Aragorn, the veterinarian

Twas only Aragorn's imagination, inflamed by dislike, that gave something of an orcish cast to the features of the granary supervisor - and whispered to his fancy that orcs, at least, were likely to admit that they stole.

Aragorn reminded himself firmly that he had not learned enough yet to judge, but that was no fault of his own.

The manager sat across from him, squirming. A sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead, but his expression remained cold, even disdainful.

"I place high value on mercy," said Aragorn. "Yet if you will not account for your deeds I can deal with them only as they stand on the surface, and the sentence is imprisonment."

"The King may do worse if he chose," said Faramir at his side, without threat or coercion- merely stating the truth. Aragorn could brand the man or have his hands cut off if he wished, under the law. There were many other things he could do under the law that he did not believe he would ever really do.

"I tell you," the manager insisted, "I know not of any theft. These figures are inaccurate." He gestured at the papers before him that showed the discrepancies with what had been reported to be in the city's stores and what was actually there.

The figures had been put together by Faramir and a few that he had chosen and trusted to assist him. There was no question of their accuracy. "There are compelling reasons to be swayed by the sight and odor of grain," said Aragorn. "Perhaps it was passing through your fingers when a child at your hearth was hungry. I cannot allow your deed to go entirely unpunished, for you have caused others in my kingdom to suffer want due to your actions, but I am prepared to listen to your reasons."

The man's chin jutted and his lips pressed together tightly. He said nothing.

Faramir's eyes flickered over the supervisor's face, betraying no hint of emotion. "The King is under no kind of obligation to give you an audience," he said, "let alone in private, where your dignity may be spared. It is rare to see a man waste such an opportunity so completely."

"I know nothing," the man insisted.

Faramir glanced at Aragorn. "The time for this meeting grows short."

Aragorn admitted to himself that there was a certain temptation to assert that his Steward was mistaken, for even this distasteful business was not so unpleasant as what may await him. But he could not put it off, and more importantly, he could not undermine Faramir’s authority by doing so.

He merely said: "Indeed. There are others who need my attention and you will not steal it from them as you stole their grain. You will have to wait in your cell for a public hearing, unless you speak now and speak quickly."

There was no unless. The man sat in taciturn silence until Aragorn signaled for him to be removed. The manager almost seemed to be getting a sort of pleasure out of it.

"I wish that had not been necessary," said Aragorn. "But then, there are many things I wish were not necessary."

The evening cool outside and the sight of greenery were most welcome after the fruitless time spent in that close room.

"One thing I can say for the man," Faramir mused, "he would not tell you a story. Twould have been easy enough for him to give you a sympathetic tale whether it was true or not."

Aragorn had all but furnished one for him. "A small praise."

"Hardly praise at all."

Neither needed to state that- while Aragorn truly believed in offering every one of his subjects every option for clemency- he had special reason for wishing it had here been taken, for this was the third man who had been appointed by Denethor to come under scrutiny for misconduct in as many weeks. It was not Aragorn's desire to appear as though he was ruthlessly disposing of anyone who may be loyal to the last of the Ruling Stewards- but the crimes were compelling and he must act. 

It was unclear whether these men were enacting a sort of protest against his rule, or whether Denethor had simply made bad appointments. Perhaps he had felt his best men needed to be reserved for military service. He was not about to clarify the matter, either to Aragorn or to his sons. 

Though he did not look forward to his destination, Aragorn did look forward to having the night's business done, and he set a swift pace. He realized how swift when he saw that his faithful, uncomplaining Steward was near sprinting to keep up.

Aragorn slowed. "From one wriggling eel I go to another," he said. "You need not accompany me- indeed, perhaps it would be best if you did not. Sméagol is no fonder of you than he is of me, I fear. Were we to appear together at once, it may frighten him into hysterics. Then he would need my healing hands in earnest and they would yet avail him not."

"The creature may be a little hardier than you fear," said Faramir. "I did not however intend to go inside, for I do not believe I would be of help there. I plan to wait near the entrance so that you may call on me if I am needed."

