Chapter Seventeen: Two Wanderers
They came out from under the tangled canopy on the fifth day after leaving the Elvenking's Halls.
It felt momentous, somehow, to emerge into the fresh, open air and see the sky stretching wide and unbroken above them, even if it was a dull steel-grey, heavy with cloud and the promise of impending rain.
It had been so close and stuffy in the forest that Cadhríen had removed and bundled up her cloak. Now she unrolled it and shrugged it back on over her shoulders, watching as Celeborn, who was leading one of the nimble-footed packhorses, slowed to a halt and turned to address the weary group.
"I would prefer to be well out of sight of these trees when we camp tonight," he said, warily eyeing the bent, whorled trunks behind them, "for all manner of creatures may use them as cover to watch us in the dark… and perhaps do more than just watch."
Cadhríen's legs were burning. She hitched the pack she was carrying higher on her shoulder and stood still for a moment, grateful for the brief rest, as the dozen Elves of their party steeled themselves and began, slowly, to continue on their way, falling into step beside and behind their leader. Haldir, who was leading the second pony, cast a doubtful glance at the iron-dark sky, but then tugged at the mare's bridle and guided her onward, his eyes lowered now, seeking the smoothest path through the grassy hillocks roundabout.
Cadhríen, however, hesitated for a few seconds longer, turning to look one last time into the shadows of the vast forest that now lay at their backs. Then she let out a breath – a breath she felt like she had been holding since she'd taken those first, tentative steps under its boughs, alone – and swung around, starting at last to trudge after the rest of them. As she did so, she felt the cold sting of a raindrop hitting her cheek.
They walked, and walked, and the land about them turned sodden.
The Elves threw sacking over the packhorses' saddlebags to shield the food and blankets they would need that night at camp, but their own grey cloaks gave scant protection when the rain began to sheet down and obscure the horizon, running in rivulets down the low hills either side of them and pooling on the faint, muddy path beneath their feet – the trail that led west from the Forest Gate to the Anduin, where they would turn south and make for the Old Ford, and then home.
It seemed Celeborn had decided there was little point in stopping when the weather was this foul; he kept up a brisk pace through the deluge, continuing until the already-dim light began to fade and the hills around them became black mounds that looked like grave-barrows.
At last, though, the rain petered out, turning instead to a fine, misty drizzle, and up ahead Celeborn gave the signal to halt. Some way off the path they found a cluster of pine trees, whose branches had sheltered a patch of ground from the rain. With grateful murmurs and sighs, they unloaded, unrolling their blankets on the springy earth, and they saw that a carpet of sweet-smelling pine needles filled the clearing, which formed a soft bed for their aching bodies as they reclined.
Dinner was hasty – lembas and cold, clear water from the river – and it wasn't long before eleven Elves lay wrapped tightly in their cloaks and mantles on the ground.
Eärfin had volunteered to take the first watch, and his silver hair, shining in the darkness, was the last thing Cadhríen saw before she slipped swiftly into an exhausted slumber, lulled to sleep by the breeze in the branches and the distant hooting of an unseen owl.
At first, when she woke, she thought she was back at the Elvenking's Halls, for the smell that greeted her when she stirred under her blanket was unmistakeable: the tang of fried sausages and bacon, and mushrooms roasting in oil and herbs.
She shifted and rubbed her eyes, and sat up with her cloak pulled snugly around her, and saw that she was the first to rouse – save for Haldir, who had clearly taken the second watch. He sat a few paces away, stiff-backed against the nearest tree, his head cocked and his brows drawn down. It seemed he, too, had picked up the scent.
There was no campfire burning in their clearing, no pans sizzling over an open flame. And they had certainly not brought meat with them from the palace, nor hunted anything on the journey so far – waybread was their only sustenance, intended to last them the full journey south.
Cadhríen pushed her blanket off her and rose to a crouch as Haldir stood up.
"Orcs?" she hissed, looking off in the direction the smell was drifting from, but the pine trees obscured her view. She thought she smelled woodsmoke now, too, and she straightened just as Haldir reached down to grasp his bow.
But her friend appeared more puzzled than wary. "Ever seen an Orc eat mushrooms?" he replied under his breath, and they exchanged a mystified look as they stood there.
Their companions were all still deeply asleep; nearby, Eärfin was snoring softly, one arm thrown up and bent over his eyes, blocking out the morning light. The remnants of the rainstorm dripped from the branches, and the ground still felt spongy and damp, but what pockets of the sky they could see through the canopy were pale blue and scudded with thin, white cloud – no sign of the drear grey of the previous afternoon.
"I say we take a look," Haldir ventured, stepping lightly to the edge of the clearing. Cadhríen, whose stomach was rumbling at the aroma, took up her own bow and nodded in reply. The unseen breakfasters might not be Orcs, but that didn't mean they posed no danger – plenty of Men who roamed the eastern lands were loyal to Sauron, though she had not thought to encounter any this far north. She briefly wondered if they were Woodmen of Mirkwood, but dismissed the thought as she followed Haldir out of the trees. Their settlements were far south of here, and they rarely left the forest.
