Dwimmerlaik

Author’s Note: Ah, a fantastic weekend. Naturally, all the excitement is about the new Harry Potter book (in the literary world anyway). However, I have not forgotten that I owe a chapter to those of you who wish to read still more this weekend or for those of you taking a break from or not reading Harry Potter. It’s a good long one and hopefully enough to tide you over til next week while I straighten out kinks.

Aragorn angst coming up for all you fans of it—and I know there are a few of you.


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Part Four

Premonitions

Sadron knew before he opened the door what he would find inside. It had been the same for more than a week, ever since the marchwarden left. After the hunting accident that had lamed his leg, Elrond had taken him on as an odd-jobsman where he gradually shouldered the staff workings of the kitchens, gardens and general upkeep of the household. He served the family of the house with as much care and devotion as he would have his own. So without bothering to knock, he limped into what should have been an empty guest room and set his lamp down with a clunk hard enough to startle the sleeper stretched out on the quilt.

Aragorn squinted blearily in the suddenly blinding glare so he could see who it was. “Sadron? What time is it?”

The servant surveyed him with a mixture of annoyance and impatience tempered with perhaps a little pity. “Well, the feast has ended and the dwarves have left crumbs all over the rugs and some idiot spilled wine on the back of a chair dating from 322 of the Second Age. It is late, young master, and you should be in your own bed.”

“I know, I know,” Aragorn sat up, rubbing the silt out of his eyes. Sadron had been kicking him out of Haldir’s room rather frequently of late. He glanced up at his father’s old friend hesitantly. “You aren’t going to tell my adar are you?” Elrond had already been looking troubled enough of late.

“I haven’t yet.” The servant couldn’t help the smile that quirked his lips. That contrite look under the eyelashes was the same one the human had given him since he was the age of three. And he still fell for it. Every time.

Nevertheless, he tapped his pace stick against the ranger’s calf menacingly. “But if I ever see you fall asleep like that again, I will thrash you until your father knows you will never sleep on anything comfortable again.”

Aragorn swung his stained boots guiltily off the quilt and onto the floor. Sweeping disheveled strands out of his face, he stared preoccupied around the now-dark room. Every passing hour made it seem drearier and, had it not been for his uttermost faith in Sadron’s neat-keeping abilities, he would have sworn dust was beginning to gather in the corners.

“He said he would be back by now. Midsummer was today.”

“Midsummer was today!” Sadron exclaimed, feigning surprised. “I would never have guessed what with all the merriment and singing, feasting and storytelling you didn’t participate in.”

Aragorn smiled slightly ruefully but his eyes remained fastened on a far corner of the room. His heart was darkly worried and it had kept him from enjoying the grand festival his father always hosted at this time of year. He couldn’t enjoy it when his mind kept drifting back to the last conversation in this room.

He had not seen Haldir since they had returned from their day of orc-hunting. Passing on the upper landing, he saw a light under the elf’s door and decided he couldn’t wait any longer for answers. He rapped twice even as he continued to push the unlocked door open with his knuckles. “You were missed at dinner.”

“Other things required my attention,” the elf said distractedly without looking up.

Aragorn had a feeling he knew what that “other thing” was. Elladan and Elrohir, after being chewed out by Sadron, confided to him the reason for their lateness. But before he could voice his suspicions, he caught sight of the nearly full satchel on the bed.

“What are you doing?”

Haldir tugged a bureau’s top drawer open, pulled out a few black tunics and shoved them messily into his pack. Turning slightly, he pushed a loose strand of hair out of his eyes, and finally looked up. For a split second, Aragorn thought he saw a flash of guilt cross the elf’s face but it was gone quicker than he could ascertain.

“I am leaving.”

At first the words did not register to Aragorn’s fuzzy mind and he was halfway through a nod before the full meaning of his friend’s statement hit him. He frowned in complete bafflement.

“What?”

“I am leaving,” Haldir mouthed the words emphatically as though to someone who was deaf. Dropping his eyes back to his task, he added, “As soon as possible.”

Aragorn still didn’t get it. “But…I thought you were going to stay the summer.”

“Circumstances change.”

“Your wounds were just restitched. Adar won’t let you ride,” Aragorn hated how puerile he sounded but he couldn’t explain the disquiet that reared up in his mind like a dark wave.

Haldir smiled at him but it lacked any kind of humor, dry or otherwise. “I hardly need Lord Elrond’s permission to leave—or yours for that matter.”

