June, TA 3003

The first sign of waking caressed his nose with the smell of sun-warmed loam. Then followed an awareness of something hard and rough under his cheek. It could not be a blanket, but he couldn’t seem to work out what it was, exactly. While he was puzzling this, he heard something, a rushing noise that he finally determined was the soft roar of the never-ending wind that scythed through the wild open lands east of Bree. And above that sound was...

Whistling.

He frowned. Birds?

No, it was a song. Some song he thought he knew, a song from the Shire, perhaps. Something about eating turkey or duck or suckling pig. Something roasted, at any rate. The words sluggishly came to him...

Fancy it roasted, fancy it toasted, fancy it served on a platter...

"Drink a good ale, sing a brave tale, a song of the heroes that mattered," Aragorn mumbled. He blinked and opened one eye. Saw a very close glimpse of an ant climbing a grass stem. It stopped and looked at him. Or at least seemed to.

I must be delirious.

But he supposed he wasn’t, and the thought brought no comfort. Feeling was trickling back, and with it hazy fragments of memory, and with both the realization that he could do with a bit more oblivion.

The song churned in his mind, the same feverish bit over and over. Fancy it roasted... fancy it toasted... fancy it roasted...

He groaned. He could not imagine eating anything at the moment. Or drinking ale, good or otherwise. And he realised with a growing sense of dread that no one would ever sing of this latest misfortune of his, unless it be as a cautionary tale to frighten young hobbits into having the good sense never to leave their holes. Though his brain had yet to truly sort out the details, he could not ignore the vague but persistent notion that this fix was entirely due to some failing of his own.

He turned his head slightly, straining to place himself in time and memory. He started with the only thing he knew for certain: he lay sprawled on his side, nearly face down in the scrubby weeds and grasses somewhere in the middle of the wilds between Bree and Weathertop.

Why here? Why between Bree and...

Patrolling. He had been patrolling.

He swallowed. What else? Fancy it roasted... fancy it toasted...

He growled and clenched his fists, driving away the distracting drone of those random words.

...it roasted... toasted...

He pushed himself onto his back and gasped. Pain... his side...

He was wounded...

Yes, that was it! Despite the pain, he was exultant. He was wounded, yes. Wounded by a bandit who had fancied his sword.

Aragorn breathed a laugh as sweet memory returned. Oh, yes. He had given the man his sword. In the belly. Up to the hilt. He smiled at the memory, but then he coughed and the pain in his side drove away any satisfaction he felt over vanquishing said villain. Far better had he dispatched the man before the man had stabbed him in the side with a dagger. Stabbed him... a day ago? Two? He could remember shredding his tunic into a makeshift bandage, and then after that nothing but an endless struggle of walking and falling and losing himself only to waken once more and struggle to his feet, keeping on until somehow he might find safety. Keeping on until strength finally left him, and he fell one last time to the ground here in this place, awakening to an eye-to-eye encounter with an ant and...

Whistling.

He thought a moment, wondering if he should stay hidden or try to summon the mysterious whistler. Surely no one who would whistle so merry a tune could be a villain. Aragorn blinked a few more times and then struggled to sit up. The scrubby vegetation still rose too high for him to see anything, so painfully, slowly, he struggled to his knees. The world broke out in black spots. After a long moment kneeling with head hanging, the spots faded. He drew one knee and then the other under him and pushed to his feet. He staggered in a circle, his head swimming as he looked all around and finally spied the music maker, whose crown of curly light brown hair bobbed along barely visible above the grasses. It was a...

Surely not...

He squinted and tried to focus eyes that did not seem inclined to work the way they should. Yes, it was a hobbit. In the wilds, not only well beyond the safety of the Shire but well off the Great East Road and heading straight toward him.

"Surely this cannot be," he muttered and rubbed his eyes, but it did indeed appear that a Shireling was walking briskly toward him, stumping along the faint game path, his walking stick beating time to the song he whistled.

"Hail..." Aragorn tried to call but his voice was so weak the wind snatched the word away. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Hail, Master Hobbit!"

The hobbit, who looked neither young nor old, stopped abruptly and stared. "Mercy upon me, what has sprung out from a hole in the ground but a man, and a very raggedy and patchedy man at that!"

Aragorn supposed he did look a sight, bloodied in his makeshift bandage, shirtless under his tattered leather coat, his pack askew on his back and untidily festooned with his dark green cloak. In far too much pain to be bothered with rolling the cloak up properly, he had merely stuffed it through the straps with a prayer that it stayed put. "My apologies for my appearance," he said with what he hoped was a disarming smile but feared was more likely a death’s head rictus of pain. "It... it has not been the best of days for me."

The hobbit suddenly started. "You’re injured!"

"So it... would seem," Aragorn gasped and felt his knees buckle.

The hobbit dropped his stick and hurried to his side. "My dear man, let me help you." He caught Aragorn around the waist, easing him gently down, managing somehow despite his small size to keep Aragorn from helplessly thudding to the ground to do Valar only knew what additional damage to himself. No easy task, that, Aragorn thought wryly, since even kneeling, he overtopped the hobbit by a head if not a bit more. As the hobbit helped pull the pack from Aragorn’s shoulders, Aragorn wanted to thank him, but his thoughts were getting increasingly fuzzy, and he could not quite get his tongue around the words. So he merely gave the hobbit’s arm a clumsy pat. Based on the smile he received in return, the message got through.

The hobbit carefully pulled open Aragorn’s coat and gentled his arms from the sleeves. Aragorn looked down and noted with a strange detachment that the crimson stain marring the bandages had grown alarmingly. A coppery taste filled his mouth and a faint buzzing in his ears was growing loud enough to drown out the wind. "I-I think... I am going to faint...."

And he did.

--o0o0o--

He woke up to stars over his head and the cheerful crackle of a fire beside him and a strange constricting tightness around his chest. His questing hand encountered cloth. He looked down and saw what looked like strips of his spare shirt wrapped around and around his ribs far more neatly than his own bandage had been. How the small hobbit had managed to contrive such a thing so skillfully on a man so much bigger than he astonished him a bit, but then he had heard many times from Gandalf that there was quite more to hobbits than met the eye. Maybe hobbits were uncommonly strong for their size.

He pressed down lightly on the site of the wound. He might have struck himself with a blazing poker, so fierce did the pain bite. He grimaced and abandoned his explorations, turning his face instead toward the fire’s warmth. The hobbit sat near it, poking at something sizzling in an iron spider. He spied Aragorn’s small movements and smiled. "Ah, awake at last, I see!" He gave the food he was cooking one last poke and then brushed his hands on his pants and stood. He gave Aragorn a small bow. "Ferdinand Took, at your service."

"Call me Strider, and I am at yours," Aragorn replied, bowing as best as he could, considering he was flat on his back and in no way possessing the strength to rise. Just raising his head made the world tilt and spin like a child’s top. He swallowed hard, digging his fingers into the soil as if he could force Arda to be still. "I... I am... in your debt."

"Bah, ‘twas only what any decent citizen would do. You have a grave wound." Bright blue eyes surveyed him quizzically.

"A bandit," Aragorn supplied. He wished his voice was stronger. "He will no longer trouble travelers in these parts."

"Good, good." The hobbit suddenly bent back down and poked his food again. The wind shifted slightly, and Aragorn smelled a tantalizing combination of wood smoke laced with sausage and onions and potatoes. His mouth watered and he swallowed, wondering if the hobbit intended to share the bounty and how he could repay him if he did. Ferdinand Took saw his hungry look and laughed. "Don’t worry, there’s plenty for us both. I’m glad you woke up by yourself. I wasn’t sure I would be able to wake you, you were sleeping so soundly."

Aragorn grunted and hissed as he pulled himself upright, trying to ignore the fact that the world promptly started drifting slowly back and forth like a worn-out clock pendulum. Spying a handy boulder nearby, he hitched himself around so he could lean against it. He shut his eyes and when he opened them again, the ground was steady and the stabbing echoes of the bandit’s blade had mercifully faded to a more manageable dull throb. He tried to take shallow breaths, supporting his ribs with one hand as he wiped the sweat that had popped out on his brow with the back of the other. "That was not so pleasant," he murmured.

"You have a cracked rib or two. That must have been a fairly hefty blade you got stuck with."

"It was a dagger.  Harad-make."

"Oh ho! Such blades those are! I saw one once," he explained at Aragorn’s raised eyebrows. "Owned by a man sitting at the table across from me at the Prancing Pony. Where he got it from, I’ve no idea. Likely traded for it somewhere. He was utterly drunk, a real menace, waving it about like that. Nearly stabbed his companion! I was glad when his companion finally told him to put it away before he put out someone’s eye. Wickedly sharp, it was, and with a great heavy knob on the pommel. Nasty thing. That explains your bruises and the broken rib. You’re lucky to still have your lung." He watched Aragorn for a moment, then satisfied that he wasn’t about to topple over, returned his attention to his skillet.

Aragorn did not argue nor even reply, but instead quietly conducted his own study of the little hobbit. He had not met many hobbits, for the simple fact that they preferred to stay in their holes and smials and gardens and inns, not often venturing out into the broader world beyond their borders. And his own duty kept him in the shadows. Gandalf had charged him and his Rangers with guarding the Shire, secretly, and so he kept his distance, even when he was in Bree. He knew his wary ways made him an object of suspicion and fear, but so much the better; sometimes it helped to have a nefarious reputation. You don’t want to mess with them Rangers, no sir, he had overheard one of the swampers at the Prancing Pony whisper once to one of the customers. Don’t mess with them Rangers. They’ll carve you up and eat you in the dark of night and leave your bones to rot.

Well and good, but this time, he had been the one carved up, and it galled his pride as much as it pained his body to know he had been such easy prey. His first days back to help his men guard the Shire, after traveling long leagues in a fruitless beginning to his search for Gollum, had not started out very auspiciously.

Not wanting to linger overmuch on thoughts of his own failings, he turned his attention back to the hobbit as he busied himself with his cooking. The only hobbit he remembered ever seeing up close, besides the ones he encountered in Bree, was Bilbo Baggins, in Rivendell way back when he was a ten year old peering through the shrubbery because Elrond had insisted he stay hidden while so many strangers were about. So it was both a marvel and a mystery to meet one here in the Wilds. This one was dressed much as Bilbo had been:  brown woolen jacket, white shirt, blue vest. Bare, furry feet sticking out from tweedy gray trousers. Curly hair that was not quite blonde, not quite brown. Bright blue eyes that glanced at him occasionally with an uncomplicated mix of friendliness and concern.

"Are you feeling all right, sir? I know you must not feel much like talking, but you still look a bit peaked, to my mind. You should probably lay back down."

"I am well." At the hobbit’s raised eyebrow, Aragorn amended with a faint smile, "Well enough, that is, considering the circumstances. I meant only that I do not need to lie down, not yet." Aragorn changed the subject from the tiresome topic of his own well-being. "What brings a Shireling so far from home, and so far off the road?"

"Tookishness, nothing more," Ferdinand answered merrily, as if that explained things.

"Tookishness?"

"Yes, yes, Tookishness. The Tooks have always had a sense of adventure and I daresay the yen to wander did not pass me by. You may have heard of my cousin, Bilbo Baggins. His Tookishness took him on all kinds of adventures."

"Yes, I have heard of him," Aragorn said.

"Well then." He handed Aragorn a plate heaped high with golden brown sausages and translucent white onions and steaming potatoes with crispy browned edges. Had the hobbit hauled potatoes all the way out into the wilds, Aragorn wondered, then decided he likely had. A hobbit daring to venture out near the Weather Hills was apt to do just about anything. And last Aragorn looked, potato farmers were in short supply out this way.

Ferdinand produced a fork from some hidden pocket inside his jacket, then, seeing that lifting his left arm to hold the plate pained Aragorn, helped him situate the plate on his lap. "There. Now you need only lift the fork, and it would be dire indeed if you had not the strength to lift a fork! Eat up, lad, for you lost a lot of blood and the only cure for that is good food and drink and rest, and lots of all three."

Aragorn smiled his thanks and with a heartfelt glance to the West and a thankful prayer to the Valar for sending him such a sturdy and caring little rescuer, he carefully blew on a bit of potato and then placed it in his mouth. "Good," he said, meaning it with all his heart. He had had to force down his share of foul-tasting, ill-cooked food, mostly prepared by his own hands, but this was a treat.

"Of course it’s good, young man," Ferdinand fussed at him. "I cooked it, didn’t I?"

Amused at being called young by a hobbit who appeared half his age, Aragorn smiled. "How old are you, Master Took?"

"I turned fifty-three this past spring. And you?"

Aragorn forked a large bite of sausage into his mouth. "Older than you," he said as he chewed. He had turned seventy-one the past March, and he did not have any desire to explain the reason why his looks contrasted so oddly with his long years. The hobbit may or may not know of the long life of Númenóreans, but if not, Aragorn was too tired to dredge up a history lesson.

"You have the looks of one half whatever age you must be." There was a question behind the statement.

"I get plenty of sleep."

"Sleep! Bah! That has nothing to do with it," Ferdinand Took snorted. "You are Númenórean, one of the Dúnedain–and do not look so surprised I know that word. I know quite a bit of Elvish, you know–or I will eat my hat."

Ah, so this Took was educated. Somehow that did not surprise Aragorn. "Save your hat for your head, Master Took, for you are correct."

"And you and your Rangers have been guarding our lands."

Aragorn went still. "How do you know that?"

"Tookishness."

Aragorn waited, and Ferdinand finally let out a laugh. "Don’t glower so. Most hobbits go about completely ignorant of the presence of you and your companions. But most hobbits don’t go about wandering all over like I do. I watch and listen and make my own conclusions. Much like you do, I would imagine."

"And your conclusion is that the Rangers are guarding the Shire."

"Right you are. And right I am, if your reaction is any indication. A reaction that I would also imagine you would not have let be seen if you were feeling a bit more yourself."

Aragorn nodded a bit ruefully. "I confess I am not at my best."

"Why do you watch over our land so closely? It seems of late that I can’t take a step off the road without tripping over a Dúnadan."

Because if we do not, Sauron or his minions will come blasting through here to get his ring and then go on to destroy the entire world. But Aragorn could hardly say that, having been sworn to secrecy by Gandalf, so he merely gave Ferdinand an apologetic smile. "I fear I cannot say, only that we are following the wishes of someone who has good reason to be concerned."

"Now who might that be? Not many of the Big Folk take much notice of the goings on in the Shire."

"A friend," Aragorn said. Not liking the direction of the conversation, and lacking the energy to continue acting the enigmatic – Gandalf was far more skilled at that than he – Aragorn put his half-eaten meal aside and let his eyelids droop. It hardly took much playacting, for he did feel desperately weary. "I must apologize, Master Ferdinand, but a longing for sleep is about to gain the upper hand."

Ferdinand was instantly all concern and solicitude, and Aragorn felt slightly guilty at letting the hobbit think he was feeling worse than he really was. Still, as Ferdinand helped lower him to the ground and spread Aragorn’s cloak across him, he had to admit that it felt very good to lay down.

"There, there, my boy," Ferdinand said as he tucked the cloak up under his chin. "You sleep now, and how’s this for turnabout – the hobbit will guard the Dúnadan!" He laughed merrily, and Aragorn drifted to sleep on the joyful sound.

Chapter Two - Concern and Consternation

"Sticklebats," Halbarad muttered under his breath as he paced around the fire. He tossed the remnants of supper – the bones of a pheasant – into the fire and wiped his hands off on some soft leaves of lamb’s-ear that he also tossed to the flames. He and the rest of the Rangers in the east Shire patrol were camped to the southeast of Chetwood, between Bree and the Midgewater Marshes, where they haunted the edges of the Great East Road, keeping watch for anything that might come along to pose a threat to the Shire.

Denlad shot him an amused glance. "‘Sticklebats’? Hobbit habits are rubbing off on you."

"’Tis a handy phrase. And there are worse habits one can pick up," Halbarad countered. He scrubbed at his face with both hands, running them down his cheeks and beard and then around under the long tangles of his black hair to massage the back of his neck. He blew out a long breath as he stared into the early evening sky. "I am worried."

There’s overstating the obvious, Denlad thought. He wiped the last smudge from his sword and tucked the rag back into his pack as stood to slide his blade back into its scabbard. "And here I thought all that pacing and huffing and puffing was simply a sign of the indigestion that plagues those of your advanced age."

"Keep your cheekiness to yourself, Denlad. I am worried about Aragorn. He should have been back by now."

"I’m sorry," Denlad said, immediately contrite. "I have my own hobbit habit in sometimes hiding deeper feelings behind foolish jests. I too am getting concerned, truth be told. But he’s not overly late yet. Maybe he simply chased something farther afield than he intended."

"Or maybe something chased him. And caught him." He hitched his sword to a better position on his hip. "No, something is not right. I’m going after him. Take reports from the sentries as they come in; see that the patrols here are covered as they should be. You know what to do. Aragorn was headed east. He said he wanted to skirt the Great East Road on the north side past the Marshes, to check on the area near the Weather Hills. I do not know if he planned to go beyond Weathertop, but he may have, and let us hope that is all that has delayed his return. I don’t know how long it will take me to find him, but if I am not back by four days hence, gather a patrol with horses and set out after me. I will leave cairns."

"I would rather you didn’t go alone."

"No, I need you here, Denlad."

Denlad planted his feet wide apart and crossed his arms. "Eledh is fully capable of taking reports and bringing a patrol if need be."

Halbarad glared at him, but Denlad had no wish to lose this battle of wills. Halbarad was his senior, in years and in rank, and he would obey should Halbarad absolutely order him to stay behind, but just as Aragorn was as a brother to Halbarad, he was nearly a father to Denlad, and he would not see himself left behind, not when his own unease flowed in such a tumultuous cascade through his gut.

Halbarad’s scowl did not waver, so Denlad played his trump card. "If Aragorn is injured, he will need my healing skills."

"So be it," Halbarad grumbled. "I simply pray you will find it a wasted journey." A corner of his mouth suddenly quirked upward. "Perhaps your company will vex me so that I will have no time for worrying."

"That’s the spirit!" Denlad grinned, then slapped Halbarad’s shoulder. "Fear not. We will find him. But before we rush into the night barehanded, you find food for us, and I will alert Eledh." It suddenly occurred to him that he was ordering Halbarad about as though he were nothing but a green recruit. "Ah, that is, if that meets with your approval."

"You will be taking over as Chieftain if Aragorn is not mindful of his place," Halbarad said with a soft laugh. He waved his hand. "Go, find Eledh and inform him of our leaving. Then hasten back, for I will leave in a quarter hour, with or without you."

--o0o0o--

They moved quickly on foot, slipping with the silence of mist through the wild lands, heading east. Years of patrolling this area left them knowing nearly every stone and twig, and as they passed they looked but did not find any sign of Aragorn, save an odd track that may or may not have been left by him.

"Is it his?" Denlad asked as they bent to look at one such vague mark in the dust beside a clump of grass.

"It must be. It’s the right size, and this is the direction he said he’d be going. And it’s off the road, as he usually travels. It cannot be anyone else’s."

Scant assurance, or so Denlad thought, but he did not say anything. He looked instead to their back trail and took what small comfort there was in verifying that no man or creature seemed to be following the same trail.

And so the hours passed until sunlight faded too much for them to see. They stopped to rest for the night, and daybreak found them traveling at speed once more. They ran throughout the day, speaking little, even when they stopped briefly for a mid-day rest and a meal.

As the afternoon wore on, it seemed every step drove dread deeper into Denlad’s soul, and he found himself battling an onslaught of fearful thoughts.

There are too few signs... we’re missing something, surely...

No, he immediately chided himself. Aren’t we all skilled woodsmen who can pass over a land leaving behind naught but a shadow? And Aragorn is the best of us all. It is no small wonder we are finding so few signs.

Fear immediately countered. But a man, no matter how skilled, will leave signs, and more than we have found. Those we have seen are so vague... what if we have passed Aragorn by completely, and he lies wounded in some ditch an hour behind us, breathing his last?

But they would have seen signs of that, surely. If Aragorn was hurt or ill, his signs would then become obvious, for an injured man cannot be so careful in the trail he leaves behind. So, Denlad told himself sternly, stop worrying. Unless some flying beast swooped down and snatched him off the face of Arda, Aragorn must surely be unharmed, and they would find him.

All the same, he couldn’t help casting a fearful glance upward at the empty sky.

So his dreary thoughts continued through the hours until the gloaming deepened toward night. They came then upon an upright stone, a standing black shadow looming some thirty feet into the air, looking like it could have been thrust into the ground by the angry hand of some giant in long ages past. It was a well-known landmark, one the Rangers used often, and it marked the place Aragorn generally liked to camp when he patrolled this region. But tonight, with the early rising moon casting its cold light on the blunt peak, Denlad thought it looked somehow fey and terrible. He shivered. "I like not the feel of this place," he whispered.

Halbarad squatted and laid his hand on the remains of a fire. "Cold. And at least one dew has fallen upon it. He has not been here in at least a day."

Denlad chewed his lip. "We must wait until morn, then, to find his trail. I do not trust my eyes to see anything in this darkness, and he could have walked off in any of a hundred directions."

"Likely not a hundred, but certainly a dozen. You are right, though. We cannot go blundering into the night after him."

