ONE

From history, Aragorn remembered why the great plains of Angmar were vacant.

Long ago, Sauron’s chief servant established the fortress of Carn Dûm to the North and built a formidable army of Men and Orcs. Then, the Lord of the Nazgûl systematically set out to destroy the Northern Dúnadain and for 675 years he waged war against them. Only the combined forces of the Elves summoned by Lord Elrond and the army of Gondor were able to defeat the vast host … but by the time their aid arrived, only a remnant of Dúnadain were left living.

Over a thousand years had passed since that final cataclysmic war, but still only beast and fowl remained abroad in the cold plains of Angmar. Legend persisted that the ground was cursed. That daemon haunted the step hills. And there were many who feared the Captain of Despair would return to his ancient kingdom.

Deadman’s Dike lay to his right. Here, the Dúnedain were reduced to the single kingdom of Arthedain and the Witch King of Angmar destroyed them to the last soul and set his own throne in the Hall of Kings. He renamed it Fornost and ruled the land from this place.

Aragorn would not journey there out of respect for the blood of his kin.

The Tower of Amon Sûl where King Arveleg I was slain, lay to the South. Aragorn had climbed there once when he was younger. He still remembered the great blocks of stone and ruined walls.

Today, the broken stronghold did not interest him.

Midgewater Marsh rested at the foot of the Weathered Hills; he would not go there.

Nor would he go to Tyrn Gorthad, for evil spirits conjured by the Lord of the Nazgûl were still rumored to walk freely. No sentient creature willingly entered the Barrow Downs and the ancient burial site of Men was abandoned.

There was nothing more to the North, save the Icebay of Forochel and he had no love for the chill that swept off the rugged coastline.

The Shire with its teeming host of small folk lay beyond his vision, past the last peak of the Weathered Hills towards the South. He was welcome there, if a bit distrusted because he towered over them. His unruly appearance did not aid his cause and the hobbit children tended to scurry out of his sight.

But a mug of ale was a tempting thought and Bree was little more than a day away. And if not Bree, with its muggy dark inns, then perhaps Hobbiton where no one was higher than his chest and he needed three mugs to equal a single drink for Men.

Aragorn smiled, stretching. There was no sign of evil upon these vast wilds he had searched. Winter was upon the land and even here, where he stood between the Weathered Hills and the North Downs, the plain was dead and cold. A drink would be nice. A hot bath even nicer. He set his face Southeast and let his feet carry him down the long valley and on the second day, he came upon the footroad to Bree.

But there he paused, uncertain and fickle of thought. Now that the path lay before him, it was less inviting than his thoughts ascribed earlier. He studied it as if it should give him answer.

“My mind changes like wind. To enter Bree and sit quietly in the corners, listening to the rumors of the commoners … or to the South, to the small folk who oft fear me?” he said. For a long while he stood amidst the thicket, hidden from the road, before slowly saying, “I do not care for either choice now.”

A rider came down the road at a trot, his horse muddied and tired. The stranger looked shabby and unkempt and Aragorn watched him pass without stirring. The sight did not inspire.

“So … I shall not go to either, but neither am I ready to return to the House of Elrond,” he said to open space. “I have thought upon every place where I do not wish to go … what is left?” He pondered his own question, turning in a circle to view the land and calling to mind the old maps of Elrond’s house.

“I shall go to the Hills of Evendim, to look upon the empty city of Annúminas, where my ancestors once dwelled,” he said abruptly. He shouldered his pack once more. “And Gandalf the Grey keeps a little house upon the bare mountain. Perhaps he winters there.”

He gave little hope to the thought, but it did not deter his choice.

He left the muddied road and pondered how his journey had changed in an instant. The grassy valley he left behind, along with all promises of ale and news. Game became more plentiful, though he took none for food. Carrying a haunch of meat would slow his progress, and for some reason, he felt the press of time. His stride lengthened to a traveler’s pace, which he could sustain for many miles.

He ascended the outermost hills in two days, so straight was his path. He turned not aside, save once to quench his thirst in stream and refill his water pouch. Dry twigs he snapped in passing and put in a pocket; dry grasses into another.

Through gorse and buckleberries, through muddy rivulets that trickled beneath icy covers, through the scrubby shrubs of the lowlands, the Ranger kept his direction and pace. He only stopped when there was an hour left of light in order to set up shelter and coax a fire into being. He dug for roots and added a few savory herbs, stirred everything together in a small kettle with some dried meat. It was enough to silence his belly, but nothing more.

“Watch over me, Powers of the World,” he whispered each night before sleeping. “Keep my feet from stumbling and lead me as you will, whether to friend or foe. Násië.”

To be dutiful to the purpose of the Great Ones is a noble thing. Listen for their counsel and obey their tenants.

So his mother had said many times. The Valar had never spoken to him, but he prayed and listened anyway.

Dawn did not catch him sleeping, for a bird trilled and woke him. He was cresting the second line of hills when the morning broke over the mountains. He found a sturdy walking stick and put it into use, for the climb ahead would be dire in places and sticks were often handy. A hand sling brought down a hare that lingered too long and he carried it, gutted, until nightfall when he could cook it.

Up and up, through boulder strewn dirt slides and meager trails trod by wild goats, Aragorn ascended the mountains. The abandoned kingdom lay on the Southern shore of Nenuial, the lake birthing the river Baranduin. Why the small folk of the Shire called it the Brandywine, he could not fathom, but they stared perplexed at him if he called it by its true name.

“Simple hobbits,” he said.

The air was getting thin. He stopped to catch his breath and stare out over the world. Far to the North, the clouds dropped rain. He knew if the winds brought it South, at his elevation, it would be snowfall.

“I doubt the wizard is wintering here. He does not like to be cold.”

He set off again, this time climbing the rocks as they stacked before him. The staff came in handy for balance and, once, caught him from a serious fall. No sign of life attracted his attention beyond that of a stray mountain goat or a rock squirrel.

He climbed until his hunger caught him. He ate what rabbit remained, sitting in sunshine. The river was a line of dark against the ground. Bree somewhere near a dot of trees. Closer, were Bindbole woods. He set off again before his muscles froze up and hiked the whole afternoon, pushing hard to get in sight of the first high point.

He was sweating and trembling when he drew up to catch his breath. The mountain above him was snowbound and the trees failed.

“Is the wizard here?” His eyes searched the rocky face of the mountain. “If Legolas was with me, surely he could see the walls of his house from this distance. I am too far.”

Aragorn climbed higher, angling to the Southern side of the peak where the combination of sun and wind kept the snow swept free. It was still a bitter face, with craggy chimneys of shale and biting cold. The tough grass clung to life, stubbornly. The trees were gnarled and twisted, their limbs streaming sidelong at the mercy of relentless winds.

Aragorn climbed until he was breathless, the staff of wood growing heavier and heavier than any wood seemed capable. Finally, he came to the level where he could see clearly … and saw nothing but rocks.

There was no house.

“I thought as much,” he said, somewhat disappointed. He sat on a boulder, disheartened.

Gandalf had a tattered dirt-floor house, but it could not be seen unless the wizard was there. In truth, was only a bald spot on the weather-beaten mountain where three columns of rocks stood close and threaded together at the peak. They fashioned the fireplace. A ledge in the rocks made his bed and various pockets behind boulders held hard goods in heavy tins … but only when the wizard raised the walls of the house did the house actually exist.

Aragorn had stayed there once or twice and watched him spell-speak the walls down when they left. It was a wonder to behold and Gandalf had smiled at Aragorn’s astonished laughter the first time. It was not until four years later than he ever saw the wizard raise the walls, and that was a greater wonder than putting them away.

“What brought me eagerly here, the ruined city or the hope of the wizard?” he said ruefully. “I am dispirited enough to turn back and I have not even arrived!”

He studied the barren landscape silently, then slowly turned from his course and made for the gap of the ridge that would spill him over to the crumbling towers and empty city of Annúminas.

But a hundred paces back along the path, Aragorn stopped and turned again, wondering.

“Can I find Gandalf’s place without the walls up?” he inquired of the landscape. “There is the measure of a woodsman!” He laughed at the fickle turns of his journey the past four days. “I am a bewildering Man, indeed!”

The challenge was before him and he set off and climbed until he reached the previous level. From there, he picked his way by memory and those, none too recent. At one point, he turned and retraced his steps, for he was certain he had lost his path. Through rough terrain and a few benches covered with short grasses, he wended his way.

Beyond this peak lay a quiet valley nestled from view, he remembered. Once he had sat a stones throw from the wizard’s home and puffed his pipe, watching mountain elk graze in the glade below. Freshets of water tumbled from snowmelt above and gathered their waters together to form a noisy creek. The trout were fat and savory. The wizard had been amused at Aragorn’s exploration, for the glade was no more than two miles across in any direction—small enough to be missed by an explorer, but large enough to support a small herd of elk and other beasts.

“And there it is!” he said exultantly. His breath came out a white cloud and hung in the air. He studied the angle of his view and clambered about, attempting to recall his exact gaze from before. “This is where I perched that day. And if so, then the house would sit …” and he turned, “right up there.”

He made his way upwards and stood looking about.

Here, the rising strata of rocks all looked identical. Ledge after ledge, cliff face after cliff face, he studied intently and from several angles. It took him nearly a whole sunturn to finally find three columns of shale that twined together at the top. They looked as all pillars of shale did: stacked recklessly and would fall with a single push.

Aragorn squinted and eyed them, imagining a fire crackling at the base of the formation, before deciding he had found the right place. Confirmation came when he finally spotted, high overhead, a small ledge accessible only by meager footholds in the cliff face.

“Gandalf’s house!”

Aragorn laughed, but there were only rocks and wind-eddied debris to hear him. He stretched cramped muscles, pleased, and stared off at the cleft of the mountain that led to the abandoned Dúnadain city. His thoughts quieted.

The land of my Fathers has lain in ruin for nearly two thousand years. Would that I had the power to raise it as Gandalf the Grey can raise the walls of his ragged little cottage.

“Am I brought here to consider this, Gods of the World? I am no mighty King to remake what is destroyed utterly. Or a wizard, to create something from what is not there, giving it shape and substance,” he said sadly. “I am only a Man and my heritage is broken.”

Silence answered him and Aragorn felt as if he had somehow betrayed a trust, though he had only spoken his naked honesty.

The Holy Ones give strength when needed, but not before. Wait upon them faithfully. Swear your oaths upon nothing but yourself and then see that it is done.

