5: The Baranduin

“Well, unless I’m completely out of reckoning, this should be Bree, which means the Baranduin is only a day's walk from here,” Maglor said. They had been traveling steadily westward for the better part of three weeks and were just now reaching the borders of what had once been the Shire.

“Yet another river,” Rían sighed. “How many more must we cross?”

Maglor turned to the elleth. “This is the last one until we get to the Lhûn. It is perhaps the trickiest for there are no good places to ford the Baranduin unless one goes south about a hundred miles from here.”

There were sighs all around and Maglor gave Denethor a brief, wintry smile. The fording of the Mitheiethel where once the Last Bridge had been had been rough for, of course, there was no bridge, not anymore. Maglor suppressed a shudder at the near mishap that had occurred when Gilgaran had somehow lost his balance while crossing the swiftly flowing river and had been swept downstream. Maglor had not yet crossed and ran along the bank, trying to stay ahead of the current, plunging into the frigid waters at a point where he knew the hapless ellon would come and waited for him. By the time he had gotten them both safely to the other side (no point having to cross twice), Maglor was barely conscious because of the cold and Gilgaran was nearly dead. It took almost two hours for Denethor and the others to revive them. Denethor had been frantic and when Maglor had finally opened his eyes he had burst into tears, falling upon the Noldo and Maglor found it ironic that he had had to comfort Denethor and not the other way around.

“Let’s see how it looks,” Denethor said. “If we need to, we will go south.”

There were more sighs and Denethor turned to the others, giving them a feigned look of surprise. “What? Are we late for an appointment? Were you expecting to have tea with Lord Manwë this afternoon?”

“We’ve been on the road for so long,” Ragnor complained. “How much longer must we endure all this?” He swept a hand to take in the surrounding area. It was not completely snow-covered. Summer was half over now and much of the snow had melted, leaving clumps of sere grasses and mud behind.

Maglor resisted his own sigh. Joining with the Harthadrim had not been a difficult decision. He had thought he wanted to die, was ready to do so, but in the end, what would have been the point? Better to be doing something, even something as daft as looking for the Straight Road that had been closed to them all for so long than to just sit in the snow waiting for the next blizzard to cover his body. But he had forgotten what it was like to be with others. He’d been alone for so long that having others around him, complaining or arguing or just being in his vicinity, grated on his nerves. Often, once they had settled in a camp for a night or a few days, he would stalk away, determined to find some privacy, some place where he was alone with himself.

The first time he had tried to do that, perhaps three days after they had set out for the West, the others became upset, begging him not to leave them so soon.

“Please, lord, do not desert us,” Denethor had pleaded and Maglor had relented, allowing himself to be drawn back to the fire, assuring them that he was not deserting them.

“I only wished for a little privacy,” he had said softly, not looking at anyone. “You do not appreciate how difficult it is for me to be with you all.”

After that, they had reluctantly allowed him to leave their camp and Maglor half suspected that many of them were sure he would never return, but return he did, for he had promised Denethor that he would and he had yet to break a promise and wasn’t about to start now. Sometimes he would return with game that he had had the fortune to find and that mollified the others considerably.

And on those nights when he went off by himself he continued with his litany of forgiveness, for he would not do it in the presence of the others, fearing their ridicule.

Crossing Eriador had been no picnic. In many ways it was proving more difficult than reaching Imladris had been. The lie of the land was against them, or at least, against Maglor who knew the geography of the road between Imladris and Mithlond intimately or thought he did. There was, of course, no East-West road and the landmarks that he had hoped to find had disappeared or were changed enough that he was sometimes unsure just where they were.

He had deigned to lead them at Denethor’s insistence when they set out from Imladris, for the others admitted having little or no knowledge of the land. One or two of the Elves had lived in Eriador ages before but they had lived further south in Ost-in-Edhil and had fled over the mountains when that city had been destroyed by Sauron, eventually joining their Sindarin and Silvan kin in Lothlórien or Eryn Lasgalen and even Edhellond, overlooking the Bay of Belfalas.

Amon Sûl and the Weather Hills had disappeared altogether, worn down to gentle folds in the land though the marshes just beyond them still existed, a soggy quagmire into which he had inadvertently led them, only realizing what he had done when he stepped on what he thought was solid ground only to plunge nearly to his neck in muck. It had taken Denethor and two others to pull him out of it. Luckily they had been on the outer edge of the marshes but it still took them nearly two days to find their way out, heading south before continuing west again and they all stank.

And now they were near where Bree should have been but wasn’t. Even Bree Hill was gone, replaced by a sizeable lake that the glaciers had carved out as they receded northward. The Elves had welcomed the sight for they were all determined to wash away the grime of travel and the stink of the marshes that lingered about them. Denethor had declared that they would remain there for several days before they attempted to cross the river that had once bordered the Shire.

“What if the ford no longer exists?” Damrod asked, looking tired and worried.

Maglor forced himself to smile. “We’ll find a way or the Belain will find it for us.”

