_{NOTE: Elvish Translations under "Reference" on the Author's Notes page.}

INTO THE DARK AGAIN

by Wayfarer
(closetwayfarer at yahoo dot com)

Two
In Bree Long Ago, A Meeting Held In Haste

'Ranger! Mr. Strider! Ah, there you are, my good man.' Despite the familiar address, the ample landlord's discomfort was obvious. Unconsciously, he wrung out the cloth with which he had wiped the bar, while the object of his remarks turned away from the corner table and came over.

Smoke filled the common room of the Prancing Pony. A mingling of weed, beer and sweat threaded through the wafting smells of fresh bread and seasoned meats, mounting an odorous assault on all who entered. And the room was crowded, bustling with an endless flow of food and ale. There were men and hobbits, Bree-landers in close camaraderie, sharing tables, beer and yarns in harmony that was not to be had elsewhere. In the corner where some Outsiders huddled with the remains of an extravagant spread before them, a commotion was brewing: Bree-folk surrounded them, eager for news and strange tales from far away. Such good custom graced the inn that there was barely room for latecomers and the harried serving-men had had no opportunity to rest for the past three hours.

Full of bodies and awkward elbows as it was, any who had not staked a place at the busy bar faced a tough challenge to procure a tankard through the crush. Yet, the Breelanders who jostled there obliged with a clear place for the approaching figure. The interruption to their merriment did not dampen the drinkers' spirits. Rather, it was the sheer presence of the man, one of the many Rangers who stopped frequently at the inn. He was robed in a heavy dark green cloak, threadbare in places, and his face was hidden in the shadows of the garment's hood. Grips on tankards tightened as the merrymakers perceived the ominous aura emanating from him. It did not help that his reputation as 'One of them wandering folk', had preceded him.

The man did not pull his hood back, but his gaze was no less intense, seeming to blaze forth from far within the depths of the cowled robe. Barliman glanced nervously at the Ranger as he casually placed a hand on the bar, a fine silver ring adorning one of the long fingers, and suddenly the landlord felt very small.

'Mr. Butterbur?' he asked, bending low to meet the short landlord in the eye.

Barliman's throat went dry, and he wondered why it was so difficult to talk to him -- it had been easy enough to strike up conversation when serving the stranger. Suddenly he wished he had not agreed to the old man's request.

'Is something amiss?' queried Aragorn.

'Of -- of course not, Mr. Strider, take no offence!' replied the landlord. Suddenly gaining courage, he rambled on: 'Why, in fact, I count you among my best customers, though I am much surprised to see you back again so soon.' Barliman stopped as he realized what he had said. Then he quickly rambled on , hoping to cover his embarrassment: 'I may be kept busy with serving but that does not mean I forget about the accounts. Yes, I do appreciate your promptness in paying for the heartfelt services of my humble inn!' He glanced about the crowded room, unable as he was to hold the other's gaze.

The raucous chatter around the bar was suddenly subdued, some of the Bree-folk lowering their voices in guilty mumbling, reminded of their own unpaid bills.

'Then, pray tell, Mr. Butterbur, why was I hailed if not in pursuit of some unknown debt?'

Barliman felt sure he detected a note of amusement, but the Ranger's question reminded him of his task.

'Oh! Yes, someone is looking for you. Been here for, let's see, yes, eleven days now, he has. He has just gone out and asked that you wait for him here.'

'Oh? And what does he look like, this man?' asked the Ranger.

'Well, let's see. I think there is no other word to describe him than grey. Yes, strangely, everything about him is grey. Grey robes, grey beard, and a tall hat. Oh, that was blue though.' He laughed as he scrubbed the bar top, 'I remember how it used to get caught by the threshold, being tall himself and all. And he would curse as he ducked back out to retrieve the fallen hat. Even now, he would forget this old inn has low doorways!'

'I suppose he left a name?' returned the Ranger.

'Yes, yes! In a minute -- oh, pardon me there,' said Butterbur. 'Now where was I? Ah yes, this man -- an old one, name of Gandalf. I happen to know him as a friend in fact, though how that came about -- well, I'm a busy man, and I'm sure you will want your ale and food instead of my ramblings.' He paused, and the other looked hard at him.

'Was I saying too much? Goodness, how can I keep you from your rest? Tiring day? I suppose so, you rangers do walk a lot I must say,' he paused with a smile. After a quick glance at the clock, he said: 'Well, dinner for you I presume? I recommend the venison, not only for the magic the old lady has done on it but it's fresh in today! But then, we always serve the freshest and the best, of course.'

The tall man listened with forbearance, considerately waiting for the flood of words to slow to a trickle before asking, 'Will that be all? Mr. Butterbur?'

A little surprised by the Ranger's polite response, Barliman took a moment before he could offer the Pony's famous brew. 'Oh, and some ale to whet your appetite while you wait?'

'Thank you, I am much obliged.' Aragorn smiled his thanks, looking all the more menacing with teeth gleaming from the depths of the hood.

Barliman smiled in return, a little apprehensively. The Ranger looked no less a rascal to the landlord. The owner of the Prancing Pony, affectionately known among the regular patrons as Barley, wished the secretive Strider and his kind did not visit Bree so often. No doubt they were good custom, always prompt with payment, well-mannered in fact, for Barliman could not recall an instance where a fight was started by one of them. In truth, they kept to themselves exclusively, though upon request, they always obliged with news from the Outside and fantastical tales that, to his mind, trod too far on the wrong side of believable. But, they felt out of place to him, and they did put the other customers ill-at-ease whenever they appeared; often the flow of beer would halt as the men lost interest in their drinks. Barliman was thankful that once they settled down at their chosen tables, the Rangers seemed to melt into the background, so unobtrusive that the merry-making would resume.