Or so Gandalf had taught him. His mother trusted the old wizard as much as she trusted Lord Elrond. It was well noted that Gilraen was the only person with whom Gandalf the Grey did not quarrel.

“Yet, will I say more; I will be content where you lead me and honor my oaths. I will be brave in trials. I will protect the weak.” He gazed up at the grey skies. “I will always listen for the Powers of Arda, who speak or refrain.”

And in the empty waste, Aragorn rested his palm upon the handle of his sword and listened.

Wind.
The soft brush of a tree limb against a rock.
Scent of winter snow.
A twitter of a bird far away.
His own breath.
Presence.
Silence.

Presence?

He turned noiselessly and studied the bleak landscape; let his feet draw him where his eyes caught. A boulder set apart from its brothers. A jut of rock that had been broken off. A fallen branch. A tuft of green lichen. A tumble of leaves and peeled bark.

But not peeled bark!

Aragorn knelt, aghast, and brushed moldering leaves and detritus off the crumpled form of Gandalf the Grey. Daylight lent his skin no color, and winter air did not dissipate the reek of uncleanliness. His long hair was matted with dirt and twigs, the beard filthy and malodorous … yet it was the grandest sight when the wizard opened his eyes, though one did not open but halfway.

“Gandalf!” cried Aragorn. “What has happened?”

The wizard looked at him vaguely, as if he could not place his face, but when Aragorn attempted to sit him up, his expression twisted into a grimace.

“No—no!” he hissed. “Leave me lie!”

Aragorn ceased his attempt and took the wizard’s hand. Every finger was thin to the bone. “Why haven’t you raised the walls for shelter?”

“Walls?” whispered Gandalf. His eyes spoke confusion.

“The walls of your house—they are still down. I nearly passed by because I thought you were not here!” said Aragorn. He dumped out the contents of his pack and covered the wizard with his blanket, then leaned and spoke directly into his face, “The walls are still down.”

“I cannot lift the staff.” He closed his eyes as if the words exhausted him.

Aragorn frowned. “You cannot lift your staff?”

“My arms are broken,” whispered Gandalf.

Aragorn set to the laces of the wizard’s garments with a mutter of dismay. Dirt and grime made the fabric stiff, the ties unwilling. He sheared them off with his knife. Every layer came off grudgingly and each reeked of sweat and filth, the tang of an unwashed body. Aragorn grit his teeth and went on. The old man had put on every garment he owned and it was several minutes before the Ranger had him exposed.

Gandalf was a sorry sight indeed; emaciated and shivering and scratched as if he’d gone sailing headlong through brambleberries. He was starving and how long he had been starving was indecipherable. Great black bruises extended from above his elbows to nearly his shoulders. He had spoken truly—both of his arms were broken.

Aragorn felt torn in all directions, for many tasks needed to be done at the self-same instance and he was alone.

“Elbereth, give me wisdom,” he said beneath his breath. “We need to get the walls up and kindle the fire, so you have shelter from the wind and cold. Your bones need to be set and splinted, so they will heal properly. I need to hunt, for you are hungry and I have nothing left.”

He did not add that the wizard needed to be washed. It was a lesser thing, though his senses told him otherwise.

“Pain,” said Gandalf. His voice was thin.

“Pain?” Aragorn focused his running thoughts. “Yes, something for your pain first.”

He rummaged through the pockets of his pack for herbs and found his cup. There was a steady drizzle of snowmelt into a hollowed rock beyond this spot he remembered, though he had to search several minutes to locate it without the guidepost of the house for reference. There were barely three sips collected and he chased it into the cup with a leaf. The storm that was coming would release more, he suspected.

When he returned, the wizard lay unseeing and he had to rouse him by moving him. Hurt brought Gandalf awake, startled and blinking.

“Drink this, my friend. Slowly … slowly, now.” Then Aragorn took the wizard’s face in both hands. “You must raise the walls, Gandalf. I will lift your arm and hold it and you will speak the incantation.”

“I have tried,” whispered the wizard. “I faint and end up as before.”

“I am here,” reminded Aragorn. “Faint as you will, but when you wake, I will still have your arm raised.” He paused. “Do you remember the spell?”

“I think so.”

“As this draught takes hold, you will lose the memory of the spell. We must do it now,” gently said Aragorn. “Once the walls are up, then the Neirede will take your pain and likely your wits.”

“They have gone already,” said Gandalf, but there was no humor in his voice. His eyes were red-rimmed and every line in his face harsh. His lips had cracked and bled.

Aragorn found the gnarled wooden staff abandoned amidst the rocks and returned to slide his hands carefully under Gandalf’s right arm. He looked for a sign to begin … and then understood the wizard could give no consent. Pain and desperation had robbed him of every dignity—he looked back at Aragorn miserably, waiting.

“I am sorry,” Aragorn whispered, and lifted the limb with a sickening grind of bones.

Anguish was a thong tied so tightly around the wizard’s throat that he made no sound at all … just a horrified expression and a twist of his shoulders as if he would flee. Any scream went unuttered as agony wrenched him into darkness. The scent of urine tinted the air.

“How many times have you tried to raise the walls alone?” Aragorn said bitterly. “Did you teach yourself silence to keep the prowling wolves from discovering you here—a wizard utterly helpless? You are but a thin and gaunt morsel for a wolf—a mere snack! Do the Valar hear your agony even when you cannot utter it? Do they take pity, or was this mishap your fault and this, therefore, your fate?”

He could not decipher where his impotent rage came from, or where he wished it sent—only that it cloaked his mind. The impulse to strike out at something, anything, made his sword arm tremble. He let the anger have him a moment … and then set it firmly aside. His breaths were short and his heart ran quickly as if he had climbed the mountain again.

The Great Ones are not easily offended and they are quick to forgive the repentant. Do not be slow in returning to their care.

So his mother had taught long ago.

“Varda Elentári. Help me be strong in hardship when all faith fails,” he said humbly. “Let my loyalty remain true. Násië.”

He held the wizard’s right arm aloft and toed the staff close so that he could pick it up easily in his left hand. When the wizard gasped and twisted, whimpering his way back from oblivion, his arm was upraised though Aragorn had to grip it tight as he thrashed awake.

“Stop, Gandalf,” commanded Aragorn. “Be still, my friend … be still. Remember the spell to raise the walls?”

“Spell?” The wizard negotiated pain and confusion. “The spell … the walls? Lemya—”

“Wait!” interjected Aragorn, “wait for your staff.”

He put the rod in the wizard’s hand and held his own around it. The twists of branches at its apex were black claws against the grey sky.

“Now, Gandalf!” said Aragorn authoritatively, “raise the walls!” He had to repeat it twice before the wizard rallied again and spoke.

“Lemya orta, Sambë,” he whispered, his voice neither strong, nor sure.

But beyond Aragorn there was a thud and clattering, as of many hands pounding upon a tabletop and before his eyes, the faded grey of old wooden planks shuffled into being. They sprang from nowhere; every edge shabby and every knothole knocked out, and climbed into the air haphazardly. There were cracks in each wall and the corners were none too square. The door hung crooked within its frame. Each window was of uncertain shape. The sky looked through the roof more than it did not. The whole building listed to one side as if tiredly leaning on the rock face.

Aragorn nodded in satisfaction.

Gandalf’s door was always crooked and none of his windows straight. The sky always looked in. The house was just as it should be.

But then he looked pity upon the wizard, sad that he must hurt him again … and put his arm down. It was no less dreadful than the first time, though the bones did not grind as much. Gandalf fainted without a sound just as he had before and Aragorn grieved to see it.

He worked quickly while the wizard lay insensate and straightened both arms and bound the broken bones with what strips of cloth he could tear from his cloak. Then he sat him carefully up against the nearest wall and searched through the little dwelling for what it could reveal.

The three columns of rocks fashioned the fireplace and, though the pillars looked as if to collapse with a single touch, he knew they were sturdy enough for a Man to climb. To his right, a wooden ladder led the way to a high bed near the rafters. He had climbed that ladder to that bed and knew it to be utterly solid beneath his hands. Once it had even given him a sliver.

His mind also knew that it was a cliff face with precarious handholds leading to a hard stone slab.

There were paltry food stores hidden amongst the cliff that fashioned the rear of the hut, for it butted against the mountain to make the fourth wall. (Gandalf was a wizard that did not believe in a waste of effort—if a cliff made one wall then he only had to conjure three.) There was a table and two chairs, one of them missing a leg.

Aragorn knew full well it would not topple beneath a man’s weight because he had tested that chair.

It appeared that some beast had been into the tins of hard goods, for they were untidy and the lids toppled. The milled flour was open. The ground corn was spilled on the floor. The cracked barley was also dumped partially out and the heavy dark sugar was completely gone. A little glass flask of honey had been chased about until it fell into a cranny upside down and there it remained. One tin barrel had been dented and dented, but the lid would not give way … it remained battered but intact.

Dried beans. What would be after dried beans?

Aragorn squatted and looked closer. There was an odd print at the edges of the cranny where the honey had fallen. And another amidst the barley and ground corn. His heart sank; Gandalf had foraged here. With both arms useless, dangling in agony, he had eaten what he could to survive. The print of his nose was in the flour.

“He is alive.” Aragorn cherished the words. “He ate what he could find and endured. Praise you Valar that led me and kept me turning to this path; Manwë known to be kind and compassionate and Nienna, who loves all those who are lost and hurting.” He sat beside Gandalf with the honey, waiting for him to wake. His heart ached at the desperation revealed in just a few overturned tins. “I was wrong to be angry with you for his plight—you surely saw his plight and turned my steps.”

The wizard was long in waking and glassy-eyed when he did so. Aragorn smiled to see the potent herb of Elrond at work.

“Do you hurt?” he asked.

“Who are you? Do I know you?”

“Aragorn, fostered in Rivendell by Lord Elrond.”

“Oh,” said the wizard sadly.

Aragorn was mystified by the sadness, but when he asked, Gandalf could not answer. His pulse was too fast, his breath too quick, his color the same as bleached bones in summer. There was a tremble that came and went throughout his long frame that Aragorn recognized from battlegrounds. Pain and fear and cold, when left too long at work together, led only to death.

Valar, do not let me be too late!

Patiently, he fed sips of the honey to the wizard, but only a half-cup. The sugar would aid him, but not save him. He needed warmth and more nourishment than the honey could give. If he slept now, he might never wake.

“Watch me,” he ordered to Gandalf. “I will build a fire, but you must watch me and stay awake.”

