In the Vales of the Anduin

The sun beat strong down upon them as they rode out of another forest glade into an open grassy swale.   Gandalf and Haldir in the lead, followed by Drianna’s two cavalrymen, astride their mounts, tethered to two heavily laden dray horses.  Arthed and Hagar rode with the cavalymen, engaged as always in conversation, the afternoon punctuated by his laughter as he regaled them with tale after tale of a time before they were born. 

Drianna followed somewhat behind them, her mood sour and disagreeable from the moment they had left Rivendell.  Further back, Aranarth and Arahael took up the rear guard.  Ardugan and the very independent bobcats were long gone, vanished during the night after the banquet and meeting in the Hall at Rivendell.

They had crossed the Anduin at the Old Ford, then stayed close to the east bank of the great river.  There had been much debate about their intended path that evening in Rivendell, now easily a fortnight past. 

Aranarth, Arthed and Drianna favored the west bank, keeping the river between them and Mirkwood.  Though the way had little in the way of satisfactory trails south of the Gladden, it also had few inhabitants other than a small settlement of Stoors near the confluence of the Gladden and the Anduin.   Haldir had offered passage through Lorien and watercraft to make a crossing just above the Celebrant. 

“Well conceived and no doubt likely to better preserve our anonymity” Gandalf had commented, “But He will be watching his western flank I fear.  When we cross from west to east across the river, our sudden presence on the river’s eastern shore so close to his realm will not go unnoticed ”

“But do we not risk being noticed by traveling the entire way on the east bank?  Mirkwood is but 10 or 15 leagues from the river and the vales in between may still be home to woodmen who will know of our transit of their lands” Drianna countered.

“The woodmen are no friend of orcs and others of Sauron’s ilk” Ardugan had replied.

“Indeed not.” Gandalf continued, “Those few who dwell there may be kin to Hagar and the people of the Eotheod, who chose to remain in the Vales of the Anduin when Frumgar led his people north to the Langwell and Greylin.  They descend from the Kings of Rhovanian, whose people suffered mightily at the hands of the Wainriders and other allies of Sauron.”

“Still it takes but one enemy in a sea of friends to do harm, Gandalf” Aranarth commented. 

“It is a weighing of the risks, Aranarth.  Had I gone alone it would be to approach Dol Guldur from the north, entering the forest below the Gladden Fields.  His eye looks to his immediate west and south, not north.  With such able friends as I now have to accompany me, I see no reason to change the plan.  It is made stronger by your presence."  

Thus it was that they settled upon their ruse, a party of traders and trappers heading south from the Carrock for Gondor.  Hagar looks would clearly identify him as of kin, even after Frumgar’s parting from this region nearly a hundred years ago.  The others would be made drab and unremarkable as could be.  Elrond had provided travel worn woolen garments for some of them to wear, cloaks with hoods, leggings, and scuffed boots.  Old saddles and packs completed the picture, though one could sense in their eyes and bearing a strength little associated with ordinary travelers, even ones so bold as to make the long and risky journey to Gondor.

That had been days ago.  Now as they rode into the sunny haze of late afternoon Arahael eased the sleeve of his woolen tunic back, exposing his mailed glove.  It was of fine workmanship, crafted to fit his hand comfortably, enough room to flex in the heat of battle, yet neither too loose to soften one’s grasp nor too tight to grow hot and heavy in a long ride of this sort.  A layer of fine chain mail, custom fit, protected him under his coarse woolen garments.  Additional armor was packed securely away for their entrance into the forest itself, though he and all that rode carried their primary weapons, whether sword, axe, knife or bow, nestled close near their saddle bags.  His was a gleaming steel blade, perfectly balanced, one that he had trained with for many a year.

He stole a glance at his father, riding just to his left.  He had needed no travelworn garments, having just returned to those in which he had arrived at Rivendell.  His gloves were heavy, studded with metal embossments and scarred with dents and cuts.  What chain mail he wore was well concealed beneath tough leather garments and a full woolen cloak.  His boots were worn and stained with mud, grass, grit and more.  He had seen his father’s sword, notched and scratched in places, tucked away now in what appeared to be a bulky pouch. 

