Chapter 17. Taking our blessings where we can find them

Late in the afternoon, the Gate-stream that has guided us on our way joins with a much larger river.

The Glanduin, my companion tells me.

What's that? I ask.

That's the River's name: Glanduin, he clarifies.

It is no longer the Gate-stream? I ask, confused.

My companion nods at me. In a sense, the Glanduin has swallowed the Gate-stream, he explains. When a smaller River flows into a larger one, its name is cast aside.

Alas, poor Gate-stream! Bad enough to be dammed to a trickle, but to lose even its name when it has run its course at last! 

Before we go on, I walk back to our faithful Gate-stream and on down the sloping bank until I reach the waters flowing along the bottom of the streambed. I lower my head and dip my muzzle in the fresh, spring-fed rivulet. As we have travelled, the flow of water has grown from occasional puddles until I might almost call it a brook, like the laughing watercourse that ran through our meadow, my dam's and mine. Perhaps that small stream I remember was able to laugh because it fit its bed so well, unlike the Gate-stream, which even at this point seems rather wistful and neglected with the small flow running in the middle of the wide bed.

I drink deeply of the cold, refreshing water and aim warm thoughts at the tiny stream, trying to convey my gratitude. My thanks for your help, I think at the sparkling surface. I could not have come this far without you.

My companion waits patiently for me to finish drinking, and then we walk on.

*** 

Towards evening, more cracked and weathered remnants appear along our chosen path, joining the broken walls and overgrown paving stones of the highroad we are following.

Although my companion has set us an easy pace, we have been travelling steadily. I can feel weariness weighing ever heavier. At least my shoulder feels more painful than stiff. Our nearly-constant walking has kept the joint from stiffening. As my hobbits are so fond of saying, we must take our blessings where we find them.

Though sometimes Youngest expresses this sentiment a bit differently: We must be sure to pick up our blessings from the ground after we've tripped over them!

I cannot quite make sense of calling something a blessing when it has led to a painful fall, which I remember had happened to Youngest just before his cousins picked him up from the ground and exclaimed over his bloodied hands, scraped by the rocks underfoot when he tried to catch himself as he fell – but then I have often noticed my hobbits' tendency to deal with heavy circumstances by talking lightly.

Was Youngest calling himself a blessing, I wonder? I stumble a little as I ponder this thought. His older cousins certainly did pick him up from the ground, though I cannot remember if they had tripped over him in the darkness, or not. Walking in the darkness has its hazards.

Thinking back, I believe the not-Merry hobbit tripped over Youngest, sprawled ahead of him on the ground, but the Master did not. Master seems to see better in the dark than my other hobbits, though I cannot say why that might be.

My companion halts, and I lift my nose in his direction in inquiry. Are we stopping here?

Although the Sun has dipped below the horizon, enough light still remains that he is yet visible to my eyes. I see him lift his head high, scanning our surroundings with a piercing look and widened nostrils.

After a thorough survey, he lowers his nose to mine and says, No, I feel it is advisable for us to go on for a few more hours, at least until we have forded the Glanduin and left the ruins behind. I do not wish to stop here amongst the ruins of Ost-in-edhil.

Ost...? I say.

He shakes his head so that his mane flies up. It is an Elvish name, he says dismissively. My Rider has told me the name means "Fortress of the Eldar".

Who or what is Eldar? I ask in confusion. I lift my head higher to view our surroundings in the fading light and add, It doesn't look all that much like a fortress to me.

And you've seen many fortresses, I take it? my companion asks, curling his lip humorously.

Many, and none at all, as the old pet is so fond of saying, I answer in jest.

My companion whickers softly, a chuckle of sorts. I'm looking forward to meeting this old pet of yours, he says. The name "Eldar" means "Star People" or "People of the Stars".

My mind boggles. Surely this must have been a great fortress at one time! I say. I lift my head and glance upward to the fading sky where stars will soon make their presence known. Will these ruins become a great city, a fortress, under the light of the stars, only to fall again to ruin when the night has passed?

The Eldar are Elves, my companion says. More precisely, the name refers to the West-elves.

I shake my head. Too many names, I protest.

My companion nibbles gently along my neck. Sometimes my Rider passes the hours of travel by telling me stories as we gallop along, he says. There's no need for you to try to remember every name you hear; as a matter of fact, 'twould be unnatural for you to do so.

But you... I begin.

He shakes his head at me. I was created to understand the speech of Men and Elves, he says. In part, I deem, so that I might listen to my Rider and understand and provide the comfort of companionship in our journeying. There are very few in Middle-earth who are like him, and they seldom have the luxury of time to sit down and talk together at their leisure.

For the first time, it occurs to me that a Wizard might be capable of feeling loneliness at times. Is that part of the reason why he took pity on me and gave me the Voices, and not only to lessen my dear Sam's distress?

***