The twigs and grasses he carried made quick fuel and his flint was true. From a tiny flame to a busy crackling, the fire sprang into life. Aragorn imagined the shale sighing as the fire funneled up and the columns of rock became hot clear to the ceiling. He had to back away to escape the mounting heat.

And though the roof had a hundred holes and the walls surely had more, none of them let the warmth escape; such was the wonder of Gandalf’s dilapidated house.

Amazingly, the wizard did not sleep; he watched Aragorn tend the fire and studied his face when he drew near again. His eyes were tiredly confused and held no pain. Aragorn tucked the cloak more tightly and made sure the wizard’s arms were still aligned. He brought him cup after cup of water as the rill near the house filled and the old man drank every sip.

When the warmth was to his satisfaction, Aragorn levered a kettle onto the flat stones near the fire pit and raked coals beneath it. He put the empty sugar tin out to catch water and it filled until he had enough for the kettle.

“I must leave you for a time,” he said. He spoke it clearly and slowly, for the herbs for pain distorted every sense.

“I know,” whispered the wizard. “All go in the end.”

Aragorn looked perplexed, but then suspected the potent Neirede he had given for pain.

“I must venture to the valley below and hunt, for you are fainting from hunger now that pain has loosed you,” he said. “When I return, I will call to you before I enter the house. You must not sleep while I am gone—you must stay awake, lest darkness take you.” He put the staff in Gandalf’s lap and cupped his face, for the wizard’s eyes wandered as if searching for something. “Do you remember the binding spell for an ill guest?”

“Dävórliu—”

“No, don’t say it yet! Say it only if someone comes through the door that is not me.”

Gandalf looked perplexed. “Who are you? Do I know you?”

“Aragorn,” he patiently replied, but then added, “you know me best as Estel.”

“Estel! Ahh, you have grown your hair,” said the wizard. His voice was faint, but fond. “And a beard? Elrond will accuse me of leading you astray. He must have huffed when you started it, for most Elves cannot grow beards at all!”

It was the most the wizard had spoken and it left him exhausted, but Aragorn was both heartened and amused.

“How did this happen, Gandalf?” he asked. “Did you fall?”

“Pushed.”

Aragorn’s blood first chilled, then heated. He scowled at the haphazard door as if it were to blame before realized the wizard had not fallen here. If he had, the walls would have been up. Someone did him evil on the way up the mountain.

“You are a friend to all who live in peace, Gandalf. Who would mean you ill?”

But Gandalf could not answer. His head lolled against the wall. Aragorn loosened his sword in its sheath.

I worry to leave him and cannot stay! Tulkas, most warlike of the Valar, set your protection around this house while I am gone.

“I will hurry back,” he said. “The staff is on your lap. Use the spell if someone tries to enter unannounced. Do not sleep! Remember the spell!”

“Spell? What spell?” whispered the wizard after the door shut. “Do I know you?”

TWO

Aragorn scrambled down the mountainside in haste. A rock caught his ankle, but he did not slow for the pain. He went over short cliffs directly and slid through the loose rocks at the bottom. He leaped over boulders instead of skirting them, for urgency gave his legs strength. A wide thicket of miraberry brush he simply put his elbow in front of his face and thrust his way through.

“Oromë, Huntsman of the Valar,” he prayed as he hurried. “You know my troubles. I must find game quickly, for Gandalf needs food. Look blessing upon my skill, though it is simple. If I have any favor with you, please aid me now.”

Shale gave way to immense boulders, rolled down by snow slides. Barren dirt gave way to wiry grass, barely surviving. A scrub pine struggled to live. Then, gradually, the soil supported more grass and short shrubs and Aragorn came abruptly to the lip of the nestled little valley of green.

Winter was a harsh mistress even in this Southern facing glade and there was no wildlife present for as far as his eyes could see. No startled birds took to wing. Not even a rabbit scampered for cover when he burst over the edge of rocks to look below. There were no elk in the meadow and nothing moved by the bank of the stream, nor at the edge of the woods.

What if the game moves lower in winter? What if there is nothing here at all, but rock squirrel and mice? It will be too little, too late—not enough to save the wizard! I cannot carry him down the mountain, nor can I leave him and return with meat in time.

Aragorn halted his run of panicky thoughts and steadied his breathing.

“Surely the Gods watch, for I was brought to answer his need.” He took a hunting arrow from the quiver and left it dangling loose, but ready. “Yvanna, who tends all growing things, look with favor on this glade and cause it to be a fruitful haven for larger beasts. Oromë, my skill does not equal a cup of your own, but show my feet the path. Give my ears your skill, my fingers your aim, my eyes your quickness.”

Thus, with prayers upon his lips, Aragorn entered the valley. He crossed the open glade without a sight of any living thing. The creek was icy and deep, muddy with snow run. A fat fish would serve a meal, but he lacked the time required to catch one.

“A deer. Even a small one, like the roe of the plains. A rabbit, if nothing else—just enough for him. I will fast, for I am young and hearty,” he whispered. “But … a deer would serve better. I would not have to leave him untended again in the morning. Powers of the World hear my plea and give answer.”

Nothing stirred in the meager woods he passed through, but his heart did not lose hope. There was another forest beyond and the evergreens growing there had strange black trunks. No trees like these grew anywhere else, Gandalf once told him. He plunged into them on noiseless feet. The grasses failed in shadows, for the trees grew close. The air was still and silent, without a single birdcall.

“Oromë.” He said it nearly without sound. “Pity us.”

He halted, for a flick of movement caught his eyes to the left. He glided toward the sight with every sense straining. Slowly … slowly … skirting downed branches and a bank of dried leaves caught beside a boulder, the Ranger drew near.

One doe, and she very small and thin. She nibbled twigs and flicked her tail. He notched the arrow and drew the bow, but then paused.

She is thin, though the glade is full of green. Does she tend her young? My need is great, Holy Ones, but shall I kill one and leave two to starve slowly? I will take her if I must...

“Mercy,” he whispered. The doe looked directly at him.

But then he heard another sound; the scrape of antlers against tree trunks. His fingers held the deadly arrow and he waited, watching.

Mercy in delivering death.

The doe moved aside and a stag casually entered Aragorn’s line of sight. He was neither heavy of rack, nor great in size and he paused in the clear. The deadly arrow was a-wing with a whiff of sound and the animal crashed through the thicket twenty feet before collapsing. Aragorn gutted it swiftly and dressed it for carrying, heaved the carcass up on his shoulder and turned back the way he had come.

“Thank you,” he whispered. His eyes were upon the rough terrain, but his soul looked upward, grateful and humble, and with every step of his right foot, he repeated his thanks to the Powers of Arda. If ever doubt lingered in his heart as to the watchfulness of the Valar, it found no place of refuge now.

This is the mystery of Arda; that the Holy Ones are attentive to the Children of Ilúvatar and not one turns aside but what they notice. What gratitude can be rendered for the mindfulness of the Gods? A thankful heart. A patient spirit. Integrity. Honesty. Forthrightness. Justice. Mercy. Faithfulness. Hope. Courage. Love.

He could not remember if his mother or if Gandalf had taught him those tenets. He suspected the wizard, lover of many words.

“Thank you, Oromë.”

Aragorn had been gone so briefly that the wizard was still awake when he returned … but dazed beneath the effects of the Neirede. Aragorn had suspected that any binding spell would be useless. The wizard was too injured to leave without herbs for his pain, and then too torpid to defend himself. He slumped exactly where Aragorn had left him, his fingers useless in his lap. It made Aragorn’s heart ache to see him laid low.

The reek of Gandalf’s invalid state, however, made the Ranger wince. The ramshackle cabin trapped every odor and the heat magnified it.

“Food,” said Aragorn, “then I must get you clean. I am certain your skin is scalded from neglect.”

Aragorn dropped bites of venison into the kettle he had placed, but then took a tender sliver of meat and skewered it like a serpent upon his dagger. He turned it in the open flame until the fat sizzled and then waved it midair to cool.

“Come now, a bite of meat cannot wait,” he whispered to Gandalf. Aragorn popped the scrap in his own mouth, chewed it into mush, and then put it in the wizard’s mouth. “Swallow—just swallow.”

Morsel-by-morsel, the Ranger chewed for him and fed him, washing each bite down with a sip of water. He ceased when he judged it enough meat to lend strength, yet not enough to make him ill.

Then, while the potent herb held Gandalf in its grip, Aragorn heated empty tins of water and washed his body. The wizard murmured and shifted, protesting through the haze of the Neirede, but Aragorn talked softly and soothed even as he took his garments away.

The air was so hot and Gandalf’s skin so dry, that dirt rubbed off with one of the sword cloths. What did not dislodge, he dabbed off with water and sand, scouring blood and mud and other bodily fluids away.

“In the land of Rhovanion, Northeast of the forest of Mirkwood, I came upon a stalwart man left behind by his fellows.” Aragorn did not know if the wizard could hear him, but he talked as he worked anyway. “Their battle was a sorry thing and he was wounded severely. He was dying, but had not passed yet. They could not bring themselves to hasten his death, but knew they could not carry their wounded if they took him. So … they abandoned him, thinking he would die within the hour.

“Yet, he remained alive, forsaken amidst the trampled battlefield and I found the thicket where they laid him. His eyes could see little, but he took a cup of water eagerly. I watched it run from his torn belly and no matter how it hurt him, he pleaded for more and I gave it.

“He lingered in this desperate state for four days,” gently said Aragorn. “I fed him bites just as I have fed you, I held him through his shivering, and told stories when he babbled. I washed the grime of blood and spit and his loosened bowels often to keep his skin from scalding and adding new pain to his misery. I listened to him say goodbye to every loved one and forgave him his sins when he asked, for I was sure the Valar looked upon his suffering and had pity.”

The Ranger paused. “His was a hard death, but though I offered to hasten his ending—he always refused. He would not let my hand murder him and leave me to carry that mark in my soul. He died bravely, but harshly, and I stayed to the last.”

Gandalf’s skin was indeed scalded beneath soiling and the cleansing made him bleed as if lanced by a thousand pinpricks. The air stung as if hot coals had been laid upon his tender flesh. Aragorn mixed campherroot into the scant bit of fat from the deer carcass and coated the fragile skin, then held the wizard while he whimpered.

“Please … please…” he wept, “leave me be…”

“Shhh, it’s all right. You will be all right,” whispered Aragorn. “I tended a dying stranger for a week because of compassion. How much more shall I tend to you, whom I know and love? It is only fear and suffering and weeks of distress; the fog of your mind from the herb I have given you. Breathe, just breath … it will pass.”

