A/N: Please see Chapter 3 for story warnings.
22nd November 3018
Aragorn's endurance had been long honed by years of hardship, but even he could not go indefinitely without sleep. When Lith woke again after moonset but still some hours from dawn, Aragorn deemed the effects of the drug to have passed sufficiently that he allowed the silent Elf to take over the watch. Aragorn could do nothing but hope Lith was up to the task, and he cast himself on the ground to snatch some few hours of rest. His own dreams were disquieting: a thick mist clouded his mind, shifting and obscuring. He saw snatches of battles long past and heard voices, both evil and benign. The fog rolled away, and Gandalf strode out of the mists, speaking stern orders to him in a language he could not comprehend.
'I do not know what it is you ask of me,' Aragorn had said, and the wizard finally answered, rather crossly, in Westron.
'You must trust yourself as I have been saying all along, son of Arathorn! Don't you listen? Remember that from the ashes comes fire, but that not all fire destroys, and that evil thrives just as well within inaction as cruelty.'
'You speak in riddles,' Aragorn had replied, tersely.
'Well, here is plain speak for you. Don't you dare forsake him! He will need you, and you will need him too, before the end.'
'Who will? Frodo?'
Gandalf had snorted, flinging up his hands as if in despair, and then Aragorn had woken up: bleary and shivering beneath a blanket crackling with a thick coating of frost.
Lith was quiet that morning. In itself that was not saying very much, but Aragorn barely heard ten words from the Elf as they broke camp. Even a flock of wild swans passing overhead prompted not a word from Lith, which was a shame as his clear delight in nature had been the only part of him which until now had not seemed touched by melancholy. Aragorn was not certain how much of last night's words the Elf remembered, for forgetfulness could also be a symptom in those who abused naegranaeth. But so also was woolly-headedness and numbed thoughts, and Aragorn himself could claim little better today for all that he had taken no herb. The rain and the cold seemed to have settled into a dull ache behind his eyes and in his throat.
For all that the terrain improved the further they went into the foothills, the slower their pace seemed to be. Aragorn found himself weary beyond words, while Lith was twitchy and unsettled, holding his damaged arm in close and glancing constantly behind them. He had taken no pain-bite since last night that Aragorn could discern, perhaps due to Aragorn's clear disapproval, or in dismay at his own passing fit of garrulousness. Either way it was clear that he still suffered, and Aragorn felt some shame at his own vocal condemnation of the Elf's habits. As Lith had said, he did not take the pain-bite for pleasure but from a desperate need. Aragorn resolved not to mention it again and to henceforth cease meddling in the Elf's decisions. He was neither Aragorn's patient nor a child under his charge. Lith must make his own choices and Aragorn had neither the right nor the authority to criticize them.
The travellers took a brief rest at noon, shielded from the cold wind by scrubby bushes, and ate the rest of the duck meat cold with dried fruit. The Bruinen had delved into a deep cutting a few hours before and for the first time on their journey could not be seen as it wound away behind the hills. There was no concern of losing their way though, for Aragorn knew the land here well, and Lith said he could still smell and hear the river and its direction. Aragorn had chosen a path that led up the side of a cleft in the hillside and, though it was narrow and climbed steeply, he hoped it would bring them out onto a plateau above that would run parallel to the river and offer flatter footing for some miles.
Once they had eaten, Aragorn had risen and started to walk on again when he became aware that he could not hear Lith moving behind him. He turned back to see the Elf paused on the narrow track, head tilted as if listening, expression far away.
'What is it?' Aragorn asked.
Lith started and came back to himself. 'Nothing,' he said, quickly, and followed along after the man.
They had been walking less than half an hour before Lith made the same motion again, this time looking back down the track.
'What do you hear?' Aragorn prompted.
Lith hesitated.
'Speak,' Aragorn urged him.
'I am not sure,' Lith said. 'I thought for a moment I smelled something.'
'What type of something?' Aragorn said, trying not to sound exasperated with the Elf's vagueness. 'Enemy or ally? Fresh baked bread or freshly spilled viscera?'
