The Boundaries of Time

Sometime in the night, the storm blew itself out and dawn broke through the heavy clouds shrouding Mordor and stretched thin fingers of light through mists furling atop the Emyn Muil. The thrumming of the falls roused Aragorn from a dreamless sleep. He blinked in the sun, a strange and heartwarming sight after many days traveling in flattened and sallow light. He had not intended on letting deep sleep claim him, but it seemed to have done him good. While blood trickled from his forearm and the shoulder ached as if a horse had kicked him, pain no longer paralyzed it. Nor had his prisoner throttled him in the night. The ruinous wretch crouched beneath a nearby boulder, malice gleaming in his eyes but his bonds were tight and firm and the fear in his heart potent.

When Aragorn looked to the west, the view elevated his heart. There, the escarpment on which he rested descended steeply for hundreds of feet to the Nen-Hithoel, Anduin’s silver and white lake. The pent-up waters spread out in the elongated, oval basin and then sprang off the edge of a cliff in jets of foaming white water. Wafts of coiling white spray rose from Rauros, a cloud of mist parrying with sunlight in rainbows and golden beams of light. Gazing south, Aragorn saw three lofty hills rearing above the brown and gray strata of the cliffs and deep canyons, above the labyrinth of burnt and naked stone rending the Emyn Muil. They were Amon Lhaw, and Amon Hen and in the center, surrounded by rushing waters, Tol Brandir. In the days of the kings of Westernesse, Amon Lhaw and Amon Hen were great watchtowers, but now they sat empty and abandoned. Ever did Aragorn desire to set foot upon the high seats of Amon Hen and Amon Lhaw, but his road lay in the opposite direction. He had no time for deviations. High above Nen-Hithoel a hawk circled, a dark silhouette against the pale sky. Whether it served the Enemy or not, he had no idea; nonetheless the sight unsettled him. No longer did the wild storm, a torrent of darkness, shelter him from his foes; the splendid sunlight was his greatest foe against stealth.

Aragorn stirred and got up. In his pack he found breakfast, soggy bread and nuts and dried fruit. It was not good, but it was food so he ate it anyway. His last remaining athelas leaves he applied to the swollen, oozing lesions in his forearm.

Though stiff and sore, he did not linger upon the overlook. He drew his sword to assure Gollum’s obedience, and then hurried along the rim of the escarpment. With a twinge of regret and sorrow for the glory of the days of the kings, Aragorn cast a wistful glance over his shoulder at the three temples of stone and it seemed that a mantle of gold rimmed the cap of Tol Brandir. Perhaps a day would come when that glory returned to Gondor.

The bright sun, the breathable air, and the great river running alongside him in the dark canyon renewed his vigor. Before his wounds harangued him into taking a brief rest, he covered many miles scrambling through the brambles, weeds, and fallen limestone boulders, over ridges, deep dales, and rocky spires elaborately serpentine and smoothly sculptured, colored in horizontal bands of gray and rose. At midday he took cover in a dell beside a bottomless gray pool, splashing water upon his face and cleansing the cuts on his arm.

Gollum was wroth about the sun’s emergence. He had scuttled forward sullen and silent at the tip of Aragorn’s sword, but now he protested noisily, howling muffled curses into the cloth gagging his mouth. Aragorn shoved him against the rock, pressing his blade to the creature’s throat and staring into Gollum’s pale face.

“Be silent, you miserable maggot!” Aragorn said. “You think to get me killed by rousing every Orc along the Anduin’s Eastern shore to your aid?”

Gollum frantically shook his head, but deceit shone in his eyes.

“I do not believe that. But it matters not. If you do not hold your tongue, you will suffer worse punishments than you already suffer, at my hands and at the hands of the Elves should we make it that far. You will wish Sauron had never released you.” Ending Gollum’s miserable life while his blade touched his throat tempted Aragorn – Gollum was a danger, a burden, a sly villain – but Gandalf’s admonitions again stayed his hand, and when he looked upon Gollum trembling beneath the sword, he saw a forlorn, wretched creature whose mind and body had been shriveled by the Ring, and a pang of forbearance stirred in his breast. He let Gollum go and stepped back against the side of the hollow where he sat down and ate a bit. The sword he did not sheathe.

