Chapter 5: A Wizard’s Burden

Gandalf the Gray was in a grim mood.  His feet and back ached after a long day’s march and there was no fire to warm them by.  Of course, the lack of a blaze was his own doing; the campsite Aragorn had chosen was not well sheltered and Gandalf had deemed it unwise to press their luck.  So there he was, sitting on a hard boulder and staring out into the darkness with nothing but his cloak and a full pipe to ward off the deep chill.  Not that a campfire would have been enough to lift the weight upon his heart, but it would have made him less grumpy.

A stiff breeze swept along the cliff and found its way into the dark corner where Fellowship had taken refuge.  Gandalf reflexively hunched his shoulders beneath his cloak though the action did little to keep the cold out.  The wind was so capable of finding ways around his wrappings that it almost seemed to have fingers.  Gandalf clenched his pipestem in his teeth and pulled his cloak more closely about himself.  The cold was distracting him when he needed to think, and his watch would be over soon.

Gandalf was not finding it easy to concentrate.  The moment he finally had his cloak snugged around him, his back wanted stretching.  He stood up and walked a few paces, only to be reminded that his feet were tired.  He sat down on the boulder again, found it uncomfortable, and was forced to maneuver about to locate the flat, smooth seat he had labored to find the first time.

Every single bone in his body was weary.  It was not a new sensation; ever since the day he first suspected the rise of evil in the East, he had been feeling his years more and more.  He often wished he had not aged so thoroughly.  For uncounted centuries he had walked Middle-earth, and he had not begun them as an old man.  Though the wearing of the years had been slow enough that even the Elves had scarcely been aware of it, his once-youthful form had grown old.  He did not fear that his body would fail him – it would continue to serve until his purpose was fulfilled – but it did make the journey somewhat more difficult.

Just how close Gandalf actually was to fulfilling his purpose was unclear.  The answer varied depending on how he looked at the situation.  From the standpoint of time, the game was very nearly up.  It seemed probable that the Quest would be over, one way or another, within a matter of weeks.  Either Frodo would succeed and the Ring would be destroyed, or he would fail and Sauron would regain that which he needed to conquer Middle-earth.  Everything depended on the Quest, short of duration though it might be.  So many forces were arrayed against him that Gandalf often felt he was still leagues away from victory.  At the moment, he could not say that the Quest was going well.  Less than a fortnight had passed, and the Fellowship had already been sundered.  It was of little comfort that the breaking had not been brought about by disagreements, personal choices, or even the Ring itself.  Ill fortune was ill fortune, no matter what caused it.

Gandalf furrowed his brow and drew deeply on his pipe.  Sam and Legolas.  He had not been deliberately avoiding the subject, but he did not like the scenarios that sprang to mind when he dwelt on the missing pair.  Neither they nor any more of their possessions had been found since the discovery of Legolas’ ruined bow.  Aragorn had seen no evidence that a two-legged creature had walked either side of the river for some time, much less climbed out of it.  Gandalf glanced at the prone Ranger to reassure himself that he was still sleeping.  Aragorn had been most unwilling to drink the cold tea that Frodo had prepared for him, even though his head had been aching after straining his eyes all day.

The failure to find Sam and Legolas weighed heavily upon the company.  It had not been spoken of, but everyone had been hoping to find tidings of their fate by the close of the day – and not the sort that they had managed to find.  At best, the evidence the pack and bow presented them with was inconclusive.  At worst, it meant that the pair had drowned.

The latter conclusion seemed to be the one that most members of the company were drawing, even though no one wished it to be so.  Boromir and Gimli had been taciturn since finding the bow, their grave faces saying that when they found Sam and Legolas, they expected corpses rather than living beings.  The hobbits had staggered along with various expressions of disbelief, clinging to Aragorn’s reassurances that it was too soon to be certain of anything, but feeling their hope dwindling all the same.  Aragorn himself had looked as if he only half-believed the words he spoke.  With such symbols before them, it was impossible for anyone not to fear the worst.

