Through the Wetwang – Part One -

   “Has someone taken care of you?” Nilana asked meekly when she welcomed the wanderer to her home once again. He shook his head, too weary and tired to feel like conversation. The wounded had been dispersed to the huts when the rain had started. At last the children and old people had returned to the village, and the delight after their fear had raised everyone’s spirits. Close to sunrise peace and tranquillity was settling again over the village.

   Strider sat on the bed and accepted a tankard of warm water. In a bed on the opposite wall Nelin was already asleep. Nilana had placed the splinted arm on soft covers, and the child's relaxed expression soothed the wanderer in body and spirit. Nilana followed his gaze.

   “You repaid us generously.”

   “I only did my share.”

   “No, Dinúvren was right: if you hadn't come back we'd been lost.” She paused, but then said, “I don't know… how to thank you, Strider.” Nilana's hands played with each other as she stood in front of him. “I didn't think you could do that.” And when he did not lift his head, she added, “Have you thought about staying? We… well, you fended these… things off now, but… I mean, what if they come back?” He drank. She waited for his answer, unable to hide her anxiety. The sight of the Orcs had terrified her to her core. She never wanted to face such danger again. “Should we leave the village?”

   Strider lowered the tankard and rested his eyes on the simple piece of wood. Everything in this village was simple. It was not a place of importance with stone walls built to defend valuable goods. But for those people it was a home and dear to them.

   “There is no safe place in Gondor.” His voice rasped. “Nor in Rohan. When the Enemy moves for his next strike, all of the free peoples will be in danger.”

   For some time Nilana pondered over his words. She had listened to her friends outside; she had heard what Strider had accomplished. The young boys were in awe of his prowess and valour. From their tales it had appeared that the wanderer would have been able to take up the fight with all the Orcs alone.

   “It's but a beast that you hunt,” she finally said into the lasting silence. Again she only heard him breathe. “Could you not do more for your kinsmen? We are all alone out here.”

   “The task to hunt that beast was appointed to me, Nilana, and that is where my path lies.”

   Nilana swallowed the tears, which came unbidden. She had suffered the worst night since her beloved husband had died, and now she would live on in fear for her child and friends. When she spoke again, her voice clearly betrayed her feelings.

   “I hope that in the end you find what you seek.”

   Strider inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes for a moment.

   “That way is much longer and by far harder to tread.”

-o-o-o-o-

   A soft touch on his face woke him, and the wanderer looked up into Nelin's face, bearing a genuine smile where only sadness had been before.

   “How are you faring?” he asked quietly.

   “Fine”. She nodded emphatically. My mother says you're a very skilled healer.” She giggled and sat more comfortably in front of the bed. Her left arm rested in a sling, but she was not in pain anymore. “And she said I must not tell Bradolla.”

   “Aye, she's right. Never harm a soul if there is no need to.” He sat up slowly, clearing his throat. His body felt stiff and weary, and when he wiped his face he discovered the many scratches he had received in the skirmish.

   “You're hurt too. Your face looks awful. Would you not let my mother treat you? She said she would have, but…” She bit her lower lip as if realising she should not have repeated Nilana's words. “You fell asleep too quickly.”

   “What about the others?” The sun had already risen and threw a pale and veiled light into the hut. “Are they well?”

   Nelin nodded, eager to display her knowledge.

   “I was up early, Strider. And I saw Bradolla and my mother tending to them. And the other women too. No one died in the night, and they're all glad about that.” The grin appeared again. “They all want to keep you.” She watched his sad smile and frowned. “But you don't want to be kept.”

   “Nay, I cannot stay.” He rose, and Nelin looked up to him, sticking out her chin.

   “You could teach Bradolla, could you not?” And when he did not reply she held the sleeve of his shirt. “They all say we need you here.”

   He crouched in front of her.

   “Much more rests on my shoulders than the defence of your village, Nelin. I gave my help gladly, but I have to move on.”