The landlord shrugged off his distaste. Rangers or otherwise, it was honest money he got from them and to a busy man who lived by his own effort, that was all that mattered. He returned to the chores at hand, after watching with secret amusement as the Ranger sauntered to the table, bodies parting before him as men pressed back at his approach and moved out of his way instinctively -- an amazing feat in the crowded room.

--- --- ---

Aragorn sat by the fire, warming his hands, his long legs tucked under the stool. The fascinating flames danced, sinuous, shifting.

Behind him, an old man, long beard and hair streaked in grey and white, stood near the window, a smoking pipe in hand while his hat sat on the bed. Despite the semblance of age, he appeared otherwise hale and robust.

The Ranger waited for the wizard to speak. And true to form, it was not of the matters that had drawn him to Bree.

'Barliman should be commended for the fine fare he serves,' Gandalf said, Elvish rolling off his tongue silken smooth.

'Indeed,' Aragorn agreed. 'Yet, I am certain that it is not enough reason to drive anyone to travel so far north. Neither is the prospect of supping on the Pony's fare with a disreputable Ranger!'

They laughed, at ease in the intimacy and isolation of the room, away from prying eyes.

'Mae govannen, Mithrandir,' said Aragorn. 'Long has it been since we sat together thus.'

'Mae govannen!' replied the wizard. 'My apologies for calling you hither. I am relieved that you have spared my bones the agony of the frozen wastes at Fornost! But come now, before we embark on the reason for your summons, tell me how you have fared these past years. News travels far, and my ears have heard whispered accounts of forays into unknown lands, with solitude your sole companion. I hear of great deeds even now cast into legend.'

'Ah, news quickly turns into tales, does it not?' Aragorn laughed. 'The modest virtues that gave them birth grow beyond recognition.'

'Come come, my friend!' said Gandalf. 'Where is your love of storytelling? Surely you would not begrudge this old vagabond thin slivers of your adventures, that I might add to my store of tales to earn my keep at Imladris?'

'Do you not then claim to yourself the business of colourful yarns?'

Gandalf's eyes twinkled in amusement. 'I am chastened before the Lord Ranger! Pray forgive an old man hungry for tales that only the Dúnedain can tell.'

Though Aragorn frowned, there was a merry gleam in his eyes as he replied: 'Very well then! It seems I will get no peace until I have satisfied your hunger.'

And so they began to reminisce, renewing the bonds of friendship, long held in abeyance over time and distance, but as strong as ever they had been. After some time a silence fell and then Aragorn, leaning suddenly forward, said quietly: 'Well? Are you going to tell me why you asked me here?'

'Well now? Worthy deeds indeed, my dear friend,' smiled Gandalf. 'And now, I suppose you are burning with curiosity, and I see concern in your face.'

'I know you too well to believe for a moment that you have travelled this far merely to pass the time of day!' said Aragorn. 'What is it, Mithrandir? Now that we have eaten more than our fill and filled our pipes, must you still put off disclosing your true business here?'

The old man pulled up another chair to the other side of the fire, studying the Man.

'You are in pensive mood, Aragorn.'

'Good food and a fine tankard will do that sometimes,' said Aragorn wryly.

'Well then.' Gandalf searched Aragorn's face in earnest. Then he spoke, in a low voice: 'The Enemy is moving again.'

The Ranger felt relieved, 'Is that all? Forgive my bluntness, but it has been plain to see. Things are astir, and have been so for years now. Yes, even here in the desolation of the North. Increasingly, the reports point to a massing of the Enemy's forces. There has been unusual movement of birds and beasts, ranging around the Old Forest, and all but children are aware it bodes ill. Surely that is not the whole reason for you to seek my company? I have scarcely left Breeland, and Butterbur has barely time to make his peace with my last appearance before I was summoned by your message.'

'No. Despite the drink and my seeming age, I still keep my wits about me,' the wizard responded mildly. 'Yes, it is grievous indeed that I should purpose to test Barliman's sanity so.' He stood up, and began to pace as he spoke. 'I mean that he is moving faster. I have underestimated his ability and will in the matter. Perhaps it is my secret desire for peace that clouds my judgment. I fear that events are beginning to move at a pace, as of a storm gathering speed; I worry they may soon be beyond our grasp.' Aragorn wondered what it was that troubled Gandalf for it seemed that he was much too wary in his words. In turn Gandalf considered him as he returned his attention to the fire. 'I am late of the Shire, Aragorn. While I lingered there, certain matters were given much pause for thought and there is much I have had to ponder --'

Aragorn turned to the wizard, a quizzical brow arched, the air full of questions he did not ask. An odd look of hope and yet of apprehension flared in his eyes.

'What do you wish of the Dúnedain, Mithrandir?' he asked.

Gandalf debated the wisdom of letting the Ranger know everything at once. 'You have questions, and rightly so --'

There was a knock at the door.

'Ah, that must be Nob, come in the nick of time with the ale,' said the wizard with a wink.

He strode to the door, switching to Westron, 'Enter, my fine friend!'

With a flourish, he held the door wide open as a laden tray that seemed to have sprouted legs advanced in stately fashion into the room. Aragorn was pleased to note that on it sat two frothing jugs of the Pony's finest brew.

'Do you require help?' asked Gandalf of the tray.