Gandalf was not immune to the fear gripping the rest of the company, but he still firmly believed that Sam and Legolas might be alive.  Gimli had spoken truly that morning; by themselves, the pack and bow told them nothing.  And the Fellowship had not walked nearly far enough downstream yet.  It was hard for Gandalf to guess how far Sam and Legolas could have traveled downriver while still coming out alive, but they certainly could have gone farther than the Fellowship had traveled afoot.  The going had been slow, what with everyone scrutinizing every broken branch they saw, praying it had been snapped by a cold, overtaxed Elf.  If the two were alive, Gandalf hoped they would have enough sense to walk upstream so their parties would meet swifty and end the dreadful suspense, but injuries or exhaustion might prevent them from doing so.

  Gandalf grumbled wordlessly around his pipestem.  He was going over well-worn thoughts now, and he could not stop himself.  The Fellowship had to search for at least one more day.  If Sam and Legolas had still not been found by the end of the second day, then new and difficult decisions would have to be made.  Then the real question would be: how long could the company afford to search?  There was no guarantee that they would ever be found, especially if they had died.  Their lifeless forms could drift for miles before stopping, if they ever stopped.  Yet Gandalf was troubled by the thought of calling off the search when Sam and Legolas could be just around the next bend.  If they were never found, living or dead, then the question of their fate would haunt everyone in the company until the end of their days.

But the Quest could not be sidetracked forever, and Gandalf fretted over how much it had already been delayed.  The Enemy knew that Frodo had found a haven in Imladris.  The Ringwraiths had seen him enter it.  While the Ring of Power on Elrond’s hand hid Imladris from unfriendly eyes, Vilya’s power was not absolute.  Whatever borders that the Enemy could find had surely been watched.   Gandalf did not think the Fellowship’s departure had been marked, for he had seen no sign of Sauron’s spies – but that did not mean they were not about.  Saruman was looking for them, too, and he had a palantír at his disposal.  With his cunning mind and far-seeing stone, the White Wizard was just as dangerous as Sauron himself.

Gandalf knew it would be folly to think of Saruman as just another of the Dark Lord’s spies.  His lips had issued talk of uniting Isengard and Barad-dúr, but his eyes had spoken differently.  The Istari were not immune to the pull of the Ring – Gandalf knew this very well – and Saruman had succumbed to it.  He did not desire to be second under Sauron; he wished to be first himself, to wear the Ring of Power on his own hand.  He would ally with Mordor if he thought it might bring the Ring into his grasp.  Gandalf doubted if Saruman spared much thought for anything but the Ring these days, alone in his tower with only the poisonous palantír for company.

An owl hooted somewhere nearby.  Several seconds later, an answering hoot sounded from much further away.  Gandalf looked skyward to see that Wilwarin, the butterfly, was directly overhead.  He was not done thinking, but when was he ever done thinking?  Besides, he had to sleep sometime.  The hour of Gimli’s watch had arrived.

Gandalf stood and searched the nearby sleepers for Gimli.  He was easy to spot, not only by the axe that lay conspicuously at his side but by where he slept.  Everyone had arranged themselves on the ground in a rough circle.  Frodo was in the very center, flanked by Merry and Pippin.  Aragorn, Boromir, and Gimli encircled the three hobbits.

Gandalf smiled.  The Men and Dwarf did not lie so close to the hobbits that they would realize they were being protected.  The smaller folk likely had too much on their minds to notice, but they did not like it when they caught the Big Folk being over-watchful.  “We are responsible adults, too,” Pippin had said huffily one morning, not long after setting out from Imladris.  “Just because we are smaller than most does not mean that we need our hands to be held.”  Gandalf had raised his eyebrows at this – Pippin was barely considered an adult in the Shire, and he was not known to be especially responsible – but the young hobbit had been defiant.  Gandalf, Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli had not ceased to be protective of the hobbits, but they had certainly been more discreet about it ever since.  Gandalf would not have it any other way, and Aragorn shared his feelings.  The hobbits had already passed through much danger, but they were not warriors.  Gandalf wondered if they ever really could be.  The did not want for courage, but killing was alien to their nature.

