He rose from the bed, bracing himself against the dizziness following his movements. When the feeling of being buffeted by a storm ceased, he straightened up carefully. The ceiling was low, and his head almost touched the eaves when he stood upright. He made his way to the threshold slowly. Coming to a halt, and inhaling deeply the cool evening air, people nearby suddenly stopped as if frozen. All conversation ceased. They stared at him as if waiting for some spectacle to take place. He frowned and kept his left hand on the door-frame to steady himself.

   About fifteen feet away a small fire had been kindled, and a pot filled with steaming soup was placed above it. Three rows of simple huts like the one in which he had been treated were built around a central clearing where the soil had been trampled. From the protruding roofs, made of thick grass with branches to support them, hung nets, ropes, and the catch of the day. The smell of fish filled the air.

   “Ah, why do you stare like he's a ghost!” a female voice broke the expectant silence, and Bradolla shoved a woman out of her way to greet her patient. “Look, who's up and about!” Now that Strider was standing upright, she had to look up to him, revealing her wrinkled throat. “Made it up here, eh?” she teased, and he rewarded her with a slight bow. She put her hands on her hips, cocked her head, and squinted. “You still look as pale as the new moon.” And when he stepped into the waning sunlight, she added frowning, “Nilana should have fed you better. You still look all skin and bone.”

   “No, Bradolla, Nilana does for me what she can,” he replied in a kindly manner and lifted his right hand for a moment. “Like you do. And I am grateful for your help.” He stifled a cough. “I would not have made it without the care of you both.”

   “Aye, you are right.” She grinned. “At least you reward us with surviving! And giving us more rumours by the day! I'll tell Nilana to bring you a bowl of soup.”

   “I’d like some too!” called Daevan, arriving with his grand-father, who took his place at the fire.

   “No, there is no need to,” Strider replied politely. The thought alone of another bowl of fish soup with fish made his stomach heave. “A piece of bread would suffice.”

   “Very well. Bread then!”

   Strider stepped forward to join the men at the fire, when his knees gave way, and he stumbled. Bradolla reached out to catch him, but Daevan was much faster. In a fluent motion he was at Strider's side, slipping one arm around the man's back, and steadying him with his shoulder. Strider leaned heavily on him, trying to catch his breath, his face grimacing with discomfort.

   “Come, sit down here,” Daevan urged and helped him to sit close to the fire.

   “Up too soon,” Bradolla muttered into the stranger's back. “Stubborn man!”

   The other men and women laughed loudly, jesting, and imitating the old woman trying to keep the tall man from falling.

   “Leave him be,” Dinúvren replied without rancour, and grinned over Daevan's concerned face. “Luckily you're built like a rock!” he said to the young man, who waited close by in case the stranger needed his help again. “I knew you'd have carried him here alone if you had to!”

   “Thank you,” Strider said, looking up to Daevan, who nodded and replied so softly that only he could hear:

   “Tell me next time in advance, and I’ll spare Bradolla the surprise.” They exchanged a small smile and Daevan returned to his place. His grand-father patted his arm congratulating him on his quick reaction.

   Bradolla had a hand at her throat, inhaling deeply, and sending a silent prayer of gratitude to the gods. Gaellyn had seen her shock-widened eyes, and yet laughed heartily.

   “He would have crashed you like a fen beetle!” He yelled from the other side of the fire. “And left nothing of you but dust, probably!”

   “Nay, Bradolla would have caught him too!” she replied good-naturedly, clenching her fists in a demonstration of strength. “Daevan joined in but too soon.”

   “Aye, I see you shoulder him and carry him back to his bed!”

   Roaring laughter followed, and the old woman waved a bony finger into Gaellyn's direction.

   “Never underestimate the little folk! They're sturdier than they look.”

   “Aye, never doubt that!” Dinúvren remarked, and earned more laughter. Then he turned to Strider, who sat to his left side, amused at the jesting. “Finally made your way out here, hum? You're quite tough.” He handed him a tankard with hot water, eyeing him closely. “Besides your unwilling legs…”

   “I feel much better, aye,” the stranger replied with a courteous nod. “I can hardly express my gratitude that you ventured into the Marshes to save me.”