'No, Mr. Gandalf, Sir,' a flustered voice answered. ''Tis just a small tray, I'll set it down fine. Not a drop will spill from the jugs.'

'Well then! Be so kind as to set this marvellous spread on the sideboard,' said Gandalf with a smile. 'That's a good lad.'

True to his word, the hobbit slid the groaning tray onto the cupboard with neither spillage nor waste. He stood beaming with pride as Gandalf rummaged for coins.

Consternation drowned the smile on his face when he saw the familiar shape of the Ranger by the hearth. Despite the Wizard's expectant look, the serving man did not depart. He shifted from foot to foot, 'Is there anything else we can do for you, Sir?'

Gandalf steered the hapless serving man toward the door. 'Well, Nob, it must be said that there's never a finer time for a grand entrance, nor an exit. Yes, you go now, that's a good lad. Nonsense, you're a sprig of youth in these eyes. No, no, truly, I require nothing else for the moment.'

Giving him a final shove, Gandalf smiled as he shut the door, 'Now I bid you good night!'

Nob stared in wide-eyed amazement, for he was not afforded the opportunity to utter a word, nor put in a grunt of protest edgewise at the Wizard's curt manner.

He brightened as the door opened again.

'Come not to disturb us unless you hear the bell. You and Barley both.'

The low tone in Gandalf's voice caused Nob to shake. It was heavy with purpose, so unlike the usually light-hearted old man. Nob had a sudden vision of skin boiling off his bones amid flaming wrath. But he was a true Breelander and so struggled with his inherent distrust of Rangers, the need to inform Butterbur and the onus Gandalf laid on him.

Then he sighed -- for it was truly the old man's own business whoever he chose to consort with after all -- and went bustling off to the common room.

Aragorn smiled to himself, for he had never seen anyone got rid of so effectively, and returned his attention to the fire.

Gandalf inspected the ale, adding a dash from an exquisite little flask.

'Right, that takes care of that,' he murmured in satisfaction. Then he reverted to the Elvish they were conversing in: 'Very well, Aragorn, this is no time for reticence, so I shall share all that I know. It begins with an account that is long in the telling. Do you remember the "Tale of Riddles"?'

'The story of the riddling game between a hobbit and a most disagreeable little creature of indeterminate race?' Aragorn nodded and said: 'It was the first tale Bilbo told me upon your return from Erebor, and I would have gladly forgone sleep to hear more.'

Gandalf sighed at the memories. 'Surely you understand -- I was being held responsible for the well-being of a child. A wizard I may be, but there is neither spell nor talisman in the world that would afford adequate protection if you were kept from bed!' He smiled and said drily: 'I must say, it was most gratifying to return to Imladris to find that we had earned your belief in the stories we left you with, though I would not have thought to be vouched for by stone statues.

'But I digress; it was more than just a riddling game, that I know for certain now. We shall be at it the whole night anyway, so here is the rest of the tale.' Gandalf paced as he spoke, shaping a tale that aroused a well of long hidden dread in the Dúnadan's mind, while at the same time a sudden spark of passion ignited his heart so that it almost burned him.

'So I fear that Isildur's Bane may yet abide in Middle-earth.' Gandalf finished.

Throughout the tale, Aragorn had been silent. When the wizard first named the Bane, he felt as if he was falling away from the fire, down into an endless pit. Emotions raged, and he strove to listen through the clash of hopes and fears.

'The Bane of my line --' Now that the tale has ended, he felt rather that the bottom of that pit had rushed up much too quickly to meet him. His throat constricted, and he stared at the wizard, trying to gather his scattering thoughts.

'Was it not lost in the vastness of the sea, long ago? Saruman The White -- the Council had presumed so!'

Gandalf shook his grey head: 'Presumptions, as you yourself say. I too hope that it is resting on the bottom of the sea, where it can wreak no further mischief upon the tired land. Yet, we know it is inevitable that such shall come to pass. Even as the Elder Race fade and the Younger arise, this will be another trial along the road.' Then, the wizard seemed to grow straighter and taller, his presence pressing against the confines of the room. 'But ere that comes to pass -- a reckoning of wills, the Sword reforged and a Line restored, and then,' Gandalf paused to draw breath, suddenly reassuming the familiar aspect of a bent old man. There was an abiding sadness as he continued, 'the end of an Age.'

Aragorn looked away, his hands seeking the comforting grip of the knife yet on his belt. Gandalf knew he was feeling the hilt of another blade, lying silent and waiting to be rekindled.

'The time draws nigh, Aragorn,' he said. 'I do not think it a mere whimsy to say the final dance shall begin anon. When and where -- well, not even the Wise can say for certain. But history has a habit of repeating itself.' When Aragorn turned to look at him, Gandalf continued: 'Whether it be by mischief or virtue, the end of things is glimpsed as through a tantalizing mist that cannot be parted, even for the Wise. Surety is what I crave desperately, for I have not the confidence to vouch for what I know. I need proof, and I need you, Aragorn.'

His pale face drawn, Aragorn stood up, reaching for the ale.

'Ai, with the one stroke you kindle dread and hope both,' he whispered as he raised a tankard to his parched lips. Eyes widened, he lowered it. There seemed to be an unusual sparkle to the ale. 'Miruvor? My thanks, Mithrandir.'

He toasted the Wizard and drank his fill, but did not return to the fireplace. Instead he stared through the dusty window panes, where the revelry in the Pony had spilled onto the midnight streets, already dim while the road lamps sputtered, dying from spent fuel.

