11. Mirkwood

Despite the dreary weather, the deserted road, the looming wall of sinister trees marching toward him, and despite Gollum's mutterings about fell things Aragorn was glad he did not understand, the watchful eyes of evil did not prickle his skin here. The Beornings defended their territory zealously. Though the road was empty, imprinted in the ground were wagon tracks and large, round hoofprints from the Beornings' draught horses, concealed by the thin layer of snow but nonetheless perceptible to a Ranger's sharp eyes. Only their tracks did Aragorn see, a reassuring sign, for he found no tracks of wolves and orcs. Once he lay down flat on his stomach, ignoring the snow cutting exposed flesh of face and hands, and pressed his ear into the ground, but the earth told him nothing was amiss; all was still and neither friends nor enemies were abroad.

Sometime after nightfall -- a cloud-flecked night of scattered moonlight and starlight on the glistening snow -- they at last came to the eaves of Mirkwood. A shudder ran down Aragorn's spine and blood drained from his cheeks. The forest seemed as dark as an abyss in Moria. Before him, the road vanished beneath great curving boughs and vines forming a ceiling, high and arched, like that of the great hall beneath the White Tower in Minas Tirith. A sense of foreboding engulfed him. Gollum recoiled in fear, cowering behind Aragorn. The power of the Elves to the east and the might of the Beornings to the west kept the northern reaches well protected, thus Aragorn had no reason to be fearful. Mirkwood had many powers, but none to be dreaded here by those fair of heart.

Aragorn sent Gollum forth with an emphatic gesture of his sword, and then he passed into Mirkwood, shuddering as the shadows swallowed him and devoured his vision before his eyes readjusted to the weakened light. Terrified, Gollum buried his head in his hands and wept. "Nassty trees, they hurts us, they burns us, they frightens us. Elvses lives here, yes precious, nasty elveses with nasty handses on us, elveses and other things, other miserable, tricksy things..."

"Silence," snapped Aragorn, for Gollum's insufferable wails set fire to his nerves, and Gollum quieted. Aragorn strode into the forest, looking back over his shoulder with ineffable sadness towards the narrow gap in the trees through which a sliver of moonlight shone. It had seemed easier to share Arwen's hope and imagine the fair vale of Imladris and the deep defiles and narrow dales of his homelands in Eriador when he descried the peaks of the Hithaeglir. But the mountains had vanished behind the wall of trees. The last stretches of any journey were always the dreariest, but it would end and the end lay within sight.

Five miles or so into the forest, the menacing darkness wearied his resolve, and many weeks of relentless flight and toil and wakeful nights took their toll. He took a few hours' rest, sitting with his back against a giant cypress tree and his legs stretched out and ate a bit, dried fruit and lembas from Lórien. Comfrey he had collected along the way he crumbled, spit upon, and kneaded into his sore legs, attending with care to the ankle he had twisted at Minas Morgul's confines, which had refused to completely heal and had plagued him ever since he had crossed the East-West Road. Shadows skulked in the forest, and Aragorn rested with his eyes closed; yet his vigilance remained interminable and his fingers remained wrapped around the hilt of his sword and his bow.



* * *



Beneath the thick canopy of Mirkwood Aragorn did not see the rising of morning, the blue sky, or the lifting of the fog from the hills of Wilderland that should have ameliorated his dispirited mood had he been far from the forest. Yet the tangible darkness transformed to a dim light and he saw trees of all sizes, gnarled and straight, smooth and twisted, leaning, broken, covered in shaggy gray or green moss and slimy growths. They formed a dense wall along both sides of the road, leaving travelers but one passage through the forest. If a man diverted from the road, chances were he would never find it again.

Groping branches grasped at Aragorn, and often he had to unsnare his cloak from their claws. He dared not hack them down. The air was pungent and thick, overpowering even Gollum's vile odor. The sudden transformation from the open country and wide vistas of the Wilderland to the close air of the dark forest shook the resolve of the most valiant, but then became less bothersome with the passage of time. So it was Aragorn walked beneath the fearsome trees, undaunted, accustomed to the close air of the forest. On a previous journey through Mirkwood, the same initial fear had befallen him and then lifted after a few hours' travel.

His sense of security waned as the afternoon shadows lengthened and distorted as shafts of sunlight penetrating the canopy bent them at peculiar angles. Mere shadows, however disfigured by light toying with the foliage, did not strike fear into the heart of a Ranger, and he wondered whose attention he and Gollum had arrested, what watchers of the forest had espied him and waited for nightfall to hunt him. The words of Einarr made him uneasy – these regions of Mirkwood were once utterly safe, but no more did the strength of the woodmen hold all evil at bay. And Thranduil's territory still lay some leagues ahead. He urged a reluctant Gollum to greater haste and decided to foreclose rest until he reached the safe haven of the Wood-elves.

