The Choices of Mayor Samwise -- II Trees (d)
Merry was surprised to find that despite his fear of meeting more Uruk-hai, and the strain of long days in the saddle, he was quite enjoying travelling once more.The state in which they had found the Shire on their return, with all that had followed, had allowed little chance for minds or hearts to settle, and in a strange way time on the road, their speed too great for easy conversation, offered opportunity to set his thoughts in order. The marvel that was Sam Gamgee was high among them, and he had taken Sam’s jibe about his Sindarin to heart - his copy of Bilbo’s grammar and lexicon was the one luxury in his saddle-bags, and from their first night’s camp he and Pip solicited the help of delighted elves and approving Dúnedain in bettering their grasp of the tongue. But as he rode next morning he also realised, with a sense of shock, that a part of his relief was in no longer being always the largest and strongest person in any gathering. The necessary action against Ruffians had masked it with the command that had come readily to him, as to Pip, but he had been more uneasy than he had realised with the dominance he could now exert as he chose, and the way others automatically made way for him, not just as the heir to Buckland but as one it would be foolish to cross. His easy resort to brute strength in facing Uncle Pal’s truculence had deeply disturbed him, whatever Uncle Ferdi said, and when they stopped to water the horses and eat a brief lunch he said as much to Pip.
“I’ve been feeling that way too. It’s nice not to be worrying that you might knock over anyone you accidentally bump into, isn’t it? At Yule I came round that corner by Da’s study and sent cousin Everard flying, and ever since he’s all but leaped aside whenever he sees me.”
“Aunt Tina told me. It was the other way round for me - I stopped to let Aunt Hilda pass and Merimas ran right into me and fell flat on his back. He said it was like hitting a wall.”
“Did he? He’s got a cheek given the weight he carries. I’m surprised you weren’t bruised.”
“I was, a bit, but that didn’t seem to occur to anyone.”
“I know.” Pippin sighed. “Quite the pair, aren’t we, Merry? No more ent-draughts for us.”
Glorfindel, Elladan, and Elrohir joined them late in the afternoon, as the road began to descend. From this point the country was new to Merry, but in winter drab did not seem very interesting. There were scattered stands of trees and pleasant enough streams that flowed west towards the Brandywine, but what was lacking was more obvious - neither forest nor tillage, with few beasts and no people. The southern slopes of the Downs were heathland, tough grasses mixed with ling and heather and a few patches of brambles, and the lowlands they reached as dusk drew on seemed little different save for some softening and greening of the grasses. To the east a distant line of clouds indicated rain, but none threatened them and the little copse surrounding a sluggish stream where they made camp for the night offered plentiful deadwood for cooking and a cheerful fire around which to sit.
The Dúnedain had ready rations, balls of dried herbs and pulses that made quick soup and smoked meats to be stewed. The hobbits instinctively set to foraging for whatever might be found, and Merry realised the land was richer than it seemed - mushrooms, wild onions, some small potatoes, and a celery root triumphantly spotted and dug out by Pip joined both soup and stew. Both men and elves were pleased as well as amused by the hobbits’ quick eye for the edible and as he ate, sitting next to one of the Dúnedain, Firhael, Merry asked why no-one lived or farmed in these lands.
“Only because there are none to do so,” was the reply. “In the days of Cardolan Minhiriath was a full land with many farmsteads, and fallow tracts between for hunting. But the plagues and wars that ended the north kingdoms killed many and many, and it became a desert place. Orcs infesting the mountain passes and the Gap of Rohan ensured none could enter Eriador, and only the Dunlendings of Enedwaith expanded, but they clung ever to the spurs of Hithaeglir, moving north rather than west. And little more than a century past, following what you call the Fell Winter, there were great floods to the south that ruined Tharbad and much besides.”
“Will it now be resettled?”
“So Aragorn hopes. Halladan has told us it is partly for that purpose that he has ordered swift reconstruction of the bridge at Tharbad.” Firhael gave him a sidelong glance, eyes glinting. “Yet not all settlers need come from the south. We are no more than seventeen leagues from Sarn Ford and the Southfarthing - a perian who wished could farm well here, or run a welcome hostelry. Have you heard of the new inns the Breelanders are establishing on the East Road to serve those going to and from Amon Sûl and the High Pass?”
Merry had, but only in some overheard talk in Bree, and listened with interest as Firhael described them, wondering if Shire hobbits would become so intrepid as they grew more used to men, and realised the forces and fears that had kept them confined for so long were no longer potent. Most would be loath to cross the Brandywine, but there were Bucklanders and Southfarthing river-hobbits he could think of who might not be unwilling, especially if the Quick Post were extended beyond Sarn Ford to allow easy communication with family left behind. Storing that thought away he thanked Firhael and rose, catching Pip’s eye and moving to join Glorfindel and Aragorn’s brothers, who sat with Déorwine and Sam’s friend Damrod, the senior man among the Dúnedain and Ithiliens. He was unsure whether a direct question or a subtler appeal would work best but Pip as often saved him any agonising, and Glorfindel gave that austere smile.
“What can I tell you, Pippin? Any number of things - enough even to satisfy your absurd curiosity, if I had an age to spare.”
“Don’t tease, or I’ll take you up on it. You know what I meant.”
Glorfindel’s smile transformed into a laugh. “Yes, oddly I do. And after Mithrandir’s warnings I do not take Took curiosity so lightly as to risk it. But there is little to enjoy in what I may report, save the fascination that is Iarwain Ben-adar. It is many years since I have seen him, and we have never spoken before at any length, but he has seen the ages of Arda pass even as I, and himself once walked in Nan-tasarion, ere any darkness fell on it. He tells me that when he wedded the River-woman’s daughter, while Gil-galad lived yet in Arda, the one you call Old Man Willow had already rooted himself where he stands, and of his origins Iarwain could tell me nothing. Nor can I be certain, for though such as he can offer me no harm, his malice was palpable and I had no cause to use power sufficient to compel from him any answer. Yet I do not discount what I suspected. Far from it. Certainly he is of the Onodrim, however deeply rooted he has become, and all the malice he has woven through the forest is of catching and consuming. Those animals that survive along the Withywindle fear his call and shun his branches, and if Morgoth did not corrupt him, someone or something did, for neither Eru nor any of the Eldar made him as he is now.”
Elrohir stirred. “He reminded me strangely of the cursed souls who dwelt around Erech, ere Estel released them. I know Fangorn but little, yet I will not be surprised if he tells us that one was shunned and cast out by his own kind.”
Déorwine shivered. “The Dwimorberg was ever a foul sense in the mind.”