So they settled themselves at the base of the rock and passed a restless night, lighting no fire and taking turns keeping watch, for although they had neither seen nor heard any beast or man, there existed every possibility that something evil lurked in the blackness, something that may have attacked Aragorn and may even now have its sights on the two of them. Denlad tried to sleep when Halbarad spelled him on watch, but it seemed every small noise brought him to heart-pounding wakefulness. Truth to tell, this night reminded Denlad far too much of the days they had spent along the Hoarwell, chasing–and being chased by–a Nazgûl. Aragorn had nearly met his end during those dark days.* Denlad peered into the black shadows cast by the moon. Yes, this was far too much like that moonlit night nearly three years ago.

He liked it not one bit.

But the long night passed, and nothing leapt at them from the shadows, and though neither of them felt very rested as dawn lightened the eastern sky, Halbarad started right away on the search for tracks, and Denlad followed suit on the opposite side of the rock, which in morning’s cheerful light looked quite harmless. Denlad shook his head at his own folly. Letting darkness so rattle his calm like he was nothing more than a frightened child; it was shameful.

He squatted down to better see the ground. For a long moment, he remained motionless, only his eyes moving as he looked methodically over every square inch before moving to his right a pace and repeating his careful study. His eyes lit on a broken branch and he hurried forward. On the ground beneath it was the faint outline of a man’s heel. "Halbarad!"

Halbarad hurried over and looked. "At last! That is Aragorn’s; there can be no doubt. He has a cracked heel on that boot and was complaining about it to me only a week past."

They both moved forward and Halbarad found another sign. Aragorn had headed north, at a normal pace. Whatever danger may have befallen him certainly had not chased him from this campsite. They hurried as fast as they could without losing the trail, until finally, shortly after the sun’s highest hour, a movement in the sky some miles off caught his eye. "Halbarad," Denlad gasped, pointing.

Vultures, many of them, circling in a black column of death.

"It is not him," Halbarad said. "Likely a dead stag."

Denlad heard the desperate plea underlying Halbarad’s words and said nothing. It was his own frantic supplication as well.

They hurried on.

--o0o0o--

Denlad thought his knees would surely give way, so shattering was his relief. He moved upwind of the decomposing body... the body that was decidedly Southron in garb and coloring and completely the wrong height to be Aragorn... and sent upward a silent but fervent prayer of thanks.

"I wonder who he is. Or was. He has been dead at least a day, perhaps two," Halbarad said. He bent down and, holding his shirt over his mouth and nose with one hand, rolled the body over. He peeled back the man’s coat. "No weapons, and there is a grievous wound in his belly. If I know Aragorn, that is the mark of his sword." He pulled the body onto its side and looked. "The blow severed the man’s spine, see?"

Denlad grimaced. A Ranger he may be, and one not unused to the grim details of violent death, but he still had no desire to gaze long nor close on such wounds when the man who bore them was so long dead. "I will take your word for it."

"I am sure that is Aragorn’s work. I have seen him deliver just such a wound, more times than I can count."

Denlad turned away from the grisly sight and looked at the dusty ground. There was a jumble of footprints all around the man’s body, some clear, some smudged as wind slowly did its work to erase them. It was obvious that quite a struggle had taken place. There was evidence that at least one man may have stepped into a gopher hole. Perhaps the Southron had, and that had given Aragorn his opportunity. But then Denlad frowned as he found a dark spot, rusty brown and almost black. He knelt and touched it with his finger. It was dry.

And no mistaking: it was blood. But whose?

He looked back at the man’s body. This stain was too far away to have come from the Southron, if he had indeed fallen where he had been stabbed. And he could see very little blood on the man’s clothing. Likely the blow had been instantly debilitating, if not fatal, and so there could have been little in the way of bleeding except what might have pooled beneath the body. That meant this blood could very well have come from the man’s opponent. He leaned down, his face inches from the ground as he studied the footprints, trying to hang onto a desperate but frail hope that the Southron’s foe had been someone else. After a moment, his heart sank. He found the familiar cracked heel print, and several more bloodstains. There could be no doubt. "Aragorn is wounded."

Halbarad hurried over. "May Valar grant him grace to survive until we find him." He hurried past, following footprints that, far from the steady if elusive pattern they had shown up to this point, were now very obvious and very erratic in their placement, the sign of someone wounded and struggling to keep on and no longer able to hide the sign of his passing. Here and there were more blackish stains on the ground, and then under the shelter of a bush, Denlad found another stain, and a place where a man had knelt.

He bent down and picked up a small piece of dark blue fabric, stained nearly black at the edge. "Aragorn’s shirt," he said, holding it up. "He must have used it, torn it... made a bandage."

Halbarad nodded; there was nothing else to say.

They hurried on.

________

*The full account is found in the story, "At Hope’s Edge".

Chapter Three - Broken Baggage

Aragorn woke with a start. For a moment, he had no idea where he was. The sky above him was bright with mid-morning sun, and there was an unexpected but pleasant smell of bacon and... could that be eggs? He turned his head and everything fell into place as he spied Ferdinand Took busy again at his skillet.

Aragorn moved to sit up, forgetting in his half-awake state his injury, and such a fiery burst of pain exploded through him that he could not stop from crying out. He grabbed his side and fell back.

Ferdinand was immediately at his side. "Here now, my boy. You have forgotten yourself! Lay quiet and let me see. We don’t want you ripping out those nice stitches I put in yesterday."

Aragorn was too busy trying not to throw up last night’s meal to answer. The pain seemed to have made direct inroads to his belly, and his belly liked it not one bit. He felt clammy and dim and very, very ill.

Ferdinand very carefully peeled back the bandage. "It is red, but not horribly so. I don’t think it is infected. The bruising has darkened, though. I imagine it is quite painful."

"Mmm." Aragorn feared opening his mouth. He really did feel very close to retching up everything he had ever eaten. And he could not imagine the pain in his side should that happen.

Something cool draped across his forehead, a damp cloth of some sort. He opened his eyes to see Ferdinand leaning over him, concern in his great blue eyes. "You do not have fever, but I know sometimes pain can make a body feel as sick as a dog after he’s been at the dustbin."

Aragorn could not help smiling. That described exactly how he felt. He shut his eyes again and concentrated on breathing carefully and slowly and finally the pain abated somewhat and with it the extreme nausea, although his stomach was far from settled. "Could you," he started, then swallowed. "My pack... there is medicine..."

"Of course, of course! Say no more!" Ferdinand scurried over and unfastened the flap on the top of Aragorn’s pack. "Er, I said ‘say no more,’ but I fear I must ask what I am looking for."

"Ginger. It’s a root...."  Some willow bark and athelas would also be helpful, but first things first.  He knew he could not keep willow bark down at the moment, and the athelas... he didn't feel up to explaining what to do with it. 

Ferdinand dug for a moment, pulling out several folded packets, two of which spilled open, to his muttering consternation. He finally held up a light brown section of root. "Ah!  I do believe this is it.  I've not used it before... I'm not exactly well-versed in healing herbs and such, although I do know the basics, of course.  But I'm not familiar with this ginger stuff, no.  Does it help with upset stomachs?"

Aragorn nodded, wishing desperately that Ferdinand would stop talking.

"Just... scrape off a bit... make a tea." And pray make it quickly or there will be no point...

"Very well, then," Ferdinand said. "Good thing I have the kettle on already." He checked the water, then pulled out his knife again and scraped away at the root. "Is that enough, do you think?"

Aragorn winced. Ferdinand had shaved nearly half the root away. It will cost me half the Dúnedain treasury to replace that. The nausea flexed its muscles, but he swallowed and hid his dismay. "Yes, that's... plenty."

"Very well then, while this steeps, let me put the rest of this back to rights. I doubt I’ll pack it away as neatly as you did, though. And I do apologize for spilling some of it." He busied himself with carefully closing the packets, then paused as he held up two long leaves. "I say, I think I have some of this growing amongst my cucumbers." He sniffed it and then nodded. "Yes, this is the very thing. Smells wonderfully fresh but it does take over when it invades your cucumber patch."

"That is athelas. Used for..." He had to stop and shut his eyes as another wave of nausea threatened to undo him.

"Oh, dear boy, don’t try to talk right now. I know what this is... kingsfoil, we call it. Grand name for all that it’s naught but a weed. As I said, it got in amongst my cucumbers and I really feel I will have to simply move my cucumbers next year, for once this stuff gets established, just try to get rid of it. I have an idea where it came from: it was Drusilla Bracegirdle’s doing, I’m sure of it. Not that she meant to infest my garden with such a menace, you understand. Drusilla is a fine lass, absolutely top notch, and her garden is spoken of with the highest regard by all from Michel Delving to Buckland and Greenfields to Sackville; yes, praised highly even by those stingy-mouthed Sackville-Bagginses.  Just try to catch the Sackville-Bagginses praising anything; they're as stingy with good words as they are with everything else.  But she... Drusilla, that is, not Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, gave me some flowers, wildflowers you see–beautiful asters, all purple with yellow centers. Quite lovely, asters are, in the autumn when the goldenrod has set its candle flame along the woodsy edges. Lovely. And these were fine ones indeed, and I couldn’t have been more pleased. But they weren’t from her gardens, as it happened. No, she bought them from a merchant in Bree and gave them to me on her birthday, and I can bet you my last cask of Old Toby that the merchant dug them up from out in the wilds, because that’s the only place kingsfoil grows–you know, here and there in wild places where no one’s lived in recent memory. I’ve seen it, on my travels. I don’t doubt that those scattered patches mark the home places of folk long gone. Leaves me a bit wistful it does. At any rate, I should never have planted those flowers so close to my cucumbers. The seeds of the kingsfoil must have been all through those flowers’ roots. And kingsfoil has such deep roots! Frost won’t get them, not by a long chance. They come back, no matter how bitter the winter, you see."

Aragorn did see but he felt too dazed by the onslaught of gardening lore to say so.

Ferdinand seemed not to mind that his conversation was one-sided, nor that his listener had his eyes closed and his jaw clenched and was in all likelihood turning as green as the kingsfoil. He prattled on cheerfully, "Still, I do like the smell of it. So fresh and clean. Makes me think of the world as it should be and not the wretched mess it is now. I’ve always thought it a shame that it was a weed and not something useful, and here you tell me there is a use for it after all! Fancy that! I do wonder what good it does, but no, don’t speak. You can tell me later. Ah, the ginger tea looks to be ready."

Aragorn heard the sound of tea pouring into a cup, then opened his eyes as Ferdinand drew near. Ferdinand held the cup to his lips. The tea was far too strong, but it tasted good, if not a bit harsh on his tongue and throat. After several swallows, the beast stirring his stomach resignedly went back to sleep. Aragorn sighed with relief. "Thank you."

Ferdinand sat back on his heels and studied him, the lines of concern wreathing his face melting away. "Oh, I’m that glad it’s working, I need not tell you. I was so worried. But there, you don’t look so green now at all, although you look hardly ready for a hobbit-sized breakfast, even if it is gone on second breakfast now."

Aragorn’s face twisted. "No." The very idea of eggs... the very idea of anything, actually. He felt unutterably weary and ill and sore, and childish though it may be, he suddenly wanted more than anything for Lord Elrond to walk into their camp to take care of him. Ferdinand Took’s prowess at healing was astounding but, well, there was simply no greater healer than Lord Elrond. He shut his eyes as a great lump set itself up in his throat, and no matter how sternly he told himself to grow up, stop being ridiculous, it refused to budge.

"There now, Mr. Strider, you look downright piteous, and I feel for you, I do." There was a small noise of splashing water, then Aragorn felt a cool cloth being applied to his face. Ferdinand stroked the cloth gently across his cheeks and forehead. "I imagine feeling as you do you would rather have your mother here. Seems all wounded soldiers cry for their mothers, bless them."

"You know many soldiers?" Aragorn murmured, eager to change the subject from his ludicrous bout of homesickness.

"No, not many. None, if the truth be told, wounded or otherwise. But still... I’ve told you that I am more observant than most hobbits, and I sit at the table at the Prancing Pony–do you know the place? In Bree? It’s a fine inn, and one I go to when I travel that way, which is not as frequent as I would wish but nonetheless, I do try to make it a point at least twice each season to wander that way. Barliman has fine ale, he does. And he has rooms set up for the ‘Little Folk’ as he likes to call us. Fine man, Butterbur, although he does get a bit testy at times. But I don’t think he is overly fond of Rangers, which I used to think was quite justified, but as I get to know you and see that you’re far from the rascal your kind makes yourselves out to be, I wonder if his suspicion of you is a bit misplaced. You see, I have seen Rangers in there a time or two, but only from a distance mind you; I’ve never spoken to a single one. They’re all so dour and silent, not anyone you’d just sidle up to with a slap on the back and a how’s the morn. And I’m quite sure I have never seen you there. At any rate, if you do chance to take a meal there, see that you behave and you’ll have little trouble, for Barliman doesn’t seem to mind a Ranger being there, as long as he behaves. And it’s a fine place for a meal. A very fine place."

Aragorn opened his mouth to say that he did indeed frequent the Pony and he did know Barliman Butterbur–and that yes, he had been on the receiving end of Barliman’s dislike of Rangers, despite always, or nearly always, behaving. But had no chance to utter even a single word as Ferdinand chattered on without seeming to ever take a breath.

"At any rate, I like to sit quietly and just listen to all the conversations. Amazing what you hear when you keep your mouth shut and your ears open. So I listen to the Big Folk talk of battle and war. Fascinating stuff, that. And I have spoken with Bilbo Baggins, who has told me of hearing the Elves speak of their terrible troubles through the ages, and one or another of them mentioning something about a fallen comrade calling for his mother. ‘Tis a horrid thing, war. I wish we might never have another, but I fear the greatest one of all is coming."

When it seemed Ferdinand had truly run out of words, Aragorn dared speak. "You seem to know much."

"For a hobbit?"

"For a hobbit, man or Elf."

Ferdinand smiled, but there was no boasting in it. "Yes, I suppose I do, although I think there is far more of the world’s knowledge about which I am ignorant, maybe blissfully so. But I do try to find out what I can, when I can. Most of my kin keep themselves to themselves, you might say, but I like finding out about the world beyond our borders–it helps me, you see, in teaching my many nephews and nieces, although their parents think I’m a bit of a crackpot," he said, then laughed merrily. "But someone in the community must be the crackpot and it seems the role suits me. It is all so fascinating, you see. I cannot help but want to know more and more and more, and that, well, that puts me in company with that awful Bilbo Baggins, who went forth on an adventure, how dare he!" He laughed again. "Ah, what tales my cousin Bilbo has told me when I was a young hobbit, in and out of his house all day long! Take you, for instance. You are Númenórean, and thanks to Bilbo, I have some knowledge of that ill-fated isle. For me to meet a descendent of the Faithful that escaped the destruction, to meet one of that line of great men that most think are gone forever... oh, what a thrill to quite literally have tripped over the fact that the rumors of that people’s demise have been rather exaggerated! Indeed, an honor it is and a memory I will treasure always."

Momentarily at a loss at hearing such rare kind words, Aragorn slowly smiled. "Thank you. Few think of us so highly, if they remember us at all."

"Bah. Ignorance, that’s all, and too much easy belief in the convenience of myth, where no one needs think about darker things that are still yet lurking in this world and must at some point be dealt with. Far easier to assign such things to legend and ignore them. But perhaps I am being a bit harsh, because there is surely an element of fear involved. We hobbits like to stick with what we know, and for most of us, that is farming and family, food and ale. And for most of us, that is enough to keep us quite content. Thinking of anything that would destroy that–well, it simply doesn’t bear thinking about, and I suppose I can’t blame them."

"But still you think of it, and deeply, it seems."

Ferdinand grinned. "Of course I do, young man. I am a descendent of the great Bullroarer Took, after all! The Fallohide strain runs strong in my veins! And if I were tall and rugged like you, I would be striding around the world, sticking my nose into all kinds of trouble and driving to apoplexy every good hobbit who knows that proper hobbit behavior is to stay safely within your own hedgerow and not go poking around to see if any legends are still out there ready to spring to life under one’s feet."

"There is plenty of trouble out there for you to stick your nose into, that is certain." Aragorn sighed quietly... and carefully... and studied the clouds. "Arda is marred, Ferdinand. And a great Evil dwells to the East and South. You are right when you say a great war is coming, although when and where is yet to be decided. But it is coming. I do not see how it can be avoided."

Ferdinand for once stilled his tongue and merely nodded. They fell quiet, each keeping to their own thoughts. Aragorn’s strayed to Halbarad. He must be frantic with worry by now, for it was three days ago, or perhaps longer – he was hopelessly muddled on his days – that Aragorn was supposed to have returned to the camp at Chetwood. No doubt he has set out to comb the countryside for me. The thought warmed him, but he also felt a squirm of embarrassment at having to be found, like broken baggage that had fallen off the back of some farmer’s wain. But such was life at times. He had learned a hard and painful lesson about hiding illness and denying weakness with that business with the Wraith. Never again would he push aside help nor sound advice when offered. He glanced at Ferdinand. Even when that help was offered by a hand much smaller than his own.

"I don’t like the looks of that, now," Ferdinand suddenly said. He stood to his feet and peered off down the hillside, and it was only then that Aragorn realized that they weren’t where he had fallen when Ferdinand first found him, but apparently atop one of the bluff-faced hills that marked the start of the Weather Hills. He had a vague recollection of leaning on the hobbit’s shoulder, of falling and stumbling endlessly, and he supposed that was how Ferdinand contrived to drag him so far from where he first fell. But finding out for certain would have to wait, for Aragorn did not like the look of worry on the hobbit's face.

"What do you see?"

"Two men, traveling fast, right in this direction."

"It could be my men. What do they look like?"

"Fierce, both of them, and tall. One is dark, hair falling well past his shoulders–he looks almost like an Elf, very fair of face he seems even from here, but I am quite sure he must be a man. Hair’s too wavy to be an Elf’s, from what I’ve heard of what Elves must look like, and he has a beard. Bilbo’s seen them, of course... Elves, that is, not beards... but I haven’t." He turned and looked back at Aragorn. "Did you know Bilbo’s at Rivendell now? Fancy him leaving the Shire to live out his days there. I miss him. And envy him. I would like to do such a thing, if–"

"Ferdinand. The approaching men?"

"Oh my, yes! I do go on, don’t I!" He turned his gaze back down the hill. "No, he’s definitely a man, not an Elf. The more I think on it, the more positive I am that Elves don’t have beards. Or at least not unless they’re very, very old. I think there’s an Elf at the Grey Havens with a big silver beard, but that’s just a rumor. I’ve never been off in that direction, nor seen the sea, although I would rather like to. Have you seen the sea? I’ve heard it’s a lovely but fearfully big thing, full of–"

"Ferdinand!"

"Oh, I’m sorry, very sorry. The men... yes, I do need to pay more attention. Let’s see... yes, the other is definitely a man. Hair is not as long as all that but oh, how it shines! Golden as the noon-day sun. He doesn’t seem so Elf-like, but there’s a nobility in his bearing. I must say, both those men are quite striking. I’ve not seen many of their likes."

Aragorn smiled at such poetic descriptions. Halbarad the Elven, Fierce and Fair of Face, and Noble Denlad of the Golden Hair. Either man would be mortified at hearing themselves described so. "That sounds like Halbarad and Denlad. If it is them, have no fear. They are friends."

"Oh good, then. I would hate for two such as those to be enemies." Ferdinand watched for a moment longer. "They each wear cloaks. Grayish green ones, very much like yours, and there seems to be something shiny at the neck."

Aragorn relaxed. It was sure to be Halbarad and Denlad. "You have sharp eyes, my friend. Those are the pins of the Dúnedain."

"Like yours?" Ferdinand gestured to the star-shaped pin on Aragorn’s cloak, which was still doing double duty as a blanket.

Aragorn nodded.

Ferdinand turned his attention back to the approaching men. "Shall I wave or something?"

"No. They will find us without your beckoning."

Ferdinand suddenly gasped and stood on tiptoe. "Oh dear! Oh dear!"

"What?"

"Oh my ... they have been waylaid! Three men, with flashing swords, charging right at them! Oh dear!

Chapter Four - Grim Deeds

Halbarad dropped to one knee and looked at a large bloodstain, larger than any they had yet encountered. "He fell here, as well." He sighed heavily as he looked toward the north. "How much farther did you go, Aragorn?" he whispered.

Denlad examined the ground for twenty paces all around the tracks. "No other tracks. In that, at least, it seems luck is with us."

"I am not sure that brings me any comfort," Halbarad said. "I have had the feeling, for some hours now, that we are being watched."

Denlad looked at the seemingly empty lands. There were endless places for a man to hide; certainly not a lot of woodland, but there were small copses of trees along springs and streams, thick patches of gorse, even slight swells and dips in the land itself. "I can’t say with certainty that no one else is tracking us, true. But if they are, they must be well behind us and not worth worrying about. Finding Aragorn must take precedence over who might be on our back trail."

"Still, keep your eyes moving on more than just Aragorn’s tracks. We will be no help to Aragorn if we let ourselves be waylaid from behind. I do not like the feel of this."

Denlad nodded, and they moved off again, almost running, for it seemed as though Aragorn was making straight for the Weather Hills, away from any dangers that might lurk along the Great East Road. There were caves there, Denlad knew, caves where an injured man might find safety to light a fire and tend to his wounds. He swallowed hard. Or to crawl into to die.

