7

Offspring of an Uruk Hai father and a woman of the Dunlending tribe, Bak was unusually strong. He had grown in the hills of Rohan until the death of his mother caused him to flee his birthplace to the plains below, for none of the tribe welcomed this lynx eyed young man as one of their own. Years he had roamed, living off stray sheep and cattle for no farmer would employ him for long and he feared the bigger villages where permanent work might be had. They all shied away from his flat gaze and strange face.

Then on one stormy night he had taken refuge in the storage shed of a small farm, hungry and tired he had fallen asleep on a bale of dried grass. Hiram had found him there, old and mostly blind the farmer had been glad of the company and pressed the young half breed to stay on. It seemed a dream to the young man whose life had been filled with such loneliness and hatred before. The old farmer was quite garrulous and he chattered non-stop of plants, medicine, the curing of wounds and ham, the growing of peas and corn. He taught Bak the secrets of brewing drink and curative tonics. By the end of the first month Bak knew he was at last home.

The farm had gone to seed but by dint of the young man's efforts the fields were soon filled with crop and the pastures were tilled and green. Every night the old farmer and the young man would sup together, Bak unconsciously imitating Hiram's manner of speech and behaviour for he had had no teacher before this. Hiram named him son and Bak was at last fulfilled.

Ten years passed quickly as time does when one is happy and one morning Hiram did not awaken. Bak's grief was terrible to see. But at last he laid the old man tenderly in a grave lined with flowers and stalks of grass. His life was over. He packed a few things in a sack and shouldering its meagre weight intended to move on. But he had not got far when turning for a final look it seemed to him wrong somehow to abandon his only home, the only place he had known happiness. Was he not Hiram's son and heir after all? He took his father's name and farm, all he needed was a companion.

Hiram's farm lay in the outer most reaches of the fertile valley of Rohan and not many passed that way. Those who did however never left. Hiram himself never understood how he made them stay, but stay they did as Hiram tried to recapture the only happiness he had ever known…

00

Aragorn felt his life slipping away as Hiram's large hands crushed his neck. He kicked out ineffectually, his feet tapping against the farmer's thick legs. Hiram shook him and Aragorn's head flopped back weakly. The ranger's fingers dug at the implacable hands at his neck, but Hiram felt nothing, so great was his rage. Blackness filled Aragorn's vision and his body began to tremble.

The first blow took Hiram by surprise, he staggered sideways a little but his hands remained fixed around Aragorn's neck. The second blow rang off his skull. Hiram dropped like a felled ox. Legolas, who had harnessed just enough control to do the deed, followed him to the ground. The elf searched Hiram's clothes frantically,

Sucking in large gulps of air Aragorn dropped to his knees beside the groaning elf.

"What do you seek?"

"Key, the key to the storage room. The medicine." Legolas gasped. His ears had begun to bleed.

Aragorn's fingers joined the frantic search. They encountered a large brass key secreted in a pouch around the farmer's waist.

"Hurry---Aragorn---hurry." Legolas' voice was a mere whisper as Aragorn scrambled to his feet.

The door opened onto a darkened interior, a quick scratch of the flint and the lamp was lit. Aragorn looked around; the room was filled from top shelf to bottom with jars of dark liquid. With a sense of growing doom Aragorn lifted first one and then another, which was it?

A pain filled scream from the kitchen galvanized him, snatching up the most awful looking brew he ran back to see Legolas moaning on the ground as he held his head in his hands. The elf's reddened eyes raised to the jar he held.

"Quickly Aragorn." Legolas urged.

Aragorn got down on his knees; he placed the jar on the floor and said "I do not know if this is the right one, there are hundreds of jars in that room. I …I chose one." his eyes were wide with fear.

"Then it is the right one." Legolas rasped barely getting the words out through his clenched jaw. "Please," he said touching the ranger's hand. He turned his head sideways exposing his left ear.

With a shaking hand Aragorn poured in the thick liquid. It was warm and felt vaguely animate, some of it spilt onto the elf's neck and chest, but most of it went in.

When it was all gone Aragorn knelt back. Legolas was still, waiting for the medicine to take effect. There was a tingling in his ear that he had never felt before. He squeezed his eyes shut. The tingling increased. Aragorn watched him anxiously sure that he had chosen wrong.

The tingling turned into a slight burning. Legolas turned surprised eyes to Aragorn concerned face.

"What is it?" Aragorn asked breathlessly.

But the burning had increased and Legolas could do no more than mouth the words. The flames had turned cold. The cold rushed to every part of his body turning his muscles to straw. With a sigh the elf's eyes fluttered and he went limp in the arms of the ranger.

"No, oh no!" Aragorn's quiet horror was heartbreaking.

00

Aragorn buried him in the cold light of early morning. There were no words to say, no need for remorse, he had done his grieving during the night and had nothing left to give now. As he spread the rich soil flat on the grave he thought that it was not such a bad place to end one's days. He trailed the shovel behind him as he dragged himself back to the farmhouse. He let it lie on the ground beside the doorway. There was one more grave yet to be dug. The kitchen was cold, for neither the stove nor the fire was lit, but there was no need for warmth now.

He made his way to the back room and sat on the edge of the cot. Legolas still lay as still as stone. He reached tentatively and caught a few wisps of gold hair around his fingers. The few tendrils stirred in the wind that blew in through the open window. Aragorn touched Legolas' chest hoping to feel some movement but there was nothing. Steeling himself he stood and slid one arm under the elf's shoulders and the next under his legs. Legolas' body was limp and easy to carry. He walked through the house on wooden legs. To the pasture he carried him, altogether avoiding the field in which he had buried Hiram. On the grass he placed him and then courage deserted him, he could not bury his friend out here unnamed in a fallow field. His tears fell thickly as he clutched Legolas to him, he began to rock back and forth like a hurting child with his doll.

Aragorn's jerky movement caused the disintegrated body of the worm to dislodge from the elf's ear, for the medicine had indeed done its work well. The pulp that had been the worm rolled wetly down Legolas' shoulder and onto Aragorn's bare forearm. The ranger was startled by the cold slimy feel of it. He looked at it in surprise and then in wonder. How could such a small thing cause so much pain? In sudden disgust Aragorn shook his hand and flung the thing from him.

"It is dead mellon nin, you can wake up now." Aragorn whispered to the unhearing body in his arms. A hysterical giggle threatened to burst free from his mouth. Clamping down on his despair Aragorn shook the elf again. "Wake up Legolas, awake. It is a long, lonely road to Gondor."

There was the slightest of sighs in response.

……………………………………………