Chapter Sixteen

Into the Woods – Part Four –

   The young man shifted his body from one uncomfortable position to the next. He had done that for the long hours of the night – afraid to fall off the tree -, and he was weary and frozen stiff from the cold. He twitched his nose. The rain had stopped some time ago, and only a few droplets from the leaves above him fell on him, mocking his misery. During the night the weather had improved, and the sun had risen to dry and warm the air. Daevan dared to look down. The wolves were not to be seen, but he did not believe that they had decided otherwise and vanished.

   Daevan looked down on the wanderer. In contrast to him, he seemed rested, and he wound some pieces of cloth around the tips of the arrows. His attention was directed to the ground.

   “What will you have me do?” asked the young man, handing down flint stones and torch upon Strider's demand.

   “We will fight our way out of here.” Through his determination a smile shone in his grey eyes. “The time is ripe to test your sword.”

   “Aye.” He knew he would not convince Strider; his voice gave away his nervousness. Daevan watched Strider ignite the torch and force it between two smaller boughs. He lit the cloth. In one fluent motion he put the arrow to his bow and shot the first wolf, which had dared to get closer, in its mighty neck. The wolf was enraged, and - tossing and turning to get rid of the flames burning his fur - ran wildly among the pack. The other wolves scattered, whining with fear. Quickly Strider shot his last two arrows, increasing the mayhem. While one stuck in the ground, the other caught a fleeing beast in its hindquarter. It snapped at the fire, but ran off into the darkness.

   “Now! Get down! Quickly!” Strider flung the bow over his shoulder, extinguished the fire, and climbed down the trunk. He drew his sword while Daevan stuffed the valuable torch into his pack and – with a deep breath and a silent prayer to every god listening to him – slipped down the bough. His landing on the still wet ground was less than elegant, but Strider only glanced at him.

   Three stout wolves had retreated, but still they bore a threat to the wanderers. Their greed was great, and they were driven by a need unaccounted for. With the rising of the dark power in the east they had multiplied, and there was not enough food for all of the packs roaming the lands. They licked their chops and slowly paced between the huge trunks. Strider changed the grip on the hilt of his sword, anticipating the attack. Daevan's hands hurt from the fall off the tree, and his sword seemed heavy and useless. But the moment the first wolf leapt forward, driven by hunger he could not quench, the young man's nervousness vanished. He raised the sword and waited, unaware of his surrounding, unaware even of Strider, who lashed out at the second beast. Daevan swung the blade strongly. The wolf was struck on his nose, it jumped back, snorted, attacked again. Daevan stabbed its shoulder, drove in the broad blade. The claws of the beast scratched his right leg, but the same instant all strength left it. The wolf fell to its right side and lay still. Daevan stood above him, panting, renewing the grip on the hilt, but there was no need.

   The wolves were dead and their bodies left behind the stench of burnt fur and flesh. Daevan breathed deeply. He was relieved to clean and sheathe his sword again. Strider patted his back with a quick vanishing smile.

   “Will there be more of them?” Daevan asked when Strider turned and collected the arrows he could find.

   “We will have left the woods by then.”

