Note: I'm on my way to a leave-taking celebration of my own right now, so I'm posting before I've had a chance to reply to all my wonderful reviewers. Fear not! I haven't forgotten you, and I'll write soon. I just didn't have the heart to keep the chapter back.

Chapter LXVIII: Westward Away

Four days more they lingered. Each morning Gandalf came to the Ranger’s chamber and the two of them went walking. They found Thranduil’s spacious but sparsely seeded library. They paid a visit to the kitchens, that Aragorn might thank those who had worked to meet his strange requests. On the second day they went up to wander the Elven-King’s cultivated glades beneath the open sky. On that excursion Aragorn brought both his crutches, that he might relieve his ankle when the need arose. He was glad of them ere he reached his destination, but on the following day his feet bore him unaided from his quiet room to the splendid audience chamber that housed Thranduil’s throne. It was a distance, so their host claimed, not much less than a mile, and Aragorn made it almost halfway back before having to set down his crutch. There could be no argument that the terms of the agreement had been met.

Aragorn was eating more reliably as well. He had suffered no ill effects from his careful grazing at the feast, and from his wine-whetted slumber he had awakened clear-headed and better rested than at any time in recent memory. He successfully reintroduced his stomach to the staples of Elven travel fare, and although he was still not able to eat much in a sitting he seldom felt nauseous or even uneasy afterwards. He could not partake of anything too rich or too extravagantly spiced, but that would be no hindrance on the road. He had made no noticeable inroads with into filling out the hollows of his face and his ribs, but that would come in time. Even Gandalf was not dissatisfied with his progress.

By the close of the third day they were decided, but they tarried one more to make ample preparations. Aragorn oversaw the allotting of travel provisions and the assembling of a few basic bandaging supplies and salves. Gandalf sought the other sundries for a well-equipped journey, from sewing needles to bedrolls to crisp tinder for their fireboxes. All but the most essential items were packed into four spacious saddlebags, with a few necessities that might be needed mid-ride tucked into the satchel that Aragorn had brought from the house of Grimbeorn. Their intention was to travel lightly enough to allow the fleet Elven horses to make an easy thirty-six miles a day over level country, while still ensuring they were well-supplied enough that they need not fear hunger. They would be able to resupply at the Town at Carrock if need be, but that was the last waystation before Rivendell.

On their final evening in Thranduil’s palace, the two hunters paid their last visit to Gollum.

The first and most notable thing upon entering the guardroom was that the ghastly stench was very thin upon the air. It was still present, but only beneath the dark smoky scent of the charcoal brazier and the spices of the guards’ lately-eaten supper. Aragorn felt no stirring of hateful memories as he followed Gandalf into the room, though the sight of the low-backed chairs made his thickly crusted shoulder blade itch.

Behind the Man came Captain Losfaron and the King’s son, who it seemed was active in the royal Guard when he was at home. The two Elves on duty rose respectfully as this high-ranked entourage entered. The wizard moved only far enough into the room to admit those behind him before stopping to scent the air.

‘Did you persuade him at last to bathe?’ he asked, frankly impressed.

Losfaron grinned. ‘He shunned our soap and the hot water brought from the springs, nor would he suffer our aid. So I ordered a tub of cold river-water brought fresh and we left him at last to his own devices. Such a splashing and a floundering I have never heard, and when we opened the door there was more water on the floor than in the tub. Yet is it not far more pleasant for us all?’

‘Quite,’ said Gandalf dryly. Yet his eyes were alight with hope at the Captain’s words.

‘He is now upon his third pallet, for the last would have soon been moldy from its soaking, We took from him his garment, also – if garment it could rightly be called.’ Losfaron wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘I ordered it burned. He has refused warm clothing, but consented to replace his rude draping once we had one cut of cloth woven in Dale. It seems he scorns Elven handiwork, but he is not wholly without shame.’

‘You must continue to treat him as you have been,’ Gandalf instructed. ‘If your efforts are rebuffed, try some other means of approach. We must have hope: mayhap time and kindness may cure what long cruelty has marred. Be patient with him, and generous in your hearts. Though he is repugnant, he is wounded almost beyond imagining.’

Aragorn had moved to the cell door, and he was listening to the sounds behind it. He heard the snuffling wheeze of Gollum’s breath and knew that he hung upon every word. Even after nine hundred miles’ journey, however, the Ranger could not make a credible guess as to what the prisoner might make of what he heard.

‘Take care lest your watchfulness should lapse, either from pity or familiarity,’ he said. From the other side of the door came a terse hitching of breath that wrenched at his innards. It was a terrible thing to be so blindly feared, even by such a miserable being, and his own discomfort did nothing to make his next words more gracious. ‘Perhaps you cannot conceive of his wiles, but know that he is stronger than he looks and he is swift as an adder. Think of all you have heard of him, and consider what mischief he might do if he were free.’