   She looked at his face, seeking honesty, and finding solemnity. Without hesitation she put her right arm around his neck, and hid her face at the collar of his jerkin. He returned the embrace, but then stood.

   Nelin wrinkled her nose, but did not wipe away the tears.

   “Mother says you should go with the blessing of the Valar… whatever that means.”

   “May your path be blessed by the gods too.”

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan felt all eyes resting on him as he passed through the rows of men and women, bidding him farewell. They looked grieved and hurt, and the departure felt upsetting to both Daevan and his kinsmen. Their survival had hung by a thread, and they had not yet decided if they would abandon the village. Doran as the oldest had spoken against it. He wanted to secure the village with a fence and train the fishermen to become warriors. But the others were not sure this would work. So Daevan did not even know if his grand-father would still live here when he returned.

   If he returned.

   Doran had spoken to him, again sensing his grand-son's uneasiness with his sharp mind, and had urged him to leave. He had assured the young man that nothing had changed; that still the future should rather lie with the son of Thorongil than with him. Daevan could not change whatever would happen to the village, and so the decision to accompany the wanderer was still the same.

   For many long miles Daevan remained silent. Images of Orc fangs, and the sound of their howling and jeering lingered on his mind. He had not slept much, eaten little, and was in no mood for talking. So they trudged on by the same way they had taken before, but with the difference that they left behind friends waiting in uncertainty and fear. Daevan suddenly felt a strong desire to turn back. At the same time he remembered Doran's words to find his own pride and courage. He did not want to run away like a coward. He had always pondered over leaving the settlement and becoming a man recognized by his name, and he wondered if his father had gained such nobility.

   At noon – when he could no longer ignore his grumbling stomach – Daevan asked for a break, and reluctantly Strider complied. They sat down amid dead wood and wet sand to eat a scanty meal. Daevan gazed northward, uncertain what he expected to see.

   “There is no foretelling about the safety of your village,” Strider said without looking up. “The Orcs multiply, but yet not many of them dare to wander in hostile lands. Most of them still fear the bright light.”

   “If another band of these things come, I hope Doran and the others will welcome them the same way we did.” Daevan shook his head. “But it would be better if none of them ever came again.”

   “You are not bound to me by anything. You can still leave, Daevan.”

   “Aye, I know.”

   Strider looked at him out of the corner of his eye, but when the young man remained silent he stood and prepared to move on.

   “I lost two more days. We have to hurry.”

   Daevan shook his head while he took up his pack to adjust it to his back.

   “You did not lose them!” he said forcefully. “You saved my family and my friends. The time was well used. And besides… you were not yet fully healed. You were quite slow.”

   Strider abruptly turned his head toward him.

   “You should have said so.”

   “I would not want to incur your wrath…,” Daevan replied evenly and passed Strider by with a barely concealed grin.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan realised he should have kept his young mouth shut when Strider set a pace that made him pant even though he considered himself well-trained and used to the exertion. For the better part of the afternoon they marched as fast as the Nindalf allowed. Strider was alongside and even sometimes in front of Daevan, sinking into the muddy waters with every step. It was a fight against nature and time, and Strider was determined to win. Daevan could only comply and at least stay by the traveller's side.

   But the fen was treacherous. After a stretch of shallow water the mud became deeper again. More often than not they sunk in it up to their knees and laboured to get out again. Still the wanderer seemed determined to press forward relentlessly, disregarding his lack of strength. He even overtook Daevan, his eyes fixed on the water . The disturbance the men made in churning up the fen made the water turn brown and the plants float to the surface.