And he would have traded all the fine things in which he had been arraigned for those that his father possessed.  For Aranarth's sword bore the notches and scrapes of a murderous battle with the minions of the Witch King himself.  His garments were worn with years of experience alone in the wild, patrolling what was once Arnor at its height.  The calloused, meaty hands had known harsh winds and nights in cold caves, days facing down wildmen who still might descend from the heights of the Western slopes of the Misty Mountains to waylay the stray traveler.  In the spring and summer they wrestled a plow or broke horses.

As for himself, he knew he had been ably trained by the best elven weapons masters, educated by scribes in the long history of the Ages, of the fall of Morgoth, the rise and destruction of Numenor, the War of the Last Alliance.  He had ridden with Elladan and Elrohir, had served in disguise as a platoon leader in Gondor’s infantry, and ridden with his father on occasion through the wild spaces of Cardolan, Minhiriath, and Enedwaith.  Still it was all in training.  He had never been tested, put himself at true risk.  His father’s worn boots seemed immeasurably large to fill out here in the great empty spaces that he called home much of the year.

Ahead of him Gandalf and Haldir slowed to a halt.  The grassy swale they had just entered now opened up.  The forest glades were retreating east for the while.  Ahead and to the southwest the land flattened, the grassy slopes merging into damp reedy flats, which in turn eased into a marshy realm where the Anduin merged with the Gladden coming down from the Misty Mountains to the west, forming an ancient basin of islets, shallows, and shoals.  Stands of yellow iris, some the height of a tall man, were scattered amongst the reeds. 

The riders gathered together around Gandalf and Haldir.  Far to the west the sun was falling behind the distant peaks of the Misty Mountains.  Shadow would soon be stealing across the land.

“We can find shelter amidst that copse of trees.” Haldir pointed to a grove fifty yards away.   It was a last outlier of many other scattered stands of oaks and beeches mixed with wild shrubs that covered the rumpled land rolling down to the narrow grassy alluvial

“I will stand the first watch.” Aranarth volunteered.  In quick succession, Arahael took the second and Arthed the third.  They made camp inside the ring of trees, sweeping brush and leaves away to find a small hearth.  Its stones were full of lichen and moss, as evidence of long years of disuse, yet they were cunningly fit and suited to travelers needs where heat was desired but light to be concealed and smoke avoided by careful fire craft.

The horses were tethered and fed.  The light faded quickly to a soft glow in the west, silhouetting the far peaks.  Drianna lit a small, smokeless fire fully concealed below the rim of the hearth.  They all sat quietly making such meals as they had from their provisions.  Gandalf brewed some tea, which sent a soft aroma of flowers and honey about the campfire.  One by one they sipped their full then retired, Drianna to a far corner of the grove, her cavalrymen not far away, but keeping a discreet distance.  Arthed and Hagar took their own corner, while Gandalf and Haldir lingered about the hearth talking quietly.

Aranarth and Arahael found their own spot near the edge of the trees and set their bedrolls.  The western horizon was nearly dark now, the sky glittered with a thousand stars and the glow of a quarter moon.  Not far away the marshy shallows of the Gladden Fields were glazing over with a ground fog, ghostly white under the light of the heavens.  Arahael crept under his blankets, adjusting his position around a projecting root under his bedding.  Several feet away he could see the dim bulk of his father standing just beyond the last tree, facing east, still as a statue.

He fell quickly into sleep and dream.  After a time he could not measure he found himself walking in the moonlight, down the easy grassy slope beyond the copse to the edge of the marsh.  A shallow layer of mist, barely chest high, cloaked the reeds and stands of yellow irises, pale white now in the moonlight.  He seemed to glide forward through them, following some hidden path from hummock to shoal, farther and farther into the depths of the fens.

Time passed.  Then ahead he saw a figure, tall and broad shouldered, clad only in heavy linen leggings and a short tunic, as if he had recently shed his body armor.