They hurried on. The land here, though well past the Midgewater Marshes, was still by turns marshy and dry, broken by outcroppings of rock and small thickets of scrubby trees. To the southeast behind them, visible on the horizon yet still some leagues away, was the hill called Weathertop, that in past ages held the Watchtower of Amon Sûl. Denlad momentarily looked back at the ruined contours of its top, at the jagged stones that were the only remnants of the great tower that marked the site where King Argeleb the First was slain, and that once held a palantír, a seeing stone through which Elendil watched for Gil-Galad. So many great and often terrible tales surrounded that hill. He did not wish for Aragorn to add his own tragic end to its history.

He turned his eyes back to the path before him, wishing desperately he had his own watchtower to climb, to look over the land around them and find in its vastness one man, wounded, alone.

--o0o0o--

Another place of flattened grass and dark-stained ground. Denlad ran his finger along a hand print. He placed his own hand in the depression. His hands were larger than Aragorn’s, but it was not the difference in size that gave Denlad the need to curl his fingers deep into the drying mud to match the mark. He looked up at Halbarad. "He must be in great pain. This mark was made by his clenching fist."

Halbarad rested a hand on Denlad’s shoulder. "He is strong. See here? He regained his feet and continued on. Try not to let fear take your heart." He gave Denlad’s shoulder a slap and a slight shake to encourage him, then continued along the trail.

Denlad followed, but his thoughts strayed back to that hand print. It was not fear that he felt. Not exactly. It was... it was an almost overwhelming sense of compassion. He felt as though he need only concentrate and he would feel Aragorn’s pain in his own body. It was a feeling he had experienced before, many times, when he saw someone ill or wounded. Seeing such suffering gave him the feeling that he had been emptied out inside, drained of all that gave him strength and that unless he did something to help, he must surely wither and die himself. He told Aragorn once about it, and Aragorn told him that he had the heart of a healer. That may be, he supposed, but fate had decreed he wield a sword instead. Studying herblore and leechcraft seemed something ever beyond opportunity. But from that day, he had paid close attention to Aragorn any time he worked as a healer, and no greater satisfaction did he know than during those rare times when he was working alongside his Chieftain in the healing wards.

He chased away his reverie. He could not afford to gather wool while such danger lurked around them. Still, there was no sign anywhere that he could see that enemies were near. He stopped again for a moment to look behind them, but the land stretched empty and quiet to the southern horizon.

He spun about and hurried to catch up with Halbarad as the older man ran tirelessly ahead of him, running so fast that his hair whipped behind him like a banner. Halbarad wore his hair longer than most of the Dúnedain, more in the manner of the Elves. While that was not wholly uncommon among the Dúnedain, for they still held close friendship with the Elves and sometimes copied their ways, Denlad had to chuckle because he knew that admiration of the Firstborn was not the reason for Halbarad’s flowing locks. No, Halbarad wore his hair long because his wife liked it that way. Halbarad once grumbled to him, as he tried to untangle wind-driven snarls from it, that his wife had a ridiculous infatuation with Elladan, and so he had to suffer long hair for it. Denlad had started laughing, but his mirth died a quick death when Halbarad grabbed his dagger in one hand and a hank of Denlad’s blonde hair in the other and threatened to shave him bald. So fierce had been Halbarad’s anger that Denlad even volunteered to help Halbarad comb out the snarls, until Aragorn teased them both about looking like the monkeys in Harad, picking fleas off one another.

I suppose we did look a sight–

A bird exploded from the gorse to his right, startling him out of his reverie. He watched it fly off, appalled that he would let his mind wander so to trivial things. Fatigue, fear... there were any number of reasons a man’s thoughts might skip to memories of safer times, but for a warrior, such lapses were not only inexcusable, but deadly.

He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. He eyed the clump of bushes from whence the bird had taken such sudden flight. Was that movement within? He stared harder, but whatever caught his eye did not repeat itself. He studied the area around it, concentrating so fiercely that he nearly ran into Halbarad, who had suddenly slowed. "What is it?" Denlad asked, but the bushes still drew his gaze. Had there been a movement? Did I see something or was it we who startled the bird–

"That hill yonder. I think I see something – there! A patch of blue!"

Denlad reluctantly turned his attention upward, squinting, and then saw it. Someone was up there, in the gorse, watching them. "It looks like a child. Or a hobbit."

"No hobbit would be out here."

"Nor would there be children."

"Let us head that way."

But before either of them could take a step, the bushes around them suddenly erupted. Three fierce-eyed men came at them, and Denlad only just pulled his sword in time to block the thrust of a dagger aimed his way by the tallest of the three, even as he cursed himself for not trusting his instincts and giving warning. He pushed the man’s blade up and then to the side and then drove a knee into the man’s groin. The man doubled over and found his death on the edge of Denlad’s steel. Denlad turned away to find the other assailant but he was too slow. An iron-hard arm snaked around his neck and nearly jerked him off his feet. The man’s fist slammed against Denlad’s right wrist, but he kept his grip on his sword. Not that it helped him much, for the angle was too close to bring it round to bear. The man’s arm tightened against his throat, cutting off his air. He dug uselessly at the man’s arm with his free hand, but it was like trying to pry Caradhras from Arda.

"Drop your weapon!" a harsh voice growled beside his ear.

In answer, Denlad abandoned tugging at the man’s arm. He dropped his sword, but then lifted his right leg and yanked a dagger from his boot. He drove it blindly backward and felt it sink into flesh, and the arm fell away from his neck. He whirled, but the man was on the ground, clutching his belly and out of the fight.

Denlad kicked the man’s fallen blade out of reach then turned to see if Halbarad needed help. He did not. His opponent lay on the ground, lifeless.

Denlad took a deep, shaking breath, massaging his bruised throat. "Are you harmed?" he rasped.

"No. You?"

Denlad shook his head. He turned to the man on the ground. "Who are you?"

The man spat at him. Denlad jerked his head back but the spittle landed on his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and fought back the urge the lay his fist across the man’s face. He reached down instead and pulled at the man’s coat, opening it to reveal a jagged wound that went deep into the man’s lower abdomen. Although he had been the one to deliver it, he still winced, for such a wound promised only a slow and painful death. "You have a mortal wound. Far better for you to face death with a clear conscience. Who are you, and these men? Why did you attack us?"

The man glared but remained silent. Denlad looked up at Halbarad with the smallest of shrugs.

"Leave him," Halbarad grunted. "If the wolves do not get him, he will eventually bleed to death or the wound will fester and he will die of fever."

Denlad stood and followed Halbarad. Healing compassion he may have, but he seldom lavished it on those who tried to kill him. They had gone but three paces when the man cried out. "Wait!"

Denlad moved to the side and Halbarad walked back to the man. "Speak, and my comrade will give you medicine to help ease your pain."

"We seek our brother."

"And what was your brother doing in these parts?"

"He is a trader. We are all... four of us traders."

Denlad wondered briefly at the man’s hesitation but dismissed it as due to pain. He let out a disbelieving snort. "An odd way to do business, ambushing your patrons to trade a knife in the back for their coin. This brother you speak of... is he garbed as you, in Southron raiment?"

"He is."

"Then he lies rotting not a league south," Halbarad told him. "He attacked our companion and paid for his folly with his life. But tell me, what business truly brings you to these parts and do not say ‘trading’ or I will carve out your eyes and leave you to die blinded to the last light of your evil days."

The man said nothing. Halbarad sighed in disgust and stood. "I think you a spy and not a trader, but either way, I suppose it matters not, given the doom before you. We know our enemies, and thus you would tell us nothing new. I only hope you find whatever master you serve worthy of the reward you have received for your treacherous service. Give him your magic herbs, Denlad."

Denlad dug into a pouch on his belt, one that, similar to the ones all Rangers carried, held the basic essentials of medicinal herbs. His pouch held a bit more medicine that Halbarad’s, for he had broader knowledge of herblore, thanks to Aragorn’s tutelage. He did not want to spare any for this wretch, for he feared Aragorn would need them more, but neither, he reluctantly admitted, could he leave the man to suffer. He measured out enough to send the man into a deep sleep, one from which he would likely not awaken before death from the wound claimed him. He spied a waterskin on the man’s belt. He crushed the leaves in his hand, poured them into the skin and then shook it gently. "Take this all at once and you will fall into a sleep from which you will most likely not waken. Or sip it slowly and it will ease your pain as you lay awaiting death. It is your choice. Either way, you will likely pass from Arda’s circles before the sun reclaims day from night."

The man simply stared at him, his expression unreadable. Denlad shook his head at the stubborn foolishness of such men and turned away.

Halbarad looked at the two bodies. "We cannot spare the time to bury your brothers, for we seek the one your brother injured. But if we return, we will see to it then. We are the Dúnedain of the North and we would see no man’s body, even an enemy’s, despoiled after his death."

Again, the man spat at them. Halbarad stared at him sadly for a moment, then looked to Denlad. "We will move out."

They hurried up the hill, climbing in silence, but after a time, Denlad spoke. "Forgive me... I should have seen them. I sensed something was amiss in those bushes yet I did not give warning."

"Nothing to forgive. We were both distracted by that hobbit."

"But I should have spotted them."

"How, when they were traveling parallel to us, and apparently very canny in hiding? Do not take blame when there is none to take."

Denlad fell silent but then after a few more paces, spoke up again. "Tell me true, Halbarad. Would you have carved out his eyes?"

"Of course not! What do you take me for, one of them?"

Denlad smiled faintly. He thought Halbarad had been bluffing, but he had seemed so convincing that he could not be sure. "I think those three were spies, as likely was the one Aragorn killed. That one I stabbed had me by the neck, his dagger poised for a killing stroke, yet instead of killing me, he told me to drop my weapon. He wanted information, not my coin."

"It does seem certain they were spies of some sort, likely of Sauron. Arda is better for their deaths."

They fell silent again. Denlad’s thoughts were dark as he thought of all the death he had meted out by his own hand. Would that some day such grim deeds would no longer be necessary. But evil must be fought where it is found, and if weaker men find shadowed roads easiest to travel, then Denlad had no compunction against showing those men the folly of their ways. He just wished...

He stopped the train of thought. There was no purpose in wishing. It only stole one’s concentration from the dangers at hand. He looked upward, his eyes taking in every clump of bush and every rock before them. The hillside seemed empty of enemies, and empty even of the hobbit... or child... they had glimpsed.

But even as they climbed, he saw Aragorn’s tracks, ever climbing, sometimes slipping, but going on again.

Valar, keep giving him strength, and guide our own feet swiftly to his side before it is too late!

Chapter 5 - All You Need Do is Listen

At Ferdinand’s cry, Aragorn grasped his side and pushed himself to his knees to try to move to a place where he could see the valley. "What do you see?" he gasped. The pain was barely tolerable, but as long as he held his hand against his wound, he could move. But getting to his feet was quite beyond him.

"Oh dear," Ferdinand cried again, his eyes never leaving the scene below. "Three men, foreign-looking, if you take my meaning. Not dressed at all like Northern Big Folk. Oh! Oh, yes, yes, very good! That will do nicely!"

Aragorn struggled to pull his feet underneath him and stand, but it was hopeless; he was simply too weak. "What? What happened?"

Ferdinand jumped up, waving his arms about as though brandishing an invisible sword. "Oh very good! That’s the way! There’s one down, at any rate. That black-haired Ranger is a fierce fighter, isn’t he? Look at that sword flash! Hair streaming, fire in his eyes even from here... he quite looks like some sort of Elven warrior! Maybe he is an elf! And the blonde chap as well... oh, capital! Very good! Oh but... oh dear! Oh no! Look out behind you! Oh no!"

"What? What has happened? Tell me what you see!"

"The blonde... oh no, he has him by the neck... Oh! Oh, you poor man! Oh, he can’t breathe! Oh, surely he can’t breathe ... oh dear ... oh my, oh my .... wait! Oh, I don’t think I can look..."

"Ferdinand Took, you will open your eyes and tell me what is happening!" Aragorn growled, but when the hobbit merely continued breathlessly muttering oh no’s and oh dears, Aragorn gave up and tried again to stand. He pulled one foot under him and then the other and shuffled forward but a scant two paces before spots broke out before his eyes and his legs gave out. He fell back to his knees, bracing one arm on the ground to keep from falling on his face as he clutched his side with the other. Ferdinand still hopped from foot to foot, uttering cries of dismay and telling Aragorn absolutely nothing of help. If the situation had not been so dire, Aragorn might have laughed at the absurdity of it all. "Ferdinand, please!" he begged.

Ferdinand suddenly leapt straight into the air. "Oh! Oh! He stabbed him in the stomach!"

"Who stabbed who in the stomach?"

"Your blonde friend! Oh my! Oh dear!"

"Denlad was stabbed?"

"No, no, no," Ferdinand cried impatiently. "Denlad did the stabbing." He stared hard, suddenly silent, then finally nodded as if in satisfaction. "Yes, yes. That appears to have done it for him. Very good. All appears well in hand now, thank goodness. Two brigands look to be dead and the one Denlad stabbed is on the ground, close to it from all appearances. It looks as though they are questioning him. Oh, that cheeky rascal! I believe he just spat at your Denlad. After he was the one who attacked. I ask you! It’s just too much." He turned to glance briefly at Aragorn. "Here now! Get you back to bed! Or at least to your bedroll, seeing as we hardly have proper furniture out here in the wilds. But back to it, proper or not, young man! Could you not satisfy yourself with what I told you? No, I suppose not. Have to see for yourself, don’t you, like all stubborn Men, Elves, Hobbits and Dwarves. Can’t be satisfied with being told the facts, no. Have to leap to your feet and injure yourself further in the name of satisfying your curiousity when all you had to do was listen to what I told you."

Aragorn opened his mouth to protest, then shut it without saying anything. There was little point. He meekly submitted to Ferdinand’s fussing and, hauling himself shakily back to his feet, let the small hobbit help him back to his spot by the rock. He waved off Ferdinand’s demand that he lay flat, however. Seeing how hard it was to get to a seated position, he preferred to stay that way for the time being. It seemed to hurt the same, either way, and he would as soon be sitting upright when Denlad and Halbarad arrived; otherwise he was sure to raise such alarm in the two that he would never be able to convince them that his death was hardly at hand.

"Let me see that wound now." Like earlier, he peeled back the bandage just enough to check. This time Aragorn noticed that Ferdinand had somehow applied the bandage so that the entire thing need not be unwound to expose the wound, but only a few layers in front. He made a note to have Ferdinand show him how he managed such a clever arrangement. Ferdinand peered closely at the stitches, clucking a bit like a hen fussing over her chicks. "Good, the stitches are still intact. Does it hurt, much?"

Aragorn nodded. "But nothing I cannot bear."

"Hmm, I am not sure whether to believe you. I can all but hear your teeth grinding against one another."

Aragorn breathed a laugh. He supposed he did have his jaw clenched rather tightly. He forced himself to relax. "Your ears are too sharp."

"And my eyes still sharper, and they see a face white and drawn with pain, so best you stop all this playacting at being brave."

"You would rather have me screaming and writhing, then?"

"The screaming I can do without. Up to you whether you want to writhe or not. It seems to me that would be quite painful, though, so best you be still, I think."

"I think, too," Aragorn agreed, and did his best to do just that. Simply breathing was bad enough. Writhing was out of the question.

Ferdinand replaced the bandage, then gave him a fatherly pat on the shoulder, an incongruous gesture coming from such a small person and one so much younger than himself. Then Ferdinand laid a hand on his forehead. "Still no fever. Very good, that, but are you sure you do not want to lie down? You look so pale, and there are great dark smudges under your eyes." He chuckled. "Your friends will think I punched you."

Aragorn laughed, then winced. "Pray do not make me laugh, Master Took."

"Then be a good patient and lay down, if you’re not interested in eating."

"I might try a bit of that bacon," Aragorn offered.

"Ah, there’s the spirit!" Ferdinand cried, then bustled to the fire and stirred it up. He poked at the contents of the skillet and fished out a strip of bacon and put it on a plate. He eyed it dubiously. "It does not seem enough. Are you sure you don’t want some sausage as well?"

"Just the bacon, thank you."

Ferdinand shrugged and handed him the plate, putting it on his lap as he had the one last night. "There you are. Perhaps it will whet your appetite for more. You need to eat."

Aragorn bit off a small bite and chewed. It did taste good, but he knew it was best to wait to see how it settled on his stomach before trying more.

Ferdinand came back with a cup. "Water. You’ll need it, eating all that salty bacon. And I don’t think you should drink any more of that ginger tea. I sipped it and it’s horrid. I don’t know how you stood it."

"I don’t normally make it quite so strong," Aragorn said as he took the cup of water with a grateful nod. He was terribly thirsty, now that he thought on it. Blood loss, he supposed.

"Well, your friends will no doubt soon be here. They will surely be hungry after such a fight." Aragorn thought he seemed quite calm, considering he had just watched several men kill and be killed. Hobbits do seem resilient, he thought as he watched Ferdinand pull food–more sausage and more potatoes and an onion–from his seemingly bottomless pack. He quickly peeled and sliced the vegetables with small but capable hands. Was there nothing this hobbit was not skilled at, Aragorn wondered as he worked at his bacon.

"Do your friends like sausages and potatoes?" Ferdinand suddenly asked.

"In general, we eat anything that doesn’t eat us first."

Ferdinand let out a merry laugh. "Oh, I do like you, young man. Such a wit you possess!"

"’Tis not wit so much as the truth," Aragorn smiled, then leaned his head back against the rock and closed his eyes. The sun’s touch warmed his face. It felt good.

"What do Rangers like you eat?" Ferdinand asked.

"Whatever we can hunt up, usually. Deer, if there’s several of us together, or if I’m alone, sometimes a brace of coneys. A pheasant. Whatever I catch in a snare. Handful of mushrooms and maybe some wild onions. Whatever berries might be ripe. I have been desperate enough at times to try snake."

"Snake! Horrid!"

"It is not as bad as you might think. But it’s poor pickings... not much meat on a snake."

"Well, if I never have to eat snake, I’ll consider my life very well blessed indeed."

"I have had worse."

"Such as?"

He opened his eyes and took a sip of water. "One time, in my travels, I was invited to a nobleman’s banquet. He served me breaded eyeballs. Sheep, I believe, but I was never quite certain."*

"Oh, now, surely not! Who would eat that?"

"People in the lands east of Khand, apparently."

"East of... you’ve been that far?"

"Hmm," Aragorn said, setting aside the cup and closing his eyes again. "They call me Strider for good reason."

"I should say so," Ferdinand said rather faintly. Aragorn opened one eye a slit and chuckled at the dumbfounded expression on the hobbit’s face. You are not the only one full of surprises, Master Took. The things I could tell you...

But of course, he could not. It would hardly do to start bragging about his royal lineage, not with the chances of his ever becoming king seeming to hover somewhere below his chances of taking flight by flapping his arms and cawing like a crow. Although sometimes it would be nice, not to have secrets. Not to have to play at subterfuge and evasion. To actually have people look at him and not scurry away in fear and suspicion. He started to sigh, but remembered his wound just in time and instead let the sun’s warmth entice his mind away from such dark paths. Within moments, most conscious thought dribbled away as sleep crept over his mind. He listened to the small sounds Ferdinand made, and his mind, even half asleep, categorized the myriad insect and bird noises... that was a wren... and there was a cricket... and that little rustling is likely a field mouse....

A louder rustle roused him a bit.

"I expect that must be your friends drawing nigh," Ferdinand said.

Aragorn nodded but was too tired to open his eyes. Halbarad would just have to find him asleep... sorry to let Halbarad think him dead... waking was just too much bother...

But then Ferdinand let out a loud squawk. Aragorn’s eyes flew open and he was lunging for his sword even before fully realizing a Southron was emerging from the bushes. His fist closed around the hilt, but before he could grasp it, a heavy boot smashed down on his hand.

_________

*Full tale told in "An Unexpected Feast"

Chapter Six - Just Bring Him Back Alive

"I see smoke," Denlad said. He pointed upward, toward the crest of the hill.

"Let us pray that it comes from Aragorn’s fire and that he is sitting beside it having a quiet second breakfast with that hobbit we saw."

Denlad failed to see much hope of that. "All that noise we made, surely he would have heard. I doubt it is his fire, or if it is, that he is sitting quietly beside it, unharmed."

"Your optimism is overwhelming." Halbarad paused and turned around. "Can you not for a moment look on the bright side? Have your years at Aragorn’s side taught you nothing of hope?"

"Oh, hope I have in plenty. But I am also a realist. If Aragorn were up on that hill and whole, you know he would have flown to our side at the first clash of swords, which racket I’m sure was quite audible even from up there."

Halbarad stood silently for a long moment, by turns glaring at Denlad and staring up the hill. He finally sighed. "Why must you always be so infuriatingly right?"

He turned around and continued his march up the hillside. Denlad smiled faintly, but it soon faded. What he would give to be wrong in this case! But if Aragorn was indeed by that fire, and the trail they followed seemed to bear that out, he was obviously too injured to have come to their aid, and if that were the case, his condition must be dire indeed. He sped up and passed Halbarad, suddenly possessed by an urgency even beyond the fear that had hastened them to this point. "Hurry," he called over his shoulder, and he heard Halbarad’s steps increase their pace.

It was not a tall hill, but like most of the hills in this barren land, its steep and forbidding front hid a long gradual slope behind it, and it was for that more easy ascent the trail led. And no surprise, that, for no man, let alone one injured, could easily climb the granite cliffs that soared upward from the valley. Ledges here and there provided tenuous homes for the few trees hardy enough to survive the harsh winds and poor soil. Denlad saw a goat creeping along one such shelf before they lost view of the cliffs.