   “Don't step there!” Daevan suddenly exclaimed and stretched out his hand, but Strider had already lowered his foot between the dark green plants, the long sleek leaves of which swam lazily on the surface. He became stuck, and could not pull out his boot again. He looked at his companion, still composed but concerned. “Hold on!” Daevan shouted and hurried over to reach out his hand from the safer position of a small isle. With his chin he nodded towards the bundle of green on the water. “They break up the sand to root,” he explained out of his breath, “but won't carry any weight. Give me your hand, and put your left foot as close to me as you can!” Stooping, Daevan had already grabbed Strider's left arm with his right to pull him up, using all his strength. “Hold on! Don’t let go!” He knew of the danger and feared it. Daevan had already seen one man slowly drown in the marshes, and it had been a sight too horrible to recall. He had helplessly waved his arms and begged to be saved, but no one had dared to get closer while the water swirled, and the sand stirred.

   “Aye.” Strider nodded. His right leg was submerged in the muddy water up to his thigh, and when he moved, he sank in even deeper. “Pull!” His face contorted with strain he stood still, resisting the urge to tread water to get out on his own. He clutched to Daevan's arm, and the younger man pulled carefully, aware that any abrupt movement would only delay the rescue. He broke into sweat, pulling, renewing his grip, trying to slowly release the wanderer from the fen’s grasp. There was a moment when he thought he could no longer keep in control, and a whimper escaped his lips.

   “You have to get out inch by inch!”

   The young man leant back, holding both Strider’s wrists, and again pulled with all his strength. He saw Strider press his lips tightly together, adding his own power, and, finally, when Daevan had thought it was no longer possible, the muddy ground released Strider. Daevan fell back in the shallow water, relaxing his grip. Strider dropped on his knees, panting. The young fisherman shook his head. Droplets of water flew to all sides, and he snorted and wiped his nose, annoyed at being wet.

   Both men breathed heavily for a moment, while the shadows grew longer and the day waned. In the distance dark-winged birds left their hunting grounds to fly to their resting places. Daevan closed his eyes for a moment, unwilling to think about the consequence of losing the son of Thorongil during the first week of their journey. It was a dreadful thought, and he grimaced.

   “Thank you, my friend.” Strider got up and stretched out his hand to help Daevan stand. The shock of having been caught by the unpredictable fen still showed in his eyes.

   The younger man grunted something unintelligible, but Strider at least understood the words “Listen to a guide as long as you got one.” He laughed with relief, and slapped Daevan's back.

   “You are right. I should listen to you,” and when Daevan opened his mouth for an apology, Strider made an inviting gesture toward their path, and - shaking his head with a smile - Daevan moved on.

-o-o-o-o-

   Daevan found no rest during the starless night. The darkness concealed evil creatures, and with every sound in the distance he was once more jolted into wakefulness. There was no certainty that they were alone in the fen. He heard the water splash whenever fish or crabs moved. For as long as he could remember the marshes surrounding the village to the west and south had been his home. It was a cruel environment for the careless but bore a rich harvest for those who respected the dangers. He had always considered the marshes an ally, and he had learned early how to pass through the fens beyond his village. His father and Doran had taught him what he needed to know. They both had been strict teachers for any mistakes would have led to death. So Daevan had always been cautious, but never frightened. Now this had changed: if Orcs could pass the fens, the dangers were that much greater.

   He turned his head to watch Strider as he slept. The older man seemed haunted. Again and again, he moved his lips, and when he spoke it was in a language Daevan had not heard before. It sounded like some of the names Doran had taught him, but for him they held no meaning. The moment Strider opened his eyes, Daevan greeted him with a sad smile.

   “You don't look rested, Strider. Neither am I.”

   The wanderer sat up and wiped his beard.

   “I recall having slept better, aye.” Wrinkling his nose, he looked at the sky.

   “No rain today, but we're not through yet.” Daevan turned westward as he stood. “Down by the riverside there's a small village just like ours. We meet the people for the harvest festivities once a year, and sometimes some of them come to us for trading.” He looked over his shoulder. Strider took up his pack, refusing Daevan's offer of breakfast. “They're closer to the settlements further south in Ithilien. That's why they got some things we can never get hold of.”

   “I see.”

   Daevan shouldered his pack and left the campsite.

   “We could replenish our supplies there.” He grinned. “More fish.”

   Strider only grimaced.

-o-o-o-o-