3: Journeying

“Are you sure this is the right way?” Damrod asked.

Denethor’s answer was a snort. “We’re heading north,” he answered. “Imladris is to the north, so yes, this is the right way.”

The two of them were standing upon a hill overlooking a river, the Anduin, they suspected, though its course had changed and it was not as wide as it should have been. They had gone ahead of the others to scout out the area. Below them was a wide plain, what should have been southern Ithilien. Gone were the trees and only scrub grasses and small scraggly bushes of an indeterminate type remained. Far to the east rose the mountains that had surrounded Mordor, ice-capped and forbidding.

“What I meant was, how do we cross that?” Damrod said, pointing to the river. They were somewhere near Pelagir, they thought, but couldn’t really be sure. The River Poros had disappeared completely, so they were not entirely sure of their landmarks.

“We’ll have to continue further north and hope to find a way across,” Denethor said. “Remember, whoever the Exiled One is had to come this way as well. If the Belain say we are to meet him in Imladris then a way will be found. The Belain would not have sent us on a fool’s mission.”

“Are you so certain of that?” Damrod asked. “Your dream or vision wasn’t very informative about the route we must take.”

“Did you expect them to draw me a map?” Denethor asked with amusement.

“It would’ve been nice,” Damrod retorted.

Denethor laughed, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s go back to the others.” With that, they descended the hill and returned to the camp where everyone else was eating. Eirien shoved a couple of bowls of stew into their hands as they approached the fire.

“So, where are we?” she asked and everyone else gathered around them to listen.

“As far as we can tell, we are at the southern borders of what was once Ithilien,” Denethor answered.

“Are you sure?” someone asked. “We should have crossed the River Poros long before this.”

“I doubt it exists anymore,” Damrod answered, “and what must be the Anduin lies just to the west of us, though its course appears to have changed somewhat, flowing more southeast than southwest, and it is not as wide as it used to be.”

“We have no means to cross it,” another stated. “There isn’t enough wood to build even a single raft.”

“We’ll have to continue north,” Denethor said, “and hope that there will be a way across.”

“Hope,” Eirien repeated the word. “We are traveling purely on hope. It seems a rather flimsy thing to rely on.”

Denethor nodded. “Yet, it is all we have. Would you go back to what we were before? I know I would not, nay, could not. To go back is certain death. To go forward... well, who can say? The Belain have sent us, sent me, to rescue one whom they apparently cherish. I do not think they would do so if there was no chance of us finding him. A way will be found. We just have to have faith.”

“Then, let us go on,” Damrod said. “You are right, Denethor. Behind us is only death or fading. There is nothing for us there. Death may well be our lot if we continue this mad journey but I would rather face Lord Bannoth with my pride intact. To tell you the truth, I cannot remember the last time I felt this alive.”

“That goes for us all,” one of the other ellyn said and there were murmurs of assent to that.

“Then, let us break camp and be on our way,” Denethor said as he finished his stew. “The road is long and we have many leagues to travel.”

“Do you think the Exiled One is before us?” someone asked as they set about gathering their supplies. “Do you think he is already in Imladris?”

“I do not know,” Denethor replied. “It would be nice to be able to catch up with him before he reaches Imladris, but I think we will not.”

“What if we’re too late? What if he is already dead?”

“The Belain would not have sent us on this journey if there was no hope of succeeding,” Denethor answered. “They are not that vindictive. We will find the Exiled One, I have no doubt. What happens after that is anyone’s guess.”

“Well, talking about it won’t see it done,” Eirien said as she lifted her burden, settling it on her shoulders. “Let us go.”

Denethor smiled and gave her a gracious bow. “After you, my lady.”

There was laughter among them and they set off again in high spirits and with hope in their hearts.

****

He was near where Edoras had once stood when the blizzard hit, sweeping from the northwest with a viciousness that seemed almost sentient. There was a howling that he thought was more than just the wind and he felt a thrill of something like fear course through him as he searched desperately for shelter.