Formless shadows flitted through the trees to Aragorn's left side and leaves shivered. The shadows were darker than the trees and ferns, as if patches of night had not yet been scattered by the sun. Something scampered across the mat of dead leaves. His skin prickled with the sensation of being hunted. Speed would not save him now. Fitting an arrow to his bow, he pointed it towards the wall of gray and brown trunks, squinting into the bulwark of trees, and his quickened breath was visible in short vapors of steam. He cast a swift glance at Gollum and saw treachery in the creature's malevolent, luminous eyes and his lips were set against the gag in a wicked half-smile.

"You deceitful wretch," whispered Aragorn. "What evil have you drawn to us now?"

Gollum shriveled at the wrath of Aragorn, muttering, "It wasn't us, precious, it wasn't us."

Aragorn grimaced. Yes, it is astoundingly never you, he thought. A desire to let his arrow fly into Gollum's treacherous heart almost superseded sense, and he resisted it, holding the arrow steady upon the trees. He had not a moment to consider whether or not Gollum had willfully drawn the attention of the evil things lurking in Mirkwood or his presence alone did so. The shadow contorted and morphed into a grotesque shape, a black mass of quivering legs and a foul stench. Aragorn's fingers released the arrow. Straight and true, it flew into the creature with a sickening crunch and the thing fell dead upon the road. A giant spider, its legs curling under it in a death pose. If ever his sinuses had not been numb and painful from two months of travel with Gollum, the fetid odor might have appalled him; now he barely noticed. Aragorn gritted his teeth and sprang back a step, notching another arrow as more shadows unfurled in the trees. He knew of giant spiders, lesser cousins of the Great Giant Spiders, the children of Ungoliant, inhabiting Mirkwood, but he did not expect to find them so close to the Elven Realm.

Out of the thick stems of trees they poured across the road and surrounded Aragorn and Gollum, barricading all escape routes behind a villainous palisade of creeping legs and fangs. Aragorn let loose a volley of arrows into the ones at his back and they withdrew, opening a path towards the Elves. As he retreated through the gap in spiders, he fired more arrows into the convulsing mass and many fell, but still they beset him. There seemed more spiders than he had arrows; thus fearful of running out, he slung the bow over his shoulder and unsheathed his sword. With ferocity they attacked, and he repelled their siege, hacking furiously at legs and bodies as they came within range of his sword. If one stung him, the poison in his veins would induce paralyses and put him into a deep sleep until the spider injected a second poison that slowly dissolved flesh, bones, and organs into a stew of juices that it could ingest. Aragorn's swordsmanship held them off; they sought to bring him down with their legs and stab him with the stingers on their abdomens, and he danced, dodged, feinted, slashed off legs, stabbed through eyes, and thrust the sword into soft and squishy bodies.

A thrusting leg caught him in the back of the knee and he fell beneath their bulging black bodies. The leg that had struck him he hacked off, but the spiders eagerly converged upon him, wild with joy of the kill at last. Stingers stabbed the ground near him, and he rolled through a forest of scrambling legs. Several stepped on him, the claws on their feet tearing through cloth, striking chain mail, bruising flesh, but not one stung him. The pounding rush of battle blinded him to pain. He killed a few more, plunging the sword into their underbellies, and then he regained his feet, breathing labored but a fire alight in his eyes. "Elendil!" he cried and charged into the throbbing horde. He remained unscathed by the deadly poisons and slew many spiders; those who still lived and beheld his wrath fled into the dense wall of trees.

The raucous fighting had alerted other fell inhabitants of Mirkwood, and two arrows winged past Aragorn's head, embedding themselves in trees on the other side of the road. He let loose three of his own arrows into the forest. One hit something, for he heard a harsh cry and the crunch of a body collapsing into brush.

Though his breath sobbed, his heart pounded, and sweat drenched his tunic, Aragorn did not linger. He whirled to face Gollum, who hid cravenly beneath a gnarled root resembling a baby dragon curled in sleep. The sword, streaked with the black and red of blood and entrails, gleaming in the dimming light of the failing sun, put the fear of the Valar into Gollum. With a cry, he scurried from his hiding place.

"Don't kill us," he pleaded. "Let us go, let us go, don't strike us with the cruel sword. It wasn't us. Wasn't our fault, precious. Don't hurts us with the sword."

"Then run," said Aragorn raggedly, pointing the sword down the road. Another volley of arrows flew past him. He feinted and blocked the deadliest-aimed ones with his sword.

"Not to the elveses," wept Gollum. "No, no, not to cruel elveses, my precious, gollum, gollum."

"If you do not heed me you will wish you were with Elves now. Fly!"

Obsequiously Gollum pawed at his cloak with bound hands and said, "He wants to know about the Black Land, does he? Does he, my precious. We'll tell him, yes we will, if he lets us go, if he sets us free.  All about the Black Land, how it hurt us, how they questioned us... Yes, if he lets us go, my precious."

"That did not work for you in the Dead Marshes, and it will not work now." Aragorn lowered the sword so its bloodied tip hovered a hair's breadth away from Gollum's scrawny neck and he commanded, "Go!" The rush of surviving deadly peril was still upon him; in his fiery fervor to flee, he would have slashed Gollum with the sword had the creature refused to comply with his will.

