Author’s Note:

This is the last chapter of ‘Untrodden Path’. It is also the last piece of fanfiction I wrote for the Tolkien universe.

Thank you readers for your reviews, witty comments, praise and approval. It’s been a pleasure sharing thoughts and opinions with you. I enjoyed it immensely and therefore I somewhat hate to leave.

Thanks to all of you, who recommended my works to other fellow readers and spread the word. I assume, that without that support the stories would have reached only half of you. I’m deeply grateful. And I have reason to be grateful because ‘Castle’ made it to the semi-finals of the Mithril Awards, and the other stories are nominated for different awards, too, which is a great reward, regarding the fact that I have written only so few works.

I didn’t quit writing, though. Within the time this story was posted, I wrote four novel-length stories. Unfortunately for you they do no longer deal with our fellow ranger and his friends, but have their own domains. I might return one day for there are still ideas, which could develop into whole stories, given it time to take shape in my head. So don't give up on me entirely. :) There was that idea about... well, no, I won't tell.

If some of you want to stay in contact, I gladly appreciate it for the communication with all of you is the best an author can get.

Hugs,

Timmy

July 2^nd, 2006

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Epilogue

   The company did not dare rest for long. The Orcs would swarm the hills and dale after nightfall, and they would not be able to throw them back. So the Dwarves once more took the lead and brought the Men to a hideout beyond the mere. It looked like a wall of solid stone first, but behind the hidden entrance, there was a cavern big enough for all of them to settle down. The Dwarves brought water and in the rear corner kindled a small fire. It had a small natural chimney that led away from the side of the mere so that they did not worry that the Orcs would smell the smoke.

   Furin took off the trembling and whining bundle. He released Gollum, but made sure he would not dare to try to escape. Once Gollum tried to reach the entrance, but when Lini barred it and showed the beast his bloodied axe, Gollum hunched over and sat down miserably.

   “Let us go! We mean no harm!” Still Lini did not give way, so the beast growled and became angry. “Filthy Dwarves! Hurting poor Gollum!” And he whined again and this time even louder.

   Furin pitied him and even more so when he saw the beast had been wounded in the forearm and foot during the skirmish. Snarling, Gollum refused any treatment. He snatched the water-skin out of Furin's hand and – when he saw the exit still barred – retreated to the farthest corner of the cave, where he sat on the ground to lick his wounds.

   Strider watched the Dwarf's vain attempts to help the old beast. He had settled down on the ground and tried to catch his breath. His leg and chest were agony by now. Pain gripped him so tightly he felt as if he were being strangled. His body urged to be released from the strain.

   “It is finally time to rest,” Daevan said quietly beside him, and through exhaustion shone a victorious grin. “We made it this far. I still cannot believe it.” He shook his head slightly. He was exhausted beyond reckoning, but in exuberant spirits, which could not even be drowned even by his injuries. He untied the water-skin from his pack and handed it Strider. “To the victory.”

   “To your prowess, my friend.” He held the young man in his gaze. “This is the moment when dawn dispels the night, and the day shines the clearer. This is your victory, Daevan from the marshes.”

   Daevan lowered his eyes, feeling strange at being praised by the Great Warrior, but still proud to have heard it.

   “Thank you, Strider.”

   Strider drank, but then insisted on tending to Daevan's wounds. The young man did not resist or complain; the pain in his arm and leg was reason enough to lie still and let the healer do his work.

   Only then, did the wanderer give in to his weakness and grant his body some rest.

-o-o-o-o-

   Grima was early. He always tried to be early to see if the servants he commanded did their work according to his bidding. It had always been the time to find out that all the creatures only hurried while he was present. Silently watching them, he then gathered information about what the Orcs and Men did while they thought themselves unobserved.

   Thus Grima and his escort reached the plateau of the Dimrill Gate in the waning light of a pleasant and warm spring day. From afar, they had already seen black birds circling the air, and the cries of the crows had warned them of impending danger. Grima had sent forward his guards, and upon their return and report he cursed the stupidity of the Dunlendings. Quickly he strode toward the plateau.

   Gurim lay drenched in his blood. Sharp axes had brought him down, and he could no longer move. He outstretched a hand towards the approaching servant of the sorcerer. There was fear and pain in his dark eyes, yet also despair.

   “You must help me, Grima, please!”

   Grima only bared his teeth, disgusted at the sight of the destruction in the wake of the skirmish. It must have been appalling, he realized, and was glad he had not been present earlier.

   “What happened? Where are the captives? And where is the beast?”

   “Gone…” Gurim swallowed, coughing up blood when he tried to breathe. “They are all gone. Down to…” He drew in breath once more, but felt his strength fading. “Gone… at midday.”

   “You lost the captives?” He kicked Gurim viciously in his side. The Dunlending whined with pain. “Answer me! How could you scum lose them all?”

   “They fought us… fought their way through.”