   Dinúvren’s and Strider’s eyes met, and the fisherman said with a straight face:

   “I can tell you there was no easy way, and truly no easy decision.”

   “It was a very courageous deed. You are a brave people.”

   “No soul should be left out there to die.” He turned abruptly to stare into his tankard.

   “I am in your debt, Dinúvren,” Strider finished, but the fisherman only nodded curtly.

   “You should not sit here like this,” Nilana said from behind and wrapped a blanket around the wanderer's waist and legs, not noticing that she jostled against the tankard. Strider lifted it quickly and out of reach to avoid being splashed. “You should not have come out here at all. It's too cold.”

   “You are very kind,” Strider replied, and this time the coughing could not be suppressed. The others at the fire shook their heads smiling.

   “And you're still sick.” Nilana met his gaze briefly, but cast her eyes down again to carefully wrap up Strider's bare feet.

   “It's not that cold anymore.” Dinúvren remarked without mockery, and took his refilled bowl from Baeni, who had joined them at the fire. She looked at the other woman condescendingly, and Strider pondered about the reason. “If you wrap him one more time, he'll trip and fall once he gets up again.”

   “I want a blanket too!” Gaellyn shouted joyously. “You never took care of me like that!”

   “Might be better that way,” Baeni added, her voice cutting as a knife.

   “Hullo, Baeni, that's enough!” Dinúvren interrupted in mild reproach.

   Nilana fled the merriment, and the men sitting side by side laughed and exchanged remarks about Nilana and Bradolla, who firmly ordered Baeni to bring bread.

   “There is no reason to make fun of her.” The wanderer's voice was low and hardly more than a strained whisper. “When it comes to charity, many people fail. Nilana did not.” His gaze went back to his tankard, warming his hands on it.

Amused at Nilana's clumsiness, Daevan was silently following the events and was astonished at how much the stranger had impressed the villagers with his simple words. No one objected. No one even spoke for a while, and the smiles lingering on their wrinkled faces faded. They looked either at the stranger or into their bowls as if pondering over his words. Daevan got the idea that he had put a spell on all of them, and shook his head slowly.

He could not think it possible that a man could have such an influence without delivering a loud and impressive speech telling them of imminent doom on their doorstep. And even that, he thought, would not keep the fishermen from chattering. Sitting two places apart from him he observed Strider unobtrusively. He drank and remained silent, while around him the conversations were hesitantly resumed. Bent forward with shoulders drawn up, he sipped water and listened. Daevan observed that from under the cover of his long dark hair, strands of which fell over his eyes, the wanderer had glanced at Gaellyn and then turned to Doran.

   The old man stared at the stranger openly, muttering to himself.

Nilana brought bread before Baeni was able, and Strider thanked her for it. It was much more than he could eat, so the flat and partly burnt pieces were dispersed around the fire. Again Daevan kept his eyes on the recovering guest. He had to hide a smile when Strider tasted the bread and had difficulties hiding his disgust.

   “Some more water?” Daevan offered, letting the wanderer know by his look that he had seen his discomfort. He filled his tankard and gave it him back. “Dip the bread, Strider, it's not so… hard then.”

   “Thank you for your suggestion,” Strider replied with the hint of a smile. He followed Daevan's advice, which led to Gaellyn's question if the jump into the Marshes had affected his teeth too. More laughter welled up, while Strider shook his head, smiling. “Your care of me is extraordinary.” He held Gaellyn's stare across the low burning fire. “But no. It is just to better enjoy the taste of your wonderful bread.”

   Dinúvren spat water into the fire, unable to hold back his laughter. Doran and Daevan grinned, and Gaellyn nodded in agreement.

   “You’ve got a point there,” he said and took a hearty bite of his piece, which tasted of fish like all the food they ate. The others smiled and returned to their chatter about the fish, the crabs, and the deer they had sought but not found.