Gollum obeyed, scurrying along the road. Glancing over his shoulder and half-running backwards, Aragorn raced after him, scanning the gnarled branches for sinister shadows, but now that the sun had sunk, the forest was enveloped in impenetrable gloom and there was no way to discern the living from the dead.  Though he was little more than a sword's length in front of Aragorn, even Gollum was indistinguishable from the corporeal darkness. But arrows flew, random shots in the dark. They sang a high note as they darted past and uttered a sharp twang as they pierced hard tree trunks. Aragorn's heart leapt every time he heard one. Always he had a fleeting thought that it would be the fatal one; his muscles tensed in readiness for agony. But no pain assailed him; the arrows harmlessly struck trees or bounced off the ground. Through the dark he ran, stumbling and tripping over unseen obstacles in the road, keeping Gollum loping ahead though the creature was wearier than he and stumbled more often.

After indeterminable time under continuous fire, the onslaught of arrows ceased, but Aragorn did not slacken their brisk pace. This blind dash over rough and dangerous footing troubled him, but the thought of halting, of resting while hosts of unseen enemies patrolled the woods on either side of the road, spurred him hence. Flight seemed the better of two ill choices. On and on he went, and before long the thrilling energy of battle wore off. Sore and tired, he trotted steadily along and tried to vanquish thought, for there doubt festered that this eternal darkness would end and light would return to the forest.

But morning arrived, and even the melancholy green glimmer of Mirkwood, the dour light of what sunbeams had the luck to slip in through the leaves far above, brought Aragorn solace. His legs were burning and his breathing strained, but there was naught for it and he pressed onwards as the path banked down a steep hill; he had to spring down uneven rocky steps carved out of white limestone. Wearied as he felt, valor and will remained to continue running, so he stoically endured. While he had the strength to not fall or faint, there was no reason to stop. Gollum fared less well and staggered over the stairs, lame as a foundered horse, but his struggles did not move Aragorn to forbearance. What little sorrow and pity he had for the wretch – and it never had been much – had been wrung from his heart by nine hundred miles.

At the foot of the ravine Aragorn eased to a walk for a short time, gulping down water from the canteen, refreshing and succulent, soothing his parched throat and tongue. The biting chill he welcomed; it cooled him down, for he felt sore and hot as though a fever burned him. He wished for a fresh breeze, though. The air here was stagnant and stifling.

The road bent northeast, a wide curve shying away from the Mountains of Mirkwood, a series of jagged hills in the heart of the forest where orcs, goblins, and other vassals of the Enemy dwelt. Returning the canteen to his side, Aragorn tiredly resumed his jogging pace with as much speed as the tangled forest and dark road permitted, his long strides fleet, but no longer did he race for his life.

It was mid-day. The road rolled and wound northeastwards, as far as Aragorn could tell from the cant of the land and what little sun he saw through holes in the canopy. The road was better maintained here; fewer cracks and broken stones. The vines and roots creeping over it had withdrawn and were not so quick to snag his feet and cloak. Then, the land once again ascended, a long and exhausting hill. He sighed and steadied himself for a long, uphill run.

Presently the sound of hooves clattering over stone chimed in his ears. Fear seized his heart. With unflagging tenacity, the Enemy had pursued him and laid traps for him, thus never had he any reason to trust the sounds of rapidly approaching horsemen. And surely they knew he was here; he had not passed through the forest unnoticed as he had hoped. Aragorn halted and stooped to the ground with a hand to his ear. The hoofbeats had a light and swift cadence, a cheerful clippity-clop that no Enemy's horse made. The sounds of hope at last, the Elves, Thranduil's Elves! Gollum uttered a cry and collapsed with a shudder against a wide tree root, but Aragorn paid him no mind and sprang past him up the road, elated, the weight of fatigue and melancholy lifting from his shoulders.

A group of four Elves on horseback and one riderless horse cantered along the road. The manes and tails of the white horses and the flowing hair of their riders shimmered silver in spite of the gloomy light. The riders' cloaks streamed behind them in the wind of their speed. The horses proudly arched their necks and stepped high, striking the road with ringing hoofbeats. All but the riderless horse bore neither saddle nor bridle, and the riderless one only wore a headstall, a hackamore studded with glittering gems and a single gem in the center of the browband shining like Eärendil itself. The rearmost Elf held its reins. The sight and smell of Gollum, lying sprawled like a dead thing across the road, spooked one of the horses, and it reared and leapt to the side of the road, but its rider did not falter in his seat.

Aragorn cried out, "Guren linna a chened le!"[i] But even before he spoke they had reined in their horses, and their leader urged his stallion forward and halted in front of Aragorn. Their faces were fair, their eyes filled with ancient memory of things both glad and sorrowful. They wore green cloaks and glittering mail and carried intricately carved bows and curved knives slung over their backs.

