4: The Road to Imladris

At Helm’s Deep he killed a bear.

Not that he had meant to. It was his own stupid fault, he realized as he set about skinning the creature, smoking the meat and setting out to cure the pelt. He was going to just leave it but decided it would make a fine cloak and a warmer one than the one he now had. He knew the conditions further north would be brutal.

Still, he shouldn’t have allowed his curiosity to get the better of him, yet the thought of seeing if anything of the redoubt that was Helm’s Deep had survived the ice had intrigued him and he decided he wanted to see for himself. He did not know why that was important to him and decided not to bother trying to understand his motives at this time.

At any rate, there had been little to see: part of an outer wall and the ruins of a tower. That was where he’d surprised the bear and had been hard-pressed to survive the attack, barely getting his sword out in time to protect himself. And why he didn’t just let the bear have its way with him he didn’t know. Perhaps he just didn’t fancy being any bear’s dinner. After all these ages of surviving, death by bear seemed… ludicrous.

And in the confusion of it all his beloved harp had been broken as he tripped over stones in his initial shock at having several hundred pounds of angry bear charging at him. He stared ruefully at the splintered frame and sighed. He didn’t know why he was upset. It wasn’t as if he would be taking it with him when he died. It was probably better this way, he told himself half-heartedly, even as he broke the frame even more, throwing the pieces of wood onto the fire and carefully rolling the strings and shoving them into a pocket of his haversack. Why he bothered, he couldn’t say, except that old habits died hard.

The bear meat would take time to smoke and the pelt would need several days to be properly cured, or at least cured enough to wear. He chafed at the delay, wishing to reach Imladris and be done with it all as quickly as possible. He snorted at that thought. He would die soon enough and it would not be an easy death. Starvation never is. So, there was no sense in rushing it. He reached forward and turned the meat on the skewers that hung on the improvised rack above the fire and watched the sun set in glorious colors of red, gold and deepening purple.

****

Denethor stared about him and then upward at the tor rising before him. “Edoras, or what’s left of it,” he muttered more to himself than to the others.

“Over here,” Damrod called and they all trooped toward the south to see what the ellon had found. He was crouched before what looked to be a dirt-filled culvert. “Look,” he said, pointing.

Denethor nodded as he took in the wall of snow surrounding the culvert. “He was here and not too many days ago.”

Damrod grinned. “It is the first sign that the Exiled One actually exists outside your dreams.”

Denethor gave his friend a considering look. “Did you ever doubt it?”

Damrod shook his head. “Nay. I did not, but I think others may have.” He did not look at anyone directly but Denethor was aware of those among them who had shown some reluctance in continuing their journey. Only the thought of returning to the South and all that that meant had kept them from leaving. Now, however, this slim evidence might encourage them to hope more and believe that their journey was not in vain. Looking at the pitiful camp had certainly lifted his own spirits.

“We are not that far behind him,” was all he said, refusing to comment on Damrod’s observation. “We may not catch up with him anytime soon but I think we are closer to him than before. He must have had to hole up from the storm we encountered.”

“It must have been a veritable blizzard to force him to take shelter,” Finduilas observed. “By the time it reached us it was just annoying.”

Denethor chuckled along with the others. The storm had been all but spent by the time it reached them as they were entering what had once been the Eastfold. He wondered if the Belain had deliberately sent the storm to delay the one ahead of them so that they would be able to catch up with him. It was a frightening thought and he kept it to himself.

“Well, there are still several hours of daylight left to us. Let us go on,” he said and the others set out without complaint. Denethor could not help but notice that there was a decided spring to his companions’ steps as they walked on top of the snow and Denethor hid a smile at the sight of it.

****

When he came through the Gap of Rohan and headed north, he had thought originally to stay along the eaves of the Hithaeglir, the Misty Mountains that had been such a barrier to the migrating Elves so long ago and still rose precipitously, a formidable barrier that separated Eriador from the rest of Middle-earth. In the end, though, he decided to risk going straight north across what had been Dunland to Ost-in-Edhil of old, though he doubted anything of it existed now. Still, in going that way he hoped to avoid the marshy Swanfleet and meet up with the Mitheithel further north where it met the Bruinen. From there he could follow the Bruinen to Imladris.