Aragorn was still confused and a little hurt, not sure what he had missed. “Are you going back to Lothlórien?”

“No. There is something I need to do north of here.”

“ ‘North of here?’ ” he echoed. “As in, between here and Forochel?”

“I hope I won’t have to go quite that far.”

He was evading the question which meant the real answer was either something he didn’t want the ranger to hear or something he didn’t feel quite certain about. Aragorn, recalling the burgeoning hostility between Halbarad and the elf that morning, took a stab at finding out which it was.

“Look, I know the rangers being here might be a little uncomfortable for you but that’s no reason to leave.”

Haldir looked quickly around at him and a slight wrinkle appeared between his brows. “The Dúnedain have nothing to do with this. Not with my leaving anyway,” he amended. ‘They’re…your friends. Whatever else they might be.”

“Then, if that’s not it, what is going on?” He spotted the bloodstained satchel draped over a chair next to the terrace doors. “Your leaving doesn’t have anything to do with the orc we took today, does it?” His eyes locked onto the elf, demanding an answer.

Haldir picked up a long, curved blade, leather-wrapped and rather plain, from the foot of the bed and drew it a few inches out of its sheath. “That satchel belongs to a Galadhrim rider. I have it on good information that he was carrying something of import on his last ride. I have to find out what that was. I will not be going far.”

Aragorn had the feeling he was stretching the truth a little. “How are you going to find out what was in the message if it was lost?”

“There are ways,” Haldir hedged unhelpfully.

“Let me come with you.”

“No.”

“I do not need your permission,” Aragorn shot the elf’s words right back at him. “If you need to leave, then I will go with you. That’s what friends do remember?”

“I will not risk your life.”

“You’re not risking my life. I am. It’s my choice,” Aragorn said as Haldir rolled his eyes at the ceiling in exasperation. He frowned at his friend, but not in anger. “You’re letting what Halbarad said get to you, aren’t you?”

The elf captain slammed his borrowed sword so hard on the chest Aragorn jumped. “He was right though wasn’t he? You were nearly tortured to death on my account.”

“That’s not true. You didn’t know that was going to happen.” Aragorn stepped closer to his friend despite the sudden pounding in his chest. “I’ve already told you to stop blaming yourself for that. Take me with you.”

Haldir shook his head, picking up the sword again and tossing it amongst his things. He sighed and said in a calmer tone, “This is a Galadhrim affair. There’s no reason for you to go.”

“This isn’t about whether it’s a Galadhrim affair or not. If you are going, I will go as well,” Aragorn insisted. He didn’t know why he was pushing this so hard when Haldir clearly didn’t want him. Maybe it was Halbarad’s troubling reports of smoking villages and pursuing shadows or that orcs had been discovered so close to Rivendell for the first time in decades, but he was afraid. “I don’t want you to go alone.”

“I have already asked Glorfindel to lend me a small contingent. I will not be alone,” the marchwarden’s hard-edged expression softened briefly and he took a step nearer the human he had so recently called his friend. “I have a favor to ask of you actually if you would be willing to grant it. It is part of the reason I need you to stay here.”

Protests still roiling in his mind, the unfettered gravity in the elf’s pale visage pushed all of them aside and he nodded. “Name it. So long as it’s not a promise to get me to stay here.”

Haldir went to his wardrobe and unhooked his saber and sword belt from within.

“What’s this for?” Aragorn asked, confused, as the elf removed the belt and pressed the sword into his hands. The elf captain zealously guarded his blade and never let another handle it without his strict permission. It meant more to him than many people so why the elf would give it to him as though he were leaving it behind was…frightening.

“I can ill-afford to have something so conspicuous where I’m going,” Haldir said, resting his fingers lightly on the hilt in farewell. His eyes caught and held the human’s. “Keep it well for me.”

Stunned speechless, Aragorn could only look down at the saber in its battered sheath that was older than the elf in front of him. On the one hand, that Haldir trusted him enough to hand over his prized possession loosed an elated bubble in his chest. On the other, knowing the elf was going out into the wild without it, popped the bubble and left him feeling strangely hollow.

Haldir could see all the varied emotions flickering across the ranger’s face almost faster than sight and touched the man’s shoulder to redirect his attention. “Look for me by midsummer. I wouldn’t miss the feast in the Last Homely House if all the orcs in Mordor stood between us.”

