This was the type of tiredness he enjoyed, Aragorn decided. It had been a long day in the saddle, hot under the summer sun. But the lands were green and the streams were still full, and he had met no trouble on the East-West Road he had been following. He had left it this morning on his way north towards the settlements of the Dunedain on his way north, not passing through any of the other settlements of Men surrounding Bree. Chetwood was not too far to the west, but there was nothing in the village that enticed him to go out of his way. He had just come from Rivendell, and he was well stocked with provisions and other gifts for his people from Lord Elrond.

However much he appreciated the bundles of essential supplies, he gave them hardly any thought. No, there was something else he brought with him from Rivendell.

Aragorn's heart was full of the delicious ache of having left his lady love behind him. Even though he had been in love with Arwen for most of his life, he was still baffled that she would pledge herself to him. It was bittersweet that she should be denied the bliss of Valinor. He simply had to trust that whatever awaited them beyond the circles of the world would be equally rewarding. He smiled even as he settled his back against a tree to rest. No fire tonight. The warm feeling in his chest was enough to keep him very comfortable, indeed.

He tempered his own enthusiasm with a reminder of his errand. He was eager to meet with his kinsmen. Their work, after all, was not finished. Aragorn had accomplished great victory against the enemy with his defeat of the Corsairs with the armies of Gondor, and against other foes with those of Rohan. But Mithrandir had advised that vigilance be maintained in Eriador. The Dunedain were charged with preventing any footholds for the Enemy in that blessed region. And Aragorn knew that he could not truly claim the throne of Gondor and Arnor until he had seen the defeat of that Enemy that was plotting to overtake the whole of Middle Earth.

With a sigh, he dismissed the worries around his mission, allowing his thoughts to stray to gray eyes, raven hair, and slender fingers, one of which bore the Ring of Barahir as a token of their pledge.

But his night was not to be restful. He was startled at last out of a light doze by a human cry far off. Instantly alert, he stood, straining his ears, suspecting that the sound had come from a woman.

A few seconds later, he heard a man yelling desperately and clearly for help. He could hear no growls as from wolves or trolls, nor any sounds of fighting. It must not be weapons skills that were needed, then, but he brought his good sword with him. Sweeping his pack onto his back as well, he left the saddle and most of the gear collected in Rivendell to take to the Dunedain village, and leapt bareback onto his horse.

Over the gallop of his horse's hooves, he heard a woman moaning in pain, the same man still intermittently calling for help, and a middle-aged man occasionally grunting a rebuke. The light of a campfire came into view past the trees. The young man who had been calling was running about the camp, looking about and panting somewhat frantically. He looked up at Aragorn's approach. The older man warily came nearer, picking up a staff and holding it defensively across his body, muttering to a young boy sitting unhappily by the fire to stay where he was.

"Hail, travelers," Aragorn said, slowing his horse, for he saw that was what they were. Their laden cart was stopped and the young woman, who could be seen a short distance behind them, was sitting with her back against the saddle of the horse set to graze beside it, her knees up and legs spread, quietly moaning. Sure enough, she seemed to be at the point of delivering a child. What in the world had to have happened for them to be caught in this situation?

"I was camping nearby and heard a cry for help," Aragorn said by way of explanation.

He dismounted, feeling it would ease the wary tension in the older man and the desperation of the younger one who were now staring at him. The young man appraised the newcomer for only a moment before divulging all their business.

"My wife," the young man said, gesturing behind him in a welcoming sort of way. The older man, his salt-and-pepper beard sticking out warningly and his feet firmly planted between the lady and the stranger, did not move. Aragorn thought it best to stay where he was. "The child is coming, but something appears to be wrong," the young man continued, then paused in his jog back to the woman seeing Aragorn was not following. "Can you help?" he asked, the hope in his eyes somewhat painful to see. "We didn't think the child would come so soon!"

