Chapter LXVII: Finery, Flattery and Flight

'I do not know whether to quantify it as a triumph or a defeat,' Gandalf announced as he strode into the little bedchamber shortly before noon the following day; 'but it is over.'

Aragorn was standing behind his chair, his full weight firmly on both feet while he counted slowly to fifty. Relegating the numbers to a corner of his mind where they could run their course as he spoke, he asked; 'You feel we have learned all there is from him, then?'

'All that we will be well-served by learning, anyhow,' said the wizard heavily. 'Perhaps we could go on trying to wring from him the particulars of his captivity. I do not know what it would serve, save to probe cruelly into wounds that should be left to heal as best they may. I believe we have learned all that we can hope to without resorting to that, and further that we have learned far more than he wished us to.'

'Then say a strategic withdrawal, and not defeat,' said Aragorn. 'We have what we need: why press on?' He took a steadying hold on the chair and lifted his right foot to rest.

'Yes.' Gandalf set his staff in the corner and turned to wash his hands. 'It remains to decide what is to be done with all we have discovered, but happily that burden need not rest on our shoulders alone.'

Down came the foot again, with its customary shaft of pain that faded swiftly back into a deep, unmistakably healing ache. 'Has our host served you with an invitation to tomorrow's festivities?' Aragorn queried, before either of them could sink too deep into anxious mulling over impossible questions.

Gandalf turned in some surprise, caught his eyes, and read his intent. 'He has,' he said with a lazy lilt to his voice. 'It has been many years since I have witnessed the woodland folk at their revels. It will undoubtedly be a splendid evening.'

From Aragorn's recollection, the ordinary nightly banquets were quite splendid enough. He smiled, a little tiredly. 'Of that I have no doubt. I have promised Thranduil that I shall attend, provided I may do so clad more suitably than I am at present.'

Gandalf pulled a most unpleasant face. 'I hope you did not put it to him like that,' he said. 'You are liable to find yourself bedecked like a dressmaker's doll!'

'I suspected as much,' Aragorn said. He lifted his foot again, once more careful to grip the chair. His left leg was steady, but it would not do to take chances at this juncture. 'I merely asked for the raiment they are preparing for my westward road. The Elvenking's tailor and I had a spirited discussion about what was and was not suitable for one of my station in life.'

Gandalf chuckled, and from the gleam in his eye it was clear he had a very accurate sense of how that conversation had unraveled. 'Your station in life is no easy thing to decipher,' he said. 'You may find yourself surprised by the results.'

'Let us hope not,' said Aragorn dryly, his voice not faltering at all as his foot came down again. It was a grim little victory, and he curled his lip appreciatively.

'You're looking very smug,' Gandalf observed. 'Just what are you doing back there?'

'Standing unaided,' Aragorn said in a tone that clearly conveyed the magnitude of the achievement. 'Not idly do folk remark upon Strider's prowess on his feet.'

'There is no need for sarcasm,' Gandalf said archly. 'If you are impatient with your recovery, remember whose stubbornness impeded it.'

Aragorn was about to open his mouth in his defence, but there was a circumspect knock at the door. Gandalf glanced swiftly in that direction, just as susceptible as any Ranger to instinctual alertness. Aragorn, who was expecting no one but stood with his back comfortably to an interior wall, pleasantly bade the caller enter.

It was the cordwainder. He bowed respectfully to Gandalf and then approached Aragorn's chair before making a second courteous obeisance. 'My lord,' he said, holding out the articles he held with such care; 'your boots are finished.'

Aragorn had to lock every muscle in his face and hood his eyes against surprise and dismay. He had taken such pains to make his requirements known to the tailor, but he had not troubled to do the same with the shoemaker. He had not paused to think that the definition of so simple a word as boots might differ so greatly between two Elven realms. Such had not at all been the case in Lothlórien, in that long-ago spring when he had stumbled upon its borders, weary and heartsick. And then Galadriel's craftsfolk had not even had the ruins of his old boots to work from.

He was accustomed to the snug, high-fitting boots of Noldorin make, cut to fit as smoothly as a second skin from toe to knee. They had turned soles of double thickness, so to protect his feet, yet still supple enough that he could feel the terrain beneath him. These before him now, the handiwork of a people who wore soft-soled shoes whatever the weather and wherever the road, were evidence of an entirely different concept. To begin, they were only of a half-calf height: no good at all for fording streams or tramping through marshland. They were snugly fitted to the ankle and no doubt sculpted perfectly to his feet, but higher up they had an ornamental outward flare that was well-nigh as impractical as a crimson satin surcote.

The soles were set, not turned, with a stout decorative seam standing out all around. The leather of vamp and body was dyed a luxurious dark green, which was extravagant but certainly functional. But it was thick and stiff to accommodate the dramatic shaft and the elongated toes which tapered to a showy point. Every conceivable effort had been made to embellish these impractical boots, from dainty tooling at vamp and ankle to elaborate cut lozenges and curlicues in the body, showing off a lining of bright spring green leather.