The nightmares had started a week later.

With a sharp crack, the pace stick hit the footboard a foot from Aragorn’s nose and the ranger started, having quite forgotten he was still sitting in Haldir’s room with Sadron watching him.

“Now, that I have your attention,” Sadron said silkily. The bed dipped lightly as he seated himself and propped his stick up on the headboard. “If I may suggest, Estel, a day late is not much—and far too little to be fretting this much over.”

“You sound like my adar. He said the same thing.”

“You should listen to him then, he is accounted wise by many.”

Aragorn only shook his head. Sadron had not seen what he had the last few weeks in his sleep, the same scene over and over that filled him with such nameless terror he could not help but remember it when he woke. He hadn’t told anyone yet, hoping upon hope that Haldir would return by the date he had promised. But Midsummer had come and gone; and there had been no word. It was only from the deep respect he held for the Lothlórien captain and his father’s concern for his leg that still held him within the confines of the valley.

“A lot can happen on a long road,” Sadron suggested, clearly a little wrong-footed by his young charge’s crestfallen expression.

“And little of it good.”

Sadron conceded that with a nod. “But it is no good worrying about what you do not know and cannot change if you did. For all you know, he was delayed by bad weather or a horse’s thrown shoe. He’ll come back in a few days and laugh at you for worrying over him so—though I have more than half a mind not to let him back in the house. That cabinet was three thousand years old.”

That at least coaxed a small smile from the ranger and Sadron nudged him to his feet, ruffling his hair as he had when the man was no more than knee-high to a sapling. “Much better. Now get to your own bed. It’s late. And take off your boots!”

“I will, I will,” Aragorn rolled his eyes at the elf’s nagging until the pace stick poked him hard between the shoulder blades.

“I saw that.”

Rubbing the sore spot in the center of his back, he opened his door. His chamber was just as he’d had it since he was a boy with high raftered ceilings and a long window facing the west. A great maple tree grew right outside and had been a source of many escapades and terrors when he was young and the winds caused the branches to scrape against the glass.

He listened to them tap-tap-tap as he obediently pulled his boots off and readied himself for bed as slowly as he could. He dreaded going to sleep at the moment. The continued absence of his friend made it even harder.

Groping under the dark space beneath the bed, he extracted something long and thin wrapped in oilcloth. He sat cross-legged in the middle of his quilt and unwrapped the gleaming saber. He had kept it oiled and polished enough to make even Sadron proud. But he didn’t leave it in plain sight anymore. He drew the elegantly tapered blade out. The lame did not shine as brightly as it had and Aragorn had the fleeting impression that the saber missed its wielder as much as he did.

His head ached and despite his determination to stay awake he found his body sinking lower and lower into the pillows, the saber sliding from his grasp to thud on the floor, the noise muffled by the thick carpet.

The road: pale-lit and flanked on either side by tall, imposing ash trees was familiar to him by now. Branches curled like long claws over the path. He couldn’t hear anything. Not a leaf or insect stirred in this nightmare place; a funereal stillness choked off all usual nocturnal noises. It made him want to shout if only to break the deathly quiet. Instead he approached the strip of path in front of him cautiously his heart hammering in his chest.

He looked to his left expectantly where the road curved out of sight. Sure enough, he hadn’t waited long before he saw a glimmer of starlight growing stronger as a small company drew near. They moved slowly and uneasily, cloaked and hooded up as much as possible, weapons drawn as they peered into the shadows on either side of the road.

Haldir rode as the forerunner of the elven warriors, a black-banded sword in hand instead of his saber. His bright, keen eyes slid right over and through the human standing near the road in plain sight. Aragorn wanted to call out a warning but his voice had been struck dumb in the unnatural silence.

There was no warning. Two elves in the vanguard dropped from their mounts with arrows through their throats. Instantly the elven company fanned out into the trees opposite the attack. Elves dressed in grey and green slipped past Aragorn, ignoring the human as a ghost. To them he was.

The ranger watched helplessly as orcs spilled onto the path, setting into the company with a bloody, malicious and entirely silent vengeance. He hated this. Forced to watch his friends and people he knew die as orcs crowded the path and drove the remaining elves off it. Rivendell’s warriors were far outnumbered and the orcs seemed driven on by a strange madness though many fell from sword and spear thrusts.