‘He must be guarded ceaselessly,’ Gandalf agreed, holding first Losfaron and then Legolas in his stern gaze.

‘He shall be,’ the King’s son vowed. ‘There will never be fewer than two guards upon him, and more when the occasion shall warrant it. As was agreed in the beginning, we will secure him: the cells of Thranduil shall never again be breached!’

Gandalf smiled at this and looked to the Ranger. ‘Are you satisfied, Dúnadan?’ he asked earnestly. ‘Will you rest easy in your mind knowing that others have faithfully taken up the watch?’

It was impolitic, even hurtful, to hesitate; yet Aragorn had to. He needed a moment to weigh the matter properly, for Gandalf’s question was a grave one. Could he truly lay by his charge? Would he indeed rest easy in his mind? After all the wretched weeks of sleepless vigilance would such a thing ever again be possible?

It must be, he decided with cold resolve. He could not live out his days as the sedentary jailor of a lone prisoner. He had done his part and borne his burden. Now it was time to entrust the charge to others, and these good Elves had proved unswerving in their compliance with the agreed measures.

‘I will,’ he said. The clipped finality of those two words had the same savour of release that he had tasted when the rope was cut from his wrist; of freedom from long bondage. Turning to the solemn-eye Eldar watching him, he bowed his head in thanks. ‘I am grateful for your fidelity, and your willingness in this hard duty. You know not the greatness of your gift to all the Free Peoples in taking this charge.’

‘It is our privilege to aid in the fight against the Shadow however we may,’ said Losfaron.

Gandalf then dusted his hands with neat finality. ‘Well, my friend?’ he said, and his eyes glinted with gentle teasing. ‘Shall we look in on him, that you might take your leave face to face?’

Aragorn cast him the blackest of looks as an involuntary shudder overtook him. ‘Never,’ he spat, the disdain earnest where the irritation had not been. ‘Let us be gone.’

Gandalf laughed, but his eyes were grave.

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Dawn was breaking beyond the high hill when Gandalf and Aragorn stepped out into the crisp damp of early spring. They were clad for the trail: Gandalf in his hat and weather-stained robes, and Aragorn with Sigbeorn’s warm cloak obscuring his new garments. Gandalf bore his staff and had Glamdring at his side. Aragorn still wore his long hunting knife. Each had a leather bottle filled with water and the contents of their pouches, but they carried no other baggage. The rest of their gear had been brought out the night before.

Upon the stone causeway Thranduil was waiting with two attendants. ‘It is a brave morning to embark upon a journey,’ the Elven-King said in greeting. ‘You shall have a pleasant road today at least.’

‘And let us hope for many days to come,’ said Gandalf. ‘You have my earnest thanks for your hospitality, and your generosity on our departure.’

The two of them went on together, conversing quietly, but Aragorn’s attention was drawn by a low whinny of recognition. From along the hillside Thranduil’s Master of Horse was guiding a fair dappled gelding with the delicate bones and proud head of the horses of Lothlórien. The steed was saddled and laden, with soft bit and bridle. The light shoes rang upon the stones as both stepped up onto the causeway. Behind came another pair: Elf and horse approaching with quiet grace. It took Aragorn a moment of looking with unseeing eyes before he recognized Losfaron and the sleek dark mare who followed him.

Swiftly the Ranger strode forward, now long accustomed to the persistent healing pain across his foot. He passed Gandalf’s steed and halted where he could reach to stroke Moroch’s velvet nose. She nickered happily and nuzzled his hand.

‘Captain, I cannot!’ Aragorn protested softly. Moroch was in full travel tack, the two fat saddlebags on her hips with an oilcloth-wrapped blanket across them. ‘I was meant to have the loan of a horse from His Majesty’s stables, not your own dear steed.’

Losfaron laughed softly. ‘You have trusted me with your captive: surely I can trust you with my light-footed lady. She will bear you with swift and steady stride, even in the high places of the mountains.’

‘It is a harsh road, though it be spring,’ Aragorn argued. ‘She will fare better here. I could not presume to take her from you, not for so many weeks. I will wait while another horse is saddled.’

‘What gives you to think she would permit any other to bear you?’ Losfaron asked merrily, nodding at Moroch.

The mare was rubbing the side of her head lovingly upon Aragorn’s shoulder now, making soft glad noises deep in her throat. One hoof pawed the cobbles, almost prancing. When Aragorn cupped his left hand over the far ball of her jaw, her eyelids fluttered low. Reflexively, the Ranger clicked his tongue in fond acknowledgement.

