3. Ithilien

The road dropped steeply into the Morgul Vale for several long miles, a series of sharp switchbacks incising the mountain, a giant gash upon the rock face. While the road was a straightforward down climb, Aragorn dared not risk it, for orcs and other fell beasts trod its rough-hewn surface and the Valar only knew how diligently the Ringwraiths surveyed the solitary entrance to their lair. Instead Aragorn scrambled through the jagged, washed-out rocks abreast of it, tottering and slipping upon loose rubble, plodding downhill like a footsore soldier. On one calamitous stumble, loose rock avalanched beneath him; he slid down a rock face about fifteen feet and landed roughly, twisting his right ankle between the fangs of two boulders. Defying pain, he bore weight on it nonetheless. He could not descend this mountain on one leg.

At length the road flattened and bent northwards towards a massive rock overhang, a shelf throwing across it an impermeable shadow. Exhausted by toil and illness, weakened by hunger, and wracked by occasional tremors skewering him like Morgul spears, Aragorn halted beneath a smaller overhang, rubbing sore legs and knees. The right ankle throbbed, distended with heat and pain and tender to the touch, but as with all of his other wounds, nothing could be done for it until he arrived in friendlier country. What little water remained in the orc skins was warm and tasted sick and vile, as though the Morgul Vale’s taint of decay and corruption had saturated it, but Aragorn, throat and mouth parched with thirst, swallowed a few unsatisfying drops all the same. Then wearily he rose and hobbled towards the massive overhang. He had not the time to rest here.

Though the towering walls of Mordor now stood at his back, the land remained black and forbidding. To the west, a dim light glowed in the mist; muted hope shining far off in the sad land of Gondor. The light vanished when he passed beneath the looming rock shoulder. Concealed by the murky shadow, he rested for a few hours, stretched out upon his side, exhausted but unsleeping. Evil remained oppressively close; he still felt its foul breath.

One day moved into two as he plodded along the road, which began a slow ascent out of the valley and curved into a primeval forest of widely spaced ash trees and giant oaks of enormous girth. To his left the far off Ered Nimrais shimmered, blue and gray in the ever-present twilight, and behind him was darkness, the Ephel Dúath’s hard and menacing ridges. Not a living creature stirred. An eerie silence enveloped this place. Aragorn abandoned the road and flitted from one shadow to another, his heart chilled by silence and torpor. Though he was accustomed to solitude, the tomb-like stillness and loneliness of the forest made his bones ache. He thought perhaps that a fire had consumed this forest, destroying all life but for the trees whose fathomless roots ran deep and strong. The tops of the trees were gnarled and bent, contorted into grotesque shapes, playing tricks upon the eyes in the lackluster glow of unceasing dusk. Mystical demons rather than trees sneered in the dark and raked at the sky with curving, bone-white claws.

Aragorn searched through the sparse vegetation for herbs with which to soothe his injuries, but the only plants growing here were woodland hyacinth and celandine, neither one a medicinal herb. Athelas he did not expect to find until he crossed into Ithilien’s borders, for it was not a native plant of Middle-Earth but rather one brought across the sea by the Númenoreans and thus only grew where Dúnedain had dwelt. On the western eaves of this dead forest there should be water and woods blossoming with plants of all varieties, ancient trees covered in moss, and air fresh with a thick fragrant scent bringing joy and casting away sorrow and toil. Ithilien. Aragorn breathed the word aloud and shivered. A gray mist clung between the dead trees, and he felt the chilling bite of the Morgulduin delving into his bones. If he stopped here and walked no further, death would close its grip at last; against all odds he had beat it in the Morgul Vale and now he neared the succoring borders of North Ithilien. The darkness had not yet seized his heart! He limped steadily along beneath the twisted, pale branches, oft using the orc broadsword as a crutch.

When it seemed as though he could go no further, when the hazy film of fatigue passed in front of his eyes and the black shadow impaled his breast like a knife; when the furious pain in his ankle flamed, the song of water falling over rock chimed through the forest. Pain and fatigue had blinded his eyes from the life springing forth round him: groves and thickets of flowering buds, soft moss spread upon the ground like carpet in a royal hall, tamarisk and lilies, pungent sage and junipers, ancient oaks and birches planted by men long ago and then forgotten and allowed to grow untamed; a cacophony of groping vines and gnarled branches ensnarling and entangling one another.

Aragorn fell to his knees beside the banks of a clear and cold stream. Oblivious to its icy bite, he scooped up water in his hands and swallowed gulps of it -- sweet and fresh water, the taste of life. He splashed it upon his face and then unwrapped the tattered cloak binding the wounds on his wrists and held his hands beneath the frigid water, gasping in relief as the stream washed over the chafed skin, cleansing and bearing away the ache of the rope burns. After Aragorn had satiated his thirst and felt some vigor flowing through his battered body, he crawled through the brush searching for herbs. Sweet water did not cure all ills – his ankle caused him much discomfort and his profound weariness and soreness did not abate – but it threatened to push to its last throw the shadow that the Morgul Vale and Minas Morgul had spread across his heart. Bushes and thorns scraped at his flesh and perforated his cloak and got matted in his hair, but he ignored it, and beneath pungent sagebrush he found athelas at last.