Gradually the wizard calmed back into silent stupor and Aragorn cut the sides open on one of his long tunics and redressed him. Smallclothes, he did not bother with at all. Caring for invalids was like caring for infants, a task well taught to him when he was only ten. He tucked an extra scrap of blanket around Gandalf’s waist. The linen shirt hung upon the wizard’s frame, but the hut was simmering with warmth and Gandalf did not notice his poor attire.

Aragorn set upon the long grey hair. He unmatted twigs and leaves and snarls and dried mud, a crawling thing that made the Ranger jerk, startled, when he found it. He poured scalding water through the locks, careful to not drip any on his scalp and burn him.

Gandalf has a mane thick as a pony’s tail in the winter. A wonder he has not cut it off!

But then Aragorn remembered another sight, long ago when he was a boy.

I saw him amidst a storm once. Despite my mother’s orders, I snuck away from safety to see the violent winds.

Gandalf stood on the highest balcony with the Wizard Staff, unclothed, and his hair and beard lifted like waves across his shoulders and chest. A tongue of lightning revealed him; elemental and powerful and fearless, though every Elf had run for shelter. The howling winds were fierce and ripped down the oaks in Rivendell, but the wizard stood in the full fury of it and I witnessed his energy so clear, so bright, as if the tempest that battered us was a delight.

But there was also an unconscious vulnerability in his nudity, his rapt expression, the upturn of his left palm … as if he was in worship. A reverence I did not understand.

Elrond caught me outside staring and I was embarrassed, but he smiled to see Gandalf there also.

“Mithrandir serves the Lord of Arda,” explained the Master of Rivendell. “He stands in the storm when he is alone for it is the closest he can be to the presence of his King.” And when I looked puzzled, “Though Men deem him aged and withered, he is not ashamed of the temple that houses him—it was given by His Master. Tonight he touches the face of God—for Manwë commands the winds of Middle Earth. Leave him to his communion and speak nothing.”

“He sent you with this long hair and beard,” murmured Aragorn. “You have remained in this image all these centuries, for the Elder King chose it and what the Gods choose is always exactly right.”

The Ranger hummed and combed and ultimately cut out sections too snarled to untangle. When it was clean and loose, he took the great mane of hair up in his hands and twined it into a braid.

“You will be a wild man until some of it grows back out, Gandalf Greyhame,” he chuckled.

Then he set upon the long beard and that was nearly as difficult. The wizard protested every pull and Aragorn was sympathetic, but determined. He told every story he knew from Elves and Men and Gandalf’s pale eyes drifted as he listened. By the time the wizard was tidy from head to foot, night was upon them and Aragorn felt the weariness of his long trek coupled with the anxiety of his arrival beginning to creep in upon him.

The makeshift bindings of the broken bones caused Aragorn grief. It was too dark to search for more suitable splints and he looked through the hut but found little that satisfied him. Then he considered the walls themselves.

This is a spell-spoken house. I dare not pull apart the walls, nor use a blade against them.

“The wizard is harmed,” he said. “You have seen his frailty and his misery. The cloth I have bound his limbs with cannot steady his broken bones. If Legolas, my Elven friend, were here he would petition the trees for splints. Alas, he does not travel with me this day. Can you help?”

The house said nothing. Aragorn did not really expect an answer.

“I need two pieces of wood about this long,” he showed the distance with his hands, “and they need to be curved to cradle his arms.”

Silence.

Then, behind him, the rooftop dropped two pieces of bowed wood. They made perfect splints.

Aragorn thought it a wonderful thing to have a magic house.

He climbed the ladder to the high bed near the ceiling and pulled down the straw mat. Five mice scrambled from the edge of it and he halted, puzzling over them, for they sat up and looked at him instead of fleeing. Gandalf’s house is a house different from all others. Heed every strange thing.

“Wait here,” he said, and took the mat down below and returned with the lid of a tin and another few strips from his cloak. He leaned the tin against the rock and stuffed the cloth into the cave beneath it. “Gandalf cannot climb the ladder to his bed—his bed must come to him. But I will return it when he is well and then you shall have your bed again.”

He took a handful of the cracked barley to the high slab as a goodwill offering. He could hear the nibbling from down on the floor and was humored.

He tended the fire and kept the flames high, shedding his shirt to endure it. And though he took wood from the stack that had materialized with the walls, the stack never grew any smaller. Gandalf sighed in the roll of heat and it was as if the entire house groaned and stretched with him.

“Sleep now,” Aragorn softly said once he had done all he could. “I will watch over you and protect you; sleep.”

“No,” said Gandalf, though his eyes drooped and the right one exceedingly so. “I do not want to sleep.”

“You are fed and warm and your pain cared for. Sleep, for you are weary,” cajoled the Ranger.

“I will not sleep. I will watch you and you will stay.” The wizard’s voice sounded fragile. “If I close my eyes, you will be gone.”

Aragorn settled closer to his charge, took his face within his hands. “I will not forsake you. I will be here when you wake.”

“They all said the same.”

Aragorn was puzzled and suspicious of the wizard’s clarity of thought.

“You are not the first,” said Gandalf. His voice was vague and the words slurred. “They have all come; all those I love. Elrond, Galadriel … once even the Old Took, who was angry that I had come to this. He tended me quite roughly, but then wept like a child that I had been injured.” His face was troubled and then cleared. “They each cared lovingly for me and all said to sleep. But when I woke, I was cold and alone and in agony until the next one found me.” His voice was sad and final. “All go in the end.”

“Gandalf—” choked Aragorn, for the wizard’s words pierced him.

“I am not afraid to die,” he whispered, “but had I known Mandos would have me say goodbye to everyone I loved before I was free … perhaps I wouldn’t have loved so many. These farewells weary me.”

“You are not dying; you have merely been dreaming of rescue. Your mind is clouded from the remedy for pain I have given you.”

“Deny if you must,” replied the wizard.

Have you learned little from the battlefield vigils you have kept? Argue not with the dying, nor with those who have come near death!

“I am here with you now,” Aragorn managed. “Feel my hands upon your face?”

“Estel.” Gandalf smiled fondly. “I am glad you are here. I asked over and over that I see you at the very end, though I am unhappy that I will not see what I hoped.”

“What did you wish to see?” asked Aragorn, hoping to divert this sorrowful train of thought.

“The Crown of The Kings.” Gandalf made as if to raise his hand, but it was fastened tight to his waist and pain made him halt. “It is my one regret; that I will not live to guide you to that day. I will not see the sunfire on the crown above your eyes as I have oft seen it in my dreams. You will make a fine ruler, but I wanted to see the crowning … at least that. Couldn’t I have at least lived to see the coronation?”

Aragorn sighed and soothed a thumb over and over the wizard’s cheekbone. “You speak in circles, my friend, and weariness draws the curtains across your mind. You must sleep.”

“No.” Grief and hurt and certainty of loss brought his tears. “I will watch and you will stay a bit longer.”

Aragorn touched the water that spilled, heartbroken.

Holy Ones, did you give him comfort as you could while I hiked here? Did the visions reassure him while he lay broken and exposed? Did you know this path of mine long before you made me out of the dirt?

“Stay awake if you wish. And if perchance you sleep, I will sleep close to you,” Aragorn said gently. He leaned close, breathed his breath into the wizard’s face calmingly. “But when you wake, you will see me looking back at you—and I will be smiling. This I promise.”

Gandalf looked at him sadly. “So they promised me before you ... but all of them go in the end.”

Aragorn said nothing. He rubbed the pads of his fingers across the brushy brows, up into the long hair, circled Gandalf’s temples soothingly. As he suspected, within minutes the wizard’s eyes became unfocused and his eyelids dropped. He would be asleep in moments.

Despite the distortion from the potent herb, the wizard recognized his slow descent toward sleep and the futility of thwarting it. Near the end, he fixed his gaze upon Aragorn as if that would be his last sight forever.

“I have loved you,” whispered Gandalf very softly. “Do not be sad.”

“And I love you and I am not sad,” replied Aragorn just as softly, but he blinked and blinked to keep his tears from pattering upon the wizard’s face.

Nothing more was said; the wizard was asleep.

Aragorn did not stop rubbing his scalp for several more minutes to be sure and then quietly stood. He tended the fire and mixed another draught for pain in case it was needed during the night. The sound of rain started slowly and then pattered steadily on the roof, but not one drop came through any hole. Darkness covered every star and window.

Exhaustion crept through his frame, but the storm rose and Aragorn worried that the crooked door had no latch.

He said he was pushed; yet I saw no one upon this mountain. I have seen no print of anything threatening.

“But if there is game, then there are wolves and lions as well and Gandalf cannot defend himself or this hut. I must stay awake,” he said softly.

He tidied the overturned tins, swept the dirt floor, and busied himself with menial tasks. His cloak had been trimmed for so many purposes that it hung above his knees and there was no cloth to mend it. He scrubbed the dirt and soil from every garment the wizard had worn and rinsed until his fingers wrinkled, then hung them up along the wall to dry.

But though he kept his hands busy, warmth and silence robbed his vigor. Weariness weighed upon him as each hour passed.

THREE

Aragorn jerked awake at some sound and scrambled to his feet, chagrined that he had dozed off sitting beside the prostrate wizard. The ramshackle house looked undisturbed, the crooked door still closed within its crooked frame. Nothing peered through windows at him and no sound could be heard, save the drum of rain and occasional moan of wind across the tops of rocks.

Something woke me.

There! Another faint sound outside the little house. A soft step, but not the step of a man. Aragorn’s hairs prickled, but fear had little foothold amidst his sense of duty and protection. He went to the nearest window and stared into the darkness, then blinked as if his eyes deceived him.

Gandalf has an enchanted house. Expect the extraordinary.

He opened the door slowly, carefully, and stepped past the frame.

Just outside the door stood a tremendous mountain elk. His coat was coal black and his spongy hooves blacker still. The mane of rough hair falling over his neck and shoulders was thick and hung between his forelegs. The firelight, meager though it was, illuminated two great ebony eyes. Most daunting was a marvelous set of antlers that swept in a great whorl of elegant tines above the stag’s head. Fourteen daggers, longer than the Ranger’s forearms, curved savage fingers towards him.

Magnificence and menace stood close enough to touch—the animal need only sweep his neck sidelong and he would be pierced through and thrown aside. The Ranger wryly considered that he should have hung back a few steps, but the great stag only looked at him and there was majesty in his gaze.