“We agree, brother.” Elladan’s hands gripped one another. “Yet me he also reminded of trees near to Dol Guldur, that welcomed the great spiders among their branches, and though it prove he wrought evil in Nan-tasarion I believe it will prove also that he once dwelt in Taur-na-fuin, and there came under the shadow of Gorthaur.”
Glorfindel gave the younger elf a sharp glance. “That may well be, Elladan, and it is error too much to distinguish the evils of Morgoth and Gorthaur, for they were ever of one mind. Elrond will insist Gorthaur was not always so, but neither he nor I remembers such a time.”
“Gorthaur is another name of Sauron?”
Glorfindel nodded. “It is indeed, Merry. His names were legion, but Gorthaur, the cruel, was that most used by the Sindar. Sauron, the detestable, was used more among Calaquendi, and the Noldor brought that custom to Arda. But names matter little - however he is called, that one was second only to Morgoth in malice, and perverting Onodrim would have pleased each alike.”
“So does any of this help us in appealing to Treebeard?”
“It may or may not, Pippin. I have not spoken with he who is now Fangorn since I dwelt in Beleriand, but no onod could be indifferent to such as that willow has become. Yet concerned as he must be at such a tale as we have to tell him, our problems are neither of his making nor of the land he calls his own.”
“But you’ll speak to him with us of what you’ve learned and suspect?”
“I will, and if he can offer no aid I may yet take more on myself. My time in Arda draws towards its end, and for all his compassion, Turgon, who was once my liege lord and whom I yet revere, would not have let such as that willow live in his domain.”
Merry was surprised to find himself speaking. “Does he still rest in the Halls of Mandos?”
Glorfindel’s expression softened. “No. He returned to Aman ere I departed again for Arda, but he thinks no longer of Gondolin and forgets what lies at this end of the straight road.” A strange look came to his face. “When Artanis returns he may be wakened, for they were close cousins before Fëanor’s madness at Alqualondë. Or he may not.”
He lapsed into silence, and after a while Merry tapped Pip’s shoulder and they withdrew to bedrolls that each knew reminded the other of their first weeks after leaving Rivendell, travelling down the skirts of the Misty Mountains towards Eregion. The next day dawned dull and grey, but stayed dry, and towards evening the Greenway was joined by the road from Sarn Ford and broadened, though it remained in obvious disrepair, with crumbled paving and choked culverts. The day after showers and a heavier storm caught up with them, and their camp in the corner of a mead just off the road, plainly often used by travellers, was cold and dull, for even the small cooking fires smoked unpleasantly, and all the men and hobbits retired early, leaving the elves to talk among themselves and regret the lack of trees and stars.
For the next three days they played tag with stormclouds, avoiding some and enduring others as the land rose and fell again, and Merry noticed the streams now flowed east rather than west. Bilbo’s book of Sindarin told him by firelight that Minhiriath meant the land between two rivers, the Brandywine, or properly Baranduin, and the Greyflood or Gwathló, towards which they were now gradually descending. Almost imperceptibly the chill eased from the air, even when it rained, and the plants the hobbits found when foraging expanded in kind to include peppers and a few hardy wild tomatoes, as well as more green herbs and fruits that could only be grown under glass in the Shire. Tooklanders and Bucklanders, equally subdued as the leagues fell away behind them, became more interested and alert as climate and landscape subtly shifted, and foraging became an entertainment for all the hobbits, as well as a valuable service given how swiftly such a large party consumed the food they carried. Scouts had some luck with game, bringing in rabbits and once a small boar, and where there were squirrels the hobbits demonstrated their skill with stones. But Merry and Pippin did not let them skimp on sword-practice, rotating opponents among Rohirrim, Dúnedain and Ithiliens, and elves, and insisting the tempo push always at the limits with which the hobbits were comfortable.
“An uruk won’t care if you’re tired or hungry,” Pippin observed with some asperity one night, “nor what you’re used to. I know it comes hard, but even more than with the Ruffians you all fought, you need to kill as swiftly as you can. The gut below any breastplate and the great vessels of the thigh are your best targets. Or the throat, if you fight on a slope and can gain the height advantage. And keep light on your feet - moving fast is your best defence. Shire custom says to stand square to any opponent, but that’s for fisticuffs. With orcs it’s slash, duck, and weave, always. And though we don’t expect any, with trolls it’s darting behind and hamstringing and stabbing upward as they fall. Just don’t let them fall on you, or you won’t like the results. I can promise you that.”
It was the first joke Merry had heard Pip make about his experience before the Morannon, and he saw those who had been there and knew - Elladan and Elrohir, Déorwine, Damrod, and others among the Rohirrim and Ithiliens - nod and exchange glances as they listened with interest. The hobbits were less than happy with the ruthlessness required, but Merry joined Pip in describing in greater detail than before the great uruks Saruman had bred, with their speed and stamina, skill with their bows, and short, broad-bladed swords.
“In some ways they really were more like men.” Merry shuddered, remembering. “The Mordor orcs weren’t only weaker and smaller, they were less disciplined and seemed to live for the moment. Uglúk had to kill some to enforce his orders about leaving us unharmed, but even then he had to watch them all the time. And though I hate to admit it, the uruks had a kind of nasty humour and a loyalty to one another I didn’t see in other orcs. Remember that talk about Mauhúr and his lads, Pip?”
“Yes I do. Ugh. But Merry’s right - they had a plan and they stuck to it. Éomer only just caught them in time.”
“What was this?”
Déorwine and other Rohirrim were interested, and between them Merry and Pippin recounted what they knew of the second band of Uruk-hai that Uglúk and his troop had hoped to meet.
“From what we gathered they’d been told to travel just within the forest, to avoid being seen, and were supposed to reinforce Uglúk’s lot if they were being pursued. But if it was them who turned up they were driven off, I’m glad to say, and Éomer got between Uglúk and the eaves, and that was that.”
“We were never sure, but from something Treebeard said we thought huorns had killed quite a lot of them while they were in the forest.”
Déorwine shrugged. “If so, it was well they did. By the time we brought that band to bay we outnumbered them, and they could not easily fight riders with spears, but had the others who attacked the éored been a larger group things might have gone hard with us.”
When practice was over and all had eaten, the hobbits gathered quietly round Pip and asked what he had meant about trolls. Merry could see he didn’t much like it but he did slowly recount something of his experience in the battle before the Morannon, shuddering as he described the great beasts that had fought there - their size and scaly hides, the bucklers and hammers they wielded, and the way they seized up and bit the throats of those they felled.
“And you killed one of these things?”
“Yes I did. It was going to bite a friend of mine who’d been overborne, and it hadn’t seen me, I don’t think. So I nipped behind to chop at its ankles, and then stabbed it as it stumbled and got something vital. Its blood just poured out, black and hot and stinking, and there was so much of it. My feet slipped in it and I couldn’t get clear as it fell. The next thing I knew it was a day later and the world had changed.”