Gandalf gingerly stepped around Boromir’s sleeping form, bent to shake Gimli awake, and was startled by the sight of open eyes staring up at the sky.

“Gandalf,” Gimli said gruffly.  “It’s about time.”

“Haven’t you been sleeping?” Gandalf asked.

“I awoke several minutes ago and have been listening to you mumble around your pipestem ever since.  I did sleep before, without difficulty.  My feet were wearied more by today’s march than by any since we set off, though we did not travel very far.”

Gandalf said nothing.  He understood perfectly well how Gimli was feeling; the aches in his own body stemmed more from the heaviness of his heart than from exertion.  Fleetingly he wondered if any of Gimli’s sorrow was reserved for Legolas, but he doubted it.

Gimli sat up and gave him a shrewd look.  “I see that glint in your eye.  I would think that a wizard of all people would know that while Dwarves may love stone, their hearts are not made of it.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Gandalf, surprised.

“You wonder if my concern is limited to only one of our missing companions.”

Gandalf puffed out his mustache.  “You presume much if you think you know the mind of a wizard.”

“Perhaps,” said Gimli, who seemed amused.  “But some wizards are more transparent than others.”  He chuckled softly before Gandalf could voice his affront.  “Do not be angry; I only jest.  Aye, I pity the Elf as well as the hobbit.”

“Indeed?” Gandalf murmured.

“Anyone may know that I have no fondness for him.  In truth, I would not be sorry to see the back of him – but not like this.  He is a member of this company, and Aragorn trusts him.  Therefore I feel a little less dislike for him than for most Elves generally.  Even were he not allied with me in this Quest, I would not have smiled to see him dashed to pieces in a flood.  I do not take pleasure in the meaningless suffering of others.”  Gimli glowered before adding, “Besides, I have not yet had the chance to teach him proper manners.  I was looking forward to it.  He has an acid tongue.”

“No doubt Legolas will miss the chance to do the same for you,” Gandalf said dryly.

Gimli stood up, hefting his axe with him.  “Elves are arrogant.  Legolas thinks little of the abilities of Dwarves and knows even less than he thinks.  I hope he returns so I may relieve him of his ignorance.  And for Sam’s sake, of course; that most of all.”

Gandalf chuckled softly.  “Here is a new thing – a Dwarf placing his faith in the hardiness of the Elves.”

“Not in the hardiness of the Elves,” said Gimli, “but in one Elf in particular.  I do not think of Elves as hardy, but in this case, I am willing to be proven wrong.  Sam’s loss would be grievous indeed, most especially for Frodo.  If Legolas can contrive a way to save both their skins, then it will have been a deed well done, even though he is an Elf.”

At these words, Gandalf suddenly wondered how Gimli would react if it only one of the missing pair turned up.  He might speak flippantly of Elven resilience, but plainly he was counting on Legolas to have brought every ounce of his strength to bear.  They were all counting on it.  Gandalf had no doubt that if Legolas had not survived the river, then Sam certainly had not; but it was possible that Legolas could have lived and been unable to save Sam.  Let it not be so! he thought.  He wondered if Legolas’ place in the Fellowship would be enough to keep Gimli’s distrust of Elves at bay should he return alone.  Legolas would not take kindly to any suspicions on Gimli’s part, and Gandalf could easily envision their animosity escalating into a rift that could fracture the company entirely.

“A deed well done,” Gandalf murmured, letting that be all he voiced on the subject.  He looked closely at Gimli’s expression; if the Dwarf had read any of his unspoken thoughts on his face, he was giving no sign.  Transparent.  Hmph!  Aloud Gandalf said, “I must retire, or I will not get far tomorrow.”

“It is Merry’s turn for the third watch, is it not?”

“It is.  Wake him when it is time; I have told him when to rouse the lot of us.”

