Chapter 46. We bear witness to an exodus of Watchers

When last I saw him, he was alive and well, I tell Our Big Man's horse, who we've rather surprisingly encountered in this fastness of the Rangers who, from what I have been able to gather, keep watch over Bree and the Bree-land. But that was many days ago, and since then...

But we are interrupted by a commotion in the cavern before I can say more, much less tell him of the Company disappearing through the Doors of Moria and how we later sensed Tall Hat's fall, my companion more directly by the severing of his link with his Rider, and myself with the cessation of the Voices the grey wizard gave me. I look up to see the Rangers bustling about, making almost as little noise as before while moving rapidly though deliberately and engaged in completely different tasks than I had observed from the time of our entrance until this moment.

Our Ranger-guide stands in the middle of the storm of activity. Flanking him are two others – not Rangers though they are tall and dark-haired. I stare at them, drawn by the stirring of a feeling of recognition in the back of my mind. And then I am able to grasp the elusive thought: they belong to my memories of that marvellous Valley where, if all goes well, Merrylegs grazes still. They are the not-quite-but-mostly-Elves who came to the pasture with Our Big Man. As then, their appearance is so identical as to make them look like two of the same person, if you take my meaning. I remember that in our earlier acquaintance, they were only distinguishable to me (when I was in that Valley, I mean, for I did not see them again after the Company departed until now) by the slightest of differences in their scent when they came near enough for me to smell them.

Their garb is brighter in comparison to the dull-looking clothing and gear of the Rangers who shelter here. When one of them lifts his hand to gesture, his cloak falls open, and the flickering light of the torches glitters as from silver mail concealed beneath his cloak. Their faces are as elven-fair as I remember them, and so alike that I cannot distinguish one from the other by sight alone, as I have mentioned, yet there is a difference in my perception of them that cannot be explained by the difference in place, from Valley to hidden cavern. In this shadowy place, the light seems to gather about them as if it is drawn to them by some hidden power within.

(How is it that my eyes can perceive such? I do not know. Perhaps it is a quality left over from the Voices I carried with me for part of my journey.)

One of them holds in his hand a tall staff, but unlike any staff I have seen before, it is close-furled in a black cloth bound about with many bands. And as I watch, our Ranger-guide slowly and reverently takes the shrouded staff from the almost-shining one's hand, grasps it firmly in both his hands, and raises it high. I can feel a sense of anticipation pouring from him as his face shines with joy – yet he is also stern, even fierce somehow, while at the same time he seems exultant, as one who has waited all his life for this moment.

(I do not know where such thoughts come from? And yet... here I am, thinking them.)

Commotion is catching, it seems, for the horses in this stone pasture with its racks of sun-cured hay, lit by lanterns rather than the sun, have left off grazing and are crowding around the gate once more. As a matter of course, my companion and I, and yes, the dark horse all join in the jostle. Many of us are prancing a little, stirred to dance and toss our heads by some quality of excitement that is in the air.

Being short in stature, I cannot see for the press of larger bodies around me, but my curiosity is quickly satisfied as Snow and another as-yet-unnamed Ranger push their way through the mass of excited shaggy bodies, bearing saddles and other tack.

'Roheryn!' she cries. 'Come to me!' As the dark horse turns to meet her, she addresses the rest of the herd, pressing ever closer. Back, now, wait your turn! Your time will come, and soon enough, you may be assured of that! She balances the saddle and its cushioning blanket on the enclosure's fence and takes up the bridle resting on top. I have the passing thought that Rangers are more like Bree-landers than Elves in that it appears they use bridles and saddles as other Men do.

(The better to blend in and call less attention to themselves, the thought occurs to me.)

What is it? What's happening? the dark horse demands, even as he lowers his head and opens his mouth to take the bit. 

The brethren Elladan and Elrohir bring word from Imladris, the Snow-Ranger explains, deftly working the fastenings. Our Chieftain has need of his kindred! Let the Dúnedain ride to him in Rohan! Moving swift and sure, she takes up the blanket resting atop the saddle and lays it on the dark horse's withers, then slides it back a little to flatten the hairs in the right direction and places the saddle on top. 

The dark horse looks around and blows out his breath to hasten the process of saddling; our helper quickly pulls up the girth and moves to his head to administer a pat, saying, If you will agree to carry me and another as far as the Angle, we will have enough horses for everyone.

(Though the Elves I know are invariably polite to our kind, I do not think I have ever heard a Man ask permission of a horse before mounting. How curious!)

It will be my pleasure, the dark horse answers. The Angle?

I listen intently. Though I do not know what the Angle may portend, it seems important somehow.

Our helper combs her fingers through the dark horse's forelock and explains, The remnant numbers only about a dozen... and even though we pull everyone from this last outpost in the Bree-land, that is not enough, according to Halbarad's understanding. No, but all the Watchers here will ride in answer to the Chieftain's summons, and all the rest of us go to the Angle; for what is an outpost without Watchers, I ask you?

I am pondering this question when she adds, And once we reach the Angle, Halbarad and the half-Elven brethren will gather as many as can be assembled in haste, and you will all ride to Rohan at your best speed to answer the summons...

And then she slaps his shoulder and bids him wait until all are ready. More saddle-bearing Rangers are entering the enclosure, and the horses' jostling resolves into a more-or-less orderly line of beasts either being saddled or waiting to be.

It is not long before every horse in the herd is tacked up and ready to travel. As my companion and I are visitors and, thus, not in the herd, our backs remain bare of harness of any kind.

Whilst I have been distracted by the bustle of preparation amongst the herd, the enclosing fence has disappeared! A quick look at the far side of the cavern conveys to me the impression of an empty space. Either they are taking everything with them, or they have hidden what they cannot carry, perhaps deeper in this hidden fastness under the earth. 

The Rangers, all of whom now bear packs on their backs, seem to be in great haste, such that they do not even bother about muffling hoofs or blind-folding visitors. They mount, a pair of riders on each horse, and move in two neat lines towards the rough corridor I noticed earlier. Though the horses step lightly, the echoes of their hoofbeats fill the cavern with the soft rhythm of deliberate movement.

My companion, standing beside me, lowers his head and stretches out his neck, then snorts, the sound long and soft, its echoes melding with those of the retreating hoofbeats in the emptiness surrounding us.

Shall we? he says in a humorous tone.

I think we must, I reply, hearing an echo of my hobbits' voices in our exchange. There seems little point in remaining. Even the hay has been squirrelled away!

The great horse nods. After you, he says politely.

I now have no doubt that he is remembering the stories I have told him about my hobbits. And so I play along, even as a sense of excitement rises in me. In leaving this place, we are starting on the final stretch of my journey! O no, but I must insist! After you, my tall but gracious friend!

The passage is wide enough for two, he answers. Shall we walk together?

Of course I know the correct answer to his question. Haven't I heard it from my hobbits, and many times?

Let us do just that.

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Author's note: I'm sure you recognised the quotation from 'The Passing of the Grey Company' in The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. As always, all the credit goes to him.

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