Lith actually laughed at that, a quicksilver burst of bright sound that quite took Aragorn by surprise for he had not known the Elf capable of it. 'Nay, nay,' Lith said. 'Probably it was nothing. But I did think for a moment I smelled wolf.'
Aragorn frowned, considering. Normally this would be a strange place to meet a wolf pack. There was little to hunt in these lands, and the wolves much preferred the forests of Hollin to the south. But the Rangers in Tharbad had reported the packs growing bolder and roaming further afield and closer to the Greyflood. Aragorn looked up and down: the path meandered little and there was no sign of movement on the track as far as sight allowed. He himself had neither heard nor smelled anything. Still it would be foolish to take such a warning lightly, even if he privately suspected the Elf's report to be most likely unsubstantiated.
'We will carry on,' Aragorn said. 'But keep your nose on alert, and your ears too, for if there is a pack in these parts we should hear it before they us.'
'They say the wolf that one hears is worse than the orc that one fears,' said Lith as they walked on. 'But I do not know what they say of the wolf one smells. Probably it means they also are too close.'
'That is a Gondorian saying,' Aragorn noted, surprised.
'I have travelled to many places,' Lith said. 'As it seems have you, to know such a thing. That is a surprise to me.'
'I am a Ranger,' Aragorn said, with a shrug. 'We are wanderers by our nature. As I said at the council I have travelled far throughout the old kingdom of Arnor, to the south through Rohan and Gondor under the strange stars of Rhûn and Harad, north through Mirkwood, and even to the east.'
'Then you have travelled even further than I. You have achieved much when many men barely stray beyond their homesteads in their brief time. The lives of the Edain seem to me so fleeting...' Lith began and then stopped abruptly. 'Forgive me,' he said, quickly. 'That was impolite.'
Aragorn laughed. 'It was not,' he said. 'For it is not news to men that we are mortal. But your estimate is not wrong, for the blood of Númenor grants me longer life than most, who would find such journeys as this quite the challenge when nearing their ninetieth year, as I am. But I am no longer young even in the reckoning of Men of the Ancient Houses, though I hope to live a while longer yet. I have much to do.'
The Elf nodded, slowly, as if considering carefully all that he had learned. Lith's temperament today seemed much improved from the black mood of the previous night, his mercurial humours shifting again as swiftly as the sun moving out from behind a windswept cloud. This new inquisitiveness was rather endearing, Aragorn thought, and wondered if he might risk the easy air between them by satisfying some of his own curiosity.
'Might I ask the same of you?'
'Hmm?' the Elf said, looking up.
'Your age. How long have you walked Middle-earth?'
Lith seemed surprised. Then he made a little gesture with his good hand, thin fingers spread wide. 'Actually, I do not know.'
'You don't know? How does that come to pass?'
Lith's mouth twisted into a resigned frown that was slightly wistful. 'I have made no count of the running years,' he said. 'The world moves both very swift and very slow. The passing seasons are but ripples ever repeated in a long, long stream.'
'Presently, it is 3018 of the Third Age,' said Aragorn, who understood the way of Elves well enough to know a flowery answer was sometimes no more than an obfuscation. 'Or 1418 by the Shire calender.'
'Oh,' said Lith.
'Does that help?'
'Not especially,' said the Elf. 'The year of my birth was not much spoken of.' He looked up as he was counting to himself. 'I suppose I must be somewhere near my fourth în, but in truth I do not think it matters much.'
It mattered, Aragorn thought, because if the Elf's calculation was even close to correct he was not only young, but younger than Aragorn had ever considered he might be. Of course, Elves understood time very differently to the Edain, and they grew and matured in mind and body at a different pace than did the short-lived races. Though they may appear in form like a full grown Adan by eighty or a hundred years old, it was not custom amongst the Ñoldorin to consider an Elf to have come of age until at least his eighth în, the în being a standard measurement of 144 summers. Lith could therefore be no older than the last quarter of his fifth century, and barely halfway to his majority. Even Peregrin Took was older by the reckoning of halflings. Lith's people had scarred him and cast him out into the wilderness when he was little more than a child.