“Aye,” said Gimli, and he picked his way out of the sleeping forms to patrol the perimeter of the camp.

Gandalf found his own blankets, stretched out on the ground in the outer ring between Aragorn and Gimli’s vacated place.  He laid his staff to one side where it would be within easy reach and lowered himself down, feeling his joints pop and creak as he went.  Finally, after tucking his robes closely about himself and setting his hat aside, he lay down, pulled up his blankets, and rested his head on one arm.

He had instructed Merry to wake the entire company before dawn.  He wanted a full day’s worth of searching, from the time it was light enough to see until it was too dark to continue without missing important signs.  Gandalf hadn’t quite made up his mind, but he was leaning toward the idea of searching for two more days at most before giving up, and so it was crucial that they cover as much ground as possible.  The Quest before all else, he thought grimly.  We cannot look forever.

Gandalf shifted his body to dislodge a small rock beneath his back and tugged his blankets up over his nose.  He hoped he would not have to make the decision to press on without Sam and Legolas.  The hobbits would be crushed – Frodo especially.  Gandalf felt a pang of sorrow just imagining the look on Frodo’s face.  The Ring-bearer was constantly in his thoughts despite his concern for the missing pair.  Frodo had changed since setting out from the Shire; he kept to himself more than he used to, for one thing, and much of the good hobbit-cheer that Gandalf knew and loved so well was absent.  It was no wonder, for he bore a token of evil, a wound that would trouble him for the rest of his days, and the hopes of all Middle-earth on his shoulders.  Chance – and perhaps fate – had brought the Ring to him, and he had freely accepted the task of destroying it.  Gandalf believed that Frodo possessed the inner strength necessary to see the Quest through to the end, but that did not stop him from worrying.

Losing Sam would make it difficult for Frodo to go on, but he would have to.  He would have to find the courage somewhere.  As for himself, Gandalf knew he would be able to turn his back on Sam and Legolas, wrenching though it would be.  In his long life he had made many difficult choices, often between only two options – bad and worse.  Sometimes those were the only options there were, and this time, ‘worse’ was simply too risky to entertain.

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Gandalf opened his eyes when someone shook his arm.  No sooner had he recognized Merry than the hobbit turned away and bent to prod at someone else.  It was still very early; the morning light was gray, and frost covered the ground.

Whatever lingering sleepiness Gandalf felt was forgotten when he sat up and stretched.  He was accustomed to sleeping outdoors in every kind of weather, and he never failed to become fully awake upon being roused.  Wizards did not lie abed until noon even when they weren’t traveling.  Well, Saruman might, Gandalf amended silently.  Saruman seemed to have become very sure of himself since his fall from wisdom, and that kind of smug certainty bred laziness.

Camp was broken with all possible speed, but it was a subdued group that departed, eating their cold breakfast on their feet.  They fell into their assigned order with no prompting from either Gandalf or Aragorn.  Boromir and Gimli walked in front and Aragorn took up the rear, with everyone else in between.

By unspoken agreement, the company set a faster pace than the day before.  There was something in the way heads turned and eyes moved that told of a growing sense of urgency in the party.  Gone were the gnawing suspicions that Sam and Legolas had drowned, replaced by the new hope and refreshment that only a new dawn could bring.  Frodo’s face was a stony mask of determination, and his eyes swept the path as thoroughly as Aragorn’s did the far bank.  He looked as if he meant to make Sam appear by sheer force of will.

The end of the rapids had come into view just before the Fellowship made camp.  According to Aragorn, this meant that they might see signs of Sam and Legolas soon.  “They would not have been able to swim amongst the rocks,” he had reminded them.  “They would have had to wait until they were through the rapids to escape the river.  Now we must keep an even closer watch,” he added, if they had not already been inspecting every crumpled leaf and overturned stone they saw.

The company had been traveling for little more than an hour when Frodo suddenly looked over his shoulder and stopped walking.  Gandalf halted and turned to see what had caught Frodo’s attention.