There were looks of puzzlement but Pip had fallen silent.
“Because Sauron was gone.” Merry rested an arm round Pip’s shoulders. “The Ring went into the fire just about the same time Pippin was knocked out, as far as I could work it out, and the battle ended. He was all but buried under the troll he’d killed, but Gimli found him - the dwarf we’d travelled with - and got him to the healers’ tents.”
“Ah. That’s good. But we’re not going to face any of these things?”
“No - they were a special breed, I think, and they all died at the Morannon. If they survived the fighting the sun got them as soon as the cloud was blown away. I didn’t see it but Gimli told me there were quite a few dotted about the field.”
That led to some reminders of basic truths about trolls, just as in Bilbo’s story, and the plain fact that one didn’t have to worry about trolls by sunlight, nor this far from any caves or deep woods where they might hide from it by day. If still muttering among themselves and looking uneasily into the night the hobbits were somewhat reassured, but Merry deliberately took a place on the first watch, and was unsurprised when after only an hour’s sleep Pip began to shake. He woke him before he could cry out and held him as the nightmare faded, finding Elrohir kneeling at his side.
“Ill memories?”
“Trolls. The others were asking about the Morannon.”
“Ah. Let me hold him, Merry.”
Pip seemed to take groggy comfort from the elf’s sure grasp, and Merry went to heat some water at the watchfire, just enough for a small cup of athelas tea and to fill an eating bowl. Returning he gave Pip the cup, Elrohir steadying it, and fished in his bags for the packet Sam had given him. As he carefully broke off a small portion of one dried leaf Elrohir looked up, and as the fragrance rose and he held the bowl for Pip the elf breathed too, one eyebrow rising, then set down the half-drunk cup as Pip’s arm drooped. In a few moments Pip slept again, face peaceful, and Elrohir laid him back in his bedroll before guiding Merry back towards the watchfire.
“That was a leaf Sam prepared?” Merry nodded, drinking the last of the athelastea himself. “Then truly he did well. It took Estel some decades to become so proficient and he has royal blood to draw on.”
“Sam’s results vary. He thought Lady Yavanna helped this time.”
“That may be, but athelas tea is all his own, Merry, and of great interest.”
“You don’t make it?”
“Why would an elf make tea at all, let alone with athelas?” Elrohir smiled. “Bilbo was quite scandalised at our drinking habits, and we could not understand why he did not float away on all the tea he drank.”
Merry managed a weak grin. “I can imagine. But good for Sam, then - the tea’s very helpful and we all use it for getting back to sleep.”
“Your nights are often disturbed?”
“Often enough. From what Sam says Frodo has the worst of it, but we all have memory dreams. For me it’s the Pelennor or the Uruk-hai, usually. Pip gets those ones too, and the siege, but most often the Morannon and the troll. After tonight I was expecting this.”
“So I saw.” Unexpectedly Elrohir laid a warm hand on Merry’s shoulder. “But come, the watch is changing, and I will make sure your own sleep is undisturbed this night.”
It was, and he felt much better in the morning. Pip had only a faint memory of having woken and Merry took care not to remind him. During the day the scattered clumps of trees became less and less common, and by afternoon as the road began to descend more steeply none could be seen at all. Towards dusk it levelled again and was built up several feet above ground that was obviously boggy. They rode for longer after dusk, stopping for the night only when they reached a little knoll of raised earth beside the road that Firhael told him was the work of men. It was at least dry, and there was a small shelter with some stacked wood, as well as hay for the horses, but there were also swarms of midges until smoke from the cooking-fires drove them off. After they had sparred briefly and all had eaten, Déorwine called the hobbits together.
“Tomorrow we will reach Tharbad, where we cross the Greyflood. Have a care as you ride, for the land here is more water than earth, and treacherous underfoot. The road rises on a causeway, but unless those assigned to rebuild the bridge have made more progress than I expect that will still be in poor repair, with places where we must reduce to single file. At the river we must pick our way down the embankment to the ford, but that may by now be safer than it was when we rode north.”
“How big is the river?” Merry knew the Greyflood carried the waters of the Bruinen and Hoarwell, which rose as far north as the Ettenmoors. “Most of us have never seen anything bigger than the Brandywine.”
“It is not deep, fortunately, but it is very wide - more than a mile at the ford and far wider upstream.”
“A mile!” Tooklanders exchanged horrified looks and Bucklanders scratched their heads. “How can it be wider up-stream, Mr Déorwine?”
“It is joined there by the Swanfleet, which has no true course in the plains but forms a wide marsh into which the Greyflood also spreads. And though they are much crumbled and overgrown there are great dikes and earthworks north of Tharbad that rechannel the stream and protect the land on either side of where the bridge once stood.”
That made sense of a sort, Merry supposed, but the hobbits were still puzzled.
“Why did anyone bother, out here in the middle of nowhere?”
Déorwine shrugged. “Save that the bridge was necessary for the North Road I cannot say. Hunting parties from the Westfold come this far north sometimes, for the water-fowl that teem in the Swanfleet, but the history of this land I do not know.”
Glorfindel was listening and shook his head. “And yet it is little more than a century since Tharbad was abandoned, after floods that followed the Fell Winter, though it was by then much reduced. In the days when the north kingdoms yet stood it was a great port, and a busy place.”
“A port?” Merry was genuinely puzzled. “But we must be eighty or ninety leagues from the sea.”
“So we are, but the Gwathló is wide and deep enough for ships. The swiftest route from Osgiliath to Annúminas was to sail down Anduin, round Andrast to Lond Daer, and then in river-craft up Gwathló to Tharbad, before riding the way we have come. And not so long ago, by my reckoning, Periannath who may number among your ancestors, Merry, dwelt between Mitheithel and Glanduin, fishing and hunting in the wetlands of Nîn-in-Eliph.”
“Really? Must have been Stoors. How long ago in our reckoning would this be?”
“The centuries just before the Shire was founded and you ceased to venture any further than the Breelands.”
For the next while Glorfindel discovered just how curious Tooks and Brandybucks really could be when hobbit matters caught their interest. Some Rohirrim also became involved, intrigued to understand that their fireside tales of holbytlan must date from a time of coexistence far north and east, long before Eorl led them south to the Mark. Eventually Glorfindel shook himself free, saying they should sleep, and took himself off with Déorwine, but the discussion continued quietly for a while ruminating on the history of hobbits before the Shire was founded. The notion that Glorfindel had witnessed such things had also surprised everyone except Merry and Pippin, who shook their heads.