Aragorn would have liked a pot to heat the herbs in boiling water, but most of his gear had been lost, confiscated by the orcs. Heat strengthened the potency of athelas. Yet even when crushed into icy water it would alleviate the sharpest pain and hasten healing. He unlaced his tall riding boots and painstakingly removed the right one, holding his breath as he eased the boot over his ankle, swollen and red, burning to the touch. That astringent orc tonic would be welcome now, he thought, vile as that was. The leaves he then crushed between two rocks he had unearthed from the streambed, soaked them in water, and massaged them into his leg, shuddering as fire coursed through him. Afterward he held his foot beneath the bubbling rill. It was cold and stung bare flesh, but the heat it bore hence. Within several minutes, the sharpest edge of the pain dissipated, shorn off by the athelas and clean water. Though his ankle throbbed at each beat of his heart, it was no longer a severe hindrance. The same treatment he gave to the rope burns on his wrists and the deeper bruises across his ribcage.

The worst of his hurts assuaged, he continued hiking through the woods, favoring his right foot but bearing weight upon it. At length evening fell across the forest, darkening the woods and hollows. Here the night was serene, the gentle breeze riffling through the boughs soothing and fresh. Stars glittered above the canopy, points of light amongst the tangled net of branches, Eärendil shining brighter than any. It brought hope to Aragorn’s spirit. Yet enemies were still afoot and small bands of orcs and Wild Men haunted these woods; Aragorn slept lightly and fitfully in spite of his weariness.

* * *

In the morning, silver dew clung to branches and leaves; it soaked into the moss carpet upon the ground. Aragorn awoke wet and shivering, damp cold seeping into his bones. He draped his cloak about his shoulders, raised his hood over his head, and for ceaseless and uncountable hours he walked beneath the glistening boughs. The forest had a dulcet, fragrant odor and in spite of the cold, the drizzling mist felt cleansing and pleasant. At last his path intersected with the South Road, which ran straight and true through the woods, old and weathered stone built by stonemasons long ago. Distrustful of what might travel the road, he limped half a furlong alongside it.

The sounds of hooves clattering over stone came to his ears and he dropped to his knees behind a wall of brush, drawing the orc broadsword from his belt. Five or six horses were cantering up the road towards him, all shod and wearing heavily ornamented tack that jangled with each stride. Horses of Gondor. The Enemy’s horses wore plain tack that did not jingle. For a moment, Aragorn listened to their approach, a brisk canter indeed, nearly a hand-gallop as if they raced forth on an urgent errand. Dare he ask for their assistance, or should he remain hidden and allow them to pass unhindered? If he had not been in need of food or hot water and new supplies, it would have been wise to let them go, but he deemed it worth the risk to speak with them.

As they came over a small rise, he stepped out into the road before the riders, the sword in his hand in the event he needed it, but held down, tip pointed towards the ground. Soldiers of Gondor, Rangers of Ithilien, Dúnedain of the South they were, proud men with flowing dark brown hair and beards, clear gray eyes; bearing upon their breasts and their horse’s saddle blankets the sign of Gondor, the White Tree outlined by Seven Stars; wearing forest green cloaks over their shoulders; their tack silver and gold plated, from the shanks of the bits to the high cantles of the saddles. One rider slumped in the saddle, head lolling limply with the movement of the horse, feet bound to the stirrups, and one of his companions ponied[i] his horse.

Upon seeing Aragorn standing proudly in their path, they yanked upon the reins, hauling their horses to a halt, and the horses snorted, flinging up their heads and flaring their nostrils in fear of the foul place he had come from and surely smelled of. They fanned around him, enclosing him in a small semi-circle. The riders drew their swords and two raised longbows, pointing arrows at Aragorn’s breast. Ithilien Rangers were skilled fighters and Aragorn alone, on foot, and with one good leg had no prospect of winning a skirmish with five of them, especially on horseback. He let fall the sword, a clatter upon the stone at his feet, and held up his hands.

“Hail, Soldiers of Gondor,” he said. “I am not a foe, but merely a weary traveler passing through.”

“There are no travelers in Ithilien,” said their leader, holding the tip of his sword a hair’s breadth from Aragorn’s throat, “merely spies and servants of the Enemy. What be your name?”

Aragorn did not speak his real name, for there were those in these lands who knew or suspected the significance of Aragorn son of Arathorn. Nor did he offer them the name he had been known by in Gondor and Rohan many long years ago, Thorongil, the Eagle of the Star, for then he had led the Gondorean army in battle against the rebels in Umbar and counseled Ecthelion, the Steward and the father of Denethor. Then evil stirred again in the North, a beseeching plea for the Chieftain of the Dúnedain to return to his former lands to defend the simple people who inhabited the Shire and its surrounding hamlets in blissful ignorance of the foes stalking their borders. For those reasons and in fear of fame and of curious minds in Gondor, such as the sharp and suspicious intellect of Denethor, discovering his real name and lineage, Aragorn departed. No one knew whence he came and no one knew where he went or what summons he had received. Many had loved him, and the name was well known. In any event, Thorongil had been a great captain, a leader of men, not a wayworn vagabond, battered and lamed, wearing tattered raiment and carrying orc weapons.

“I am a friend of Gondor, your kin,” Aragorn said at length. “Strider I am called, one of the Dúnedain of the North.” Strider folk of Bree and its surrounding marches called him, a name he had little affection for, but it surely had not reached the ears of Gondor.

“I am Damrod, Lieutenant of the Ithilien Rangers,” said the man, his sword unwavering and blue-gray eyes harder than the glinting steel of the sword. “If you indeed do not serve the Enemy, what be your business in Ithilien?”

“Hunting for a spy of the Dark Lord, if you will-“

A shadow passed across Damrod’s face. “A spy?”

“This creature could bring great evil to us all if he is not found, I fear. I don’t think he would have traveled through Ithilien, but I must, for I have searched for him in lands no man should wander, and I am weary and in need of rest and clean water and food.”

“Is it an orc?” asked Damrod, his blade unmoving under Aragorn’s chin.