'Is aught amiss?' Lith asked, suddenly, pulling Aragorn from his thoughts.
'Nay,' the Ranger assured, and cast around for something to say while he processed this new development. 'I was just thinking of your wolf. Over the course of my long life I have had far more than my fair share of encounters with wolves. I am not overly willing to meet any more.'
'Wolves may not feel inclined to abide by your wishes,' Lith pointed out.
'They may not. But I do try to limit myself to just one near-fatal misadventure per journey, and I believe you have already fulfilled our quota in that regard. So let us hope your nose was mistaken!'
Lith smiled, and they continued on.
Unfortunately, Lith's senses proved more than accurate, although so too was Aragorn's reading of the wild. No wolf pack was this, but a lone she-wolf, perhaps cast out or searching for a new pack. That she was alone made her no less dangerous, for unless it was the depth of winter, a pack would usually go after easier prey than travellers, like deer or mountain goats, confident in catching a meal with little peril to themselves. Lone wolves hunted other, more difficult prey, and they were known to be both more intelligent, more desperate and far more aggressive than pack wolves.
An hour later Aragorn spotted their first proof of her. The scat was mostly crushed bone and fur but looked less than 12 hours old. The man started to look around for more traces as they followed the track up along the dingle, and soon found one.
'Here,' he said, crouching in the soft earth by a stream. 'A good, clear print, and freshly made since the rain stopped. And look!'
He laid his hand beside the huge print, and the claws reached almost to the last joint of his finger.
'A brôgaraf,' said Lith, using the old Sindarin name. Aragorn nodded.
'Deep-wolves we call them amongst the Rangers. This one is large, even for that species, though at least we know she is no warg and probably not in league with the enemy. I do not think she will trouble us, for she no doubt scented us before you did her.'
But just as at the river bank, luck was not on their side. As the day wore on Lith sensed the wolf again, twice in passing, and then constantly, as if she trailed them. They heard no howls or saw any sight of her beyond a flicker of movement along the shadow of a rock stack. But there could be no doubt that they were being tracked.
That night Aragorn decided not to camp but to journey on through the dark. The chances of being set upon by the wolf were far too great if they stayed stationary. There was little hope of outrunning a deep-wolf without horses, but if they kept moving and avoided the better footing of the sheep path, she might find some other game and lose interest.
It was a cold night, and dark, and the full chill of winter was upon them this close to the mountains. Aragorn pulled his coat and outer cloak tight about him, and though he should be warmed from the movement of walking, he found the cold to be creeping and pervasive. At least it would not snow, not yet. The night sky was clear of clouds and Elbereth's jewels were strewn bright as crystals across a black tapestry without the garish moon to dull them. Lith saw Aragorn glancing up at the stars as he checked his navigation was sound.
'The light of pure memory,' the Elf murmured, and then looked away, as if he regretted speaking aloud.
As was usual for the Eldar, Lith seemed largely unconcerned by the cold, though he still held his damaged arm tightly as if the chill crept into the bone itself. Aragorn had offered to sling it for him, but the Elf had declined, just pulling on the woollen glove he wore over Aragorn's bandages. If he had taken more of the pain-bite Aragorn could not tell.
They walked on in silence. Sunlight, Aragorn thought, showed too many things in contrast. Aragorn's journey and his great destiny, Lith's exile and hopeless wandering. Too many cares and tasks to complete, too insurmountable the barriers and responsibilities that lay between them. Here though, in the gentle dark beneath the stars, their nascent bond seemed more tangible, less fraught with uncertainty. Here secrets were less unkind, and answers, maybe, could be revealed.
So Aragorn spoke, out into the dark, 'Would you answer me a question, if I were to ask it?'
'I cannot say,' Lith answered, thoughtfully. 'Until you ask. Then we shall see.'
'Will you tell me of what it means to be Bodadêldir? The Wood-elves said you were Penenith. Unnamed. For all I thought I was well versed in Elvish law and custom, this is something I know nothing of.'