Instinctively dodging a swipe from the enemy though the orc couldn’t harm him in a dream, the ranger searched frantically for a sign of his friend. At last, he spotted the elf captain in the thick of the melee, his borrowed sword gleaming briefly before a spurt of black orc blood marred its shimmer. He was trying to gather the remnants of his ragged group about him. The captain seized one of his men, shouted something at him that Aragorn couldn’t hear and thrust him back along the road behind, plainly telling him to go.

As the soldier looked back, Aragorn felt a shock race through him as he recognized Galen. The scout cast one stricken look backwards then heaved himself into a horse’s empty saddle, flying back down the road, with a third of the enemy hot in pursuit. But Aragorn did not have time to see what happened to him.

Most of the elves had been killed or driven back and the remnants grouped around Haldir as he faced the orcs. But something odd was happening. Instead of moving in for the kill, the orcs had stopped their headlong charge and were drawing away staring back down the way they had come with wide, yellow eyes as though even they feared what now came down the road.

A vast, black insubstantial something rode up in the wake of the orcs, gradually assuming the shape of a black horseman, the leader of the assault, robed and cowled so deeply nothing of his face could be seen; but something about the rider, his stiffness or maybe the way he let his steed trample the bodies of the dead without giving thought to whether they were elves or his own servants sent a cold shudder down Aragorn’s spine.

Hooked metal gauntlets covered in spines tightened around battered leather reins. The rider observed the carnage without giving any reaction. His eyes, if eyes there were under that hood, raked the elves huddled in a small group a few yards away. The youngest among them shrank from his gaze but even those of stern disposition were grey-faced. Aragorn was so close he could have stretched out a hand and brushed the tattered cloak. He swallowed hard, unaware that his throat was dry with fear, his legs stone. He couldn’t move if he wanted to.

The eerie rider finished his examination of his enemies and made a gesture at the cowering orcs who hastily scuttled around their master towards their defeated adversaries. Manacles hung from their long nails. The figure was quite impassive though the horse shook its head and gnawed restlessly at the bit. Its red eyes gleamed as they settled on Aragorn. Then, unquestionably, the faceless hood swiveled towards him too.

It would find him; it would take him. He didn’t know how he knew this but he didn’t want to stay and find out. However before he could move or even think of turning away, a long, wailing cry like the shriek of a dying eagle rent the silence. It shattered Aragorn’s eardrums and put the nape of his neck on end.

It was unmistakably a cry of victory.

The wail continued even as Aragorn thrashed himself awake. It was several, desperate seconds before he realized the cry was coming from his own mouth and he buried his face in the pillow to strangle it. A hand on his shuddering back startled him and he rolled over, staring wide-eyed into Elrohir’s white face.

“Estel? What’s wrong?” he peered down at his youngest brother. The room was lit only by bare moonlight. “We heard you cry out.”

Elladan, dressed only in his sleeping trousers, perched on the other side of the bed, looking worried. “It was the nightmare again wasn’t it?” He had known his little brother wasn’t sleeping well though Aragorn had tried to conceal it.

Aragorn didn’t speak for a moment, still hearing the cry echoing in his ears, seeing the blood-spattered forms of dead elves. He brushed both hands over his face and through his drenched hair. “They’re all dead.”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged looks over their brother’s bowed head and Elrohir said soothingly, “It was just a nightmare, Estel, nothing more.”

“You don’t understand, Elrohir. Something’s happened to him, I just know it. Please, you have to believe me.” It was imperative they understood. Somehow, he would make them.

“Believe what? You’re not making any sense, muindor. Calm down,” Elladan tightened his grip on his brother’s arm.

“Haldir. I saw him. They were fighting orcs and—”

“You probably just had too much to eat at the feast,” Elladan reasoned, trying to be dismissive and understanding at the same time. The alternative was too dreadful to contemplate. “Too much food and too much worry. You’ve been making yourself anxious because he’s a day late; it’s only natural you would dream up something like that.”

“It wasn’t a normal nightmare,” Aragorn said. He would know; he had suffered more nightmares before the age of six than many had in their entire lives. “It was real. I know it.”

“How?” Elladan asked bluntly.

Aragorn groped blindly as details of the dream blurred as though he were looking at them through a misted windowpane. “I can’t dream about something I’ve never seen before. This place—a road—I’ve never been on it. And the horseman…I didn’t recognize him.”

Elrohir frowned. “Horseman?”