The cloistered Bree-folk were blissfully unaware that here was a Ranger, the Dúnadan, speaking to a wizard about matters that might yet work irrevocable changes on their uncomplicated world.

'So, the Doom of Isildur will rule us yet.' Aragorn recalled the words that Elrond gifted to him soon after his twentieth year: 'A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin.[1]'  Words that had driven Aragorn's life. At that moment he felt a strange peace as his mind caught up with the turmoil of his heart. Suddenly clear to him now, as the calming of stormy seas, he grasped at the choice before him.

Watching Aragorn's face, Gandalf wondered if he was right after all to disclose so much in such blunt fashion. Yet, there was no avoiding what the fates mete out, especially to one such as he.

Reconciled then, Aragorn returned to his seat.

'So be it!' He spoke quietly, pushing all doubt into a corner of his heart that it may leave him free to do what he must.

The wizard relaxed, relieved when he saw the determination glistening in the Dúnadan's eyes. Plagued by doubt and hesitation he may be, but he would not break, not easily, for he was made of sterner stuff than the common man. Throughout his long life, Aragorn had driven himself, seeking the height of expectation that had been laid upon his shoulders. His face was lined with care and his hair was flecked with grey, but for one of his race he was considered young and yet in his prime and strength. Tireless, he had never allowed himself a moment of idleness and had never turned aside from danger.

'Well, what do you wish of me?'

'Your eyes and skills, the strength of the Dúnedain, nothing and everything.' Gandalf sighed again, and pulled up a chair. The fiery colours of the warm flames masked the grim light in his face. 'Gollum -- it began with him. And I must procure an interview with him,' said Gandalf. 'He has eluded me before. And I have left it alone for far too long. Would that I had persisted in the chase after the Elves had relinquished the hunt!

'But come, there is no purpose, or as Barley would likely say, no profit at all in dwelling on past misdeeds. If Gollum yet lives, and I have no doubt that he does, I know he will make for the Shire again, drawn as a moth to the lamp. To one such as he, the infernal hatred he nurtures will see to that. I hope I can intercept him before he casts himself into the flame. With what I now know, I believe that it is the Shire itself teetering on the brink of disaster. The least that can be done is to set a stronger guard around the hobbits.'

'It shall be done,' said Aragorn. 'To think that the fate of Middle-earth should lie on those small shoulders! Bilbo is certainly an amazing creature. Adventures? His reputation in Hobbiton is not far from what they think of Rangers here then.' He shook his head. 'But for the small folk to be entangled in matters not entirely of their doing is a terrible Doom for a people who walk heedless of the world beyond their borders. And it is scarcely believable, that the Ring-holder had been a shadow haunting the Hithaeglir, and the Ring near at hand, hitherto unknown even to its Master for centuries.' Aragorn sat thinking, absentmindedly preparing his pipe. 'A thought, Mithrandir. We shall certainly strengthen the watch, but as you say, time is of the essence. There is more that we can do and if you will heed my counsel, my sword and my skills are yours to command.

'It grows late, and I do not mean the night. Should we be content with lying in wait for the creature? Do we wait, even if it takes a hundred years? We would be as trolls caught in the sun's light, with no chance for reparation!' Aragorn leaned forward in earnest, his grey eyes kindled with a rare flame, purpose lighting his stern face. 'The trap shall be set, but we shall do more than wait for it to spring. The Enemy is moving, you say. So then shall we, for we may yet reap better harvest if we went after the creature.'

'Yes,' said Gandalf, stroking his beard. 'That is sound advice indeed, and I shall be glad of your skills in this.'

'Good, we shall cast a net both wide and far. But this is a trail that may yet lead us into the Black Land – a plan is needed.'

Gandalf sighed: 'And so it shall begin again. But no more this night --'

The vigorous calls of a distant cockerel were heralding an early dawn, even as the first light of day wended its way into the sky, lighting the crisp autumn air with a fiery glow. 'Or should I say morning. This weary old man needs rest now. A bed before I fall crashing to the ground!'

'Very well, old friend.' Aragorn stood up. 'I shall leave to your rest, quel esta.'

Sleep, despite the long night, was beyond Aragorn, and he desired to begin preparations at once. He crossed the hallway, and descended the narrow stairs with ease; the unlit passage troubled him little for he had traversed it many times. It was only when he reached the main doorway that he hesitated, undecided between the door that led to the outside and the one on his right. Through it the muffled din of the Pony's morning labour could be heard.

A long day was before him, and he knew heavy thoughts required much sustenance. Reaching forth, he pushed at the door, and smiled as the smell of new-baked loaves greeted him. He paused, breathing the refreshing fragrance before entering the common room. Then he stopped beside the bar and waited to be served.

It was early yet, and the candles in the common room were almost spent; the flickering flames harboured shadows that sidled in and out of every nook and cranny. In the waning light, Barliman and his serving men, busy laying the breakfast spread, were as wraiths wandering under a dim sickle moon.

Aragorn frowned at the grim humour in himself, to imagine such dark things within the Pony's confines when the day was so young yet.

Unaware that a Ranger stood at the threshold, those who were breaking their fast within were enjoying the generous helpings, at ease as murmurs of conversation filled the air, accompanied by the rhythmic clash of forks and knives on plates.

The irony of the noisy bustle was not lost on Aragorn. Ever so slightly, he shook his head and continued to wait patiently as Barliman approached the bar.