“Sam Gamgee would call you all ninnyhammers. Glorfindel’s an elf, remember, and the oldest one here, I’m pretty sure. You heard him mention Gondolin that first night we were in Bree - he was a captain of its guard when it fell to Morgoth, and that was” - Merry calculated - “at least six and a half thousand years ago. And he lived in Aman, in the Uttermost West, for ages before Gondolin was even thought of, in the Time of the Trees. He’s older than the sun, literally. And the moon.”
He sent them off to their bedrolls with very wide eyes, and sought his own, falling into dreams of hobbits hunting and fishing close to a great settlement of men, then of scratching his way through the Midgewater Marshes. That proved all too accurate when he woke with the sun to an itching nose and hand that had escaped his blanket, and the midges accompanied them as they rode. The road was not as bad as Déorwine had feared, some of the worst bits having clearly received recent attention. Late in the morning it became a true causeway, rising slowly but steadily on revetted banks above water meadows and great stands of reeds, and soon after they saw the first people, a party of twenty soldiers working to shore up a weak section. The number of riders and the presence of elves and hobbits caused a stir, and the grizzled captain directing work climbed to the road, holding up a hand.
“Single-file, dismounted, on the far side and treading as softly as you may, please, good sirs.”
They did as they were bid, but there were startled looks among the hobbits when the captain saw Merry and Pippin in their surcoats, and realising who they must be bowed to them, hand over heart. They offered him thanks, but he shook his head, asking only that they give his respects to the Ringbearers when they might and wishing them safe journey. Remounting further on, Merry’s ears burned at the muttered exchanges he could half-hear, but they fell away as the roadway rose still further and the Greyflood came in sight - a great sheet of water, looking as much like a lake as a river. On the far side a tumbled hill of stone might once have been town or fortress, or both, and on either side of them on the near bank were the remains of the river-port. There were scores of men with the looks and tabards of Gondor and Rohan, most working on the base of a great pillar a hundred yards out into the river, and a number of buildings had obviously been cleaned and repaired. Where the causeway ended the roadway simply stopped, sheared clean away, and a steep ramp had been dug into its side, requiring them to dismount and lead horses carefully down. Reaching the bottom with Pip, Merry saw Déorwine with Glorfindel beside him, speaking to an officer in Gondorian uniform to congratulate him on how much had been done and ask about the state of the ford.
“Not bad at all, Captain Déorwine, though I say so myself. We’ve done a lot of work on it, for it’ll be another two years at least before we can hope to have the bridge rebuilt, and that only if the King can persuade dwarves to help, as he told us he would. We did have a party come through about ten days back, but they were headed for Helm’s Deep.”
Déorwine and Glorfindel exchanged a glance that puzzled Merry.
“How large a party?”
“Three, with a wagon they unloaded and rafted across.”
There might have been more but the officer caught sight of Pippin’s surcoat and surprised introductions led to a welcome lunch in the soldiers’ mess before they packed fresh supplies and tackled the ford. The sheer width of the river was fearsome, but much to the hobbits’ relief there was a fairly smooth stone path only about four feet below the water, made of blocks from the fallen bridge, the tumbled remains of which provided a breakwater of sorts on the upstream side. Although their feet got wet the hobbits actually had it easier than the men, who had removed boots but were still left with soaked leggings, while the elves simply smiled and drew up their feet to rest lightly on their horses’ withers. On the far side another ramp let them climb back to the road and follow the causeway again as its height slowly diminished and the land became drier. By sunset they had crossed a slight ridge and left the valley of the Greyflood behind, entering a rolling land still without trees and in places bearing what Merry thought were the scars of old war - lumps and hollows, and once a mound of broken and jagged rock that the road skirted. Déorwine again kept them riding well after dark, and again they came to a camping-place with a stack of wood, though not this time any hay, the grassland being dry enough for the horses to feed themselves. After eating Merry took Pip and sought out Glorfindel, sitting with Elladan and Elrohir.
“Is there something particular about dwarves? I was wondering because you seemed startled by news of the party ahead of us, but Pip or I could have told you they were there. The three are Skirfir, his brother Virfir, and their nephew Fjalar.”
Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. “And you know this because …?”
“They came through the Shire not long after Yule, and Frodo commissioned them, gritting his teeth, to carve the, well, gravestone I suppose, for the Ruffians who were executed down at Sarn Ford.” Merry shook his head. “Horrid business, however necessary.”
“Wasn’t it just?” Pip sighed. “We rode down to meet them, though, and they did a good job. Skirfir knows Gimli from somewhere, and they are answering his call for dwarves to come to those caves of his at Helm’s Deep. Does it matter?”
“It may. Can you tell me the colour of their hair, and describe any braiding, seen from behind?”
Mystified, they did so. Glorfindel sighed, glancing at Elladan and Elrohir, who were grinning, and shook his head ruefully before explaining why news of Children of Aulë on the road ahead of them interested him.
“I did not tell you, nor Déorwine his men, because such things can easily mislead and betray. One might think we could not come upon the Uruk-hai before we had met with a Child of Aulë, say, and so fail of proper care. I believe that my vision will prove true and accurate, but I do not know how it will come to pass, and nothing precludes a previous encounter with orcs or any other hazard. These greenlings laugh because my caution prevented me from learning what you knew, yet such caution was not wrong.”
Merry thought it through, and nodded. “Yes, I can see that. Sam spoke about that sort of thing once, going down the Anduin.”
“That’s right.” Pippin frowned. “Lady Galadriel had shown him something - a great bowl to look in, I think - and he’d seen Bagshot Row all dug up and his Gaffer turned out. He wanted to go back, but she warned him it might only come true if he turned aside.”
Merry shook his head gloomily. “I remember. She said it might be past, present, or future. Turned out to be present, though, pretty much.”
Belatedly he realised that Elladan and Elrohir were no longer smiling but intent.
“Daernaneth showed you her mirror?”
“She did not tell us that.”
“She showed Frodo and Sam, not us.”
The brothers looked at one another. “And what did Frodo see?”
“If you know.”
“I don’t. He never said, only that he’d offered her the Ring and she’d stood very tall and white for a moment, and then refused it utterly.”
Merry didn’t think he’d ever seen an elf speechless before, but now saw two. Glorfindel gave a rich laugh that had the brothers staring at him indignantly.
“And swiftly I am avenged. What did you suppose your Daernaneth had done that would lead the Valar to end her exile? The ban punished her share in Fëanor’s madness and revolt, which was for desire of his Silmarils. Nothing less than such a refusal, of a gift freely offered, would have ended it. And now you know why she agreed to make the petition on behalf of Frodo.”
Merry had been trying to remember what he knew about Fëanor and his revolt, a part of the story that seemed always to have been skimmed very lightly, but stiffened, feeling Pip do so as well.
“What petition about Frodo?”
