Chapter 14 - Into the Woods - Part Two -

   Strider gazed eastward. There was no denying that his heart would have made a different decision than his mind. Following the creature to the mountains was a task incomparably unpleasant compared to serving Gondor in the ongoing war. Yet in all the years he had known Gandalf the Grey the wizard had only asked him twice for a favour: the first had been to guard the Shire with the Rangers, and the second to aid him in the hunt for Gollum.

   The travellers had lost time and some distance due to the crossing of the river, and were now marching upstream. Since they preferred to stay close to the shore they had to labour through the muddy terrain, which were much like the fen they had left behind. Carefully they crossed small creeks, which fed into the great river. The wanderer fixed his eyes to the ground, often straying from the shore to collect many a leaf to replenish his supplies of herbs. Daevan assisted him, and every time he brought a wrong leaf he got a lesson in botany.

   Their march became strenuous when the sun broke through the clouds, granting them the first sunny day in a week. Daevan looked up with a grunt and wiped the sweat of his forehead. The sun was pleasant to dry their clothes, but brought warmth he had not expected.

   It was after midday when Strider allowed a rest. They put down their burdens and turned to each other, sweating, panting, with muscles crying out for release. Daevan rolled his shoulders, then sat down to produce a meal from their provisions. The roaring of the Anduin had grown louder the nearer the wanderers got to the Rauros Falls. They would not reach them today, but Daevan was glad Strider had decided to cross the river right at the village. Upstream the torrents would have shattered the boat into pieces and probably drowned them.

   Daevan looked around. He had been to the southern shore years ago as an adolescent. An old fisherman, Arini, had accompanied him to one of the mouths of the Entwash, and he had enjoyed the excursion greatly. At that time every diversion from the dull life in the village had been considered a valuable adventure, and Daevan had been disappointed that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The fisherman had laughed about his questions concerning the enemies the returning soldiers had reported about, and Daevan's disappointment had risen to anger. Life had seemed boring at that time! Now he understood that he had forgotten to cherish the peace he had been allowed to live through.

   His eyes focussed on Strider, who was intently watching the northern shore. Nature around them seemed to be holding its breath wherever the wanderers marched. Daevan felt under scrutiny, and though he considered his thoughts foolish, he could not shake off the feeling of uncertainty. Since the day Strider had shot the Orc scouts Daevan had not felt safe anymore.

   “Did you learn how to row a boat at home?” the young man asked to break the unnerving silence.

   “Aye.”

   Daevan waited for a further explanation, but when Strider remained silent, he added:

   “Did your father teach you?”

   “My brothers did.” Finally Daevan was granted a glimpse of the grey eyes. It was of such a deep sadness that Daevan regretted asking. In a quiet voice Daevan continued:

   “I was taught by my father before he left for Minas Tirith. He was… he is, I hope, a good boatswain. And Arini spent time with me whenever we came to the village. He was very gifted when it came to boats, and rowing,... and teaching.” Daevan swallowed. Arini and all the others he had known for years were gone. It was a fact he had yet to cope with. The experience of death was not new to him, but the immeasurable amount of viciousness the enemy had shown was. And the thought that some of the settlers would be forced to work for the Orcs was even worse. Inhaling deeply Daevan turned his head towards Strider again. “My father encouraged me to learn many things. From him I know how to find tracks, and to sustain myself with roots and wild berries. So I'm not completely inexperienced, but… I know little of warfare for there has never been any need to teach me. I know all the old stories though. I practically took them in from the moment I was born. ‘The Eagle of the Star.’” Daevan stared at the jewel that shone clearly in the sunshine. “Why didn't your father stay longer? Gondor was not safe when he left. They still face an uncertain future, I fear.”

   Strider lifted his brows for a moment, pondering over the question before he quietly stated:

   “I could not stay longer.”

   Daevan lifted his gaze, frowning.

   “You? You mean your father…”

   “It was I, who was once named Thorongil,” the wanderer said, locking eyes with the young man, and conveying his sincerity. “Your grand-father supposed as much. I assume he just did not want to utter it aloud.”

   “But no… you can't… It was you indeed, who helped the King of Rohan fend off the Dunlendings?” Daevan's mouth was gaping, and he needed a moment to compose himself. “It was you who stood beside the soldiers of Gondor when the threat from the south grew stronger?” Strider nodded slightly. Daevan whistled through his teeth, and then shook his head. “Why didn't you say so back at my home?”

   Strider's expression turned grave.