There. He was sure he could see the tor upon which Edoras had once stood. He struggled through the drifts, keeping his head down against the fury of the wind. It seemed an eternity before he came to the tor, stumbling as the wind nearly threw him against the side of the hill. He inched his way around to the south hoping that the tor would block the wind some and he might find a place to hole up. Climbing to the top was out of the question, for there was no shelter there. As he moved further south, the wind began to die and the snow fell less heavily and he was able to see further. The White Mountains loomed menacingly in the middle distance. He had kept away from them, fearing what might live there, sticking to the open plains that had once been the Eastfold as he made his way westward.

Stopping to catch his breath, he gazed about him and discovered a shallow opening on the side of the hill. He thought perhaps it had once been a culvert where waste from the city had flowed but he wasn’t sure and he didn’t care. It was shelter of a sort and for that he was grateful. He set about packing snow around the opening, creating a wall that would further protect him from the storm’s fury, then hunkered down as far as he could, his cloak wrapped tightly around him.

The waiting was wearing and he could not tell the hour. He spent the time as he waited out the storm wondering why he was doing this.

“If I want to die, why am I seeking shelter?” he said to himself. “This is ludicrous. I should just go out and let this blizzard kill me.”

Yet, he knew he would not. He had determined to die where Imladris had once stood. He did not know why that was so important to him. He’d never lived there, had never actually walked its halls or spoken to any of its inhabitants. He had skulked about the hills surrounding it, watching. Only once had he been in danger of being discovered when the twin sons of his foster son had gone hunting one day. He had seen them leaving the valley and out of curiosity had followed them to see where they were headed. He had been careless, though, and had almost been caught. The memory of being chased through the woods by the sons of Elrond, desperately staying ahead of them until he was able to elude them, still made him burn with embarrassment. He chuckled at that. It had been many yéni before he felt he could safely return to watch his family again.

And that was who they were: his family. He suspected, though, that only Elrond would ever acknowledge him as such. Certainly Galadriel and Celeborn never would have. And thinking of Celeborn, he saw in his mind’s eye the ellon standing before him.

“I am sorry, so very sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you,” he said to the phantom image standing indifferently with snow falling about him. “Please forgive me. I am so sorry.”

Celeborn stood there staring at him dispassionately for another moment and then turned and walked away, fading into the white of the blizzard. He closed his eyes, tears frozen on their lids, then opened them again, calling to mind Oropher, who had been a kinsman of Elu Thingol and Celeborn. As long as he was stuck here waiting for the storm to end, he might as well continue down his list.

“Forgive me....”

****

“Cair Andros,” Denethor proclaimed as they sighted the island.

“Are you sure?” someone asked.

“Almost sure. Look. Do you see how it is shaped like a prow, though admittedly, it’s rather blunted, but the shape is still there.”

“It really doesn’t matter, does it?” Damrod offered. “This is the shallowest place and the ice looks just thick enough to get us across if we take care.”

“Then, let us wait until nightfall,” Ragnor suggested.

“Why?”

“It will be colder then and the ice will thicken more. I do not trust it now. We are coming into what used to be summer and the sun has been visible all day.”

The others contemplated his words and in the end they agreed to wait until nightfall. “Let us take our rest then,” Denethor said. “We will continue walking after we’ve crossed over for the same number of hours as are left of the day. I chafe at this delay, though I understand its necessity.”

“How far ahead do you think he is?” someone asked as they set about breaking open supplies to cook a meal. A few of the ellyn volunteered to go hunting. Game was scarce in these parts but it was there to be found.

“It’s hard to say,” Denethor replied. “I do not know when he started his own journey. It could have been days or weeks before we set out. I hope we are not too far behind him.”

“It is very frustrating not knowing for sure who the Exiled One is or how much of a head start he has on us,” Finduilas said with a sigh as she poured some tea into earthen mugs.