With the tray deposited at the bar, the landlord turned, and a frown creased his forehead. He wondered that he had not noticed the Ranger before, and how long he had been standing there, watching with that disconcerting calm. He took a deep breath, and tried to greet the man in a manner he hoped would be unobtrusive to the custom.

'Morning, Mr. Strider. Breakfast?' said Barliman. Instantly, the room was hushed. Barliman might as well have announced the Ranger with a bugle call.

Aragorn nodded. The landlord, keen to restore the mood, swiftly led the way to the Ranger's favoured table.

'There's fresh bread or porridge if you prefer?' Barliman asked as he took out a cloth. 'We've got some lovely fruit and honey that will go well with the porridge but bread will be a good complement to fresh eggs and newly smoked bacon.' He finished wiping the table. 'Which will it be?'

'Bread then,' came the curt reply.

'Long night was it?' Barliman continued. 'How about some herb-tea to wake the tired mind up? I'll brew it strong.'

Aragorn raised his head, an unreadable look on his face. It was the most the landlord had ever said to him, of his own will. 'Yes, thank you,' he said.

Under that gaze, Barliman hesitated, though he desired to say more. 'There's cider too, newly passed from late apples,' he offered instead.

In return he got another nod from the impassive Ranger. Familiar with the close nature of these men, Barliman knew better than to attempt to engage this particular one in further conversation; though he was afire with curiosity at Gandalf's anxiety to meet with him.

The news of the past night lied heavy, and the sight of the generous breakfast did not lift his appetite; Aragorn barely tasted the food as he ate. Yet, he knew better than to refuse a chance for a warm meal.

His table soon cleared, Aragorn began to mull over Gandalf's words.

Alone with his thoughts, he opened his tobacco pouch, and out fell a neat square packet, a gift from Gandalf. On it were stamped these words:

'HORNBLOWER
Finest of Longbottom Leaf'

Even tightly packed as the pipeweed was, its legendary pungency tempted Aragorn. He fingered the packet, feeling the smoothness of the waxed paper.

'Fine indeed,' he said. 'I shall have to keep it against this journey's need.' With a touch of regret, he returned it to the pouch, and drew forth another open packet, the weed's lesser quality betrayed by the feeble smell.

Bilbo -- his riddle game had seemed like a light-hearted tale compared to his account of the Battle of Five Armies, bred of violence, greed and vengeance. Yet the true significance of it had only began to surface in the wake of the previous night. It was strange that beside it, a tumultuous event such as the Battle would pale, dwindled into a petty squabble.

A mere span of distance would not daunt a Dúnadan, but time stood between that event and the hunt he purposed. Sixty years was a very long gap to close, and yet Aragorn did not think it a hopeless pursuit for he perceived a detail that was to their advantage -- the Wood-elves had helped Gandalf to track the creature. Known for their woodcraft, they would be able to provide information that would be of aid to the hunt. Still, there was much to see to.

As Butterbur sat newly arrived guests at the last available table and began to fret about the custom he would have to turn away when the empty table in the corner caught his eye. He frowned again, for there was no evidence of the Ranger, save the cold heap of pipeweed ash on the table. He wondered, not for the first time, how those wanderers were able to come and go with such silence.

--- --- ---

The door was brought to softly, and Aragorn straightened his back as he stepped away from the low threshold. The sun had won free of the horizon, but the heavy autumn mists lingered, veiling the street as Bree-hill shielded the village from the sun's cold rays.

The hill's shadow would keep the village grey and cheerless in its brooding grasp until late morning. It suited Aragorn well, for it kept late-rising villigers indoors, and despite the morning bustle, the street was already empty, quiet save for faint echoes of coughing fits and protests by children unwilling to rise from beds. Aragorn felt thankful that he was spared the curious covert stares as he sought the South-gate.

Still, his passage did not go unnoticed: as he neared the gate, he heard a flurry of fast light steps that grew loud, then halted before they began again, growing soft as they went away from him; and then the sound of a door shut in haste. It was then that Aragorn reflected that he should have been more prudent in choosing a way other than the open Road. It was too late to retrace his steps and so he continued, drawing nigh a house hidden by tall hedges that looked in need of a good pruning.

From within, a young voice on the verge of manhood was chanting, and as he neared the words rang clear:

There he goes, stick-at-naught Strider
Another good-for-naught ranger
Stealing about in the wee-hours
Last thing he wants is picking flowers—

Aragorn ignored the childish taunt, for the Ferny household had gained a name among the Dúnedain for its hostility, and the boy was merely showing signs of being his father's son. Aragorn only hoped the chanting had not drawn attention to his going.

Swiftly, he moved past the house, and silence enveloped him once more, for that was the last house that lined the Road as it curved to the left, toward the South-gate and the rising sun. The light slanted onto the yellowing grass, marking a clear border between the dawn and the shade of the hill's shadow. Soon he descried the red rays of dawn, mingled in frail tendrils of mist rising above the hulking shade of Bree-hill.

Beyond the gate, Aragorn followed the Road as it led him South. But he did not intend to let it lead him far; soon he stopped and turned to a faint track veering to the North.

There the mist laid dense, held down by the interlacing clutch of tall grass. The cold autumn air tasted pure and its chill touch in his lungs lightened the burden that had borne down upon him. Ghostly shapes of balding trees seem to shift as the sunlight stirred in the clinging mists, and mounds loomed, resembling stone trolls laying in wait, now nigh, now far, at the ready to pounce on the unwary. Yet, the eerie fog daunted him not, for Aragorn was familiar with the lay of the land, and he relied on ears as keen as his eyes for warning of danger unseen. Toward Chetwood he began, his long stride unhurried as he enjoyed the peace of the quiet woodlands.