“He has not told you? Ah, that is awkward.” Glorfindel hesitated, then shrugged slightly. “And yet it is no secret among elves. At the request of Artanis and Undómiel the Valar have agreed Frodo might take the place Undómiel will not now use, on the next ship to depart Mithlond. And the Valar extended greater bounty, for Artanis and all the Ringbearers may go, and Gimli, if they so desire.”
Merry and Pippin stared at one another. “On a ship?”
“To Aman, you mean? But …”
“The next ship? Isn’t that leaving soon?”
Glorfindel sighed. “Yes, quite soon. Elrond and Artanis will leave, though Celeborn and I will stay a while. And these two, as that is also now permitted. The Ringbearers and Gimli may travel on any ship, and I do not think Sam will leave the Shire for many years, if ever. But Bilbo is already beyond the natural span of your kind and cannot endure in Arda much longer, while Frodo … I am sorry, but have you not seen? He is fading, Merry, and cannot be healed, even by Elrond. Not within Arda. If he stays he will accept the Gift of Ilúvatar within five years at most.”
“No!”
“It’s not right.”
Merry and Pippin were clutching one another, tears in their eyes, and Glorfindel sighed again.
“I am sorry for your distress, but it is what is. And it is not wrong. Frodo bore the Ring for eighteen years, and in the last it was full awake - as if he had Sauron’s own mind hanging about his neck. There is not enough of him left to heal. But in Tol Eressëa the Valar may come to him directly. The healing of Aman is offered that he may know joy and fullness again ere he accepts the Gift.”
Elladan’s voice was very gentle. “Bilbo is excited by the idea - one more great journey he may undertake. I aver he was near to asking Adar if he might meet Daeradar Eärendil. And he very much hopes Frodo will accompany him, though he does not altogether understand that for Frodo as much as for himself the next ship is their only chance.”
Much of the pain was because Merry had seen, but not understood. Frodo had always been private and for a hobbit quite austere, but from his awakening in Cormallen he had also been less than well, eating far too little and giving up the pipe he had once enjoyed. He rubbed at his shoulder and neck much more often than Merry at his arm, and often hid his maimed hand, clutching the jewel Arwen had given him with the other. All of them had been horrified by what they had found on their return to the Shire, but Frodo’s responses had been strangest, repelled even by the most necessary violence in defeating Ruffians, and he had been the least willing or able to envisage hobbits learning to deal with the world beyond their borders, rather than shunning it. But to know they must lose him, one way or another, and soon, was a great misery, and though they spoke no word as they left the elves, he and Pippin set their bedrolls together and at last slept with wet faces, hands entwined.
“I’ve been feeling that way too. It’s nice not to be worrying that you might knock over anyone you accidentally bump into, isn’t it? At Yule I came round that corner by Da’s study and sent cousin Everard flying, and ever since he’s all but leaped aside whenever he sees me.”
“Aunt Tina told me. It was the other way round for me - I stopped to let Aunt Hilda pass and Merimas ran right into me and fell flat on his back. He said it was like hitting a wall.”
“Did he? He’s got a cheek given the weight he carries. I’m surprised you weren’t bruised.”
“I was, a bit, but that didn’t seem to occur to anyone.”
“I know.” Pippin sighed. “Quite the pair, aren’t we, Merry? No more ent-draughts for us.”
Glorfindel, Elladan, and Elrohir joined them late in the afternoon, as the road began to descend. From this point the country was new to Merry, but in winter drab did not seem very interesting. There were scattered stands of trees and pleasant enough streams that flowed west towards the Brandywine, but what was lacking was more obvious - neither forest nor tillage, with few beasts and no people. The southern slopes of the Downs were heathland, tough grasses mixed with ling and heather and a few patches of brambles, and the lowlands they reached as dusk drew on seemed little different save for some softening and greening of the grasses. To the east a distant line of clouds indicated rain, but none threatened them and the little copse surrounding a sluggish stream where they made camp for the night offered plentiful deadwood for cooking and a cheerful fire around which to sit.
The Dúnedain had ready rations, balls of dried herbs and pulses that made quick soup and smoked meats to be stewed. The hobbits instinctively set to foraging for whatever might be found, and Merry realised the land was richer than it seemed - mushrooms, wild onions, some small potatoes, and a celery root triumphantly spotted and dug out by Pip joined both soup and stew. Both men and elves were pleased as well as amused by the hobbits’ quick eye for the edible and as he ate, sitting next to one of the Dúnedain, Firhael, Merry asked why no-one lived or farmed in these lands.
“Only because there are none to do so,” was the reply. “In the days of Cardolan Minhiriath was a full land with many farmsteads, and fallow tracts between for hunting. But the plagues and wars that ended the north kingdoms killed many and many, and it became a desert place. Orcs infesting the mountain passes and the Gap of Rohan ensured none could enter Eriador, and only the Dunlendings of Enedwaith expanded, but they clung ever to the spurs of Hithaeglir, moving north rather than west. And little more than a century past, following what you call the Fell Winter, there were great floods to the south that ruined Tharbad and much besides.”
“Will it now be resettled?”
“So Aragorn hopes. Halladan has told us it is partly for that purpose that he has ordered swift reconstruction of the bridge at Tharbad.” Firhael gave him a sidelong glance, eyes glinting. “Yet not all settlers need come from the south. We are no more than seventeen leagues from Sarn Ford and the Southfarthing - a perian who wished could farm well here, or run a welcome hostelry. Have you heard of the new inns the Breelanders are establishing on the East Road to serve those going to and from Amon Sûl and the High Pass?”
Merry had, but only in some overheard talk in Bree, and listened with interest as Firhael described them, wondering if Shire hobbits would become so intrepid as they grew more used to men, and realised the forces and fears that had kept them confined for so long were no longer potent. Most would be loath to cross the Brandywine, but there were Bucklanders and Southfarthing river-hobbits he could think of who might not be unwilling, especially if the Quick Post were extended beyond Sarn Ford to allow easy communication with family left behind. Storing that thought away he thanked Firhael and rose, catching Pip’s eye and moving to join Glorfindel and Aragorn’s brothers, who sat with Déorwine and Sam’s friend Damrod, the senior man among the Dúnedain and Ithiliens. He was unsure whether a direct question or a subtler appeal would work best but Pip as often saved him any agonising, and Glorfindel gave that austere smile.
“What can I tell you, Pippin? Any number of things - enough even to satisfy your absurd curiosity, if I had an age to spare.”
“Don’t tease, or I’ll take you up on it. You know what I meant.”