Denethor smiled. “Very frustrating, but there is little we can do about it but continue as we have.”

“Oh, I know that,” Finduilas retorted with a sniff. “It’s still frustrating, though.”

Others chuckled at her tone and Denethor nodded in full agreement.

The hunters returned a few hours later with some scrawny rabbits which were welcomed. They were quickly dressed and smoked for later consumption. Just as the sun was beginning to set, they began breaking camp and as the first stars began peeping out, Denethor led the way across the ice. They took it slow, only a few people at a time until all were safely on the island and then they did it again, even slower for the night was complete and the moon had not yet risen to give them better light, for they did not even have torches with them.

At last, though, they were all on the west side of the river. “So now that we are on this side of the river we have to choose which way we will go from here,” Damrod said to Denethor. “Do we head northeast across what was once the Entwash and attempt to find a pass over the Misty Mountains or do we head west into Anórien and assay the Gap?”

“Crossing the Entwash even in a frozen condition would be perilous, to say the least,” Denethor replied. “My guess is that the one whom we followed would take the easier route through Anórien and Rohan to reach Eriador.”

“Cutting across to the mountains might save us time, though,” Ragnor interjected. “We could possibly get ahead of him, be in Imladris waiting for him.”

Denethor, however, did not agree. “I think we should stick to the easier way even if it is longer. We do not know what the conditions of the mountains are now. There may no longer be a pass over them or they may be different from the ones we remember and we will waste time looking for them. No, our road is southwest into Anórien and then on to Rohan.”

With that, they set out, swiftly leaving the river behind them as they walked lightly over the snow fields. About an hour or so later, the moon rose and their pace quickened so that by the time Denethor called a halt a few hours before dawn, they were already on the northern edge of what had once been Anórien. They rested for a time but were on their way again an hour after sunrise.

****

The storm lasted for several days as far as he could tell. It howled about him in his less than adequate shelter with the snow filling the space between him and the wall he had built to keep the worst of the blizzard away. Every once in a while, he roused himself to scoop some of the newly fallen snow out of his shelter, sucking on dried meat, washing it down with snow. He had stopped his litany of forgiveness, as he thought of it, after speaking to Oropher and then Thranduil, too tired and heart-sore to continue as the storm raged on. Eventually, the wind began to die down and the snow fell less swiftly. Clouds broke apart and the sun, thin and watery, came out, causing the snow and ice to sparkle.

Crawling out of his shelter, he stretched to ease his stiff muscles and looked about. It was so quiet, so peaceful with the wind gone. There were no birds singing, nothing moved. He wrapped his cloak more firmly about him and shouldered his pack. He was facing the White Mountains, so he moved to his right, walking behind the tor to come round to the other side. He vaguely wondered if the Royal Highway still existed underneath the snow and ice. He shrugged away the thought. It didn’t matter. The way was clear enough: straight west. By his estimate, barring any further delays because of storms, he had another week of walking before he reached the Gap, assuming it still was there. Anything could have happened to the land in the intervening centuries since he had last wandered this way. He had lived long enough to see entire mountains sink into plains and plains rise into mountains. Nothing was assured in this world.

Well, he would find out soon enough. Taking a last look at the tor, remembering the golden hall of Meduseld and the proud horselords who had lived there, he sighed and turned away.

“Perhaps I’ll stop to see if Helm’s Deep still stands,” he said to himself, then shook his head at the folly of the thought. The last thing he wanted to do was to venture close to the White Mountains. No telling what lived there. Yet, he was curious to know if anything of these people had survived. Why that was important to him, he had no idea, but he had admired them, their reckless bravery, their horsemanship, their love of life and the land that sustained them. They had been worthy of respect and it sorrowed him to think that nothing of them had remained.

Well, it was days before he would come near Helm’s Deep. He would decide then. For now, it was best to get on. He still had a long way to go to die.