Aragorn told them what he remembered though it made him shiver involuntarily. The steed’s gleaming red eyes and the malevolent spirit under the invisible gaze still haunted him. Elrohir rubbed his back comfortingly but his eyes were worried as he looked at Elladan. It was not unheard of that some of the Dúnedain possessed a quality of foresight. Could it be Estel had the same affliction?

“Maybe we should talk to Adar,” Elrohir offered still looking at his brother with concern.

“Yes, let’s. Now,” Aragorn threw himself out of bed and without bothering to pull even his sleep shoes on he was out the door, not caring if his brothers followed or not. He barely felt the cold chill on his feet as he hastened towards his father’s rooms. Everything that had seemed so comforting and familiar to him just short hours ago now seemed dark and menacing as ghost-eyed windows and objects shaped like bodies flashed past.

His father’s door was always unlocked and he opened it without hesitation though once he did, he paused, a small part of him doubting, hesitating to waken his father. What if he was wrong? Maybe it had just been a nightmare; maybe he was being silly and overreacting. Second thoughts crowded his mind and he almost backed out but the thought of Haldir’s grey face and the leering orcs holding chains bolstered him. He stepped further into the room.

Elrond slept as he had for many years in a wide bed under the window. Shafts of soft, blue moonlight illuminated the sheets which fell in folds from where the elf-lord lay with his face turned towards the side of the bed his wife had once occupied. He breathed steadily and deeply, clearly asleep and unaware of his son’s presence. Despite his urgency, Aragorn tiptoed to the elf’s side. This scene was a familiar one: it wasn’t the first time he had snuck into the elf-lord’s room seeking comfort and assurance after a night terror scared him from his bed.

The master of Rivendell with the uncanny ability of a parent who knows when something is amiss stirred and blinked. When he saw who was standing in the shadows over his bed, looking pale and dressed only in a loose nightshirt, he propped himself up slowly on his elbows. “Estel? What is it?”

The deep, calm voice of his father dispelled the swirling doubts and Aragorn opened his mouth to speak when the bedroom door creaked open. Elladan and Elrohir peered into the room and entered once they saw their father was already awake.

“We think it was a nightmare, Adar.”

“He just had too much to eat.”

Aragorn found his voice again. “It was not, Adar. I saw it! I felt it. Haldir’s company was attacked by orcs and something…something I don’t know…huge and black like a horseman was there.”

To his relief, Elrond did not tell him it was just a dream or that he’d had too much to eat. On the contrary, his face paled and he looked suddenly anxious. “You are sure of this, Estel?”

“Yes!”

The master of Rivendell did not speak right away. Instead he wrapped a dark green dressing robe over his nightclothes and proceeded into his study. His sons followed him watching impatiently as he lit a lantern. Once he was seated in his winged armchair and his sons on the couch, he gestured to his youngest.

“Now, tell me everything.”

For the second time, Aragorn recounted what he could remember of his nightmare. His father listened without interrupting all the way through then questioned him closely on slightest details. Especially when he came to the tall, hooded horseman: where he was on the road, if he seemed in command of the forces, if there was any face under the hood, his raiment and anything else until Estel felt as though he were going over the same thing over and over again. He was impatient to start the search—why was Elrond bothering him about some horsemen when the orcs with the chains seemed the far more immediate danger to the elves?

“Do you think it really happened, Adar?” Elladan, seated on an arm of the couch, had been watching his father calculatingly.

Elrond remained silent for a long while, staring of the picture window with his fingers laced together under his chin. The swards and flowered lawns were veiled in darkness. “It is quite possible.”

“So we should do something!” Aragorn interjected, pacing back and forth in his agitation. “We should rouse Glorfindel. He can get another contingent ready and we’ll—”

Elrond held up a hand to silence him. “Glorfindel has gone to patrol the borders of the valley. He will not return for some days yet.”

“Then I will go myself—I cannot wait that long,” He would have gone and fetched his cloak and sword right then if Elladan and Elrohir hadn’t grabbed him by the upper arms and sat him back down on the couch.

“Hear Father out, Estel.”

Elrond met his frustrated eyes calmly. “I would suggest waiting for him to return and let me send out some scouts to discover what exactly we are facing. We do not even know where or how far along their road they were.”

“But you believe me.”

“Yes, my son, I do,” Elrond said firmly. “But I do not believe in taking unnecessary risks until we find out more. Give me time to find out what has happened.”

“By the time you do that, Haldir might already be dead!” Aragorn said, jumping up again. Elladan grabbed him tightly and pulled him back against him.