Then Aragorn remembered something he should not have forgotten.

“The wizard is here, but he is injured,” he slowly said. “I know he leaves his door open to the creatures at night when he abides here, but he cannot climb to his high bed off the floor—he is wounded.”

The stag considered him and did not blink.

For an instant, Aragorn felt as though he was being evaluated. He did not fidget, though the thorny antlers suspended over his head made him uneasy. Nor did he look away, not even when he realized there were a score of other animals of every size beyond the great stag.

“I will let you in,” said Aragorn softly, “but you must have a care for the wizard. He is on the floor.” Then he added, because he felt he must, “I slew one of your kin this day. Gandalf was starving and his need great. I took it quickly with thanks and respect.”

The hoary beast turned his head very slowly and gazed at the carcass of the deer Aragorn had hung outside the little cabin. Points of firelight shifted, slid along every ebony tine and the Ranger held his breath for the beauty of it. For a moment, the stag regarded the remains … then he flicked an ear so deliberately nonchalant that Aragorn blinked to see it.

One step, and another. The stag put the beam of a horn near Aragorn but did not have to nudge him aside—the Ranger stepped aside willingly. So grand were the antlers that the animal had to hold them slantwise and still they scraped the doorframe as he passed through. He padded on silent spongy hooves to the wizard and nosed about cautiously.

Oromë, if ever you speak to the heart of the beasts below—speak to this one!

But no harm came to Gandalf. The stag laid himself near the wizard and put his heavy head down on the floor to rest. Fire gleamed along the spikes and forks, illuminating beams fully the width of a man’s forearm. From the angle Aragorn stood, the wizard wore a magnificent antler crown.

And while he stood enthralled, the door admitted a handful of smaller deer and three red roe. By the time Aragorn broke from his amazed regard, the brow where the little hut stood appeared empty.

But not quite empty. He could see something moving and bobbing close to the ground. He squinted. There were several lumps that moved just outside his vision and they were very small.

The size of the stag was daunting to me. I am perhaps daunting to these little creatures.

He went into the house, but left the door wide. “Be welcome,” he called softly. “I will not hurt you.”

Nothing ventured in.

Aragorn looked perplexed, but then sat down beside Gandalf and, once he was seemingly smaller in size, five rabbits appeared in the doorway. He stifled a snort of amusement, but even his little stir of motion and noise made them scamper back outside.

“Come, come, little ones, I shall not hurt you. Come in where it is light and warm and lay your fears to rest.”

Eventually, the rabbits entered and all scurried beneath or behind the tins of hard goods to hide in the shadows. Aragorn said nothing and did not move, letting them calm themselves. He fully expected to not see a single one of them the whole night.

But he was surprised after a few minutes, for one rabbit hopped carefully out of shelter, testing the air and looking about nervously. It skirted Aragorn completely, but passed beside the mountainous elk without fear and nosed the sleeping wizard.

“Don’t wake him,” whispered Aragorn. “He is sick.”

Whiskers and bumping disturbed Gandalf anyway and he muttered, “Pocket.”

The rabbit investigated along the wizard’s arm, nudging at him.

“No,” said Aragorn, alarmed. “His bones are broken. You cannot climb up on him.”

“The pocket,” murmured the wizard again, turning his head aside from the bothersome creature. “In the pocket.”

“Wait! I took his garments,” inspired Aragorn. “Let me look.”

He went to the wizard’s clothing hung up along the walls and searched through pocket after pocket, greatly amused to find the rabbit thumping along with his footsteps watching eagerly.

Seven buttons, a silver scarf, twelve seed pods, a white stone that became clear when held in his hand a moment, a long yellow feather that should not have been able to fit in the pocket at all, a gold pin, two rocks the color of sky, the lace of a boot with four knots tied in it, a tattered book, a tuft of grass that remained alive despite being pulled up, three brass beads that weighed more than they looked, a bracelet of glittery stones that whispered musically when he touched it, the nub of a candle that still felt warm, three red rocks that clung together when lifted … Gandalf’s pockets were as mysterious as his house.

But at last, Aragorn lifted a twisted brown root and the rabbit sat on his foot as he held it up.

“This?” He put it on the floor and the rabbit drug it away noisily, for it was nearly two handspans long. “Definitely that.” He sat on the floor and laughed, watching the rabbit wrestle his treasure off to a corner.

The stag turned his many-towered head and looked at him patiently and Aragorn felt a bit chastised for his noise. He rechecked the wizard’s splints and tucked covers differently, shifted Gandalf’s weight slightly to spare his skin the pressure.

The wizard sleeps high where the heat gathers and leaves the floor clear for the forest dwellers. They come quietly and leave before dawn and none have ever put their droppings in his house. He speaks to some, pets some, scolds some, and some he warily watches—but all save the most savage beasts are welcome in Gandalf’s house. His door is open all night.

“I have to keep him warm down here on the floor,” said Aragorn apologetically. “It will be hot for all of you and I am sorry.” He expected no answer and received none.

Lethargy stole over him again, though he tried to stay alert. The door of the house stood open and he contemplated shutting it, but felt as if he would betray a trust Gandalf had set in place. At last, when he could not hold his thoughts together anymore, he turned his head and looked at the mountain stag.

“I am weary,” he said simply. “I climbed the mountain this very day and have worked hard to succor the wizard until these quiet hours. I am loathe to sleep, for Gandalf said someone caused his fall and I am suspicious they may return to harm him—yet I am drained and need sleep.”

The elk lifted his head from the floor and stared at him. His eyes were black coals and mysteriously unreadable. He seldom blinked. It was disconcerting; like being looked at by the night.

“You have fourteen knives for a crown and a thousand pounds of force behind them. Who am I to say I am the best protector for the wizard when I sit in the presence of you?” Aragorn regarded the stag humbly. “Will you keep watch over us this night?”

The stag did not move, but then he flicked his ear exactly as he had at the doorway and just as deliberately.

Aragorn smiled and put his fingers against his brow in thanks, then stretched out close beside the wizard. If Gandalf stirred, whether in dreaming or in pain, he would know it. Sleep took him down as fast as an arrow.

He woke once to tend to Gandalf’s pain; grateful he had mixed a draught before sleeping. The wizard sputtered and drank and did not get his eyes open before the herb soothed him down into sleep again.

He woke once more during the night and found the black stag noiselessly standing between the wizard and the open door. One tardy roe, no larger than a goat, meekly made its way inside the hut and the elk snorted very softly when it appeared.

Aragorn thought he sounded as exasperated as a Man, but wisely did not chuckle.

Daylight did not wake him. Neither did the patter of rabbits or deer or roe. He slept long past the dawn and woke midmorning, blinking and confused. The ragged little house was empty … save for a stag with lightning upon his head.

“I am awake and alert,” whispered the Ranger.

He watched the elk scrape the splendid antlers through the doorway once more and stately march down the hill towards the valley.

“If I had an arrow notched and was one sunturn from starving to death, I do not believe I could bring myself to slay such a magnificent animal as that,” softly murmured the Ranger. “Truly there are more Kings in the world than those of Men.”

The wizard’s breathing changed and Aragorn’s alert ears heard it. He leaned over his injured charge and watched him wake. Gandalf’s eyes were clear as morning skies and Aragorn smiled, remembering his pledge.

Recognition as well as confusion disturbed the clarity of those blue eyes.

“Estel?”

“Gandalf.” He put his hands upon the wizard’s face, tender and joyous. “You have slept and awakened and I remained, just as I promised.”

“Oh—! You are still here!” and then nothing more, for relief fractured all words and he wept.

“I was not a dream,” whispered Aragorn, holding him. “The Valar sent vision after vision to comfort you while they brought me up the mountains. Twice, I nearly turned aside from the goal, but the Gods turned my fickle feet and lured me this way.”

“Have I not told you the Powers yet watch the world of Men? And that they watch and care for you?” eventually said Gandalf. He was abashed at his tears.

“Yes, you have.” Aragorn was not the least abashed for his own tearful happiness. “And I have believed your words all these years in faith, for I am simple and hollow of fortitude. Now I believe them with my eyes, and my hands, and my feet, for it was not by chance that I was compelled to take this road.”

The day passed uneventfully, for Aragorn kept the wizard slightly over managed with Neirede. He fed him often, taking care that he did not choke. Cups of water were plentiful, until he saw Gandalf’s hands were beginning to swell. He tended the wizard’s scalded skin as anxiously as any nursemaid. Thrice, the Ranger helped him to his feet and took him outside; fresh air and a makeshift privy served well.

Intoxicated with the potent herb, Gandalf gave no quarrels or protests. Even when moving him brought a twinge of pain, he forgot it during the next breath. His wrists were tied crisscross across his waist and his balance was poor, but the splints and the weight of his arms kept the broken bones in alignment. His eyes were cornflower blue and guileless as a trusting child. He ate when he was fed, walked when Aragorn lifted him to his feet, and slept the rest of the time. Any conversation attempted with him was a mix of confusion from days and perhaps lifetimes past, for Gandalf could not keep his mind in the present anymore than he could keep from drooling if Aragorn left him sitting up too long.

By nightfall, Aragorn was elated with the days unexciting activities. He opened the door to the woodland animals with joy and kept part of the watch.

For two more days, Aragorn kept the wizard senseless and painless. But on the fourth morning, he withdrew part of the dose. The wizard woke wincing.

“Aragorn?” Uncertainty laced through his voice.

“I am here.” He shifted so he could be seen and chastised himself for not remembering to stay within view. “Right here, Gandalf. I have reduced the herb today, for it has been three days since I found you. If you move carefully, you should be able to bear it. You must speak when you cannot endure the pain anymore and I will dose you heavily to get you free of it.”

“Three days? Why have you kept me mindless for three days?” asked the wizard.

“You were frail when I found you. Even speaking took your strength away!” Aragorn put down the blade he was scraping the deerhide with. “It has taken these days of tending with food and drink to build your stamina. Yesterday, you were able to walk with me outside four times without becoming so shaky I feared I would need to carry you back in. Why would I hand you even a dipper of pain when you were so fragile?”

Gandalf wisely ceased his complaint.

The inconvenience of his bound arms gave him a full measure of grief that day, for Aragorn had to help him with the most simple of tasks. He could not get off the bed on the floor, nor could he feed himself, nor pick up a cup. He could not turn a page of any book secreted in the bottom of the tin of hard beans. Not even a simple spell-speak would open the front door for him.