   He fell into a trot and Daevan hurried to follow him.

~~~~~

   The vast forest to their left was driven back by the dark grey and black rock formations known as the Emyn Muil. It was a wasteland with no living being roaming the endless emptiness. Strangers, who brought neither food nor water, got lost, and the land looked as if the Valar had never cast an eye upon it.

   Daevan struggled up the strange and twisted hills and down beyond them. Ever and anon, he scraped his hands on jagged stones, and laboured over fissures, which black chasms gaped at him. Then he swallowed and gathered his strength to jump over them, hoping to find hard ground further on. Strider often looked back over his shoulder, and the young man took courage from the wanderer's sure-footed advance. Along slanting ledges the wanderers toiled and no living colour soothed their weary eyes. For the wasteland stretched up to the horizon, and not even on top of a hill there was more to be descried than cliffs with razor-sharp edges under a clear blue sky.

   The march sapped Daevan's good mood and his confidence. He wished the barren land would end, he yearned to return to wet grounds with grass and moss, bushes and trees. And to smell the soft, fresh air of spring. Amid the threatening boulders the fisherman felt lost.

   “How far is East Emnet?” he asked when they rested at noon of the second day.

   Strider gazed westwards.

   “Six leagues as the dove flies. Yet we have to trudge a far longer way.” He saw Daevan's depressed mood. “Do not lose heart, my friend. It is but a desert to cross.” His lips twitched. “We left the wolves behind, and no beast will attack us here.”

   “Aye.” Daevan ate, and, exhaling, followed Strider's gaze. “What will we find when we leave this dreadful place?”

   “The realm of Rohan. Green meadows for many leagues in every direction.” He smiled, recalling memories of days fairer than they were now. “I crossed that land more than once. But that was some time ago.” His smile faded as he looked at Daevan again. “The Rohirrim are a rough but friendly people. They are great horse-breeders, and will not fall prey to the luring of the Dark Lord. Their settlements are few these days, but we might find deer and rabbit to sustain ourselves if we fail to reach a village.”

   “What about the home of the king? The King of Rohan must be your friend. You fought for him.”

   “Nay, Daevan, I fought with his father, Thengel. Now his son, Théoden, rules the land.”

   The young fisherman squinted, cocking his head.

   “And would he not greet you with honour?”

   “He might, but we will not turn to Edoras.” Strider's expression turned to deep concern. “It lies beyond our path. Thus we will turn north and find our way through the downs and the large wold west of the Anduin.”

   Daevan frowned, disappointed to stay out in the wild while there had been a chance to meet the ruler of Rohan (and a comfortable place to sleep for some nights). He found Strider's explanation dissatisfying; as if he held back the true reason for the way he chose.

   “How far are the mountains away when we choose that road?”

   "About a hundred leagues.”

   Daevan's jaw dropped, but he hastily composed himself.

   “Like the dove flies,” he said flat-voiced, causing Strider to smile.

   “In the downs we will make much better progress. Gollum will have shunned Fangorn Forest, and we, too, will not enter it. That prolongs our way.”

   “A forest? What about this forest? Is it, nay, bewitched if you do not wish to walk through it? It sounds like a shortcut.”

   Strider's smile deepened.

   “A shortcut… maybe. Many a story is told about Fangorn Forest, and the Rohirrim tell their children that monsters walk the dim wood at night. It is said that strange things happen and the trees do not stand at their places, but wander here and there. I cannot tell if any of this lore might be true, yet all people avoid entering it, and no living bough will ever be hewn by the axe of a Rohirrim.”

   “We had better avoid getting too close.” Daevan swallowed. The further he got away from home the stranger the land became. Who had ever before heard of walking trees?

   “We will cross the Limlight and head west afterwards.”

   “Limlight?” Daevan nodded knowingly. “Aye, that's the place where Ecthelion rode to battle with Eorl against their foes and granted them land.”

   “Nay, it was Cirion, the twelfth Steward, who founded a truce with the Men of the Ered Nimrais. Upon the victory at the Fields of Celebrant he gave to them Calenardhon, which was later named Rohan.” Strider did not look at the young man, trying to spare him embarrassment. “Ecthelion II was the fifth and twentieth Steward, a man of late valour, yet a man honest to his allies.”

   Daevan's head swam, and he felt like a stupid child again.

   “Was the renewal of the truce of your making?”

   Strider rose and shouldered his pack.

   “It was not. King Thengel had long lived in Gondor and would have stayed if the crown had not called him back to the land of his forebears.” They continued their march. “Yet Thengel proved to be a wise king, and was loved by his people.” He looked back over his shoulder. “And my heart rejoices to have known such a great man.”

   “But what about Ecthelion then? What were his deeds?”

   “He was a man, who wisely chose his counsellors”

   “Such as you.”

   “Not me. There are greater men than I to give counsel. My deeds were few among the bravery and valour of the Men of Gondor.”

   “But you are a great man yourself, are you not? One who should be honoured like my grand-father said?”

   “That is not on me to decide. My road goes ever on.”

-o-o-o-o-

   For four days the wanderers plodded their way through the ghostly land. They spoke little, rested as briefly as they could, and slept at night without finding rest. The emptiness and quietness weighed heavily on them. Yet they moved on with the utmost speed, driven as before. Daevan doubted the road no more, but he hoped that by their strength and relentless effort they would overtake and capture the creature in due time.