Silvery shadows of fish flitted sumptuously about beneath the murky gray water. Whimpering Gollum looked up at Aragorn beseechingly and mumbled into the gag, “Release us, and we will be very, very good. Release us.”

Aragorn’s face was impassive, his eyes harder than steel. When Gollum began whining again, Aragorn swung the blade of the sword towards him, the Westernesse etchings glinting like blue fire in the sun. Gollum cringed in terror and crawled to the far side of the hollow.

After his brief respite, Aragorn clambered out of the hollow and went on, ever afraid of tarrying too long in one place. He feared Gollum’s cacophonous crying had drawn the Enemy’s attention; or the crows and hawks circling overhead were spies of Sauron; or the smoke from small fires he lit at night captured the attention of shadows he sensed in the dark; or some fell beast noticed what few tracks he made.

They marched across the rough and broken landscape of dells and crests in peace for a day and a half until they reached the Argonath, giant statues of Isildur and Anárion on each bank of the river, proud and stern, forged by the handiwork of Westernesse guarding the long-vanished kingdom. Between them the river rushed at great speed through a dark chasm, boiling and thrashing in tumultuous rapids. Aragorn, a mile away from the sheer and dreadful cliffs rising on either side of the river, heard the rushing water and saw two great pinnacles thrusting from the shorn off ridges of the Emyn Muil. For many years he had desired to look upon the proud, weather-worn visages of the Númenorean kings. Unlike a diversion to Amon Hen, the Argonath did not lead him far astray from his intended course, so westward he turned towards the roaring river.

The junipers and firs rustled. It was not the wind that stirred them. Aragorn paused. A bow whined, an arrow zinged by his ear and implanted itself in a tree not three inches from his head. He flung himself to the ground, rolling behind a low brush and then crawling on his hands and knees to the cover of a broken, wind-worn statue. It was unrecognizable as anything but offered protection on all sides. Nearby Gollum uttered a strangled cry and cowered behind a jagged limestone boulder. A barrage of arrows bounced off the stone, plowed into the earth, embedded into trees. Aragorn crawled to a gap between two ornamented stones and peered through the evergreen forest. There he saw faint shapes moving about in the trees, dark and disfigured. Orcs!

They had him pinned, for their arrows blockaded his northerly road, and they would soon move in on him if he remained beneath the old statue. It had no entry but one and would be a deathtrap if they found him.

He crept away from the statue, bidding a terrified Gollum to follow, and crawled through brush and sharp rocks scraping his hands and knees. Arrows hailed above his head. By the light of the Valar, he thought as arrows struck the ground so close he felt the air stir as they passed. Down a small gully he crawled until at last he saw the bowmen, three large Orcs aiming arrows in his general direction. Three more sat upon rocks and stumps, sharpening swords and scimitars and drinking some sort of potent and vile drink reeking of strong alcohol.

Did he fight or flee? Fighting with an injured arm worried him. But they knew he was here and would hunt him, and a fight would come to him whether he wanted it or not. He had survived great battles injured before. Just then, the middle Orc raised his sword high as he examined the blade in the light, and he caught Aragorn’s eye. Aragorn darted behind a tree but too late. They had espied him and there was no place to run.

Aragorn let loose a volley of four arrows, but his left arm was too weak and the pain too sharp to hold the bow steady. The arrows swung wide of their targets. His enemies returned fire, and he flung himself to the ground behind a rock. The sword was a better choice of weapons than the bow; easier to wield injured.