“My house has set its will against me,” he grumbled.

“May it not be,” chuckled the Ranger, coming up behind him. “It only watched to be sure I am with you. Every board heard your words; you believe you were pushed into this ruin. You must not go out without a guard!”

“I was pushed, but by an unseen hand,” returned the wizard. He sounded annoyed. “I woke on an outcropping of stones with the staff jammed between the rocks. Had it not wedged exactly the way it had, I would have tumbled cloak and all into the chasm below.”

Aragorn swore softly beneath his breath and Gandalf let it pass.

“I have neither seen, nor heard, any Man or other creature upon this peak, nor in the glade below,” eventually said the Ranger. “Not a single print on the trail up the mountain, and you know that I am alert to all that is out of place. Are you sure you did not stumble?”

Gandalf was silent a moment.

“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I only fell by some misstep,” said the wizard heavily. “The only Being capable of pushing an Istari sight unseen is another Istari and it is unthinkable that any of my order would attempt such an act—the Powers watch us and take note of every deed, whether for good or evil. They judge the heart, the mind, and the actions, and they will repay. Surely none of the wizards has turned to such wickedness against another!”

Aragorn asked no more questions, for the wizard was distressed by his thoughts. There were hundreds of other topics to be found between them and the day was lighter for good conversation. Gandalf permitted Aragorn to take out the tattered book that he always kept and though the wizard’s scrawl was none too legible and full of symbols, he was able to translate the accounting of the wizard’s travels for the last year.

Gandalf always kept a journal and Aragorn had started snooped over the wizard’s shoulder when he was only six. The narrative was novel as always: full of plants and animals and people and laced heavily with gossip and rumors. As ever, the opinion of the wizard ran through all of it, whether humored or irritable.

Aragorn read it aloud and Gandalf’s added observations as each story unfolded made the diary come to life. The tales of the Shire folk were merry tomfoolery compared to the seriousness of the Elves and the Ranger drew a great diagram of the land on the dirt floor so he could keep the wizard’s path straight in his head.

So he had learned his place names even as a boy; Gandalf drawing maps in the dirt with the end of his staff and telling some fanciful tale of the place to fix it in a young man’s mind.

It was late afternoon before Aragorn suddenly realized Gandalf’s steady conversation had waned. He went to him and studied his face; saw the pain buckled up in the wizard’s brow. The luster of his eyes had faded and sorrow drew his lips taut.

“You waited too long,” chided Aragorn, and tipped to him an increased dose of Elrond’s potent painkiller

“Perhaps I am stubborn,” he replied.

“Surely you jest,” returned Aragorn, smiling. He stood closer as the Neirede took hold and the wizard’s eyes lost focus.

“The pain is gone and I am grateful,” whispered Gandalf, “but I dislike this lassitude. I become a doddering old man for you to care for.” His balance faltered and Aragorn steadied and then helped him down upon the mat. “You will be grateful to be rid of me.”

“Do you remember taking me camping in the woods the first time?” diverted Aragorn.

The wizard smiled. “You were four and no taller than the latch on the gate.”

“You walked all around the wooded paths of Rivendell with me,” reminded Aragorn. “I was certain we had hiked far, far away from the Elves and my mother. You were brave and I was brave, too. You reminded me often, while I held the end of your staff, on just how brave I was to venture so far from home!” Aragorn tucked a blanket beneath Gandalf’s elbows to cradle his injuries. “In truth, you led me around in circles and we were only a hard stone’s throw from my mother’s cottage.”

“You did not see her cottage, nor did you see a single Elf on the upper path.” Gandalf’s eyes were bright and pain was a fading memory. “I bid Elrond set a guard at each end to be sure it lay empty.”

“I knew you were a wizard. I knew it somewhere in childish faith, a confidence and belief never supported,” said Aragorn, smiling down. “But that was the first time you ever did any magic for me—you lit the fire. I think every Elf in Rivendell heard my whoops.”

“Simple magic,” snorted the wizard. “More magical was the meal I conjured.”

“How did you do that, anyway? I would have you conjure one right now!”

“I sent you to get a few more sticks for the fire and as your back was turned, the Elf waiting with our food slipped through the ferns to hand it to me. You made so much noise picking up twigs that he needn’t even have been quiet!”

Aragorn laughed, remembering the wonder of the hot bread and meat that the wizard had caused to appear. Then he leaned close and laid a hand upon the wizard’s chest.

“I was very brave to stay the night so far from my home when I was so young … but I also remember that you had to help me pull up my pants when I went to the bathroom. And you had to keep me from putting every bug I found into my pockets. I was afraid of the darkness, but I also wouldn’t leave the fire alone and caught the edge of my blanket aflame!”

Gandalf giggled, for the herb made him giddy as the boy he had never been.

“I remember that blanket afire! I nearly caught my beard alight putting it out before you noticed it!”

“You think I will tire of tending to you?” continued Aragorn seriously. “When for years as a small boy, you thought nothing of taking me in tow and leading me out into the wilds that the Elves and my mother were afraid to let me explore? My love of the land sprang from your love of the land and all its host.” He chuckled, remembering more details. “I recall that you had to wrap me inside your cloak with you to sleep because I was terrified the night hawks would seize me away!”

“And you wouldn’t sleep,” drowsily said the wizard. “You were all wiggles and elbows and chatter. I had to tell you stories to get you to be still!”

“You told long and boring stories, for I was napping in minutes.”

The wizard’s eyes drifted and his head began to loll. “They were long and boring … and I had to tell two of them … before…” and he was asleep.

Aragorn checked the bindings to the splints, but found not a single chafe mark. The bruising was lightening along the extreme edges, but the center directly over the broken bones was still purple-black and inflamed. The joints of his fingers were swollen; Aragorn worked each one patiently until the stiffness receded.

“Be well,” he whispered, running his fingers lightly over the broken areas. “Valar help him be well. I do not mind caring for him, but he minds being cared for—he who was sent to warn and save us. Heal him and make him whole, Great Ones. Násië.”

FOUR

Aragorn took the wizard’s arms out of the splints in the morning, surprised that the bruising had faded significantly from just the previous night.

“Do you have healing art for yourself?” he asked.

“None.” The wizard looked back peculiarly. “Perhaps the Valar continue to care for me.”

“I’ve prayed it so enough,” said Aragorn. He tied Gandalf’s wrists to his waist by a loose thong and left his arms dangling. “Move carefully so they do not swing like pendulums and work your fingers this morning. They were swollen last night. Let me know when your pain overtakes you and you tire.”

“Before I tire, a proper bath would be nice,” said the wizard. “I have walked the distance to the glade just in circling this hilltop in the last two days. Can we walk to the creek?”

“Getting back might be a problem.” Aragorn studied the wizard’s resolved face. “A rest in the meadow will help if you need it.”

Discomfort made the wizard more silent and his mouth severe, but he shook his head when offered a partial draught for pain. He was dutiful and kept his fingers in motion, though his grip was not tight enough to manage a spoon.

Breakfast was simple; ground meal and water cooked into gruel and a few strips of deer meat. The wizard picked up the cup for the first time on his own, but not without spilling a few drops. The Ranger was heartened by the progress and said as much.

Aragorn was alert for every sight or sound that was amiss on the way to the meadow. He carried the wizard’s staff across a shoulder, for it comforted Gandalf even if he could not lift it. They wandered down the brow of the hill and Gandalf picked an undemanding path towards the glade, but stopped partway down. His breath was short and the sweat beaded upon his brow.

“Sit here and rest,” said Aragorn, steering his charge to a likely boulder. He lifted the wizard’s forearms and laid them crossed in his lap. “This is your first hard walk and we have all day; rest a little bit.”

“Dizzy.”

“Yes. Lean your head against me.”

So they sat, one young and one silver-grey and the younger whispered and ran his fingers along the long bones where they were broken.

“Counsel and wisdom comes to those who abide in the grace of Manwë, Ruler of Arda. To him give your petition, for he hears the cries of the blameless from the Halls of Taniquetil.” Aragorn searched for the end of the prayer an instant. “Seek his favor in all your efforts, for he delights in the honorable Man and with wickedness he has no pleasure.”

“As it was in the beginning, so it shall be in the end; the Timeless Halls of Ilúvatar and the Music of the Ainur. Násië,” added the wizard. He paused a moment. “Your touch makes my arms feel better.”

“Does it?” Aragorn thought it a strange statement. “Do you want to go back or continue?”

“I will go on.” The wizard looked stronger and the gaze he fastened on Aragorn was full of secrets that he did not utter.

The rest of the way to the little glade was uneventful and Aragorn thought the trees and grasses greeted the wizard, for there was a rustle and wave of fronds and limbs. Gandalf merely smiled. The creek was icy and swift, but the Ranger searched and found a quiet pool spinning idly behind a large boulder.

The wizard used a simple spell to heat the water. He did not even need to lift the staff; he leaned it against his chest and Aragorn put the tip into the pool. Modesty between them was a commodity long left behind and the Ranger stripped to skin without hesitation. The most Gandalf could do was unlace his boots and toe them off … and the unlacing took him the entire time that Aragorn disrobed.

“Our water will get cold,” chuckled Aragorn, though he knew the wizard could re-warm it if he chose.

The Ranger undressed him gently, for every pull of fabric tugged at his broken limbs and Gandalf trembled like a grass stalk. They both sank into the heat with a groan. Aragorn scrubbed himself first and left the wizard to settle a moment, then he scrubbed Gandalf from head to foot and returned to scrub his hair and beard once again.

“I am a rather moldy wizard these days,” said Gandalf.

Aragorn wisely said nothing.

It was too brisk to loiter in the meadow for a rest and the wizard looked pale as a drowned corpse. He took the long trek back to his shabby house with many respites along the way. Aragorn mixed a light draught of the Neirede at the halfway mark and the wizard took it without complaint.

“You were ready for me to fail.” There was no objection in Gandalf’s voice.

“You did well. Well enough that tomorrow, I will switch to bitterroot for pain. The Neirede is stronger than you need,” answered Aragorn. He grinned at the expression his words inspired. “Complain of its taste now if you must, for I will not hear complaints tomorrow.”

The day passed as quietly as every day before.

Gandalf paced and muttered in his little cabin, working his fingers and wrists. By the time the sun lowered to afternoon, the wizard could grip his staff. He pulled it about the house scraping in the dirt and as the hours passed, he eventually could lift it free of the floor a few inches. His demeanor became contented as if something broken had been repaired.