Lith walked close enough that Aragorn felt him flinch at the word Penenith, but at length he spoke, his voice coming out of the dark soft and slow like one reciting an old poem. 'A Bodadêldir forfeits all that once was his, by gift or blood. His name is taken from him, and no longer has he kin nor kith in this world nor any other. His memories are as stolen treasures that he keeps like a thief, for they belong not to him. Since to be Eldar is identified by lineage and tale and memory, he cannot even truly be said to be Elfkind. He is Unnamed. A non-thing. For any to act otherwise is a crime against all the Eldar and the natural order of the world.'
Aragorn listened to Lith's words in thoughtful silence. He thought of Lith's ruined bow arm, of his marked face, of his hair tangled and unbound and lacking the lamfinnel, the braid-words, that spoke at a glance to one could read them of an Elf's heritage and chosen path. Lith had nothing. But he could not truly be considered Unnamed for he bore the name Lith, as curious an epithet as it was.
At long last, Aragorn said, 'I did not hear any of the Elves call you Lith. Not even Elrond did so. I guess now it is not one of your birth names. How came you then to chose it?'
'I did not. That would be forbidden.'
'Then where did it come from?'
'Is that such a mystery?' said Lith, with a breath of a laugh that sounded almost fond. 'From Mithrandir, of course. He Renamed me when none other would have dared, not even I. Though I think he did not know then what it meant to do so, or what consequence it might have. Perhaps he still does not.'
'He has always been fearless,' Aragorn agreed, not in the least surprised to hear the wizard had been involved. 'But 'tis a strange name, nonetheless. Why did he name you 'ashes'?'
'There was a fire,' Lith said. 'In a village of men, far from here. I tried to save a family that were trapped and was myself overcome by smoke. Mithrandir happened to be close and they called him to aid. He said afterwards that when he arrived I was quite blackened with smoke and my hair was as grey as wood ash.'
'Did you save them?' Aragorn asked. 'The family.'
Lith gave a tiny smile. 'Yes,' he said. Then he froze, and his hand went to his crossbow. 'The wolf,' he said, with sharp focus. 'She draws near.'
They did not speak again but hurried on. Aragorn wondered briefly about stopping to light a fire or torches, but it was said the deep-wolves so rarely came near to men that they had no fear of flames. Their best option was to reach high ground where they had the chance of seeing her approaching, and might drive her off with arrows.
It was near dawn when the wolf finally attacked. The travellers had taken a diversion east to try and avoid the wolf's hunting track, though their route was suddenly bisected by steep-sided gully that cut towards the distant river. They had been forced to descend and follow along the base of the cutting for some miles until it shallowed sufficiently that they could climb out of its steep sides.
Lith climbed up first. Aragorn had hovered close behind in case the Elf's grip should fail. But Lith did not falter; even with only three working limbs he scampered as easily as a squirrel up the low cliff and disappearing over the lip, a deeper black silhouette against the night sky. Aragorn was only a few feet behind when he heard a sharp whistle he could not interpret and then the unmistakable creak and twang of the crossbow firing.
'Lith?' He shouted.
'The wolf!' Lith cried out, and Aragorn realised he had underestimated the she-wolf's cunning, for she had waited until they could neither see her nor catch her scent, and had then struck as they were separated.
Aragorn reached for the top of the cleft and scrambled up onto the ledge, drawing his sword. It was so dark that for a moment he could see nothing, the Elf's muted clothing and the near black of the deep-wolf's fur both merging with the shadowy grass. Then with a lightning flash, claws slashed out at him from the right. Aragorn threw himself aside at the last moment and heard the crossbow fire again, and then once more. The wolf let out a short bark, and then, with a blur of movement, the creature turned and disappeared into the night.
Aragorn leapt up and put his back to Lith's. The pair stood still for a long moment, facing out into the dark, but the wolf did not return.
'Do you hear anything?' Aragorn asked, low and urgent.
'No,' Lith answered, just as softly. 'I believe we have driven her off, for now.'