He was not sure how long it would take him and the geography could have changed, but he knew that if he could find the rivers still flowing, he would have a good chance of finding Imladris even if nothing of it actually survived after all this time. He shrugged the bear cloak closer to him as the wind came barreling down from the west. The sky was clear though and he did not sense another storm. Well, standing about wouldn’t get him to where he was going, so he set off at a brisk pace hoping he would find some suitable shelter from the night. There was game here; he had seen tracks and frozen dung which he collected, knowing he might not have the luxury of a wood fire for too much longer, for he had salvaged some of the harp wood that had not burned completely to bring with him as kindling. Maybe he could snare some rabbits for his dinner. He was thoroughly sick of bear meat by now.

****

Maglor stared about in consternation. He’d been trekking northward for the better part of ten days, half expecting to come upon the Sirannon and the marshes but never finding them. Instead, here he was staring at a swiftly flowing river that could only be the Mitheithel. Ice still covered much of it though it was broken up. He wondered if the glaciers were finally retreating or perhaps, because it was now early spring in these parts, the ice was simply not as thick as it would be in winter. There was no way to tell. He didn’t know and didn’t care. He shaded his eyes against the snow glare as he looked northward. There could be no mistake: there was the confluence of the Mitheithel with the Bruinen several leagues away. At this rate, he could easily reach Imladris in perhaps another seven or eight days, barring any unforeseen delays. The weather had been remarkably calm during his trek and he hoped it stayed that way.

Shifting his haversack to a more comfortable position, he made his way along the banks of the Mitheithel, softly singing a ballad he had once heard a Mortal sing. It was not an Elvish tune but he found it pleasing in its own way and had added it to his repertoire.

****

“So how do we go from here?” one of the Harthadrim asked.

Denethor stared at the northern sweep of snowfields that confronted them as they passed the Gap of Rohan and moved into Eriador. He had mixed feelings about it. He well remembered the journey out of Lindon following Oropher across Eriador and the Misty Mountains in search of a new home. He had never been back this way in all that time, preferring to remain, first in Eryn Lasgalen and then in Ithilien, following Prince Legolas to that fair land. He honestly knew very little about the geography of these western lands.

“Has anyone any idea of the lie of the land from here?” he asked. “I have never been here myself and only vaguely know where Imladris lies.”

“And you tell us this now?” Damrod asked in disbelief. “Why then did the Belain choose you to lead us if they knew you had no idea where to go?”

“Perhaps because they knew others would come with me who did know,” Denethor retorted mildly. “Surely there is at least one among us who knows the way from here.” He glanced around at the others, but most just shook their heads. As his gaze swept among them, one raised his hand hesitantly. “Voronwë?”

“I lived in Lothlórien and often traveled to Imladris, but usually across the mountain passes. But I did have occasion to travel to Ost-in-Edhil as well so I know that if we head directly north or a bit more northwest we should eventually reach the Mitheithel. From there we only have to follow it northward until it meets with the Bruinen and then from there…”

“That assumes that either of those rivers still exist,” Ragnor said with a huff of impatience.

“We can only hope they do,” Denethor said with a sigh. “Very well, Voronwë. You may lead us.”

“Me?” the Noldo exclaimed in dismay.

Denethor smiled. “Well, you’re the only one who knows where we are. So, yes, for now, you lead and we will follow.”

Voronwë sighed and then shrugged. “Well, the sun will be setting in a couple of hours. We should probably start looking for a suitable place to camp. If we continue northwest we should come upon some hills that may offer us some shelter.”

“Good,” Denethor said, “and perhaps we’ll find some game along the way. Our supplies are getting low and we still have a long way to travel.”