‘Yes, gentle heart: I am well,’ he murmured. This time the Elven tongue was no surprise to Moroch. She merely nudged him with her nose again and nibbled at his cloak as she might nibble the withers of another horse. Having first seen him so low and wounded, she was pleased and relieved at his clean and healthful scent now. Scratching the side of her neck with his fingertips, Aragorn could not find it within himself to resist any further. He looked at the Captain, and saw only earnest generosity in his eyes.

‘I will care for her as if she were my own,’ Aragorn promised quietly. ‘And I shall ensure she is brought home to you by capable guardians, as swift as may be.’

‘Fear not for that,’ said Losfaron. ‘I shall not be riding abroad for some time; certainly not until all my guards have been properly trained in the tending of the prisoner. It will be a joy to know that she is contented and active in the free air while I must bide below.’

Aragorn bowed his head, stricken momentarily dumb by the Elf’s generosity. ‘I thank you,’ he said at last. ‘For this and for all, I thank you.’

‘You go back into toils for which I lack the fortitude,’ Losfaron murmured. ‘It is I who have the greater cause for thanks.’

There were a few further words of farewell from Thranduil, and final thanks from the two travellers as they mounted. At length both were in the saddle, though some adjustment of Moroch’s tack was needed to bring the stirrups to the proper height for her long-legged rider. This Losfaron took care of with a dexterity that made plain that he did not always ride her Elf-fashion. Then he offered her a nibble of sugar and stroked her neck, murmuring softly in words none but she could hear. Then the Captain looked up at the rider watching him with soft eyes, and he smiled.

‘Bear him well, my fair one,’ he said, kissing her swiftly upon her brow. ‘I do not think he often has such respite.’

Moroch raised her head and tossed it proudly. Then Losfaron stepped back and Aragorn gathered the reins loosely in his left hand. ‘My thanks again, Captain,’ he said. Then turning in the saddle he bowed his head respectfully to Thranduil. ‘My thanks, Elven-King. When next we meet, I pray the hour is happier.’

‘May the wind go with you, Aragorn son of Arathorn,’ said Thranduil. ‘And may Elbereth smile upon your next great venture, whatever it might be.’

‘Keep that prayer in your heart,’ said Gandalf. ‘You know not how gravely we have need of her grace.’ Then he turned his mount and touched a heel to the gelding’s side, and they were off.

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The day was cool but pleasant, and they rode in easy comfort. Moroch knew the Elven road well, and so Aragorn led the way with Gandalf and the Lórien-steed a pace behind. The noises of spring were manifold in the shadowy woods: the chirp and twitter of birds in search of mates, the scurry of small animals awakening from winter’s lazy routines, and the steady drip-drip of meltwater from the canopy high above. At first they kept up a trot, not wanting to seem too eager to be gone nor to push themselves too swiftly into the rigours of the saddle. But after their noontide halt they went on at a steady canter, trusting always to Moroch’s knowledge of the land. She was indeed a gentle beast, and she bore Aragorn with the same care and smoothness she had shown upon their first meeting. As they rode, Aragorn told Gandalf of it in as much detail as he felt comfortable – for even now he was reluctant to make plain just how desperate those last days of his journey had been.

They broke once in the late afternoon to take a small meal, and then rode on through the twilight. By the glow of Gandalf’s staff they went on even after darkness fell and the eyes appeared to either side of the road. They seemed far less threatening now, in the company of the wizard and the two calm horses, than they had during Aragorn’s limping eastward trek. He could pick out the owners with ease when he tried: here an owl, there a ferret, and there a fox. Of the green-eyed great cats he saw no sign – neither of the she-lynx whose mate he had slain nor of any of her kindred.

When at last they halted, Aragorn was very nearly dozing in the saddle. He was glad of Gandalf’s tactful decision to let him call the halt, and he did not abuse that trust. He was steady on his feet when they dismounted, if somewhat stiff in the thighs and back. Losfaron had spoken aright: seldom did he have the luxury of riding, and there was always a period of uncomfortable adjustment when he set out to do so.

They made camp at the edge of the road, where the horses could graze in the undergrowth. It was doubtful that any dark thing would attempt to waylay them, for the wizard and the Ranger together did not make a tempting target and the Elven horses had about themselves an air of untouchable grace. Gandalf gathered brush for a fire, which Aragorn laid. They ate a simple supper of Elven bread and smoked venison, and Aragorn drank of the bottle of milk he had been provided with. There was enough only for a few meals, but it would serve to taper him off the strict building-up regimen he had followed in the Elven-King’s halls.

Gandalf insisted upon taking the first watch, but he woke Aragorn when the time came to change. That too was a promising gesture of trust: he was taking the Man at his word that he was well enough to bear his part of the nightly responsibilities. They settled upon a system of four short watches instead of two long, at least for this leg of the journey. So it was Aragorn who laid out breakfast and woke the wizard when the dawn was breaking in a green haze behind them.