Aragorn did not dare to relax much. He sheathed his sword but kept it loose and close to hand. 'We should move on,' he said. 'It will not do to linger here when she may yet return. Are you hurt?'
'No,' said Lith. 'She appeared from the dark as I climbed up out of the cleft but I managed to evade her jaws. Are you?'
'I am unharmed. She took a swipe at me, but I wager my poor coat took more damage than my hide.'
'That garment does appear to be more patch than coat,' said Lith, gravely, though he sounded relieved, and truly was not one to talk, given the state of his own ragged garb.
'Come,' said Aragorn. 'Let us leave this place as quickly as we may. The wolf will be near. Keep your bow close at hand!'
The wolf did not return for the rest of the night, and Aragorn started to hope they had driven her off for good. Despite a brief search they had only found one of Lith's crossbow bolts and it was possible the others had found their mark although the Elf admitted he thought it unlikely; he had not a good sight on the beast when he had fired. Dawn finally arrived, and as they walked the sun slowly rose behind the distant mountains, though it bought no warmth with it and only enough light to glimmer gold off the freezing fog that lay close in the hollows of the hills. Indeed the gilded mists were rather beautiful to behold, though Aragorn paid the sight little mind, being both too cold and wearied to notice anything but for the way the fog smothered their senses.
Aragorn turned to speak to Lith to propose they find somewhere to camp for a few hours, and as he looked back to the Elf, a huge black shape launched itself out of the fog. Aragorn gave a cry but it was too late: the huge wolf struck Lith hard and sent him tumbling to the ground.
Aragorn ran in with a shout, pulling his sword free. Lith seemed to be pinned, struggling beneath the beast; the wolf lowered its great jaws forward towards the Elf's head, teeth gleaming. Then Aragorn was upon it, slashing down with his sword across the wolf's back. The wolf howled and, seeming to forget Lith, leapt towards the man instead. Aragorn caught her across the muzzle with his backswing, then jabbed the blade forward with another shout, aiming for her soft throat. He felt the blade bite. But then the wolf turned, and somehow the hilt was torn from his grip and the sword flew away into the grass. Aragorn had to jump back, turning to avoid slashing claws, and then the wolf's massive jaws closed over his leg as the beast tried to tear out the muscle in his calf. Teeth sank into the leather of his boot and Aragorn was yanked back off his feet. The man struck the ground hard and there was no time for stunned breathlessness. His hands scrabbled for his knife and he kicked out wildly, trying to free his leg.
A nimble shape vaulted across the wolf's back. Lith landed lightly near her head; a flash of bloody silver and the wolf released her prey with a yelp and darted back. Lith stayed low, crouched between Aragorn and the wolf, and Aragorn saw that the Elf had snatched up Aragorn's own sword, blade raised out towards the beast. The wolf snarled and then howled. Lith snarled back, feral and strange.
The three remained frozen for a moment in their tableau; Aragorn on his back on the ground, the wild Elf crouched over him, sword raised, and the wolf with teeth bared, ready to strike, watching them with yellow eyes.
Then Lith spoke. Not Westron or Sindarin, nor even the Silvan dialect he had spoken before, but a long line of sybillant words in a tongue Aragorn had never heard. As if in response the wolf began a low growl in the back of her throat, a sound that went on and on, and all the while the Elf continued to speak in that strange tongue that sounded like a mix of birdsong and whistling wind.
At last the wolf's growl died away. Lith spoke one last phrase and then too went quiet. The wolf's head dipped side to side, and then, to Aragorn's surprise, she let out one short bark, then turned and trotted away into the mist. She was gone.
Lith swayed. Then he dropped the sword and slumped down onto one knee. Aragorn scrambled up to his feet and darted for the weapon, snatching it up, heart racing. He stared into the fog.
'You will not need that,' said the Elf, sounding unutterably weary. 'The wolf - she is gone.'
'What happened?' said Aragorn, glancing back from the direction the wolf had disappeared. 'What did you do?'