“Why don’t some of us see if we can scare anything up,” Damrod offered and Denethor nodded his approval. Damrod motioned for Sador and Rían, two of their better hunters, to join him and they loped away while the others followed at a slower pace with Voronwë now walking beside Denethor telling him what he remembered of the geography of Dunland.

****

The landscape, to put it mildly, was bleak, or, he amended, bleaker: a barren white desert of scrub grass and lichen clinging precariously to the frozen ground, and this far north, it was indeed frozen. If he had not completely misjudged, where he stood should be Imladris. Of course, he could be wrong. It was easy enough to lose oneself in the trackless snowfield and it was only because of the rivers that he felt he had come to where Imladris once flourished. At any rate, he was tired of traveling and this was as good a place to die as any.

He sighed, wrapping the bear cloak closer around his thin frame. Even he was beginning to feel the cold, a cold he equated with the Helcaraxë. Not that he ever crossed that land bridge to Ennorath. He had come by ship, and that crossing had been frigid enough for his taste. He scowled at the memory and felt his hands clench in remembered shame and anger for his treachery and all those who had followed Fëanor, leaving Fingolfin and the others to fend for themselves. He had never been able to look Finrod or anyone else who had crossed the hell that was the Grinding Ice in the eye after that without feeling regret for what was lost between them.

Looking about for some kind of shelter against the coming night and its brutal winds, he spied a clump of rocks in the middle distance. They weren’t much, but they would have to do. He intended to die here, but not immediately. He gave a snort of wry amusement at that thought. It had been his litany all through his journey north.

“You’re a fool,” he muttered to himself as he trudged over to the rockfall to set up his camp. The rocks were a tumble of boulders. There was an overhang that would do well enough, he decided, and he settled down to start a fire. Even as he threw dried dung onto a slab of rock and began the laborious task of lighting it, he wondered why he even bothered.

“I came here to die,” he muttered to himself as he scooped some snow into an iron pot to melt. Then he shrugged. By his estimation, he still had provisions to last him a few more days before he would need to hunt again. Perhaps he would just let them run out. “No sense letting the bear meat go to waste.” He chuckled, wishing he had something other than bear meat for his last meals.

Night descended in a rush of brilliant flame as Anor sank into the West. The tundra was awash with crimson, indigo and deepening purple shadows that faded slowly with the coming of the stars. He gazed heavenward and felt a tightening of his throat. Their beauty always affected him this way and he struggled not to weep as he watched Eärendil’s Star glitter coldly just above the western horizon, brighter than any of the other stars now shining. It would be a dark night, for Ithil would not rise before dawn. He felt a need to sing but the tightness around his chest would not loosen. Instead, he huddled closer into his cloak and refused to look up for the rest of the night. And so he never saw Menelvagor rising above the mountains nor did he notice the curtains of light — red mostly with some green — shimmering silently above him.

Dawn roused him from his troubled sleep and he stood, stretching for a moment before crouching over the fire that had burned out several hours earlier. It took him some time to rekindle it and then he set about half-heartedly fixing something to eat. All the while, he replayed in his mind memories of warmer climes and the warmth of family and friends that he had known in his long years. As he sipped on some hot water — he had long ago run out of any tea — he began his daily ritual of asking for forgiveness. He mentally reviewed his list and resisted a sigh. It was a long list and he feared he would never get through it before the end. Well, he would have to get through as much of it as he could and hope the Belain would understand.

He called to mind a Mortal whom he had chanced upon during his travels, one who had shown him a kindness that was rare among Men who were so suspicious of the Elves. He had not treated the Man well, he knew, and the shame of it burned him. Even as he began asking him for forgiveness some sound that was more sensed than heard brought him to his feet, his sword out before he had straightened completely. He glanced around him at the desolate landscape, trying to determine what had alerted him. At first he could see nothing and was ready to dismiss his feelings as a product of imagination but then from the corner of his eye he saw movement. Turning to the southeast, he shaded his eyes against the glare of the snowfield and after a moment he was able to see what approached. What he saw caused him to drop his sword in shock.