Dumbstruck and struggling to appear pleased, all the while wondering how he could possibly explain the misunderstanding, Aragorn moved without thinking. He scarcely felt the loose grinding of his ankle as he stepped around the chair unsupported and took the boots mutely. He turned them, looking at the hard, thick soles with their stacked and pegged heels. A man who tried to walk far in these boots would swiftly cripple his feet.

'We did not discuss colour and ornamentation, my lord,' said the cordwainder. 'I inquired of your garments, and as they too are to be predominantly green, I thought…'

'The colour is not—' Aragorn began, but he could not continue. They were beautifully crafted boots: many hours of skilled labour and much costly material had been lavished upon them. But they were not at all suitable for a long road through mountainous terrain. It was a dreadful moment for his skills in diplomacy to forsake him, but he knew not what to say.

'Very fine,' Gandalf observed lightly. He had come up behind the shoemaker. Now he was looking from the boots to the Man's face, reading there the thoughts that were masked from any who did not know him well. The wizard smiled. 'Very handsome, and very suitable for a journey ahorse.'

Aragorn's innards untwisted and he shot his friend a look of great thanks. In his startled alarm, he had forgotten that he would not be walking back to Rivendell at all. A hard boot was no disadvantage in the saddle, and the stacked heel that would be the ruin of a walker's legs were perfect for keeping a tired foot in the stirrup. He could certainly make do with these, until he was once more in Imladris under the care of his own trusted bootmaker.

'Most suitable,' he agreed warmly. The cordwainder was beaming proudly. 'Your work is of extraordinary loveliness. Will you stay to see me try them?'

'I would be honoured, my lord!' the Elf said eagerly, holding out his hands for the fruit of their labour. 'Would you allow me to assist in their donning?'

Aragorn assented readily: it was not a mere offer of courtesy, but a ritual to complete the making. To witness the fit for himself was an act of pride and affirmation for a shoemaker. Aragorn yielded the boots and moved smoothly to sit.

The cordwainder knelt and slipped the felt shoes from the Ranger's feet. He took up the right boot first, for it was that one that was the cause for lingering doubt. The foot in question had still been markedly swollen when the last had been carved. Aragorn raised his foot and slipped it into the ready-held boot. The cordwainder drew up on the back of the shaft and pushed his other palm against the arch. The foot slid easily into place. The fit was impeccable: snug but not too tight.

When the other foot was clad, the shoemaker sat back upon his heels and the Man rose. Only now and just in time did he remember his slowly mending ankle, and he lifted himself without its aid. Yet although Gandalf moved to fetch the crutches, Aragorn crossed the room on his own feet. He turned and rocked, considering the feel of the leather and the freedom of his toes. He walked slowly back to the chair, conscious now of the ache in his ankle and the sharp sting that came with each step. His right knee trembled also, but his walk had borne the intended fruit. The boots did not chafe or pinch. It would take longer wear to be certain, but he thought they would serve very well.

'The fit cannot be faulted,' Aragorn said as he drew near the Elf again. 'You know well your craft. You have my most earnest thanks, and I shall commend you to His Majesty.'

'Thank you, my lord,' said the cordwainder earnestly, bowing again. 'It was my honour to outfit you.'

Then Aragorn sat, his healing leg only too glad of it, and Gandalf showed the Elf to the door. He did so with some of his own quiet words of praise, and then made his way slowly to his chair. He settled comfortably and straightened his robes before he spoke.

'I take it those were not at all what you expected,' he said at last. 'Can you wear them without harm? If not, we need only explain the mistake.'

'For riding they will serve,' said Aragorn. 'I could sustain a short march in them, but only perhaps ten miles at a stretch. Not,' he added with a rueful flick of his foot as he planted the stiff rim of the heel on his stool; 'that I could manage even ten miles at present, even on the downiest of turf.'

'You made a very clean circuit of the room,' Gandalf observed. 'How did it pain you?'

'Remarkably little,' said Aragorn honestly, looking down at his foot in its princely new wrapping. He could not recall when he had last gone so ostentatiously shod, but he thought perhaps it had been for the marriage of Denethor and Finduilas. 'I shall not be dancing with the blithe and the beautiful tomorrow, but I believe I may now lay by my right crutch.'

'Do not overexert yourself,' Gandalf warned. 'There is not so much need of haste that it would be worth the risk of doing yourself further harm.'

Aragorn shook his head. 'I vow I will not,' he said. 'Neither can I take naturally to idleness, however. If we are through with questioning Gollum, we ought to settle upon a date for our departure.'

Gandalf smiled fondly. 'You have changed your tune, Dúnadan. Remarkable what a difference four days makes when one may rest spirit and body alike.'

'I will not be restful in my spirit until we are once more in Rivendell and may have Elrond's counsel on how to proceed,' said Aragorn. 'Lingering here is of little use to me. As soon as I am able to walk a mile unaided, we should be gone.'