Lith remained kneeling in the grass, curling forward. 'An old spell,' he murmured.
'The wolf could have killed us both. Why did she just leave?'
Lith just shook his head. He looked up at Aragorn. 'You are hurt,' he said. 'You are bleeding.'
Aragorn didn't think he was injured, but he knew well enough how easy it was in the fever of battle to remain blind to a wound until long after the fight was over. He glanced down and sure enough, blood was oozing from the torn holes in the leather of his boot. There was no pain yet, but it would come soon.
'I do not think it is too bad. Are you wounded?'
Lith shivered. He wasn't bleeding that Aragorn could see but he was hunched forward in that way that was becoming quite familiar, and he didn't answer the question.
'Your arm?' Aragorn asked. The Elf nodded silently. Aragorn remembered Lith falling to the floor, his arms out to catch his fall, the full weight of the deep-wolf on his back...
The wolf.
Aragorn looked back out into the swirling whiteness. The ground mist was burning away as the sun rose. Even now he could see the shapes of nearby trees appearing through the mirk, but there was no sign of movement, no black wolf shadow leaping for them through the fog.
'The wolf is truly gone?'
Lith still said nothing and when Aragorn looked towards him he saw the Elf's face was pale with pain. There was no other choice for now than hope that Lith knew what he was talking about.
'Come,' Aragorn said, limping over to Lith. 'Let us find somewhere safe to rest.'
They would not be able to keep going for long. With the pain from Aragorn's leg starting to burn, Lith had to support him as they walked, even as the Elf himself swayed with his own pain. Aragorn kept his sword drawn as they walked, but the wolf did not reappear.
It was more than fortunate that they stumbled on a place to camp not half an hour later. It was not a cave, more a long crack in the rock of an escarpment. It went back only a dozen paces and above them was open to the air, but it was sheltered, would conceal a fire, and more importantly had but one entrance which would limit angles of attack. As soon as the fire was burning merrily and the water in his small cauldron was hot, they did what they could to treat Aragorn's leg wound. Even though the tough leather of his boot had taken the worst of the damage, as soon as Aragorn pulled his boot off, the blood began to stream out afresh from the arcs of deep punctures encircling his calf. Aragorn used up the last of his soapcake to wash out the wound; soap would break down saliva in the cuts better than anything, and was the only way to try and stave off infection. Lith did his best to aid with the bandages, although his left hand was useless and the right shaking badly. Aragorn stuck to his resolve not to interfere and said nothing when Lith openly took a pinch of pain-bite as soon as Aragorn's wound was dressed. Right now he clearly needed it.
They were both exhausted but Aragorn knew it would be far too dangerous for both of them to sleep at once, particularly as it had turned out Lith's crossbow had been another casualty of the wolf's most recent attack. When the wolf had knocked the Elf to the ground, one arm of the lathe had snapped clean through and now the weapon was all but useless. Lith had gathered up the broken pieces and stowed them away in his pack without a word. If he was left feeling bereft and vulnerable with no weapon but his unwieldy heavy knife he gave no sign, and still seemed sure that they needed to fear no further attack from the wolf. Aragorn wanted to know how the Elf could be so certain.
'She agreed to my bargain,' Lith said.
They were sitting by the fire. Aragorn had his bound leg raised up on his pack and it was throbbing unpleasantly. The Elf was holding his own injured arm tight against his torso. Aragorn had treated it again with the soothing salve, but the scar had been swollen, red and angry to look at, worse than it had been back in Tandoliant. Lith seemed barely to be able to close his left hand now without pain.
'What bargain?' Aragorn frowned. 'Before you spoke of a spell.'
'Spell, curse, bargain. It is much the same.' Lith answered, quietly, and then expanded only when Aragorn gave him an impatient look. 'I told her that we had knives of sharp steel. She might kill one but not both of us, then the other would kill her. I warned her to leave us for easier prey. She accepted.'
'You don't think the wolf will just come back when we're asleep?'
'No. She was driven by hunger only. A creature of evil intent - a warg - would not have understood the tongue. No such was she. She will leave us in peace.'