People!

He stood there, wondering if he was seeing things, if perhaps the loneliness and despair that had gripped him for longer than he could remember had finally taken their toll and he was now imagining things, slipping into delusions as a precursor to his death. He bent his knees and slowly reached for his sword, never taking his eyes off the approaching group numbering about thirty, all dressed in furs that, like his own bear cloak, blended well into the bleak landscape, making for good camouflage. He did not sheathe the sword, but held it point down. The group made its way unerringly toward him, almost as if the people knew he was there, though his fire was smokeless and he was still hidden among the boulders. When they had come within ten feet of his camp they stopped. One of those who was in the lead swept back his hood, his silver tresses glinting in the sunlight, his ears slightly leaf-shaped.

“Mae govannen,” the Elf said, giving a slight bow in his direction though he was sure the ellon could not see him. “May we join you?”

He stood there still in shock. The last thing he had expected to see in this desolate wasteland was others of his kind. He stepped out from his hiding place, purposely waiting to sheathe his sword until he was in full sight of them. He gave them his own bow. “Mae govannen. What little I have is yours.” He swept a hand back to indicate his campsite, welcoming them to join him.

The silver-tressed ellon smiled as he and the other Elves came forward. “We thank you, friend, for your hospitality. I am Denethor, once of Eryn Lasgalen and Ithilien, and leader of this ragtag group of sorry Elves.” He gave him a lop-sided grin and some of the others chuckled, as if at an old jest.

“I am... Glîrhir,” he said, barely hesitating over the lie.

Denethor raised a delicate eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, he turned to his followers, issuing orders and soon, to Maglor’s surprise, his dismal camp was transformed into a lively gathering as the others set about building their own fires and setting up tents made of fur. The group appeared to be equally divided between ellyn and ellith and most were obviously Sindar, though Maglor could see some whose darker tresses suggested Noldorin ancestry. All of them were cheerful and seemed unbothered by his presence or the cold. Someone even began singing and soon others joined in.

Maglor stood feeling uncertain, not sure how to react to the presence of these others. He had long ago abandoned any pretense of needing contact with other people, be they Elves or Mortals. When he had decided to walk out onto the ice and die he had put all that behind him. Now, however, the numbing cold that he had allowed to nearly smother his heart was fading under the relentless warmth of these Elves.

Denethor gave him a knowing smile. “We are all that are left, or who were willing to leave.” Maglor gave him a quizzical look as he resumed his seat before his own small fire, indicating that Denethor should join him, which he did. “We have named ourselves the Harthadrim,” he said.

“Of what do you hope?” Maglor asked. He himself had lost all hope, except the hope to die soon and bring his sorry tale to an end.

One of the ellith had taken Maglor’s tin cup of hot water and added a few dried leaves, the scent of apples rising in the steam, bringing with it a wealth of memories of long summer nights when there had once been summer. He gave her a heartfelt smile of thanks and she smiled back before moving away.

Denethor nodded to the other Elves bustling around them. “We hope to find Dor Rodyn,” he said simply. “We have not faded as you can see and are unlikely to do so, or so it seems.” He took an appreciative sip of his own tea. “We have lingered overlong in these Mortal lands and we few who are left or who could be found have decided to head West.”

Maglorgave him a skeptical look. “The seas are frozen,” he said. “You will find no grey ships waiting for you in which to sail. Círdan and the Falathrim are long gone.”

Denethor nodded. “True, but we are undeterred. It is our hope that the Belain will show mercy upon us and open the Straight Road for us. All we need do is to continue West.”

In spite of himself, Maglor was intrigued. “Do you truly believe you will find Dor Rodyn? I think you will most likely die first.”

The other ellon shook his head. “Even if that is true, we will have come to the Blessed Realm regardless. We will not fade. We have no other options.”

“You could just wait here and die, thus saving yourselves the bother of a hopeless journey,” Maglor said harshly, his own desire for death sitting less comfortably upon him in the presence of these others who exuded life and hope.