“Elendil le nallon sí di'nguruthos!”[i]he cried, springing to his feet, leaping down the gully, swatting arrows with his sword as though they were mosquitoes in the Midgewater Marshes. His right shoulder he hurled into the foremost Orc. Aragorn agilely scrambled to his feet and thrust his sword through the Orc’s breast before it regained its feet. Then he turned upon the others, a fierce light glittering in his gray eyes and a star seeming to shine upon his brow. In him at that moment, the majesty and pride of the Argonath, of Númenor, blazed again. The Orcs fell back in fear, as though one of the great kings of stone had come alive and stood before them. Brandishing the bright sword of Númenor, Aragorn charged them in their trepidation and brought the force of his blade against their scimitars. Steel clashed against steel, a tremendous noise shattering the peaceful silence but for the river’s roar and bird’s songs. He parried and wove amongst the six of them, swift and light on his feet. Two he slew, cleaving open the head of one and disemboweling the other, and then their four companions retreated, firing arrows as they withdrew into the woods.

Aragorn gave chase, dodging arrows. The stragglers he caught up with and after a brief skirmish, he brought them down and then ran after the latter two, headlong at first and then he eased his pace. He must not be reckless. He had no idea if the two Orcs fled into the lonely woods or into an entire legion. If the latter were the case, pursuit would bring death. But two living Orcs would report his presence to their masters. Did stealth justify the immense risk of running into a substantial company of Orcs? I can outrun them to the river, if indeed they report me and try to follow me, Aragorn decided. Once he crossed Anduin, his foes would lose his trail. He broke off pursuit and returned to where he had left his pack and Gollum. If the filthy wretch had taken the opportunity to slink off, Aragorn swore an oath to Manwë that he would hunt him down and slay him.

His pack had not moved from the gully and Gollum squatted underneath a rocky overhang, rubbing the ropes on his wrists against the jagged teeth of an old stump, which he ceased as soon as he saw Aragorn trotting over the dell, and through lidded eyes he glared at him. Aragorn hoisted his pack. A fearsome bolt of pain shot from his shoulder to his wrist, and he fell to his knees clutching his left arm. In the midst of battle, he had forgotten about his wounds and the reminder was violent, wrenching his entrails. Gasping, he doubled up, fearing he was going to be ill, but the intense nausea passed and left him lying on his side upon the pine needles and rocks.

Mindful of danger but in too much pain to move, Aragorn rested for a while until the blinding white light cleared from his mind, and then he arose, remaking his sling of the vambrace and cloth. Time pressed upon him; he had many leagues to travel before nightfall. Herding Gollum ahead of him with his sword, he made haste through the silence of the late afternoon: not the silence of peace but rather the menacing calm before the storm. His arm throbbed at each step and each heartbeat, but he bore it undaunted and pressed on briskly until the sun sank behind the rugged and rosy cliffs, the light faded into pale dusk, and the star-studded curtain of night at length crept over the northern reaches of the Emyn Muil and Sarn Gebir.



* * *



The country changed dramatically three days north of the Argonath. The hilly, rocky land crumbled away into bleak steppes, withered and formless slopes as far as the eye could see, brown and lifeless, as if blasted by some pestilence that had left no stone nor living tree nor blade of grass. The Brown Lands they were called, a wasteland stretching from the northern hills of the Emyn Muil to the southern fringes of Mirkwood. On the other side of the river, rolling plains of grass and tussock stretched to the distant peaks of the Hithaeglir. It was the Riddermark, the plains of Rohan. Few folk of Rohan ventured near the river in these dark days, for the Orcs overrunning the eastern shore could shoot arrows across the wide water and cross it in the shallows between the North and South Undeep as the river sluggishly crawled through the Brown Lands.

Aragorn too must cross the river, though he intended to do so within the next ten miles as soon as the foaming rapids dissipated. Once the river slowed her swift pace, he could swim across without being carried far downstream or to his death against the sharp rocks. A chill wind blew, an east wind from Mordor, and the bitter air nipped his flesh. He did not eagerly anticipate swimming the frigid currents, yet the formless slopes offered no more cover than Dagorlad, and the forces of the Enemy patrolled the wasteland and the stony banks of the river. Danger lurked on the western shores as well, but the rolling South Downs of the Riddermark, its rocky outcrops and scattered clumps of trees, proffered a measure of protection from unfriendly eyes. And the Rohirrim defended their borders. Weak King Théoden might be, but his cavalry remained one of the finest in Middle-earth. Orcs did not idly cross the Anduin and did well to travel by night and remain unseen.