   “I never expected deer to come this far west,” Strider said, and though he spoke quietly, Dinúvren heard him.

   “Aye, they usually don't, but…” He arched his brows in an unspoken question, and – not for the first time – pondered over the arduous journey Strider had accomplished so far. “We think they escape from the woods in the east.”

   “Much darkness is brooding there,” Doran said, lifting his head. His old but keen gaze pierced the wanderer across the fire, and the other men fell silent at the sound of his voice. “I can feel it. The Enemy is gathering his troops. His evil forces will spill their venom into our lands. The deer is but the first to sense it and flee.”

   “It won't get that bad.” Gaellyn made a gesture indicating the old man was telling nonsense. “The armies of Minas Tirith have always kept them at bay. They'll do it this time too. And no one will get here.”

   “Your optimism is nothing but a fool's hope.” Doran's expression became grim. “In the older days men like you led their folk to ruin. Hoping against hope that all will turn out to the best. And wasting good and brave men when it was too late.” He snorted loudly. “I saw it happen.”

   “We know that you served your time,” Dinúvren soothed the old man. “Your brave deeds for the Steward are not forgotten.”

   Doran growled a reply, which made Daevan turn to him in astonishment. He had seldom seen his grand-father upset like this.

   “Indeed we all remember them well,” the young man said with a smile. “And I am proud of you.”

   “Pride is a luxury.” Doran pulled out his knife to cut the bread into pieces. “And you will remember my words, friends. You will.” Again his gaze wandered across the fire to Strider. “You have a familiar face, stranger. Very familiar. You resemble a man… a leader of the army of Gondor. He was known by the name Thorongil. Are you related to him?” The wanderer nodded, but his face remained unreadable. “There is quite a resemblance to him. He must be very old by now.” Doran squinted, then nodded to himself. “You could be his son.” Strider held the older man's stare, but remained silent. “Well, I think you are!” The wanderer gave him the hint of a smile. “Now, I would call that a surprise!” Doran shook his almost bald head, and finally his features softened when he bent forward to eye the stranger more closely. “You came a long way, didn't you? From the east, as it seems to me. What tidings are there?”

   Daevan's attention turned from his grand-father, whose mood had visibly lifted, to their no longer strange guest. ‘The son of Thorongil’, Daevan thought and found himself smiling. He had absorbed all the stories about the great Thorongil – a man of so great renown that the mere mention of his name had made him shiver with awe when he had been a young boy –, and now his son sat at the fire with him. A sudden longing filled Daevan's heart, but he forced it down. Instead he watched Strider's reaction. The man took his time to answer as if he was weighing his words carefully. All eyes rested on him suddenly, and he seemed well aware that his reply would determine his status in the village. Still men like Gaellyn thought him to be a strange person, who could be a thief or of worse repute. They would not believe Doran's assumption.

   “You are right, Doran,” Strider said by a while. “Evil is gathering while we speak. The armies of the dark lord are not yet ready to strike, but strike they will.”

   Silence followed his words. The men and women were numbed by the prospect of a war to come.

   “How do you know?” Gaellyn finally asked with open distrust, but Strider stood firm.

   “Not long ago I trod my path along the Morgul Vale.” Whispers of surprise rose around the fire. Baeni and Nilana, who had served the men, looked up. Fear shone in Nilana's eyes. The revelation could mean so much trouble ahead; she would have preferred to not have heard it. “I saw the Enemy move. I saw their scouts and beasts, and I saw their messengers cross the plain.” His eyes returned to the old man. “Your feelings do not betray you. There will be fights again on the plains of Ithilien.”

   “What are you? A prophet?” Gaellyn cut in while the others still stared at the wanderer speechlessly.

   “No, I do not possess any ability of foresight, but I can read the signs the Enemy leaves behind. Signs of destruction… and utter fear.”

   “What made you go to the east while all others are leaving?”