“No. It is a creature whose mind and body have been misshapen and corrupted by the foul work of the Enemy. I cannot say more than that.” He met Damrod’s suspicious stare with his penetrating gaze, clear gray eyes steadfast, though drawn with weariness.

“Sir, I believe him,” said one of the soldiers. “I see no lie in his eyes.”

“The Enemy comes in all guises, Baranor,” warned Damrod.

“Do you not know, sir?” pressed Baranor. “The Rangers of the North, the Dúnedain, are of the northern bloodlines of our kin, of Elendil, of Valandil, long rumored to have perished. I doubt in my heart that Faramir would want this man slain.”

“Does Captain Faramir lead the Rangers of Ithilien?” Aragorn said. “For I greatly desire to speak with him.”

Slowly, Damrod withdrew the blade from Aragorn’s throat, but he did not sheath it; he held it offset from Aragorn’s breast, mistrustful in spite of his comrade’s faith and the courageous assurance in Aragorn’s voice and gray eyes, unblinking and impassive. “Captain Faramir is on an errand to Minas Tirith,” he said. “He left two days ago upon receiving a message that Mithrandir had entered the White City. He appeared greatly disturbed.”

“Mithrandir,” breathed Aragorn. In Gandalf’s coming shards of hope remained, ere the tides turned and darkness fell.

“You know of Mithrandir?” Damrod said.

“He and I have been great friends for many a long year and through many toils,” said Aragorn.

“On what business does he come to Gondor? It was of great concern to Faramir.”

Aragorn shook his head. Often Gandalf spoke in riddles, but here he knew what Gandalf sought in Minas Tirith. But to Damrod he said, “His movements can be mysterious and puzzling. Often you cannot understand his motives until some time after he has vanished on another errand.”

Narrowing his eyes, Damrod at last sheathed his sword and said gruffly, “I have many questions for you, but we must ride hard and fast to our camp. Our comrade has fallen to orc arrows, we have tarried too much, and I fear he shall not survive the ride. By the law of our land, I should take you in, but we have not the horses to spare in our company. You may go free, but do not tarry long in Ithilien!”

“Your comrade was wounded?” said Aragorn, looking to the Ranger who slumped over his horse’s neck, face pale as death and blemished with sweat, a raging fever ablaze, the poisons of Mordor burning life away. “I have some skills as healer,” he offered. “Perhaps I can stave off the poison long enough for you to reach your camp.”

The men exchanged apprehensive glances and whispered amongst themselves in Sindarin, in low voices that they believed below Aragorn’s hearing, but his ears were keen – he heard their hasty discussion concerning his trustworthiness and what devilry the Enemy’s forces had unleashed upon them and what risks were worth the lives of their comrades. And then they turned their weathered faces towards Aragorn again.

“If indeed you serve the Dark Lord,” said Damrod, “You shall have your throat slit before you can touch your weapons. But alas, we fear for our companion’s life, and you do not seem like a man the Shadow would place in our path to snare us with falsehoods.”

Aragorn bowed his head. “I would not snare you with a falsehood. You and your kinsmen are merciful and wise.”

Two of the Rangers dismounted and untied the ropes binding the wounded man to the saddle, and then they gently removed him from the horse and rested him upon a bed of soft moss beside the road. Here, Aragorn knelt down beside him, a hand upon his feverish brow. The wounded man seemed hardly to breathe. He was nearly spent. Man and horse formed a ring around the two on the ground, watching intently, hope etched with fear in their eyes.

“What is his name?” asked Aragorn.

“Aldamir,” said Damrod.

“Aldamir,” said Aragorn softly to the wounded man. “One of the kings of old.” He asked for a pan of water and one of the Rangers produced one for him. He steeped the athelas leaves he had collected earlier in water, producing a fragrance that enlivened all who inhaled it, and then he took a cloth soaked in the aromatic water and laid it across Aldamir’s sweaty forehead. Upon opening Aldamir’s shirt, he found two arrow-wounds in his breast, angry and red, oozing blood and pus and the rotting stench of an orc’s poisoned arrow. Would that the Lord Elrond were here, the eldest of their race! Aragorn bathed the wounds in the water and whispered a gentle plea for Aldamir to come back from where he wandered in his dark fever. “Anor valthen, togo laugas lín nestad enin gûr hen. Ceven dhaer, anno vellas lín enin 'raw hen. Suil Ennui, erio thûl lín i faer hen.[ii]”

Aldamir’s eyes opened and beheld Aragorn’s weathered and lined face and kingly eyes, the blue-gray of the sea before a storm. He grasped Aragorn’s forearm with a gloved hand, and behind him, Aragorn heard gasps of relief from the other Rangers.

“Who are you?” asked Aldamir. “Am I not dead?”

“Nay, you are not,” Aragorn said softly.

“You speak the Elven tongue!” exclaimed one of the Rangers. “That relieves my doubts, for no Men but Dúnedain speak Sindarin as if it were their own. But it has long been believed that the Dúnedain of the Northern Kingdom perished in the time of Arvedui, when Angmar at last defeated Arnor.”

“We are not many, but vigilantly we protect the Northern lands from evil,” replied Aragorn. Then he raised his eyes to Damrod’s wondering face and said, “He needs rest now and he will mend.” Healing the wounded man had purloined his final reserves of strength and he rocked back against the gnarled roots of a great oak tree, his forehead resting upon his knee, tired beyond all reckoning, beyond the aid of athelas.

“You look as though you need healing yourself,” said Damrod.

“Merely rest.” He closed his eyes. “I have not slept for many days.”