   “Do you believe me?” Daevan exhaled and remained silent, biting his lips. He wanted to rely on Strider's words, but the wanderer's appearance did not correspond with Daevan's imagination. He could accept the fact that the wanderer had great experience and knowledge, but to see in him the saviour of Rohan and Gondor was by far more difficult. “Your fellows truly would not,” Strider continued with his calm voice. “They did not even believe your words when we returned after the encounter with the Orcs.” Once more Daevan admired his grand-father for his foresight and wisdom. He understood much better now why he had urged him to follow Strider. “The truth, Daevan, is a two-edged sword. You rescued me, but none of you trusted me. Telling you my name might have turned your friends against me. They would have called me a liar if not worse. Some already thought that my presence was a threat in itself.”

   Daevan still gaped at him. He nodded, but was unable to grasp the meaning of what he had just heard. He swallowed and still frowning asked:

   “But if you are the same man… should you not be as old as my grand-father? You look no older than… forty winters, maybe.”

   “I am indeed older than I look.”

   But… how? I mean, I don't know exactly how old Doran is. Some say he's older than anyone else in the village, but you…” The young man shook his head. “You cannot be, well, seventy? I mean, I don't remember exactly when Thorongil, I mean, when you helped Thengel…”

   “I came to the house of King Thengel in 2961 and stayed for the time I was needed.”

   Daevan's frown deepened as he tried to calculate the years. He failed.

   “That was… nay, it was very long ago.”

   “Indeed.” Strider lowered his head with a small smile.

   “And still you look so young. Or Nilana has worked a miracle,” Daevan added to hide his puzzlement, but when Strider laughed his face brightened and he grinned. “The night we found you there was not much to see of you under the mud! Could have been an older man then. So you were placed in the right hands, Strider! I never saw her so caring for long. She had done admirable deeds so far. Yet… she would have taken you into her heart and home if you had allowed her.”

   Strider’s good mood faded as fast as it had appeared and only sadness remained. His gaze returned to the waterside. His hands rested on the water-skin he had taken off his belt.

   “While I lead this life I would not bind any woman to me.”

   Daevan sensed the older man's gloom and quietly asked:

   “Would you ever do so? I mean, you say you got no real home, so…”

   Strider looked up, and again took his time to answer.

   “I betrothed myself to a woman many years ago, but until many fights are fought and many a foe slain, there will be no hope for me to meet her again.” He cast his eyes down. “If ever.”

   “Who is she?”

   “The most beautiful woman I know.” With that he turned to stand up, and Daevan knew he would not answer any more questions.

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   For the time they still had light the wanderers marched north-westwards. Tough not of equal height Daevan adapted his steps to the wanderer’s and they made good progress. Daevan's mind was restless. Doran had told him every detail he knew about the great warrior. Now Daevan had met him by chance, and those stories – some he had considered to be myths or simple exaggerations – had turned to reality. He walked side by side with the legendary fighter, who had simply by his skill and outstanding abilities to lead an army won many battles. Daevan cast glances at him from time to time. The images he had formed in his mind since he had been a child were wrong: Strider – Thorongil, he reminded himself – was no shining hero with a beautiful armour, golden helmet, and a magnificent sword. He was but a wanderer clad in travel-worn garments and boots stained with mud. The sword at his side was broken, the second one none of great value, and he did not possess helm or cuirass, not to mention a mail shirt. If his assertion was true, where had he left his belongings?

   Close to sunset they reached another small creek, which flowed into the Anduin at a protrusion of rocks lying in a heap as if the children of giants had once played here.

   “Wait!” Daevan grabbed Strider's arm to bring him to a halt.

   “What do you see?”

   Daevan smacked his lips.

   “A fine catch.”

   Strider cocked his head and smirked.

   “Crab again?”

   “No.” Excited Daevan opened his pack to fetch a twine. “Much better.”

   “We have no time…”

   “O, this is such a marvellous place! There have to be trout under those stones! I know it! They like the fresh water of the river, and the stones to hide under. I’m sure they dwell here all through the year.”

   Strider inhaled deeply.

   “So you might prefer to stay for fishing, but I cannot.”

   Daevan looked up with a sly grin.

   “Our food won't last that long. We should save it for a time when there's nothing else to find. And such fish should not be left behind. It's excellent to carry with us roasted.” Daevan noticed Strider's rising aversion against fish and laughed. “With the proper herbs it will be a feast rather than a meal, Strider.”

   “But are there any herbs already ripe for harvesting?”

   Daevan looked round for two twigs, which could be used as rods.

   “Nay, I took everything with me I need.”