Aragorn was no longer behind them.  For a moment, Gandalf thought he was entirely out of sight, but then Frodo pointed.  “There.  Halfway behind that boulder.”  Aragrorn was standing motionless several dozen paces behind them with his face turned upriver.  Gandalf could sense Aragorn’s tension; he had noticed something, and whatever it was, he was studying it intently.

Gandalf softly called a halt that was passed up the line until it reached Gimli and Boromir.  Gandalf raised one finger to his lips to signal silence before pointing back in Aragorn’s direction.  Curious glances passed between the others.

Presently Aragorn turned and hurried back to the Fellowship.  He motioned for everyone to gather around, and he did not speak until they had clustered themselves into a tight circle.  “There may be Men on the other side of the river.”

Gandalf’s eyes widened.  The others looked as surprised as he felt.

“Men?” said Frodo.  He looked as if he wanted to say more, something along the lines of “Are you certain?”, but then he seemed to think better of it.  Instead he said, “Whatever could Men want out here?  I thought there weren’t any villages for miles.”

“There aren’t,” Aragorn said flatly.  Gimli scowled, and Boromir glanced toward the far bank with a wary eye.  After a moment, Frodo realized what this meant and suddenly clutched at the chain around his neck.  Merry and Pippin remained in the dark.

“Maybe they’re hunters,” Merry said uneasily.  “Deer might wander down here for water.”

“They may be hunters,” said Aragorn, “but I do not think they are hunting game.  More likely they are looking for us.”

“Us?” Pippin exclaimed, earning himself a startled “Ssssh!” from everyone else.

“Why do you say there may be Men nearby?” asked Gandalf.  “If you had seen any, we would not still be standing in the open.”

“I thought I heard a dog’s bark.  I was uncertain at first because the river is so loud, but I waited a moment, and then I heard it again.  I cannot imagine what a dog would be doing here without Men nearby.  It is hard to say how close it is – these cliffs make too many echoes – but I think it is nigh to one quarter of a mile behind us.  We should hide until we know who – or what – is coming.”

Gandalf agreed, and everyone hurried away from the river’s edge.  Aragorn felt they would be safe enough behind some of the larger boulders.  “As long as we keep out of sight and make no noise, any Men or dogs that pass will never know we are here.”

The group clustered behind two weathered, mossy boulders.  The stones leaned against each other in such a way that the taller folk could peer through a gap between them at the top.  If there had been a gap at their bases, it had long since been filled by sand and mud.

The hobbits sat down on the ground to rest their legs while Boromir tied Bill to a fallen log.  The pony stamped his hooves, catching the others’ uncertain mood, and Boromir patted his nose soothingly.  The only other sound was the dull rushing of the river, but one glance at his companions told Gandalf that everyone was listening just as intently as he was.

Merry got up the nerve to speak after a few minutes of silence.  “Strider, if there are Men nearby, why do you think they’d be looking for us?” he asked softly.  “Why couldn’t they just be hunting game?”

Aragorn was peering upriver around the side of the boulder.  He did not look at Merry when he answered.  “Here, we are far removed from any town.  Hunters need not travel so far afield from their villages to find prey.”

“Maybe they’re travelers, then – just going from here to there, like us.”

This time Aragorn did look at Merry.  There was a wry smile on his face.  “I would not say that we are just going from here to there, but I will leave that matter be.  Ordinary travelers would keep to the roads.  Even the lost and wandering who might follow the river would not clamber down into this gorge; they would stay atop the cliffs.  If there are Men here, they have decided to follow little-used paths; therefore I must conclude that they either do not wish to be seen or are looking for others who follow those same paths.”

“But why do they have to be looking for us?” said Pippin, joining the argument.  “How could they even know who to look for?  No one saw us leave Rivendell.”