“We are greatly in your debt. Come with us to our refuge. Orcs and Southrons roam these woods. Long ago, the woods of Ithilien were a paradise, a peaceful glade where one could seek solace and nourish his spirit, but no longer. The Tower of the Moon – now Minas Morgul – has long been the city of the Ringwraiths, taken by the Enemy over a thousand years ago, and South Ithilien tainted. As his strength grows, he impinges upon the borders of North Ithilien and our strength fails. It seems that there is little we can do, but what little we can do, we do it.”

Most of Damrod’s words bespoke a tale Aragorn knew well, and he half-listened to the Ithilien Ranger’s premonitions of doom, but at the words “Minas Morgul,” a chill coursed through him and he shuddered. In the darkness behind his lids, he saw the luminescent tower staring from its perch upon the knee of the jagged cliff, an eye malevolent and unblinking, great in its malice.

“You do not look well,” said Damrod. “Come. Anborn,” he turned to another Ranger, “you shall carry Aldamir with you, and Strider shall ride Aldamir’s horse.”

“That is not necessary,” said Aragorn, rising to his feet, braced against the old oak tree. But Damrod placed the reins of a bay gelding in his hand, saying,

“This is Flame. He will bear you safely. You do not look as if you can walk another mile, much less the ten leagues to our refuge, Henneth Annûn.”

Aragorn bowed his head and assented. His journey to the Morannon would fail if he did not replenish his strength, and not even in Ithilien’s evergreen and picturesque wood would he find rest. Though the forest appeared peaceful despite the gloomy rain, it was but feigned serenity. At the front door of Mordor, few places were wholly safe. He graciously thanked Damrod and hobbled over to the bank sloping down from the road, leading the horse and positioning the animal downhill from himself so he could mount without aggrieving his wounded leg.

After he had climbed into the saddle, the riders spurred their horses into a brisk canter and clattered down the road. Flame had a soft, undulating canter, like a boat swaying upon an even swell on a calm sea, and Aragorn found himself drifting in and out of peaceful and indistinct dreams. Rich green forest floated alongside him, horses snorted and breathed deeply, iron-shod hooves struck the road in a steady rhythm, swords and knives and bows rattled. There was no need to guide the horse or drive him forward, for the gelding was content to follow his companions home. Onward they pressed until the overcast day plunged into evening, and the moon shone eerily through the clouds, a ghostly galleon rocking on stormy seas. To Aragorn, it seemed as if they would ride forever into the dreary night, he blinked his eyes and roused himself awake enough to ask the rider beside him, “Is it wise to travel at night? Orcs and other fell creatures stir in the dark.”

“It is not far now,” replied the rider.

Aragorn nodded and again he slid into those indistinct realms between sleep and wakefulness. For how much longer they rode, he did not know, and dreams impinged ever closer until they became almost coherent, and then were abruptly shattered when the horse jolted into a trot. They had turned off the road and come to a small river and a narrow gorge. It sprang over rocks, cleaving through sheer cliffs. Looking to the west, Aragorn could see Anduin glinting faintly in the distance beyond the dark swath of forest, a silvery ribbon cutting through the shadowy plain.

“We dismount here,” said Damrod.

Aragorn pressed his fingers to his eyes and stifled a yawn. He wrapped his arm around the high pommel of the saddle and slid off the horse, leaning against the gelding’s shoulder or his knees should have given way when he dismounted. Tired and sore limbs complained, and his aching head swam as he slowly shuffled to the horse’s head. A root caught his foot and he stumbled hard, crashing face first into a hyacinth, and there he lay still, as though struck down by a blow

“Strider?” said Damrod, kneeling down beside him and shaking his shoulder. “Strider?

The Ithilien Ranger’s lined face was shrouded in a black haze and falling away from Aragorn. A vast distance stretched between them, and Aragorn could no longer hear Damrod’s voice or see his face or feel the gloved hand gripping and shaking his shoulder. Falling until darkness enveloped his sight and his thought and swallowed the pain.

* * *

Aragorn was in Rivendell. Somewhere beyond his sight, Elves sang a plaintive dirge about wandering and leaving beloved lands in Middle-Earth to distant Valinor. Though the words were sorrowful, the music brought peace and warmth to his heart. The Bruinen, curling and rushing through a smooth channel, cackled against the rocks below, a wondrous sound. Sunlight shone through the silvery mist, thin rays stretching through Rivendell like Elvish fingers upon a harp. The spectacular snow-capped peaks of the Hithaeglir, the Misty Mountains, held their heads high above the clouds, marching across the horizon. Above his head, birds flitted and the fine structures of Elves, towers and terraces ornamented with intricate metal and stonework, wound up the side of moss-covered cliffs. On one of these terraces, Aragorn rested upon a soft bed overlooking the river, his pipe in his mouth. He breathed deeply, inhaling the succulent fragrances of the plants and incense burning in the tiny lamps strung throughout Imladris. Here he had been raised and here his heart dwelt, in spite of his long years of wandering to distant lands, as far south and east as Harad and Rhûn, as far north as the Carn Dûm and the Mountains of Angmar, and fighting wars for Gondor and Rohan. Rivendell’s tranquil beauty and splendid vistas held him captive. Merely basking here beneath the radiant sun and listening to the river and Elven songs soothed his many hurts.

Arwen stepped onto the terrace; queenly she looked wearing a deep blue satin dress with gold embroidery across the sleeves and breast, her rich dark hair falling about her like a waterfall, with two fine braids tied together by a silver cap, adorned with white jewels and silver lace. In her glittering blue-gray eyes was the insight of one who had seen many years, ages come and go, and knew many things. Her smile upon seeing Aragorn lit up her face like a star. The Evenstar, the light of her people indeed. She sat beside him, brushing a wisp of dark hair out of his eyes, and he took one of her fair, soft hands in his rough, battle-hardened one and placed it against his breast.