It was a man, now half crouched over, searching for something amongst the tall grasses and murky pools.  He was muttering something but Arahael could not make it out.  Arahael moved closer, curious.  Then the figure stood up suddenly as if aware of his presence.  He turned slowly and Arahael gasped as he saw the man’s wounds, for the front of his tunic was punctured with holes, some still stuck with the unmistakable line of an orc arrow. 

The face was noble, of high lineage, but contorted in pain, regret, and sadness.  It seemed to be trying to say something, though the words formed by his lips had no sound.  Soon the figure began to fade, gradually at first, then more so, until it vanished into the pale mist that coursed sluggishly through the swampy shallows. 

Arahael woke suddenly, awash in a cold sweat.  He flung off his blankets, stood abruptly in the night, catching his breath.  Just yards away his father stood as before, now turning his head at the sound of his son’s movement.  The rest of the encampment was asleep.  Arahael walked over quietly, stopping at his father’s side.

“You saw him” Aranarth stated matter of factly.

“How…?”

“Something I never told you.  You would have to see it for yourself.” Aranarth turned to his son, face etched in moonlit shadow.  “Though my journeys have most been west of the Misty Mountains, there was one tour, long ago just after you were born, with Elladan and Elrohir eastwards over the Old Ford we passed not too many days ago.  We camped this very spot and my sleep was wrought with the encounter you made moments ago.”

“You speak as if you know him” Arahael replied incredulously

“He is…or was…and it appears that he makes himself known only to the first born of the line as he was when he fell here two thousand years past.  You should know of whom I speak, having spent many a year in the study of the deeds and failings of men and elves in tutelage at Rivendell.”

“…Isildur…” Arahael whispered half to himself.

“It is he, son, and it is not just in dreams that he appears.  Look…” Aranarth pointed

Far off there was a ripple in the low fog that shrouded the marshes east of them.  Their sharp eyes seemed to detect a small object, the head of a man just above the mist, moving about, as if in search of something.

“Aye, heirs of the Dunedain, it is indeed he of whom you speak.” A voice intruded, older, kindly with a sad sigh in it.

“Gandalf!” Arahael whispered loudly.  Gandalf put his fingers to his lips then motioned them both to be quiet. 

The moon was close to the western mountains now.  Gandalf’s already graying beard was burnished with a silver light. 

“He seeks what he had lost.”

“But what was he trying to say to me” Arahael whispered urgently

“I cannot say for certain for it is not me to whom he appears in dream.  But from your account and that of your father many years ago, it would be a warning of sorts.”

“Warning…?”

“Perhaps of too much pride, too much lust for power.  I fear that while what he seeks is beyond knowledge, he too cannot rest, at least until it has found the hand of another to bear it.”

“The Ring…” Aranarth replied flatly

“Shhhhhh…..” Gandalf cautioned, “ Speak not so clearly…we are not so far from its creator.  Say only that Isildur was the last to possess as far as we know and in his death it has vanished from our ken.  May it stay so, even at pain of his eternal search.”

They were silent for a while, watching the ground fog undulate in the near calm of the night as the half moon touched then sank below the jagged peaks of the Misty Mountains.   Aranarth quietly made his leave and went to his blankets, his watch done.  Arahael took his place.  For a while Gandalf sat on a low rock next to him, peering at the stars, one bright one in particular that was setting soon after the moon.  Then he too departed to the grove, leaving Arahael alone in the night.

Or almost alone, for as his watch waned and the night deepened he thought he saw points of light, two spots of yellow-green and two more of a particularly luminous green.  Eyes, two pairs of eyes in the night, low to the ground, perhaps thirty yards off.  He began to slowly move towards them.  They blinked twice, then vanished.  He walked to where he thought they had been.  The nearly knee deep grass yielded no clues in the black of the now moonless night.  He stood for a while, listening intently for the sounds of an intruder, but there were none.  With a shrug he walked back to edge of the grove.  Arthed was up now, standing next to a tree.