There was a hush then, while Gandalf studied his face. Their eyes met, and Aragorn could feel his thoughts turning over of their own accord as the Istar peered into his heart. First rose the chill apprehension of all that was to come. For a moment it was almost suffocating, but then it faded into Aragorn's satisfaction with and quiet pride in the short stroll he had taken. This was followed by his abashed and perhaps a little embittered amusement in the fact that he was reduced to taking pride in such humble deeds. There was a terrible moment when the deeply buried tangle of dark thoughts and hidden torments stirred and began to uncoil with sickening speed. But at once it slithered back as Gandalf withdrew, retreating respectfully from what he knew Aragorn was bearing as best he could. Instead, doubtless for the benefit of both of them, he reached for the delicate light of hope. It was unquenched still and burning stronger now than it had in many weeks. As it warmed his mind, Aragorn felt the contact falter and then cease as Gandalf closed his eyes and turned away.

It was poor etiquette to ask what the searcher made of his findings, and so Aragorn sat quietly, waiting. At last, plucking thoughtfully at his beard, the wizard spoke.

'When you can walk a mile, then,' he assented softly. 'I too will sleep easier in the Last Homely House. The Elven-King's halls are fair and kindly, but the shadow of Dol Guldur is too near for comfort and I confess that I miss the open sky. I wonder you are not wilting yourself, unaccustomed as you must be to walls of stone.'

'I have slept away so much of the time that I scarcely noticed,' said Aragorn. Yet now that it had been brought to his attention the room seemed very small. Well-ventilated though it was by unseen means the air now had an oppressive closeness.

Gandalf saw him shift in his chair and gave a small, knowing jerk of his chin. 'You are shod now,' he said. 'When you feel able to undertake the walk, there is no reason you cannot venture out into Thranduil's forests. Though scarcely the gardens and orchards of Imladris, they have their own particular beauty. Spring has broken and the days are mild.'

Grown used to bearing witness to each minute change of the seasons, Aragorn found this almost incomprehensible. He had come here through winter's last bitter cold, and even in the shelter of Mirkwood the snows had penetrated. To think of a world now budding with new growth beneath a gentle Sun was strange.

'Not today,' he said, regretful but fully aware of his body's need for gentle handling. 'Perhaps if I survive the merriment of the wood-Elves I may seek the open air the day after tomorrow.'

Gandalf chuckled, but only thinly. It seemed that he, too, was apprehensive about the long evening's revels and what toll they might exact.

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Thraduil's tailor had played a shrewd trick. He came on the morning of the banquet with Aragorn's new garments: cote, hose and three sets of body linen made to measure. The outer garments were of wool, as discussed, and they were indeed made only in drab green and rusty brown. However within those limits the cote was so riotously embellished as to be difficult to look upon with restful eyes.

It was made in green, but liberally bedecked with appliques of brown wool held in place by the tiny silk stitches that only nimble Elven fingers could make. Oak and acanthus leaves wound around cuffs and collar, subtle at any significant distance but splendid in in their artful complexity. Around the hem and up the riding slashes a parade of woodland animals cavorted: fawns and harts and bears and birds and badgers all rendered in the finest detail. Their features and contours, furs and feathers were picked out in dainty embroidery – also solely green and brown so as not to trespass the agreed-upon terms. The seams were overstitched in a complex herringbone, and the lacing eyelets were sewn to look like tiny blossoms.

It must have taken half a dozen pairs of swift, skilled hands labouring almost without surcease to produce such a garment in so short a time.

There was naught to be done but accept it, of course. It met, in its own showy way, all of the requirements Aragorn had named. It was warm and stoutly made, and it would draw no eye at a distance. Profligate though the garment was, it was perfectly functional and it was finished. To request another tunic after having been presented with this practical if cheeky work of art would only serve to insult his host and increase the waste of cloth and labour.

Still Aragorn felt rather absurd as he ascended to the banquet-hall with Gandalf that night. He should have been relieved to lay by his invalid's weeds for proper, well-fitted raiment both clean and whole. Instead he felt (as indeed the wizard had warned him) precisely like a dressmaker's doll. He had been provided for the evening with a mantle of palest blue edged in deep golden brocade, and it was affixed at each shoulder with a matched brooch of gold. These were wrought in the shape of oak leaves and had come, so his dresser had told him, from the Elven-King's own coffers. On his brow he wore a fillet of gold wire intricately woven and hung with a single pale beryl. Beneath it his long dark hair had been brushed smooth and loose, sweet-smelling and free from snarl or knot. Only his faithful old belt, buckled still to the next-to-last of his hastily cut notches, gave any sign of the true nature of his daily life.

The one consolation was that Gandalf had not laughed. He was himself clad in silk robes, unadorned grey but girded with a belt of silver plaques. He had looked Aragorn over, in his borrowed finery and the ludicrously ornate cote and the showy half-high boots, and he had nodded approvingly.

'All that is wanted is Narsil at your side, and none could mistake you for anyone but the Heir of Isildur,' he had said with a quiet, almost proprietary pride.

Now they came together to the tall doors spread wide to admit the revelers. The attendants bowed to greet them, and Aragorn nodded his gracious thanks. However he might feel, he was this night a great lord of Men. A certain standard of behaviour was expected of him, and this was how it began. He raised his head and let his eyes glint regally, and he passed into the hall.