The second day they travelled more slowly, for there was no cause for haste and the horses too were adjusting to the long road. It was colder that day, and by sunset the air was near freezing. Quite warm in his new garments, Aragorn had only to dig out the mittens from his satchel to ride in comfort. His hands, it seemed, were still uncommonly sensitive to the cold. Now and then a wet cough stirred deeply in his chest, but that was unsurprising on such a chill evening.

On the third day they heard the click and chatter of spiders away to the south, but they were not waylaid. The gelding feared these noises, and trotted on with uneasy hooves and ears flat upon his head. Moroch only tossed her head back at her rider, as if to bid him be on his guard, and went on as though quite untroubled. She was used to such sounds, and trusted Aragorn as she trusted her own master to safeguard her. The horses moved swiftly, and they covered nearly fifty miles that day.

It was on the evening of the fourth day that the faint filtering glow of sunset burst suddenly forth in brilliant scarlet and orange before them, as with a few long strides the horses broke out from the eaves of the forest and into the wide, brown spring lands that rolled on to Anduin. The ditches were choked with meltwater and mud and the hillsides were thick with last year’s dead grasses, but even in the dying light the first signs of new growth were plain. There were wild blossoms in the high places, and signs of wild birds bathing in the low, and the new shoots of clover and wild oat were showing.

The night was cloudless, and they rode on under the stars for a time. It was a pleasant change after the gloom of the forest, and Aragorn’s fatigue was salved for a while by the glory of the Firmament. Gandalf rode in silence for perhaps three miles, until Mirkwood was well behind them. Then he reigned in his horse and announced that it was time to make camp.

‘You have been a stalwart traveller these last days, but do not think I cannot see that you are weary,’ he said as Aragorn swung down from the saddle and began to unbuckle the straps beneath Moroch’s warm flank. ‘There is no cause to press on with such haste. Urgent is our errand, but it is not desperate.’

‘If I do not press myself, I will never strengthen,’ Aragorn argued, clearing his chest with a thin cough. They had halted in a place where a hillock rose dry above the mud, and he spread the saddle carefully over an obliging stone. Moroch lowered her head, that he might remove the bridle with ease. ‘We agreed upon our pace, and I am eager to be home.’

‘Too eager, perhaps,’ said Gandalf, but he did not argue further. They ate their supper cold, neither being inclined to range too far in search of fuel. Then the wizard spread his blanket and lay down beneath his cloak, and Aragorn sat with his back to stone and saddle, and watched the stars whirl in their slow dance above.

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By early afternoon they had reached the edge of cultivated country. When Aragorn had passed by these holdings with Gollum, the land had been lifeless beneath a thick covering of snow and the farmhouses shut tight against the bitter winter winds. Now the fields were busy: men driving teams to draw broad harrows, or running along after ploughs; children picking stones and chasing one another gleefully in the dark, fertile mud; women hoeing rows for gardens. The travellers with their fair steeds were the object of some mild interest but no derision. Now and then someone called out a greeting, which was returned with a raised hand and a courteous nod. At one cottage, two small children came out and ran after the riders for perhaps a quarter of a mile before cheering them on and trotting back to their mother.

All this Aragorn watched from his lofty seat upon Moroch’s strong back, and his heart felt muddled with conflicting warmth and discontent. It was good to travel unreviled and unharried, but it only served to remind him of past indignities and the return to shabby obscurity that awaited him when he went back to his daily labours in the West. This journey was nothing but a small respite in a life now almost wholly given over to lonely roads and uncertain tomorrows.

Still his spirits rose high within him when, as the sunset sank to dusk before them, he caught sight of the twinkling lanterns close by the ground and spaced at perfect intervals. When last he had seen them, coming from Anduin, he had found within himself only the strength to drag his frozen bones over the last tortured ells to the sanctuary behind. Now he cast back over his shoulder and laughed, beckoning to Gandalf.

‘Come!’ he cried, urging Moroch on to a gallop with the lightest of touches from his knee. ‘It shall be an early halt and a merry fire tonight!’

The gate was open wide, as it had been on that bitter night when he would not have found the strength to climb it. The yard was empty of snow, and there were flowers budding already on both sides of the path. The fat domes of the beehives stood black against the darkening land, and from within came the buzz and murmur of the great honeybees settling to their rest after a day abroad. There was a nip of frost on the air, but the scents of spring were everywhere. Aragorn guided Moroch up the path to the sheltered court before the door of the house, and he dismounted even before Gandalf reached its edge.