“Too long has it been since I last saw you,” he whispered in Sindarin.

“Do not speak,” she said, placing a finger against his lips. “It will wound my heart, for you must journey hence again.”

“Yes, but not now. I have time to rest here, to recover my strength before I face new trials.”

“No,” she cried suddenly, startling him. “You cannot stay!”

“Arwen,” he said.

“Already the shadow covers the lands of Gondor and Rohan, and you must ride forth! There is no time.”

“I need time,” he said.

“You cannot stay until you have cast aside the Ranger and become who you were born to be, Elessar. There is but one road for you to take.”

“I fear that road. I do not want it.”

“You have no choice. It will come to you whether you desire it or not.” She squeezed his hand and then stood up and stepped away from him, withdrawing from the terrace.

“Where are you going?” Aragorn asked.

“I would give up the Undying Lands for you,” she whispered. A breeze teased long strands of dark hair and bedazzling light shone on her face, as if Eärendil itself glowed upon her brow. “I would spend one lifetime with you rather than a thousand alone in Valinor. But alas, I cannot give it up for the Dúnadan, however fair he may be. Only for the High King of Gondor and Arnor.”

“Do not weep,” he pleaded. “It is like a spear through the heart, seeing you weep.”

“I weep for a future that is but a dream; no more than a wisp of smoke.”

“It is a long road,” he said. “I might die before the end upon the sword or spear. Let us have time together now.”

“There is no time.” Arwen withdrew further from him until the boughs shrouded her features, beautiful and sad; she and Rivendell seemed to fall away from him as he plunged down a chasm, wheeling and spinning in circles, reaching for a ledge or anything with which to arrest his fall, but his fingers slipped.

“Arwen!” he cried, “Don’t leave!” His voice echoed in the vast emptiness, but both Arwen and Imladris had faded from sight and he was alone in the dark.

He lay sprawled upon the white bridge, steam colder than death rising and curling around him. The luminous tower of Minas Morgul glared at him, flaying open his soul, its many eyes like a thousand tiny knives, the windows on its lower levels black, faceless, gazing inwards. Terrified, he tried to get up, but his limbs refused to answer. A great roar emerged from the city and bluish-white lightning sprang up the tower and leapt into the sky, illuminating the noxious black clouds. Aragorn squinted and blocked the blinding light with a forearm as it stabbed his eyes. A bloodcurdling screech arose, a cry stilling his heart. Then, a great beast ascended from the city, a reptilian creature with magnificent leathery wings, a long neck, and a cavernous, gaping mouth lined with razor-sharp teeth. Upon the base of the neck sat a rider, a Nazgûl bearing a malformed crown upon his head; the Witch-King of Angmar, the ancient enemy of Aragorn’s lands to the North.

The creature spread its immense wings, leapt into the air, and then descended upon the bridge not five feet from Aragorn and smote his senses with its foul breath. His heart pounded a frantic rhythm. He tried to rise to his feet and draw his sword, but his muscles were paralyzed; he could do nothing but gaze in horror at the Chief of the Ringwraiths. “I am sorry, Arwen,” he thought. For his death would be here, murdered by a Morgul-blade on the bone-colored bridge before the gates of Minas Morgul.

The Nazgûl dismounted, sword drawn. Slow and deliberate, he approached Aragorn, his virulent presence freezing Aragorn’s blood, oppressing him with mortal terror. The notched blade rose above him, and the Witch-King’s deathless voice breathed, “So ends the time of Isildur’s heir” and brought the sword down upon him.

* * *

Aragorn snapped opened his eyes and sat up. He was disoriented, drenched in sweat, gasping for air, trembling. His mind was caught in the web between sleep and wakefulness, and reality was indistinguishable from illusion. A firm, warrior’s hand grasped his forearm in the dark, and a baritone voice said kindly, “It was but a bad dream. Something so accursed that you woke me and others in your restless sleep.”

It had been nothing more than a nightmare, the infernal Witch-King astride the winged beast a figment of his imagination. Perhaps such horrors existed, but not here and now. He was in Ithilien, swathed in blankets on a low cot, a dark ceiling of smooth stone arching over his head, the tranquil noise of water tumbling down a cliff somewhere in the background. How he came to this place, he could not say, for his last cognizant memory was of stumbling to his knees after he had dismounted the horse.

“I tried to wake you,” said the man. A name came to Aragorn: Baranor, one of the Rangers who had met him on the road. “But you would not stir. What dark dream plagued you?”

Aragorn shook his head. His breath steadied and the frenzied beating of his heart eased. “I care not to tell of it. It would dampen your spirits. How long have I slept?” He felt strangely more alive than he had for many days. The Black Shadow of Minas Morgul had come with him since he left that accursed place, and like a gray rain cloud rolling aside, it lifted, a clear shaft of hope pierced weariness and dejection. Sleep and herbs had rent the blackness.

Baranor touched Aragorn’s left hand and said with a smile, “It is warm again.”

Querulous, Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “How long have I slept?”

“Not more than twenty hours. You have been to some dark place indeed, for when you fell, you were ice cold. We feared you had suffered some grievous injury and stood upon death’s very doorstep. But though we are in the wild, we have healers here. They spoke of darkness and of fell things, but no fatal hurts, and rest would be a cure beyond every herb and healer’s voice.”

“My ears catch the sound of water upon rock,” said Aragorn. “I have heard stories of the most beautiful waterfall in Ithilien.”

“It is indeed,” replied Baranor. “You shall see it if you walk down that passageway, though it is dark now – no moon tonight -- and difficult to see.” He gestured towards a gap in the smooth, gray rock wall, a tunnel opening to murky blackness. There in gossamer sheets, like the sail of a ship from Valinor but threaded with pearl and silver thread, hung a curtain of water. Baranor added, “Perhaps you should wait until morning to have a closer look. You have been through much and should rest.”