It was gloriously adorned with garlands of evergreen and young ivy. Bright sprigs of colour stood boldly among the greenery: the year's earliest flowers. Candles by the hundreds in sticks of gold and silver and gorgeously carved dark wood rendered the vast vaulted space as warm and brilliant as a noonday meadow at high summer. The tables were laid with cloths of green and white, set with silver dishes and well supplied with flagons of fragrant wine. The folk of the Greenwood, no less colourful than the flowers, moved gracefully among them with glad words and laughter. Some were seated already, but many more were wandering.

Adjusting his hold on his lone crutch, Aragorn moved with all the grace he could towards the table that stood along the hall to his right. He had to conserve his strength for the long night to come, and taking an inconspicuous seat at once seemed the wisest course. He was greeted several times as he went, sharing his weight between his bad ankle and the crutch when he stepped with his left foot. He knew none of these folk by name, but of course they were all aware of his status as the King's honoured guest. Some had aided at one time or another in the search for Gollum, and wished to proffer congratulations on his success.

Gandalf was still better known in this land, and so more enthusiastically waylaid. After only a few minutes they were separated. There was an uncomfortable moment when Aragorn stood alone, unable to draw any nearer to the invitingly unobtrusive bench at the foot of the lowest table. Then a gentle hand lighted upon his arm and a maidenly voice remarked; 'Lord Aragorn! It cheers my heart to see you so much recovered.'

It was Lethril. She had laid by her customarily practical garb for a gown of shimmering satin and her hair was freed of its plait. It rippled down her back, twined with bright ribbons and wood violets. She was very lovely, her patient healer's countenance softened to sweetness. Looking upon she who had tended his ugly hurts and clipped spider-silk from his filthy hair, Aragorn could not help but smile.

'You are beauty itself tonight, lady,' he said. 'And were it not for your skill and kindness I should not be here to behold you now.'

She smiled radiantly and moved to take his free arm. As she did he felt the strength in her wrist and elbow and knew the gesture was as much an offer of support as a social preamble. 'May I lead you to your place?' she asked. 'Let the admiring and the well-wishing seek you out. This is to be a night of pleasure, not toil.'

Aragorn acquiesced gladly, but he was taken aback when she guided him into a gentle turn towards the head of the hall, where the high table stood upon a canopied dais. Lethril must have felt him tense in protest, for she leaned in to whisper; 'There is no help for it, I fear. You are my Lord King's honoured guest. He will not suffer you to sit out the night in quiet obscurity.'

He supposed he had known this all along. Meekly Aragorn let himself be led, focusing on keeping his unequal gait as smooth as possible so as not to jar Lethril's arm. He did not care to be put on display as a rarity – a wild mortal neatly groomed and bedecked in the raiment of an Elven lord! – but he could see that was unavoidable. As he drew nearer he recognized that Thranduil's high table was arranged differently from that in the banquet hall of Rivendell.

In his home Master Elrond sat at the head of the table with guests and ranked members of his household seated down each long side to face one another, half their backs to the rest of the hall. Here, the King's chair stood in the middle, facing the populace. To his right and his left were seats for those he honoured, but the near side of the table had neither chairs nor benches. Those seated on the dais were displayed before the crowd. It was the custom in many courts, Gondor included, but it made of dining a performance for the masses.

Aragorn was relieved when Lethril showed him not to either of the lofty places at the King's side, but to the chair third in precedence upon his left. The healer drew out the seat for him and, when he was settled, took from him the crutch. She set it against the wall behind him, in the shadow of an arras. She was about to speak when a clarion horn sounded from the minstrel's gallery above the hall.

'That is the call to be seated,' she said. 'I must go. I wish you a joyous evening, my lord.'

Swift as a doe she was gone, but others were gathering to the high table. Gandalf approached, deep in conversation with a pale-eyed Elf clad in glinting mail. He ushered the wizard tot eh right of the King's place, and the second seat in precedence. This was as it should be, and dispelled another of Aragorn's unspoken concerns. He had been seated higher than the wizard on prior occasions, through error or the need for subterfuge, and it had always left him profoundly uncomfortable.

He was further put at ease when the chair below his was drawn out and Captain Losfaron sat down. 'I had hoped you would attend,' he said. 'I have set my finest lieutenant and her choice guard to watch our prisoner tonight, and they will not themselves make merry. Therefore we may enjoy the evening free from care.'

'Not free from care, surely,' said Aragorn. 'In dark times no soldier may make that claim.'

'Perhaps not,' Losfaron allowed. 'But at least he can play at it a while.'

There was to be no formal procession, Aragorn saw: Thranduil was already mounting the dais with a lady upon his arm. She was Orophel, his sister and the greatest maiden of his realm, and she had her brother's proud countenance and stately bearing. She stopped to speak to another of the ladies, already seated, and Thranduil walked on. His raiment was splendid, of velvet and satin in hues of spring green. Upon his breast he wore the emeralds of Girion, the five hundred stones seeming to cast their own grassy light from the settings of the necklace. He had upon his head his spring crown now; purslane and forget-me-nots entwined with leaves of elm and ash. That the last were unfurling already meant a dry summer to come, so Bilbo Baggins would have said.