“No, I do not think so. From what you told me, the orcs were taking prisoners.” Something in the elf-lord’s normally gentle face hardened. “They would want their new thralls to last as long as they could.”

Elladan and Elrohir’s holds on Aragorn’s shoulders abruptly slackened and he knew they were thinking of their mother. It was enough to stifle the protests on his lips.

Briskly, Elrond shook himself free of the clinging memories and got to his feet, heading towards his desk. “Let me send out such messages as I can and then we’ll—”

He fell silent, staring back towards his bedroom and the door into the hall which the twins had left open.

“Adar, what is it?” Elrohir had noticed his father’s sudden tension.

“Wait here,” the elf-lord ordered, already sweeping out of the room.

But his sons had no intention of obeying and leapt up in his wake as he headed down the hall towards the stairs. As they reached the dark landing, they heard a voice calling which had been muffled by the walls and their own buzzing concerns.

“My lord! Lord! Lord Elrond!”

Sadron was making his way laboriously up the staircase, hampered by his lamed leg which made it difficult for him to climb. “Damn leg,” he panted, completely out of breath as Elrond hastened down towards him. “My lord…he ran right up to the door… pale as a spirit. I tried to call for you but…no one heard me and he’s—”

“Wait, wait, Sadron, slow down,” Elrond grasped the servant’s arms steadyingly. “Who is here?”

The servant took a deep breath though his chest still heaved. “I went to lock the doors for the night when he came running up, begging me not to shut him in the dark. I think he was a member of the company who left some weeks ago. He is bleeding.”

“Was it Haldir?” Aragorn asked, his heart leaping. The hope died almost instantly when Sadron shook his head, all his usual self-discipline as disrupted as his world at the moment.

“One of ours.”

“Alone?” Elrond asked, already hurrying down the stairs.

“Yes. My lord,” Sadron attempted to keep up with Elrond’s swift pace as he explained. “He insisted on seeing you. I laid him in the library. He wasn’t steady enough on his feet.”

“Catch your breath, Sadron. You have done well. I will handle it.” Elrond brushed his servant’s shoulder calmingly, his robes swirling round his heels, his sons close behind.

Aragorn was right at his father’s shoulder as they entered the library and he was the first to see the ragged figure huddled in an armchair before the great fireplace near the back of the room. The pitiful figure’s draggled hair hung in a lank mass around his shoulders, the high collar of a long robe Aragorn recognized as Sadron’s largely hid the rest of his face and form. For some reason the figure made him nervous and he hung back a little to let Elrond move forward. The elf-lord’s face was creased with concern.

At the sound of their footsteps, the figure’s head shot up and Aragorn raced forward and dropped to his knees beside the chair. “Galen!”

The elven scout was whey-faced and a scratch crusted with dried blood marred his cheek. A longer and uglier-looking gash scarred his throat and had been messily wrapped in a green rag. The elf’s eyes were wide, shadowed and staring as though sleeping but there was no peaceful relaxation in his rigid body. He didn’t seem to see his young friend though he was looking right at him. When the elf did not respond, Aragorn tried to get a look at the wound.

“I think he’s in shock,” he said over his shoulder.

The sound of the ranger’s voice so close literally startled the elf. He blinked and suddenly Aragorn found Galen’s hands clamped tight to the front of his nightshirt. The man touched his thin wrists, offering comfort despite the hard grip. His nostrils stung with the sickeningly thick reek of blood and sweat which rolled off the elf’s ice-cold skin. Soft sounds of distress burst out of the afflicted’s throat.

“Shh, shh,” Aragorn felt the empty scabbard still strapped to the elf’s waist digging between his ribs. “You are safe. You are among friends, mellon nin. Galen, it’s all right.”

But the warrior again did not seem to hear him. His eyes fixed on the wall behind Aragorn as though watching something else there…something terrible. “Keep it back… keep it back…” His voice was barely a whisper.

“Nothing is going to hurt you I promise.”

Elrond edged his son aside and with gentle but strong fingers pried Galen’s desperate hands off the ranger. He clasped his wrists with one, strong hand and cradled the elf’s face in the other. “Galen son of Gelmir, what has happened? Can you tell me?”

