Chapter II: Separate Roads

It was Aragorn's turn to take the first watch. There was a brief debate on the topic of Gandalf's cloak, and whether it ought to go with the sleeper or remain on the sentry, but in the end Aragorn had to admit that the only logical conclusion was that he should keep it for a while. Gandalf at least had his other garments to keep him warm, and settled as he was with his back to the glowing embers of the fire, he would be comfortable enough.

Once he deemed that his friend was asleep, Aragorn went to collect his linen and donned it swiftly, drawing the cloak on once more atop it. Both shirt and braies were still damp, but he did not fancy warding off the nightly hazards wearing naught but a wizard's mantle. He walked the perimeter of the glade for a while, working out some of the stiffness in legs unaccustomed to an afternoon of sitting idle, but his bare feet grew swiftly cold, and he made his way back to the fire. He snagged his pack as he went, and settled cross-legged opposite Gandalf's slumbering form.

He had taken the chance of losing his possessions when he had concealed them in a bramble-thicket before venturing into the mire, and the gamble had paid off. No living thing had tampered with his pack, and now it and the few useful things within were clean and dry when everything else he owned was wet and choked with muck. With his wooden mug and bowl there was a little food: dried fruit and a few strips of flavourless meat wrapped in a greasy square of linen. Several other strips of cloth that had once been white were all that remained of his spare shirt, worn until it began to disintegrate. He had a small coil of wire, a whetstone, his flint and steel, an old wooden comb missing most of its teeth, and a little penknife with an ornately carved handle. He set the blade and a small leather pouch aside, and from the very bottom of the pack he withdrew a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. He unwrapped it and removed one of three short rushlights. A candle was a precious thing in the wilds, and he had hoarded these carefully. He knew he would need them if he ventured into the mountains, but there was an equally important task to see to tonight, and he had need of light.

He lit the brittle wick from the fire and let a little of the tallow drip onto a stone. It was poor-quality fat, and it smelled and sputtered, but soon the rushlight was standing melded to the rock, and he was able to set to work. The little pouch held a lump of beeswax and a spool of linen thread. Tucked carefully into the leather were three sewing needles. Selecting the largest, Aragorn cut a piece of thread and waxed it with care. Then he hauled his wet cote into his lap and began to inspect the damage.

He had scraped his back along the roots of a twisted old willow, and though he had only a long, stinging scratch on his flesh there was a large rent across the shoulders of his tunic. He had hoped that it would prove a simple repair, but luck was not with him: the cloth had torn against the grain, and the edges were fraying. He had no spare wool with which to make a patch, and so he carefully turned the garment inside out and set about brushing flakes of mud away from the tear.

Mending the damage was slow work, for he had to be careful not to fold more cloth into the join than was absolutely necessary. It was a fine line. Too little, and the repair would not hold. Too much, and the fit of the garment would be altered, perhaps to the point of impairing his shoulder motion and impeding his ability to climb, to reach, and to defend himself.

He had some skill with a needle, having learned quickly in his younger days that Rangers who did not wish to be dressed perpetually in rags had to learn how to preserve and refurbish their garments. His long, nimble fingers were well suited to such work, and over the years he had become adept enough for his purposes. A few lessons in cut and fit served him well, especially at times such as this, and for the most part his repairs held up to the rigours of his daily life. Still, this was a difficult tear, and the rushlight was almost burned away by the time he tied off the last thread.

There were several snags and smaller holes in the back of his shirt along the same path of damage, but those were not as concerning. If his outer garments remained whole and largely weatherproof, it did not matter if his underclothes were tattered. Anxious to conserve the last inches of candle, Aragorn snuffed the light and packed away his tools by the glow of the fire. He laid out his cote once more to dry, and turned his cloak again. As soon as he stopped moving, the claws of exhaustion sank deep into his heart and his head began to nod. By then, fortunately, it was well past the agreed-upon hour, and so he woke Gandalf and lay down for himself, still swathed in his friend's cloak.

'Sleep well,' Gandalf said grimly as he stretched his legs and ran a hand through his hair. 'It is quite likely that this will be your last chance to rest in safety for many weeks.'