"To be truthful," said Aragorn, "it would cheer me to know you are at hand. Yet I do not know how long I will spend with him, for I know not what I will discover or whether he will cooperate, and I do not wish you to wait all night. Consider yourself free to depart at any time if the hour grows too late."

"Yes, my King."

They had too soon reached the building- a storage room attached to a cellar. It had housed foodstuffs, and then it had housed weapons, and now it housed Sméagol. In one of his more capricious decisions, Sméagol had insisted on moving into the cellar the moment he had heard about it- which was before the ground-level portion had been emptied. Somehow it had been contrived that he had been brought in and out of the building for some weeks without noticing that the upper story was still full of crossbows and swords and all types of things that one would not wish to see in the hands of the thing that had been called Gollum. Sméagol asserted that he could not use weapons and he showed no interest in them, but Aragorn felt as if giving him a sword would be, at best, as wise as giving a small child a lit torch.

Boromir had once reportedly attempted to offer the creature swordsmanship lessons, quite without Aragorn's input. Knowing Boromir, this was likely to be true and unlikely to have been offered in jest. It was fortunate that Sméagol himself had politely refused.

Aragorn turned to Faramir. "Is there anything I ought to know before I go in?"

"There have been no new reports," said Faramir. "For the time being, Faelon and Eardwulf each look in on him daily, while Ruthron is on hand if he's needed for some emergency, and Tarador has stopped caring for him but has recently applied for a turn at the guard post."

Aragorn nodded. "He lasted much longer than I could have hoped. They all have, at that."

"Indeed. Sméagol's meals are supplied by the same kitchen that supplies meals to the wall guards, and he's seen by many people during the day who bring him food or water. There are always guards at the post across from his window. In short- there are still eyes on or near him at nearly every moment, whether he knows it or not."

"Very good. Somehow I am sure he would still find some way to slip away unseen at any time he wanted to."

“Perhaps, but he would have to want to very badly. Eardwulf reports to me once a week," said Faramir. "His reports have been brief- Sméagol is well overall, he is lively and putting on weight, but he has a persistent cough and seems to still have intermittent fevers."

"Thank you. I suspect I know what his troubles are, but I had better take a look at him to be certain."

There was nothing else to ask, nothing else to discuss, and no reason not to go in.

The top level of Sméagol's quarters was barren except for a table, a cabinet and a rather shabby chair. It had been a higher priority to furnish the cellar.

As Aragorn approached the cellar door, a scrabbling noise began behind it. Aragorn stepped back. The door burst open amid squeals of: "Who is it, who is there, precious, who's come to visit Sméagol?"

When he saw Aragorn, his face went from bright and eager to an emotionless look, something rather animal, like a staring cat.

"Good evening," said Aragorn. "I don't plan to take much of your time, but I have heard you're having some trouble with a cough, as well as some other things. I am a healer, and though thus far I have not been able to help you as much as I wish I could, I might have a look."

"Ach," said Sméagol. "Is that it. We thought we was in trouble."

"Whatever would you be in trouble for?"

"I thought I was about to find out, didn't I? Very nice of him to want to take a look, but Sméagol is not ill." He was out of breath, however, from climbing the stairs.

"Eardwulf is concerned," said Aragorn.

"O, yes, frowns every time we cough."

"It would comfort him if I were able to tell him I examined you."

"And it won't take long?"

"It will not."

"Very well," he said miserably, and approached Aragorn with his head down. "He is the King, he must do as he likes."

Aragorn would have accepted a firm refusal, but he did not wish the examination to be put off or declined, and so he did not remind Sméagol of this.

Aragorn had planned his visit based on what he knew of Sméagol's schedule- at this time after sundown, it could be expected that he had had breakfast and a recent bath, and would have the calmest possible mood and least offensive smell. Sméagol's hair was still damp from the bath. The odor Aragorn knew so well was present, but faint and mixed with something almost reminiscent of humanity. He was clad in a soft robe with smallclothes under it.