Men of Wilderland, then, she guessed; but friend or foe, they could only wait to find out.
It did not take long to pinpoint the cookfire – a thin spiral of dark smoke just over the next rise, which curled and grew faint as it met the morning breeze. Whoever had built it had chosen a hidden hollow in the hillocks for their campsite, and would remain concealed until any visitors were near upon them. Clever, Cadhríen thought as she darted after Haldir, moving as softly and lightly as she could; though the thick turf already cushioned their footsteps and ensured they made swift progress towards the lip of the hill.
At the top, they lay down on their stomachs and crawled forward until, parting the long blades of grass that fringed the ridge, they were rewarded with an uninterrupted view down a rocky slope into the hollow. Its earthen walls were aglow with golden light thrown outward by the campfire, and two figures sat close to the flames: one with a dark-green hood pulled low over his brow; the other robed in grimy grey, with a wide-brimmed, pointed hat perched on his head and a full, straggly beard just visible beneath it, cascading down his chest.
She knew that hat, and she knew that beard. She had seen them before, many years ago, in the Golden Wood.
Several things happened then – the hooded figure reached out to prod the sausages that lay sizzling in a pan on the fire, and a log snapped and sent up sparks. At the same time, Haldir cried out next to her, "Mithrandir!"
The crackle of the flames drowned out the word Haldir had shouted, but not the sound of the shout itself, and immediately the figures below them sprang into action, turning their backs to the flames. The man in dark green drew a long sword from the scabbard at his side, threw back his hood and gazed keenly up at them with glinting grey eyes. The other figure – and indeed it was Mithrandir, she saw, with a catch of breath in her chest – raised his gnarled wooden staff. But as he spotted their pale faces peering down over the ridge of the hill, he exclaimed in surprise and brought his staff down, leaning on it heavily and letting out a rumbling chuckle.
"I should have known," he called, beckoning them down to the fire with a wave of his grey-robed arm. As Cadhríen deftly hopped down the steep slope after Haldir, Mithrandir took a seat again and began to stoke the campfire with a stray stick. "Only the Fair Folk could have snuck up on a Ranger of the North so easily." He glanced, amused, at his companion.
Cadhríen looked curiously at the man who was sharing the Grey Pilgrim's fire. He was tall, weathered and grubby with dirt from the road. Dark hair fell tousled to his shoulders, and stubble covered his cheeks, chin and jaw. Human, certainly, she decided, though there was something about the way he held himself – an odd sort of calm readiness; a quiet grace – that struck her as rather… Elvish.
Mithrandir noticed her questioning gaze and said, "This is Aragorn, leader of the Dúnedain in the North." Seeming to read her mind, he added, "He is familiar with your folk – he was raised in Imladris."
From where he stood by the fire, sword now back in its scabbard, Aragorn gave a nod.
"Well met," Haldir said, placing a hand to his chest in greeting. "For my part, I know of you. You have visited our home, the Golden Wood, before, have you not?"
"I have," Aragorn replied softly.
"A better tracker you will find nowhere in Middle-earth," Mithrandir announced, still prodding at the fire, "which is precisely why I have roped him into helping me these past six years."
"And who, may I ask," Haldir said, turning his puzzled gaze on the Wizard, "are you tracking?"
He stepped a little closer to the fire, his expression growing serious. "Our Lady much desires to speak with you, Mithrandir. She asked us to watch out for you, in fact, for her mind is gravely troubled. Our scouts have seen you wandering this way and that, but can never seem to delay you. What occupies you so, that you cannot spare a month or two under the mellyrn with us?"
There was a pause as Mithrandir and Aragorn shared a look heavy with meaning. "That… is a tale perhaps best left to a long evening under the stars," said Mithrandir. "Stop here with us today and tonight, and I shall tell you everything. I cannot come with you to Lothlórien, but I do have a request I might make of you before we part, if you would hear it."
"We are not alone," Haldir said, gesturing back up to the lip of the hill. "Lord Celeborn is with us, and there are nine others in our party. We have just come from Mirkwood – a diplomatic visit – and are on our way back to the Golden Wood. We should return to our camp and tell our companions that we have found you."
"Even better!" said Mithrandir in surprise. "I had not thought to run into your Lord himself, out here in the wilderness."
Celeborn, once Cadhríen and Haldir had woken him, was equally surprised to find out who it was they had discovered camping only a few hundred yards away. It did not take long to rouse the rest of the party, and they soon convened with Mithrandir and Aragorn in the hidden hollow of the hills, where the pair's sizzling breakfast was supplemented with lembas rations, sweet berries, and cold water collected from a spring nearby.