As they hurried on, he spotted a flattened place in the grass and paused. Aragorn had fallen again. Denlad looked back toward the hill’s summit, wondering again about the hobbit. He bent low, looking carefully all around the flattened spot and finally found what he sought: a second pair of footprints, unmistakably hobbit, that had approached via a narrow game trail barely visible through the bracken and grassy weeds. "Look here, Halbarad. It seems we did glimpse a hobbit up on that cliff top. And it looks as though he stopped to help Aragorn."

Halbarad hurried past, eyes on the ground. "They are walking side by side; but look! Aragorn’s feet are dragging, and the hobbit’s footprints are deeper here. I would guess the hobbit is all but carrying Aragorn at this point."

"Are they so strong, hobbits?"

"I would not have guessed so, but it seems this one at least is."

They kept on, following the trail, and came to another spot of flattened grass, and from there the grasses lay smashed flat in a long curving trail up the hill as far as he could see. He looked more closely, nearly putting his nose in the dirt, and found a few green fibers. He held them up. "Halbarad, I think he’s dragging Aragorn, using Aragorn’s cloak as a sort of sledge. But why would he drag him so far? Why not simply build a fire here?"

"I think that this hobbit must know this area; perhaps he knows the grasses catch fire easily, and knows the summit is largely barren of vegetation. And, well, perhaps he has some knowledge of tactics and is heading for the highest ground."

Denlad shook his head. What a wonder this Shireling must be!

There was no longer a need for care, so they started running down the well-defined trail. They topped a slope that Denlad felt must surely be the summit. But he stopped, confused. "I thought this must be the top, but I do not see the smoke, nor the fire."

"There!" Halbarad pointed, and Denlad saw the problem. They had come up to the right of an outcropping of large grey boulders that blocked their path. He had thought them the crest of the hill, but now he remembered seeing them from below; they marked a spot just below the summit. He took a step to the side and finally spotted beyond them a grey-white finger of smoke reaching lazily upward, small against the blue vault above them.

They hurried forward, this time Halbarad taking the lead. Denlad thought about calling out to Aragorn, but that same urgency that had driven him to greater speed seemed suddenly to caution him to greater stealth. He reached out and touched Halbarad’s sleeve. Halbarad immediately stopped and looked back.

Denlad held a finger up to his lips, then motioned that he would go around the left side of the outcrop, where a scant trace of a game trail hugged the boulders above a sheer drop of at least fifty feet on its left. Halbarad shook his head and motioned instead to the less treacherous right side. He pointed to his own chest and then to the left side. Denlad pulled a face at him for taking the more hazardous route himself, but there was no time for arguing. He silently drew his sword and eased around the rocks, listening for any sound, looking for any movement that might signal something amiss. Seeing nothing, and hearing only the undisturbed soft buzz of small insects, he eased out from the rocks into a clearing. An untended fire burned in the middle of it. Halbarad came around from the other side of the rock. "Well?" Denlad asked.

"Nothing. I saw no one."

Denlad frowned as he sheathed his sword. "This makes little sense."

"An untended fire, a meal cooking... it would appear whoever was here was interrupted, very abruptly."

Indeed, a skillet of sausages and potatoes sat unattended on the fire. Denlad, out of long habit, reached down and pulled the pan out of the flames and set it to the side, then kicked dirt over the fire lest it spread, although as Halbarad had earlier surmised, the hilltop was largely barren of vegetation.

Halbarad squatted on his heels and looked at the scattered tracks. "These are hobbit, and those are Aragorn’s. But look at this!"

"A second man," Denlad said as he looked where Halbarad pointed. He followed another track and it led to a bedroll, and a pack. A cup lay on its side in the stain of its spilled water. "Someone was drinking, not many minutes ago... and that is Aragorn’s pack, and his cloak," he said, then he froze. "And here is his sword."

Halbarad stared it, his eyes bleak. "He would go nowhere willingly without his sword."

"He reached for it... see that? A partial handprint near the sword... see his fingers?" He hesitated, then went on, "and that is part of a heel print. Halbarad, he reached for the sword and the man stamped on his hand."

"And then?"

Denlad frowned as he tried to make sense of the jumble of footprints in the dust. He finally shook his head. "I cannot tell. It might be that he hauled Aragorn to his feet and then..." He stopped in frustration. There were simply too many smudges and unclear prints for him to make anything out. Aragorn would be able to read the signs, he thought with bitter irony.

"This man’s tracks... it must be another Southron. They seem to be breeding like rats."

"It very well could be," Denlad said absently, for a bush had suddenly claimed his attention. He touched Halbarad’s arm and gestured toward it. Its lower limbs were quivering as if in a light breeze.

There was no breeze this calm morning.

Denlad pulled his sword again and he and Halbarad moved swiftly toward the bush. Halbarad yanked the branches aside and, with a loud squawk, a small hobbit leaped out, grasping at the air to find his balance.

Denlad swiftly lifted his sword away and grabbed one of the small flailing hands. "Easy, Shireling! You are among friends." He steadied the hobbit and led him to a log and seated him. He noticed a scrape and a large bump on the hobbit’s temple. "What has happened here, can you tell us?"

The hobbit blinked a few times then covered his face with his hands. "I failed! I tried to stop him taking Strider but he was too big and strong. He threw me away like I was naught but a bit of trash."

"Which way did they go, did you see?" Halbarad asked.

He pulled his hands away, but he still looked stricken. "No. I... I must have hit my head. Everything went grey and fuzzy and then I opened my eyes and saw the two of you."

Halbarad sighed, then started searching the perimeter of the camp for signs. Denlad pulled out his shirttail and used it to gently dab at the still-bleeding scrape. "Do not be so hard on yourself, Master Hobbit. It takes more courage than most men have to take on a Southron twice your height. What is your name?"

To give him credit, the hobbit gathered himself together and gave a small bow of his head. "Ferdinand Took, at your service."

"Well met, Ferdinand Took. I am Denlad, and I am at yours. And that man over there is Halbarad Dúnadan."

"Strider said those were your names. We watched you from here, as you fought.  Or at least I watched you.  Strider couldn't see from his vantage point, so I told him what was happening."

"How badly is Strider injured?"

"I found him yesterday, in the field below. He had a knife wound, and likely some broken ribs. He was nearly on his last leg when I found him; indeed he really wasn’t on any legs at all really, having made it to a stand but that was as far as he got. He lasted long enough to greet me, but then he sort of collapsed to his knees. I managed to help him sit down, but then he fainted dead away. I got him to wake up a bit, and got him walking, but it wasn’t many more steps before he fell down again, and then nothing would wake him. I was that scared he would die, I am not ashamed to say. There was so much blood soaking his bandage; scared me silly, it did, and I’m not easily frightened. I couldn’t imagine what had happened to him. He might have been cut nearly in two, for all I could see." He paused to take a deep breath, then continued. "I didn’t want to stay where we were; too open, you see. I didn’t know if whoever had done this was still lurking about. I saw he had a cloak, in his pack, and I took it and laid it out and sort of rolled him onto it and then grabbed the ends and started tugging. It took a while; he’s a big man, and you can see, I’m not big by any stretch of the imagination. But I had to get him up this hill, where I reckoned it would be safer for him to recover. But I guess I thought wrong. No one bothered us through the night, and so I didn’t reckon on there being another bandit, and especially not after seeing how you had taken care of those three down below."

Halbarad returned to their side in time to hear this last. Concern creased his brow. "This man... how long ago did he take Strider?"

Ferdinand glanced at the sun. "It could only have been minutes. I was fixing second breakfast when we stopped to watch your fight. I managed to get Strider to eat a slice of bacon–he won’t eat, gets sick if he does and that worries me. Losing the blood he has, he needs to eat to get his strength back. I cannot imagine why he cannot eat."

Denlad smothered a smile at Ferdinand’s outraged expression. Woe betide any man who does not eat the food offered by a hobbit. "Ofttimes pain steals a man’s appetite. I have medicine I can give him that will help that."

"Oh, good, very good." Ferdinand looked relieved, but then his face fell. "Only we don’t know where he is. Oh dear..."

Halbarad rested a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. "Calm yourself. We will find him. I found their trail; it is clear and they are only minutes ahead of us, from the looks of it. We should be able to see them as soon as we round the summit." He gestured at the swelling on the side of Ferdinand’s head. "Will he be all right?"

"I think so," Denlad said. "He will have a headache, but he seems relatively unharmed. His name is Ferdinand Took, by the way."

"I regret we must leave you so soon after meeting, Master Took, but time is short," Halbarad said. He pulled off his pack and set it beside Aragorn’s. "But we will be back, as soon as we find our friend."

"I will keep the fire going."

Denlad felt himself blush. "I’m sorry about kicking it out. I thought no one was here."

"No need apologizing; I can light it again easily enough." He dredged up a wobbly smile. "You saved my sausages from burning, at least."

Denlad laughed. He liked these irrepressible hobbits. "Keep them warm for us. I’ve no doubt that Strider will be hungry when we bring him back."

With a final look at Ferdinand’s scrape, finding it no longer bleeding, he stood and, after pulling off his own pack, save the healing supplies which he tucked under his belt, followed Halbarad, but Ferdinand suddenly called out, "Wait!"

Denlad stopped and turned.

"You should know–I think I heard the man say something about paying back blood for blood." Ferdinand’s blue eyes held unshed tears. "Please hurry. I... I have grown very fond of Strider, in the hours I have known him."

Halbarad cast a worried gaze at Denlad, then inclined his head to Ferdinand. "He is one to whom one’s love–and allegiance–come easily. And I have been remiss in not thanking you for all you have done for our friend. Words cannot really express my gratitude."

"Nor mine," Denlad added.

"Just bring him back here, alive, and that will be all the thanks I will ever need."

Chapter Seven - Not Without a Fight

Aragorn cried out as the man’s boot ground into his hand. He summoned his meager strength and lashed out a leg, catching the Southron on the side of the knee. The Southron staggered, thrown off balance enough that Aragorn was able to yank his hand free. He reached again for his sword but the Southron was too fast. He kicked the sword aside, then aimed another kick at Aragorn’s head.

Aragorn rolled. He felt the stitches pull and was certain they ripped loose, but nothing to do for it but fight on. The kick missed, but to Aragorn’s surprise, the Southron staggered and then fell, knocked down from behind by Ferdinand, who had launched himself at the man’s legs and managed to bowl him over despite the man being nearly as tall as Aragorn, and heavier. Aragorn was grateful but he had no wish for the hobbit to die in an ill-fated attempt to save him. "Ferdinand, get back!"

But Ferdinand was having none of it. He crawled atop the man’s back and pounded on his head with his small fists. Aragorn lurched to his knees and found his sword just as the Southron scrambled to his feet, with Ferdinand clinging like a limpet to his shoulders. He reached back and grabbed Ferdinand’s collar and an instant later, Ferdinand flew through the air toward a large bush.

Aragorn swung his sword, but his kneeling position was awkward at best, and he was still weak. The swing was hopelessly feeble. The Southron easily blocked it with his boot, and then wrenched the sword from Aragorn’s hand. He cuffed Aragorn on the side of his head hard enough to make his ears ring.

He grabbed Aragorn’s hair and yanked his head back. Bringing his own face within inches of Aragorn’s, he growled, "You will pay blood for blood for the life of my brother." He drove a fist into Aragorn’s injured ribs.

Aragorn fell to the ground, nearly blinded by the pain ripping through his side. He felt his wrists jerked in front of him and the rough fibers of rope binding his hands. He flinched, trying to break free, but the Southron hit him again, a powerful backhand blow across Aragorn’s cheek and mouth that brought tears to his eyes. Consciousness flitted away from him...

... and when it returned he was on his side, gravel painfully digging into his cheek, his hands bound and head swimming and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. He blinked and struggled to focus his eyes. A boot suddenly slammed into his stomach. He curled inward, trying to protect himself, but another blow landed and his breath left him. He was barely aware of a hand reaching down and yanking on his bound wrists.

"I said wake up, filth!"

Aragorn recoiled, struggling to find air, to find the wherewithal to fight back. He managed to jerk his hands away, but as before, the man grabbed a fistful of Aragorn’s hair and forced his head back. "In the way of my people, your life will pay for my brother’s, and the lives of your men for the lives of mine. But I have need of other things first. You know these lands, do you not?"

Aragorn glared but said nothing.

A fist slammed into his side again and a red haze blanked his sight and he was only vaguely aware of the man shouting. It was some moments before he could grasp the man’s words. "...surely must know these lands, and I will bleed you for every ounce of information you possess, for my master has need of such things. Tell me!" The fist hovered over his side again.

Speaking seemed a challenge greater than defeating Sauron, but Aragorn managed to grind out, "I know nothing that would interest whatever foul master you serve."

The man drew his fist back, but stopped, a feral smile stretching his lips. He grabbed Aragorn’s jaw. "Oh, but I think you do. Rumors have reached far places, rumors that something of great value lies hidden in these lands. I would know what that is, and where it can be found." His fingers dug painfully into the skin below Aragorn’s jaw. "Speak what you know, tark, and spare yourself needless suffering."

Aragorn kept his silence.

"Stubborn, are you? Perhaps you will tell me this much: do you value your sight?" He pressed his thumb on the outer corner of Aragorn’s right eye. "Is protecting the secrets of this benighted land worth blindness?"

He increased the pressure and pain shot through Aragorn’s eye. Aragorn tried to jerk his head away but the man’s grip was too tight. As the pressure increased, the world shattered into splintered daggers of light and shadow. Panic shredded all thought and Aragorn shoved his hands upward into the man’s chest and brought his knee as hard as he could into the man’s groin. The blow was weak but enough to jar the man so he lost his grip on Aragorn’s face. Shuddering with relief, Aragorn scrambled backwards but the man quickly caught him.

"Whoreson!" he hissed as he clawed at Aragorn’s face again, but before he could do any real damage, he hesitated, his attention caught by something in the valley below. He scowled, then yanked on Aragorn’s hands. "I am far from finished with you, scum. But men approach, the mindless dogs who hunt for you so diligently, so we must move. And then I will deal with them in the manner of my choosing." He smiled again, the cold light in his eye sending a frisson of fear down Aragorn’s back. "And you... you will watch them die, and perhaps what you tell me will determine the ease of their passing." He again grabbed Aragorn’s jaw, but this time merely pushed his face close to Aragorn’s. "Pray that I have more mercy on them than I will have on you. Now to your feet and walk!"

The man yanked Aragorn to his feet and shoved him toward the path. Aragorn would not have given a pipeful of cold Old Toby ashes that he had the strength to move, but somehow he found reserves within him that he had no inkling existed. Impending death will do that for a man, he supposed wryly. He stumbled, righted himself, then started down the long slope on the back side of the ridge. His right eye burned, aching with an intensity that robbed him of the sight even in his uninjured eye. But the loss of vision was a worry he must save for later; for the moment, it was all he could do to get his legs to answer, to simply shuffle forward in the hope that he would find footing in a world obscured by pain-wrought tears.

Clarity of thought fortunately returned more quickly than clarity of sight, and his mind worked furiously. He had to find some means of escape, or blindness would be the least of his troubles. He blinked and lifted his hands to swipe at his eyes and finally they cleared enough for him to see the bleak truth: cover was scant in this open land, and the blade prodding his back likely would find its way through his body before he was three steps away. But he had time. He had time and therefore hope, for Valar willing, this wretch’s failure to kill him outright would prove a fatal mistake.

It remained only to find a way...

As if he read Aragorn’s intent, the man jabbed him again with his blade. Aragorn winced, but he did not cry out. He would not give the man the satisfaction.

On he staggered, prodded at times by the stinging bite of steel, falling at other times and dragged to his feet again by the Southron’s rough hand, until finally they reached the flatlands below the hill. Grass brushed against Aragorn’s leggings and tried to tangle around his ankles as he pushed through the waist high weeds. He looked at the almost featureless plain. Was it here that his bones would molder, unmarked and undiscovered, until time carved them into dust and all remembrance of his life left the hearts of men?

No.

Not without a fight.

And it had to be now, before his fading strength abandoned him completely. He turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of his foe from the corner of his eye. Fixing the man’s position just behind his right shoulder, Aragorn spun to his left, away from the Southron’s sword. Guessing the blade would follow him, Aragorn immediately turned and thrust his bound hands up before him. He felt the cold bite of steel rake his forearm but he succeeded in blocking the worst of the blow. Then elation filled him as the sword momentarily snagged on the ropes on his wrists. Aragorn twisted his arms and the sword fell to the ground. Before the surprised man could pick it up, Aragorn rammed him with his shoulder. They fell, and Aragorn landed heavily atop him, by sheer luck pinning the man’s arms with his body.

The Southron thrashed beneath him, but Aragorn threw his forearms against the man’s throat and pressed down with all his weight. With his hands tied as they were, he could not grip the man’s throat, and the way the man writhed, Aragorn knew that he had only moments before he would lose his advantage. He must find some way to knock the Southron senseless, disarm him... anything...

He felt what must be the hilt of the Southron’s dagger digging into his stomach. Aragorn shifted, lifting his arms from the man’s throat and thrusting them downward toward the man’s belt. But his effort proved disastrous. The man bucked beneath him and shoved Aragorn away.

In the span of a breath, the roles were reversed. The man aimed his left fist at Aragorn’s jaw, but Aragorn turned his head at the last possible moment, and it merely grazed him. He scrabbled again at the man’s belt, but the Southron threw himself to the side. The dagger slid out of Aragorn’s reach. The Southron reached for the dagger himself, but Aragorn grabbed the man’s arm, and for a long moment they were frozen, arms straining as Aragorn tried to push the Southron’s hand from his knife. The Southron then tried to reach the knife with his other hand but Aragorn blocked it with his bent knee.

The Southron growled and, abandoning the knife, grabbed Aragorn’s throat with his left hand. Aragorn had no way of freeing himself, for to let go of the man’s arm meant the Southron would be free to grab the knife...

Triumph contorted the Southron’s face as he too realized the extent of his advantage.

With his strength failing, and knowing hopelessness ravaged his own countenance, Aragorn sagged, releasing the man’s left hand, letting his hands slide lifelessly away...

And as he hoped, the man immediately raised both hands to Aragorn’s throat. As their crushing grip tightened, Aragorn knew he had only seconds.

He reached for the dagger...

...Valar, lend me strength... it cannot end thus... it cannot...

His fingers brushed it, gripped it but his tug was weak and the knife would not come to his hand and he would die after all....

At first he thought he dreamt it, that it was a cry from his own mouth or the roar of his blood in his ears but it was not... it was a screaming bellow of rage, distant but echoing against the hillside to thunder across the grasslands, a stentorian roar that sent Aragorn’s hope surging and with it, strength. Only one man had a voice so loud.

Denlad!

The Southron froze, for just an instant, and that tiny lapse in concentration was all Aragorn needed. He drove his body upward toward the Southron’s. The Southron, startled, lost his grip on Aragorn’s throat and Aragorn gulped in precious air. Aragorn used his momentum to roll the man over and then Aragorn was again on top and bearing down and reaching for the dagger hilt. And this time it seemed to leap to his hand and he shoved it with all his failing strength into the man’s chest, praying the man did not have on mail beneath his shirt.

The iron struck satisfyingly against flesh.

The man’s mouth opened as he gaped at Aragorn, his eyes wide with shock at first, then narrowing into hate-filled slits.

Unbelievably, he reached up and even as his own death stared out from his eyes he again grasped Aragorn by the throat, his death grip closing down with the force of a steel trap.

Aragorn pushed the blade deeper into the man’s body, feeling it grate against bone and sinew but still the man’s fingers crushed his throat and he could find no air and the world was darkening, sliding away from him and why did the man not die...

He gave the blade one more desperate shove and twist with hands that were fast losing their strength and then, finally, the fingers choking him suddenly went limp.

Aragorn released the dagger and rolled away. He slowly sat up, trembling, eyeing the Southron.

He was dead.

Aragorn shuddered, the battle surge that had leant him strength now utterly spent. He shut his eyes, concentrating only on getting air past his raw, bruised throat and into his equally raw and bruised lungs. Pain that had gone unnoticed in the heat of battle now flayed him. He looked down and saw that he was bleeding again, a scarlet stain devouring the white torn shirt bandage like some ravening beast.

He pressed his elbow against it. Valar, his strength was failing him, but he had to get the bleeding stopped. And to do that, he needed his hands free. He looked around, hoping to see Denlad, but the cry, loud as it was, had come from afar, and he knew he did not have time to wait on Denlad’s arrival. He spied the fallen sword and shuffled on his knees over to it. He picked it up, then awkwardly sat down and pulled his feet in front of him. Jamming the hilt between his boots, he held it vertically with his feet and carefully sawed the rope binding his wrists up and down its length. After a moment, the ropes parted. He tossed them away.

He had to stop for a moment, then, as faintness swept over him. He clung to a clump of grass, holding onto the anchoring earth until the spell passed, and then he looked again at the wound on his side. Blood now crimsoned the entire bandage. He could feel the spreading warmth of it even under his breeches. He had to get the bleeding stopped. He cast about him, but he had nothing to bind it with, and with the fumbling weakness in his hands, he doubted he had the strength to rip the Southron’s clothes into bandages. He pressed his hand against the wound, hard. He looked longingly up toward the hill, the crest of which he could just see over the grasses waving above his head. There, up high, lie shelter and succor by the side of Ferdinand’s cheerful fire...