Glorfindel’s smile transformed into a laugh. “Yes, oddly I do. And after Mithrandir’s warnings I do not take Took curiosity so lightly as to risk it. But there is little to enjoy in what I may report, save the fascination that is Iarwain Ben-adar. It is many years since I have seen him, and we have never spoken before at any length, but he has seen the ages of Arda pass even as I, and himself once walked in Nan-tasarion, ere any darkness fell on it. He tells me that when he wedded the River-woman’s daughter, while Gil-galad lived yet in Arda, the one you call Old Man Willow had already rooted himself where he stands, and of his origins Iarwain could tell me nothing. Nor can I be certain, for though such as he can offer me no harm, his malice was palpable and I had no cause to use power sufficient to compel from him any answer. Yet I do not discount what I suspected. Far from it. Certainly he is of the Onodrim, however deeply rooted he has become, and all the malice he has woven through the forest is of catching and consuming. Those animals that survive along the Withywindle fear his call and shun his branches, and if Morgoth did not corrupt him, someone or something did, for neither Eru nor any of the Eldar made him as he is now.”
Elrohir stirred. “He reminded me strangely of the cursed souls who dwelt around Erech, ere Estel released them. I know Fangorn but little, yet I will not be surprised if he tells us that one was shunned and cast out by his own kind.”
Déorwine shivered. “The Dwimorberg was ever a foul sense in the mind.”
“We agree, brother.” Elladan’s hands gripped one another. “Yet me he also reminded of trees near to Dol Guldur, that welcomed the great spiders among their branches, and though it prove he wrought evil in Nan-tasarion I believe it will prove also that he once dwelt in Taur-na-fuin, and there came under the shadow of Gorthaur.”
Glorfindel gave the younger elf a sharp glance. “That may well be, Elladan, and it is error too much to distinguish the evils of Morgoth and Gorthaur, for they were ever of one mind. Elrond will insist Gorthaur was not always so, but neither he nor I remembers such a time.”
“Gorthaur is another name of Sauron?”
Glorfindel nodded. “It is indeed, Merry. His names were legion, but Gorthaur, the cruel, was that most used by the Sindar. Sauron, the detestable, was used more among Calaquendi, and the Noldor brought that custom to Arda. But names matter little - however he is called, that one was second only to Morgoth in malice, and perverting Onodrim would have pleased each alike.”
“So does any of this help us in appealing to Treebeard?”
“It may or may not, Pippin. I have not spoken with he who is now Fangorn since I dwelt in Beleriand, but no onod could be indifferent to such as that willow has become. Yet concerned as he must be at such a tale as we have to tell him, our problems are neither of his making nor of the land he calls his own.”
“But you’ll speak to him with us of what you’ve learned and suspect?”
“I will, and if he can offer no aid I may yet take more on myself. My time in Arda draws towards its end, and for all his compassion, Turgon, who was once my liege lord and whom I yet revere, would not have let such as that willow live in his domain.”
Merry was surprised to find himself speaking. “Does he still rest in the Halls of Mandos?”
Glorfindel’s expression softened. “No. He returned to Aman ere I departed again for Arda, but he thinks no longer of Gondolin and forgets what lies at this end of the straight road.” A strange look came to his face. “When Artanis returns he may be wakened, for they were close cousins before Fëanor’s madness at Alqualondë. Or he may not.”
He lapsed into silence, and after a while Merry tapped Pip’s shoulder and they withdrew to bedrolls that each knew reminded the other of their first weeks after leaving Rivendell, travelling down the skirts of the Misty Mountains towards Eregion. The next day dawned dull and grey, but stayed dry, and towards evening the Greenway was joined by the road from Sarn Ford and broadened, though it remained in obvious disrepair, with crumbled paving and choked culverts. The day after showers and a heavier storm caught up with them, and their camp in the corner of a mead just off the road, plainly often used by travellers, was cold and dull, for even the small cooking fires smoked unpleasantly, and all the men and hobbits retired early, leaving the elves to talk among themselves and regret the lack of trees and stars.
For the next three days they played tag with stormclouds, avoiding some and enduring others as the land rose and fell again, and Merry noticed the streams now flowed east rather than west. Bilbo’s book of Sindarin told him by firelight that Minhiriath meant the land between two rivers, the Brandywine, or properly Baranduin, and the Greyflood or Gwathló, towards which they were now gradually descending. Almost imperceptibly the chill eased from the air, even when it rained, and the plants the hobbits found when foraging expanded in kind to include peppers and a few hardy wild tomatoes, as well as more green herbs and fruits that could only be grown under glass in the Shire. Tooklanders and Bucklanders, equally subdued as the leagues fell away behind them, became more interested and alert as climate and landscape subtly shifted, and foraging became an entertainment for all the hobbits, as well as a valuable service given how swiftly such a large party consumed the food they carried. Scouts had some luck with game, bringing in rabbits and once a small boar, and where there were squirrels the hobbits demonstrated their skill with stones. But Merry and Pippin did not let them skimp on sword-practice, rotating opponents among Rohirrim, Dúnedain and Ithiliens, and elves, and insisting the tempo push always at the limits with which the hobbits were comfortable.
“An uruk won’t care if you’re tired or hungry,” Pippin observed with some asperity one night, “nor what you’re used to. I know it comes hard, but even more than with the Ruffians you all fought, you need to kill as swiftly as you can. The gut below any breastplate and the great vessels of the thigh are your best targets. Or the throat, if you fight on a slope and can gain the height advantage. And keep light on your feet - moving fast is your best defence. Shire custom says to stand square to any opponent, but that’s for fisticuffs. With orcs it’s slash, duck, and weave, always. And though we don’t expect any, with trolls it’s darting behind and hamstringing and stabbing upward as they fall. Just don’t let them fall on you, or you won’t like the results. I can promise you that.”
It was the first joke Merry had heard Pip make about his experience before the Morannon, and he saw those who had been there and knew - Elladan and Elrohir, Déorwine, Damrod, and others among the Rohirrim and Ithiliens - nod and exchange glances as they listened with interest. The hobbits were less than happy with the ruthlessness required, but Merry joined Pip in describing in greater detail than before the great uruks Saruman had bred, with their speed and stamina, skill with their bows, and short, broad-bladed swords.
“In some ways they really were more like men.” Merry shuddered, remembering. “The Mordor orcs weren’t only weaker and smaller, they were less disciplined and seemed to live for the moment. Uglúk had to kill some to enforce his orders about leaving us unharmed, but even then he had to watch them all the time. And though I hate to admit it, the uruks had a kind of nasty humour and a loyalty to one another I didn’t see in other orcs. Remember that talk about Mauhúr and his lads, Pip?”
“Yes I do. Ugh. But Merry’s right - they had a plan and they stuck to it. Éomer only just caught them in time.”
“What was this?”
Déorwine and other Rohirrim were interested, and between them Merry and Pippin recounted what they knew of the second band of Uruk-hai that Uglúk and his troop had hoped to meet.