The Elven-King stopped to speak to Gandalf, who turned in his chair to greet him but did not rise. Thranduil beckoned to a fair Elf clad all in white with a collar of emeralds less numerous than the King's, but darker. There was a youthful lightness to his steps and a smile upon his young and yet ageless face. Gandalf nodded as if in remembrance and spoke to the unknown Elf, whom Thranduil clapped upon the far shoulder in a half-embrace. A proud smile was radiant upon his face.

When the King passed by his own tall chair, the other Elf at his shoulder, Aragorn shifted his good foot so that he might rise. Thranduil, anticipating him, held out his hand in a staying gesture. 'Peace, Dúnadan. You are my guest, not my subject. May I present to you my son and my most trusted emissary; Legolas of the Greewood.'

The white-clad Elf bowed, and Aragorn inclined his head. Thranduil nodded approvingly. 'My son, this is Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain of Eriador.'

'The great huntsman!' the King's son said merrily, stepping forward and offering his hand that they might clasp wrists. 'I am told you have triumphed in your quest and brought a strange creature into our safekeeping.'

'Verily,' said Aragorn, though still he felt anything but triumph. 'I am grateful to the folk of this land for consenting to such a charge.'

'Great deeds were done upon the northward road to bring the creature hither,' said Thranduil. 'Perhaps Lord Aragorn will favour you with his tale, of which I have had only a part.'

'It is no tale for a night of merriment, sire,' said Aragorn solemnly, managing to keep the revulsion from his voice. He would not speak of that journey willingly, least of all among those he scarcely knew. To Legolas he said; 'I presume you were the chief ambassador to winter in Dale. How fare her folk? I have travelled there of a time myself.'

'They are much as they ever have been,' said Legolas. 'Proud and honest and perhaps a little dreary on a long night. Still, it is a pleasant duty to attend upon the court of King Brand. He is a bold lord and a sound strategist: a worthy ally. He lays a fine board and he thinks much of my lord father.'

Thranduil laughed and again put his arm around his son. 'We must go now, and sit,' he said. 'If we do not begin to feed these hordes we shall have a rout on our hands.'

'It is an honour to have met you, Aragorn son of Arathorn,' said the younger Elf. 'I hope one day I may indeed hear your tale, when the mood is fitting.'

'Forgive me, Legolas son of Thranduil,' Aragorn said with a wry little smile; 'but I hope so dark a day may never come.'

'He has a rare wit, and a sharp tongue,' Thranduil confided to his son. 'Come now: take your place and be ready to speak in your turn.'

'Yes, my father!' Legolas said crisply, but with a teasing glint in his eye. Clearly this was something of a game between them: paternal chiding and heel-tapping obedience. It was a variation upon a string that Elrohir son of Elrond was wont to pluck.

They went to their places: the Elven-King in his great chair and Legolas upon his right. The Lady Orophel took her place at her brother's left, and between her and Aragorn sat Lord Telfeir the Watchful, who had stood with her father in that first hasty charge at Dagorlad. His countenance was grave and gaunt with grim knowledge, but his single eye was bright and he spoke in a voice as melodious as a running river. He greeted his fallen lord's daughter first, as was fitting, and then spoke briefly and courteously to Aragorn as a hush began to fall over the assembly.

When silence fell at last, Thranduil rose. He held out his arms as if to encompass the entire room.

'My people!' he said, and his voice resonated from the stone walls and the very arches above them. 'My people, it is a joyous day. We have welcomed in the spring, but now we may welcome home our cherished children, our beloved brethren, our faithful friends. Two and twenty we sent eastward. Two and twenty have returned to us with words of peace and honour from our loyal allies in Dale. Such fortune has not always been ours, and we know not what the next year may bring. Therefore let us raise our cups in gratitude and in hope, for we have much cause for each!'

All then raised their vessels: gold at the high table, silver for all the others. The candlelight lanced off of them like four hundred twinkling stars. Aragorn raised his own cup had been filled, though he could not say who had done it. He turned his shoulders towards the Elven-King and lifted it in salute with all the others. Then Thranduil drank, and all the rest did the same.

Aragorn took a temperate sip of the wine, tasting the sweet succulence of the Dorwinion vintage with the pleasure of one too long removed from such luxuries. Even the mouthful of wine he had taken with Gandalf after their first joint questioning of Gollum paled to this. Then they had been drinking of an ordinary wine, suited to everyday table service. This was the Elven-King's finest reserve, full-flavoured and aged right to the pinnacle of perfection and not beyond. It tasted of the distant vineyards beneath a loving Sun, of well-cured casks and perfect slumbering shadow. It was glorious.