“Lose your way?” Arthed commented amiably

“No, uncle…I thought I saw eyes watching us, but they were gone before I reached them”

“Hmmm…well perhaps they will favor me with a visit ‘ere dawn.  Oft times I have seen things when the watch gets late.  Get some rest Arahael.”    

************************************-***********************************

Arahael awoke to the sound of contented horses.  Arthed had busied himself in the final hour of his watch by feeding their mounts and concealing the now cold hearth with leaf and brush.  The eastern sky had softened with a milky glow that fed through the treetops.  To the west it was still dark enough for a few late stars to bid their farewell.

The group gathered quietly, bundling up their blankets and securing them behind their saddles.  They ate a spare meal of smoked meat and a slice of a nutritious elven bread Elrond had stored in each of their food pouches.  The dawn gathered pace, first providing that flat wan light to distinguish night from day, then a stronger swell that brought the color back to the land.  To the east the marshes were quiet, the night’s mist swept away by a slow roll of air from some cool northern source down the valley of the Anduin.

By the time the treetops were lit with dawn’s gold they had left the grove, heading south, still close to the river, the night’s events a private thing amongst a few.  The great river had left its marshy shallows and now flowed confidently between low bluffs that gradually increased in height as they made their way south.  The strip of grassy alluvial plain on the west bank they had comfortably followed for the last few days now narrowed.  The land to their left now rose in undulating hills covered in patchy forest.

They would pull away from the river now, moving gradually south to south east for 30 leagues, taking such obscure paths and trails as Haldir knew from elder days.  That would put them on the borders of Mirkwood itself by the end of the week, barring any unforeseen circumstances.  Other than the rustle of squirrels in the underbrush, the sounds of occasional songbirds or a swift glimpse of a herd of deer oft on a distant hill, the land was deserted or so it seemed.

“It would seem that Elrond’s disguises for us are of little use.  The land is empty” Arthed commented to Hagar as they rode through a leafy glade just off a meadow.

“My father Breor says this was once our land, in the days of his grandfather, Frumgar.” Hagar replied with a measure of self-importance.

“Would that make you chieftan of the Vales of the Anduin then, someday” Arthed inquired, mocking amiably

“Why yes it would, as it seems there are yet none here to say otherwise” Hagar replied thoughtfully, missing the humor in Arthed’s comment.

“Then from the tales of your ancestors it appears that all who were once here made the journey north to the Greylin and Langwell?” Arthed persisted.

“Not all, so the tales tell.  Frumgar’s sister is said to have stayed, among others.  Then there were those not of the Eotheod, fugitives from attacks in the forest, but of good stock and spirit it is said.  It has been years since any word has come to us.”

“Then we must hope that no ill has come to them” Arthed replied.

Just after their noon they rested the horses in an open grassy area and made lunch of dried fruits and meats.  The day was fair, the deep blue sky dotted with puffs of white cloud.  The terrain had been mildly hilly, traced with shallow valleys.  There were signs of habitation long past, clusters of log cabins collapsed and decayed, fields returned to young trees and shrubs.     

The Anduin was now long out of sight to the west.  Ahead in the rolling countryside they could see the frequent meadows becoming smaller, isolated patches on hillsides, hemmed in between ever larger tracts of forest.  Just ahead, the sunlit grassy field upon which they had gathered began to narrow between thick stands of oak and maple to the left and right, crowding in until only the trail itself appeared to make passage half a league to the south.

The woods now closed ranks.  Their trail through the meadow just passed was a corridor a hundred feet wide and narrowing.  In the middle of their party a figure spurred her horse forward to a light gallop, reaching Gandalf and Haldir, both deep in conversation.  Her arrival stilled their discussion.

“Drianna…it is a favorable day indeed that you join us” Gandalf responded warmly

“Perhaps not so favorable” she replied in a low voice.  “I sense something in the woods ahead…watching”

“Indeed we are being watched, my dear.  They will wait until we have all entered the narrows up ahead before making their presence known.”