"Estel!" cried the foremost Elf in the lilting accent of the Silvan Elves. The name startled him. Estel he had been called in Rivendell for the first twenty years of his life until Elrond had revealed to him his true name and lineage. He had no idea how the Mirkwood Elves knew him by that name, for no one had called him by it for countless years. "I am Legolas, son of Thranduil," said the Elf. "We were sent out from Thranduil's caves to look for you. The Galadhrim had sent us a message that you had left Lothlórien three weeks ago and with you was the creature Gollum. With Mithrandir we had searched for him for many fruitless months and did not think he would ever be captured, so we were quite astounded to hear of it. In any event, we received word from the Beornings that you had crossed Anduin not three days past. There have been rumors of the Dark Lord's servants invading the outermost edges of our territory and we feared some evil would befall you. Alas, I fear we arrived too late."

"It cheers my heart to see you, Legolas son of Thranduil," said Aragorn, placing a hand over his thudding heart and bowing low to the Elf. Never had such a flood of warm relief swept over him. "But I do not understand what you mean by too late. Last night giant spiders assailed us, as did goblins, I think, with arrows, though they did not dare show themselves to me. I escaped unharmed, as did my prisoner."

"Unharmed?" Legolas' eyes narrowed and he dismounted, nimbly springing from the back of his stallion. "You are drenched in blood."

Aragorn glanced down at his tunic; indeed, the green cloth was darkened with bloodstains, wet and sticky patches of deep red on his chest, stomach, and forearms. Blood oozed from gashes indubitably no worse than shallow flesh wounds, for pain did not infringe on his thoughts, and the chain mail had shielded him from grave lacerations. No aid did he require now. In a safer place, in the fortress of the Elves, he would take care of it.  "Well, not gravely harmed," he said. 

Another Elf with bright blue eyes and intricate braids in his hair had nudged his horse beside Legolas'. Gravely he said, "So you are Lord Elrond's foster-son." Aragorn nodded in assent. The second Elf pressed, "I do not mean to be impertinent, but tell me, you spoke of spiders and goblins. They are encroaching upon the road? Are not the Woodmen defending their borders?"

"I do not know," said Aragorn. "How many borders are defensible these days? I do not even know if the spiders often venture this far north or if they were drawn to me by Gollum's presence. At any rate, a horde of them attacked me."  The conversation faltered while the Elves exchanged looks incredulous and incensed.   "Legolas, your father expects me?" Aragorn asked after a moment. 

"Yes," replied the Elf prince with a troubled look. "You and the prisoner. You are to take that mare Faelir leads – Thalielen is her name – and ride for the halls of my father, thirty miles hence. We put the hackamore on her, but alas no saddle. Can you ride Elf-style?"

"I was raised in Rivendell," Aragorn reminded them, no more concerned about riding bareback than he was about his wounds. "Thus I was taught to ride without saddle or bridle. Will the horse consent to bear this burden?" He indicated Gollum with his sword and cautiously eyed the horse that had reacted aversely to the wretch.

"Aye, she will," responded the Elf who held the mare's reins.

Legolas continued, "And we will go forth and dispel the enemies that attacked you. The Shadow grows too bold and our borders shall not go undefended!"

"If they have not already been dispelled or left of their own accord," commented Aragorn. "The spiders fled into the woods."

"We shall see."

The horse was brought to Aragorn, and he took the reins from Faelir, stroked her nose, and then agilely leapt upon her shining white back. And what a dream she was to ride, as soft in the hand and light to seat and leg as a swift, refreshing breeze sweeping the peaks of the Ered Nimrais. Many years had it been since he last rode an Elvish-trained horse. Most men lacked the skills and the lightness of aids to ride such a glorious steed; the best riders would be hastily and ignominiously thrown, but Aragorn had learned to ride with the Elves in Rivendell, and there were few among mortal men who were as accomplished horsemen as he. It had been his way with horses that had earned him the trust of the Rohirrim. And in his younger years, before his great travels and errantries when he dwelt with regularity in the Ranger camps of Eriador, often the Dúnedain had bequeathed him horses no one else would dare ride, the feral, the fearful, the bad-tempered. His touch and voice soothed the wildest horse, and at least then he had been young and not too mindful of being bucked off, kicked, bitten, run away with, run into trees, or flipped over backwards.

Legolas grabbed Gollum by the scruff of the neck. The creature struggled half-heartedly, but their unrelenting flight from spiders and goblins had depleted his remaining strength and he hung in the Elf's firm grip, listless. With a measure of pity and perturbation, Legolas studied him and observed, "This will be all for naught if the creature dies."

"He will not die, not here," said Aragorn. "He lived through the dungeons of Barad-dûr and I do not think this is worse." Thalielen snorted at Gollum, staring at him with widened eyes and sidepassing from the foul creature. "Avaro naeth. Goheno nin,"[ii] Aragorn said softly to her, stroking the silken, proud neck, and she settled beneath his hand and voice. Though Faelir had expressed confidence in the horse's willingness to carry Gollum, Aragorn felt suspicion and fear in his hands and legs, the muscles in her back arching, tensing, and was less certain. He exhaled softly, subduing anticipation that Thalielen would start bucking with Gollum on her back.

But only once did she crow-hop when Legolas slung Gollum across her withers. Then she quieted. Lightly Legolas mounted his stallion, and the fiery animal submitted to his will with but a spoken word. "Navaer. Hortho le huil vaer,"[iii] he said to Aragorn, bowing his head.