The tall grass rustled as he passed, the sounds muffled by the blanketing mist, while his robe and boots began to feel heavy, dampened by cloying dewdrops. He held the cloak close that it would not trail and leave signs for others to follow. His pace slowed as the earth began to soften. He would not gain Chetwood before nightfall; but neither the wood nor the little village of Archet was his destination.

The sound of familiar steps came near behind him, seeming in a frantic rush, yet trying at the same time for stealth. It was the Ferny boy and he had done remarkably well to keep apace. Aragorn smiled, for it seemed the boy had learned from his last attempt to trail a Ranger, and had prepared himself by training his body and studying the concealed pathways. But, he had not learnt the lesson well enough, for he still did not admit that Rangers were more than his match. Aragorn quickened his pace, changing from path to path, leading the boy around in circles. When he knew the boy had lost his tracks amid the concealing mists, he resumed his journey. After a half hour, he turned off into a wooded vale.

Concealed within was a clearing. There was a banked fire at the feet of a great elm tree, the remains of a hastily forsaken campsite. The smoke was still rising into overhanging branches.

'I was wondering if the Lord of the Dunedain might have lost his way,' came a voice, behind and to the right of Aragorn.

He turned to see the shadows coalesce into a tall man, garbed in gear similar to his.

'I was delayed,' Aragorn said, his tone mild.

'You were followed?' the man said, disapproval plain in his voice. 'The boy?'

Aragorn nodded. 'He will learn his lesson while we speak.'

'I hope he learns it well this time,' said the other.

'I will see to it,' Aragorn promised.

'What does Mithrandir want?' said the man then. He came forward, and looked closely as Aragorn stood before him. 'You are not returning to Fornost.'

His kinsman smiled: 'None knows me as well as you, Halbarad.'

Halbarad grunted; whether in understanding or disapproval, it was not certain.

He returned to the fire. 'This will be a lengthy council then,' he said. 'There is no reason to shiver while we speak, is there?'

'None at all,' Aragorn agreed.

Silence fell upon the clearing once more while Halbarad coaxed the fire ablaze.

'Well?' Halbarad asked as his hands began to warm again.

Aragorn considered him for a moment. He said: 'What think you of the Shire's watch?'

'The Shire?' Halbarad repeated, as a frown formed on his brow. 'What am I to think? It is part of our care and we watch over it as well as we can, though I would that more was not needed for my peace of mind. But why do you ask?'

Aragorn studied the fire. At length he said: 'There are things afoot -- I would double the watch.'

'There are always things afoot!' retorted Halbarad. 'Dangers press in on the periannath, and the perimeter shrinks, faster than ever with the Old Forest growing more fey with each passing day. They are like the fish of a lake in drought, unaware of their danger, until it is perhaps too late. But we are a dwindling folk -- it is already with much sacrifice that we toil at the watch. Winter comes and with it the wolves from the Waste.' He paused, gathering some wayward thought. Presently, he continued and there was a note of pain in his voice. 'The last one was -- it was difficult enough to endure, and now you purpose to thin the ranks in the Angle despite the coming snow?' he asked. Another moment more he took to compose himself, then he rasped: 'For I do not see how else we can strengthen the Shire's watch; Aragorn, my lord, we need to look to our own!'

'What, then, would you?' Aragorn returned.

Halbarad's eyes flashed, but he said nothing. After a moment he avoided his kinsman's gaze; not many could long endure it and he had no desire to challenge his captain. Already, he regretted the outburst.

'Halbarad, listen to me,' Aragorn said.

Reluctantly, the Ranger met his lord's eyes, and was a little startled by the gleam of earnest purpose he saw in them.

'Let it go,' said Aragorn gently. 'I, too, am learning to endure the grief, for the loss of my people is my loss.' He paused, as his grey eyes darkened at some distant memory. When he resumed, his voice had changed: 'Leastways, I hold the grief as my own but I do not dwell overmuch on matters beyond repair. While the land lies quiet, I was content to let you soothe your sorrow as you will. But now the Lord of the Dunedain requires the strength of his second-in-command; Halbarad, I can wait on you no longer.'

Halbarad looked at his kinsman. Grave of demeanor Aragorn was, but it was seldom that he spoke so sternly nor called attention to his birthright. It was not Strider the ranger who spoke, but Aragorn, son of Arathorn: Isildur's Heir.

With sudden insight, Halbarad recalled his words: 'Things are afoot.'

Afoot indeed if they would cause such concern from the Lord of the Dunedain, thought Halbarad. The Ranger was mindful of his own painful reticence during the past years. The time for his own grief was past, his lord had need of him. He looked up at Aragorn. 'You do not have to wait any longer, my lord,' he said solemnly.

'Thank you,' Aragorn said. Well aware of what it cost his kinsman to utter those words, he knew it had been a cruel way to remind Halbarad of his duty, but he could ill afford the time to prepare his steward nor was it his wont to play at subtlety.

Meanwhile, he sat himself on the other side of the fire. He waited for the questions he knew would come once Halbarad had ordered his thoughts, for he understood it was simply the frustration his kinsman felt that had caused his outburst.

'Can it not wait on Spring?' asked Halbarad.

Aragorn said nothing for it was Halbarad's wont to reason aloud.

'Nay, it would not have been asked if it could wait,' Halbarad mused. 'Danger draws nigh, and it quickens, the activity in the Old Forest is evidence enough.'