“Are there any pipes and pipeweed about? I am afraid I lost my supplies.”[iii]

Baranor nodded and rose to his feet. Then he dissolved into darkness; only his soft and even footsteps could be heard as he treaded down one of the tunnels, fading out of Aragorn’s keen hearing. A few minutes later, he returned with a pipe and some weed, which he set beside Aragorn’s cot. Aragorn proffered his thanks and took the pipe and dried leaves.

“I am wearied,” said Baranor. “And I shall sleep better knowing you are on the mend.”

Aragorn nodded. “Yes, I am mending. Your kindness is much appreciated.”

For several long hours, Aragorn sat alone in the dark, knees drawn up to his chest, puffing at the pipe, listening to the thrumming of water against rock, transfixed by the dazzling veil of the cataract, the jeweled curtain of silver and pearl spray. All around him in the great rock-chamber, the Ithilien Rangers slept fitfully, aware even in sleep of the omnipresent threat smoldering on their eastern borders. They were Gondor’s first and foremost defense against Mordor, the first to fall when the hosts of Sauron poured forth, but long had they been resigned to their fate. Warfare against Mordor had been nearly unremitting in Gondor since the Stewardship of Túrin II. It was in his reign that Sauron again declared himself openly and the folk of fair Ithilien fled west over Anduin. But Túrin never wholly ceded Ithilien to the Enemy; he built secret refuges for the soldiers of Ithilien, of which Henneth Annûn was one, and always a small garrison fortified the green woods.

Come morning, Aragorn would begin trekking north, following the Ephel Dúath until he reached the Noman-Lands, desolate and battle-scarred, and then heading due east through heaps and hills of slag and blasted earth to the Morannon. The journey inspired little hope, yet energy and tenacity leeched into him as he huddled against the wall, pipe in his teeth, the cold of Minas Morgul ebbing away like a tide. Aragorn inhaled deeply at his pipe, filling his lungs with the saccharine leaves and fresh air of Ithilien, thrusting aside dark reminiscences.

It enlivened his spirit to know Gandalf had passed through the gates of Minas Tirith two days ago. Gandalf should have, by Aragorn’s reckoning, arrived in the city weeks ago. It mattered not. Something in these evil times could readily have delayed him.

Aragorn cast himself down upon the cot and lay on his back, hands folded across his breast, but now that he had roused after fourteen hours of sleep, he was wide-awake. After a time, he rose to his feet again and padded barefoot across the cold stone floor to his supplies in a hollow corner. There, he sprinkled the dust of crumpled athelas leaves into one of the orc water skins, which he had earlier filled with water from one of the luscious streams in the grove. He soaked a torn piece of cloth in the water for a few minutes and wrapped it firmly around his ankle, still swollen and sore, but much improved from the anguish and fire of three days ago. He cringed and gasped at the icy water touching his flesh, for a nipping chill was in the air. And then the athelas soaked into the flesh from the makeshift poultice, excising soreness.

Though he was hungry, he ignored the pangs in his stomach and crawled into the cot, furling himself in the blankets. His hosts had been more hospitable than he would have expected from them, and he was too polite a guest to take advantage of it. In any case, Aragorn understood enough Gondorrim law to feel grateful for the honor Damrod and his companions bestowed upon him – a night’s rest in Henneth Annûn and leave to travel through their lands free and unhindered. Strangers were prohibited from roaming freely in Gondor without express permission of the Lord and Steward, and Aragorn had no aims of approaching Lord Denethor or Minas Tirith until such time as he was ready to fulfill his rights as Elendil’s heir. If indeed that time arrived before it was too late for both Aragorn and Gondor, a distant future Aragorn could see but dimly. Denethor would remember Thorongil with bitterness, the man who had held a more esteemed place at his father’s side than he, Ecthelion’s own son. Aragorn thought, there are few in Middle-Earth whom Denethor -- wise and learned in lore but cantankerous and irascible in temperament – thinks well of, but he disliked me more than most. After a time he shut his eyes, for if sleep eluded him, in the very least he could rest and wait out the night.

* * *

The rising sun illuminated the rock chamber. Men stirred and then set up tables on trestles, and then threw down cooking gear upon them; pots and ladles, bowls and dishes, platters and mugs, all unadorned but solidly fashioned.

The activity, the rattling of dishes, the crashing of tables, the hushed voices, awoke Aragorn. He blinked his eyes as they adjusted to the gloomy light and looked about the chamber, a disorderly mess of scattered cots, weapons, clothes, and other supplies, as if a great windstorm had tossed everything heedlessly across the stone floor. After awakening in the middle of the night, he must have fallen back into a dreamless sleep, for he remembered nothing after ministering to his leg and then returning to the cot. Had he drifted off for one hour or ten? Rare was it that he slept for so many hours. He could not, in the cavern’s dim light, discern the precise time of day, though he figured it was morning. Henneth Annûn meant “window of the sunset” in the ancient tongue and the falls looked to west, to the sunset. Spears of light were not shining into the falls, but glancing off it, thrown from a different direction. In the radiant glow of dawn, the waterfall shimmered with diaphanous threads and jewels of red and gold and blue, an array of ever changing colors. It seemed a relic of another age, of the gossamer waterfalls of Gondolin before the devastation of Beleriand.

Most of the men in the chamber were moving about, lighting torches, readying breakfast, and sorting through weapons and other supplies. A small fire glowed in the corner, fenced in by three tables piled high with cooking gear. Shaking himself free of his blankets, Aragorn rose to his feet and crossed the great chamber, now unfettered by lameness and the shadow. Baranor and Damrod hurried to meet him.