But Galen twisted against the healer’s hands like an animal caught in a snare. “No, no, no, no, no…”

Elrond let him go and he scuttled over to the fire so close Aragorn almost put a hand on his shoulder, afraid he was going to singe himself. The elf flinched from his touch. The robe had slipped off his shoulders and now they could see his tunic was torn as though by iron brambles and his hands and neck were scratched still further. Some of the cuts were quite deep and still oozing blood.

“He must have run,” Elladan said softly, peering over his father’s shoulder. Elrohir was too horrified to speak.

Galen began to pant, clawing at his tunic and his face until Elrond and Aragorn grasped his wrists to restrain him lest he do himself some harm. The elf-lord laid the struggling elf beside the fire and commanded his twin sons. “One of you, go back to my study. Find the long wooden box in the lower drawer of my desk. The other, fetch heated water. Hurry!”

“What’s wrong with him?” Aragorn grunted still clinging fast to Galen’s hand which tried to scratch his face. He had never seen such an affliction suffered by the Eldar before. It frightened him because aside from the wound to his throat and obvious exhaustion there seemed to be nothing else wrong with the elven soldier.

“Exhaustion and blood loss. Shock, I don’t doubt, and a long, horrible road,” Elrond said, peering into the elf’s glazed eyes. “He has ridden through some dark peril. It has nearly overcome him.”

At those words, Galen suddenly relaxed. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell utterly lax and pliant under their hands. He was still far too pale for Aragorn to consider even for a second that he had fallen asleep and his face was twitching as though he were dreaming but caught in a horrible nightmare.

“Adar, is he—?” But the ranger got no further for Elrond had urgently knelt upon the carpet and shed his cumbersome dressing gown. Laying the elf’s limbs out straight, he rested a hand on the young elf’s brow and closed his eyes.

Stunned, Aragorn could only watch as his father murmured the elven scout’s name in a low tone that seemed to sound farther and farther away. Though Elrond remained kneeling on the carpet, he seemed far away calling for one who was almost lost. “Galen…Galen…do not stray so far under the shadow. Return. Return to light, to life. Do not let the darkness take you. You are still strong and hale. Return, Galen.”

The command was so compelling and powerful Aragorn found himself leaning forward though the call was not for him. His knees ached on the thin-carpeted floor but he didn’t notice; instead he stared mesmerized at his father’s face illuminated by the soft firelight, at his lips which were moving soundlessly now. He didn’t even realize Elladan and Elrohir had hurried back until Elrond drew in a deep breath and pulled away, taking his hand away from Galen’s brow so he could accept the long thin box and a steaming bowl from his sons. His eyes were weary and filled with an incomprehensible strain but he was smiling.

“How is he?” Elrohir asked anxiously.

“The worst is over.” Elrond looked over at his youngest son and there was something so strange in his gaze that Aragorn took his eyes away from Galen long enough to meet it.

“Do you understand what has happened, Estel?”

Aragorn could truthfully say he had never seen anything like that in his life.

At a signal from his father, Elladan handed him a pillow which he eased under Galen’s head. The elf looked now as though he were truly sleeping. “He was suffering from a foul vapor I have not seen in many, many years.” His eyes were dark again as he cleaned the lengthy cuts on the young elf’s face and neck. “Many have received worse for such a brave fight as he must have put up to bring word back to us. You, Aragorn, are one of the few Dúnedain, of Men who still have the ancient power in your bloodline to do such things as I have just done. To cull the shadow and call those under its sway back.”

Aragorn stared at his father and shook his head. Though he understood much of his heritage was still a mystery to him, he couldn’t fathom either a time or circumstance where he would be called upon to do something like that. And more than half of him hoped he would never need to. “I don’t think I could do that, Adar.”

Elrond smiled again. “In time, my son, you will realize there is much you do not think you can do, that you can if the need arises.”

Aragorn didn’t understand but he watched attentively as his father sorted through different, pungent herbs and vials within the box and drew out three, long leaves.

“Something else you will be able to use, Estel, look carefully. Even as old as these are, they should do,” Elrond murmured as he crushed and steeped the leaves in the bowl. “I will have to replenish the stock—they are hard to find here and grow only where the Dúnedain of old once dwelt or camped away north and west.”

When his youngest looked at him questionably, he said, “We may learn some news from him and these leaves will help him rest better.”

“We can settle him in a guest room, Adar,” Elladan offered.

“Not yet. Let us see if he will speak.”