His heart turned cold. What of Ferdinand? He could be injured... dying...

Aragorn had to get back there.

He took several more deep, careful breaths, then slowly... far too slowly but he could move no faster... drew his legs under him and stood.

The world greyed around the edges but a shake of his head cleared it away. He staggered sideways a step, but then he found his equilibrium and started walking, a shuffling, head-bent affair but walking nonetheless.

One foot forward. The other. Left. Right.

He felt the liquid warmth of blood pooling in his left boot. Nothing to do for it but keep on...

... left... right... left...

... until finally all strength left him. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, every fiber lit with pain. Valar, he hurt. Long black moments passed until finally the overall agony faded and seemed to settle into two spots: his side and his right arm.

Why his arm...?

He lifted it. Looked dumbly at the cut slashing from his wrist to his elbow. He had forgotten about that cut. He blinked at the red, welling blood...

He should do something about that... before it got infected... before...

Before what? His thoughts scattered and he could not remember why he needed to do... something...

He shut his eyes, just for a moment. He was so tired... he needed to rest...

Just for a moment...

Chapter Eight - 'Twas You I Heard

Denlad’s feet kicked rocks and gravel in a noisy cascade before him as he slid and jumped as fast as he could down the hillside. He heard Halbarad’s boots clattering just behind him but dared not look back. The treacherous footing and the scene far below them, taken in through only the briefest of glimpses when he dared look away from his path, more than sufficiently captured all his attention.

He risked another glance out toward the valley. Two figures, small with nearly a mile of distance, one stumbling in front, the other marching just behind, moved steadily away from them. How Denlad’s fingers longed for a bow! But he had none, and though Halbarad did, the range was too far, and so they must rely on whatever speed they could coax from their feet.

He pushed himself harder.

"Have a care, Denlad!" Halbarad huffed behind him. "You’ll do Aragorn no good if you fall and break your neck."

Denlad slowed marginally.

"Denlad!"

The urgency in Halbarad’s voice brought him up short. He looked behind him, but Halbarad’s horrified gaze was aimed beyond him, into the valley. "Valar help you, Aragorn," he whispered.

Denlad whipped his head back around. Aragorn had leapt to the side, and even now a sword flashed in the sunlight. They were still too far away to see exactly what was happening, but Denlad’s imagination conjured up the worst. "No," Denlad breathed, his body leaning forward as if to lend strength to the struggling figure so far away. "No..."

Then he was running, his feet moving of their own accord. Running, stumbling and finding his footing again and running, running, running and all he knew is that he had to get there...

His legs, nearly as long as Aragorn’s and longer than Halbarad’s, stretched out, devouring the ground before him, and still he pushed harder but he knew it was hopeless. He would not get there in time and Aragorn would be killed. He drew his sword as he let out a cry, a bellowing clarion of rage that flew from the depths of his soul, from some dark place deep within where the battle flame burned scarlet and hot and unquenchable. He ran toward his chieftain but it was too far... too far... and then his foot skidded on the loose scree and he fell crashing to the ground and his sword flew clattering out of reach and the rocks ripped into his hands. He sobbed with frustration and the wind whipped the sound into the empty sky and defeat lay bitter and cold in his gut.

Halbarad’s boots pounded past him, not stopping, nor did Denlad want them to. He gathered himself and his sword and climbed to his feet and then he was running again, and this time when he looked the two figures were apart, and one... one was on his knees and the other flat on the ground, partially hidden in the tall grass. Denlad slowed, squinting...

It was no good; he was simply too far away, and he could not tell who was alive and who might be dead and the coldness within him swelled and took his heart and he almost stopped running, so great was his dread.

But he would not stop, for giving in to such craven cowardice would leave Halbarad alone to find Aragorn’s broken body. Denlad had failed Aragorn, but he would not fail Halbarad and so he forced his legs to move, to run again. And as he ran, he looked only to his footing, not to the scene below... not to Aragorn’s body... I cannot look... I will not look...

But his eyes were drawn inexorably to the grassy plain despite the bitter resolve of his heart, and he looked, and he saw the man, still kneeling, and the other was marked with the slackness of death. Denlad slowed and his eyes again went to the kneeling figure, and this time he saw the black hair and the wide shoulders and his heart soared. "Aragorn," he breathed, hardly daring to say the name aloud for fear it would break the spell, for fear it was merely an illusion he was seeing, a fantasy wrought by the very intensity of his hopes.

But no. It was Aragorn, and he was not only alive but struggling to his feet.

He could not be so horribly injured, surely, if he could stand...

Denlad pressed on, as fast as his legs would carry him, and the next time he dared look up, Aragorn was walking, his shoulders slumped with fatigue, but walking... thank the Valar, he was walking.

But even as Denlad watched, Aragorn’s footsteps faltered. He staggered to a stop and then it seemed as though his legs simply folded underneath him. He knelt, head hanging, one arm limp and the other pressed hard against his side. Denlad ran harder, pushing himself to the very limit of his stamina, and caught up with Halbarad just as he reached Aragorn.

"Aragorn!" Halbarad cried as he fell to his knees beside him.

Aragorn raised his head, a tired, painful movement that hurt Denlad as much as it cheered him. Red-rimmed eyes in a face grey except where it was swollen with livid bruises took in Halbarad and then turned to Denlad. He smiled crookedly. "I ... thought ‘twas you... I heard," he whispered, and fainted.

Halbarad caught him and eased him to the ground. "Valar, what a mess," he muttered as he looked at the bloodied bandage and the wound on his arm.

Denlad, his hands shaking and his lungs heaving like bellows from his exertion, immediately stripped off his own shirt and started tearing it. "Do the same, Halbarad," he ordered. "Mine will not be enough. Is the Southron dead?"

"As Glorfindel’s balrog," Halbarad said as he yanked off his shirt. His strong hands made quick work of turning it to bandages. "I don’t know how he did it, the shape he was in, but Aragorn managed to kill him. A thrust straight into the heart. When he awakens, he’ll have quite a tale to tell."

"If he awakens," Denlad muttered. He immediately felt an iron grip on his arm.

"When he awakens," Halbarad growled, giving him a little shake. "When!"

"I am sorry. You are right. When." Denlad drew a shaky breath and turned to Aragorn, who was still unconscious. Just as well, Denlad thought; he will not feel any pain. "Can you hold him upright for me, please."

Halbarad did not question being ordered about but simply moved behind Aragorn’s head and hooked both arms under Aragorn’s, hauling him gently upright and letting Aragorn’s head rest against his shoulder. Aragorn groaned but did not stir. "Easy, my friend," Halbarad murmured.

Denlad pulled out his knife and paused one last time to still his breathing and steady his hands, then sliced through the soaked bandages binding Aragorn’s ribs. Working quickly and efficiently, he worked them free, revealing an ugly, tearing wound. Part of it was still neatly stitched, but part of it had torn open. Fortunately, it was starting already to clot.

"That’s good, then," Halbarad said, craning over Aragorn’s shoulder to look.

"Yes, it’s not as bad as I feared, although he has lost far too much blood." Denlad bent low, pressing his ear against Aragorn’s chest. Aragorn’s breathing was shallow but seemed clear, his heartbeat fast but steady enough. He straightened back up and placed his hand flat against Aragorn’s chest. He felt no tremors that would indicate wheezing. For the first time he felt a bit of hope. The ribs were likely cracked, from the looks of the bruising, but apparently no jagged ends had punctured his lung. Barring infection, and any more roving Southrons with similar deadly intents, Aragorn would recover. Relief made Denlad’s hands shake slightly, and for the first time, he noticed the stinging in his palms. He looked at the ripped skin and reached for the dead man’s waterskin. He yanked the stopper out with his teeth and did his best to rinse the grime and blood from his palms.

"Those look painful, Denlad," Halbarad said.

Denlad shrugged. The scrapes were painful, but minor. Still, he took a moment to hastily wrap them, more to protect Aragorn from his own blood than anything else. Then he steeled himself and set about binding Aragorn’s side. After a moment he was done. "It really needs proper stitching up, but that will have to wait until we can move him to a more sheltered campsite by fresh water, perhaps down in that thicket yonder. Surely there is a spring or creek there."

"There is. A spring. I’ve used it before," Halbarad confirmed. "Do what you can for now, then we will move him."

Denlad started bandaging Aragorn’s arm. "We’ll have to make a litter of some sort."

"And we have a bit of time, so no need to drag him across the ground on a cloak. As soon as you no longer need me, I’ll cut some saplings. We’ll thread them through our coat sleeves. It won’t be luxurious but it will do."

Denlad merely nodded, intent on his work. Aragorn woke up as Denlad was tying the knot on the bandage. He opened his eyes and lunged wildly for the empty scabbard on his belt.

"Hold there," Halbarad said, catching Aragorn’s hand. "You’re with friends now."

Aragorn looked hard at them both for a confused moment, then relaxed. "I’m sorry. Didn’t... realize..."

"Understandable," Denlad smiled with an outward calm, masking his blinding rage at the ones who so injured Aragorn. "Someone was a bit careless with how they played with you."

"Mmm." Aragorn worked his jaw, touched his swollen lip with the tip of his tongue and winced.

"Easy," Denlad said. "Do not injure that lip further. It looks painful enough as it is."

Aragorn shrugged as if to say it was of no account, but Denlad had been punched in the mouth enough times in his life to know just how painful it was. Between the split lip and the bruise on his cheekbone, with its angry red swelling that was purpling now and by tomorrow would be black, Aragorn’s face must ache fiercely. And his right eye... Denlad winced. The skin below it was purple and swollen, and the eye itself fiery red. He leaned closer. "Can you see out of that eye?"

"Blurry, but it is getting better. He...." He paused, swallowed. "He tried to blind me, to get me to talk... something about a... a treasure hidden in the Shire..."

Denlad heard Halbarad’s swift intake of air. Halbarad’s hand tightened where it rested on Aragorn’s uninjured arm. Denlad pressed his lips together but said nothing. What could he say? The days were evil, and turning more so. It would take every bit of cunning, skill and no small amount of luck for them to survive the coming terrors. How can we do this, he wondered. We are so few, and the Enemy grows stronger and stronger... Aragorn had nearly died twice now, under their supposed protection...

Halbarad reached out and touched his shoulder, and in his eyes Denlad read compassion. "Courage, Denlad. All will be well, you’ll see," he said softly.

Denlad nodded, swiped his forehead on his forearm, then turned his attention fully to Aragorn’s eye. Was it only bruised, or something worse? He felt sick at the thought of Aragorn losing the sight in that eye. Denlad knew so little when it came to eye injuries...

"Worry not, Denlad," Aragorn suddenly said. "I do not think it permanently damaged. It burns and feels bruised, but I can see with it, and that is reassuring."

Denlad nodded. He took a deep breath and tried to banish his worries and his anger and his inadequacies so he could focus as a healer ought. "When we get you to some fresh cold water, I will fix a compress for you to hold against it."

"That will feel good," Aragorn murmured. His eyes fell shut.

Alarm surged hot in Denlad’s belly. "Aragorn?"

The eyes opened again, but they were dull with pain, and he didn’t speak.

"I am sorry, but I need you to try to stay awake for a little longer."

Aragorn nodded, but Denlad could tell it was a struggle for him to keep his eyes open. Moving as quickly as he could, Denlad gently ran his fingers along Aragorn’s cheekbone. It seemed intact, as did the jaw. "Can you open your mouth, just a little? I need to see if your teeth are all where they were at breakfast, providing you had breakfast this morning? I know how much you love breakfast."

That brought the barest flicker of a smile to Aragorn’s lips. "Didn’t have... much. Didn’t want... eggs–" Aragorn suddenly stopped, his eyes flying wide. "The hobbit–how is Ferdinand?"

"He is all right," Halbarad soothed, again laying a gentling hand on Aragorn’s shoulder to keep him from trying to fly to his feet. "He is up on the hill, tending those sausages he was cooking for second breakfast. Now open up for Denlad."

But Aragorn still fretted. "You are sure he is well? The Southron threw him–"

"He is quite well, Aragorn. Stop your worrying," Denlad said. "He has a few scrapes, but that is all. He is a hardy one, your Ferdinand."

"He has a good heart," Aragorn murmured as the tension finally left him.

"He does. And he seems to be a good cook as well as quite anxious to get food into you, so open your mouth and let me see that you have teeth yet to chew up those sausages."

Aragorn winced but managed to get his mouth open. Denlad could not help but bite his own lip as he gentled Aragorn’s swollen and cut lips a bit further apart so he could slide a finger along Aragorn’s teeth. None seemed loose or broken. He glanced up at Halbarad and was amused to see Halbarad had his own mouth half open as he watched. "Halbarad, I do not need to see your teeth."

Halbarad closed his mouth with a snap. Denlad chuckled and Aragorn even managed a soft breath of a laugh. Denlad asked Aragorn to work his jaw back and forth, and then sat back, satisfied. "Nothing amiss with your teeth or your jaw. You will still be able to flash that winning smile at Arwen when next you see her."

"Would that be sometime soon," Aragorn sighed. Then his eyes started to droop. "Thank you," he whispered. "Both of you."

Halbarad gave his arm a pat. "Think nothing of it. We simply did not want you to get out of your turn at midnight watch. Now, I am going to lay you flat so you can rest while I go take care of fashioning a litter for you, since you are too lazy to walk on your own."

"I can walk," Aragorn protested, but it was weak, and Denlad could not help letting out a disbelieving snort. They settled Aragorn on the ground, and he very quickly fell asleep.

"‘I can walk.’ Listen to you," Halbarad said softly, but his gaze was affectionate as he looked at Aragorn’s face, etched with pain even in slumber. He grabbed the cloak he had thrown aside in his haste to help Aragorn and laid it across him, pausing a moment to lay his hand on the top of Aragorn’s head. "Rest and get yourself well, my brother."

Denlad watched Aragorn’s soft, even breathing and then let out a long ragged sigh of his own. The harrowing chase to find Aragorn, the bloody trail that led them here, finding Aragorn nearly too late... and seeing him so injured... it suddenly seemed to crash down on him. Shamefully close to tears, he bent his head, staring down at his own bandaged hands. He fumbled shakily to take the bandages off. It had been a sloppy job... he needed to redo them properly... clean the wounds... but he could not get the knot untied. He pulled at it, suddenly enraged that he could not do such a simple thing....

Halbarad’s hand grasped his. "Let me see to that for you."

Denlad nodded but dared not look up.

Halbarad knelt beside him and gently unwrapped the bandages and then took the water skin and splashed liberally, pulling out a few shards of stone that were still embedded in his flesh. Denlad couldn’t hold back a hiss. "I’m sorry," Halbarad immediately said, stopping.

"No, it just stings. Go on."

Halbarad gave him an uncertain look, but he bent back to the task, finally finishing by wrapping them neatly with the leftover bits of his own torn shirt. He tied off the last knot and used his teeth to tear off the excess fabric. "There. Can’t have our only conscious healer falling prey to infection of his own wounds."

"I suppose not," Denlad murmured. "Thank you."

"Denlad, look at me."

Denlad did so, reluctantly.

"You did well this day."

He dropped his gaze back to Aragorn. "I should have–"

"No, Denlad. We cannot second guess any of this–neither of us, for I feel the same guilt as you. We both did what we could, and we found Aragorn and he will recover." He took a deep breath, his gaze seeming to travel to bleak inner horizons known only to himself. It happened in a mere blink, but it was enough to make Denlad wonder if Halbarad was trying to convince even himself of the truth of his words. "He will recover. Nothing else matters."

Words would not come, so Denlad simply nodded.

Halbarad let out a little sigh, but he gave the back of Denlad’s neck a gruff squeeze before he stood and brushed bits of grass and dirt from his knees. "I don’t want you leaving Aragorn’s side, so I will be back with the saplings. We’ll get Aragorn settled, then I’ll go collect Ferdinand and all our things and move the entire camp down to the trees. Once we’re done with that, I will go set up a small cairn at the roadside so Eledh can find us."

"I hope he brings horses."

"Surely you told him to?"

"I honestly can’t remember what I told him," Denlad admitted. "I confess I was in a bit of a state at the time."

"No matter. He’s a smart lad. I’m sure he’ll know to bring the horses."

"We didn’t bring horses."

Halbarad stared at him for a beat. "He will bring horses."

Chapter 9 - Safe

"Will this Eledh of yours bring horses?" The voice cut through the smothering mist of Aragorn’s uneasy slumber.

Horses... why would Eledh bring horses...

"He will bring horses, yes," Halbarad’s low voice rumbled. He sounded irked, but then he so often sounded irked that it told Aragorn nothing.

Why were they so concerned about Eledh and whether he would bring horses?

He tried to open his eyes. Did not succeed. One felt swollen shut and the other simply could not be bothered to respond. It mattered not, he supposed, if he could not open his eyes. Halbarad was nearby... he would see to keeping him safe...

Safe.

A vague whisper of alarm edged against his mind. He was safe, surely...

What if he were not?

His hand jerked of its own accord, moving toward the hilt of his sword. His left eye finally deigned to open, taking even longer to focus. And then he saw only a canopy of green leaves over his head. Blue sky beyond. Such a light breeze that only one leaf was stirring, fluttering madly as though it were trying to get all the other leaves to join in and was frustrated that none would.

He could not find his sword. His hand moved restlessly against his side. The hilt should be there, right there... had he dropped it? Had there been a battle?

There must have been. That, or he had been trampled by a herd of oliphaunts. It was a throw of the dice.

A footfall beside him and Denlad’s face blocked Aragorn’s view of the leaves. "Rest easy, Aragorn," he said quietly. He was smiling but his eyes were worried. "You are safe."

That word again. Aragorn blinked his one good eye. He worried a bit about why Denlad felt he needed to tell him he was safe. Have I not been safe? But then he realized he was worried more about the worry in Denlad’s eyes. "What has happened?" he asked, or tried to. What actually came out was a strangled, moaning, "Wha’?" He shut his mouth in embarrassment.

"Shh. Do not try to talk yet." Denlad eased his hand behind Aragorn’s head and lifted it. Aragorn let out another scratchy, garbled cry as pain pounded through his skull. He winced and more pain assaulted him. Valar, what has happened...have wargs been gnawing on my face?

A cool cup pressed against his lips and despite the pain he drank greedily. The cup was pulled away long before he was satisfied. The hand lowered his head back and again all he could see were leaves, that single one still flapping about like a deranged butterfly. He concentrated fiercely, and then very carefully whispered, "What happened?"

"Do you remember the Southron spies?" Denlad asked.

Southrons...

Aragorn groaned as dim bits of memory returned.  Stabbed, beaten, nearly blinded. Maybe he was blind. He swallowed hard. "How bad?"

"Probably not quite as bad as it must feel. You have lost a lot of blood, and are bruised and I would not be surprised if you have a bit of a concussion."

"My eye..."

"It’s swollen shut, but you were seeing out of it, earlier. I think it will recover."

That was something, at any rate. He reached up to touch it, but Denlad caught his hand. "Best not."

"Can’t open it."

"I know. It has become more swollen in the last two hours, but now that we’ve got you settled, I’ve been holding a cold cloth against it. It seems to be holding back the swelling."

"Two hours?"

"Yes. We found you a bit over two hours ago. You spoke then; do you remember?"

Aragorn nodded, his eye drifting shut again because it was simply too much trouble to keep it open. His thoughts increasingly disappeared into foggy corners, hiding just beyond reach. "You... and Halbr’d...."

He heard a footstep, a crunching of ground and gravel, and then a hand touched his. Aragorn knew without looking it was Halbarad. Never far away, his kinsman. He opened his good eye again, with effort, to see Halbarad’s stricken gaze. Aragorn tried to smile reassuringly but that hurt far too much so instead he gave Halbarad’s hand an encouraging squeeze. "Worry not," he whispered, knowing he would do better to tell the wind to stop blowing. Worrying was Halbarad’s favorite way to pass the time.

And indeed, Halbarad’s words confirmed it. "I will stop worrying when you are back on your feet, with two good eyes keen and bright and looking to the far horizons once more."

"Not too... keen right now."

"No, but you will be again, soon enough," Denlad said briskly. Aragorn had the impression Denlad’s words were aimed more at Halbarad than himself. So like those two, one always fussing at the other... there were two hobbits he knew, in Bree, who fussed like that...

He frowned. Hobbits...

Aragorn started. Ferdinand! Had he heard his voice or was it only in his dream? He looked... yes! There was Ferdinand, stamping around getting pots and pans organized. "Ferdinand," he called, or tried to. He frowned when his call was little more than a gasp.

But the little hobbit heard him and scurried over, a bright smile lighting his face. "Strider! Oh, you don’t know how happy I am to see you awake and alive."

"Are you... did he hurt you?"

"No, no. Just a few bumps, nothing more. Nothing like what you’ve gone through, my poor boy. You look in need of a cold compress. Two or three of them, more like. There is nothing like a cold cloth when you’ve banged into something. I crashed my head against a cupboard door once and didn’t it just hurt. Made me see stars, it did. But a cold cloth was just the ticket for it. Absolutely the best thing–"

"And that is just what I want you to do, Ferdinand," Denlad interrupted. He handed him a handful of cloths–Aragorn thought they looked like the remains of Denlad’s brown shirt–and pointed toward a spring bubbling out of the rocks. "Keep these cloths cool and wet and hold them gently, very gently, against Ara– against Strider’s face."