‘Goodness, Dúnadan, what kind of a welcome did these folk give you?’ he asked as he caught up at last just before Aragorn knocked. ‘I cannot remember when last I saw you so joyous at the thought of a night’s company.’

It was true. Aragorn felt a buoyant gladness that he would have thought himself incapable of experiencing even a few days before. His troubled heart was silent once more, and his dark thoughts at least half forgotten. He knew only that warmth and fellowship waited on the other side of this door, and that tonight he would be both well enough to relish it and free from dark duties that would keep him from reciprocating. He glanced back at the deep purple of the sky, and wondered whether they might be early enough to have caught the children before bed.

The door flew open, and Grimbeorn’s broad shadow was silhouetted against the golden light that spilled across the traveller’s faces. ‘Who’s abroad at this time of night?’ he asked, his deep voice rich with welcome. Then his gaze moved from one face to the next, and he laughed. ‘Back so soon, Chief of the West?’ he asked, stepping down to clap Aragorn on the shoulder. ‘And with a different kind of scoundrel at your side this time, I see!’

‘Have a care who you call a scoundrel, son of Beorn,’ Gandalf warned merrily. ‘I have not forgotten my old tricks, and they work just as well upon large feet as little ones.’

Grimbeorn laughed again, and the sound was like the blaze of his broad hearth. He gave Aragorn’s shoulder one hard, bracing shake, and his eyes flicked tellingly over the Ranger’s body when he felt it strong and stable beneath his grasp. ‘And horses, too,’ he said. ‘Beautiful horses. Where did you come by such stock?’

‘We have our ways,’ said Gandalf. ‘They would doubtless be glad of a good rubdown and a night in your fine stables, if you have a son to spare for the labour. If not, then with your leave we shall see to them ourselves before we step across your threshold.’

‘See to them yourselves? Before you’ve had a chance to sup and rest your feet? My wife would beat me with her distaff if I allowed that!’ Grimbeorn said. He cast his shaggy head back over his shoulder and roared; ‘Sigbeorn! Urdbeorn! There’s work to be done!’

The boy was swifter than his uncle, or else he had already been hovering near to see who had come calling so late. He appeared in the doorway in a moment, already flinging a cloak about his shoulders. When he saw Aragorn he grinned. ‘You’re back!’ he said. ‘The little ones will be pleased!’ Then he saw Gandalf and his eyes grew wide. ‘It’s… you are… that is…’

‘It is and I am,’ said Gandalf with a smile. ‘Take good care of our horses and I’ll let you ask half a dozen questions, if you can get them out.’

Urdbeorn bowed hastily and ran to take the gelding’s reins. Sigbeorn was coming out into the twilight now, taking in the visitors without remark. He took the lines from Aragorn’s hand, and nodded frankly at the Ranger’s smile of thanks. He would have introduced the youth to Moroch and bade her goodnight, save that Grimbeorn was already herding him over the threshold.

‘Look, my love, who’s come back to us out of the night!’ he cried as they stepped into the room. ‘And not frozen even a little this time, either! I checked.’

At the long table the women were sitting: Una and Clothilde with sewing in their hands and Eira with a stout pair of shears with which she was attacking a length of flannel. Comfortable in her father-in-law’s chair sat Freya, a shawl draped over one shoulder to shield the tiny bundle in her arms. Against her elbow kicked a tiny foot: the babe she had been bearing within her when Aragorn had last sheltered here short weeks before.

Eira rose to her feet with a cry of welcome, and before Aragorn knew what was happening she had her strong arms around him in a glad embrace. ‘Well met and welcome!’ she said. ‘Come in and sit. Let me see your fingers… ah! Well, that answers my first question!’

She had found his wrists beneath the cloak she had given him, and had drawn out his mittened hands. She smiled proudly and nodded, then put an arm around his back as she led him on into the room. ‘And you, Gandalf the Grey,’ she said. ‘Do off with those mucky boots and come in yourself. I see you two have found each other at last. Are you pleased with your errand-boy? You ought to be. Shame on you for sending a friend on such a hard road!’

Aragorn opened his mouth in defence of his companion, but it was no use. Eira was already giving orders to her granddaughter and the wife of Randbeorn, and from the other side of the room a chorus of eager voices rose as small feet scampered up to surround the visitors. The children were awake after all, and it was impossible for either visitor to speak as they all began to talk at once.

‘Oh, you’re back! Did you meet any spiders?’

‘That’s Gandalf, Delbeorn: I told you about Gandalf—’

‘—the ugly little thing this time? He smelled dreadfully…’

‘… story again? Sigbeorn does not tell it right, not at all!’

‘—just missed supper, but I’ll run and fix you some eggs if you like, just like last time! May I fix you some eggs?’

‘But were there any spiders?’

‘Did you have good luck? Did you see any Elves?’