“You knew this! And yet we continue into their trap!” Drianna flared, her hood falling from her head, pale blue eyes ablaze with anger.

“Not all who watch bear us harm” Haldir said calmly, “...unless our actions deem us a threat to them”

“Then who…?”

“It is about to be revealed.  Look!” Gandalf replied.

Fifty yards ahead a figure emerged from the woods. He was clad in buckskin and positioned himself in the middle of the trail, hands on the haft of a great axe.  A bow was slung over his right shoulder next to a quiver of arrows.  Gandalf heard the sound of horses hooves and shouting behind him as the rest of the party made notice and quickly moved forward into a clustered defensive posture.

“A fine axe, if I may say so” Arthed commented approvingly, his hand loosening the straps that secured his own to the side of his saddle.

“Stay your weapons for the now” Gandalf said quietly.  Let us hear what he has to say, though be on guard.”

In moments they were upon him.  Stocky and muscular, brown haired with gold streaks, his face was hard and intelligent. 

“Who might you be, traveling thus” he spoke boldly, not intimidated by the gathering on horseback before him.

“We are traders from the north with business in Gondor.” Aranarth replied curtly, speaking for the group.

“Indeed.  And would you be trading in pointed hats and brides?” the man mocked, staring first at Gandalf then at Drianna, whose hood had fallen back.  Drianna’s eyes flared, but it was Hagar who was first to speak.

“Have a care with your tongue, woodman, if you would keep it” Hagar dismounted, then slowly made his way towards the man, his broad shoulders straining at the threadbare cloak Elrond had provisioned for him.  “I am the son of the Breor, chieftan of the Eotheod and grandson of Frumgar who led the people from this empty land well before you were born!”

Aranarth grimaced at Hagar’s words, which he feared would give away their ruse.  On either side of the trail in the woods he sensed a tenseness, a vague rustle of hands brushing garments aside to clutch weapons.  He slowly edged his own towards his sword.  Out of the corner of his eye he could see similar movements by Arthed, Arahael, and Drianna.  Then Gandalf spoke, attempting a conciliatory tone.

“Forgive my attire, woodman.  I am an eccentric old man, an old trickster and jester who has been allowed to make one more journey south to amuse and bemuse those of the southern land.  My companions tell many tall tales.  Please…let us pass in peace.” 

But then another figure stepped from the confines of the forest.  Tall, regal, she wore a brown, ankle length woolen dress, belted at the waist.  A short sword hung at the belt.  Her hair was nearly pure white, with golden streaks.  Her face was heavily lined with old age, but strong, with high cheekbones and a firm set to her jaw.

“Who speaks so of the family of Frumgar!” she challenged, blue eyes fierce and unafraid. 

Hagar was momentarily speechless, an unfamiliar state, but then gathered his wits.

“I do, old woman.  And who would you be to ask?” Hagar replied with as much bluster as he could summon. 

“I am Freyja, daughter of Karinna, sister of Frumgar…”

“She who stayed…” Hagar replied in wonder, his voice a half whisper.

The old woman walked forward slowly towards Hagar, her eyes examining his face and bearing.  The Dunedain stayed alert, hands near their weapons.  Gandalf and Haldir exchanged worried glances.  Drianna and her cavalrymen were poised to charge.  In the woods there was a hint of a murmur of voices.

“You have Frumgar’s eyes, so as my mother had described them” she said, walking closer til she stood but inches away from Hagar, staring intently at him as if examining some old rune or lost sculpture.  “And surely you have his temperament as well from what my mother told me” 

Then unaccountably the sternness in her face relaxed and she smiled, then tossed her head back in a long peal of laughter.  Behind her the woodman eased, a big grin creasing his face.  The company of ‘traders’ shared puzzled glances though their hands still did not wander far from their swords.

“Be at ease then, for you are as what you were foretold.”

“Foretold?” Aranarth replied uncertainly

Another figure stepped from the forest, also clad in buckskin, his hair in gold ringlets, graying at the temples, a sardonic smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  Two bobcats skirmished at his feet.