Aragorn made no reply, for slumber had found him already.

lar

When Aragorn awoke with the dawn, he found Gandalf beating his cote with a heavy stick. Clods of dirt that the day before had been mud flew in every direction. The garment was draped over a convenient tree-branch, and the wizard seemed to be spending all of his frustration upon it. Aragorn watched in some amusement until at last the dust ceased to fly and Gandalf cast away the branch with a cathartic huff of breath. He turned, and scowled as he realized his efforts had not gone unnoticed.

Aragorn curled his lip. 'Do you feel better?' he asked dryly.

'As a matter of fact, I do,' the wizard grunted, stumping over to the fading fire and stirring it to hasten its death. 'The lower half of your cloak is still wet, but at least the hood and shoulders are dry. All the rest seems wearable.'

'I am pleased to hear it,' Aragorn said. He climbed to his feet and arched his back to banish the stiffness of sleeping on the hard earth. He removed his friend's cloak and held it out. 'Thank you for the loan of warmth.'

'Humph. Well, remember that if you get into such a state again I shan't be here to scare up food and fire for you,' grumbled Gandalf. 'You'll have to look out for yourself.'

'I will try to be more particular where I hunt,' Aragorn said, but fondly. He understood his friend's cantankerous over-protectiveness to be an apology, of sorts, for yesterday's harsh words. 'And you take care as well: you are strolling off into a danger that I dare not face. As I recall Denethor is uniquely unpleasant when disgruntled.'

'Then I shall be careful to keep him in a favourable mood.' Gandalf bent to pick up Aragorn's boots, now stiff and rigid after their wetting.

The Ranger sat to draw on his hose, then took the boots and wrestled them on. After a few minutes of good, hard walking they would be supple again, but at the moment they pinched rather unpleasantly. He stood and tied the points to his hose, then crossed the clearing to collect his cote. As he loosed the lacing and drew it over his head he held his breath, for a moment anxious, but it settled onto his shoulders with the familiar comfort of an old, well-worn garment. His darning had been successful.

'You're beginning to look almost respectable again,' Gandalf observed. 'Or what amongst your sort passes for respectable. Though there is still the matter of your hair...'

'There is little point in tending to it until I have an opportunity to wash,' Aragorn said. 'If you give me leave I will walk with you as far as the bridge, and attend to it there.'

'Gladly,' Gandalf said. He watched as Aragorn buckled his belt to the third-from-last notch, tucking the tail into a loose knot. He sheathed his long knife and adjusted the folds of his cote with care. 'Yes, almost respectable,' the wizard observed pensively.

Aragorn shook out his cloak, swung it around his shoulders and clasped it at the left shoulder with the silver star of the Dúnedain. Then with a practiced flick of his wrists he drew his hood over his filthy hair. It shadowed his face, leaving only the tip of his nose in the light.

'I take back what I said,' Gandalf remarked sardonically. 'There is nothing respectable about you: you're a rogue if ever I saw one.'

'Then you would be well-advised not to cross me,' said Aragorn, grinning as lazily as he could. He picked up his pack, which felt dishearteningly light, and then set about kicking away the last traces of their fire.

They set out as soon as the camp was concealed, walking in silence through the trees. Gandalf's despondency seemed to be leaching back, for his head was bowed and he leaned heavily upon his staff. Aragorn, determined not to show any signs of frustration or despair, walked on ahead, carefully picking a route that left as little sign of their passage as was possible.

After a couple of hours they halted and broke their fast. They ate sparingly and did not rest for long. It was past midday when they reached the crest of the river valley and descended towards the broad, coiling Poros.

Aragorn could not help staring to his right, where the high, craggy faces of the Mountains of Shadow loomed against a sordid grey sky. A chill settled upon his heart and dread clenched his innards. Once before he had ventured that way, passing over the ramparts of the Ephel Dûath into the poisoned wastes beyond. Memories assailed him, fast and thick. Orc-voices laughing. A cruel smile on a once-noble face made gaunt with hatred and malice. Slaves bent low beneath dancing black whips. Ash and stone and poisoned wells. And above it all, a fiery blight against the perpetual gloom that enveloped the Black Land, the burning heights of Orodrûin, belching filth and odious malevolence into the stagnant air...

Gentle fingers touched his elbow, and Aragorn turned, startled out of his reverie to find kind eyes upon him.