   “I had to.” Strider stared at Gaellyn until the younger man complied. “And I have to leave here as soon as possible,” he declared as Nilana handed him a bowl with steaming hot soup. Her hands were shaking, and she found it difficult not to spill the hot liquid.

   “Leave? So soon?” she asked in a high-pitched tone that indicated her surprise. “But you should not! You are not yet fully healed.”

   Strider looked up to her, reading anxiety above any other feeling.

   “I must. I thank you for your hospitality and care, but my errand is urgent.”

   “Your errand, hum?” Gaellyn looked up from the meal Baeni had provided, challenging the stranger again with his stare. “What kind of errand is it that brought your unlucky soul into the Dead Marshes?”

   “I had to capture that creature you saw.”

   “Creature, aye. An ugly biting beast it was. Is it of any value?”

   Daevan interrupted, sensing this conversation might lead to a quarrel:

   “So you will continue your hunt?”

   Strider turned to him, while Gaellyn pursed his lips, annoyed by the young man's interruption.

   “Yes.”

   His expression indicated that he would not say anything more about his errand, and after a long pause the men took up their conversation again until one by one they left the fire and returned to their huts. Daevan, Gaellyn, Dinúvren, and Strider remained behind, and finally, after pondering over his decision, Daevan addressed Strider in a low voice.

   “The lands around here are dangerous, even if it's not the Dead Marshes. There are many fens to cross whatever way you choose.” They looked at each other, and finally Daevan added, “I could lead you if you need a guide.”

   Strider inhaled deeply. He had seen Doran whisper to his grand-son and thought him to be the reason behind Daevan's offer. He took another swig before asking:

   “How old are you?” Carefully putting down the bowl he thanked Nilana for the meal with a nod.

   The young man's expression was reserved and cautious when he answered:

   “Why do you want to know?”

   The wanderer lifted his hand to calm the man's distrust.

   “It was just a question, Daevan, for you seem quite young to set out on a journey like that.”

   “Not all who live here have always been fishermen,” Daevan said evenly, staring into the fire. “Once my uncle and my grand-father served the Steward of Gondor. That was long ago, but… I think I…” He gave a small smile. “I might have inherited their blood.” He evaded Nilana's pleading stare. She had taken care of him when he had been younger, and the prospect of losing him to an unknown future troubled her more than she would say. “I would not wish to be stuck here all my life. Now this errand of yours… it seems to be too good an opportunity for me to let pass. I could leave this here behind for a while.”

   Strider nodded, but scrutinised the features of the young man, which glowed red in the firelight.

   “I would appreciate your help and company. But there will be many leagues to cover. Did one of you find tracks of that creature?”

   “Some, yes,” said Dinúvren with a nod toward the fen. He hastily wiped the rest of the soup he had quaffed off from his face. “West of here. That… thing can swim, right?” He nodded to himself without waiting for Strider's confirmation. “Ah, well, won’t find much of a trace then. Any idea where it might have turned to? Otherwise your search will be in vain, I fear.”

   “To the mountains, I suppose.” Aragorn drew in his breath carefully. Though his voice had returned, it was still weak and hoarse and his lungs still felt as if they were full of stinging nettles. Pressing for a departure was wrong and foolish, but he still could hear Gandalf's urgent plea to capture Gollum and take him to King Thranduil. So much time had passed since that conversation, and now he could not even estimate how much time it would take him to find Gollum again. It was his duty to depart immediately. “We start out west through the Nindalf-”

   “The marshes south of here are called Wetwang,” Gaellyn corrected him sternly. “And you better be careful out there. Daevan knows the wet lands quite well.” He nodded his appreciation to the man sitting right of him. “But still it's dangerous, without doubt. We lost some of our brothers out there. Not to mention the many who vanished in the east… captured by those fell creatures. They roam our lands ever more freely. It's like they've been gathering somewhere.” He shook his head with disgust, then faced the wanderer again, not concerned that his last words betrayed his denial of a threat growing in the east. “Where'd you come from? Not through the Dead Marshes, as I see it. Why’d you go in there at all? You'd both be drowned there.”