“Indeed, older brother.  I could not let you make your way unannounced in this land.  It would not be fitting and the last of the Eotheod to make their way home can be unforgiving of strangers in what has become an unforgiving land”

Aranarth’s face was a mixture of astonishment and anger.

“Do not be alarmed” Freyja spoke, “Though he goes unnamed, we have long known him, by the sign of the half moon he leaves on the forehead of the enemy.  It is an honor to know his kin.” She bowed slightly towards Aranarth, “And great fortune indeed to meet the great grandson of Frumgar in the same company.” She smiled, though there was a speculative look in her eyes.

There was a rustle in the woods.  Then men, women, and children emerged from the forest on either side of the trail.  They were all armed, some with swords, others with bows, spears.  Even the smallest child that could stand clutched a rock or a sharpened stick.  But these weapons were put away, replaced by smiles of relief that there would be no fight today to thin ranks already dwindled by other hardships.

Then others came forth with horses and wagons loaded with food stocks and what few belongings they could take with them.  They all clustered about Hagar and Freyja, ignoring the rest of the ‘trading’ company for the while.  There was animated conversation, some in the common tongue, some in an older language strange to most.

Sensing that this could go on for more than a few minutes, the companions dismounted and tethered their horses to trees at the edge of the trail.   About that same time the old woman known as Freyja separated herself from the crowd ahead and quietly walked over to them, singling out Gandalf for conversation.

“You are not traders, though far from it for me to make challenge of your ruse” Her eyes were penetrating, a wrinkled smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“And what would you call us then, mother” Gandalf replied kindly, but with a trace of wariness.

“Fools…or warriors, I do not know.  The one who goes by the sign of the half moon has been known to us since the days that I was a young woman.  He is older than I, but does not show the years.  Your dour companion…” she motioned towards Aranarth, standing aloof a few yards away, “…knows him as do the rest of you.  Your faces told as much when he first spoke.”

“Your eyes are sharp” Aranarth replied, joining the conversation.

“Sharp as the swords you conceal beneath your baggage.  You will need them in this land.   There has been little trade here for more than a dozen summers and your horses do not carry enough of value to make such a journey south.”

“We have what we need” Aranarth replied somewhat gruffly.

“I pray you are right.  South of here there are no settlements, no people. Too many things from the Dark Forest emerge in the night.  There was a time when I was young when we could still hunt in its eaves.  Then the big game disappeared or became queer, unwholesome.  If the forest no longer provided game our farms still prospered and small game was still to be had outside the forest.  But when I was fifty summers old the night raids began.  Small, isolated homesteads near the Dark Wood were ravaged.  Our people moved west and there was peace for a while.  Then ten summers ago the raids resumed.

Strange animal cries in the night, foul odors emerging from the forest, livestock stolen or ripped to pieces by unknown beasts. 

“That time we fought back instead of moving again.  Blood was spilled.  My son amongst them.  His son, Garth, is the stern young man who first greeted you today.  Orcs and short, swarthy men were felled by our swords and axes, but their toll on us cut deep.  We moved again, westward.  Again they left us be again for a time until this year just over a fortnight ago.”

“It was a night raid, but unlike the others.  The sound of orc speech roused the guard, but ‘ere they could fully gather, the night was rent with cries and bellows of beasts no man could name.  Long shapes slithered through the grass.  All fought bravely, men, women, and children, but we were but five score strong the next morning down from eight score when the sun set the night before.  Of the enemy we took our share.  Some of what they left for dead bore no shape of beast I know.”

Freyja seemed to shudder at the memory of it.

“Great snakes…the length of ten men, bigger than tree trunks at the middle.  Other things the size of a large horse, and bigger.  Foul smelling, ugly things, grey and brown, fur and teeth, bare patches of skin, bulbous eyes.  Aggggh…they were rotting fast by dawn and little more than stinking heaps by the time we buried our dead.”

“And now we move for good.  Let them deal death to others.” Freyja glanced at Aranarth and the other companions.