"Though I am no midwife, I do have some knowledge of healing," Aragorn said. A midwife would, indeed, have been the family's best hope, but it was evidently too late for him to ride to Chetwood and find one before it was too late. Judging by the dampness reflecting firelight on the ground by the woman's feet, and how tired she appeared, it appeared labor had already lasted longer than could be desired. And he guessed by the splint he now spotted on the family's cart horse that they were unable to send anyone on horseback to fetch other help, either.

"I am called Thorongil," Aragorn continued. "I have come north from Gondor to visit some of my kinsmen who live in this area. I admit, my skills at healing lie mostly in battle wounds, but my education did include childbirth, as well. I was raised among healers." All true, though many details were omitted. He had been using the name Thorongil for more than two decades while he was abroad, though he thought with some regret that the Sindarin name might make this family distrustful.

The older man looked at him dubiously, but thankfully did relax enough to lower his staff. "I am Butterbur, sir. Elwood Butterbur." He obviously did not like having to rely on the stranger's help.

"Has water been boiled?" Aragorn asked nobody in particular, his movements somewhat cautious as he slung his pack to the ground and opened it in search of his usual healing herbs, also fully restocked after his blessed visit to Rivendell.

"Yes, sir, it's still bubbling," said the young boy by the fire. Aragorn guessed his age at around ten years.

"Good lad. Can you pour some into a bowl for me? Mr. Butterbur, may I proceed?"

The man appeared to have made a decision at last, and stepped aside. "We'd be most obliged to you, sir, for anything you can do for my daughter. She's having a hard time of it, to be sure. We've been here since midday."

The younger man was still moving around agitatedly, occasionally muttering encouragement to his wife. Aragorn knew it was likely annoying the woman, or would have been, had she not been distracted by the pain. She was sweating and panting now, but she looked up at Aragorn with shrewd eyes when he approached.

"I am Thorongil," he said again. "What is your name, good lady?"

"She's Ivy, and I'm Beckett," said the young man, currently kneeling at her side, before the woman could answer, and she shot him the smallest of glares before turning back to Aragorn.

"Mrs. Ivy, can you tell me what's happened?"

"We've got a farm north of Chetwood," the man said, talking for his wife again but too distraught to realize his impoliteness. "We were on our way to Bree. My aunt lives there. We were hoping she could help Ivy with the birth, for we weren't expecting the child for another month or so. And we would also return her son Barliman to her. He was just with us to help with the summer harvest."

He was cut off by a cry of pain from his wife. The sound had an edge of desperation. When it subsided, she glared at her husband. "The child will not come," she grated out to Aragorn once the worst of her pain had passed. It was clear she was in a great deal of pain, which distracted her from an overwhelming fear.

"Breathe deeply," Aragorn instructed. By then he had removed his dusty outer tunic, washed his hands thoroughly in the steaming water the boy had set down beside him, and tossed some crushed athelas leaves into the bowl. The scent alone helped both Ivy and her husband to relax slightly.

"I am going to take a look," he told the woman. She nodded her head and leaned into her husband's shoulder as he wrapped an arm about her, whether for her comfort or his own, Aragorn could not tell.

Aragorn had the boy toss a burning brand to him from the fire, and set it beside him to have more light. Then, thinking it merciful to show none of the hesitation he felt, he looked, muttering an apology and he was obliged to feel around to ascertain what was happening.

The child was not lying in the correct position, it seemed. Beckett made a valiant effort not to break into hysterics when Aragorn said as much.

"Can anything be done?" Elwood asked grimly from his lookout position.

"I can try to shift the babe. But you must understand," he looked at Ivy, "it will be painful, and it may not be successful. It may also harm the child, though it may also have suffered some before now."

"Do it," she said between breaths. They all knew that a lack of action would be fatal to both mother and child.

"Try to relax," he told her. "Help her, Beckett, show her how it's done. Deep, steady breaths."

All the lessons and overheard discussions he ever witnessed from Elrond and the midwives of Imladris or from among the Dunedain floated back up through his memory from where they had long been buried. He knew what to do in theory, though he had never even attended a birth before. According to his recollections, he simply had to maneuver the baby's head into the correct position through measured pressure on the head, and on its body through the mother's skin. And somehow he had to avoid entangling the babe in the cord or twisting something the wrong way. He was also mindful that the quickly tiring mother could be hurt in the process, but would not endure much longer without help.