Fearful of the vast wasteland, Aragorn raced upstream without more than two or three hours’ rest for two days. Injury had depleted his strength, and his flight wearied him more than it should have wearied one of Elros’ blood. Once he crossed Anduin, he could slacken somewhat. He had to, for this pace he could not maintain for hundreds of leagues, but he must hasten away from the Eastern shore.

Fortune smiled upon him for once, and no calamities befell him during his flight across the open hills until at last the river slackened its pace. He stood upon a gravel shoal thirty miles upstream of Sarn Gebir, looking out upon the downs of the Riddermark, the wide gray river, the gray sky foreboding sleet or snow. A faint breeze from the northeast lifted his dark hair. His breath steamed. His injured arm did not concern him, but the frigid water and the icy northeasterly wind did. This was no ford. The river ran deep. But he had to cross now before his luck gave out and a troop of Orcs trapped him on the open steppes.

Gollum posed a greater quandary. With the ropes on his wrists and the gag in his mouth, he could not battle the deadly currents of Anduin, yet Aragorn dared not release him. He was too able a waterman. For years he had survived the wet, dark caves and tiny rills beneath the Hithaeglir and understood the nature of river currents and shoals far more fundamentally than did Aragorn. Given his freedom in the Anduin, he would vanish beneath her dark waters and not be seen again.

At a loss for an answer to his riddle, Aragorn paced along the riverbank surveying the flat, gray and brown water. Even as he paced, distant cries reached his keen ears. When he looked out over the formless slopes, he saw a dark cloud, a troop of Orcs, marching slowly towards the river. He stiffened. Leave Gollum or untie him? As he struggled to choose quickly between unhappy choices, his foot struck a piece of driftwood that had washed upon the shore. A raft! He knelt beside the log. The river had brought him a solution, a way to float his prisoner across its wide waters. Aragorn silently praised Ulmo, Lord of the Waters, and hoisted the front end of the log and dragged it to the gravel spit where he had left Gollum. Here, he commanded Gollum at knifepoint to clamber aboard the driftwood and then he lashed the creature to it with sailor’s knots. The knife he held against Gollum’s throat while he swiftly bound his hands and feet to the log, hissing, “One word and you shall be dead.” Any unctuous noise, even muffled by a gag, would bring those Orcs upon them at speed, and Aragorn desired to slip away from the Eastern shore unnoticed.

Then Aragorn sheathed the weapon, inhaled to the very depths of his lungs, and waded into the glacial water. Immediately his toes went numb. As the water rose, icy bands constricted his chest. The rope he wrapped around his hand and towed the driftwood with him. The fierce current tugged it downstream, the rope crushing his hand. Imperiled by the deep cold settling into his bones, he swam for his life, gasping for air, vying and thrashing his way towards the opposite shore. When it felt as if the river would claim his life, his feet touched soft sediment and he lurched forward, splashing through the shallows and floundering upon the stony bank. The blood had frozen in his veins. His arm and shoulder were numb. The driftwood bearing Gollum he heaved upon the shore and for a moment reflected upon deserting the creature, leaving him bound to the log before he untied the rope and cast the wood into the river.

Quaking and faint, Aragorn wrung water from his sodden cloak. Then he swiftly turned from the river and faded like a ghost forthwith into the undulating hills of the Riddermark. If he continued moving, his blood would stir again. A great sleepiness overcame him, and he knew it came from the cold water rather than mere weariness. His soggy clothes weighed him down, and he walked stooped over and found no warmth in the miles of the Riddermark, but made his legs keep going anyway.