   To that Strider could say no more, and Daevan showed the Ranger how to catch the shy trout in the dim evening light. It was a quiet time with only the sound of running water around them. Neither of the men spoke as they watched the trout that could be descried right below the surface. With outstretched legs Strider sat beside Daevan, silently holding the rod into the swiftly flowing creek. Daevan saw contentment in the older man's features though he pretended to be annoyed by the further delay of their journey.

   “You can still leave, Daevan,” said Strider when they had caught four trout and would catch no more since the last rays of sunlight had vanished. “From here on I know the land and will go on alone. You can refill your pack for the way home.”

   “As long as there is a river I can catch fish and find anything I need in your company.”

   They locked eyes, and Strider quietly asked:

   “Are you sure?”

   “Aye.” Daevan moved on to a dry spot where he could kindle a fire. Strider followed him with a deep frown, uncertain about the young man's intentions. Daevan looked at Strider as frankly as before. “I set out to accompany you. That is what I will do unless you abandon me.”

   While Daevan prepared the trout Strider stared at his hands. Though he had washed them in the river, the grazes could not be washed away. Whenever the wounds mended new ones seemed to appear. He could hardly recall a cycle of the moon in which he had not unsheathed his sword.

   “So you do not wish to return to your village?” Strider took the hot piece of fish and sat down, facing the darkness beyond the eastern wall of Rohan. His stomach growled, and when he had taken the first bite he agreed with Daevan that the meal was much better than the provisions they carried.

   Daevan smirked and took the rest of the fish. Carefully he put the second one on a spit to roast it.

   “My mother said I'm like my father. He was no fisherman by his own decision, and I guess, I would never love that kind of life.”

   “What's so bad about leading a simple life? I wish I could.”

   Daevan opened his mouth and shut it again, seeing the older man's seriousness. Instead of mocking him he asked:

   “So your life is… what, preordained? By whose order?”

   “Not by order, Daevan, but by… something far older than I am.”

   “And you already said you were older than you look,” Daevan stated with his brows raised, and the older man opposite to him curled his lips to a sad grin. “Tell me about it since there seems to be more of the old lore than I have heard since I had ears to listen.”

   “And far more will never be told. How could Doran tell you so much about Gondor?”

   Daevan eyed him for a moment, but when Strider did not yield, he sighed.

   “He served Steward Ecthelion the second. And it has to be said that it was the second Ecthelion since there had been one of them before.” Daevan grimaced. “Doran made me repeat that so often that I wished they would have chosen another name.”

   “Ecthelion was a wise man,” Aragorn replied quietly. “And knew about the dangers Gondor faced.”

   “Aye, I know all that. And my grand-father cannot hide that he mourned for him. And that he is not happy with Denethor's reign.”

   “Every ruler must find his own way. His own alliances, in which his hopes and trust must lie if it comes to battle. Denethor will have done the same.”

   Daevan sensed the older man's dissatisfaction, but said:

   “You deliver wisdom as if you had lived a hundred years.”

   “Not that long,” answered Strider with a miniscule smile.

   “But you are digressing, Strider,” the fisherman stated earnest again. “Would you not at least tell me where you came from?”

   “It is a long story. Too long for a night in the wild.” Strider flinched at Daevan's disappointed expression. “Are you willing to take the first watch?” On Daevan's nod Strider put his bedroll on the stony ground and turned to sleep. Daevan sat a while longer, listening to the toads in their pools yonder in the creek while he turned the trout on the spit. He was reminded of the many evenings he had spent with his grand-father by a fire like this. They had talked, laughed, and the young man had never been tired of listening to Doran's stories. They had eaten and drunk, and more often than not half the night had passed before they had retreated to their hut. Doran had always been there to answer Daevan's questions, and unlike any other, he had known of his restlessness. Again the urgent need to turn back and go home gripped Daevan's heart. His grand-father and his friends might get into danger once more, and he feared he would never see them again. He closed his eyes for a moment. His hands trembled as he thought of the Orcs and the warg with its hideous fangs. What would become of his friends if the wargs and their masters reached the settlement amid the fens?

   Strider turned in his sleep, murmuring words in a foreign language. Daevan roused himself from his musing, gladly accepting the distraction. He watched the wanderer's lined face. How old could he be, he thought. And how could it be that he was so old and did not look his age? Could it be true that a man lived that long without age touching him? Or was Strider – a more troubling thought – not of the race of Men? Daevan dropped the last possibility. That wanderer - covered with his cloak and his head resting on the upper half of his pack – was as much a human being as was he. Otherwise he would not have almost died in the Dead Marshes. And right now he was living through a nightmare as his face contorted with either fear or disgust. Daevan could not tell. But that only added to his curiosity.

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