"The cough is the main trouble but I hear also that you still have periods of fever," Aragorn said. "Is anything else troubling you?"

Sméagol fiddled with his sleeves and said: "Sometimes we makes a funny noise in our throat."

Aragorn laughed, which startled the creature and made him hiss. "Do you not expect that one might laugh at your jokes?"

"Wasn't so funny as all that," Sméagol said, "and him a King!"

"I am not sure what royalty has to do with it."

"He ought to have better taste," was the sharp reply.

In truth Aragorn had laughed not so much because of Sméagol's wit but out of surprise, and no small relief, that Sméagol was being playful. Apparently, he had been mistaken, and the relief had not been warranted.

"I will be as gentle as I can and take no longer than I must," said Aragorn. "Please take off your robe."

Sméagol began to undo the sash, muttering: "They wants clothes on us when we are too hot, and when Sméagol has them on they says 'take them off'."

Aragorn watched his hands for tremors, clumsiness, or any other trouble. Sméagol's fingers moved stiffly. Aragorn thought it reasonable to assume that Sméagol had arthritis, and the only questions were how severely he felt it and which joints were most affected.

The robe removed, the creature hopped up onto the table, moving as lightly and nimbly as a healthy young man. There appeared to be nothing the matter with his thin legs, at least.

Sméagol's eyes were clear and bright and his ears were unobstructed.

"Very well. But we don't cough out of our ears," he said without rancor when Aragorn asked him to turn his head.

"I am trying to be thorough," said Aragorn. "I should hate to only look at your chest and then have to return tomorrow because something else began to trouble you that I could have noticed and didn't. I suspect you do not want to do this again."

Sméagol made a noncommittal noise that ended up turning into 'gollum'. He winced.

"Open your mouth," said Aragorn, "and let me have a look at your throat."

Sméagol's throat was, unexpectedly, quite normal and healthy looking, aside from the pallor of his membranes. His breath was fetid, although his teeth looked quite clean. Reports were that Sméagol was proud of his fangs and willingly cleaned them with a cloth without being asked. He also seemed to have a habit of sharpening them, although he had not made it clear how he did this, perhaps because he did not want anyone to stop him.

"Did something happen to your lip?" Aragorn asked calmly.

"Bit it," said Sméagol.

"It looks painful."

"Of course it is." He looked abashed. "He knows, gollum," and he flinched and looked at Aragorn's hand, which still wore an old bite-mark.

Sméagol's pulse was strong and steady, if a bit rapid- likely from nerves. Aragorn suspected that his liver was larger than it ought to be, but could not be certain. There were more differences than simply stature between Halflings and Men, however similar they may look.

"Sméagol was wondering something," he said diffidently, as Aragorn was evaluating whether or not his spleen was in the wrong place, with his fingers pressed into the ancient Halfling's soft skin. He had not realized that after a bath Sméagol's skin was free of grime and sweat, and for a time it was dry and silky. It was also patchworked with scars. Many were faint and old and no doubt the result of some misadventure, and many others had been plainly left by devices of Mordor.

"Ask anything you wish."

"There was a time-" He squeaked and wriggled. Aragorn was discovering that Sméagol was ticklish, which he seemed to dislike very much- several times he had shown his fangs though he had had the self-control not to try to use them.

Aragorn withdrew his hand. 

"Once, we… I… I remember I went though a window," Sméagol said, "and there was… yes, a small soft Man… a Manling. A baby. Yes, a baby this big." He gestured with his hands.

Aragorn arranged his face into a marble mask.

"And I… I…" Sméagol faltered. 

"Where did this happen?"

"The M- the Greenwoods. I went in, but there was a - a woman, I thinks, yes… with a crossbow. So she chased nasty Sméagol away. And I was angry." He whispered this last, sounding as if this was the final horror- that he had had the gall to be angry.