In a rock outcropping he stopped for the night. His flint, steel, and char-cloth were still somewhat dry in their oiled leather pouch. He broke twigs off a juniper and used them and dry grass as tinder, striking a spark with the flint and breathing upon the tinder until flames billowed. Gollum, disturbed by the leaping flames, hid behind a rock, burying his face in his hands, uttering hissing breaths. Paying no attention to the miserable wretch’s antics, Aragorn huddled over the fire, the heat licking his hands and face. Drenched gear he spread upon the ground beside the fire and there he lay letting the fire’s warmth leach into his chilled blood and bones. He sunk fast into a hazy dream.



* * *



At dawn’s first gray light, Aragorn arose after a quick breakfast of what little food had not been ruined by fording the river. The rising and falling plains were empty but for small cliffs and outcroppings, long-abandoned dwellings, and clusters of trees huddling together against the wind that ever blustered across the Riddermark. Once the northern provinces had been vast studfarms, pastures burgeoning sweet, green grass sustaining hundreds of horses, broodmares and foals and breeding stallions. Aragorn remembered it as green and vibrant fifty years ago when he had served under King Thengel. What blight had befallen this land? Not a single living thing did he encounter, and he found the silence eerie and distressing. The Rohirrim had forsaken the benighted Eastemnet to the Enemy and their dwellings and cities were in the south beneath the high ridges of the Ered Nimrais. “All is falling under the Shadow,” he said aloud to the barren downs. Blinking his luminous eyes, Gollum cast a glance backwards towards him, but Aragorn’s gaze was distant – it was not Gollum to whom he spoke.

He and Gollum traveled at speed for many days, toiling over small cliffs and low ridges. Crows and hawks wheeled suspiciously overhead, but otherwise the plains were deserted. No traces did they see of horses or men until a league or so adjacent to the southern fringes of Fangorn Forest. Here Aragorn came across signs that something else had passed through here, a wide swath of trampled and burned grass. Only Orcs caused such wanton destruction as they traveled. He wondered that the tracks led from west to east, from Isengard and the Gap of Rohan instead of from Mordor and the eastern shores of the Anduin. Could evil be afoot in Isengard? Last he had spoken to Gandalf, the wizard believed that Saruman was a friend and ally, but always Aragorn had held misgivings about Saruman holed up in his tower.

At any rate, the burned incision in the plains swung north, Aragorn’s intended course. Warily he followed it, for he had little choice unless he swerved into Fangorn itself, a brooding, wrathful forest as old as the forest by the Barrow-downs in Eriador and carrying some deadlier secret.



* * *



The next afternoon brought him to a rise overlooking a deep dish in the land and to the stench of Orcs rising to his nostrils. His heart beat faster as he and Gollum trotted down the side of a trough in the plains, downwind from the foul odor. Through the gully Aragorn furtively crawled, and with his sword as an ever-present threat, commanded Gollum to be silent. Rough sounds of a substantial number of Orcs reached his quick ears. To investigate the size and strength of the company, Aragorn crept towards the hideous noises, edging forward though thorny brush and grass on his hands and knees. Shadows lengthened as the sun dipped behind the remote peaks of the Misty Mountains. Wispy clouds swirling high above the mountains glowed a deep red, as though drenched in blood. And then he espied the camp, perhaps two hundred or more Orcs scattered about in the bowl, drinking ale and eating foul-smelling meat and bread, cursing and fighting. Before he had a chance to inspect the encampment, a roar like a furious storm reached his ears and the earth beneath his hands shuddered. Horses galloping across the plain.

An arrow flew over his head and landed near Gollum, who uttered a strangled cry and retreated to the end of the rope. Another arrow landed some ten feet to Aragorn’s right. He dropped flat upon his stomach as two more sailed overhead. But none were aimed at him and Gollum. Too widely and too randomly did they fall. The hoofbeats pounding the ground grew louder, an approaching storm, and a shrill voice cried, “Forth Eorlingas!” Cries of men and whinnies of horses ruptured the still evening air, arrows whistled overhead in both directions. Many fell perilously near Aragorn and Gollum. The earth trembled as if a quake ripped it asunder. To the west, Aragorn saw a silhouette of horses’ heads and flying manes and helms of riders backlit by the setting sun, a great wall of galloping legs and slashing hooves charging straight towards him, several éoreds of no less than three hundred riders. To the east, the Orcs scrambled to attention and formed ragged ranks of spears, swords, scimitars, and broad shields. Foam flew from the horses’ mouths and the light of rage and eagerness burned in their riders’ eyes. Horns rang out, a glorious resonance sending chills coursing down Aragorn’s spine.