‘Is he truly a wizard?’

‘Please? Please, may I?’

‘Mother, he’s back!’

‘Hush, children, hush!’ laughed Gandalf, his voice rising above the din with a note of glad command that was both pleasant and impossible to disobey.  Six eager mouths popped shut, and twelve wide eyes riveted upon the Istar. In the sudden silence there was a happy exclamation of; ‘Pah!’ as Svala sat back upon her bottom in satisfaction and batted at the hem of Aragorn’s cloak.

‘Well met, little beauty,’ he said, and he stooped to pick her up. She seized upon the edge of his cloak as Aragorn took a moment to find the most natural way to curl his arm beneath her. When last he had held her it had been in a moment of panic and peril. Now her plump little weight was a consolation. He spread his palm across her back, mittened thumb beneath her arm. He could feel the rhythm of her breath through the wool and her soft little frock. Smiling radiantly, he looked down at the eager throng about him. ‘Yes, children: I’m back,’ he said. ‘Let me but sit a while, and I will answer all your questions.’

‘You look much recovered,’ Una said, slipping between slender young bodies and holding out her arms for the baby. Svala, who had given up her hold upon the Ranger’s cloak and was now toying with the silver star that clasped it, pretended that she could not see her cousin’s hands. ‘Still too lean, but your eyes are clear and your colour much improved.’

‘I fear you did not see me at my best, young mistress,’ said Aragorn quietly. He took his hand from Svala’s back and tugged the mitten off with his teeth before removing the other with finger and thumb. He tucked them both into the crook of his arm next to the baby’s hip and held his free hand out for Una’s inspection. ‘Your diligent care has borne fruit, as you can see. The skin will soften in time, and I do not think any of the sores will scar, save perhaps that on the second knuckle of the forefinger.’

Una took his hand with both her own and studied it judiciously, a healer’s apprentice gauging the results of her work. She pointed to a mark in the web of finger and thumb. ‘This was not a blister?’ she asked, half certain.

‘Nay, a cut,’ said Aragorn; a teacher’s gentle reminder. ‘The consequence of climbing trees when one is long past the optimal age.’

At his hip Halla giggled, and all at once the children were chattering again – this time chiefly amongst themselves. Gandalf had taken a seat on the bench by the door, and now he flung aside his tall black boots with some satisfaction before striding to the table and taking Baldbeorn’s chair. Of the elder sons of Grimbeorn there was no sign.

Una finally managed to disentangle Svala’s little fingers from Aragorn’s brooch, and she took the child. Aragorn rolled the mittens into a ball and unclasped his cloak. At once young hands reached to relieve him of it: twelve-year-old Harlbeorn, stepping up to help. Aragorn moved to take the seat below Gandalf, and suddenly Torbeorn was crouching at his feet.

‘May I take your boots?’ he asked. ‘And did you see any spiders?’

‘I did,’ Aragorn said, no small bit amused. Clearly the offer of assistance was motivated purely by the desire to have his question answered. ‘I saw one, and I slew it – but not before it nipped me. My arm was quite numb for the better part of two days.’

The boy’s eyes grew enormous with awe and admiration, and he removed the short Elven boots as if handling priceless artefacts. Otkala, who had drawn near to lean against the arm of Aragorn’s chair, frowned at them as the boy bore them away.

‘Those are not the ones you mended,’ she said. ‘Those are green.’

‘The ones I mended did not last me long,’ said Aragorn. ‘If once you must resort to such measures, your boots have few miles left in them.’

‘Aah.’ The little girl nodded her head wisely, then rounded the chair and put her knee up against his shin. She was trying to climb into his lap, but she could not quite make her leg stretch high enough. With a quirk of the lip, Aragorn boosted her up. She settled contentedly with one shoulder against his chest.

Gandalf had been watching all this with sparkling eyes. Now he pursed his mouth playfully. ‘It seems that Strider has amassed himself an army of admirers,’ he said.

‘So it seems,’ said Aragorn placidly, though his heart was singing. That he had gained the trust of all these children despite the ungallant state in which he had come to was a source of earnest pride. Few of his deeds this past year could claim as much.

Now he looked up the table to Freya, who had moved her infant from breast to shoulder. The tiny mouth parted in a little round bud as the baby let out a dainty belch. ‘I am pleased to see you healthfully delivered, lady,’ said Aragorn. ‘Have you a daughter, or a son?’

‘A daughter,’ said Freya proudly. ‘A sennight old today.’

‘She is Halla’s sister,’ said Otkala pertly, folding her hands in her lap with a contented sigh. ‘When she is older, she will sleep in Halla’s bed, and I shall sleep with Svala.’