As Chieftain of the Dunedain and a commander of armies in both Rohan and Gondor, he was used to making decisions that could cost the lives of others. But they were usually soldiers, who had knowingly followed him into that possibility. He had no claim over the lives of this mother and child. But he did have a distant, vacant throne as reminder of his responsibility toward them, to make his best attempt.

"Breathe," he said, to everyone including himself. He steadied himself and called to the child's spirit with his mind, encouraging it to accept his uncomfortable pushing and cooperate with his mother's body. He ignored Ivy's scream, muffled in her husband's shoulder, as the babe slowly moved.

Finally, by some miracle, it seemed that something slid into place. Ivy gave a short shout, and when Aragorn looked again, he could see the baby's head where it ought to be. It remained to be seen whether the child was well. He decided not to delay to listen for a heartbeat.

"You can push when the pains come again, Ivy," he said, splashing water into his hands again and picking up a man's clean tunic that lay by her feet, he assumed for the babe. He did not have to wait long. A guttural groan stretched into the silence of the night.

"Rest a moment, now," Aragorn told her. "The child's head is out. Let it turn." He did not know if this was the best decision. He knew the wait was usually better, but not when there was high risk to the infant. In the absence of a midwife, however, his was the only opinion that mattered, in any case. He did not hear Beckett's thrilled encouragement to his wife, focused as he was on the slow rotation. Did the child live? Was anything out of place?

"And push again, Ivy."

By some miracle, the cord had not wrapped around any part of the babe, and the small, slimy thing slipped into Aragorn's waiting hands just as he knew it ought. He wiped clean the mouth and nose, and wrapped it—him—in the tunic.

"A son," Aragorn announced, conscious of the father's muted exclamations of joy and the mother's expectant silence as he held the child in one hand and firmly rubbed his tiny back with the other. The seconds seemed interminable, but at last the feeble cry came. Ivy began quietly weeping as relief and exhaustion overtook her, and Aragorn rested the wrapped bundle on her chest.

"Barliman, is there a blanket?" he asked the boy by the fire once the congratulations and exclamations of joy around the camp faded. Barliman obligingly dashed over to hand him what seemed to be a spare cloak. Aragorn laid it over mother and child. Though it was a warm night, Ivy had been sweating in her exertion, and he did not wish her or the child to catch a chill. He knelt again, muttering when the afterbirth came, intact to the best of his limited knowledge. He left again to bring some thread from out of his pack, dropping it for a while in the pot of hot water as Lord Elrond would have instructed before using it to tie off the cord and cut it with his dagger.

Aragorn washed his hands again and directed Ivy, whose eyes were drooping shut, to rest while a delighted Beckett held their son, taking him over to Elwood, who congratulated and complimented the child again in response to his son-in-law's enthusiastic words.

"Have you a shovel?" Aragorn asked Barliman, who was still sitting obediently by the fire, but now with a much happier expression on his face.

"We have a pick-axe, sir," he said, and fetched it at Aragorn's nod.

"Build up the fire. We need to keep them warm." As the boy again obeyed, Aragorn walked a short distance into the surrounding woods and made a hole to bury the afterbirth. His work nearly finished, he could overhear the end of the whispered conversation between Elwood and Beckett.

"Of course he's not a Ranger," Elwood was saying. "Are you daft, boy? Didn't you notice? His clothes are too well made and new. And he's much too well-spoken. Sounds like he might be some trader all the way from Gondor, if you ask me."

Aragorn winced. He had forgone his normal travel clothes in favor of those given to him in Rivendell made in the Elven style still, knowing they would withstand the easy journey. And since it had been dry and he'd had no need to stop to hunt, they bore few travel stains. The outfit surely looked much more like an Elven lord's than a wandering exile's. The accent was harder to remedy, but made a mental note to himself that he should learn to mimic the speech of the Breelanders if he was to continue interacting with them, and find a new name for himself. He would not be able to reveal his true identity to them until he claimed the throne, anyway; it would be yet another alias for him to adopt.