“Strider,” Damrod said, laughing. “You look much improved from yesterday. We feared you might not survive the night.”

Aragorn smiled at them and followed them to the tables. “What is the time?”

“It is just dawn,” said Baranor. “We did not wish to wake you. Come. You need to eat.”

“I have little time to spare,” Aragorn said. “I must eat and fly. My illness or whatever it was has waylaid me longer than I intended.”

The Ithilien Rangers stood facing the west in a moment of silence before sitting, an ancient Gondorean tradition recognizing the lost past. Aware of his royal Númenorean blood, Aragorn cast his eyes to the stone floor. It was his heritage these men looked to, though they did not know it; the heritage of Elendil and Isildur that instilled hope in Men in their war against the Shadow. But in their hearts, they felt themselves to be a failing people, an autumn without a spring, the blood of Númenor all but spent. Spent in all but Aragorn, son of Arathorn, though little did he resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stood carven in their majesty in the halls of Denethor. What hope was there in him anyway? Had his ancestor Isildur destroyed the Ring instead of keeping it, Sauron’s spirit would not have survived the victory of the Last Alliance. Then the troubling moment passed, and Aragorn turned his thoughts away from the past.

The meal seemed a feast; salty meat and bread and butter, dry wine and fresh fruits. It was no royal feast of a king’s hall, merely what could be brought or cooked camping in the wild. But it tasted more succulent than anything Aragorn could then recall, more luscious and mouth-watering than any fine meal in Meduseld or the Citadel in Minas Tirith. He no longer felt sleepy and his heart was lighter than it had been for many weeks. Convivial tales and songs were told of battles, won and lost, of great adventures, of mishaps with crazy horses. Anborn played lively reels upon a fiddle and several of the Rangers sang of happier times, of fair maids and of alcohol. Aragorn told a few tales, careful to steer widely around anything even obliquely referring to the Ring, Thorongil, or his real name and lineage. They asked him to sing, and he obligingly did so, a plaintive air he had learned in Rivendell long ago.

Meleth e-guilen,[iv] when you're far away
Far from the land you'll be leaving,
It's many a time by night and by day
That your heart will be sorely grieving.
Though the road is toilsome, and hard to tread
And the lights of their cities will blind you.
Won't you turn your heart to Imladris’ shore
And the ones that you're leaving behind you.

Meleth e-guilen, when the evening's mist
Over mountain and sea is falling,
won't you turn away from the throng
And maybe you'll hear me calling.
For the sound of a voice that is surely missed
For somebody's quick returning.
A ruin, a ruin, oh won't you come back soon
To the ones who will always love you.[v]

When the meal ended, Aragorn rose to his feet and bowed to his hosts in heartfelt gratitude. His life he owed to the Ithilien Rangers. He smiled, a brilliant flash of sunlight crossing the deep shadows of his face. And the Gondoreans could not help but gaze at him, awed, wondering where this travel-worn, bedraggled vagabond came from and what his real name might be.

He said, “I am in need of haste and I am afraid I must ask you for some supplies. Mine have all been lost.”

“Anything,” said Damrod. “Come with me. We shall give you some weapons as well. That orc blade you have with you is quite dull and notched.”

Aragorn followed him to a hollow in the back of the chamber, separated from the common area by haggard canvass tacked to the rock, draping across the entrance. In the hollow sat two unornamented wooden chairs facing one another. A small rug was spread out beneath the chairs; otherwise the recess was bare except for a little earthenware lamp burning in a corner.

“This is the Lord Faramir’s private chamber,” explained Damrod as he sat in one of the chairs. “But as he is not here and I am acting in his stead, it is my sanctuary. As you can see, we have all the trappings of a royal hall here at Henneth Annûn.” He laughed.

“Indeed,” said Aragorn.

“Before I release you, I must ask you a question you are loathe to answer, it seems. What is your destination? Our law does not even permit me to let you go. At least I should like to know where you travel and that you shall not remain in Ithilien longer than necessary.”

“I know your law.” He took a deep breath and beheld Damrod with a level gaze. “I came to Ithilien from Minas Morgul, where I searched fruitlessly for this creature of whom I spoke. Alas, there was no sign of him there, so I intend on hunting for him at the Morannon, the Black Gate. That is where I am going.”

Damrod’s face grew pale and he averted his gaze.

“On the foothills of the Ephel Dúath, I had an encounter with orcs that turned ill and lost what little gear I had left,” Aragorn continued. “I escaped, but I had no choice but to take their weapons and their water. It would have been too perilous to retrieve my own.”

Damrod waved him silent. “Do not speak more of this,” he said. “We feared some great evil had befallen you, for you were quite ill. You survived Minas Morgul! You are lucky to be alive.”

“So I hear,” said Aragorn.

“You should stay another day and rest,” Damrod suggested.

“I cannot. For most of my life, I have ventured alone in the wild on journeys to lands at the edge of the map. This has not been my first expedition to the Black Land, though it was by far the worst. The evil there has strengthened since two-score years ago. In any case, I shall be fine.”

Misgivings still shaded Damrod’s features. “Is it necessary-“ but the uncompromising gleam in Aragorn’s eye silenced him. “Of course. What do you need?”

“Weapons, food, cooking supplies, water, and rope.”

“Rope?”

“Should I survive the perils of the Morannon, the least treacherous way out is the little used path through the Dead Marshes and over the Emyn Muil. I do not think any man can walk across the desolate plains of Dagorlad, unprotected, and not be captured or killed. Orcs use those passages. I shall need the rope for negotiating the cliffs of the Emyn Muil.”