Blood drained from his cheeks. Any movement would likely get him shot by one side or the other. Thus Aragorn lay still as a corpse against the sloping flank of the gully, heart thudding against his ribs, breath shallow. He hoped the horses saw him and leapt over him, or he would at last encounter death beneath the hooves of the Rohirrim. Nan belain![ii] Arwen, forgive me, I shall not return to fair Imladris. His hand leapt to the hilt of his sword, grasping it so its silver edges gouged into his palm, and he squeezed his eyes shut as the horses reached the edge of the gully and sprang aloft.

The roar was deafening. Three hundred horses pounded the ground. Yet there was no pain, no bones cracking beneath iron-shod hooves. The hooves struck the ground a hair’s breadth from Aragorn’s face and sprang away, long tails whisked him, the broad bellies of horses sailed overhead. Not a muscle did he twitch and not a hoof scored him. Like a rainless storm they passed, lightning and thunder darkening the sky but touching nothing.

When the rearmost guard bounded over the gully and a swift and sudden silence befell Aragorn, he unfurled his fingers from the sword and found red marks in his hand. Then, the cries of the battle rang in his ears. He glanced to where Gollum had lain, expecting to see the creature pulverized, but Gollum was as unscathed as he and shared with him an astounded look upon his face. Turning away from his prisoner, Aragorn crawled on his belly up through the rocks and trampled brambles, up the side of the trough to its lip.

The Rohirrim had shot through the Orcs like an arrow, fleet and deadly, slashing a swath through the scraggly and disorganized ranks. At once they wheeled around with masterful skill and fanned out amongst the Orc company, cutting them down with arrows and swords. Screams and cries of man, Orc, and horse rose from the sortie. Some riders and horses fell, but their foes suffered more losses than they. Around the camp they raced, rounding up the Orcs, slaying them with fury. In their language they called valiantly to their captain, Théodred son of Théoden, of whom Aragorn knew, “To hope’s end and to heart’s breaking!” And they galloped once more around the rim of the decimated camp before racing eastward in pursuit of about seventy Orcs who had fled. Their steeds were swift and they soon caught up to their prey and hewed them down, leaving none alive. Great cries of victory arose from the now darkened Riddermark, swords and shields were shaken, horses neighed. Then, they turned southwards and galloped away, vanishing into the twilight, the horses’ neighs and the thunder of their hooves upon the grass growing fainter in Aragorn’s ears.

He leapt out of the dell well after the Horse Lords had traveled even beyond the range of Elven eyes and ears. Though he held the Rohirrim’s valiance in high regard and had been proud to fight alongside them, Aragorn thought it wise to avoid an encounter on his errand of secrecy. Brave warriors they were, but they were not learned in lore and understandably were suspicious of strangers crossing their lands. Alone, Aragorn believed he could convince Riders of Rohan of his good intentions and royal blood, but bearing the burden of Gollum he did not think he had a chance. They would take but one look at Gollum and slay him and Aragorn then and there.

Head bent down and sword unsheathed, he wandered through the carnage of the Orc encampment, though what he searched for he knew not. The dead and the dying were sprawled across the site of the battle and already it reeked of decay and rot. Aragorn stepped around mostly Orc corpses, now and then prodding one with his sword, but amongst the slain he also found several fallen horses and riders. A pang of loneliness and desolation grieved his heart, for here he stood, one living amongst the hundreds of casualties of war.