"Oh yes, capital! I will do that straight off. You just rest easy, young Strider. Let us take care of you. No need to worry at–"

"Ferdinand," Denlad interrupted again. He took the hobbit gently by the shoulders and turned him around and gave him the slightest push. "The spring."

Ferdinand took the cloths... and the not so subtle hint... and scuttled over to the spring. Had Aragorn felt better he might have laughed. Denlad seemed well able to manage the irrepressible little Shireling.

Aragorn frowned. He let go of Halbarad’s hand to reach for Denlad’s. Touched the bandage and looked questioningly.

"It’s nothing. I slipped, fell on the rocks. Clumsy of me."

"Your neck..."

"Hmm?" Denlad reached up, as though he had forgotten. "Oh. That is from a battle of our own we had with a few of the Southrons. One of them got me by the throat, but he did not like the results."

Aragorn vaguely remembered Ferdinand’s spotty report. "You... killed him..."

"He’s likely dead by now, yes," Halbarad said. "Denlad stabbed him in the gut."

Aragorn closed his eyes again. "May he... be truly dead.  I grow weary of Southrons."

"I’m sure he’s dead. Wounds like that... yes, he’s bound to be," Halbarad assured him.

Aragorn would have felt better had they known for certain, but surely Halbarad was right. A man rarely came back from such wounds, even under the hand of the most skilled healer.

He drifted a bit, his thoughts murky. His own battle with the Southron seemed something very recent and yet at the same time so far back that he could barely remember it. But as Denlad checked his bandages, he touched Aragorn’s neck and the pain from the bruises put him back there, on that grassy plain, the hands closing on his throat, and darkness falling.... Before he knew what he was doing, he reached up and shoved Denlad’s hand away. "No!"

"I’m sorry!" Denlad cried.

Aragorn came to himself again, his breathing heavy and painful. "No... no, I’m sorry... I thought..."

"Shh," Denlad said. He laid a calming hand on Aragorn’s forehead. "I should have told you I needed to check the bruises on your throat."

"I just... it brought it back." He tried to reach for his throat, to reassure himself, but Denlad gently restrained him.

"Best leave it be."

Aragorn nodded. He felt Denlad brush his hair away from his neck. "I’m just looking. I won’t touch you, I promise."

"You can... now that.. I know."

And he did, feather light, for just a moment. Gentle as he was, Denlad’s touch brought the fell memories back... the rough fingers on his throat, closing down until life itself seemed forfeit beyond all hope. But then Aragorn's breath caught as he remembered what else happened.  He looked wonderingly at Denlad. "You shouted..."

Denlad blushed. "Aye. I was too far away to help, and I fear my frustration got the better of me."

"No... your shout..." He stopped, swallowed, then reached up and grabbed Denlad’s arm. It pulled at the wound in his side, hurting him, but he had to do it. "Your shout saved me."

Denlad glanced quickly at Halbarad, then back to Aragorn.

"He was choking me... but he heard you... looked up." Aragorn paused again. He was lightheaded, not getting enough air, but he needed Denlad to know. "You distracted him. I... was able to grab his dagger..."

Tears glimmered in Denlad’s eyes. He seemed unable to speak.

Aragorn wanted to say more, but his strength failed him, and his arm fell back to his side. His thoughts again threatened to fade into shadow.

He heard Denlad clear his throat, then his voice came softly but with a bit of urgency. "Aragorn, before you drift off, can you tell me if you hurt anywhere other than your arm, your ribs and your face?" Denlad asked.

It seemed to take every last remnant of his strength, but he smiled as he murmured, "Is that not enough?"

"More than enough," Denlad answered, amused. "But I don’t want to miss any other wounds."

"Those are... are... only ones," Aragorn whispered. He was starting to feel beyond terrible.

Denlad laid the back of his hand on Aragorn’s forehead. "You grow a bit warm."

Aragorn wanted to assure Denlad that fever was not setting in, but he knew the lie for what it was. Sunlight was fast growing too bright. He shut his eye against the stabbing rays. Denlad said something to him but his words seemed to splinter into meaningless babble. Thought again drifted, not toward restful slumber but toward that bedimmed realm that is neither sleeping nor waking. Sounds too loud and too sharp lanced like steel shards through his skull. His own cry of protest shredded to nothing more than a feeble whimper against the cacophonic blades.

"Aragorn?"

Denlad’s voice cut too deeply. Aragon needed to cover his ears, block out the sounds and the fear and the capturing dreams that even now clutched at his consciousness... dreams he remembered from last time... a black river... hopelessness...

"He burns with fever." That was Halbarad. "Have you the willow bark?"

"Aye, and a very small bit of poppy. His head might be injured, but I think it worth the risk, to give him some respite from the pain. The fever I am not too worried about– his wound shows no sign of infection, so I think it is merely the overall hurt that’s been done to him that’s causing him fever. The pain is a bigger worry to me, for I have seen pain so tear at a body that a man cannot keep fighting. But the good news is that the medicine that helps fever also helps pain. Give it to him just a sip at a time."

Movement. A hand on the back of his head. A cup to his bruised lips. Halbarad’s gentle voice telling him to drink. Water caustic with the taste of willow bark sloshed into his mouth. If there was poppy in it, he could not tell.

He swallowed.

"A bit more now, just a bit. I know it tastes like something brewed by Sauron himself, but you must drink it. There you go."

He grimaced but swallowed more of the bitter stuff and Halbarad’s hand lowered his head back to the ground.

A cold dampness suddenly touched his bruised eye and he flinched.

"Oh dear, I am sorry. I should have warned you."

"Fer’nand." His own voice. Faded like cloth left too long in the sun.

"Shhh. Don’t speak, Mr. Strider. I am afraid for the moment your wounds have gotten the better of you, but we will take care of you. Yes, my dear boy, your two strapping friends and I will take good care of you. Shhh."

The coolness and the voices and a hand touching his calmed him, soothed him. Maybe the dreams would not be evil... would not... trap him...

He sighed and let go of the waking world.

Chapter Ten - There Would Be No Larksong

Halbarad dropped his head as he took a long, shuddering breath. For a moment he knelt, unmoving, then he raised his head. He looked at Denlad, and Denlad had never seen his eyes so bereft of hope, not in the days leading up to this, nor even in those cruel days along the Hoarwell. "Do the Valar hear our prayers?"

Halbarad’s quiet, tortured question shook Denlad. This from Halbarad, the man who, aside from Aragorn, Denlad held to be the most optimistic warrior among them. The one who unfailingly chided Denlad for his pessimism, the man who so often lifted the spirits of all of them, Aragorn included. How had Halbarad’s own hope drained so utterly away? Denlad scrambled to find words. "They must, else Strider would not be with us." It felt a paltry encouragement, but Denlad believed with all his heart that it was the truth.

The barren desolation in Halbarad’s eyes eased only slightly. "Strider tells me that Ilúvatar loves us... but sometimes..." He shook his head, hard. He squeezed the tin cup he still held so hard his knuckles turned white. "I hate this."

"Halbarad, fear not," Denlad said, reaching out to grasp Halbarad’s arm in the way that Halbarad had done so many times for him; indeed, as Halbarad had done only a few hours ago. "He is in much pain, and has a fever, but it is not like last time. It is not. Oft times as the bruising sets in, a man seems to worsen, but it is truly as you said yourself: he is strong. This fever likely will not worsen, for as I said, there is no sign of infection in his wounds. He will recover."

Halbarad nodded. He dropped the cup to the ground and ran a shaking hand over his face and sat with it covering his mouth as he stared at Aragorn. After a moment, he leaned down and as before, rested his hand on Aragorn’s head. "Be strong, my friend," he whispered hoarsely, then laid a kiss on Aragorn’s brow. He tucked the cloak closer under Aragorn’s chin, smoothing it out carefully, and then, without looking at Denlad, he stood and walked away beyond the spring into the brush. He vanished into the trees as thoroughly as if he had suddenly found the gift of invisibility.

Denlad picked up the cup, running his fingers idly over the rim, brushing a bit of dirt from its side. If the Valar were listening, which surely they must else the Faithful were nothing but fools, he sent them a prayer not only for Aragorn but also for Halbarad. Valar, let Halbarad... let me... hear from you, somehow...

He listened to the wind sigh among the treetops, but felt nothing. He stared into the empty cup, then let it drop as Halbarad had. Maybe they were all fools.

Ferdinand, seated at Aragorn’s head holding the compress, interrupted his dark musings. "Is there anything I might do for Mr. Halbarad, do you think?"

Denlad shook his head. "He will be all right. He just...." He stopped. There was no way to untangle his thoughts into anything a small hobbit, one of a race untroubled by any of the sorrows and fears of the greater world outside the Shire, could comprehend. These innocents knew only their own world of farming and family and safety. He would not shatter that illusion while it yet held–tragedy enough that this one had seen firsthand the horrors of this one small skirmish against evil. So he finally shrugged and dredged up what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "He will be all right, with time."

Ferdinand lifted the compress, felt of it and then replaced it with another one that was cooler. Aragorn did not stir but he moaned quietly, a small troubled sound of pain and uncertainty. He muttered something, but Denlad could not make it out. He leaned forward, listening. "Strider?"

"Men... can’t let it get to... men..."

Denlad’s heart sank. In his fevered dreams, Aragorn was back there... at that cursed place along the river. Would he never be free from that nightmare? "Shhh, Strider. It is not here. It was vanquished, remember? We are all safe."

"... the child... save her... have to..."

"Hush, Strider. That is all in the past. You are safe. We are all safe and well." He continued his soft crooning, occasionally even stroking Aragorn’s hair, until finally Aragorn sighed and seemed to sag into a deeper sleep, although sorrow lingered in the lines of his face. Denlad laid his hand against Aragorn’s forehead and sat for a long moment that way, hoping perhaps in some way his own strength might be imparted to Aragorn, but knowing also that he did not have that gift, however desperately he wished for it. He finally sat back, his back creaking a bit from the strain. Aragorn again mumbled something, but Denlad could not make it out.

After a moment, Ferdinand said timidly, "You said to Mr. Halbarad that this was not like last time. And Strider’s words just now, and what you said to him... may I ask...?"

Denlad did not answer right away. Answering the question might reveal too much, might afford too large a glimpse into everything Denlad hoped to keep from Ferdinand’s knowledge. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet but firm. "It was something that happened in the past, and there it must remain."

"I have heard rumors... a town destroyed... women and children killed..."

Denlad cast a dark look toward the hobbit but Ferdinand merely leaned forward, his eyes bright with a probing inquisitiveness that Denlad, with the sinking feeling of defeat, knew would be impossible to parry. "I know that you Rangers guard our lands, and Strider said as much. He and I spoke of evil times coming, of darkness covering the lands, and of war. And I hear things in Bree, hints of spies and far more fearsome things that roam these vacant lands to the east. I would know what it is happening to our world."

"Ferdinand, it is best for you that such things remain only rumor."

"But they are real, not rumor. A man like Strider does not have nightmares over vague stories, nor were his wounds inflicted by hearsay." Surprisingly, anger lit a spark in his blue eyes. "If a man as good as I believe Strider is nearly died protecting our lands, is it not something that the Shire folk should know?"

Denlad looked at Aragorn, wishing he would waken and take over the conversation. So much for the innocence of hobbits, at least with this one. Ferdinand knew much already, so there would be no shattering of illusion if Denlad spoke. Still, secrecy was the rule by which the Dúnedain lived, and revealing that the Nazgûl had entered these lands might open a door that best remained barred. "The work we do must remain in the shadows."

"I cannot believe that. Surely we could work together... there is evil out there. Most of my folk deny it, but I know. I have heard the rumors, seen the eyes of men like you as they sit quietly in the corners of the Prancing Pony, thinking no one pays the least bit of attention to them, or worse yet thinks them scoundrels who are there only to espy who they might waylay in the night. But I see something else... something in their eyes. Sorrow, of a kind, like they have seen too much evil. But yet... yet... there is also a light... a hope that makes me feel like the worst evil in the world could crash down on my head and as long as I stayed near one of those Big Folk, somehow I would still survive. I see it in your eyes, Mr. Denlad, and in Mr. Halbarad’s, and never more keenly than in your friend Strider’s eyes. I have never seen the like of it, and it warms my very soul." To Denlad’s astonishment, the little hobbit’s eyes flooded with tears. "I want to know why you good men allow yourselves to be denigrated and despised, why you stand so proud and so alone."

It took some effort to find his voice. "Ferdinand, you are like no hobbit I have ever encountered."

"Of course not, young man. I am a Took, after all."

Denlad laughed softly, not really knowing what Ferdinand meant by that, but liking the proud jut to Ferdinand’s chin. "All right. I will tell you some of the things that I know. But I cannot tell you all, nor can you then go around the Shire raising all kinds of fear and panic, for though times are dark, they are not so dark that the Shirelings need to lock themselves inside their holes in terror. This world needs the Shire peaceful and intact and free from worry, if nothing else just so we wandering folk can look toward it and let its peace settle our own troubled hearts and remind us why we fight."

"Fair enough. My lips will be sealed. I’ll not even speak of it to my cousin Bilbo."

"Bilbo Baggins is your cousin?" That explained much.

"Aye. He is a Took, like me, on his mother’s side. Now, can you get on with the story? There is precious little that can deter a hobbit from discussing family relations, and tempted though I am to tell you all about the lines of family that bind Bilbo and me, I do think your tale will make the examination of cousins and uncles and forebears rather tedious."

"What a delight you are, Master Ferdinand," Denlad smiled. "I will most definitely proceed, then."

Ferdinand settled back, striking such a childlike, listening pose that Denlad had to chuckle again, but he soon sobered. This was no child’s storybook tale he was about to recount.

"Have you ever heard of the Nazgûl? Ringwraiths?"

"No, I can’t say that I have."

Denlad hesitated at this, wondering how to tell him of what happened along the Hoarwell. Despite his claims, how much did Ferdinand truly understand about the world and the evils beyond the Shire? Denlad realized he himself did not know much about hobbits and their ways, despite his years of guarding the edges of their land. Were they all educated in the history of Middle-earth? Did Ferdinand know of Sauron, of Morgoth and the evil that stained Arda from the beginning? Denlad needed to find a way to explain things without launching into a full-scale history lecture, a task he felt well beyond his abilities. Again, he wished in vain for Aragorn to wake up and take charge. Little chance of that, however, so nothing to do for it but forge ahead and keep things as simple as he could and hope for no probing questions he could not answer. "Very well then, I will go back a bit further. Mind you keep that compress on Strider’s eye."

Ferdinand hurriedly replaced the compress, then looked up expectantly. "Well?"

"Have you heard of Sauron?"

Ferdinand nodded. "He is some sort of Dark Lord, although I have to say I’m a bit vague on just what he is, other than the vile sort that wants to put the entire world under his thumb. And I do know that I have heard whispers among the men at Bree that his power is growing, has been for some years now. Strider and I talked a bit about it, in fact."

"All right." Denlad took a deep breath, readying for the plunge. "I can tell you this much: Sauron crafted a ring, a Ring of Power. Why he did so is not so important at this moment as the simple fact that he did it."

"Is it evil, then? This Ring?"

"Very much so. But the Ring has been lost to the ages, probably washed out to sea if... well, if those who study such things are correct. But there are... creatures." He paused, lost in fell memory. He swallowed hard. His throat seemed suddenly filled with dry sand. Aragorn groaned quietly, as if even lost to the waking world he could yet feel the very press of evil from Denlad’s mere mentioning of it. Denlad leaned forward again and touched Aragorn’s cheek reassuringly. Aragorn quieted, and he went on. "Men, I suppose they were at one time but now they dwell neither in Middle-earth nor in the circles beyond, but somehow in the emptiness between. They are neither dead nor living, and how that is, I do not understand. But though it is lost, still they seek after this Ring."

Ferdinand’s eyes were round. "Do they think your Strider has it?"

"No," Denlad said, but he heard the uncertainty in his own voice. "That is, we doubt it very much. There would be no reason for anyone to suspect Strider has it, for it is well known that the Ring is lost. But the Wraiths also spy out the land for Sauron. They are his servants, doing as he bids. Long years ago, one dwelt in the mountains near Angmar, and it was terrible what he did to the land and the people–our people. But he was finally vanquished and no wraith had come into these parts since. But almost two years ago, in the fall of the year, we encountered one, in the hills by the Hoarwell River. Do you know where that is?"

"To the east somewhere. Rivendell lies beyond it, that much I know, and some of my ancestors came to this place by way of those river valleys. But I have never seen it."

Denlad nodded. "We still to this day are not sure why there was a Nazgûl roaming those lands, other than it was likely he was searching for enemies of the Dark Lord." Most likely searching for the Heir of Isildur, although he could not say that to Ferdinand. That Aragorn was chieftain was known here and there, but his royal bloodline was their most heavily guarded secret. Few outside the Dúnedain knew of the connection between Aragorn and Isildur, of the blood of kings that still ran strong in the Chieftain, and thus it must remain for Aragorn’s safety’s sake.

"So what happened when you found this Nazgûl creature?"

"It is a long story that I cannot tell fully at this time, but during the first encounter, Ara– Strider fought him while the rest of our patrol battled the orcs that traveled with him. Strider and the wraith contended sword against sword until Strider could no longer stand. But by then, Halbarad was able to free himself from the orcs and, using fire, drove off the Wraith. There is more to the tale, as I said, but for now suffice to say that Strider was many long months recovering from the ordeal."

"So he was stabbed, then?"

"No, fortunately. He was not stabbed," Denlad said, deciding to forego explaining what happens when a man is stabbed with a Morgul blade. His stomach still hollowed at the very thought that Aragorn might have suffered the fate of becoming a wraith himself. "He was not stabbed, thank the Valar, but the Wraiths put out a sort of poison through the air. Some call it a miasma. The Black Breath. It puts terror and despair in your heart, nightmares in your mind that linger into your waking thoughts. Too long exposure will kill you, unless you find succor at the hands of those who have the healer’s touch with the plant athelas."

"Athelas! Strider has some in his pack!"

Again Denlad paused, uneasy. Surely Ferdinand’s busy mind had not made any sort of connection between Aragorn and his skill with athelas, a skill that marked him as one in the line of kings. He chose his words carefully. "Athelas can be used for several things–in fact, we should infuse some in boiling water, to lave Aragorn’s wounds. I should have thought of that sooner."

"Ah, so it does indeed have lots of uses, athelas does! Brilliant! You know, I think, when Strider first woke up, he tried to tell me the uses for it, but oh, he was so sick... he never did end up saying anything, and more’s the pity for I might have been able to bathe his wounds right then and he might not have been so weak when the Southron showed up."

Denlad gave Ferdinand a sympathetic look. "It must have been awful for you."

"It was no picnic alongside the Bywater Pool, certainly. But all’s well that ends well, or should be, provided Strider here recovers."

"I think there’s little worry there. He’s strong." Denlad watched Aragorn’s even breathing and felt a deep sense of thankfulness, not least because he had successfully warded off more discussion of the Black Breath. He fell silent, hoping that Ferdinand would forget where the conversation had been leading.

He should have known better.

"So, getting back to your tale and the Black Breath and athelas and all that," Ferdinand said. "Did Strider teach you healing?"

"Yes. All I know of the healing arts, I learned from him."

"The Black Breath... can you heal that?"

Feeling he was sinking into quicksand no matter how he tried to steer the conversation, Denlad shook his head. "No, I cannot."

"But Strider can?"

"Strider has some skill with athelas, yes."

"So he healed himself of this miasma poisoning?"

"No, he did not," Denlad said, relieved that now surely he would be able to honestly divert the hobbit from any further speculation about Aragorn and athelas. "He had to go to Rivendell, to the house of Elrond, who is the greatest healer in Middle-earth and skilled in healing the Black Breath. Even so, Master Elrond was barely able to save Strider’s life. Those were evil days, for it was uncertain whether Strider would live or die. But the strength of his–" Again he stopped and reconsidered his words. "The skills of Master Elrond and Strider’s own strength saw him through."

"Ah. So that is why you say that this time is not like last time. This is bit more... ordinary, I guess you might say? Run of the mill, without a lot of the dire otherworldly mystical bits, I take it."

Denlad nodded. "As you say. This is nothing more than bandits and bad luck. Severe enough in its own way, but Ara–" Would he never quit his blundering? Ferdinand had him so rattled he could barely keep a thought straight. Valar help me if I ever am captured by the Enemy, if I have so much trouble fending off interrogation by an innocent hobbit... "Strider will recover, as long as the fever does not worsen."

"Thrice now you have started to call Strider by another name. Now, I am no expert at Elvish; I only know a smattering, learned from my cousin Bilbo. But I do know that ‘Ara’ refers to some sort of royalty. A king or some such thing."

Denlad schooled his face to reveal nothing. Disastrous enough that in his clumsiness he had revealed what he had. He wondered if to stop his own tongue he should simply feign some sort of fit and keel over...

"And I must say, your Strider has a noble countenance, more so than any of the Big Folk I have ever seen, although I confess I have not seen many Big Folk outside the ones that live in Bree."

Abandoning the idea of fainting, notwithstanding its attractions in escaping difficult conversations, Denlad busied himself with gathering up the soiled bandages from the last dressing change. He tossed them in the fire with a silent curse against his wayward tongue and a prayer that Ferdinand would cease his bloody musings. That hobbit is too clever by halves.