When Damrod gave him a disbelieving look he chuckled. “After all, why go to the bother of having you all save my sorry hraw just to see us all stymied because of a river?”

Damrod had given Maglor a sour grin. “I’m beginning to wonder,” he said and even Maglor had chuckled along with the others at that.

“Well, while we’re resting here for a few days, why don’t we scout the area and see how hard it will be to cross?” Denethor suggested. “If necessary, we’ll send some south and even north to see if there’s a suitable crossing place. The geography has no doubt changed considerably and that river might not even be as deep or as wide as I believe the Baranduin was before the ice came.”

Maglor nodded. “There used to be a large island to the north that took up much of the river, somewhat like Cair Andros. Perhaps we can see if it still exists and cross that way.”

Denethor agreed. “But first, let us clean ourselves up and rest for a day or two before we do.”

To that, none of them had any objections and soon the camp was set up beside the lake. The ellith then wandered a little way to the east along the shore beyond where a fold of the land hid them so they could bathe in private, though two of the ellyn went with them as guards, keeping their backs to the swimmers. The other ellyn busied themselves with checking over their weapons, making minor repairs as necessary before heading off to hunt. The ellyn had decided not to bathe until later, for the stink of the marshes would hide their own scent.

Maglor, however, elected not to go with the hunters this time, but remained in the camp, keeping an eye on the fire, sipping tea. Denethor sat with him in companionable silence but after several minutes gave him a shrewd look.

“What are your thoughts, Maglor?” he asked. It had taken them all some time to get used to not addressing the son of Fëanor as ‘Lord’, but Maglor had insisted, saying he was lord of nothing and wished to be considered simply as one more ellon in their midst. They had been reluctant at first, but when Maglor had retaliated by addressing them as ‘Lord’ or ‘Lady’, they had finally relented and now they all called him ‘Maglor’ without stumbling over the name.

Maglor shrugged. “I am thinking I should have refused your offer to join you.”

“Do you weary of our company so soon?” Denethor retorted, and while his tone had been light, his eyes had filled with hurt and Maglor sighed.

“No, my friend, but I weary of leading you. You should be leading. To you came the dream. To you the Belain spoke, not to me or any of the others.”

“But you know the way. I have never traveled through Eriador.”

Maglor gave him a jaundiced look. “Denethor, west is that way.” He pointed with his left hand. “What other direction is there? You do not need a map, you do not even need me. Hell, I led you into the marshes!”

“Not your fault,” Denethor insisted with a wave of a hand. “We’re just glad we were able to pull you out in time.”

“Well, regardless, the point is, all you have to do is go directly west. Eventually you’ll reach the Sea. I doubt if Mithlond exists, perhaps not even the Gulf of Lhûn but the Sea will still be there. After that….” He shrugged.

Denethor remained silent for a few minutes, staring into the fire. “All you say is true, but you are missing the point.”

“And what point is that?”

“After we left Imladris, you were with us but not with us.”

Maglor furrowed his brow. “Excuse me? What nonsense are you spouting?”

“No nonsense, just an observation. You were with us physically, but your fae was elsewhere. You barely spoke two words to anyone, including me.”

“Sorry. I guess I had much to think about.”

Denethor nodded. “No doubt, but after that incident at the Bruinen, it was as if you suddenly woke up.”

“I did,” Maglor retorted with a grin.

“No, not in that way,” Denethor insisted. “I mean, you woke up inside, in here.” He tapped his own chest. “Once you revived and had recovered from the ordeal you were different inside, more alert, more alive. I am not sure if that was because you had truly come close to dying or if it was something else, but that’s when I asked you to lead us.”

“And so?”

“What you say is true: we simply have to travel straight west. There’s no mystery there, but I feared you would eventually retreat into yourself again and I did not wish that, hence I asked you to take the lead and in spite of the marshes you have led us well, cajoling those who complained, joking with those whose spirits were beginning to flag. You are a natural leader, Maglor. I am one only by default and I do not like it very much. I have wondered time and again what insanity struck the Belain that they would choose me as their emissary.”

Maglor laughed. “Insanity is right. This whole venture is insane. And the most insane part of it is that I feel more alive than I have in a long time and I find I hate it.”

“Hate it? Would you rather be dead, your fae in Lord Bannoth’s keeping, or worse, wandering houseless for all time?”

“Death, or rather, the thought of death had held me in its grip for so long, I had forgotten what it meant to be alive and living hurts.” His right hand spasmed and he grimaced at the pain that was always there just below the surface.

“Yes it does,” Denethor agreed. “But, frankly, the alternative does not bear thinking about. You know, I could never figure out why you traveled so far just to die when you could have done it at any point along the way. Indeed, you needn’t have left the South to do it.”

“You would think,” Maglor retorted with a sour grin, “but every time I attempted to end my life, something or someone always intervened. It got to the point where I decided I needed to be somewhere where I could be totally alone. Traveling north seemed the best option. As to why I waited until I reached Imladris….” He shrugged. “Let’s just say I had some issues to deal with before I could die with a clean conscience and journeying as long as I did gave me the time to do so.”