Aragorn ruffled through pages of old books that Gandalf kept, for some contained histories of Arda and they fascinated him. The wizard’s familiar scrawl festooned the margins and continued on into the following pages as he added his own perspective or corrections—some so full of opinion that Aragorn laughed to read them. They inspired even more conversations.

By nightfall, Gandalf was weary and painful and reluctant to admit it. Aragorn said nothing, but he sat a cup of Neirede next to him and let the wizard take what he would. Nearly the whole draught disappeared.

“I let you do too much today.”

“Perhaps I am stubborn.”

Aragorn smiled. “I count on your stubbornness. It keeps you from giving up on us Mortals.”

“Some I have given up on.”

“You have?” Aragorn was surprised and somewhat shaken and he pondered his own shortcomings. “Do I know of them?”

“No. They are not Men you would ever be acquainted with, for you are a different quality than they.”

Aragorn blinked, comforted. After a moment, he quoted: “Seek no favor with the ignoble and those who love trouble, for the Lords of the West have no patience with evildoers. Honorable Man, set your face toward the Light of Eru and search out His will and purpose. All else is dross that will burn up in the fires of testing.”

Gandalf smiled. “You learn well.”

“I have good teachers.”

The potent painkiller made the wizard sleepy in short order, but he was still awake when Aragorn opened the door and the little array of forest creatures entered in.

“Tal,” said the wizard. He gazed up from his straw mat bed at the towering mountain elk. “You are still Lord of the Glid-häen Dell? I am glad. The years have been kind to you, old friend.”

The stag lowered the tines of his crowned head and they framed the wizard’s shoulders, but Aragorn entertained no alarm. He puffed his pipe and listened to the wondrous one-sided conversation before him.

“Seven on each side this year? I wager your neck aches and you wish they would fall a few months early,” said Gandalf.

The animal rose, snorting, and shook his antlers threateningly.

“Oh, yes. Quite right … not until after the rut. Mustn’t have all those weaker bucks entertaining your ladies!” The wizard chuckled. “It is a spectacular crown to make them all fear you this year. You perhaps won’t have a single fight and that is a pity. What is the point of enduring such a crown if you cannot wrestle someone with it?”

Aragorn looked inquiringly at the wizard.

“The animals think much about such things?”

“Not as much as Men!” Gandalf’s blue eyes were sly. “But in truth, only the older ones who have been through the season several times.”

Aragorn laughed, remembering his own worrisome feelings as a young man. “I thought there was something wrong with me. Elven males seemed little troubled by the things that plagued me.”

“Nothing vexed you anymore than it vexes the whole of Men,” said the wizard. Then he brightened at the handful of rabbits that entered and scampered into shadows. “Sit me up, Aragorn,” he said. “Kibboh? Are you here?”

Aragorn thought every rabbit looked the same, but one came to the wizard and nosed at his thigh.

“Did you find your root? I don’t remember giving it to you…”

Aragorn took his pipe from his teeth, amused. “I found it and gave it to him. This one bothered and bothered you until I discovered it.”

The wizard smiled his kind smile, but Aragorn though it looked sad.

“He has an ailment of the blood. The hiicah root grows down at the foot of the mountains and I bring him one every year or send it with a willing bird. A tiny nibble every few weeks hinders the spread of it and lessens his discomfort.”

He looked quietly at the rabbit, which sat up and looked directly back.

Then Gandalf spoke very gently, “I will not bring a root the next time, little one, for you will not be here in the fall. I have helped your cause for the last two years, but nothing will save you this time. If I try, you will only suffer and such is not the way. Greet the spring clover with joy, for it will be the last time.”

The rabbit seemed unconcerned and hopped away to a quiet corner to nest.

The Ranger was mystified by the pang that assailed him over a creature that he often hunted. He frowned and stared at the coals glowing in his pipe, thinking.

How complex my life has become at the harmony I have witnessed here. Aulë created Arda and all that rattles, patters, howls, and squeaks within it. Oromë hunts and slays the creatures his kin fashioned. How do they come to terms with the killing of creatures they have given life?

“Mercy in delivering death,” said Aragorn aloud. “Take nothing you do not need, waste nothing you take.”

“The Hunter’s Oath,” said Gandalf. “And lest you become mired in your thoughts; when I need meat, I set snares and give thanks when I am fed. You have been taught the same. Nothing is wasted—nothing is ever wasted.”

Suddenly, the great elk lifted his head and stared at the door. Every rabbit sitting inches from the edge of the light scrambled into crannies behind rocks. One doe bleated and though the Ranger had never heard such a sound, he knew it was fear.

Aragorn was upon his feet at once and the pipe rolled across the dirt floor; the coals fell with a ‘pfff’’ of sound.

Gandalf was a mere instant later, but his voice was absolutely clear. “Get behind me, Estel. Right now.”

Aragorn knew that voice and the use of that name very well. From near misses as a child, to eroding cliff edges as a troubled teen, to warnings of danger coming headlong through dense forest. He obeyed instantly and without argument, though his sword was clear of the sheath and so was his hunting blade. His blood chilled as he watched the brawny stag back away from the door and lower his deadly rack of tines.

Huntsman of the Valar, what beast threatens us?

Smaller than the brutal werecats, but no less ferocious and feared, a mountain cat peered inside. Firelight illuminated emerald eyes that swept the room malevolently. Then it snaked silently through the open door, tawny and graceful and composed as if it were not nearly two hundred pounds of tension.

Oromë. Hold us within your hands!

“Be still,” Gandalf said to the room, and everything that shifted or shivered or ducked its head ceased.

The lion did not blink. It sat out of reach in front of the wizard. Only the slow curl of the tip of the tail alluded to the vitality held so motionless.

“Tish,” said the wizard without inflection.

The cat hissed and every whisker bristled around four inch fangs.

“Yes, I know you hate that name, but what am I to call you?” placated the wizard carefully. “I could have called you Frack instead.”

The black tipped ears laid fully back an instant, then relaxed. For many moments, the great beast sat motionless and Gandalf said nothing. Neither looked away from the other.

“Is this another friend of yours?” softly said Aragorn. His hand was becoming slick on the sword hilt.

“No,” said Gandalf. “I found her cornered by six wolves four years ago. Usually I pass by the harsh dealings of nature, even when it is a piteous thing. But this time I interceded and saved her, though to this day I cannot understand why.” The cat stared unblinkingly as the wizard spoke. “She is not my foe, but … not really my friend, either. You cannot be friends with savage creatures as she is; she will kill and eat you as any tender morsel.”

The cat’s green eyes half-closed and then reopened. The Ranger contemplated that this was the closest to a blink he had witnessed in this quiet stalemate. And it was becoming a tense impasse, for he knew Gandalf could not lift his staff fully and the animal sat one jump from him.

But then the wizard said softly, “I cannot touch you. My arms are broken.”

The lion did not move, but a low ominous sound arose; a coarse rasp akin to a millstone turning over a handful of frivolously tossed gravel. Aragorn’s grip tightened on his knife … but then he listened more carefully.

Not a growl. No threatening movement. Not even her fangs show…

The cat was purring and the emerald eyes blinked not once.

Gandalf smiled. Aragorn could see the round of his cheeks as he did so and the purring ceased like the snap of a blanket in wind. Then the cat soundlessly padded back out the door without a single glance at the powerful stag or the huddle of smaller deer. The little house seemed to sigh, relieved.

“What did she come for?” asked Aragorn.

“I do not know. She sometimes comes and sits a long time staring at me and I do not move until she leaves. It makes for a long evening.” Then, as an aside, “The endurance of a feline can try the staying power of the most stubborn wizard.”

“You told her you were helpless,” thoughtfully said Aragorn. His urge to shut the open door was fierce.

“Why would I deceive and have her test me? And I chose rightly, for she was pleased and then went on her way.” Gandalf glanced up at him, noting his tension. “Dispel your fears, Aragorn. She will not return this night.”

FIVE

For twenty-one days longer, the two companions wintered upon the Mountains of Evendim.

Aragorn took off Gandalf’s splints every morning and ran his fingers along the broken bones, praying. The bruising lessened swiftly and he was cheered at how quickly the wizard was mending. Though Gandalf said nothing, Aragorn was certain the Istari had some innate healing art that was being meted out.

At nightfall, he tied Gandalf back into his splints to protect him when he turned during the night. The wizard did not object aloud to being restrained, but his eyes that had been buoyant during the day became distressed and restless.

Aragorn did not know how he himself would fare being bound for days on end. He was compassionate, but dutiful to the injuries.

He spent his skill upon the banks of the creek and many a fat trout fell prey. He hunted roots and the tough tansyberries that lived clear through the winter. His sling took squirrels and once, a fat grouse. A doe hobbled through the edge of the glade and Aragorn spotted her. Some mishap had befallen the creature and she dragged a broken leg. His arrow ended her plight and the venison was replenished.

He took apart a few of the wizard’s garments and stitched them together to make one whole cloak instead of the torn assortment left from Gandalf’s ordeal. It was a motley raiment of many shades of grey when he finished and the wizard was humored. Then he tended and patched his own attire. The hides from the two deer repaired worn footgear and provided a rainproof cape for his shoulders.

He asked of the old history of Arda and the two spent entire days in earnest conversation, for the wizard’s knowledge spanned every generation and realm. Aragorn sat as he had as a boy, rapt and full of questions and thought. And though there was much woe in Middle Earth’s history, the wizard doled out a full measure of his delight and enjoyment of the races with his teaching. It made the past easier to bear when it was fraught with ruin and slaughter and evil.

He wrote in Gandalf’s tattered book, for the wizard always had much to say but could not hold any quill. After days together, the wizard knew exactly the right speed to speak so that Aragorn could keep up. His rough scrawl evened out as he became practiced with the letters again.

They sat in companionable silence for hours, listening to the crack of wood in the fire. They played games with leaves and twigs, battled for a feather in a cup, and slid pebbles across imaginary goals. There were a thousand stories to retell, and lays to be sung. There were languages to be practiced. There were myriad battles to be discussed and strategies to be examined.

The rabbits that came at night increased to seven and sometimes Aragorn could reach and stroke one without alarm. A black crow flew inside one night and walked about on the table. Not a crumb fell that it did not pick up and it stole part of Aragorn’s meal cake that he did not guard carefully enough. The great mountain elk he never touched and neither did Gandalf. The fierce lion never reappeared to stress them.