"All that way? You're right, I think, seeing as his speech and manner are so strange," Beckett conceded. "Bless me, but were we lucky he ran into us. I told you it couldn't do no harm for me to call for help, didn't I? No troll has come this far west out of the shaws for many a year, anyhow. I daren't even think what could have happened if I hadn't called or that fellow hadn't heard."

"True enough," Elwood grumbled. "I'm that glad about it, I won't lie. A bit of a mystery, he is. I just hope he won't be asking for anything unreasonable in return for his help."

"Mercy, I hadn't considered that," Beckett said. "We haven't got much of anything—"

Aragorn made sure his boots crunched on some twigs as he made his way back into the clearing and gave the pick-axe back to Barliman, who stowed it then unrolled a bedroll for himself. Smart lad, Aragorn thought, to catch rest while he may. He cast an assessing look at Ivy, whose color was good and her breathing easy as she dozed. He collected his things and slung his pack on his back again, then he walked calmly to the pair of men standing somewhat awkwardly on the other side of the fire.

"Your daughter is a strong woman, Mr. Butterbur. You should be proud," he said kindly, noting with satisfaction that the baby Beckett was cradling also seemed to be doing well, snuggled against his father's neck.

"We're very grateful to you indeed, sir, for your help," Elwood replied sincerely. Aragorn did note the nervousness edging into his tone, and tried to forestall it.

"It seems you have the situation in hand. I need to return to my campsite, I'm afraid, as I've left my supplies there. Would you like me to look in on you before I continue my journey in the morning?"

"Oh, please do not concern yourself, sir," Elwood broke in, though it seemed Beckett was about to accept on behalf of his wife. "By morning we'll be able to see ahead well enough to send Beckett to Bree on foot and see about borrowing a horse to pull our cart. Ours has gone and twisted something, you see. Then we'll get to my brother and his wife's little inn there and be well looked after, never you fear."

"I am glad to hear it," Aragorn said. "In that case, I shall retire."

"But you can't just go like that," Beckett protested. "I'm awfully sorry we have nothing to give you to show our gratitude, sir. I'm full aware we could have lost my dear Ivy and this little troublemaker tonight if it weren't for you."

Aragorn stopped to think for a moment, then recalled a detail they had mentioned. "You know, I have heard there is no better ale west of the Misty Mountains than what they brew in Bree. What would you say to owing me a pint when next I pass through there?"

Beckett's face lit up eagerly as he looked to his father-in-law.

"I think that can be arranged. A whole barrel, in fact—as much as you've a mind for," Elwood answered. "Just look for the Prancing Pony. It's been in the family for generations. And if we are back at our farm north of Chetwood by the time you arrive to collect on your debt, my nephew Barliman will know you and settle it for us."

Aragorn shook hands with the men and bade them a good night, just before the infant began to squirm.

"Time for rest is over, Ivy, my dear! Someone's wanting supper." Beckett called to his wife, who blinked awake with a smile and began arranging her clothing under the cloak in preparation for nursing. But he stopped before walking over. "I thank you again for your help, Mr. Thorongil, sir. If ever you need anything from the Butterbur or Appledore families, you've only to mention it."

Aragorn accepted graciously and swung onto his horse's back, returning at a more leisurely pace back to his campsite as the sound of Ivy cooing to the baby faded behind him.

He looked up at the stars as he went, sending a prayer of thanks up into the night, entirely conscious of the miracle that both mother and child survived the birth unscathed. And he could not suppress a chuckle. The hands of a king, he thought, were apparently also the hands of a midwife. There were a few loremasters of Gondor who would perhaps find the modified adage preposterous, but it amused him.

His joys were overflowing in his heart. He had a beautiful Elf maiden waiting for him in Rivendell, his kinsmen expecting him in the northern villages, and a barrel of fine ale owed to him in Bree. Though there was work to be done against the Dark Lord, the world still had its havens of good. And as long as good, simple people like the Butterburs kept living their lives in these havens, Aragorn would happily continue defending them.