He took another swallow, this one more generous, and then willed himself to set down the goblet. It had been more than a year since he had last had his fill of wine, and if he did not pace himself he would soon grow tipsy. There were servers now moving along the table in both directions, having begun with the King, and they were bearing platters of bread and cheeses. Others came with dishes of winter fruits, and still others with delicate sculptures of pastry and cream. As the high table was served, other bearers appeared to attend the other tables. The feast had begun.

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For many hours they sat, and there was talk and laughter with each course. The Elven minstrels played their sweet music above the voices of the throng, and between each service there was some showpiece presented before the company. The long tables were set with a wide aisle up the centre of the room, from the doors to Thranduil's very feet. Here a singer would wander, his voice raised in a hymn or woodland ballad. Or dancers would come, supple as willow saplings in the wind, their white arms swaying and their nimble feet flying. Between a course of savoury game stews and one of various tarts and sweetmeats, a lady with alluring eyes and a fine contralto voice strode the length of the hall and told the tale of the coming of Moon and Sun. So compelling was her voice and her passion in her words that the assembly, all of whom had heard the story many dozens of times before, were spellbound. During another pause, Thranduil's son rose and presented to his father and the assembled court the greetings of King Brand of Dale and a brief accounting of his winter's work.

In the break following the next course a minstrel knelt before the King, his harp upon his knee, and sang of the downfall of Smaug and the Battle of the Five Armies that had followed. It was a gesture to honour Gandalf, and the wizard smiled benevolently upon the singer and was the first to laud him when he finished. Thranduil was pleased by this gesture, and sat in clear satisfaction as the next course was presented.

The food was rich and wondrous, but Aragorn found he could eat little of it. He made an effort to taste of every course, though it was not possible even to consider every dish. There were soups and sauces and savouries beyond count, all manner of pastries and baked delights. There was fruit fresh and baked, boiled and candied and roasted. There was meat and fowl of every kind: beef and pheasant and venison, but also hare and boar and dainty little game birds glistening in fragrant glazes. There were blackbirds garnished with berries that must have been cultivated under the direct supervision of the most skilled of Elven gardeners, so far out of season were they. And there were dishes of such skillful spicing and presentation that the simplest of roots and vegetables were made into wondrous things. Platter after platter of dainties were brought before the king, and there was always more to come.

By the sixth course, Aragorn's stomach was rebelling uneasily. It had less to do with what he had eaten than it did with the sheer abundance of provender passing before his eyes. He knew that little would be wasted. What was not eaten in the banquet-hall would be dispersed among Thranduil's servants, and what they could not eat would be passed on to the wood-folk, and so on. But the sight of such bounty after his months of near-famine was dizzying. So he sipped at the wine and nibbled what he dared, and tried his utmost to appear restful and merry. Once he caught Gandalf staring down the table at him with evaluating eyes, but he thought he was carrying it off quite well.

Then they came to the end of the seventh course – river oysters in heavy cream, an assortment of compotes, and delicate sugary creations made to look like flowering trees – and another minstrel came down before the king. This one carried a lute, and she curtseyed low before the king while a lithe page brought out a carven chair.

'Gracious King!' she declaimed, then gestured with the arm not cradling her instrument to encompass the rest of the high table. 'My lords, my ladies, honoured guests and friends old and new.' She turned next to the crowd behind her, long skirts sweeping the stone floor. 'My kindred, my people. Let me sing for you a song never yet heard in this fair hall! It is a song of the South, a song of Men. It is a song procured for me by secret means, and brought to you to delight your ears and ennoble your hearts. It is a song of the noble realm of Gondor: a song of one of their great heroes – not of old, my kindred, but of our very time. It is a ballad known as The Flight of the Eagle, and I pray you listen well, and remember!'

With an uncomfortable feeling of certainty, Aragorn gripped the arm of his chair and pushed himself up straighter within it. His other hand closed upon the stem of his cup, nearly empty though it was. He had refused each offer of a refreshing measure, trying to keep his head clear by limiting himself to the one cupful. Now he wished it were brimming. A song out of Gondor; a song not of heroes past but those of the present time; a song bearing in its name the word eagle; it could scarcely be anything else. Thranduil had honoured one of his guests already this night. Now it was time to pay tribute to the other.

As he set his face into pleasantly interested lines and curled his fingers more tightly on the cool golden goblet, the minstrel began to sing.

Down in dawn from Anduin,
slender ships were sailing.
Night swept on through Tolfalas
as the day was failing.
Swift and silent swelled the sails
through the dark sea churning.
All Dol Amroth stood and mourned
for brave ones ne'er returning.

Sailor, soldier, sable Guard,
rode the darkling ocean.
Feared they neither doom nor death
in their proud devotion.
He who led them on those seas
into untold danger,
tall Thorongil, Captain bold:
Gondor's son and stranger…

Raising the cup to his lips, Aragorn let his eyes travel the room. All were watching the minstrel with the eager interest of lovers of song rarely favoured with new fare. None of them knew, of course, that the man of whom the lady sang was seated before them. They could not know, for that Aragorn had lived for a time as Thorongil was a truth that had been almost as jealously guarded in the North as Thorongil's origins and ancestry had been guarded in the South. But of course Gandalf knew, and from the way Thranduil's eyes were now taking the Ranger's measure, so did the Elven-King. His son did not, for he was watching the singer raptly. Beside Aragorn, Telfeir was listening with a faint smile upon his thin lips. But Losfaron was watching the Man.