"You did not harm the child?" Aragorn hoped he had betrayed no emotion. Sméagol was a great deal more honest now than he ever had been, but he still found it hard to resist answering questions in the manner that would best please the asker... and surely he knew what the 'correct' answer was even if Aragorn did not seem to be pressing.

"No. I did not. Not… then. Not that night. But I have forgotten things. Lots of things. And I think, I remember that night because I was angry, because I’d been chased off. But perhaps if I had not, I would not remember." He looked up, wide-eyed. "Was there another window?"

It was plain that he had perfect confidence that Aragorn knew the answer.

"I do not know the answer to that any more than you do," said Aragorn. "I have spoken to the Wood-men. They had seen you, glimpses of you. They had evidence of your thieving eggs and meat. They had chased you away through windows. And there was a case where one of their number froze to death in the woods, and the corpse was robbed, and partly eaten. You did not leave marks that would betray yourself, but I am fairly certain that was your deed."

"It was. I remember," the creature whispered.

"There was a harsh winter," said Aragorn, "in which children disappeared. I do not know whether it was your handiwork. The bodies were never found, and you were not the only horror in those woods." There had been some evidence that it had not been Sméagol, in fact. Other deeds more likely to be his had been reported some distance away, occurring too close in time for him to have committed both. But it was still all conjecture.

"So he does not know either," said Sméagol. He sighed a little. "But it is bad enough to have tried it, I suppose."

"I think so."

"Aren't you angry with us?"

"I have known about these things for too long to be angry with you upon hearing them now." 

Sméagol looked thoughtful for a moment. Aragorn steeled himself for more questions of like nature.

Sméagol asked: "What was he poking our belly for?"

That, at least, could be answered. "I was examining your insides."

"Why?"

"To see if there is any trouble with them."

"Is there?"

"Not that I could detect. While we are discussing your past, have you had trouble with coughing or wheezing before you came to Minas Tirith?" Aragorn asked. "I know you may not remember." He had tried to recall whether he had noticed Sméagol wheezing when he had known him in the past, and decided he had not had leisure to notice, or any particular reason to care about such things.

"Don't remember," said Sméagol. "Didn't bother with things like that. No one to fuss over us if we had a little cough." Aragorn went around to the other side of the table. "What's he doing now?"

"Examining your lungs. It's easier from the back."

"Ask us to turn around, then, gollum, he's the King," said Sméagol, bewildered.

"I have already walked around."

Sméagol said nothing, but looked at Aragorn over his shoulder.

“Take a deep breath,” said Aragorn. He was tempted to do so himself.

Based on what he knew of Sméagol’s case, he believed one of two conditions most likely to explain his symptoms. One would be manageable, the other almost certainly fatal. He suspected Eardwulf, at least, had thought of the same, and that was why the houndmaster- a man of calm temperament- had insisted on taking this seriously. 

The more serious condition seemed to also be the less likely. Yet it would be in keeping with Sméagol’s fortune and temperament for him to die a slow, lingering, miserable, inevitable death just at the very first point in his life when other living beings would sorrow for his loss, rather than being indifferent or pleased.

He now listened for the crackling sounds that would point towards doom. He heard none, only wheezing. To be certain he continued listening to Sméagol’s lungs rather longer than necessary and past the point of the creature’s patience.

At last Aragorn stepped back from him and said: "I suspect you have asthma. It seems to be fairly mild, but dry air would make it worse, as would exercise. Also, you ought to avoid dust. If you notice anything in particular troubles your breathing, let someone know, and measures will be taken to keep you away from it. Likely you had the condition already but being exposed to the heat and smoke on Orodruin made it worse. But still your case is not serious- at least, it will not be so if you are careful yourself and allow us to be careful with you."

Aragorn surprised himself with the depths of his relief. He would not have to tell Boromir that his oddly-chosen new favorite was dying. Not yet, at least. 

Sméagol nodded. He looked unconcerned. "What is asfma, eh, precious?"