'There is more,' said Aragorn then. 'Mithrandir expects one called Gollum to try for the Shire. What he is, I cannot tell you, for Mithrandir himself is not certain. Yet, what little is known of him is enough to help distinguish him: he is of hobbit stature, with a great love of water, but unlike hobbits, he seems afraid of light and is a stealthy hunter. He climbs trees well and has shown a great liking for flesh and has no qualms snatching children from their cradles. He is no easy quarry; already he has eluded the Elves of Mirkwood.'

Halbarad frowned, considering his words. 'And what would the wizard have us do with such a creature?' he asked, though it seemed he already knew the answer.

'Trap him and keep him safe, until Gandalf has had a chance to interview him. Do not allow him to enter the Shire at any cost!' said Aragorn.

'Of course!' he said with a wry twist of the lips. Though he wondered at the wizard's interest in the strange creature, Halbarad said nothing of what he thought of it. Instead, he began to recall the movements of the Rangers.

'Rácadagnir is already at Fornost and Hrívion will cross Chetwood by tomorrow. They have been training the new rangers. While it is yet Autumn, it would be a good time to bring in the ones who have passed the tests and acquaint them with the Shire,' he mused. 'We could leave Aldatur in charge and let them watch over the periannath while Rácadagnir and Hrívion shall see to the northern borders.'

He stopped stirring the fire. 'I too, will travel to the Shire,' he decided. 'Perhaps we will have news of this Gollum -- and I could see to the traps myself.'

Aragorn nodded. 'It would set my mind at ease, to know you will take personal charge of the task.'

'I will not deny that a creature that can escape the Wood-elves' ken is a formidable quarry, a challenge not to be refused!' said Halbarad. He turned then to Aragorn's change of plans: 'Now, what else did Mithrandir say? Surely you can return to Fornost for a visit even if you intend to spend the winter in the Shire?'

'As yet there is much that I cannot say,' Aragorn began. 'And I do not wish to leave you with half-truths --' He paused, lost in thought. It seemed to Halbarad he chose the words with care as he said: 'But it is not to the Shire I am going. Mithrandir requires a guide --'

'Ah.'

'Ah?' said Aragorn, an eyebrow arched.

Halbarad ignored it. 'Never meddle in the affairs of wizards, it is said. Say no more!' he cried.

'You say that, though you availed yourself of his request?' Aragorn said with a wry look, glad that Halbarad's mood was no longer grim.

'And you shall be gone until the next Winter? Or the next decade?' Halbarad countered instead, only half in jest.

Aragorn smiled. 'I do not know, ' he admitted. 'It may be that I shall be gone for two years, but I shall return after that, whether this venture succeed or not.'

'Very well,' said Halbarad as he rose. A few strands of light had strayed in through the balding eaves. 'I should be leaving if I were to gain on Hrívion by tomorrow.' He threw down the faggot and said: 'There is much to do and I would be at Fornost before the Winter comes.'

Wordlessly, Aragorn nodded. 'And I should return to the Pony,' he said. He watched as Halbarad prepared his pack.

'Send what word you can to Elrond,' he said.

'Of course,' replied Halbarad. Soon, he was ready but for one last matter. As he moved to put out the fire, Aragorn stopped him.

'Leave it,' he said. 'I need its company for a while yet.'

Halbarad nodded in understanding. 'Do not linger overlong, kinsman,' he admonished.

'Just for a little,' Aragorn assured him, 'before I return to terrorise Barliman anew.'

Halbarad laughed, and then solemnly, he embraced his kinsman. 'Namarie, Aragorn,' he said before melting into the shadows under the elm.

Noon was nigh when Aragorn left the vale. The day had turned grey, and the mists, though thinned by the sun, lingered still. In the distance, clusters of treetops were visible above the fog, beckoning like a fleet of ships at harbour, hues of red and amber turning the lush treetops into golden crowns.

He would not return by the way he came, for that would surely draw the villagers' interest, to see Strider busy with his secretive comings and goings. There were other, less obvious ways. Before he did, however, he had a piece of unfinished business.

The Ferny boy was near to where he had lost Strider, pacing under some poplars. Panting and muttering under his breath, he seemed more concerned with losing sight of the Ranger, unperturbed that his quarry might return; or perhaps the thought that the Ranger might return did not occur to him.

Through the grey mist, the Ranger watched him for a moment – satisfied that the boy was unharmed, save, perhaps, for his pride. He turned to leave, but the sight of the thicket of nettles caught his eye. He frowned, for the mist concealed another danger nigh to the cruel vines.

He strode up to the boy.

'Lor!' the boy exclaimed as Strider loomed noiselessly up before him. Flustered, he stepped back, arms raised to shield his face. He felt the nettles' stinging grasp as they tangled his feet. Backwards he fell, and arms flailed. He closed his eyes, braced for more pain. But there was none, even after long moments had passed.

Slowly he opened his eyes. Then he became aware that he was swinging above the ground, held up by his right arm. The mist had parted, stirred by his struggles. Sharp rocks sat beneath his feet, and lied here and there as the ground fell away into a barren hollow. He would have had a nasty fall but for the firm grip on his wrist. He shuddered.

'Frightened?' said a voice that made his skin crawl, near to his ear. 'Remember how it feels when you are tempted again to meddle in business not your own.'

The boy's eyes widened. 'Let go! Let me go or I'll tell my dad!' he shouted, struggling harder.

'Let you go?' said the Ranger softly. 'Were I to leave you be, you would have taken a nasty fall.'