"Rui vaer,"[iv] said Aragorn, bowing likewise.

With startling fleetness, the Elves wheeled their horses about and sprang away down the road at a gallop, shod hooves ringing like splendid bells as they clattered over rock and root. Distraught by their sudden departure, Thalielen whinnied and bounced upon her forehand, an emphatic threat to rear, but then she submitted to Aragorn's will, spinning round on her haunches and galloping towards the east.

The Elf-horse was surefooted and familiar with the road, and she soared along the path as if on wings rather than hooves. Wind whistled in Aragorn's ears. Steadying Gollum with one hand and the reins with the other, he leaned forward into the thick mane whipping his face. The stench and the slimy sensation of Gollum pressed to his breast nauseated him and pained his head. There was nothing for it but to ride as if Morgoth himself breathed upon his horse's tail, and ride he did, urging Thalielen to her greatest speed. The mare was as eager as Aragorn to be rid of her filthy burden, and she ran with all the courage and stamina in her proud heart and strong limbs. On either side, the trees blurred with their pace, a hazy shadow sweeping past. Groping branches snapped as they crashed through them. At once the road fell away into a ravine of dark heather amongst thick, gray trunks, and curved with the contours of the land. Seamlessly Thalielen changed her lead at each curve. Then Aragorn felt her heave and surge as she climbed up a steep bank and there she glided to a trot as she crossed a stone bridge before a great gate of wrought iron guarding the entrance to the Wood-Elves' underground caverns.

Straight away two green-clad Elves materialized from the forest, emerging out of the dense vegetation overlaying the gate, arrows aimed at Aragorn's breast. Unflinching, he met their blue eyes with his commanding gray ones; and their gazes and their arrows faltered as if they found the vision of a Man of such kingly visage astride an Elf-horse bewildering. The mare they recognized as one of their own, and the Elf to Aragorn's left spoke Westron in a clear and wary tone. "Who are you? Rare is it that a Man rides one of our steeds."

"My name is Estel," he replied boldly in Sindarin. "To your Halls I bring a prisoner, a spy of the Enemy your people must keep under close surveillance. An hour or so ago four of your kin tracked me down upon the road, lent me this horse, and told me I was to ride here forthwith."

A dim light of recognition crept across the faces of the guards. "Yes," one said. "The prince said he was riding out to find the foster-son of Lord Elrond of Imladris, and if all went well, you would come to the gate bringing a creature whom we are to keep in our dungeons. It sounded like strange business."

"Few things are not strange business these days," muttered his companion. "Thranduil himself left us orders that we are to allow you in, though strangers are not often welcome here."

As though moving on its own volition, the heavy gate moaned and swung slowly open, revealing a wide entryway, a hall glittering with a strange light receding into the depths of the hill. For the first time since the spider attack, Aragorn had the briefest moment of respite to catch his breath; even though the fog of exhaustion blurred his vision, he took a considerate look at his surroundings. Here, the gloominess of the forest was not so funereal. The air remained close, the trees formidable and impenetrable, the daylight dim, but an old power resided here resisting encroaching evil. Leaves shimmered with green and gold. Winter held no sway over the heart of Thranduil's realm. By no means was it Lothlórien or even Rivendell, but then it could not be for they were in part maintained by the Elven Rings and did not suffer from unremitting Enemy onslaughts.

Three Elves, their raiment akin to the two guarding the gate, met Aragorn at the lip of the causeway and bid him to follow their lead into the glittering hall. He nudged the mare forward into a walk, and she strode behind the Elves, her gait resolved and stately. A strange procession it was; the three Elves, the fairest folk on Middle-Earth, singing softly, Gollum, mangled and withered, slouching like a corpse across the horse's withers, and Aragorn, bloodied, utterly exhausted, and nevertheless retaining the pride of Númenor, gracefully astride the white Elf-horse. A few Elves flitted past, ogling the procession. Torches of red flame lining the tunnel cast an otherworldly glow, a flickering and ethereal light dancing and feinting here and there upon curving walls. Burnished gems embedded in the walls shimmered like stars in the curveting flames.

"Nine years ago I remember searching for this creature," one of the Elves was saying in Westron. "Mithrandir and the King thought it of utmost importance, though never did they say why. But he was elusive. There are few things my people cannot track, but he foiled us at every turn. I mean no offense, but you are no Elf. How ever did you capture him?"

"Luck," said Aragorn. "And I have some skills at tracking." Concealing his true purpose and his identity came as naturally to him as breathing, hence he felt little need to reveal to the Elf that he was Chieftain of the Dúnedain, one of the finest trackers in the West. And he did not care.