"It is an allergy that makes you cough," said Aragorn.

Sméagol looked uncertain. "Gollum," he said, and winced.

“Of course,” he acknowledged, “your body is not quite normal, so I can be totally certain of nothing. But everything indicates that trouble as far as I can judge it. I have seen all I need to- you may put your clothing back on if you wish."

Sméagol picked up his robe. It was a warm night, and it seemed odd that he wished to wear such a garment.

"I hear you still have fevers," said Aragorn.

"We catched cold a while back, didn't we?" Sméagol said, as if asking himself for a reminder.

"But now it is gone and the chill remains?"

"Chilly, sometimes, but the weather in the city is all new to Sméagol." He was fumbling with the sash and scowling.

"Shall I help?" Aragorn asked.

"The weather? Does he command the weather?" He sounded half-sarcastic, half-frightened.

"Alas, I do not. But I can tie your sash if you'd like."

"Of course that's what he meant. Yes, if he cares to, why not?"

Aragorn dropped to a crouch and began to do the tie.

"You've spent a great deal of time in marshes and swamps, as I recall," he said. The sash was soon tied, but he did not stand, opting to remain crouching at the level of Sméagol's face instead, for if he stood he would loom imposingly over his huddling patient.

Sméagol's eyes grew round and bleak. Aragorn wondered if another confession was coming.

"He never punished us for biting him," said Sméagol.

Aragorn almost laughed but stopped himself. That remark had plainly not been a joke. "I sentence you to be dragged on a lead from the Dead Marshes to the Greenwood without food or water," he said, "and to have your ears boxed when you try to escape, and for your darkest deeds and deepest secrets to be told before the greatest minds of our time at the council of Imladris. Will that suit you?"

"I... suppose." He frowned, looking as if he may think this too light-hearted. "What about those... Wood-men of his, that we made problems for? We never said sorry or anything at all to them."

"Would you like to?"

"It doesn't matter whether I would like to, or would not. I did something wrong, and I have gotten away with it, and just because I can keep getting away with it does not mean I ought to," said Sméagol, a little impatiently. 

"Indeed," said Aragorn, failing to quite keep the dryness from his tone. "The Wood-men do not know who or what you are. An apology from you would mean nothing. I would have to explain you to them, and then explain why I will not turn you over for punishment. I doubt that would satisfy anyone still suffering from the despair of the loss of a child."

Sméagol winced. 

"Yet, on the other side of things," Aragorn continued, "if the case is that you really did nothing more than steal, and tamper with dead bodies because you yourself were maddened from starvation, those crimes are not so monstrous that many people are likely to still be calling for your blood decades afterwards. In either case a statement from you will not be helpful. I may say as well, Sméagol, that you left very little evidence of your deeds. I know enough to feel certain in my own heart that you were, at best, quite a nuisance, but I do not know enough to sentence you to a legal punishment when you yourself cannot remember these things enough to give a reliable confession. Then too the Wood-men are independent and I do not have authority to try their criminals. You will have to live with the guilt in your heart and consider that punishment enough. If it seems too light, perhaps it is, but even a King cannot address all wrongs."

Sméagol curled up with his chin resting on his knees. His thoughts looked far away. He rubbed at his nose, and Aragorn noted a scarring on the side of his wrist that looked as if it had been left by the chafing of ropes. Aragorn himself would not have bound anyone in such a way as to cause lasting injury, if it could be helped. Perhaps it could not have been helped or he had not realized the bonds were too tight, or perhaps the scarring had occurred at another time.

"If," Aragorn said, "anyone were to come to Minas Tirith seeking out redress for wrongs you have done, then we would discuss how you might offer restitution." Privately, he thought if anything of that sort happened, Aragorn would sit the accuser down with Sméagol for an hour, and then ask if punishment for the pathetic little wretch was still requested. It would be unlikely for this to happen, for Sméagol's existence was known only here, in Mordor, and in Thranduil's realm. He had done nothing punishable since Orodruin, Aragorn would not pursue any charges brought by the refuse of Mordor, and it was highly unlikely any Greenwood Elf would demand a reckoning.