“Is that why you are here?” Denethor asked shrewdly.

Maglor cast his eyes down, feeling shamed for some reason. “I have no reason to live, and Dor Rodyn is closed to me.”

“It cannot be completely closed to you,” Denethor said with a slight smile, “if your fae ends up in Lord Bannoth’s Halls, unless you intend to refuse his call and join the Houseless Ones.” His eyes darkened with disapproval.

Maglor blinked and then sighed, giving Denethor a wry look. “Truth to tell, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I only wanted to get the dying part over with.”

For a moment, Denethor gazed at him, deep in thought. Then, he nodded, as if coming to a decision. “Join us,” he said.

Maglor stared at him in surprise. “Why would I do that? Your journey is hopeless. Si mîn phain raeg!” he spat in contempt. “You will all die.”

If his manner upset the leader of the Harthadrim, Denethor gave no indication. Instead, he shrugged. “What you say may be true, but we will not be swayed from our quest. Before we decided on our course we were a spiritless people, lost to ourselves, to our memories and our regrets. But look at us now. Hear you not the singing and the laughter? See you not the spring in our steps and the smiles on our faces? For the first time in long years we have hope again. We may indeed die somewhere out on the ice further West, but we will die with hope.”

Maglor stared about him, seeing the truth in Denethor’s words. He saw people full of purpose. They knew that the odds were against them. It was unlikely that they would ever find the Mên Dîr, but he sensed that that would not deter them.

“I once heard Lord Glorfindel say that Lord Bannoth does not care for quitters,” Denethor said. He shrugged when Maglor gave him a measuring look. “I suppose if anyone should know it would be he.”

Maglor snorted in wry agreement. Still, he hesitated. He had accepted his fate, knowing there was no other way. Death seemed the only viable option, but now.... He glanced about him again and there must have been something in his expression, a hunger for what he knew could never be his, for Denethor leaned over and gently placed a hand on his knee to get his attention.

“All else being equal, Lord Maglor, what do you have left to lose?” he asked quietly.

The sound of his true name on the ellon’s lips startled him. “You knew who I was all the time,” he whispered.

Denethor nodded. “And we knew where to find you.”

Maglor felt his heart lurch in his throat. “I don’t understand,” he said faintly.

Denethor smiled. “A dream came to me,” he said, “in which I heard a voice bidding me to seek for you in the barren wastelands where once fair Imladris stood. ‘Bring the Exiled One home’ the voice said to me. ‘It is time’. I spoke to these whom you see here and we resolved to find you and take you with us. Of course, we had no idea just who this ‘Exiled One’ was until we found you. So you see, mellon nîn, your welcome is assured if you will turn away from death and join us in hope.”

Maglor could feel tears in his eyes at the look of calm acceptance and assurance in Denethor’s eyes. “We may still die,” he stated half-heartedly, already counting himself among Denethor’s people.

Denethor nodded. “But you will not be alone if you do.”

Alone. He had come out here alone to die alone. Now, however, he was being offered another way. He might still die, they all might. There was no real guarantee that the Straight Road would open for them, and yet.... For a long moment he sat in contemplation, staring at the fire, weighing Denethor’s words against his own thoughts. Finally, coming to a decision, he looked up to see Denethor smiling at him.

****

Helcaraxë: (Quenya) The Grinding Ice.

Ennorath: Middle-earth.

Anor: Sun.

Ithil: Moon.

Menelvagor: Orion.

Mae govannen: Well met.

Glîrhir: Song-lord. 

Falathrim: People of the Falas, the western seaboard of Beleriand, who later relocated to Mithlond after Beleriand’s destruction. Their lord was Círdan the Shipwright.

Fae: Soul, spirit.

Bannoth: Námo. The name is the Sindarin form of Mandos by which the Vala was more popularly known to the Elves of Middle-earth.

Si mîn phain raeg!: ‘Now all roads are bent!’.

Mên Dîr: The Straight Road.

Mellon nîn: My friend.