No such luck favored him, though, for Ferdinand continued. "I think perhaps that ‘Strider’ is not all he appears to be. Nor that ‘Strider’ is even his real name."

Enough of this. Time to put an end to this conversation once and for all. "Strider is not his real name, no," he said flatly. "But any more than that you will have to learn from him directly. I will say this much: he is more dear to Halbarad and me than any other man in Middle-earth."

"Are you brothers?"

"No. Halbarad is his kinsman–a cousin. I am... well, I am merely one of his men, and blessed beyond measure to be considered even among the lowest members of that great company."

"Yet you are not so lowly, I think. Strider spoke well of you."

Denlad felt his face grow warm. "Strider holds even the poorest of his men in high esteem."

"From what I have seen of you, his esteem is well earned. You seem both a valiant warrior and a compassionate healer."

Denlad could think of no possible reply to that, so he steered the conversation back to safer shores. "Whatever regard Strider has for me pales to what I hold for him. To continue to serve him is all I wish for, save that we were indeed brothers in flesh."

"You love him."

"I would die for him, yes."

z88;

--o0o0o--

Denlad moved a branch aside. Drained as he was from the conversation with Ferdinand, he needed to find Halbarad, not only to simply to ensure Halbarad was all right but also to enlist his aid against Ferdinand’s insatiable curiousity.

He pushed past a bush and found Halbarad at last, sitting with his gaze fixed on the plain stretching toward the Road, his back against a large oak tree. He didn’t seem to realize Denlad was approaching. Or more likely chose to ignore the fact. Denlad had not bothered to hide the sounds of his approach.

"Will you hide here all day, then?"

Halbarad grimaced but said nothing, nor did he break his concentration on the horizon.

Denlad crawled under the low-hanging branches of the oak tree, pushing past a small bush to sit beside Halbarad. He grunted as he settled himself into a comfortable position and then let out a long sigh. He was tired, no two ways about it. Too tired for trying to inject some cheer into Halbarad, but needs must, so giving into his own fatigue would have to wait. Still, for a moment he merely sat beside Halbarad, eyes shut, breathing in the loamy dampness of the forest, waiting for words that evidently were not going to come. He looked once toward the heavens and then took the bull by the horns. "You told me not to assign blame."

"It is not blame."

"Then what is it that has you brooding beneath the shrubbery?"

A long silence. "Fear."

Denlad nodded. He felt it too, every time Aragorn came into peril.

"What if..."

"What if Aragorn should fall?" Denlad finished for him when Halbarad’s voice failed him.

Halbarad nodded.

Denlad thought for a moment, studying the sky and the hills and even the leaves above their heads. A lark sang his song to the world, and a dragonfly landed on a leaf not far from Denlad’s head. The wild beauty of the land smote his heart. If Aragorn fell... the Second Darkness would consume all this. There would be no larksong, no sun shining bright on ripening grasses. And there would be no glad laughter of children, no smiles from mothers, no more secret sighs in the night as husband and wife held each other in tangled passion. He pictured his own wife, and the stepson he loved as his own, and the baby just starting to gabble ada and nana, and the thought of losing them was like a dagger through his soul.

But he did not think such musings would provide the answer Halbarad sought. "You gave me another bit of advice, not a day ago. You told me to try not to let fear take my heart."

"I seem full of fine advice for others that I cannot follow myself."

"We all have our dark moments."

Another long silence, then Halbarad spoke again, so softly Denlad had to lean close to hear. "I keep having a dream, a nightmare really. There is a bridge... one of those frail constructs of rope and rotten wood held together by hope and not much else. Below it is a chasm, a seam in the earth through which darkness beyond imagining escapes the hold of the deep. And with that darkness comes a cold wind, alive with evil. My heart fails, but we have to cross the bridge; there is no other road. So we try. We run and we run but the ropes are unraveling faster than we can move our feet and the bridge disintegrates.... I have had this dream many times. I never reach safety."

"The bridge will hold."

Halbarad took a shaky breath. "Aye. It will. It must."

"Come back to camp now? I could use your help."

Halbarad answered by getting to his feet. He held a hand down. Denlad grasped it and let Halbarad haul him upright. "Thank you," Halbarad said.

"I did not do anything."

"You came. And you listened. That is your gift." He eased through the branches and disappeared.

Bemused, Denlad stared at the spot where Halbarad vanished for a moment, then picked his own way through the trees and back to camp.

Behind him, the lark again cast his song into the sky.

Chapter 11 - Of Mushroom Stew and Wise Counsel

It was the goodnight song of a lark that pulled Aragorn back from the amorphous nowhere he had been struggling to escape. That and Halbarad’s soft voice whispering to Denlad that he really didn’t much care for Ferdinand’s mushroom stew.

Aragorn laughed.

"Look who’s awake!" Denlad cried.

Aragorn pried open his eyes, happy that they both complied, and squinted into the fire-lit shadows. Denlad grinned at him from a seat near the fire, and next to him sat Halbarad, his own face wreathed in smiles. On the other side of the fire, Ferdinand stood poking at what must be the mushroom stew. With his own glad cry, he raised his spoon in a salute. Aragorn suffered an unexpected pang as he realized how much, after this adventure ran its course, he would miss waking to find Ferdinand beside him, cooking something.

Halbarad stood with a grunt and came over to kneel beside him, Denlad right behind him and Ferdinand stretching his neck to see around Denlad, and Aragorn’s mood quickly deteriorated from fond affection to annoyance. Must they stare at him like some farmer’s prize melon being judged at a fair? But before he had chance to vent his ire, Halbarad asked, "How do you feel?"

Tired, sore, aching, irritated and vexed, but that was far too much bother to say. He simplified it to one hoarsely croaked word. "Thirsty."

Denlad hurried to fetch a cup and Halbarad lifted Aragorn’s head so gently that all of Aragorn’s irritation melted. As Halbarad held the cup for him, he drank long and quickly, afraid Halbarad would pull it away, but Halbarad let him drink until the cup was empty. "Thank you. " He squinted at the dark sky. The faintest rose still colored the lower western horizon, but overhead the first of the night’s stars glinted. He felt he should know the hour but he could not think of the season of the year, or the month, nor even the week. "What time is it?"

"The sun set about an hour ago," Halbarad supplied. "Or do you really mean what day is it?"

"How long have I slept?"

"It’s been about a day and a half."

He thought a moment. "‘tis summer." It came out almost a question. He felt completely out of his reckoning.

"Late June, to be exact." Halbarad’s voice was calm, but his eyes were dark with worry. Understandable, Aragorn thought. It wasn’t like him to lose track of the hour, let alone an entire season of the year. Halbarad felt Aragorn’s brow.

"Fever?"

"It seems better," Halbarad said, but his voice was uncertain.

As well as it ought after sleeping for a day and a half. But Aragorn still felt a bit off kilter, somehow. Hot but shivery, brain too muddled to sort out night from day. He had felt it before, too many times. It never grew easier, recovering from wounds.

Valar, how he hated fever.

"Do you think you can eat something?" Denlad asked. He gestured and Ferdinand scurried off and returned with a bowl.

"Is that mushroom stew?" Aragorn wasn’t sure he was up to something so rich, much as he enjoyed mushrooms.

"Just the broth," Ferdinand said. "I don’t think you best try anything solid yet."

"Help me sit up." It was difficult, but with Halbarad’s help he soon was leaning back against a log, alarmingly lightheaded, but sitting up. His side ached but it was tolerable, if one did not mind a warg gnawing on one’s ribs. And arm. And face. He resolutely forced his mind away from his injuries.

He was not very successful.

"Can you hold the bowl?" Halbarad asked.

Aragorn tried, but he couldn’t seem to keep a grasp on it.

"Don’t scowl so; you lost a bucketload of blood and even the mighty Strider can’t do with only half his blood in him. Besides, it’s not like I’ve never had to spoon feed you," Halbarad added as he deftly gave Aragorn a spoonful of broth.

"It doesn’t mean I have to like it," Aragorn mumbled after he swallowed. The broth tasted good but after only a few spoonfuls he felt his stomach do a slow roll. He shut his eyes and clamped his mouth shut.

"Feeling sick?" Denlad asked.

Aragorn nodded. Perhaps sitting up had not been the best idea. He tried breathing deeply through his nose but that didn’t seem to help. He groaned and tried to lean to the side. Halbarad quickly handed the bowl to Denlad and grabbed Aragorn just as everything he had swallowed came back up.

"I suppose I should not have let you drink that water so fast, nor let you eat so soon after," Halbarad said sheepishly as Aragorn sagged back in his arms.

"Not your fault," he gasped. His head buzzed as though a swarm of bees had set up a hive between his ears. "Should have... gone more slowly."

"You’re white as snow–too much blood lost for sitting up yet." Halbarad eased him to the ground again and tucked a blanket around him. "You’re right; we’ll take things a bit slower."

Aragorn saw no reason to argue with that. At the moment, all he wanted out of life was to lose himself in blessed sleep until everything healed and ceased paining him.

A moment later, to his surprise, the fresh aroma of athelas wafted on the air. Denlad knelt beside him, holding a cloth. "I’m going to lave your side with the athelas," he said. "That should help you feel a bit better. I hope you don’t mind that I pulled it out of your pack. I didn’t have any in mine."

"I don’t mind, no," Aragorn murmured, shutting his eyes. Athelas was good for soothing aches, and Valar knew, he had plenty of those. He felt Denlad peel back the blankets and lift his shirt. The water was warm and soothing, and the fragrance settled the buzzing in his head. He sighed very softly. Athelas or no, his cracked ribs still did not allow for deep breaths.

"Better?" Denlad asked.

Aragorn nodded.

"How’s your stomach? Better?"

It wasn’t, entirely, and ginger tea sounded good, but he still was unsure when he would be able to afford more, so he needed to marshal what was left of his supply, to save what was left for others who may need it more. "I am better," he simply said, skirting any real answer.

For a few moments, they sat quietly, enjoying the refreshing that the athelas brought. But eventually other matters crowded his mind, chief of which was that he was keeping his men pinned down tending him when they should be out patrolling. He looked at Halbarad and then Denlad. "You needn’t stay here with me. Get back to your patrols–"

"Hush," Denlad immediately said. "You need us, you and Ferdinand both. The patrols can handle themselves for a few days yet. And the camp in Chetwood will get by without us as well."

"Unless Gaerbond lets Galadh do the cooking," Halbarad said.

Denlad’s eyes widened. "Surely he wouldn’t–"

"He must, for who else could do it with you here? As bad as Galadh is, at least he knows the difference between salt and sugar, which is more than I can say for Gaerbond after that last attempt of his."

Aragorn laughed, then bit back a groan. "Pray do not make me laugh."

Halbarad snorted. "Easy for you to laugh; you and your confounded luck–you were off with Gandalf chasing after who knows what and missed that disaster Gaerbond tried to pass off as cake. Whoever heard of mistaking the salt for sugar!"

"That is one meal I am glad I missed." Aragorn shifted, trying to find a comfortable position, but he stopped as pain suddenly grabbed the muscles in his side. He waved off Denlad’s silent offer of more athelas and struggled to pull his shirt back in place. "So where was that luck when that bandit came to call?"

"It was a spy, I guess, and no bandit, although we never really eked any sort of straight answer out of the one we caught," Halbarad said, gently slapping away Aragorn’s hand as he pulled Aragorn’s shirt smooth, "and you must admit, your luck did hold you in good stead. You might easily have died, and there’s no arguing that. Now best you get some more sleep," Halbarad added with finality. He checked Aragorn’s blanket one more time, and with that, the three of them, evidently satisfied that Aragorn would not expire if they left his side, drifted back to their seats by the fire.

As he lay quietly in the dark, Aragorn’s stomach slowly settled down. But his neck started to ache. He had a thought to put his arms up to cradle his head but he couldn’t raise his left arm without it pulling his side, and he couldn’t lay his head on his right arm without paining the laceration there. He bent his legs and that helped, but what he really needed was a pillow. A nice fat feather pillow like the ones on his bed in Rivendell. He tried to stifle the longing. Rangers can survive perfectly well without any cosseting. Hadn’t he after all slept more nights on hard ground than in soft beds? He scowled at the stars and tried not to think about pillows. Or feather beds. Or soft linen sheets cool against his skin.

He shifted again to no noticeable improvement.

Halbarad tapped his shoulder. Aragorn jumped a bit. He had been so lost in his misery he hadn’t heard Halbarad approach. "Lift up," Halbarad said. He slid a rolled up cloak under Aragorn’s head.

All thoughts of feather pillows vanished. The cloak was as fine a bedding as any king could ask for. Certainly fine enough for this king, he thought with a wry smile. "How did you know–"

Halbarad just smiled and then walked back to the fire and spooned himself some more mushroom stew. He brought it back and sat down beside Aragorn. He leaned in and whispered, "Hobbits and their bloody love of mushrooms! I can hardly swallow the stuff, but it’s food." Then more loudly, "Tell me if you want some. Or if the smell of it sets your stomach off and you wish that I should move."

"It smells fine. What I truly wish is that I dared try some."

"How about one bite?"

He held out the spoon and Aragorn dutifully chewed then swallowed. "Good," he said.

"More?"

"In a bit, perhaps." He took a moment to study Halbarad’s face. "You have not told me of your own journey here."

Halbarad told him, his words so spare and clipped that Aragorn barely felt he’d been told anything. He frowned. "What have you left out?"

Halbarad shrugged. "It is as I said. We trailed you; we fought off those spies; we found you. I only wish we had been faster. But there is nothing more to tell."

"Halbarad."

Halbarad set the bowl down. He plucked a small stick up and stared at it as he started breaking it into smaller and smaller pieces. He finally threw the last bit into the fire and sighed. "What should I say? Must I tell you of the worry and rampaging panic that is my lot every time you get yourself in a fix? The guilt I feel when I seem ever to arrive too late, after you’ve already been cut to ribbons or battered senseless or in this case, both? There. I’ve said it. Now you know the whole of it."

"Oh," Aragorn said. He thought for a moment of all the wise and compassionate words he could say, and rejected them all. "So it is nothing more than the usual panic and guilt that trouble you. Here my heart was worried it might be something far more dire."

Halbarad’s eyes darkened for a moment, but at Aragorn’s slow smile, he started to chuckle, then threw back his head and laughed.

"What of Denlad?" Aragorn said more quietly, after Halbarad’s mirth died. "How did he do?"

"Better than I did, frankly. He is a steady one, Denlad is, even when I see that same fear rising in his eyes that I feel in my heart. He had a few dark moments I had to chide him a bit over, but to be honest, most times, especially here in the last few days, it was his good counsel that kept my spirits from failing."

"I am sorry, you know. I never intend for these sorts of things to happen."

"And here I thought you regularly get yourself maimed simply to torment me."

"That is part of the appeal, yes. Every dark cloud must have its bit of mithril lining, after all."

"You will make a truly detestable king."

Aragorn grinned. "Thank you. May I have some more of that stew?" Halbarad obliged, helping adjust the rolled-up cloak so Aragorn was a bit more upright. Aragorn slowly chewed. The stew tasted good, and it seemed his stomach was finally inclined to agree.

"I wonder who their master was," Halbarad mused, giving Aragorn another spoonful.

Aragorn had a very clear idea of who it might be, but he dared not say. Gandalf had sworn him to secrecy, and while Aragorn hated having to keep anything from his faithful captain, he could hardly go against the wishes of a Maiar. Halbarad and the men knew nothing of what they likely guarded: the One Ring, tucked away among the mathoms of a hobbit hole on Bagshot Row, Bag End. "Treasure hunters on behalf of some potentate, most likely. Coming to snatch all that rumored dragon treasure from Bilbo Baggins."

"We cannot rule out Sauron, you know. Not after what happened along the Hoarwell."

"No." And please do not pursue that line of thought any further...

"It had to be the Dark Lord. It makes no sense for anyone else to have sent such men." He lowered his voice to a bare whisper. "I worry that he’s looking for you, that somehow he found out the Heir lives."

Aragorn stifled a sigh. Of course Halbarad would keep after the idea like a terrier after a rat. That was Halbarad’s best trait, after all: dogged determination. Time for a bit of misdirection. Aragorn hated it, but until he spoke with Gandalf about it, and speak to him he would at first opportunity before this subterfuge drove him mad, he could not reveal anything. "I have seen many agents of the Dark Lord in my travels. These four lacked a subtlety one would expect from Sauron’s minions."

"Perhaps they were hired by some intermediary who was less careful about the quality of his underlings."

"Is someone counting pennies, perhaps? Mercenaries cheaply bought are generally less than useless. Not that I’ve ever hired any, mind you."

"Cheaply bought, but these were far from useless. Two of them bested you, or nearly. They had to have some skill, after all, to nearly kill the best hunter and warrior in Middle-earth."

Aragorn grimaced. "Skill had less to do with it than dumb luck. My foot fell into a gopher hole just as I tried to lunge. His dagger found my side as I was falling."

"But still, you killed him. And you managed to kill the second one even as your life’s blood was pouring out of you. Dumb luck there, too? Perhaps, but I think it skill and nothing you say will convince me otherwise."

"Mmm."

"Well, whoever sent those miscreants, it’s merely idle speculation between two rather beaten up Rangers now. There’s nothing we can do to solve the problem this night, so unless you want more stew, I suggest you try to get some sleep."

"I have had enough, thank you. But what of you? How much sleep have you gotten these last few days?"

Halbarad yawned hugely. "Not enough. In fact, I am going to send Denlad off on first watch and stretch these weary bones out beside you. Can’t have creatures creeping in from the dark to gnaw on you while you’re indisposed, after all."

Again Aragorn’s conscience smote him. Would that he could share everything, to tell Halbarad his fears and gain his cousin’s wise counsel. But no, not yet. Not yet. "You’re a good man, Halbarad."

"I know," Halbarad tossed him a saucy grin.

"And one who has never been overly troubled by the burden of humility."

The grin only widened.

Chapter 12 - ‘Ware A Hobbit Throwing Stones

Dawn was still an hour away, although the eastern horizon held the first hints of sunrise. Denlad smiled as he looked at the three sleeping men... or rather two sleeping men and one softly snoring hobbit. Aragorn was sandwiched between Halbarad and Ferdinand. Halbarad had his hand on Aragorn’s left arm, and Ferdinand was curled in a ball with his back against Aragorn’s right arm. Valar help Aragorn if he wanted to roll over, but there was no doubt he was very safely guarded on all sides.

Denlad carefully stepped around all three to kneel by Halbarad’s side. He touched Halbarad’s shoulder lightly. When Halbarad’s eyes immediately opened, Denlad jerked his head toward the fire. Halbarad sat up, blinking and yawning, then climbed to his feet. He glanced at Aragorn, saw Ferdinand and shot a questioning glance at Denlad.

"He’s following your lead," Denlad whispered.

"As should you," Halbarad said in equally quiet tones. "Sleep on my bedroll beside Aragorn. I do not want him exposed to any dangers from the bushes."

"Tempting as that is, considering how much nicer your blankets are than mine, I’ll have to decline. Horsemen approach, from the Road."

"Eledh?"

"The morn is too dark yet for seeing, but that would be my guess, yes."

"It’s so dark they may not spot my cairn, although I used white stones. I’ll go meet them and lead them in–and make sure that it is truly our men and not more Southrons." He started to move away, then looked back. "And thank you for letting me sleep."

"It was nothing. I still have the stamina of youth, whereas you..." He shrugged eloquently and then laughed as Halbarad scowled at him before slipping into the trees.

Aragorn coughed, then winced and opened his eyes in time to see Halbarad disappear. "What’s happening?"

"I hope reinforcements have arrived," Denlad said. "If not, then we may instead have another battle on our hands."

"Valar forbid," Aragorn muttered. He started to sit up but stopped and, like Halbarad, stared at Ferdinand. "What in the world–"

"I deem it a pint-sized bodyguard," Denlad said.

Aragorn edged carefully away from Ferdinand and pushed himself upright with much more ease than he had the evening before. Ferdinand muttered something and, without waking, scooted back until he was again pressed up against Aragorn.

Denlad grinned. "A very tenacious pint-sized bodyguard."

"Or perhaps more likely he is merely cold." Aragorn gently moved the blanket off himself and onto Ferdinand, who mumbled something, rolled onto his back, and resumed his soft snores. Aragorn tossed a knowing smile at Denlad, then gathered his legs underneath him.

Denlad watched him uncertainly.  "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"Quite sure.  I am tired of having every need attended to in full view of everyone."  His eyes held a grim light.  "I desire privacy.  Greatly."

Denlad hid a smile as he silently offered his arm and Aragorn hauled himself to his feet. He swayed for a moment, still gripping Denlad's arm. 

"Aragorn?"

"A moment," Aragorn said, frowing in concentration as he stared at the ground.  He finally took a careful breath and nodded.  He released Denlad's arm. "I was dizzy, but it passed.  I'm better. Much better."

"I’m glad to see you on your feet. Surprised, but glad."

"Just don't tell Halbarad I'm up."

"I won't, if you promise not to collapse and tear everything loose again."

"No fear of that."  He took a step toward the bushes, then glanced back.  "I tend to be a quick healer."

"As long as no Wraiths are involved?"

Aragorn’s smile flashed in the dim light, but he said nothing. He moved off slowly and carefully into the bushes, and Denlad walked to the fire. He wished he might catch a bit of sleep, for all jests aside, he was unutterably weary and more than a bit cross, but Eledh and whoever he brought with him would no doubt be hungry. Denlad stirred the coals a bit, adding some wood to coax enough heat for cooking and then set the iron spider over them to warm.