Round a turn they went, and the pungent scent of horse wafted to Aragorn's nostrils from the long hallway before him. Distant neighs echoed from the depths, and Thalielen whinnied, an earsplitting, shuddering cry, like a bolt of lightening rending the clouds asunder, ricocheting off the walls, drowning out the Elvish tune with its awesome power. Aragorn tugged lightly upon the right rein to draw her attention, saying quietly, "No dínen."[v]

After her single outburst the horse quieted and stood obediently in the stable yard, a rounded pen in a great cavern coolly lit by lamps and torches strung across the ceiling, while Aragorn dismounted and removed Gollum from her back. Perhaps exuberant at being rid of him, Thalielen flung her head and gave a little buck as an Elf led her away. Aragorn longed for the same and willed away looming illness. No more could he take the creature. Whimpering, Gollum crumpled on the floor, hoarse gasps as though something choked him rising from his stricken throat, and he writhed upon the dusty bowl, pleading wretchedly, "Kill us, kill us, my precious. gollum, gollum. Such misery! Such misery! End it with the bright sword, precious." Aragorn blinked at him. For nine hundred miles he had pleaded for life. Now he begged for death.

Rare was it that Aragorn had seen such consummate incertitude in Elves, yet the four or five Elves who had gathered round him and his prisoner winced in revulsion and all glanced to him for direction. Aragorn drew his sword and then shoved Gollum roughly with his foot, bidding him to rise. And when the creature merely curled into a tighter ball, Aragorn tugged the rope, dragging him and none too kindly. Bound hands and feet rent deep furrows into the sand.

"Get up," Aragorn snapped. "Or you will be begging for the dungeons of Barad-dûr!" A cold, fell breath of wind seemed to stir the air at that name. Moaning and whining, Gollum staggered along, choking as if the very air he breathed poisoned him.

"So this is the creature Mithrandir bid us to search for nine years ago?" asked one of the Elves, repulsed.

"Yes."

"Mithrandir said he was a wretched thing. What is he?"

"We suspect he was once a periannath," said Aragorn. "But we are not yet sure."

"Many years ago a perian came here with a troop of dwarves, but he was light-hearted, joyous; as pleasant a fellow as this creature is repulsive and evil. The king named him an 'elf-friend' after the Battle of the Five Armies."

Bilbo Baggins, whose fate is as bound to the Ring as this creature's, or my own, thought Aragorn gravely. Then he replied, "'Was once a halfling,' I said. But for half a millennium the Dark Lord corrupted and distorted his mind until there was naught left in his broken spirit but hatred." To his relief, the Elves were satisfied with that and refrained from inquiring why or how, queries that would press Aragorn for swift feints and parries of the tongue to evade mentioning the Ring. The Silvan Elves he did not distrust as he distrusted his kin in Gondor, but it seemed best that those who did not yet know that Isildur's bane had awakened and the shadow stirred in the East remained unknowing.

Aragorn trod after the Elves through a vast network of tunnels, none so dark as the tunnels atop Cirith Ungol or beneath the Hithaeglir, yet the hope dwelling in his heart seemed considerably lessened by the endless darkness, and he pined for the glow of sunlight upon his brow. His guides said little to him and conversed amongst each other in soft Sindarin of their strange dialect that Aragorn was too wearied to strain his ears and follow. He understood enough to know he was the subject, and everything about his arrival had the Elves bewildered. Their king, who normally had tangible misgivings about all folk of other races, was issuing strange orders indeed. And he had ridden one of their own horses to the gates! They did not think one of their horses would consent to carry a Man.

Had Aragorn's guides abandoned him, he had misgivings that he could retrace his steps through the tunnels – they foiled even the sharp senses of the Dúnadan. Into the very bowels of the earth Aragorn, Gollum, and the Elves plunged; the air became stifling, no longer did gems shimmer within dark walls. The path wound around and around, descending until they reached a high-ceilinged anteroom and there they were greeted by Elves girt in sparkling silver mail. A small underground stream flowed through the chamber, and a series of tunnels converged, dark openings in the walls on all sides.

"You can hand your prisoner to us," said one of the tall, mail-clad Elves. His curved knife shone white in the torchlight. "He shall be well-treated."

"I hope not too well," said Aragorn as he laid the rope, dirtied and frayed from hard use, in the hands of the Elves. Gollum moaned and struggled as they hauled him into the cavernous mouth of one of the tunnels; he screamed hideously, but the Elves ignored his antics and staunchly they dragged him until the cries faded beyond Aragorn's hearing. Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief. The revulsion permeating his heart and bones since the Dead Marshes fled. Nevertheless unflagging headache and tiredness lingered.

"The king wants to see you," an Elf told him in Westron.

As if they had forgotten that Aragorn understood their tongue, one of his companions whispered in Sindarin, "Now? Can it not wait? Let him rest for a bit or at least ease his pains with some chamomile and willow-bark tea first."

"Thranduil would like us to be prompt, though he should expect naught from you. Should you fall in battle, you would be late to your own burial."

"I merely made a suggestion," complained the second Elf, rather annoyed. "Must you always respond to simple questions so sharply?"

"Has your betrothal to the Lady Aearinn broken your spirit? I have heard tales of how the niece of the King can turn the backbone of any warrior into that of a slug."

"Well," retorted the other. "I heard that it was your sharp tongue which led you into trouble on patrol and led to your reassignment to this duty. Keep it up and you shall be cleaning the stables."

"Let us not be late," answered first Elf with a glare. His comrade had found a hole in his armor.