He took the nearest flagon of wine and leaned to refill Aragorn's cup. 'You must pardon her,' he whispered. 'She is trying to offer you a taste of your homeland: she does not realize that the Men who dwell West of the mountains have little in common with the Men of the South.'

Aragorn looked at him in some surprise, and found himself smiling. If he had let anything in bearing or countenance betray his discomfort, it had been readily and understandably misinterpreted. He shook his head ever so slightly. 'It is an unusual song,' he murmured as he lifted the vessel to his lips. 'I have never heard it before.'

That was certainly true. It was strange to sit thus, listening while one's own deeds were memorialized in song. It was stranger still to hear how one night's dread and bloody work had been elevated to the cool purity of legend. In the song there was much of glory and courage and vision, of the red glow of fire and the sweeping oars of victory. There was nothing of the sharp stink of acrid salt smoke tainted with the smell of burning flesh, of the terrified screams in the darkness, of the bodies silhouetted black against orange waters as they jumped from the bulwarks. There was the music of steel ringing against steel, but none of the soft squelch of a sword driven into a man's unarmoured abdomen. The song told of the desperate dancing duel on the quays; the two Captains with eyes and blades and wills locked fast. But there was nothing of what had come after that final blow and before the swift withdrawal that had made of the carnage a triumph.

At last the minstrel came to the final lines of the song, though Aragorn knew it before her audience did. This part at least he was interested to hear, for all that his heart ached to recall that bitter morning.

Silent slipped their little boat
to bear him thence away.
Eastward then he turned his face,
to where the Shadow lay.
Grey mists cloaked him from their sight,
and left them on the shore.
To the City that he loved,
Thorongil came no more.

So that was how they remembered him in Minas Tirith far away: a lone figure in the fog with his eyes fixed upon the Mountains of Shadow. It had a ring of legend to it, no doubt of that; the wistfulness of a hero vanished into mystery. If any in Gondor should be told what had come after that cold grey dawn on Anduin's far bank, they would doubtless refuse to believe it. Their puissant Captain disappearing into the darkness he had fought so diligently, doubtless to fight on – that was a fitting end to the tale. Penury and pillories, thirst and deception and orc-whips had no place in myth. No one wanted to know what happened to the hero when he passed from their tale: it was too disheartening.

Approving voices were lauding the song, and the singer rose and swept her deep curtsey again. Thranduil plucked one of the forget-me-nots from his crown and tossed it to her. She caught it and dipped again, the dainty blossom clasped in her slender hand. Flushed with the thrill of the song and the favour of her King, the maiden withdrew. As she went the servers came forward, bearing yet another decadent course to be presented before the high table.

lar

When even the greatest of appetites had surely been sated, boards were cleared and the lower tables moved swiftly off to one side. The candles in their tall stems were brought into an immense circle, and by their light the dancing began in earnest. Thranduil lead the first pavane himself, palm to palm with his sister. This stately ritual was followed by a livelier ring dance, fleet feet flying and silks whirling to the merry melody. The dances of the wood-elves were a sight to behold, for they moved almost faster than the eye, tireless and elemental in their joy. Aragorn, well into his second goblet of potent Dorwinion wine, leaned upon the arm of his chair and watched wordlessly.

Most of the others had descended from the high table, either to join in the dancing or to mingle with the other revellers. Losfaron had slipped from the room to look in on his soldiers and their unpleasant charge. Aragorn's other seatmate was now at the far end of the hall, conversing intently with a pair of Elves with the bearing of warriors. The Ranger turned when the vacant chair scraped back and Gandalf slid into it.

'How are your reserves holding up?' he asked quietly, settling back as if in perfect comfort although his eyes were sharp and searching.

'Well enough,' said Aragorn. He sipped of his wine and curled his lip. 'Did I pass your test, Mithrandir?'

'It was no test,' said Gandalf. 'It was… an unfortunate and unintended consequence of what I thought at the time to be an act of great circumspection and no small wit.'

'Circumspection?' Aragorn chuckled darkly and swirled the crimson fluid so that it danced against the smooth golden bowl of the cup. 'That is an interesting word for it.'

'It is a fitting word,' Gandalf said. 'Thranduil wished to know what I had found of such interest in Gondor. I provided him with something I had brought back that was of great interest to me, and will prove to be of still greater interest to others among my friends. Naturally I had to explain why it was so interesting, or he would not have taken it to be all there was to tell of.'

Aragorn's eyes narrowed. 'That is why you gave it to him?'

'Only that.' Gandalf shrugged. 'I might have come up with something more creative, but I had not the wit after my long battles with Sméagol. I might have told him it was none of his affair, but the Elven-King can be dangerous when his pride is wounded. This seemed a ready solution, particularly as I had the song and tabulature in my possession, and in a hand other than my own. They were transcribed for me by a very obliging young musician who told me it was one of the most popular in his repertoire.'