The creature seemed calm, but Aragorn ought not to be too quick to think he was being callous. Sméagol was also one of very few people he had known to weep at the death of an orc. Sometimes his switches between reptilian coldness and convulsive passion did not follow a logical pattern, and perhaps what was in his heart did not always find its way into his face or voice. 

"Gollum," he said at last.

"What happens when that sound arises from your throat?" Aragorn asked. He now suspected that Sméagol had not in fact been joking when he had complained about his characteristic sound.

"People laughs at us, gollum."

It seemed the guess was correct. "That is unfortunate, but I mean to ask to what physically happens in your neck. How does it feel? Does it cause you any discomfort?"

"No. It is like…" He hesitated. "It is… swallowing but bigger."

"I confess I have never met anyone with that particular problem before," said Aragorn. "But I know it distresses you, so I shall think on how to cure it. Is there anything that seems to make it better?"

"I don't know, gollum- no, not anything."

Drawing his attention to it had seemed to make it happen more often. Aragorn suspected it was partly a nervous complaint. He might do well to ask Eardwulf and Faelon, or even Boromir, who had had more opportunity to observe Sméagol when he was not upset, if anxiety contributed to the trouble. "Are you ever in pain, Sméagol?"

"Everyone is sometimes," he said bemusedly.

Aragorn said very gently: "I wish to help you."

"Why would you want to?"

"Because I like to help."

Sméagol appeared to be thinking. He shifted position, perhaps evaluating his body. "Yes," he said reluctantly, "but he can't help."

Perhaps not. It seemed that Sméagol's chief complaints were being Sméagol- and being elderly. There was no cure for either.

Except one, Aragorn thought darkly, which cures all; but he had long ago decided not to use it. "Surely there is something to be done for your pain even if the cause cannot be cured," he said.

"They gives us willow bark," Sméagol said, "like Gran did. And cold cloths if it is- very bad." 

"And that helps you?"

"A bit."

He seemed reticent to discuss the matter and it sounded as if his minders had it well in hand. "Good. I am glad to hear it. There is another type of bark I would like you to try."

"What is it?"

"There is an illness that often strikes those who wander in marshy regions. Your symptoms are not exactly as I would expect from the condition, but neither are you exactly what a healer would expect. Then, too, it may be slightly different in Halflings. I would like to give you a bit of the remedy- it may help you very much, and will not harm you."

"It won't harm us, eh?" asked Sméagol. His large eyes were solemn. "Perhaps he thinks Sméagol is fussing, but he says 'you are not what I expect', and then he says 'I do not expect this medicine to hurt you,' and I think- I think you cannot be sure. It may hurt me. It may kill me."

Aragorn held his gaze for a minute, and sighed. "You are right," he said. "That is the trouble with trying to help you. But if I too am right, and your condition is what I believe it to be, then it may lead to your death if you are not given medicine."

"Sss, sss. I have to think."

"You don't need to decide tonight. And you may find it helpful to ask the opinion of others who know you."

"Perhaps."

"If there are no other complaints you would like seen to, I may bid you farewell."

 "Farewell," said Sméagol in a small voice.

Aragorn got up and left, trying to look as if he was not hurrying away.

Faramir was still waiting outside. One moment, he was sitting out on the lawn with dandelions in his hands, looking up at the sky with a tranquil expression, and seemingly unaware of anything around him. At the next moment he had appeared by Aragorn's side. "My King."

"He behaved as well as I dare expect, better, in fact," said Aragorn. "He was as docile as any hobbit of the Shire under my hand, and quieter than most; he patiently allowed me to discover ever more marks of torment and violation on his body, and to prod at them at my leisure, while I wondered if he yielded the same way under the hand of Sauron."

A look of dismay crossed Faramir's face, followed by keen caution. He looked very deliberately at something behind Aragorn.