   “I am grateful you took the risk upon yourself to save me,” Aragorn replied politely. “Dire need to capture that creature drove me into the Marshes, as I already told you.”

   “Aye, you said so,” Gaellyn nodded without agreeing, “but you said no word why this thing is of importance to you.” He eyed the strange guest again as he had done many times since he had been brought in.

   “Let me assure you that this creature is of great importance.”

   Gaellyn squinted, then huffed:

   “So you won't tell us!” He rose with a grunt. “Nice way to say thank you.”

   “I apologise for being unable to be more precise, but some things should not be discussed openly.”

   Gaellyn stood, glaring down at the stranger.

   “You are distrusting us, Strider… or whatever your name is. You take our help, live under our roof, but consider us not worth to share the reason for your hunt?” He exhaled noisily and left without giving the wanderer time to think of an answer.

   Nilana folded her hands in front of her mighty bosom, and when she came close, her voice held an unspoken plea.

   “There are strange things happening around here,” she said quietly and took the empty bowl Gaellyn had left behind. “We all know that there's something brewing in the east. And it's no good.” Her hands played with the bowl, clearly displaying her uneasiness. “We are afraid, Strider, we are very afraid, even if he says otherwise.”

   “I understand.” Aragorn rose, carefully taking up the blanket. She looked up to him. “I will set out in two days.” His gaze went back to Daevan still sitting at the fire. “And I go alone if I have to. You shall not accompany me if you do not want to.”

   “I’m coming” Daevan replied frankly.

   “Then I will bid you a good night, Nilana, and thank you for the meal you shared.”

   “You are welcome, Strider, even though being more open with us would settle our worries.”

-o-o-o-o-

   Doran could see his grand-son's hesitation. Standing with the open pack, Daevan held a mug in his hand, undecided if he should take or leave it behind.

   “I always set out only with those things undeniably necessary.”

   Daevan swivelled around.

   “I did not hear you come in.”

   “I do not rattle like that!” the old man chuckled, and sat down on a roll of straw. He waited patiently until Daevan put the cup into the woollen pack.

   “I have never left my home for such a long time before.”

   “You lived here for twenty three summers, and there always comes the time when a man must go out into the world and make his mark,” Doran nodded, looking up to Daevan proudly. “Your time is now.”

   “But what about you?”

   “Do not worry for me. Even if we don't meet again, my young lad, this is the path you should follow. Do not return for the sake of an old man. My winters might be few. And you know that your father will never return, don't you?” Daevan cast his eyes down. “If this is truly Thorongil's son, you should stay with him… learn from him.” And in a tone to cheer up his grand-son he added, “You are given the chance to be with him. If my old legs would allow it, I would go with him and leave you behind to envy me!” Daevan smiled, but still his uneasiness was not stilled, and his grand-father knew. “You should not linger, son. You are young! You must find your own place!”

   Daevan sighed.

   “I hope I will.”

   “Do not think about returning, Daevan. I know you do not want to.”

   They locked eyes, and the young man finally nodded.

   “You know me well, grand-father.”

   “I have eyes to see, son, and what I see is the spirit of your father. You never understood why he left you behind after your mother had died.” He exhaled, and after a pause added, “He thought it best at that time, and a man must do what his conscience orders him to do.” Doran forced a smile on his face. “Now it is your turn.” He rose with a suppressed groan and took his sword from the wall. Daevan stopped packing and turned toward Doran as he presented the weapon to him. “And it is about time to hand you this, lad. Bring honour to your family; this is what this sword was made for.”

   Daevan took it, bereft of words. He let his hand run along the carefully crafted hilt and down the scabbard. The blade had been scratched due to long use, but still this was the weapon the very young Daevan had admired during his childhood, knowing it to be the sword his grand-father had used against the Enemy.

   “You would part with it?” Daevan said at length. “But…”

   “It is yours now, son. It shall always stay in the family, so you are its keeper now.” And he added more gruffly, “And now you'd better be gone, or I still might want to go instead!”