Suddenly there was a commotion in back of her.  Hagar was returning, surrounded by a throng, excited, his eyes shining.

“They have agreed to join the Eotheod in the north!  Would that I could accompany them and see Breor’s face when they arrived!”

“Having come this far and faced great danger, I have no fear that they will fall astray!” Gandalf replied. “Hagar, do you have for them a token of greeting that they may present upon their arrival?”

Hagar stood for a moment, his young blond brows knit in concentration.  Then a thought occurred and he strode to his horse and fished around in a saddlebag.

“Hah! “ he said, holding a palm sized object in the air, “Present this! Say that you received it from Hagar, son of Breor!” Hagar handed it to Freyja

“What is this? Some stone, a carving?”

“No! It is one of Scatha’s teeth that I carry for luck! Now you will need it for the journey ahead and it will be reckoned upon your arrival in the far north!”

“You do us great service young master.” Freyja replied gracefully, then turned to her people now gathered around her and Hagar. “Behold a talisman of the Eotheod, a tooth of the dragon slain by Fram, son of Frumgar, father of Breor and grandfather of Hagar, future chieftan of the people!”

There was a great cheer.  Hagar’s face was a mix of astonishment and pride as he heard his destiny spoken outright from those who had known him but for a day’s encounter.

“Some day yes, but Breor is chieftan now and you will all do well to remember that!” Hagar scowled, but then softened, speaking once more, “but his son thanks you for your allegiance to the line of Frumgar.  Now you must go as must I and my companions.”

Another cheer leapt from the hundred that constituted the descendants of the last of those who had survived the hard passage since the fall of the kings of Rhovanion two hundred years past.  Quickly they organized their horses and wains along the grassy trail bounded by the woods.  Children scrambled into the wagons with their mothers.  Older boys and men with hard faces mounted strong horses.  Freyja sat astride a lean white mare, her blue eyes smiling in a face creased by a lifetime’s sorrows and hardships.  She eased her mount next to Gandalf’s and spoke quietly.

“You are like another we have heard tales of, the one who is friend to the winged creatures, who lives with the great trees to the north.  I am old and this will be my last summer.  But I feel you have many summers yet, your gray beard serving no true mark for your years.  See that young Hagar too has his fair share whatever task you are bound to.  He is raw and rash, but the people trust him.”

Gandalf reached out and held her hand for a moment.

“I have far too many summers yet, Freyja, ‘ere my tasks are done.  Hagar has his part to play in these next events and it is not certain what that will be.  But he will one day lead his people if my sight is any match for the fog with which the future cloaks the present.”

“Good luck to you then, gray traveler” Freyja smiled, then turned in her saddle and waived to the gathering behind her.  “Come people, we have three leagues yet to go today and the sun is already half towards the mountains.” 

With that she rode off, Garth behind her marshalling the wagons and shouting at the mounted men and boys to get under way. 

The companions watched in admiration as they passed.  Hagar stood at attention, his eyes glistening in silent salute to their bravery.  When the last were well past, he quietly took to his saddle and rode up to where Gandalf, Aranarth and the others waited.

“So, how did they take to the tale of Fram and the dragon” Gandalf inquired, a smile tugging at his beard.

“Scatha’s teeth! I forgot to tell them! So much the conversation was on their trials and the beauty of our northern lands”

“No doubt they had more to seek from you than tales of the past, which they will hear much upon their arrival” Gandalf replied, then turned to Aranarth. “Have you seen Ardugan?”

“Not since our arrival. He is long gone now, having guided them to this spot.  We will see naught of him till Mirkwood’s eaves are behind us.”

“Then we must be on our way, lest we delay that rendezvous.”

With that Gandalf nudged his mount forward, down the grassy track through the forest that had moments ago been alive with bustle and talk.  Behind him rode Haldir and Aranarth, then Hagar and Arthed, deep in conversation, followed by Drianna and her cavalrymen, with Arahael taking the rear guard.  They were now but ten leagues from Mirkwood, just two days travel.