The prospect of new company – if only for a day and a night – was heartening, and the little group spent much of the day catching up on news of the wide world and relating tales of their travels. In particular, Mithrandir seemed keen to hear about their stay in the north, how King Thranduil and the Elves of the Woodland Realm were faring, and whether they had seen or heard rumours of anything strange afoot in the Wilderland – reports of uncanny creatures passing through, and the like.
They told him they had not, though they related their daring flight from the red-eyed wolves near the borders of Mirkwood, and spoke of the bands of goblins they had witnessed travelling along the Old Forest Road.
"Nothing new in that," Mithrandir muttered darkly, and Cadhríen wondered what it was he was so keen to glean news of.
She did not have to wait too long to find out.
A small contingent of the Elves, and Aragorn, went out hunting in the afternoon and returned a few hours later with a good-sized deer, which they set about butchering in readiness for a sumptuous campfire dinner. Others foraged mushrooms from the nearby wooded groves, and a rich stew was prepared. All the while, sentries stood on watch in the hills roundabout, alert to any curious man or beast that might approach in the growing darkness.
Once most of them were settled around the fire, rough-carved cups of stew in hand, Mithrandir, who had been speaking in low tones to Celeborn, beckoned the Lord of the Wood, Haldir, Cadhríen and Aragorn a little way off to one side, and produced a long pipe from within the folds of his grey cloak. As they sat close by him, he began to pack the pipe with dried leaf.
"Now," he said, his tone soft enough as to be inaudible to the rest of the murmuring Elves, "I have a long tale to tell you, which I hope you will pass on to your Lady when you return to the Golden Wood, though I think she has guessed at most of it. I shall try to explain as best as I can what occupies Aragorn and I at present, and why I should be grateful if, on the rest of your journey south, you will keep your keen eyes peeled for the creature I am about to describe to you."
Some hours passed, and Mithrandir spoke. He spoke of Eregion and the forging of the nineteen Great Rings of Power, rings created using knowledge bestowed by Annatar, who was the Dark Lord Sauron in disguise. He spoke of the forging, in secret, of another ring, the Ruling Ring, which was Sauron's own – a tale those present knew already, of course, in some form or another.
But then Mithrandir's story took a different turn. He spoke of a tribe of little folk in the West – a people he called 'Shire-folk', 'hobbits' – and of a member of that race who had picked up an object in the deep dark under the Misty Mountains. A ring, which the hobbit had tricked out of the possession of a miserable creature named Gollum.
"It is this creature, Gollum," said Mithrandir, "that Aragorn and I seek, for I believe… or rather, I am beginning to fear… that the ring he found, and which was taken from him by Bilbo the hobbit, is a magic ring. Perhaps even one of the Great Rings of Power I have just now spoken of."
At this, Celeborn looked aggrieved. "Where is this ring now?" he asked, his eyes seeming to burn in the light from the campfire.
"It is safe," Mithrandir assured him, "for the time being. It is with Bilbo's ward, a young hobbit called Frodo Baggins. I visit him as often as I can, to check on both him and the ring, but I am confident that, for the present at least, nobody else – aside from us – knows it is there."
"And the secret will go no further," said Haldir seriously. "But tell us – what of Gollum? What sort of creature are we looking out for? And what do you hope to learn from him?"
Their conversation continued well into the night. Mithrandir described the pathetic, scrabbling creature that Bilbo had encountered in Moria, and then they spoke for a long time, and in low tones, of related matters – of Sauron's growing power in the East, and of the odd movements of the Orcs around Lothlórien: the company Haldir and Maeron had tracked west, towards the Gap of Rohan.
When they finally retired for the night, Cadhríen's mind was reeling with everything she had heard. Despite the comforting crackle and pop of the dying fire, and the stars spread out above her like a blanket embroidered with silver thread, she tossed and turned for some hours, and woke blearily at dawn with heavy eyes and tired limbs.
Mithrandir and Aragorn took their leave of the party early, but before they made off out of the hollow, Mithrandir drew Haldir and Cadhríen aside. "Remember what I have told you," he said, "and keep a close eye out for any strange tracks… If the Galadhrim should see anything – any sign of this creature's passing – you must come and find me. I shall leave runes to mark my passage." He looked hard at them, and they saw that his face was lined and weary.
"You have our word," Haldir said, resting a hand on the Wizard's shoulder, and Mithrandir nodded, gratified, and turned away.
It took a little more time for Celeborn's party to pack up and load their baggage onto the horses, but before too long they were away also, heading in the opposite direction to the Wizard and the Ranger.
Having spent a night out under the stars, the closeness of Mirkwood – and the oddness of its residents – was already beginning to feel a little like a fading memory, and Cadhríen gazed forward now, not back, as the party made swift progress south. It had been an eye-opening few months, that was for certain. But what was also certain was that she was very much looking forward – more than she had looked forward to anything in a long time – to stepping under the familiar grey boughs and golden leaves of the mellyrn of Lothlórien again.
To finally being home.