Awkward movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention and he strode to where a mortally injured horse attempted to rise to its feet. One front leg had been shattered, half its face shorn off, and blood gushed as though from Rauros. Its rider hung by one stirrup to the side, bleeding profusely from a head wound but nonetheless alive. Agony contorted his sweaty, pale face and in confusion, he looked to Aragorn and strove to speak as Aragorn knelt down beside him.

“Who are you? I do not know you, but you are not one of the Enemy.”

“I am Aragorn son of Arathorn,” Aragorn said in a low whisper, “descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil’s son of Gondor.”

The dying man uttered a choked, coughing laugh and blood trickled from the corners of his mouth. “’Tis a strange day indeed that our enemies so boldly enter our lands and legends spring to life in the very hour of death. Perhaps you are no more than a vision, but nonetheless I shall go in peace knowing the king has returned.” With that, he gave a shuddering breath and expired, his lips slightly parted, a look of repose upon his proud face with no trace of the pain he had suffered.

Aragorn touched the soldier’s cooling forehead, saying, “You fell bravely for Rohan and so you shall pass in peace.” Then he rose. With a swift blow of his sword to the throat, he put the horse out of its misery.

The blood-soaked plain squelching beneath his boots proffered him nothing more than slain Orcs and their gear, destroyed and scattered across trampled grass. His search for an indication to guide him and answer the riddle of these Orcs’ strange crossing from west to east over the Riddermark proved fruitless, and he sickened of death and grief. This place stank of it. Uneasily he beckoned Gollum from his hiding-place in the culvert, and the creature crept out from the brambles and skittered on all fours amongst the blackened corpses, dragging the rope behind him and gurgling muffled gibberish.

“The Enemy is not idle,” said Aragorn. “We cannot rest for many hours yet.” Gollum skulked towards him, hunger, lust, and rage darkening his grotesque features. A sudden desire to slay the murderous, treacherous thing seized Aragorn’s heart and with the force of all his will, he restrained his hand.

Far into the evening he journeyed. Bitter frost stung his flesh. The crescent moon shining overhead cast down a feeble light. Ahead of him a thin line of trees marched across the plain, an army of pale ghosts bound for Rohan. There, the lands of Rohan at last ended and beyond his sight, Lothlórien lay hidden in its vale, a lustrous jewel beneath the high peaks of the Misty Mountains. On he sped through the night until a weariness no Ranger should suffer bent his back, and his knees and feet were sore, and his prisoner, lamed by their endless flight across the Riddermark through the ageless darkness, hobbled miserably ahead of him, weeping bitter tears.



* * *



For a few hours, Aragorn slept fitfully, often waking and pacing. At dawn’s first light, a drab sunrise alighting the clouds to the east, he ate a hurried breakfast and set off again. As the sun rose towards high noon, the distant band of trees drew near; the loosely knit forest of The Wold, the uplands of Rohan between Fangorn and the Anduin. Like a misty shadow to the west, Fangorn sloped up the Hithaeglir, its green eaves fading to hazy blue on the flanks of the great mountains. In the clear and pale light of day, Aragorn now saw Methedras, the southernmost peak of the Hithaeglir, a vague white star shimmering in the distance.

The land rose beneath his feet and the ghostly trees of the plateau enveloped him. For several uneventful days he passed through the forest, unnoticed by the tendrils of shadow from Mordor that had crossed the Anduin. The chill in the air deepened as he traveled north and the deciduous trees were bare and dry, firmly caught in the icy clutches of winter. Dull gray hours passed without event. Crows, heard but unseen, cried and wheeled overhead. Through the gnarled and twisted trunks and groping branches, he trod over dead leaves and peat moss, arising when the black sky paled in the sunrise and resting for a few sleepless hours late at night beside small fires.

--------------------------------------------


[i] Sindarin: “Elendil to thee now I cry, here beneath the shadow of death!” The Two Towers, Book IV, Ch. 10. Translation by http://www.fa-kuan.muc.de/SINDARIN.RXML.

[ii] Sindarin: “By the Valar!” Translation by Taramiluiel at http://members.cox.net/taramiluiel/sindarin_phrases.htm


[Prev][Index][Next]