“From what we gathered they’d been told to travel just within the forest, to avoid being seen, and were supposed to reinforce Uglúk’s lot if they were being pursued. But if it was them who turned up they were driven off, I’m glad to say, and Éomer got between Uglúk and the eaves, and that was that.”
“We were never sure, but from something Treebeard said we thought huorns had killed quite a lot of them while they were in the forest.”
Déorwine shrugged. “If so, it was well they did. By the time we brought that band to bay we outnumbered them, and they could not easily fight riders with spears, but had the others who attacked the éored been a larger group things might have gone hard with us.”
When practice was over and all had eaten, the hobbits gathered quietly round Pip and asked what he had meant about trolls. Merry could see he didn’t much like it but he did slowly recount something of his experience in the battle before the Morannon, shuddering as he described the great beasts that had fought there - their size and scaly hides, the bucklers and hammers they wielded, and the way they seized up and bit the throats of those they felled.
“And you killed one of these things?”
“Yes I did. It was going to bite a friend of mine who’d been overborne, and it hadn’t seen me, I don’t think. So I nipped behind to chop at its ankles, and then stabbed it as it stumbled and got something vital. Its blood just poured out, black and hot and stinking, and there was so much of it. My feet slipped in it and I couldn’t get clear as it fell. The next thing I knew it was a day later and the world had changed.”
There were looks of puzzlement but Pip had fallen silent.
“Because Sauron was gone.” Merry rested an arm round Pip’s shoulders. “The Ring went into the fire just about the same time Pippin was knocked out, as far as I could work it out, and the battle ended. He was all but buried under the troll he’d killed, but Gimli found him - the dwarf we’d travelled with - and got him to the healers’ tents.”
“Ah. That’s good. But we’re not going to face any of these things?”
“No - they were a special breed, I think, and they all died at the Morannon. If they survived the fighting the sun got them as soon as the cloud was blown away. I didn’t see it but Gimli told me there were quite a few dotted about the field.”
That led to some reminders of basic truths about trolls, just as in Bilbo’s story, and the plain fact that one didn’t have to worry about trolls by sunlight, nor this far from any caves or deep woods where they might hide from it by day. If still muttering among themselves and looking uneasily into the night the hobbits were somewhat reassured, but Merry deliberately took a place on the first watch, and was unsurprised when after only an hour’s sleep Pip began to shake. He woke him before he could cry out and held him as the nightmare faded, finding Elrohir kneeling at his side.
“Ill memories?”
“Trolls. The others were asking about the Morannon.”
“Ah. Let me hold him, Merry.”
Pip seemed to take groggy comfort from the elf’s sure grasp, and Merry went to heat some water at the watchfire, just enough for a small cup of athelas tea and to fill an eating bowl. Returning he gave Pip the cup, Elrohir steadying it, and fished in his bags for the packet Sam had given him. As he carefully broke off a small portion of one dried leaf Elrohir looked up, and as the fragrance rose and he held the bowl for Pip the elf breathed too, one eyebrow rising, then set down the half-drunk cup as Pip’s arm drooped. In a few moments Pip slept again, face peaceful, and Elrohir laid him back in his bedroll before guiding Merry back towards the watchfire.
“That was a leaf Sam prepared?” Merry nodded, drinking the last of the athelastea himself. “Then truly he did well. It took Estel some decades to become so proficient and he has royal blood to draw on.”
“Sam’s results vary. He thought Lady Yavanna helped this time.”
“That may be, but athelas tea is all his own, Merry, and of great interest.”
“You don’t make it?”
“Why would an elf make tea at all, let alone with athelas?” Elrohir smiled. “Bilbo was quite scandalised at our drinking habits, and we could not understand why he did not float away on all the tea he drank.”
Merry managed a weak grin. “I can imagine. But good for Sam, then - the tea’s very helpful and we all use it for getting back to sleep.”
“Your nights are often disturbed?”
“Often enough. From what Sam says Frodo has the worst of it, but we all have memory dreams. For me it’s the Pelennor or the Uruk-hai, usually. Pip gets those ones too, and the siege, but most often the Morannon and the troll. After tonight I was expecting this.”
“So I saw.” Unexpectedly Elrohir laid a warm hand on Merry’s shoulder. “But come, the watch is changing, and I will make sure your own sleep is undisturbed this night.”
It was, and he felt much better in the morning. Pip had only a faint memory of having woken and Merry took care not to remind him. During the day the scattered clumps of trees became less and less common, and by afternoon as the road began to descend more steeply none could be seen at all. Towards dusk it levelled again and was built up several feet above ground that was obviously boggy. They rode for longer after dusk, stopping for the night only when they reached a little knoll of raised earth beside the road that Firhael told him was the work of men. It was at least dry, and there was a small shelter with some stacked wood, as well as hay for the horses, but there were also swarms of midges until smoke from the cooking-fires drove them off. After they had sparred briefly and all had eaten, Déorwine called the hobbits together.
“Tomorrow we will reach Tharbad, where we cross the Greyflood. Have a care as you ride, for the land here is more water than earth, and treacherous underfoot. The road rises on a causeway, but unless those assigned to rebuild the bridge have made more progress than I expect that will still be in poor repair, with places where we must reduce to single file. At the river we must pick our way down the embankment to the ford, but that may by now be safer than it was when we rode north.”
“How big is the river?” Merry knew the Greyflood carried the waters of the Bruinen and Hoarwell, which rose as far north as the Ettenmoors. “Most of us have never seen anything bigger than the Brandywine.”
“It is not deep, fortunately, but it is very wide - more than a mile at the ford and far wider upstream.”
“A mile!” Tooklanders exchanged horrified looks and Bucklanders scratched their heads. “How can it be wider up-stream, Mr Déorwine?”
“It is joined there by the Swanfleet, which has no true course in the plains but forms a wide marsh into which the Greyflood also spreads. And though they are much crumbled and overgrown there are great dikes and earthworks north of Tharbad that rechannel the stream and protect the land on either side of where the bridge once stood.”
That made sense of a sort, Merry supposed, but the hobbits were still puzzled.
“Why did anyone bother, out here in the middle of nowhere?”
Déorwine shrugged. “Save that the bridge was necessary for the North Road I cannot say. Hunting parties from the Westfold come this far north sometimes, for the water-fowl that teem in the Swanfleet, but the history of this land I do not know.”
Glorfindel was listening and shook his head. “And yet it is little more than a century since Tharbad was abandoned, after floods that followed the Fell Winter, though it was by then much reduced. In the days when the north kingdoms yet stood it was a great port, and a busy place.”
“A port?” Merry was genuinely puzzled. “But we must be eighty or ninety leagues from the sea.”