As the leaves soaked, a wonderful, bright scent tingled through the room and Aragorn could not help feeling lightened as though several of the burdens of his heart had been removed for the first time in days. The fragrance reminded him of the playful day on the sparring field, a quiet meal on the veranda, the fragrance of summer winds. Elladan and Elrohir too were smiling.

“Athelas?” Elrohir guessed, breathing deep, and his father nodded.

“A good remedy for headaches. Among other things,” he said with another sideways look at Aragorn but his youngest son’s attention was focused elsewhere.

Galen was stirring. As the steam wafted across his face, his cerulean eyes opened and he looked up into the faces of his caregivers confusedly. “It was darker than this…W—where am I? Lord Elrond?” he frowned up into the healer’s face and immediately tried to sit up but Elrond pushed him back down firmly.

“Lie quiet, young one. You have been through a lot in a short time. It was very close.”

The scout’s eyelids flickered as his gaze roved over their faces and landed on the one closest to him. “Estel, you are here as well?”

“Yes, I am here,” the man said, squeezing his friend’s hand. He was glad to feel warmth returning to it. “You look a mess.”

Galen did not laugh. He closed his eyes and an uncontrollable shudder shook his slender frame.

The elf-lord touched his shoulder. “It’s all right. Tell us what you can.” When Galen looked questioningly at him, he nodded. “You can speak freely.”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged significant glances and immediately moved closer to listen as the elf started speaking in a rough, hoarse voice.

“Our journey went well our first few days out. We crossed the Last Bridge and followed the East Road west under Captain Ardamil and Captain Haldir. We found signs of orcs near the Weather Hills where we cut through to avoid the marshes.”

“What were they doing out that far?” Elladan wondered aloud but his twin shushed him.

“Then the rains came. The roads flooded and we had to seek shelter in the hills. Captain Haldir chafed under the delay, afraid that traces of his messenger would be washed away, and tried to press our captain on. Ardamil didn’t like that. He thought Captain Haldir wasn’t telling him everything about our errand…By the time we got back on the road, we had lost the orcs’ scent and didn’t know whither they’d gone. They set on us without warning at twilight on the north downs. Orcs, by the score! There was no mercy. They cut right through all of us. They took Ardamil’s head…and laughed.” He squeezed his eyelids shut, a suppressed tear escaping out of the corner. “There were too many…A black shadow appeared on the path. I felt…so cold. Captain Haldir told me to ride, to get back to the hills if I could. But my horse was shot out from under me before I’d gone far. The orcs…they…” he trailed off again, battling some inner demon they couldn’t see.

Elladan’s hand was clamped almost painfully tight on Aragorn’s shoulder. He looked up at his brother who let go with an apologetic nod.

“So many dead...” Galen paused again and shook his head in frustration. Clearly, recalling it all still distressed him and he spoke no more. “It’s all dark…I—I can’t remember…”

“It’s all right. You need not tell us just yet,” Elrond soothed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It is enough; you are safe now.” When Galen relaxed and let his mind drift at last into peaceful slumber, Elrond pulled back with a sigh. “It is as much as we could have hoped for in the way of confirmation. It was not a dream then, but something more.”

For a minute Aragorn was confused; his nightmare had been driven clean out of his head by the events of the last hour. Now, he remembered and he bent over Galen but the elf was asleep. “What then? What happened to the others?”

“Since he left the battle before it was finished, I doubt he could know, Estel,” his father said gently. “And even if he did, I would not press him so hard now. It is better for him to forget for a little. Perhaps tomorrow he can tell us more.”

“What were they doing out near the Weather Hills, Adar?” Elladan asked.

“They were searching,” Elrond replied cryptically. He looked up towards the doorway. “Sadron, might I ask you to send a message to Gelmir? Tell him his son has returned.”

The attentive servant nodded once and whisked out of sight.

The lord of Rivendell glanced down again at his pale charge then bent and lifted Galen’s shoulders, motioning the twins closer. “Help me get him settled in one of the more comfortable guest rooms. He should not sleep on the floor even for what little remains of the night.”

Aragorn moved to help but Elrond stayed him. He could see the weariness and worry in the grey-green eyes of his youngest son. “Ion nin, why don’t you go catch up on some rest. Your night has been broken.”

The ranger nodded numbly and headed back upstairs towards his room but he knew even as tired as he was, sleep was the last thing on his mind. Dark-cloaked figures and bloody fighters chased around inside his head. He stayed awake until the first ashen tinges of dawn spread across the leaden sky.