'You--you scared me!' the boy shouted. 'It's your fault if I fall! I'm going to tell Dad, just you wait!'

The Ranger said nothing, but merely held the arm, though he was careful to keep clear of the boy's thrashings. Patiently, he waited.

In vain the boy cried and struggled. Finally, he quietened down though he trembled still, frightened almost out of his wits to be held thus by the Ranger.

And so it was that he stood for a moment when Strider set him on the ground away from the wicked rocks, stunned that the Ranger did him no harm. Then he scrambled beyond Strider's reach and turned around to spit on the ground between them, proud at his own daring.

Strider merely looked at him. Disconcerted by the unblinking gaze, he turned and ran away.

The Ranger shook his head and turning another way, disappeared into the stand of trees.

--- --- ---

Night came early for the sun had dropped behind a high cloudbank, leaving only feeble rays to fend off the coming darkness.

Gandalf lay in his bed, glad to be able to rest before midnight.

Aragorn had returned in the early afternoon, with assurance that the Shire's watch would be strengthened. And aware that another lengthy council was at hand, Gandalf had asked for food to be brought to his room again. Thankfully, it ended much earlier than the previous night's session.

Aragorn had decided to leave Bree right away while Gandalf was to stay the night, and meet with him at dawn, beyond the South-gate. So this night at least, the wizard would enjoy the warmth of a comfortable bed.

'To Mirkwood then,' Gandalf murmured drowsily as he drifted off in sleep.

His eyes flew open at the sound of light tapping. He turned his head, for it came from the door. He waited.

There came another tentative knock.

'What in--' he muttered as he threw off the blankets.

He drew a breath and with his back still stiff from being rudely awakened, made his way to the door with careful steps.

Someone was speaking through it. 'Gandalf, wake up.' It was Butterbur.

'Yes?' Gandalf rasped, his voice thick with sleep.

'Open the door,' he called.

The door creaked, an ominous warning amidst the silence of the late night.

With a fist on his hip, Gandalf said: 'Well, Barley, I'm flattered that you would miss my company, but it's late and I'm all ready for bed if you can't tell.'

'Late? Why it's morning already!' whispered Barliman. 'It's dawn now, can't you tell? Oh yes, another grey dawn, 'tis autumn afterall.' At Gandalf's look, he said: 'You did ask to be woken before first light.' He peered beyond the window the tall man's fisted arm shaped with his body, and shivered as mist breath escaped his shuddering lips. 'Though first crow would be more apt today.'

'Why do you whisper then?' asked Gandalf, a little irritated.

'I don't want to wake the other guests. Oh, here you go,' he pushed the bundle he was clutching into the wizard's hands. When Gandalf showed no sign of taking the bundle, he explained: 'You seemed eager for an early start, so here's food you can eat on your way.' He hesitated, then said: 'I wouldn't take the South-gate, if I were you.'

'And why would I not?' returned Gandalf.

'Ferny's house sits at the end--' Barliman began.

'He owns neither Road nor gate!' said Gandalf, annoyed.

'Yes, but you were seen with the Ranger--' said Barliman, as he tried again to press the bundle into the wizard's hands.

Gandalf nodded. 'I see.' Reaching forth, he accepted the bundle. Then he smiled at the flustered landlord. 'Thank you, Barley.'

Butterbur dismissed the gratitude with an awkward wave of the hand. ''Tis what any friend would do. Take care of yourself,' he said as he grasped Gandalf's hands. 'I must return to the common room now.' He began to turn away, then stopped. His voice lowered, Butterbur said: 'And I hope you've learnt your lesson --.' He paused, and then he cast a look down the hallway. 'Stay away from them Rangers!' he whispered fiercely. Then he disappeared down the hallway.

Gandalf smiled with fondness. If you but only knew, my dear Butterbur, he thought with a resigned shake of his head. 'Well,' he said then to himself. 'I have yet to find my way to the Road without going through the gate. This would be as a good time as any to try.'

He dressed swiftly and made his way to the main door.

'It is not far. Perhaps if I hurry, --' he murmured as he opened the door.

Softly he closed the door and peered into the unlit street. 'I hope Aragorn has got a nice fire,' he muttered as he shivered. He looked up and down the street. 'Of course, I would need to find him first.'

'Worry not,' said a familiar voice in the common tongue. Then it added in a language not many knew: 'Mithrandir.'

Gandalf peered into the shadows. 'Aragorn?' he hissed.

'This way,' answered the voice as a long-fingered hand beckoned.

Gandalf followed into the dim lane.

The gleam of silver and the soft creaking of leather were all the clues he had to find the Ranger by.

'I thought you might need help in this lightless dawn,' Aragorn whispered, as if he knew what Gandalf would say. 'Come, I know you are tired still -- you shall be able to get many hours of sleep this evening for I plan to stop early.'

'You mean hours of sleeplessness!' Gandalf said, as he pulled his cloak tight against the gathering cold.

'Would you rather travel through the night then?' asked Aragorn, as he strode away to the corner.

Gandalf caught up. 'What, and miss rolling in the hedges?' he shot back.

'It would be more enjoyable than tossing restlessly in a comfortable bed,' Aragorn agreed, leading the way forward.

'And the stars would be better company,' he returned, though a smile spread across his face. Then he followed the Ranger's lead, toward the Road.

<sub>Footnotes
1. The Lord Of The Rings - Appendices; Appendix A, 'Here Follows A Part Of The Tale Of Aragorn And Arwen'</sub>

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