“The Enemy knows that Frodo went there,” Gandalf said quietly.  “I do not think he knows whether Frodo intended to stay or go elsewhere, but he will take no chances on either, and therefore is guarding against all possibilities.  He is surely watching this whole region in case the Ring did leave.  I know our departure was not marked.  If it had been, we would not have gone ten miles without being attacked, but we cannot afford to grow complacent!  Sooner or later, when all remains quiet in Imladris, the Dark Lord will know that the Ring has gone.  And while he may not be able to guess at everyone who accompanies it, he will always be on the lookout for hobbits.”

Merry and Pippin frowned unhappily, but they seemed to understand.  Frodo stared off to the side at nothing in particular; there was a look of resignation on his face.

“The animal draws near,” Aragorn said suddenly.

The silence amid the company seemed to thicken at this news.  Those who were nearest the side of the boulder where the strangers would first become visible – Aragorn, Pippin, and Gandalf – drew as close as they dared to the edge of their hiding place.  After a moment’s consideration, Gandalf took off his tall gray hat lest its tip show above the top of the boulder.  Frodo, Merry, Boromir, and Gimli stretched their necks but could not see the desired part of the far bank, and so had to content themselves with waiting impatiently.

Pippin gasped softly.

“You see it?” Aragorn whispered.

The hobbit shook his head.  “I heard barking.  There is more than one!”

“More than one.  Hunting dogs?” Gimli rumbled.  “Do they have our scent?”

“Multiple dogs could mean that they are meant for hunting,” said Aragorn.  “Who can yet say what they are?  But whatever their purpose, I doubt they have smelled us here and now.  The dogs are too calm.  Of course, we do not know if they caught our scent before the storm.  If they did, they are surely wondering where we have gone.”  He narrowed his eyes, peering at the far bank.  “They approach.  Keep silent until they are well beyond us.”

Gandalf turned his eyes upon the far bank and pricked up his ears, waiting for the first sign of any stranger, whether Man or beast.  The scant minutes that passed in stillness felt drawn out, and Gandalf heard only the rushing river.  Yet he did not doubt that something was presently going to appear on the other side of the Feinduin.  If Aragorn said that there was a dog coming, then one was coming.

At long last, something darted out from behind a boulder.

Gandalf barely noticed Pippin stiffening at his feet; his own eyes were pinned to the dog that had just come into view.  It was soon joined by two more, and the three of them padded around the bank with their noses to the ground.  They were not the largest of dogs, but neither were they small.  All three were of the same breed, with short hair, pointed ears and long tails, where the fur was longer than it was on their bodies.

Gandalf felt a chill when a Man suddenly stepped out from behind the same boulder, followed immediately by another, and another.  Gandalf stared hard at them, counting as they appeared, filing away every detail in his mind.  There were ten altogether – a large group, in Gandalf’s opinion – but ten seemed better to him than nine.  Nine would have been an… unsettling number.  They wore plain cloaks of brown coloring and leather jerkins beneath.  Their clothing is not like to that of the Men of Rohan or Gondor, thought Gandalf.  It is too nondescript.  Dunlanders, perhaps; there are towns and villages there, but no King.

They certainly looked as if they could be hunters.  Their clothing was sturdy and well-suited for traveling long distances in ill weather.  They had the hard faces and ragged look of those who had been in the wild for some time.  And they were armed; every one of them to a man carried a bow across his back and a plain sword at his hip.  Gandalf thought he saw more than one dagger thrust through a belt.  As for the dogs, when they were not trotting forward, they either had their noses to the ground or pointed into the wind.

The Men moved quickly and silently along the riverbank in single file.  Gandalf sensed focus and intention among them.  He wondered darkly what their goal was, and how close they were to reaching it.  Some of them turned their heads, examining the far bank.  Gandalf stood motionless.  He could only see them with one eye, so very little of him would be visible to the Men, but movement among the still rocks would attract their attention.  Aragorn and Pippin were like statues beside him.

The Fellowship scarcely breathed as the Men passed directly opposite them.  Gandalf lost sight of them when their hiding place blocked his view, but he did not try to reposition himself.  The dogs were just as likely to spot a flash of movement as the Men.