'It is not too late to reconsider,' Gandalf said softly. 'What is the chance that you will find him by venturing into the mountains?'

'Greater than the chance of finding him if I do not,' Aragorn answered, setting his jaw and sternly banishing his fear. 'I have chosen my course and I shall not waver. Now come: the river is calling to me, and I am aching to bathe.'

They made their way further into the valley, overgrown with wild, tangled trees and thick undergrowth. When at last they came near the water, it was plain that they had struck a true course: less than half a mile downstream they could see the old stone bridge at the Crossing of Poros. The two friends stood motionless for a moment, side by side with their backs to the Land of Shadow and their faces turned Westward, away from this empty and debatable land where they had hunted so long.

It was Aragorn who broke the silence this time.

'Many leagues lie between this place and the archives of Lord Denethor. You will accomplish nothing standing here and staring at the road you must take,' he said.

Gandalf exhaled in a heavy breath that was not quite a sigh. 'I would go with greater comfort if I did not feel that I was abandoning you to go into the darkness alone,' he confessed.

A small, cynical smile touched Aragorn's lips. 'I have done it before, and lived to make light of it. Fear not for me: I am too obstinate by far to perish in the mountains.'

'There are things far worse than death,' the wizard murmured blackly.

'And I count inaction among them,' rebutted the Ranger. 'Go. Seek the evidence of which you have spoken. I shall try to complete our other errand.'

Gandalf nodded, but still he hesitated. 'Do you wish me to linger a while, and stand guard while you bathe?'

'Lest I should drink the hot bathwater or spoil the towels or waste the fine perfumes?' Aragorn laughed. 'Nay, I am quite capable of washing myself without an attendant. Quickly, now: the daylight is wasting.'

The wizard took two steps in the direction of the bridge. Then he turned, and came back, gripping Aragorn's shoulders briefly before embracing him. 'Be careful,' he said as he drew back. 'I should hate to have to explain to your foster-brothers how I lost you.'

'Fear not for me,' said Aragorn. 'If I were you, I should spend these next days working out the words with which to woo Denethor.'

'Woo him?' Gandalf raised his eyebrows. 'I have no intention of wooing him. I shall merely storm the Citadel demanding access to his records. He may not like it, but he can hardly deny me courtesies extended to my colleagues.'

'I shall have to remember that the next time I do Saruman a favour,' Aragorn said. He squared his shoulders and dredged up a smile. 'Goodbye, my friend. May we both find that which we seek.'

'Ever the optimist,' Gandalf observed. 'How I admire the dauntless spirit of the young.'

'I am not so young anymore,' Aragorn said softly.

Their words were spent. They stood unmoving, looking into one another's eyes as if by doing so they could delay a little longer this parting. At last Aragorn cast his gaze away and Gandalf, thus freed, turned and strode down through the wild grasses towards the road. Aragorn lingered in the shelter of the trees, watching the grey figure grow smaller, hat and cloak melding into a single nebulous form as even colour grew indistinct with distance. Gandalf reached the riverbank and strode onto the bridge. In its middle he paused, turning once more to look back toward the Ranger, though from that distance it was doubtful that he could distinguish the cloaked figure from his woodland surroundings. He raised his hand in a final gesture of farewell, and then resumed his journey. He vanished swiftly into the undergrowth on the far side of Poros.

lar

Aragorn hung back in the shadows, scanning the sky and the river for any sign of watchers. Harondor was not precisely under the Enemy's influence, but his servants were at times seen in this land. At length, sensing no danger, he made his own way down to the water, walking along the pebbly shore in search of a suitably slow-running place where he might bathe without riskof being washed away. He found such a spot in the lee of a sandbar, and swiftly stripped off his clothes, spreading his cloak over a gorse bush in the hope that the sun might serve to dry it a little more completely. Then he walked quickly to the water's edge and waded out waist-deep.

The river was cool, and the clean water felt wonderful on his mud-stiffened skin. He drew a deep breath and ducked his head beneath the surface. The gentle current tugged at his hair, pulling it about his face like some strange water-weed. When his breath was spent, Aragorn stood, breaking through into the air with a great spray.