Gandalf taxed himself daily. He walked everywhere the Ranger ventured and drug the staff along when he could not lift it. He braided and unbraided strips of cloth until his fingers ceased swelling and their dexterity returned, then he wove dried grasses for the pattern was finer. He lifted an empty tin with both hands repeatedly, then one with several cups of water in it, then had Aragorn fill it halfway … gradually building the strength back in his arms.

Pain was a ragged hound vexing his heels and Aragorn let him find his own balance between discomfort and relief, but there were late evenings when the Ranger sang and soothed the wizard’s injuries for whatever comfort it could provide.

Then came the day Gandalf lifted the staff freely in his right hand and there was a ruffle of sound through the dilapidated house as if every board applauded. Aragorn cheered as well and a burden that he had unconsciously carried lifted from his shoulders. The glimmer of his tears was for joy, but the wizard put his hands upon his shoulders and looked intently into his face.

“I can protect us now,” he said solemnly. “Tonight, you will take a dream-draught and sleep as you should, Estel.”

Aragorn wisely did not argue. He slept as he had as a boy, deep and trusting, and was unsurprised to find himself tucked partially beneath the wizard’s long cloak when he woke well past dawn.

On the twenty-fourth day, the two companions stood outside the ramshackle house and Aragorn laughed as he always had laughed when Gandalf spelled the walls down. Nothing but stacked shale and a ledge high above in the rocks remained and he knew if he took a single step sideways, his eyes would lose even those markers.

They started upon the long descent of the mountain and Gandalf took the lead, for such was the pattern they had set through the long days of recovery. Aragorn never let his feet lag more than a jumping reach from the old man and he watched his every step, wary of another mishap. The wizard lifted no complaint to the close scrutiny and accepted every steadying hand.

“Here is where I fell,” said Gandalf midway through the afternoon.

The precipice was dire, spinning out over four hundred feet. Aragorn’s bones ached contemplating that tumble. He looked all around the shambles of rock and tough brush, but found little evidence. Not a print or marking or scrap of cloth indicated what had happened and they went on without another word.

It wasn’t until the fourth day that the terrain smoothed and Aragorn could walk beside Gandalf. The wizard was tired and his gait uneven by every eveningtide, but he did not ask for a draught for pain. He prayed just before sleeping as was his habit and Aragorn listened, the memory of that resonant voice in petition since he was a child returning fresh. The tongue the wizard spoke he did not know, and Gandalf would not teach it to him, but it had become so familiar that it soothed as if he understood.

He considered that perhaps his spirit did.

On the ninth day, the footlands lay before them and Gandalf halted and leaned upon his staff. Aragorn knew without being told that their paths would diverge. He was saddened as always, for the company of the wizard was a pleasure even in hardship.

“I will go on to Hobbiton and rest amongst my friends there. When the winter relents, I will come north to Rivendell and the hospitality of Lord Elrond,” said Gandalf.

“I must go home, for certainly they wonder of me and my mother worries.”

“I sent a bird to Lord Elrond many days ago. She worries not,” replied Gandalf. “You must still return, for your aid might be of service and you have many things yet to learn.”

Then the wizard looked back to the mountains they had just descended and spoke softly.

“Remember this land when you come to your kingdom, Aragorn, for Annúminas stands sentry over the gentle valley of Hobbits below. The World of Men deems them of little importance and they ignore them, but you have learned that not all things of value can be measured in weight or beauty of face. It is the lesser things that The Powers most often work their will through.”

Aragorn knew of what Gandalf spoke and he studied his familiar face.

“You have trusted in my forsaken heritage before I even knew of it. I have listened patiently to your counsel and given you my heart in the matter, yet your hope remains unwavering.” He looked away into the hazy distance disheartened. “What if I am unripe when the moment comes? What if I falter at the moment I should not?”

“The Valar know the heart and intention of Men; they will know when you are ready for the task appointed you, Aragorn. Until that day, you must learn all you can,” Gandalf advised. His voice took the patient tone of teaching that Aragorn had listened to all his life. “Master the languages and the history, be willing for a just cause, serve faithfully and give honor where honor is due. Learn every craft of survival, every woodland lore taught by the Masters of Lore. Make yourself ready in every hour, every season, for the duty that is meant for you and anything you lack, the Valar will supply or will give you through another. Even I was not sent alone to the World.”

“But what if I fail, Gandalf?” Aragorn said quietly. “The blood of my forebears weeps in this ground and all their toil has come to naught. My blood is no more than theirs and perhaps weaker.”

“Do you remember me taking you camping in the forest the first time?” diverted the wizard.

Aragorn blinked. “I do indeed. We spoke of that not three weeks ago.”

“I took you no more than, what was it you said? ‘A good stone’s throw’ from your mother’s house,” reminded Gandalf. “But the next time, we were four houses away. The time after that, we were across the river.”

“And I was afraid and you took me home,” intoned Aragorn.

Gandalf waved a dismissive hand. “The river was high and noisy and the dragon frogs were mating; if I had remembered, I wouldn’t have taken you down there with all that racket! You and I went back to that exact place a month later and all was well.”

“I remember swimming in the bowl of the waterfall. You tied a rope around my waist to retrieve me because you wouldn’t get in the water,” chuckled Aragorn.

“It was icy clear to the bottom!” protested Gandalf. “Only insane children swim in spring fed rivers!” The wizard looked properly aghast and then became serious again. “Every trip abroad, I took you farther and challenged you more. By the time you were ten, you could find your way back two leagues from Rivendell. At twenty, the land was your friend for forty leagues. As a Man, there is no ground that can deter your course, for you have learned comrade and foe and every plant to aid you … and all of it started a hard stone’s throw from your mother’s gate.”

Aragorn looked away from his friend and his thoughts were long becoming ordered. “The Gods look favor upon the willing and respectful. The path is hard and the outcome uncertain, but the obedient will find hope and courage in unlikely places.”

“Small steps, Estel,” said the wizard. His eyes were brighter than the day. “The Gods will not hand you a task until you have been strengthened to meet it. Patience and endurance come by testing and perseverance.”

“There are more stolid Men than I in the world—”

“I know all about those Men!” interjected Gandalf, but then he sighed and softened his tone. “You do not yearn for the Kingship, nor do you pine for power. You are a weak vessel without selfish aspirations—and thereby the perfect choice for authority to be handed to. Men of ambition grasp for supremacy, but you seek nothing but peace for all races and the healing of the World. The power reserved for a King will flow through you and shower blessing upon the nations meant to receive it.”

He leaned and put a hand upon Aragorn’s shoulder and every finger was strong. “All beginnings are small ones, but they build until you are sturdy enough to take the high and narrow roads. The Valar see and they know. You will be ready, even if you doubt. All the Gods ask is that you be faithful and choose honorably and be willing to carry the hope of Middle Earth when asked to bear it.”

“Faith. Trust. Listen.” Aragorn’s thoughts became sober. “My whole journey up these mountains has been to teach me about faith and trust and listening.”

“Yours was the easier lesson,” observed Gandalf dryly.

His words struck to Aragorn’s core and his spirit was troubled. “Valar spare those I love in teaching me,” appealed Aragorn fervently. “Lay no harm upon my friends because of my lack or weakness.”

But Gandalf took Aragorn’s head in the bowl of his left hand and prayed with just as much conviction.

“Hear my supplication, High King of Arda,” implored the wizard. “I am willing to be his lesson. Do not hesitate on my behalf in the shaping of Estel, or the destiny of Arda. If I am to be broken, then break me. If blood is to be spilled then pour me as an offering. If sacrifice is required, I will climb upon your alter in surrender. Believe my petition, Manwë Súlimo, for I am a willing instrument of your power and peace and splendor. Násië.”

“No,” whispered Aragorn, but his light voice vanished amidst the reverence and passion in the wizard’s voice. His skin tingled; brushed by something he could not see—the ghostly presence of God. The fingers of the wizard were points of heat upon his skull and he could not pull away, nor turn his head.

“Here my appeal, Lord of the West!” repeated Gandalf solemnly. “Pour me out even as you teach Estel to pour himself out, for it is sacrifice that changes the course of the World. Not for our name or glory, but for you, Lord of the Breath of Arda. Násië.”

Then the wizard pressed his right thumb square upon Aragorn’s brow and drew it down his forehead and the Ranger felt warmth rush through his skull as if something had been mysteriously imparted. He blinked, trying to discern it, but the sensation faded swiftly. Over his head, unnoticed, the clouds rushed more quickly.

“I do not want you to suffer for my cause,” said Aragorn.

“I suffer for many causes,” softly said the wizard. “I would rather suffer for a friend than endure punishment for a foe.” Gandalf drifted his hand to Aragorn’s shoulder and he smiled benevolently. “You should know better than to intercede for a stubborn wizard, Estel.”

Aragorn wisely said nothing, but his answering grip summed up his full heart. He stood on the knoll watching until the shabby grey of the wizard’s garments were swallowed up in the valley leading down to the Shire. But as he turned towards the river and set his gaze to the far distance, he thought upon the abandoned city of Annúminas and the faded history of the Dúnadain.

Land of my Fathers, I shall return someday and raise you anew, for The Powers led me by the hand to this place and heard my petitions on behalf of a friend. I will not forget their favor and care. In my weakness, they are strong.

It was in spring, many many decades later, that a host of Men and Dwarves ascended the great peaks of Evendim. They came three thousand strong, with wagons and oxen and provisions, and spent nine years rebuilding the ruined city of the Dúnadain for the High King of Gondor so commanded it.

So it was that in the Fourth Age of Middle Earth, on the southern shore of Lake Nenuial, the great city of Annúminas once more teamed with people and valiant Men who watched over, but did not enter, the gentle valley of Hobbits living below.

And there was one other place where Men did not go, for the Lord of the West forbade any to hunt or seek for it; a small glade of green tucked carefully away in the nock of the mountains.

Only one ever went there and he bid no one follow: King Elessar himself. He perched high near an unremarkable cliff of shale and smoked his pipe, watching the glade. Sometimes he prayed, but mostly he remembered things.

He remembered enormous black elk and timid rabbits and one terrifying mountain cat that purred. The awe of the Powers of the World guiding his feet so surely and steadily that he never doubted their existence again. The mystery of boards with every knothole knocked out and a sky that looked through the roof. A crooked door within a crooked frame that never let in any draft … and especially a wizard with cornflower blue eyes that fought him for a feather in a cup for three hours one day.

And sometimes his face was sad and sometimes his face was happy, but most of the time it was content. The face of a Man who had taken a perilous journey upon a treacherous path and remained to the very end.