Upon hearing the Dead Marshes, Damrod’s face showed horror; he appeared to not have heard the remainder of the reasoning behind the need for a rope. “You ventured to the gates of Minas Morgul and survived the deadly flowers of the Morgul Vale. Now you intend upon journeying to the Black Gate itself and then, should you survive that unscathed, leave by way of the Dead Marshes. You either have the courage of our forefathers, of Elendil, or you are completely addled.”

“Perhaps both,” said Aragorn with a wan smile as Damrod led him out of the recess and to a stack of weapons high enough to reach Aragorn’s waist.

As he looked for sharpened and well-balanced blades and a bow, he pondered Damrod’s repealed question. Is it necessary to go to the Morannon, had surely been the words on the tip of the Gondorean captain’s tongue. Aragorn was not sure himself if the Black Gate was a necessary peril or merely a fool’s errand. Perhaps he was addled. It panged his heart to know he would leave the evergreen glades of Ithilien and again encounter the desolate and wretched Ephel Dúath and crawl beneath the baleful red eye of Mordor. In the depths of his soul, he did not want to do it and would have joyfully remained here or turned west, back to his homelands. Alas, he could not convince himself to surrender his mission and turn around. The resoluteness in his blood and his own heart spurred him forward. To his death, it seemed.

Clad in a new cloak, forest green like those worn by the Ithilien Rangers, carrying a bow and a full quiver of arrows, a sword graven with the Seven Stars and Crescent Moon, the insignia of Númenor, as well as three daggers, and provisioned with food, water, rope, and some menial cooking gear, Aragorn bid Henneth Annûn farewell, doubting he would ever look upon its fair waterfall, luscious forest, and glittering pools again. Adhering to the law of his land, Damrod blindfolded Aragorn and led him out of the cave. The blindfold Aragorn expected – the secret paths to the last refuges in Ithilien must remain secret, even from a Dúnadan of the North. To the High King of Gondor they could be revealed, but that time was neither now nor near.

The Gondoreans guided him up a steep incline following a sheer and smooth cliff wall, the sound of rushing water cackling at his heels. He rarely faltered, for he did not need his eyes to be surefooted. By the time Damrod removed the blindfold, Aragorn had lost all sense of direction. About him he saw a forest of ancient, wide-girthed trees in colorful raiment of flowers and shimmering green leaves. Here the land was an indistinct memory, muddled and dreamlike, the place where he had slid off the horse half-unconscious two days past. He stood upon the flank of a low mountain; behind him the narrow gorge and swift river, and to his right, Anduin snaking across the plain like a mithril band, veiled beneath a thin layer of mist hanging low over the valley. Beyond the great river, the Ered Nimrais reared their white heads towards the sky, flushed blue and purple with the rosy hues of the morning. Gondor, Gondor, between the mountains and the sea, he thought, the mournful lyrics to an old song. Aragorn turned his gaze northwards away from the bright mountains. His road did not lie south. North he must travel, and to the north the forest descended into flat, washed-out plains of the desolate stretches of Dagorlad and beyond it, the festering, stinking Dead Marshes. And to the East the serrated ridges of the Ephel Dúath clawed at the ashen, bloodied sky of Mordor.

“Here we part,” said Damrod, “Though I beg you to reconsider your choice to travel northeast. Nothing good can come from those evil lands.”

“Indeed, nothing can,” agreed Aragorn. “But it is there I must tread whether I like it or not.”

“You could stay a while longer,” said Baranor.

“I would, but the world is changing faster than you know, and I have not the time.”

Damrod sighed. “I do not think we shall meet again, but if we do in happier times, perhaps then you can tell us your secrets – why you so earnestly hunt this creature, your real name... I do not think it is Strider.”

“I am known by many names,” said Aragorn simply. Laying a hand upon Damrod’s shoulder, he added with a smile, “I too hope for such a time. Farewell. Navaer.”[vi]

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

[i] To pony: To lead one horse while riding another.

[ii] Sindarin: “Golden sun, may your warmth bring healing to this heart. Great earth, may you give your strength to this body. Western winds, may your breath lift this spirit.” Translation by Taramuiliel. http://members.cox.net/taramiluiel/sindarin_phrases.htm

[iii] Tolkien indicates that pipeweed was predominately smoked in the Northern Regions of Middle-earth and Eriador, and though it grew in Gondor and Southern regions, smoking it was not a common practice amongst Men. However, it is not wholly unreasonably to speculate that such practices would have diffused throughout Middle-earth to at least a small extent. Hobbits were not a completely isolated population, for travelers and trade passed through Bree and similar towns, and it is clear from the text that individuals like Aragorn and Gandalf did smoke and also traveled widely. So while the text suggests that Ithilien Rangers (and anyone else not living in Eriador) did not in fact smoke, it is not entirely improbable to assume they had no knowledge whatsoever of it, as no population in Middle-earth was isolated. For the purposes of this narrative, I am diverging from explicit canon suggesting men of the South did not smoke based upon the aforesaid reasoning.

[iv] Sindarin: “Love of my life.” Ibid.

[v] This is an Irish tune called “A Stór Mo Chroí,” written by an Irish patriot who participated in the 1916 uprising. Since LOTR has such a powerful infusion of Celtic culture, I thought it would be pertinent to include at least one Irish song and change necessary words. In this I changed the word “Erin” to “Imladris” and I changed the Gaelic phrase at the beginning of each stanza to Sindarin. “A stór mo chroí” approximately means “darling of my heart” and via the wonder that is the Internet, I found an Elvish phrase meaning more or less the same thing at http://members.cox.net/taramiluiel/sindarin_phrases.htm.

[vi] Sindarin: “Farewell.” Ibid.