He held his hands out to the fire. The pre-dawn hours always held a chill that, no matter how warm the summer, Denlad never felt eased until the sun was fully up. He had no real fear of the night, but still, he was always one to look to the sun with relief when it finally climbed above the horizon to push away the darkness. He edged a bit closer to the fire, but kept his gaze away from the flames as much as he could, to preserve his night vision. There was a bit of a rustling noise in the bushes where Aragorn had disappeared.  Denlad wondered if he should go help him. Quick healer he may be, but it was after all only yesterday that his fever broke.  But he remembered the look in Aragorn's eyes and figured he would be granting Aragorn no favors by intruding.  If he needed help, he would call out.

Still, he kept an eye on the bushes where he expected Aragorn to return.  The night was quiet, and the shadows seemed to hold little threat...

So it came as a mystifying surprise when a spot between his shoulder blades suddenly tightened.

He spun on his heels to cast a quick glance behind him. Nothing. The shadows were still, the leaves and trees quiet except for the random rustling of small night-hunting animals. He watched, intent but keeping his eyes almost unfocused so he might catch any hint of movement in the dark. The leaves stirred gently, whispering to one another in their secret way, and a soft breeze caressed his cheek, then strengthened enough to lift his hair from his brow and blow it back. He glanced up at the stars. Gil-Estel sailed low on the western horizon, and Eärendil gazed upon the earth through a lacy veil of thin clouds. Storms moving in, from the feel of the wind. He breathed deep, but suddenly grimaced. He was expecting the freshness of midsummer and perhaps the metallic tang of approaching rain, but there was another odor, a hint there and gone so quickly he could not place it, but it immediately conjured a memory of healing wards, and sickness, and fouled wounds.

It could not be Aragorn... his wound was not infected, and the wind did not come from that direction. He glanced around the camp but saw no forgotten bandages. He knew he had burned them as he changed them; it was his habit, wrought by tending far too many wounded men. There was no diminishing the importance of keeping a sickroom clean, even one out in the wilds on the dirt beside a fire. He remained motionless, tense, letting the air drift across him. The smell did not return.

Likely it was merely some hapless animal that died out in the woods.

He shrugged then, putting off the unwarranted trepidation to an overactive imagination and too many long days on edge. He turned from shapeless fears to a more tangible problem: the fire, which stubbornly refused to stay well lit. Aggravated, he leaned down and put another log on it, then stirred it some more. At this rate, breakfast would need be served cold if they wanted to eat before noon. A coal suddenly popped and a burning fragment landed in a fold on his shirt. He hopped up with a mumbled curse and brushed it away before it could set his last shirt on fire.

The move saved his life.

First came a hiss from behind, then pain sliced hot across his leg, and an arrow embedded itself in one of the burning logs. With a startled cry, he dove and rolled into the bushes beyond the campsite. Denlad glanced down at his leg and saw a tear in his leggings, and a narrow trace of blood across the skin of his upper thigh. Nothing more than a scratch, thank the Valar. But even as he looked back up, another arrow sped past his head to thunk quivering in the tree trunk beside him. "Ferdinand! Get in the bushes!  Strider, stay where you are!"

Ferdinand stirred, and Denlad had a glimpse of wide eyes before Ferdinand slithered out from the blankets and under the nearest bush.

Knowing despite his call that Aragorn would be moving to affect his own attack, Denlad concentrated his efforts on finding the hidden archer. Staying on his belly, he scooted as quietly as he could to the left, working toward the archer, trying to avoid shaking any bushes and giving away his position. He reached a small boulder, and throwing himself behind its scant cover, he eased his head around to look for his unknown attacker.

First he looked toward the camp, but saw nothing but the now cheerfully burning fire. Of Ferdinand there was no sign, nor of Aragorn. Of Aragorn he had no worries, but Ferdinand... who knows what the hobbit might do. "Stay hidden, Ferdinand," Denlad whispered. "For Valar’s sake, stay hidden."

After a long moment of tense silence in which nothing moved, he chanced to ease away from his sheltering rock. He tried to plumb the shadows, but with no moon, their inky depths held tight to their secrets. He climbed to his feet and, drawing his sword, sprinted through an opening in the brush, still moving to his left, hoping to circle round and find the hidden assassin. He vaguely wondered how far away Halbarad was, and if he heard all his shouting and crashing about, but he could not rely on Halbarad’s timely return. Denlad kept pushing on, every muscle tense, expecting at any moment to feel the deadly thump of an arrow burying itself in his flesh. He was in shadows, but still... a stray glint of firelight on his sword would be all the target a good archer needed.

He slowed, knowing that unless the archer had moved, he had to be just ahead. He wondered at that, for surely the archer had to have heard him blundering through the trees. Likely the archer was moving away from Denlad and toward Aragorn.

Who could this man be? An orc? Or...

He remembered the whiff of foul odor, the memory of suppurating wounds, and a dreadful thought wormed into his mind. "No, surely it cannot be," Denlad breathed, then quickened his pace, knowing he was making far too much noise but if it drew the archer back toward him and away from Ferdinand and Aragorn, so much the better.

He came around at last to where the archer’s original position likely had been. Sight was nearly useless, so he felt with his hand. He could not be sure, but it seemed there was an area of flattened leaves, perhaps where the man’s knee had rested. Then he felt something wet. He pulled his hand to his nose. Blood. The man was injured, then, which knowledge only made the knot of dread tighten.

How could I have been so foolish...

Licking his lips, he continued on, following more quietly now. He stopped and listened but heard nothing.

He came up on a group of three trees, grown so close together that their bases had fused into one large trunk. He squatted behind it and peered around one of the boles and finally saw his man, outlined in the firelight, and his fears were confirmed.

It was the Southron he had stabbed and left for dead.

How he had survived, Denlad could not begin to guess, but he cursed himself for not having finished him off when he had the opportunity. No matter, though, for the man was before him now, and even as Denlad watched, he eased his bow upward, aiming toward an unseen target.

With no time to think of the consequences, Denlad leapt out from the tree. "Hey!" he cried, and was simultaneously exultant and terrified when the archer spun and loosed the arrow.

Denlad ducked but the arrow hit high on his left shoulder, the force of it knocking him backwards. He lost his footing and crashed back against the tree. Curiously, there was little pain. He shoved himself upright to try to rush the archer, but pain or no, his legs suddenly wanted little to do with answering him. He dropped to one knee and looked up to see the archer nock another arrow to the string.

Just as he was considering a desperate spear-like throw of his sword, Ferdinand stepped out from the bushes. In his hand was a stone, and quicker than Denlad’s eye could follow, he whipped his arm back and flung the stone at the archer. It hit the back of the man’s head with a sickening thump, and the archer’s arms went slack. The bow fell from lifeless fingers and the man slumped to the ground atop it.

Denlad stared, too numb to speak. Aragorn stepped from the trees, his sword in hand. He pressed it against the man’s neck, and when the man did not stir, knelt and felt for a pulse. "He’s dead."

Denlad tried to speak, to call out "well done" to the doughty hobbit, but pain suddenly consumed him. He felt hot, then cold, then terribly sick. Not bothering to stifle a long groan, he slowly eased himself to the ground and rolled over on his back, trying hard to keep from looking at the shaft sticking out of his shoulder.

He heard startled cries, then, and footsteps. From far away, Aragorn called his name, and then worried grey eyes looked down at him. Hands touched him, Ferdinand's small one grasping his and Aragorn's hands gentle but still lighting a fire of agony in his shoulder. He cried out, and somewhere in his cry he heard a soothing deep voice, murmuring encouragement, and then he heard nothing at all.

--o0o0o--

"Where did you learn to throw stones like that?" Denlad asked. He was sitting beside Aragorn, leaning against a large boulder that Halbarad had dubbed the Rock of Healing, since, he grumbled, they had no House of Healing, despite desperately needing one with the way everyone was dropping like Easterlings before Tuor. As Denlad understood it from Ferdinand’s account, Halbarad had not been happy to return to camp with Eledh and Galadh only to find that the Southron he had thought surely was dead had detoured from his journey to the Halls of Mandos to try to take Denlad and Aragorn along for company. Denlad had been unconscious throughout his stomping tirade, for which he was grateful. It was almost worth an arrow wound to be spared Halbarad’s tongue lashing for not having killed that Southron. Denlad was giving himself plenty of lashings. He didn’t need more from Halbarad.

Self-recriminations notwithstanding, Denlad was recovering well for having had a few days’ rest, though he was by no means ready to tackle any enemies. He shifted his arm in its sling and tried to ignore the throbbing in his left shoulder. Aside from the wound itself and a bloody great bruise blackening the side of his neck, shoulder and upper arm, he was no worse for wear, although try to tell that to Aragorn, who seemed bent on keeping him flat on his back for an entire week. But no, he was well on the road to recovering, in no need of constant bedrest. And more importantly, he needed to satisfy his curiousity about Ferdinand’s stone-throwing prowess.

Ferdinand seemed not to have heard him, so he repeated his question, "Ferdinand, who taught you to fling stones with such deadly accuracy?"

Ferdinand shrugged. "Every good hobbit can shy a stone. We learn it as children, catching rabbits or squirrels or scaring off crows. And he was a far bigger target than the rabbits I usually catch that way. Impossible to miss, really, that big and close."

" ’Ware a hobbit throwing stones," Halbarad smiled from where he was stretched out in indolent ease alongside the fire, between Aragorn and Eledh, relaxed now that it appeared everyone would live.  With Galadh on watch and Eledh's bow adding to their strength, Denlad had to admit he felt more at east himself.     

"I for one am glad that you’re as handy with those stones as Strider tells me you are with everything else," Eledh said. After he and Galadh had arrived, with horses, they had taken over the watches, and apparently some of the nursing duties. Denlad had awakened at one point to find Eledh sitting beside him, keeping watch over him. Denlad had felt such an overwhelming relief that help had finally arrived that he had promptly fallen back asleep, not waking until the next morning.

"As am I grateful," Denlad said fervently. "Had that Southron had time to sling another arrow at me, it might have hit more than just muscle. I’m not sure we can afford to turn you loose, Master Hobbit. Saving Rangers is a rare talent among hobbits, and one I’m not sure we can easily deny ourselves."

"But deny ourselves we must," Aragorn said. His voice was strong again, and he was eating and drinking and showing every good sign of recovery well in hand. Though his face was still a bit wan and sported several large black bruises, the swelling was gone. "Ferdinand, you belong in the Shire, with your people. It is too dangerous out in the wilds, and it will only grow still more perilous as each dark day passes. I’ve a feeling the Shire will need your services far more than we will, much as we appreciate all you’ve done."

Ferdinand blushed at the praise, but his eyes were sad. "I would far rather follow you men. But I suppose I cannot. One small hobbit likely cannot save the world, after all."

Denlad looked across the fire at Ferdinand, who looked more than a bit forlorn, and gave him a gentle smile. "No, it does not seem likely, does it? But who knows what strange turns fate may take. The doom of Middle-earth may yet be decided by one so small but doughty as you."

Ferdinand tried to smile, but it failed to reach his eyes. Denlad and the rest of the men fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts, until finally Aragorn stirred. "Enough of this melancholy! We are all alive and more or less whole, if not still a bit pummeled and punctured. Let us save worrying over the end of the world for another hour. What we need now is music! I haven’t the breath yet for song, but what say you, Ferdinand? Have you a song for us?"

A spark finally shimmered in the little hobbit’s eyes. "Ah, a song. Yes, I do believe I can come up with something. Let me think...." He tapped his chin, staring at the gathering night. He took a breath, then began softly:

"Home is behind, the world ahead,

And there are many paths to tread

Through shadows to the edge of night,

Until the stars are all alight..."*

His voice trailed, then he gave a funny little laugh, a wistful sound that gave Denlad a queer sort of ache in his chest. "I suppose I shall have to leave the world behind and get back to my home and bed now."

Denlad heard Aragorn release the softest of small sighs, then he walked over to Ferdinand. He slowly bent to one knee–recovering he may be, but Denlad could tell his wounds still pained him–and looked Ferdinand eye to eye. "Do not let your heart be heavy, dear friend. You have shown us your very high quality, and few have such opportunities in life to stand up and count for something as you have done. Should you do nothing more than return home to farm quietly in your Shire for the rest of your days, what you have done for me, and my men, is no small legacy."

Ferdinand looked at Aragorn for a long moment, then looked at Denlad and Halbarad and finally, with a bit more shyness, at Eledh. Then he looked back at Aragorn and it seemed to Denlad that his countenance was suddenly like the clearing sky after a rain. "Right you are, young man!" he cried. "Go you sit yourself down, and I will see what I can come up with that’s worthy of such fine men’s fire."

After Aragorn settled himself with a small grunt, Denlad leaned over and whispered, "That is why you are Chieftain and I am not. You found the words to cheer him when I could only offer empty platitudes."

"Is that the only reason why you are not in charge? Because I can cheer up woebegone Shirelings and you cannot?"

Denlad thought for a moment, then winked. "The only one I can think of."

Aragorn chuckled but any retort he may have had he kept to himself, for Ferdinand had picked up his spoon and was banging a beat on his spider. He paused the spoon. "A song, then, my friends, and one better suited to the occasion, for it is nigh suppertime, and I for one am feeling a bit peckish. Here we go then!" He resumed the beat and began:

"Fancy it roasted, fancy it toasted,

Fancy it served on a platter

Drink a good ale, sing a good tale..."

Aragorn threw back his head and laughed, then joined in, "A song of the heroes that mattered!" The men all gave a cheer, and Ferdinand blushed and waved a deprecating hand as he went back to preparing their supper.

Aragorn watched him, a smile still playing about his lips. "You are a hero, Master Hobbit," he whispered. "A hero indeed."

_______________

*From The Fellowship of the Ring, "Three is Company".

Epilogue - Strong Arms and Spilled Blood

"Do you think we’ll ever meet up with him again?" Halbarad asked softly.

Aragorn eased himself in the saddle. The long days of jostling and jarring as they rode had been painful, but not as bad as he had feared. Still, he was relieved to have finally arrived at last at Bree after leaving the rest of his men, save Halbarad, behind at Chetwood. Denlad had insisted he did not need to go into Bree, so Aragorn left him in provisionary charge of the patrols, with a stern warning that should he return to Chetwood and find Denlad out on said patrols himself, before his shoulder fully healed, Denlad would be confined to digging ditches for the privvies, one-handed, with a spoon, until such time that Aragorn felt he had learned his lesson. Which, by Aragorn’s reckoning, would be somewhere between the end of the Fourth Age and the beginning of the Fifth. Denlad had been unbowed, grinning like a fool during Aragorn’s entire tirade, but he promised to behave and then said his good-byes to Ferdinand before finally turning off the Great East Road to head into the Chetwood, Eledh and Galadh in tow.

Now here, outside the Prancing Pony, Aragorn had given his own farewell to Ferdinand Took. They had both felt all the necessary words had been spoken those three nights past, around the fire, but Ferdinand had surprised Aragorn when, instead of shaking hands or offering a bow, he had given Aragorn a fierce hug. Halbarad had gotten a more restrained handshake, and now, as Aragorn watched the hobbit walk away from them, heading toward his home and bed, he pondered Halbarad’s question and smiled. "I would say not likely, but this entire adventure was so unlikely that I begin to think that perhaps I leave too little room in my life, or at least my expectations, for pleasant surprises. So I will say only that I won’t rule out the bends and twists in the road bringing our paths together again."

"I hope so. I like him. He has a stout heart."

"Gandalf tells me there are other such brave hobbits, Bilbo foremost among them."

"Tookishness, in other words?"

"Evidently so. I think the world could use more Tookishness, to be honest."

They pulled up in the courtyard behind the Prancing Pony and dismounted. Aragorn couldn’t hold back a grunt, and Halbarad was instantly at his side. "I’m all right. Just a little stiff."

Nonetheless, Halbarad steadied him with a hand on his elbow as he took the reins. "I’ll take care of the horses. You get yourself in there and get a room and a hot bath and then get yourself into bed. I’ll be along in a bit with some food for us both."

"Yes, mother."

Halbarad glared at him, then, after Aragorn pulled his pack off of his horse, walked the horses away toward the stable.

Aragorn looked around at the small cobbled yard and the inn that he knew so well. Barliman Butterbur was busy sweeping the stoop, and Nob, his Hobbit helper, was dumping a dishpan of dirty water into the small patch of herbs growing beside the door. Nob waved at him cheerfully but Butterbur merely cast a sour glance his way before hurrying back inside. Aragorn followed him more slowly, mulling over the many possible reasons for Barliman’s lack of enthusiastic greeting. Not enough customers, perhaps. Or too many customers. Or more likely, too many Ranger customers.

Aragorn paused before the door, set his shoulders and let himself in.

Butterbur eyed him warily from behind his counter. Butterbur always eyed Aragorn warily, as if he half expected Aragorn at any moment to run him through with his sword. That Aragorn was never anything but the soul of polite regard around the man–save those times when Butterbur stamped out the last vestige of his patience and Aragorn’s ire caused his tongue to whip too sharply–never seemed to matter. Aragorn frightened Butterbur and likely always would. Ah well. Someday perhaps Aragorn would be able to explain himself, to present himself finally as king. He rarely allowed himself to daydream over possibilities that may never happen, but he couldn’t help smiling inwardly as he imagined the dumbfounded shock sure to be on Butterbur’s face should such a day finally arrive. Keeping his amusement well hidden, he quietly said, "A room, if you please. Two beds."

"You and Master Halbarad?"

"Aye."

"You look a bit more ragged than usual, if I might say so, Strider."

"It has been a rough road of late."

Barliman’s eyes flicked to Aragorn’s face. "Walk into a door, did you? Or run afoul of some lady’s husband?" He chuckled at his own joke.

Aragorn merely shook his head. Getting angry would be useless. "Nothing like that, no." He leaned down to set his pack at his feet and winced a bit when he straightened back up.

"Looks like you hurt your side."

"It is mending."

"Good to hear it," he said, so tonelessly that Aragorn highly doubted the man’s sincerity, but he let it pass. Butterbur pushed the ledger in front of Aragorn, who grabbed the quill, dipped it in the ink and scribbled something that passed for Strider on the page. It consisted mostly of a large S followed by a squiggly line. Since it wasn’t his real name anyway, he felt no need to be neat about it.

"Would you be needing a bath?" It was more a suggestion than a question but Aragorn took no offense. He knew he smelled worse than a herd of pigs.

"That would be most welcome, yes."

He handed over some towels and a bar of lye soap. "Nob will bring you hot water. Usual room. Top of the stairs," he said gruffly. "Don’t break anything, don’t slosh the water all over, and no disturbing the peace, you understand? Usual rules. You know I don’t trust you Rangers any further than I can throw you, but I won’t keep any man with good coin from sheltering himself here, so long as he behaves."

"Master Butterbur," he protested, feigning a hurt expression. "You know I always behave."

"Yes, well, to this point you have, but I also know your ilk and figure it only a matter of time before you get too much ale in you, and then it’s off you go, fighting and tearing up the furniture and breaking all the crockery. I just replaced twenty-three good mugs... twenty-three, mind you... from the last lot of wild men that trampled through like so many oliphaunts; I won’t be doing it again on account of you or your friend or cousin or whatever relation he is."

"He is my cousin. And my friend," Aragorn told him quietly, not that he expected Butterbur to care one wit. He tamped down his growing impatience, but his voice was tighter than he wished. "Drunken brawls not being generally conducive to convalescence, I am not planning to indulge in any. I wish only for a bed for a few nights, until I’m fully healed. "

Butterbur glanced at Aragorn’s side and had the grace to blush. "I don’t mean to be churlish, Strider. You know that. It’s just that I’ve about had my fill of this place being bashed to pieces, and it’s been times when you or... now, don’t be scowling at me, I’m sorry, poor choice of words... I mean to say those like you are here that things happen. You understand, surely. But like I say, I won’t deny any man a room, so long as he has good coin."

Aragorn gave him a wry look as he dug in his pockets for his coins. "Your generosity is second only to your perspicacity, Barliman Butterbur." He pulled out a few and dropped them on the counter. Childish of him, perhaps, to goad the innkeeper, knowing that Butterbur likely had no idea what ‘perspicacity’ meant. But the prospect of salvaging a bit of private fun from the otherwise unpleasant exchange, an exchange that was far too wearyingly commonplace, was irresistible.

And he was amply rewarded when Butterbur scowled as he scooped the coins up in his chubby hand. "Yes, well, you just keep your insults to yourself, Ranger. I don’t wonder but what Bree would be better off without the lot of you."

The battered remnants of Aragorn’s good humor melted in a hot flash of anger. Bree without us would likely have been burned to the ground or destroyed by trolls or worse long years ago. It is the strong arms, sharp steel and spilled blood of my people who hold your enemies at bay, Butterbur, and nothing less. But he said nothing, merely tightening his jaw as he took the towels, hefted his pack and headed slowly up the stairs. He paused at the top to catch his breath, glancing behind him to see Butterbur still scowling after him. Two other customers had joined him and stared up at him with suspicion darkening their eyes. He thought then of Ferdinand Took, of his many small kindnesses and encouraging words and selfless bravery, and sighed quietly.

He entered his room and closed the door, putting Barliman – and the unfriendly townspeople – behind him.