   When he lifted his gaze from the rocks Daevan suddenly smiled. Far yonder where the westering sun touched the horizon patches of green could be descried. His heart jumped. They had finally reached the westernmost edge of the Emyn Muil. Strider seemed likewise exalted, and they descended the last half league upon light feet. At the first touch of grass under his soles Daevan could have cried out with joy, but the ever attentive wanderer – who looked less grim then before, he admitted – caused him to remain silent. Yet he could not wipe the silly grin out of his face. He felt content. For miles the soft and intensely green grass rolled with the light wind. Daevan smelled the spring, and for the first time thought that the journey would lead them to a good end.

   “Come,” Strider urged, “we must cover some ground before nightfall.”

   Daevan inhaled deeply, and, with a last dreadful look back east followed the wanderer in a swift trot.

-o-o-o-o-

   For a week, they saw naught but the rolling meadows, rabbits, birds high up in the air, and the clouds drifting by with rain or sunshine. It got warmer from day to day, and the spring of life renewing itself lifted both men's mood. Daevan ran at Strider's side, and they covered many a mile during the day. In the hour of dusk the wanderer taught the young man the art of sword-play. Daevan developed skills with the blade he had thought impossible a month ago. He learned to parry and attack, to thrust and retreat in the right moment, and with the hours of training won a natural elegance.

   Strider deflected Daevan's blade in the last moment. It stuck in the ground, and Daevan swallowed, his eyes wide open with surprise.

   “I see, there will be a time when you teach me a lesson,” Strider laughed breathlessly and threw back Ranaél. Daevan caught it easily at the hilt, ready to fight on.

   “Is it bold to say that I would wish that?” said he, grinning with delight. He felt light-hearted, and for a while the mission seemed of secondary importance to being the pupil of the Great Warrior. He wished for Doran to see him now: fighting with the sword he had cherished for so long.

   “Nay, it is not. Yet this time is yet to come.” With that Strider launched another attack, and Daevan stepped back, evading, parrying the blow. Still he was not fast enough to counter-attack with enough velocity to bear a threat to the experienced fighter. Strider was light on his feet, and his ability to foresee Daevan's intention made it impossible for the young man to break his defence.

   When the night drew nigh Strider raised his sword for greeting. Daevan did the same, then sheathed the blade. They settled for the meal. Daevan's gaze rested on the sunset, which he thought had never been so beautiful. He wiped the sweat off his brow, took out the water-skin, and drank. Only when he put it back he realised that Strider's gaze rested on a small stalk with little leaves, which he turned between his fingers.

   “Is this another kind of herb? What's its name?”

   “I do not know its name.” Strider was silent for a long time. He remembered the day Arwen had plighted her troth with him. He had made the Ring of Barahir a gift for her to keep for the time they were parted, and had promised her to fight the darkness wherever he would encounter it. He had rejoiced in her confidence in him; that she had given him faith he had not felt himself. It had been the most wonderful day of his life, and by now it seemed so far away as Earendil. He sighed. The memory of her benign smile, her soft voice, and the sweet warmth of her skin was all that was left to him now.

   “Is it a good memory at least?” Daevan closed the water-skin and once more turned his gaze to the purple sky. It was getting darker. Crickets sang in the grass.

   Strider woke from his reverie and took a deep breath.

   “Aye, a good one. These leaves… They look like elanor. I once walked upon them far away… in Lothlórien.”

   Daevan looked at the little green flower, which was not yet to blossom.

   “Another place only lore tells about for I think that no one ever saw it.”

   “It is real. I stayed there a long time ago.”

   Daevan curled his lips to a mocking smile.

   “And there you found the woman you loved, but her father kicked you out of his home.”

   Strider drew breath as if he wanted to answer, but then hesitated, frowning.

   “It was not like that,” he then said flat-voiced.

   “But you obviously did not you get what you wanted.”

   “Not as long as I have not proven myself worthy of her.”

   Daevan gaped at him.

   “What is she? A Valar?”

   Strider let go of his breath with a faint and sad smile, telling more about his sorrow than his whispered words.

   “She is one of the Eldar… an Elf.”

   Daevan sat in silence for a while, and only watched Strider's face. Never had he seen the wanderer so sad, and his yearning seemed like an old wound that would not mend. There was no mistake about the heavy burden Strider carried, and that he would never be content though he had achieved victories and led the people of Rohan and Gondor through hard times. Still what he desired most was out of his reach. Daevan sighed. He had not yet bound himself to a woman though Doran had pointed out several daughters within the village and even one from the settlement at the Anduin. So he could not imagine what it meant to a man of Strider's age to wait for his beloved for a time uncounted.

   “What have you got to do to prove yourself?” he asked after yet another long pause.

   Strider stared at the ground, slowly shook his head, and let go of the stalk.

   “I do not know what lies before me. I do not know if I will ever be able to fulfil the expectations set into me.”

   Daevan cleared his throat.

   “Can there be more for you to do than you already did? I mean, the father of that girl would not want you to become… well, the ruler of Gondor or Rohan, would he?”

   “Gondor and Arnor,” Strider said quietly and not for Daevan to hear.

-o-o-o-o-