   “You useless ape!” Grima spat. In a fluent motion, he grabbed a spear from an Uruk standing beside him and thrust the weapon's sharp blade through Gurim's chest. “There is a change in command now!”

   Abruptly Grima turned to where Hrunas had fallen. He turned him with the tip of his boot on to his back. However, the Dunlending had been wounded too badly to regain consciousness. With a short gesture Grima ordered him to be killed too. Still he was outraged. The Men and the beast… How could they have escaped? How was it possible that a whole army had not been able to hold two Men back? Why would he not return to Isengard with all of them bound and defeated to present them to Saruman and be praised for his cunning behaviour? How could he get his hands on the treasures of the Dwarves now?

   Grima kicked the dead Hrunas. Too late he realised that Gurim had not told him where the fugitives had escaped to. And he only had four Uruk-hai about him to start a search. He pondered long while the day waned what would be the best decision.

   And when the sun set and the Orcs left the darkness of the mine for the darkness of the open land to hunt, Grima shied away from the vicious and relentless beasts and did not dare ask for their allegiance, but retreated from the plateau as fast as he could.

-o-o-o-o-

   With the Hammer of Aulé carefully wrapped in a piece of cloth, the Dwarves made ready to leave. It was a new and bright day, and the sun lightened their hearts as well as the aftermath of the victory.

   Lini strode up to Daevan and Strider and bowed low.

   “You proved yourself worthy of the great name once given,” he said politely.

   “Your kin displayed the sturdiness and vigour it is known for,” replied Strider. “We owe you gratitude for your skill in time of need.”

   “At your service, Thorongil.” Lini turned and made way for Furin, who almost smiled at the prospect of returning home. Though it was a long way, the hardest part was over.

   “I am overwhelmed with joy to say that the alliance with you was worth the risk.”

   “At your service and that of your family. I am grateful you placed your faith in me.”

   “But I will not forget the young lad's rescue of the Hammer of Aulé when all thought it to be lost,” said Furin and bowed lowly to Daevan, whose face reddened immediately.

   Strider looked at him, urging him to answer.

   “It… it shall be told that a vow shall never be broken,” he presently said, and Furin looked up to him expectantly. “Even though we are not of the same kin.”

   “Aye, that shall be remembered.”

   There were many words and wishes for the luck of the Men and in return for the Dwarves, and when they had bowed to each other the free folk of the mountains set out to their own realm.

   Strider, Daevan, and Gollum remained behind for another day of rest. The cave gave them shelter, the Mirrormere gave them water, and though they had little food they were content. Daevan had never thought of the outcome of their journey. But at no time, he had wished his choice had been different and that he had stayed with his grand-father. He held the wanderer – the Eagle of Star, he reminded himself – in high esteem, and every lesson he had been taught he cherished. But only now did he see the wisdom behind the older man's teaching.

   Strider knew. Though they did not exchange words, he knew of Daevan's mood; he could read the signs of gratitude and contentment, he saw Daevan smile while he was lost in reverie. And when the sun announced a new day in the spring of that year, Strider left the cave with the young man at his side and a very unhappy and complaining Gollum on a leash. The wanderer still limped, but the wound was mending. Daevan slipped his left hand into the belt and looked on Mirrormere. It lay beautiful in the rising sun, a place to remember. His gaze was filled with longing, but when he faced Strider there was anxiety also. He tried to cover it with a wry smile.

   “Shall we walk, or have I to carry you for a while longer?”

   Strider but lifted his brows.

   “Are you sure to accompany me further? It is a long way to Mirkwood.”

   “I have never been there, Strider, or Thorongil. Whatever your name may be.” Daevan tried to smile but failed.

   Strider bowed to him, putting the right hand on his chest.

   “My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I welcome you once again gladly in my company.”

   “Aragorn?” Though sensing the other man's sincerity he could not hold back a smile. “If this name shall mean something to me, I am sorry to fail your expectations.”

   Strider returned the smile with the same faint longing Daevan had seen before. There was sadness in it, but today his happier mood prevailed. He put a hand on the young man's shoulder.

   “I am the last in the long ancestry of the Kings of Numénor, my friend. And if I live to see and win the battles that lie ahead I shall once become the King of Gondor and Arnor.”

   Daevan's jaw dropped. The sincerity in the wanderer's words was not to be missed. Daevan knew he was not jesting. Suddenly he found no words to say. He did not know if he should feel pride or fear; if he should bow to him or simply return a slap on his shoulder.

   “The king?” he finally stuttered. “The long lost King of Gondor?” He frowned and remembered his remarks during their quest. He blushed deeply. “Then Doran was right. You are a lord among Men.”

   Still Strider's grey eyes rested solemnly on the features of his young friend, and he inclined his head to a curt bow.

   “He was right, aye. But a long path still lies ahead of me. Yet, there is you to take care of. Would I do you a favour if I recommended you to my old friend Halbarad to make a Ranger out of you?” Daevan's face lit up visibly. Strider nodded and took away his hand. “Though I must say that your mouth is still faster than your sword.”

The End