Aragorn rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, ignoring the Elves and resisting the desire to rub his throbbing forehead. Rest and willow-bark tea would be a gift surpassing the Throne of Gondor at this moment, but if the King desired an audience with him, then such was his fate. A king could not be denied his will in his own halls.

They led him out of the huge anteroom, up the winding tunnels; perhaps they retraced their steps, but Aragorn, lost in the intricate tunnels, could not be certain. The light grew stronger in the upper tunnels. Blue, green, and white gems and silver and gold ornaments shimmered in the walls, and the torches and lights were prolific. It had not the famed glory of Doriath, of the Thousand Caves of old; nonetheless these glittering caverns of Thranduil were a sight to behold. Here hope held fast, though this realm and its ruler had witnessed the horrors of three ages; Thranduil had seen Gil-galad, Elendil, and his father Oropher fall upon the slopes of Orodruin; he had seen Isildur claim the Ring for his own and thus the final defeat of Sauron was all but final; he had seen the destruction of Doriath by Dwarves, the War of Wrath and the Ruin of Beleriand; he had seen evil creeping through Mirkwood and had withdrawn steadily and resolutely to his small corner in the northeast and refused to concede another step.

The Elves brought Aragorn to the great hall of Thranduil, a magnificent chamber blazing in a glow of torchlight, studded with treasures of bright gems and wrought gold and silver. The various chairs and tables around the chamber were of intricately carved wood, the walls decorated with vast tapestries of vibrant color portraying everything from pastoral scenes to great battles, the throne made of strong oak and birch, filigreed with silver tresses. There sat Thranduil, the Elvenking of Mirkwood, adorned in purple raiment, bearing a crown of golden leaves upon his brow and wielding a carven staff of oak.

Bowing his head, Aragorn knelt upon one knee before the throne, and Thranduil arose and walked down from his dais and said, "Rise, O Chieftain of the Dúnedain."

"Words cannot express my gratitude for your kindness and most welcome assistance," Aragorn said in Sindarin as he regained his feet. In the Elvenking's blue eyes blazed deep wells of wisdom and hope, but on his ageless face there was the despair of a sovereign whose kingdom has long suffered incessant Enemy incursions with no end in sight. With his peripheral vision Aragorn caught the two guards casting down their gazes and fiddling with their bows in discomfiture, undoubtedly realizing that not only were Dúnedain Rangers some of the most skillful trackers in Middle-earth, he spoke their tongue and had understood their entire conversation.

"A month ago, the Twentieth of February it would have been, we received a message from Lothlórien that Estel was coming to Mirkwood," said Thranduil. "Not often do the Galadhrim have reason to communicate with us, for our concerns, the concerns of this world, do not seem to be theirs. Hope, I said, what hope is that? Our borders are shrinking and our Enemies cross the Old Forest Road with impudence and the Shadow grows in the East. I read further and found out that the foster-son of Elrond, the Lord of the Dúnedain Rangers, was making his way here and with him he brought a prisoner, a spy of Sauron, the same creature we hunted through Mirkwood and the Wilderland for many months. Mithrandir had once spoken to me of that eventuality, but I had not expected it."

Aragorn resisted the want to observe that the Galadhrim were not as unconcerned with the fate of Middle-Earth as Thranduil hazarded, for his heart resided in Lórien and there his friendship and loyalty lay also. But he sagaciously held his tongue. The relationship between the Silvan Elves and their Noldor counterparts from across the sea had suffered estrangement since the Second Age, in days not even within the reckoning of Aragorn's sires. However Thranduil felt about old hurts was not Aragorn's business and he wished it to remain that way. If the Elvenking harbored any vindictiveness, he did not show it. He had responded to Lórien's message by sending out riders to seek Aragorn and welcomed him and his slimy prisoner into his stronghold.

Thranduil continued speaking. "Even after Lady Galadriel informed me of your mission, I entertained doubts you would arrive, for the miles between here and Lothlórien are long and filled with peril, long for even your folk."

Aragorn agreed. He felt each and every lonely league as a gaping wound from which spirit drained.

"Then three days ago we received word from the Beornings that a stranger named Aragorn bearing a prisoner, a slippery, reptilian sort of creature, was entering our woods, that he had crossed Anduin at the Ford of Carrock. I did not suspect him of evil intentions, for the Beornings are zealous guards of their realm and ford and would not let evil pass. I did suspect that their stranger was the same as Estel, for the name of Aragorn is not unknown to me, though I must say that I was surprised by your haste as I had received Lórien's message not more than a month ago. There are spies and servants of the Enemy infiltrating our territory, crossing the Old Forest Road and imperiling our people on our own roads. So I sent out my son and others with horses to find you. You look as if you have crawled through Mordor itself, through the very fires of Orodruin – how far did you come?"

"Gollum I captured in the Dead Marshes," Aragorn replied. Thranduil's words brought a flush to his cheeks and his face burned like a brand. Travel should not have wearied him so. Most of his adult life he had spent on the road. "On the First of February I think it was."