Grimy rivulets streamed down his face and chest and back as the first layer of mud ran out of his hair. He slipped beneath the water again, this time working his hands against the matted mass. He had no soap, so he waded back into the shallows to gather a fistful of coarse sand from the river's edge. With this he scrubbed his scalp, working loose the grime. He rinsed, and scrubbed again. Then he used the sand to rub down the rest of his body, chafing away dirt and odour and flakes of unshed skin. Again he washed his head, and this time clumps of snarled hair came away in his hands. He cast them into the water and watched the current draw them away.

Satisfied at last that he was as clean as he was likely to get, he hauled himself out of the water and shook his head to dry it as much as he could. After his cool ducking his skin shrivelled in the autumn air, but he donned his clothing quickly. The linen wicked the water away from his skin, and he was soon sitting comfortably on a broad stone next to the gorse bush that still held his cloak. He rummaged in his pack and brought out his comb, setting himself to the challenging task of restoring some semblance of order to his long, unruly hair.

After a great deal of tugging and a couple of sharp oaths, he was satisfied that Gandalf would have approved of his efforts. He put away the comb, gathered up the rest of his belongings, and drew on his cloak once more.

There were preparations to be made before he turned towards the mountains. Though he was a skilled woodsman and a gifted hunter, he could not charm roots from the bare rock, nor summon animals on the lifeless slopes. He had to gather food while he was still in fertile lands, and that would take up most, if not all, of the remaining daylight hours. Yet every hour spent seeking sustenance was one hour more to delay the dreaded journey, so he gladly set to work.

At this time of the year, the Wild was as bountiful as a traveller could wish. Aragorn quickly filled his bowl with fat raspberries, which he laid out upon stones to dry a little in the sun. There was a walnut tree close by the water, its black fruit scattered about its roots. He spent an hour shelling the nuts and laying aside the meat within. Though tubers and taproots were plentiful, these foods offered little nourishment in proportion to their weight, and so he took only a few for the sake of variety. Herbs he gathered; parsley, dandelion, purslane and sorrel for their value as foods, and nailwort to drive back hunger when his provisions grew scarce – as he knew they eventually would. He stumbled upon a wild apple tree, and filled what space remained in his pack with the hard little fruit.

By this time it was growing dark, so he returned to the place where his berries were drying. Some kind of bird had picked them over, but had evidently decided that the fresh ones on the bushes were preferable to those that had started to shrivel in the heat. For the most part the fruits of his labours were untouched. He wrapped the raspberries in a scrap of cloth and tucked them away with the rest.

Though night had fallen he was not yet ready to rest. The moon had yet to rise, but the river provided a path to guide him through the starlit night. Keeping the rushing water on his left hand, Aragorn moved swiftly but cautiously forward, listening warily to the nightly noises about him. Far away a scops-owl called, and Aragorn held his breath, waiting. Its mate answered, and he exhaled in relief. Owls crying for owls were nothing more than innocent birds going about their business in the dark. Owls that called with no answer might be shouting tidings to servants of the Enemy.

The hours crept by and his limbs grew heavy, but still he walked. Each sound in the darkness plucked at his ears, and he knew that he would not sleep this night. He was uneasy on his own after so long in Gandalf's company, and cold fingers of apprehension seemed to creep about his heart. If he stopped, and laid aside the distracting challenge of moving without proper light, he would begin to brood on the dangers that lay ahead. He could ill afford that. He had long ago learned that imagined horrors were more terrible by far than most misfortunes that could meet a wanderer.

Most misfortunes.

'That is quite enough,' he told himself sternly. 'There is no reason to believe the trail will lead that way. The creature has evaded capture for this long: clearly he is intelligent enough to steer well away from such places.'

Yet his heart felt heavy and the darkness was suddenly oppressive. Though the clean smells of the wilderness were all around him, a thin sulphurous reek clawed at his mind and seemed to sting his nostrils. Shuddering convulsively against unwanted memories, Aragorn focused his attention upon the rushing noises of Poros. The sound that a few moments ago had brought him comfort now seemed a reminder of the vastness of these empty lands and the countless leagues that lay between him and any friendly haven. He thought of Gandalf hastening northwards, while he moved ever further into the East, and it seemed that he could feel the miles between them spread and lengthen with each long stride. A cold shiver ran up his spine as the loneliness of his position struck home for the first time today. He had staved off acceptance through industry, but now in the empty night he could not ignore the truth any longer.

He was alone.