‘Another blossom to grace the gardens of Grimbeorn,’ Aragorn murmured, watching the wee sleepy face scrunch up into a grimace before softening to serenity again. The bare feet beneath the short gown kicked spiritedly against Freya’s breast.

‘Have you chosen a name?’ asked Gandalf courteously, though his eyes were not on the babe. He was studying Aragorn’s face with thoughtful eyes.

‘Inga,’ a deep voice announced, rich with pride. From the side door beyond the table Baldbeorn came striding, bearing beneath his arm a cradle-basket lined in lamb’s-wool and blankets soft as swan’s-down. He set it upon the table and leaned to kiss the crown of the baby’s linen cap, reaching to caress his wife’s shoulder. ‘She makes a neat half-dozen. Welcome, Aragorn son of Arathorn. I did not look to see you again so soon.’

‘My errand is done, and I return now to my own lands,’ Aragorn said. ‘Without the generosity of your hands and your house, I do not doubt I would not now be set upon that westward road.’

Baldbeorn looked at the scattered sewing implements, and then around the room. Una still lingered, swaying from hip to hip with Svala in her arms, but Ufrún and Halla had disappeared and Eira and Clothilde were gone. ‘They’ll be laying out a supper for you,’ he said knowingly. Then with a broad sweep of his hands he gathered it all – cloth, tools, skeins of thread and books of needles, half-cut clouts and half-stitched shirts – into one big bundle which he deposited unceremoniously in the willow basket at the foot of the table.

Satisfied, he took his newest daughter from her mother. His strong hands looked impossibly large when curled about the little body, but he handled her with deft gentleness that spoke of long experience. He turned her onto her back and cradled her for a moment before settling her in her soft bed. The baby stirred, yawned, and then snuggled against her father’s fingers and slept on.

Freya was rising from the chair, fastening the dome-shaped brooch that held the strap of her overdress. As she took her feet she swayed, and Baldbeorn moved swiftly to catch her by the elbows, bearing her up. Her face was suddenly very grey, and despite her height she looked shrunken and fragile. Gently Baldbeorn eased her back into her seat.

‘Be still, my wife,’ he murmured, love and worry plain in his voice. ‘You are not yet strong.’

Freya moved her lips wordlessly, and then shook her head once, as if profoundly weary. ‘Go ask your grandmother for a dish of milk, Delbeorn,’ she said softly, nodding to the little boy who had been standing between the Ranger and the wizard and looking from one to the other with great interest. He trotted off obediently, blithely unaffected by what had just happened.

Aragorn’s eyes travelled to Una, whose hold upon her young cousin had tightened. She was watching her mother with anxious eyes, and her own rosy cheeks had gone wan. Worry was writ in every muscle. The natural question rose to the Ranger’s lips before he recalled that among many peoples such things were not for men to know of, whether they plied the healing arts or no. He was unsure of the Beornings’ customs regarding matters of childbed, and he did not wish to give offence. He could approach Eira privately when the opportunity arose, and ask it of her. He felt sure that one of her capable good sense would not take offence even if it broke a taboo, provided he was discrete.

Delbeorn came back with a drinking bowl brimming with frothy milk, and gave it to his mother. Freya sipped cautiously at it, with a guarded set to her jaw that Aragorn recognized only too well from his own recent struggles. She was unsure if her stomach would tolerate the nourishment, though she knew she must take it.

‘Will you tell about the spider?’ Torbeorn asked, plucking at Aragorn’s sleeve. ‘Please?’

‘Not at board,’ Aragorn said earnestly. ‘I promise to tell you of it before I depart.’

Torbeorn was disappointed, but strove admirably to hide it. ‘Very well,’ he said stoutly. Then he ran down to the kitchen door as someone called his name, and held it wide for the laden women.

Eira led the way, with a broad wooden tray piled high with dishes. Clothilde followed with a heavy jug of mead and a platter of honey-cakes. Ufrún and Halla each had burdens suited to their size, and in a few swift minutes the table was laid: supper for the guests and sweetmeats for those who had already eaten. Otkala slid down from Aragorn’s lap and hurried to take her place near the foot of the table. As the children were climbing onto their stools, Sigbeorn and Urdbeorn came in from settling the horses. Randbeorn was with them, cheeks ruddy from exposure to the crisp night air and a massive heap of firewood in his arms. Sigbeorn fetched two more chairs from the far end of the hall, and soon everyone was seated.

As promised, Ufrún had prepared some of her coddled eggs. Though he was tired of all such convalescent’s fare, Aragorn made sure to eat a healthy portion and to praise their young maker. The girl flushed with pleasure, and Eira chuckled.

‘You mustn’t be too extravagant with the compliments, Aragorn!’ she said. ‘She’ll grow up to be conceited.’