A light of surprise burst in Thranduil's ageless eyes, then, as suddenly as it appeared it faded, and the blue orbs were once again as still as the depths of the ocean. "Fifty days," he mused. "To have come so far so fast is a feat worthy of song and praise, Estel... Aragorn."

"I have born many names in many countries in my lifetime, but Aragorn is my true name. In any case, I wish for neither songs nor praise. My mission was conducted in secret. There will be no songs."

Impassively Thranduil said in a measured tone, "But it is praiseworthy nevertheless. It is no wonder to me then that you are exhausted beyond measure. Not even the blood of Númenor is immune to hardships of arduous travel. Or death." The look on his face grew distant, his eyes unseeing, reliving a remote and fleeting memory. Was it of the Battle of the Last Alliance or of the subsequent wars and strife, which had little by little bled Númenor, depleting it of strength and pride? His keen glance fixed upon the ring of Barahir shining on Aragorn's left index finger. Then to the present he returned, the alert and determined sovereign of a besieged but ever prideful and undefeated kingdom. "Food and rest will do you good. And mayhap the ministrations of our healers. How long did you intend to remain here?"

"Not more than a day. My homelands in the north call me."

"Has weariness clouded your mind?" asked Thranduil. "Do you not know how you appear, bloodied and as wan as one three days dead? You must rest!"

There would be no rest for a long while, no rest until either he reclaimed the throne of Gondor and Arnor or met death at last trying, though he was weary of war and death and no longer young. Instead of issuing morbid pronouncements revealing his kinship, Aragorn conceded, "If it would please you, My Lord, I shall depart in two days' time." Two days made little difference, and what peace he found in the Elvenking's fortress would be well received.

"I am amenable to that," said Thranduil.

Thranduil then dismissed Aragorn with a request that he join the king for a supper in his hall after ministering to wounds and changing into clothing unsullied by sweat, dirt, and bloodstains and more befitting of a royal hall. Forthwith one of Thranduil's courtiers guided him to a chamber, small and sparsely furnished, the quarters of a soldier no different than countless others in which he had abided. Yet to one who had journeyed through perilous wilderness for hundreds of leagues and spent many a night sleepless upon the unforgiving ground, the warm, dry cave with its cot and washbasin seemed no less than a royal chamber in Minas Tirith.

At Aragorn's behest the courtier left him, promising to return when the king requested his presence. Aragorn nodded in assent as he unbuckled his belt and cast it, rattling with weapons, upon the bed. Stories of the Wood-elves' grand feasts, of roaring fires and meat and glowing fruits and fine wine, came to Aragorn's mind, a thought curdling his stomach. Though he had eaten very little in the last few days, a meal was the furthest thing from his mind and he did not wish to think of it. The woe of utter exhaustion had turned his thoughts and his stomach away from sustenance. Alas, it seemed to him impolite to turn down Thranduil's invitation saying he felt too ill to eat.

He shed his tunic and mail and treated the wounds underneath with water from the basin and chamomile. The wounds were nothing more than a half-dozen trivial punctures, superficial lacerations, contusions, and chafed flesh, inflicted by the spiders' claws. Aragorn had suffered worse being thrown from horses. The mail coat had staved off graver hurts, for the claws could pierce layers of muscle and shatter bone and organ if a man bore no protection. Nevertheless, it was a relief to remove it. All mail but that made of mithril -- which he certainly did not possess -- was miserably heavy and hot. Once the wounds were cleansed, he clad himself in a white tunic left for him by the Elves. Then he sat upon the cot in a sort of stupor, rallying his will against the temptation of sleep pulling him towards oblivion and forged ahead his thoughts to Thranduil's curious and ambiguous words.

The name of Aragorn is not unknown to me. Few in Middle-earth knew Isildur's heir lived and most believed the line of kings had broken long ago, in the days of Arvedui when the Witch-king of Angmar had invaded the northern marches of Eriador. Lest the Enemy hunt the remnants of Valandil's line, the last of the pure Númenoreans with the majesty and strength to challenge him did not reveal that the line of kings remained intact. Thus were the heirlooms of Elendil, the Shards of Narsil and the ring of Barahir, passed in secret from father to son. In any event, Thranduil had shown keen interest in the ring of Barahir. Did he recognize the significance of the two emerald-eyed serpents? The secrets he knew, the secrets he did not know, the Elvenking played close to his breast indeed.

Consideration of Thranduil's knowledge and his motives at length pained Aragorn's head. So tired was he that unthinking, he stretched out on the low cot and then struggled to rise again, fearing he should drop off to sleep if he lay prone on his side. But his limbs, heavy with fatigue, refused to obey, and the small chamber grew blurry before his eyes as weariness cast a thin veil across his vision, and his eyes, unbidden, fell shut and the world sank into darkness.

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[i] Sindarin: "My heart sings to see you!" Translation found at: .

[ii] Sindarin: "Forgive me. Don't worry." Ibid.

[iii] Sindarin: "Farewell. May useful winds speed you on." Ibid.

[iv] Sindarin: "Good hunting." Ibid.

[v] Sindarin: "Silence." Translation found at: .