The cellar window was open, and gleaming eyes stared out of it. Sméagol's hands were on the sill- he had been on the point of climbing out.

He looked taken aback.

"Ah," said Aragorn. "Your ears are as sharp as ever."

"O don't say His name," Sméagol pleaded. "Don't say it."

"I am sorry."

Sméagol hesitated a moment, then pulled himself out onto the grass where he sat sprawled. "Didn't mean to listen," he said. "Didn't know he had a friend with him, we just- I just- he is still here, and I wanted to ask if he knows how to make Sméagol not sweat so much."

"I can't promise you anything," said Aragorn. "It is possible that you're perspiring because of your fevers, and in that case the remedy I suggested may help you if it doesn't poison you. It may not be related at all, and then the medicine will not help."

"Ach."

"That is the best I can do," Aragorn told him.

"Good evening, Sméagol," Faramir said.

"O good evening. It is Lord Faramir," said Sméagol, adding under his breath: "and us in our housecoat."

"Sméagol, did you make yourself pleasant to your torturers as you have to the King tonight?"

A paroxysm of something like the old malice shook Sméagol's thin frame. "Never!" he snapped, and he spat into the grass- remembering his manners a moment later and looking horrified.

"Thank you," said Aragorn.

Sméagol surreptitiously blotted his mouth on his sleeve.

"While I have you," said Faramir, "I believe I and the King should like your advice, as your counsel has proved so profitable to others in the past."

"If he likes. Is it orcses?"

"Not at present. I can give you no identifying details of the situation we face, but this is the root of it: there are Men the King has found guilty of certain crimes. Their guilt is established beyond all question, and we wish to know why they have done what they have done. We are offering them mercy, which can be had if only they are truthful."

"They won't talk?" Sméagol asked.

"They will not. We can only guess at why not. What is your guess?" He did not say why he thought Sméagol might have insight into why a known criminal would not confess and Sméagol did not ask.

"Perhaps they do not want to believe you would really be so kind, because then they has to know you are so much better than they are. It doesn't feel nice, knowing those things."

"Is that sort of pain less bearable than a sentence of imprisonment?" Aragorn asked.

Sméagol pinched thoughtfully at his lower lip, worrying at the part that was cut. "Sometimes," he said.

"Is there anything that can be done to convince them to talk to save themselves?"

"No, not anything- not anything a nice Man would be willing to do."

"I see."

"Doesn't help him very much, perhaps. We do not know Men very much. Knows orcses better."

"I thank you for your counsel," said Aragorn. 

“Helped him as much tonight as he’s helped us, I suppose.” Sméagol yawned, showing that his fangs were few in number and most of his mouth was given over to soft, useless gums, and then the carelessness of his speech seemed to dawn on him. “But we-"

Aragorn looked down at him. “You said exactly what you meant to say and meant exactly what you said. I take no offense. I have been little help to you tonight.”

“Mm. Lots of helps other times,” said Sméagol. “Gives us nice houses.”

“Indeed.” 

Sméagol sat where he was, splayed out in the grass, and showed no sign of going back inside. Aragorn caught Faramir’s eye. He desired to discuss matters with his Steward well out of the hearing of curious hobbits. He rose to his feet.

“Going already?” Sméagol asked mildly.

“Yes, I am afraid so,” said Aragorn.

“He's just turned up, hasn't he? Kings is busy, I suppose.”

“Indeed. I hope you have a pleasant night.”

“Mm.”

He walked away, with Faramir at his side, contemplating Sméagol’s apparent disappointment that he was leaving. Even if he was only being polite, it was significant. It had once been out of the question to expect civility from the creature.

“Faramir,” he said, “I wonder if perhaps I ought to be satisfied with the way things are and am now simply hoping for too much.”

The response came with unexpected swiftness and firmness. “No. We may be grateful for what is now, while yet hoping for better to come. But, my King, there may be a difference between hope and expectation.”

“Perhaps you are right.”