‘It is no conceit to take pride in a job well done,’ Aragorn said, and he winked at Ufrún. She very nearly muffled her squeak of delight, and tucked her head diligently over her honey-cake.

Naturally Grimbeorn and his sons had questions about the last leg of Aragorn’s eastward journey, and how he had come to be disposed of his burden. There was little that the Ranger wished to say of either, but he was spared the appearance of rudeness by Gandalf. The wizard kept the men busy with requests of his own: tidings of Grimbeorn’s people, news of their prosperity and the health of their crops. When he fell to questioning about the readiness of the farm-folk and the people of the town to defend their lands, Aragorn realized this was not merely pleasant conversation.

Soon they were talking, all six, about the difficulties of safeguarding widely spread holdings and the most defensible positions in the region. The town with its stout walls would be a natural haven, but with some small adjustments and the construction of lookout platforms along the hedge the land around Grimbeorn’s house could be readily fortified at need. Into this conversation Eira entered, offering her opinions on accommodating and feeding the people from the surrounding farms in the event of an attack. None of the young children seemed interested in this adult talk, but both Una and Urdbeorn listened gravely. Aragorn could see that they, too, were puzzling over what they might contribute if the need arose. Baldbeorn was blessed in his offspring.

At last the little ones were dozing over their empty plates, and Svala was fast asleep in Una’s arms. Torbeorn tried to hide an enormous yawn behind his hands, and Halla had the dreamy look of one quite ready to tumble into bed. Eira clapped her hands on the table and got to her feet with great authority.

‘Of to bed now, my lambs!’ she said. ‘Wash those sticky fingers and be sure to lay your clothes neatly by. Una, give that little dove to her father and see your mother off to bed. I’ll be up in half an hour to be sure she’s settled.’

Una nodded gravely, the worry once more in her eyes. Eira was stacking used dishes with brisk efficiency. ‘Clothilde, love, you can help me with the washing-up: the children have had quite enough excitement for one night. Go and help them undress, Urdbeorn, and be sure they wash properly. If I find smudges of honey on the pillowslips, there’ll be trouble. Husband, show our guests to their bed. No pallet by the heart this time, Lord Aragorn,’ she said. ‘It’s upstairs with you, and a taste of proper hospitality.’

‘No one could justly fault your hospitality, lady,’ Aragorn said. He rose smoothly to his feet, feeling only a twinge in his right ankle now. Riding was kind to that joint, though his lower back and hips were stiff. ‘But I beg you; let me be the one to aid you now. It is the smallest of repayments for all you have given me, I know, but it would salve my conscience somewhat.’

He began to gather the remains of their supper onto the tray, aware of Gandalf’s puzzled frown and the raised eyebrows of Randbeorn’s wife. The wizard rose to his feet, one of the last to do so. He jerked his chin at Grimbeorn, drawing most eyes. ‘Who are we putting out tonight?’ he asked amiably.

Their host chuckled. ‘Why, Sigbeorn, of course! If he doesn’t want to bring home a wife to fill his broad bed, then he must suffer being turfed out of it when the need arises. Fear not: he’ll bunk in with Urdbeorn tonight, and Delbeorn can nest between his cousins. We shall all be quite comfortable tonight – though perhaps there will be three young lads who don’t get much sleep for tittering.’

Harlbeorn snorted at this, but not in scorn. He grabbed little Delbeorn by the hand and sprinted off towards the door that led up to the bedrooms. Sigbeorn, a chagrined smirk on his face, shrugged expansively at Gandalf.

Baldbeorn was helping Freya gently to her feet, while Una stood close at hand to take her mother’s arm. The lady moved slowly, as if taken by dizziness, and Aragorn’s hands worked of his own accord as his eyes tracked her. Her colour was very bad, and as she crossed the room she seemed to grow still greyer. Her husband watched her warily, standing at the corner of the table with a protective hand spread over the basket in which their new babe slept. Eira’s sharp eyes darted between the dishes and her daughter by marriage.

‘Do not tarry too long,’ Gandalf said, cupping Aragorn’s elbow briefly and shooting him a significant look. ‘Remember that most labours can wait until the morrow, and all would be better executed by a well-rested hand.’

Aragorn nodded reflexively, lifting the laden tray across his forearm and picking up the half-empty jug of mead. As Freya and her daughter disappeared from the main room, he was free to focus on his burden and the path to the kitchen door. Eira was already striding ahead, and Randbeorn hastened to hold open the door with the hand not occupied in holding Svala on his shoulder. He was occupied in making a count of the straggling children as they mustered towards bed. His wife was at Freya’s other side, helping Una walk her to bed. No one looked likely to follow the mistress of the house and her guest into the kitchen. Aragorn was glad: it seemed he would have his private word with his hostess earlier than he could have hoped.