'So you had him write it out that you might make sport of me?' Aragorn asked. He knew this was not fair, but the words seemed to come of their own accord. He took another swallow of the sweet, strong wine.

'I had him write it out because I thought you would be interested to see how you are remembered,' Gandalf said levelly. 'And because I thought it would be an appreciated addition to Elrond's stores of song and story. And because I knew that Bilbo would be proud and delighted to hear you thus memorialized in a song written by another, after all his own hard work to that end.'

'It is an uncomfortable thing to hear of oneself in song, particularly when one was not consulted before its crafting nor even warned it was to be performed,' said Aragorn irritably.

'I know,' said Gandalf, amusement in his voice and in his eyes.

Aragorn looked at him in some surprise and then sighed. 'Of course you do,' he said.

'It is the price we pay for our valiant deeds,' Gandalf declared stoutly. 'Once in a while, someone actually takes notice and commemorates them.'

Aragorn opened his mouth to protest, realized how absurd any argument would sound, and closed it again. He shook his head in wonderment, and was surprised to find it did not stop spinning when his neck fell still. He looked down at the cup and its ruby heart. He felt a pleasant hovering detachment from his body. 'Denethor must hate it,' he said.

'Oh, assuredly,' said Gandalf, nodding sagely. 'I had to go all the way down to the Fourth Level before I could find a minstrel willing to attest to its existence at all. It is not precisely a forbidden song, for the denizens of Gondor would frown upon that as oppression worthy of the Enemy, but it is certainly an unwanted song, at least wherever the Steward should chance to sup.'

Shaking his head in mingled amusement and disbelief, Aragorn took another sweet draught of the wine. Before him the Elves had broken off into couples again for a galliard. There was not an unskilled dancer in the lot, and all were possessed of an agility and grace almost beyond description. Watching them turn and leap and land in elegant forms was entrancing, and he drifted in a waking dream of beauty and flying colours in candlelight. Beside him Gandalf settled quietly, now and then drumming upon the arm of the chair in time to the music. At such times Aragorn stirred a little from his sleepy torpor, but only to push himself up a little straighter with his good left foot or to sip again of the wine.

The candles seemed to sway before his eyes, the whirling colours of Elven finery blending together into a bright rainbow of silk and ribbons. The music dimmed in his ears, and he could hear the steady beating of his heart instead. He felt removed from his slowly mending body and its omnipresent aches, severed from the lingering consequences of hurts now old and weary. He seemed to float outside of his own mind, beyond the reach of fear or dread, or shame or self-doubt. He was beyond the reach even of regret, and that was sweetest of all. He had only to draw breath, and to watch the blurred beauty of the swirling word before his drowsy eyes, and to hover peaceably here, where there was no pain.

Someone was speaking in a low and euphonious voice that reminded him dimly of firm and gentle hands easing him back down upon soft cushions. Another voice answered, and that was Gandalf. Aragorn knew not what he said, but it was Gandalf and no mistake. He would have known that voice even in death. Then someone was coaxing him out of the chair and onto his strong foot. He felt his crutch against his side and gripped for it, finding the handle on the second pass. He tried to speak, but words eluded him. He felt as drowsy as one drugged, and dimly he knew it was the wine: easing his heart and lulling him to sleep although he had scarcely even trod the border of tipsiness. The weary road had indeed worn thin his endurance for such genteel indulgences.

He felt a slender shoulder against his right side, and a strong arm reaching around his waist from the left. Lethril's hand touched the crook of his right elbow. At his other ear Gandalf said; 'Come now, my dear boy: let's get you off to bed.'

Aragorn tried to shake his head, but it felt very heavy. They could leave him in the chair, he would have said if only he could have found the means. He would have been content to doze there like a dotard in the warm candlelight. But they began to walk and he found his own feet following. His body seemed to know how to move with the crutch, even when he was not thinking about it. There was a precarious moment at the edge of the dais, when the stair downward briefly thwarted his escorts. In the end he simply stepped down, left foot leading, and forced them to come with him. He had walked many hard and lonesome paths, after all: one stone step could not possibly stop him.

There were other voices as they moved through the room, all of them merry and all filled with glad wishes and cheer. Then cool air caressed Aragorn's face as they moved from the busy hall into the quiet of the corridor. Lethril spoke, but he did not heed her. He was occupied in moving limbs that seemed far detached from his essential self. He walked between the wizard and the Elf-maiden with steady determination, and he did not stumble. By the time they turned into a small, dark chamber, however, he was scarcely aware of his surroundings. He did not feel as they relieved him of his finery and unlaced the warm and extravagantly stitched new cote, nor when the low boots were slipped from his feet. And when he was flat upon his back in the soft bed, he half fancied that he was walking still; walking on and on into a dreamy night while the hurts of his heart were left farther and farther behind. Aragorn felt a calloused and weathered palm gentle upon his cheek, and he slept.