Author's Note: And now, only a few years late, comes the end of the chapter. I apologize.

"I must say, I did not think that when I finally met Isildur's Heir, he would be dangling at the end of a hangman's noose."

Strider had not yet realized he was awake when he heard the voice, but hearing his identity spoken aloud gave urgency to his waking, and he struggled to sit up and get into a defensible position.

He failed.

Pain shot off like fireworks through every limb and every hair and he knew his throat had been cut ear-to-ear. He would have screamed, but he did not have the strength, so he screwed his eyes shut and wept.

There was rustling and footsteps, though he didn't care, and thick warm fabric draped over him. "Ah, Aragorn! I did not wish this. I fear my skills in healing are far short of those you are accustomed to." The back of a warm hand touched his cheek and he flinched away from the bite of it's touch. There was a loud sigh. "You are safe now. Sleep, if you are able." The footsteps and rustling fabric moved away.

Minutes or hours, he knew not which, ticked away with agonizing slowness. He lay there, twitching at times, still at others, but always feeling pricks and needles and stabs as air found it's way to places long deprived of it; his chest, his knuckles, between his toes. And all the while he saw the faces. The faces of those who had laughed. Their joy, their pitiless curiosity all bent upon him. And he saw Heather, lovely and fair as Elbereth, merciless and cruel as the red-locked Noldor. Oh how she'd betrayed him! Standing there, delighting in his death when he had risked much to aid her!

He shrunk back from those memories then, unable to bear them. Instead, he slowly remembered those things he had seen after the white flash when his vision had failed him; the tender smile of a mother and the stern protection of one who was as a father. He'd recalled days long forgotten, which he'd spent under the leaves of elven trees, or amongst his kindred in rare times of peace. And ever there, a fleeting glimpse as she darted around the corner, fairest of her kindred. Tinuviel! His Tinuviel! There at the end of all things, her starlit gaze had fallen upon him, and she'd spoken his true name.

"Are you awake, Aragorn?" came the same voice he'd heard before. The ranger jerked away from it and this time managed a hiss as his muscles cramped and twitched. "Don't move. Can you open your eyes?"

Fearfully, Aragorn cracked one lid, and then another. The light hurt his eyes and the world tilted and whirled, but as he lay still the movement slowed until he could make out the room and the old man who stood in it. "Thistle?" he whispered, his throat refusing to utter any true sound. "You... help? Wass you... hadem... hangme..." He breathed hard, his face going stark white as he did so. "spyvenemy" His fingers sought a blade, though he knew he could not wield one, and his fingers barely stirred the cloth over them.

"Stop talking, dear Boy," the old man said, his face looking almost as drawn and pale as the ranger's. "You're throat's not ready for it. It's taken a great deal of abuse of late." Then he held something warm against Aragorn's lips. "Drink this. It should help."

It was all Strider could do not to choke, but he managed to swallow it down somehow, and indeed, the soothing warmth and herbs helped a little immediately and as time went on, he could feel the pain slowly dulling. "Thank you," he sighed.

The old man just grinned and nodded. "To answer your questions; no, I am not a servant of the enemy. I dare say I'm quite the opposite, though now I can see that perhaps I gave you a fright, using your true name the moment you awoke. And yes, I had them hang you. It was that or roll down a hill in a barrel, and I think you'll agree that a hanging is much easier to fake than a body riddled with holes. Furthermore, if you'll recall, I tried to keep them from putting you on that horse. If I'd had my way you would have lost consciousness in a matter of moments." Aragorn's eyebrows drew together a hair, and Thistledown nodded, somehow understanding. "You, Aragorn, are every bit the son of your fathers. I had to let you hang there for a quarter of an hour before you stopped kicking long enough for me to convince them you were dead. That is why you feel so poorly just now."

"I wish... they'd hung you ere... you could let me off the... noose," the ranger replied, feeling well enough now to string more words together, but still thoroughly convinced that dying had hurt less than coming back to life.

"You don't mean that," the old man chided. "Now I suppose you're wondering how I know who you are, right?" He dug into his gray robes and pulled out a small silver ring with a green gem set in it. "Baubles of any sort stand out on Rangers. No matter how noble their heritage. Not much wealth is left to them. But this is a 'king' among oddities, if I dare say. The ring of Barahir upon the hand of a Dunadan could only mark the son of Arathorn, a foster son of a certain elven-lord."

Aragorn began breathing harder once again, and his mouth opened as if to speak, but the old man quieted him with a gesture. "You've few enough words in you, save them for when I don't know what you're going to ask." The merry twinkle in the old man's eyes was infuriating. "You want to know who I am that I should know all this. Correct? Well, I am an old friend of your foster-father's. Perhaps you remember, or maybe you were too young, but I led some dwarves through Rivendell once, a long time ago. Dwarves and a hobbit."

Now the ranger's eyes went wide and he gasped out, "Mithrandir?"

"Indeed. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Elves would not let the passage of dwarves through their land fade from memory so soon. Nay, never. No need to introduce yourself though. I obviously already know who you are, and I assure you, I'm more than pleased to meet you at long last."

"Thistledown?"

"Ah, yes. The mayor here seems to be rather stuck in his ways. I tried to convince him to call me Gandalf like all the others, but he insisted on a local name. So, you see, I'm Thistledown, old, gray, and thorny, prepared to wander off at the first stiff wind. I will admit, there's a certain kind of poetry to it."

The ranger started to chuckle, but instantly regretted it. Reaching up a hand to hold his throat, he paused. Beneath his hand was an angry bruise of an entirely different sort, and both above and beneath it there were lines of hard crust.

"I wish they'd had the sense to bind your hands behind you. You clawed yourself horribly trying to be rid of the noose. Rest. When you are well enough, I will get you from this town unseen."

"Thank you," the ranger whispered. "What of Heather?"

"What of her?"

"We cannot let one such as her run rampant... never facing the consequences of all she's... done."

"What would you do? Execute her as she did you? Imprison her? Have her flogged?"

It was difficult, but at length the ranger shook his head.

"Then there is nothing we can do. One day she will have driven all from her and not a soul in the world will care, and that, Aragorn, will be a worse fate than any you could give her... and perhaps even a worse fate than she deserves, for she was hurt once too, long ago, by one who should have loved her. Rest well and do not think on her. We shall leave when you are ready."