At last the strangers passed the Fellowship and continued walking in the other direction without a single glance backwards.  Frodo, Gimli, Boromir, and Merry cautiously peered around their side of the boulder, getting their first view of the Men as they walked away.

Gandalf could not see the Men anymore, and he could not tell when they first passed out of sight.  One of the dogs gave a short bark, but otherwise the strangers made no noise.  It wasn’t until Gandalf had heard only the river for a full ten minutes that Aragorn finally said, “It is safe to talk again… quietly.”

More than one member of the company let out a long breath.  Gandalf drew a long drink from his waterskin.  His throat was parched.

“Well, we have seen the strangers,” Aragorn continued.  “What do you think, Gandalf?”

Gandalf hesitated before answering.  “I am not certain.  They wore the trappings of hunters, but they did not have the feel of Men searching for game.  I could not determine their land of origin.”

“Dunland?”

“Perhaps.  I wondered the same.”

“If those Men were hunting for food, then I am an Elf,” Gimli said darkly.  “They had an air of malice about them.”

“They were looking for something,” said Boromir, nodding his head in agreement.  “Did you see the way their eyes swept our side of the river?  And their faces were very grim.  Hunting deer is an enjoyable affair – or at least it is in Gondor.  These Men did not look as if they were on a pleasurable journey.”

“I don’t want to meet up with them,” said Pippin.  “I did not like their look.”

“Yes,” said Merry.  “Rather savage-looking.”

“Would that we knew what their intentions were,” Gimli grumbled.

“We may never know the business of these travelers, but we must not meet them,” said Gandalf.  “I did not care for what I saw any more than the rest of you; they may very well be agents of the Enemy.  And if they are… where one band of spies lurks, others may roam as well.”

There was a long moment of silence while the Fellowship considered this.  Most had a far-off look in their eyes, as if unpleasant scenarios were playing themselves out in their minds.  Merry and Pippin seemed discomfited, Boromir was running a hand along his jaw, and Gimli was thumbing his axe.

It was Frodo who finally broke the silence.  “Whoever they are, they haven’t spotted us, and they’re moving like the wind.  I don’t think they’ll be coming back this way again.  So we mustn’t slow down.”

The rest of the Fellowship looked at the Ring-bearer, who was speaking with a good deal more conviction and spirit than any of them had heard from him in some time.

“We have to cover as much ground as we can.  I don’t know how long you’re planning on letting this go on, Gandalf, but surely it’s not forever.  And maybe we don’t have forever, but I won’t give Sam any less than everything I can with the time I’ve got.”

Gandalf saw the unasked question in Frodo’s raised eyebrows.  How long?  From the firm set of Frodo’s jaw, it was plain that he did not want to be put off.  Best to break the news now and have done with it, Gandalf thought, but before he could open his mouth, Merry spoke.

“What if the dogs have Sam’s and Legolas’ scent?”

“If the dogs have not smelled us, then they have not smelled either of them,” said Aragorn.  “They cannot have come out of the river before this point, or we would have seen signs of them.”

“But they could be on the other side,” said Merry, shaking his head, “and if they are, then these Men might catch up to them.”  He exchanged a dark glance with Pippin.  Frodo’s mouth was compressed into a thin line, but his resolve was still painted on his face.

Gandalf pursed his lips.  Sam and Legolas running into these strangers was not a complication he needed; matters were bad enough as they were.  But there was nothing any of them could do to prevent it, and it could not be planned for.  Gandalf gripped his staff tightly, trying not to let his irritation show.  He was rapidly losing control of this situation, if indeed he had any control left at all.  He had never liked the feeling of losing his grip.

“What happens to Sam and Legolas before we find them is out of our hands,” Gandalf said with a note of finality.  “All we can do is continue searching – for the time being.”

“And how long will we be searching?” asked Boromir.

Gandalf glanced at Frodo.  The Ring-bearer pinned him under a direct stare.  Forgive me, Frodo, thought Gandalf, but you will not like the answer.  He did his best to make his voice gentle.  “Today and tomorrow are all that we can spare.”