“And now?”

“And now I am just weary of travel. This whole venture is hopeless. There are no guarantees that we’ll ever reach Dor Rodyn alive and if we die along the way, what would be the point?”

“The point is that we will have died attempting a great venture rather than sitting around moping, feeling sorry for ourselves and just waiting for death to find us. As I once told you, Lord Bannoth is not fond of quitters and truly, can you say that you are one? Otherwise, you would have allowed yourself to die a long time ago. No, my friend, you are no quitter and that, I deem, has been your saving grace.”

He stood, giving Maglor a fond smile. “I see the ellith are returning. Why don’t we avail ourselves of the opportunity to wash the muck off us?”

Maglor nodded, standing as well. “Sounds like a good idea.”

****

Maglor volunteered to go north to see if the island he had mentioned still existed, taking two others with him, while Denethor sent three south. Maglor had described to them the geography around what had been Sarn Ford so they could easily find it, assuming it still existed.

“And it’s unlikely that it does,” he pointed out. “So much has changed here.”

“We’ll deal with it as we find it,” Denethor said philosophically.

Maglor had no reply to that, so he simply nodded to Gilgaran and Saelmir to follow him and the three loped away, moving along the shore of the lake westward. Damrod, Voronwë and Neldorion joined them, for they were heading south and would separate from Maglor’s group once they reached the river.

The morning was fair with ice blue skies and patchy clouds. The sun had yet to rise above the horizon but her light was enough for them to see the lie of the land clearly. Scrub brush and lichen covered the land where the snow did not rule and Maglor wished for the sight of flowers or even a single tree. He wondered how long it would take for trees to take root in these lands once the ice left entirely, and he had no doubt that it would, for already they were seeing evidence of it and the temperatures were definitely warming.

They had gone only about five or six miles when Maglor slowed his pace, coming to a stop and looking to the southwest, his view unobstructed and grieved at the sight: the Old Forest was gone and he wondered what had happened to old Tom Bombadil and his Lady Goldberry. Had they gone West with the last Ships to sail the Straight Road or had they traveled south with those who refused to leave or had they simply waited for the ice to claim them as surely as it had claimed the Old Forest. That last thought saddened him greatly.

“Is there something wrong, Maglor?” Saelmir asked anxiously.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Maglor replied distantly, his gaze still to the southwest. Then he gave himself a mental shake. “Come. We still have a way to go.” He picked up his pace again and the rest followed.

They made good time, reaching the river late in the afternoon, just before sunset. The distance between Bree and the Stone Bridge was approximately sixty miles, Maglor knew, and even without a road to guide them they were confident of their way. The river, where they came to it, proved very deep, deeper than the Bruinen, and, of course, there was no longer a bridge, not even any evidence of one.

“Well, we obviously can’t cross here,” Damrod observed. “We’ll camp for the night and set off tomorrow.” And that is what they did. The next morning, they parted, promising to see each other back at the lake. 

“Good luck,” Maglor said to Damrod. “Hopefully one of us will have good news.”

With that, the three heading south loped away. Maglor watched them go and then nodded to his two companions. “Well, let’s see if the island still exists. It’s only eight or ten miles from here. With any luck, we’ll be back at camp before dinner.”

Saelmir and Gilgaran grinned.

As they headed northward, Maglor kept an eye on the river. He did not like what he saw, for the further north they went the more evidence of rapids there was and he knew that was wrong. The water around the island had been deep enough that its flow had been calm, but now he was seeing whitewater and wondered what that meant. Beyond that, the land, which should have been flat was rising on either side of the river so that they had to climb up to the top of the ridge when the riverbank narrowed too far to walk along. And then there was the rushing sound that they all knew too well.

“Is that your island?” Gilgaran asked, pointing.

Maglor sighed and nodded. It was not an island, not any more. The intervening ages had dramatically changed the landscape here. Where the island used to be was now a series of rapids, plunging into a crevasse, thus forming a waterfall, no doubt carved out by the river, aided and abetted by the glaciers. It would be too dangerous to cross here, he knew, even though it was relatively shallow, and going further north another mile or so he could see that the river was again as deep as it was further south, if not deeper.

He grimaced at his companions. “Let us hope Damrod has better luck.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Saelmir asked.

Maglor shrugged. “To the north should be Lake Nenuial out of which the Baranduin flows. If we need to we can follow the river to the lake. We may find a way to cross over or we may just have to go around the lake before heading west again. We’ll reach the Lhûn either way and can just follow it until we get to the Gulf.”

“It will make the journey that much longer,” Gilgaran pointed out.

Maglor nodded. “But as Denethor pointed out, it’s not as if we are expected to tea with the Belain on a particular day.”

The other two chuckled. “Shall we return to camp then?” Saelmir asked.

“Yes. We’ll head back across the fields and see if we can scare up some game along the way,” Maglor said and they did just that.

****

Hraw: Body.

Fae: Soul, spirit.