Aragorn frowned. 'But how can you know what an animal understands? What tongue can talk to the mind of a wolf?'
'I cannot tell you,' Lith said, without a pause. 'It is forbidden for Bodadêldir to-'
'That is not good enough!' Aragorn interrupted, sternly. He was growing frustrated with the constant secrets. 'Our lives depend on this, that the wolf really is gone. I must know if I can put my trust in this, in you. Tell me!'
Lith was silent for a long time. At last he spoke.
'It was Old Nandorin. That tongue...it is ancient. Powerful. I am forbidden to use it, and did so only to save yo- our lives. Speaking it again...it was…'
Lith's voice trailed away. Aragorn nodded, slowly. He had known already that the Elf must be one of the Silvan folk from his accent but this new development told him more than perhaps Lith had hoped it would. Aragorn knew less about the Silvan Elves than he did the Ñoldor, Sindar or even the Galadhrim, but he knew enough to be aware the Old Nandorin dialects were all but extinct, and that the wild magic he had just witnessed was a rare gift even amongst that people. Lith must come from a powerful Silvan bloodline with deep Mirkwood roots. Flaxen and golden hair was more common amongst those of Silvan blood, as was Lith's slender build, but he was a little taller than Aragorn thought common for Wood-elves and no Silvan had eyes of that blue-grey colour; their eyes were brown like pine bark or hazelnuts, or green like sunlight through leaves. Sea eyes were the mark of a Sinda. Deeper still this mystery grew, but there were few places now in Middle-earth where those two peoples were so intertwined.
'I am right in my guess then,' Aragorn said softly, 'that you are a Wood-elf and that you hail from Mirkwood?'
'No,' disagreed Lith, abruptly. His face went blank as that old mask covered his features once more. 'I am not. I am nothing.'
Aragorn frowned. 'You must stop saying such things. Whether your people choose to cast you out or not, it does not change who you are. Your heritage. No punishment can erase that.'
'Do not speak of what you do not understand!' Lith was angrier now than Aragorn thought he had yet seen. 'They exiled me, but why can you not see that I deserved it? I am not worthy to be what I was before. I do not want to be! I forfeited all else when I-'
He cut off abruptly.
'When you killed another Elf?' Aragorn said, perhaps a little too ruthlessly, but hoping to prompt another truth.
Lith blanched but he said, very quietly, 'Yes.' Then he turned away, his countenance miserable. 'Please, just leave me alone. I do not wish to speak any more.'
After that, nothing else would persuade Lith to respond again and they lapsed into silence while they ate and unrolled their blankets. Weariness won out over caution in the end and they both slept; it was full morning now and they would not be troubled by night-dwelling goblins or wargs, and there was nothing Aragorn could do but accept the Elf's confidence in his Nandorin spellwork to keep the she-wolf at bay. On the edge of awareness he sensed Lith tossing and turning for some time before the Elf succumbed to sleep. Aragorn too fell asleep soon after, exhausted by the missing nights of rest, the long days of travel, and the lingering chill and tightness in his chest that he prayed was not an oncoming illness.
No such luck. Aragorn woke in the late afternoon, sneezing, as the sun sank towards the western horizon far, far away. They had slept away almost all of the day and it was far past time to be moving on if they wanted to reach Rivendell before the snows of winter set in. In between coughing and shivering, the man repacked their belongings, smothered the last hot embers of the fire and ate a little bread, and all the while Lith slept on, still and silent beneath his thin blanket. And when Aragorn finally grew impatient and went to wake the Elf, he found to his growing consternation that he could not. Neither calling nor shaking produced a reaction, and when he laid his fingers on the Elf's pulse, his skin was chilled and the rhythm of his heartbeat too slow within his chest. His breaths seemed shallow and barely perceptible, and when Aragorn peeled open Lith's eyelids, he saw the black centres had all but swallowed up the blue.
Crumpled in the Elf's lax right hand was the waxed parchment wrap that contained the dried naegranaeth. More than a third of the herb was gone.
TBC