The three hobbits stared back at him.  “Only one more day?” Frodo said softly.

Gandalf looked at the hobbits with true regret in his heart.  “Yes, that is all.  By sunset tomorrow, I think we will have walked as far as Sam and Legolas could have traveled in the river before perishing.  I can see no benefit to giving you false hope.  I must tell you that if we do not find tidings of them by tonight, then the odds of finding them alive will be low indeed.”

“But they could be hurt,” said Pippin.  “In fact, I should say it’s likely they are hurt!  Think of those rapids they had to travel through!  They could have broken bones and goodness knows what else!”

“We do not know that,” Gandalf said firmly.  He had no intention of getting pulled into an argument about this.  Everyone wanted assurances that he could not give, especially Pippin.  Over the past two days, Gandalf had given a good deal of thought to what they would do if Sam and Legolas were found but were too badly injured to continue the journey.  If this was the case, then there was a very real possibility that one or both of them would have to be left behind.  Pippin would not understand this, and nor, Gandalf suspected, would Merry.  They had set out on the journey for Frodo’s sake, full of the good intentions and naïve courage of youth, unable to appreciate the difficulty of their chosen road.  Gandalf and Aragorn had not yet agreed on the entirety of the Fellowship’s route, but whether they took the Redhorn Gate or the road through Moria, either would be dangerous.  How could an injured hobbit climb a mountain?  Or the never-ending stairs of the Mines?  Pippin and Merry lacked the experience needed to give them perspective.  Gandalf was not going to disillusion them until it was necessary to do so.  If it had to happen, then it would happen when they had no choice but to accept his decision.

“Let’s not cross bridges that lie too far ahead,” said Aragorn.  “We will decide what to do when we find them.  And if we don’t find them” – his mouth tightened into a thin line – “then you already know what we will do.”

Pippin looked as if he wanted to protest further, but Gimli laid a hand on his shoulder.  “Don’t dwell on the maybes, lad.  They’ll do none of us any good.”

Gimli’s words silenced Pippin.  Merry pressed his cousin’s hand reassuringly although he looked as if he could use some reassurance of his own.  Gandalf sympathized with them – he could hardly disapprove of the love they felt for Sam – but he would not allow his sympathy to override his better judgment.  What had to be done had to be done for the good of all Middle-earth.

The company re-formed itself into a double line and set off downriver once more.  Although the Men had done nothing to indicate they would slow down or double back, everyone was on heightened alert.  Gimli and Boromir glanced at the far bank as often as they watched the way ahead of their feet.  Aragorn’s mouth was set in a grim line, and his eyes looked regretful.  Gandalf thought he could guess what Aragorn was thinking about.  Likely he was missing Legolas, who could have scouted ahead for them without being detected.  But Legolas was gone, and they were going to have to do without him.

An hour passed.  They saw no more signs of the Men, but they lingered in Gandalf’s mind.  Of late it seemed that thinking and stewing were what he did best.  Between that and scrutinizing the landscape, there was little else to do.

Gandalf hoped that Sam and Legolas weren’t on the wrong side of the river, but with the way their luck was running, it did not seem likely.  Complications.  So many complications had befallen the plans he had made so carefully, so long ago, that very little was now left of them.  The unraveling had started with discovering that the Ring had been right under his nose for years without his knowledge – in Bilbo’s keeping – and after that, one disaster had followed another.  Mordor surged in strength, the Nine rode forth again, and Saruman betrayed all of Middle-earth.  Now, having barely set out from Imladris, the Fellowship was sundered with a flood behind them and strange Men before them.

And yet all was not lost.  Frodo still had the Ring, and though two of its members were missing, the Fellowship remained undiscovered.  If he could only keep it that way, Gandalf felt that they still had a reasonable chance of success.  If only it were possible to prevent more surprises from coming their way!  He might as well wish for the moon as wish for that, he knew – but Gandalf did not much like surprises any more.