“So we are, but the Gwathló is wide and deep enough for ships. The swiftest route from Osgiliath to Annúminas was to sail down Anduin, round Andrast to Lond Daer, and then in river-craft up Gwathló to Tharbad, before riding the way we have come. And not so long ago, by my reckoning, Periannath who may number among your ancestors, Merry, dwelt between Mitheithel and Glanduin, fishing and hunting in the wetlands of Nîn-in-Eliph.”
“Really? Must have been Stoors. How long ago in our reckoning would this be?”
“The centuries just before the Shire was founded and you ceased to venture any further than the Breelands.”
For the next while Glorfindel discovered just how curious Tooks and Brandybucks really could be when hobbit matters caught their interest. Some Rohirrim also became involved, intrigued to understand that their fireside tales of holbytlan must date from a time of coexistence far north and east, long before Eorl led them south to the Mark. Eventually Glorfindel shook himself free, saying they should sleep, and took himself off with Déorwine, but the discussion continued quietly for a while ruminating on the history of hobbits before the Shire was founded. The notion that Glorfindel had witnessed such things had also surprised everyone except Merry and Pippin, who shook their heads.
“Sam Gamgee would call you all ninnyhammers. Glorfindel’s an elf, remember, and the oldest one here, I’m pretty sure. You heard him mention Gondolin that first night we were in Bree - he was a captain of its guard when it fell to Morgoth, and that was” - Merry calculated - “at least six and a half thousand years ago. And he lived in Aman, in the Uttermost West, for ages before Gondolin was even thought of, in the Time of the Trees. He’s older than the sun, literally. And the moon.”
He sent them off to their bedrolls with very wide eyes, and sought his own, falling into dreams of hobbits hunting and fishing close to a great settlement of men, then of scratching his way through the Midgewater Marshes. That proved all too accurate when he woke with the sun to an itching nose and hand that had escaped his blanket, and the midges accompanied them as they rode. The road was not as bad as Déorwine had feared, some of the worst bits having clearly received recent attention. Late in the morning it became a true causeway, rising slowly but steadily on revetted banks above water meadows and great stands of reeds, and soon after they saw the first people, a party of twenty soldiers working to shore up a weak section. The number of riders and the presence of elves and hobbits caused a stir, and the grizzled captain directing work climbed to the road, holding up a hand.
“Single-file, dismounted, on the far side and treading as softly as you may, please, good sirs.”
They did as they were bid, but there were startled looks among the hobbits when the captain saw Merry and Pippin in their surcoats, and realising who they must be bowed to them, hand over heart. They offered him thanks, but he shook his head, asking only that they give his respects to the Ringbearers when they might and wishing them safe journey. Remounting further on, Merry’s ears burned at the muttered exchanges he could half-hear, but they fell away as the roadway rose still further and the Greyflood came in sight - a great sheet of water, looking as much like a lake as a river. On the far side a tumbled hill of stone might once have been town or fortress, or both, and on either side of them on the near bank were the remains of the river-port. There were scores of men with the looks and tabards of Gondor and Rohan, most working on the base of a great pillar a hundred yards out into the river, and a number of buildings had obviously been cleaned and repaired. Where the causeway ended the roadway simply stopped, sheared clean away, and a steep ramp had been dug into its side, requiring them to dismount and lead horses carefully down. Reaching the bottom with Pip, Merry saw Déorwine with Glorfindel beside him, speaking to an officer in Gondorian uniform to congratulate him on how much had been done and ask about the state of the ford.
“Not bad at all, Captain Déorwine, though I say so myself. We’ve done a lot of work on it, for it’ll be another two years at least before we can hope to have the bridge rebuilt, and that only if the King can persuade dwarves to help, as he told us he would. We did have a party come through about ten days back, but they were headed for Helm’s Deep.”
Déorwine and Glorfindel exchanged a glance that puzzled Merry.
“How large a party?”
“Three, with a wagon they unloaded and rafted across.”
There might have been more but the officer caught sight of Pippin’s surcoat and surprised introductions led to a welcome lunch in the soldiers’ mess before they packed fresh supplies and tackled the ford. The sheer width of the river was fearsome, but much to the hobbits’ relief there was a fairly smooth stone path only about four feet below the water, made of blocks from the fallen bridge, the tumbled remains of which provided a breakwater of sorts on the upstream side. Although their feet got wet the hobbits actually had it easier than the men, who had removed boots but were still left with soaked leggings, while the elves simply smiled and drew up their feet to rest lightly on their horses’ withers. On the far side another ramp let them climb back to the road and follow the causeway again as its height slowly diminished and the land became drier. By sunset they had crossed a slight ridge and left the valley of the Greyflood behind, entering a rolling land still without trees and in places bearing what Merry thought were the scars of old war - lumps and hollows, and once a mound of broken and jagged rock that the road skirted. Déorwine again kept them riding well after dark, and again they came to a camping-place with a stack of wood, though not this time any hay, the grassland being dry enough for the horses to feed themselves. After eating Merry took Pip and sought out Glorfindel, sitting with Elladan and Elrohir.
“Is there something particular about dwarves? I was wondering because you seemed startled by news of the party ahead of us, but Pip or I could have told you they were there. The three are Skirfir, his brother Virfir, and their nephew Fjalar.”
Glorfindel raised an eyebrow. “And you know this because …?”
“They came through the Shire not long after Yule, and Frodo commissioned them, gritting his teeth, to carve the, well, gravestone I suppose, for the Ruffians who were executed down at Sarn Ford.” Merry shook his head. “Horrid business, however necessary.”
“Wasn’t it just?” Pip sighed. “We rode down to meet them, though, and they did a good job. Skirfir knows Gimli from somewhere, and they are answering his call for dwarves to come to those caves of his at Helm’s Deep. Does it matter?”
“It may. Can you tell me the colour of their hair, and describe any braiding, seen from behind?”
Mystified, they did so. Glorfindel sighed, glancing at Elladan and Elrohir, who were grinning, and shook his head ruefully before explaining why news of Children of Aulë on the road ahead of them interested him.
“I did not tell you, nor Déorwine his men, because such things can easily mislead and betray. One might think we could not come upon the Uruk-hai before we had met with a Child of Aulë, say, and so fail of proper care. I believe that my vision will prove true and accurate, but I do not know how it will come to pass, and nothing precludes a previous encounter with orcs or any other hazard. These greenlings laugh because my caution prevented me from learning what you knew, yet such caution was not wrong.”
Merry thought it through, and nodded. “Yes, I can see that. Sam spoke about that sort of thing once, going down the Anduin.”
“That’s right.” Pippin frowned. “Lady Galadriel had shown him something - a great bowl to look in, I think - and he’d seen Bagshot Row all dug up and his Gaffer turned out. He wanted to go back, but she warned him it might only come true if he turned aside.”
Merry shook his head gloomily. “I remember. She said it might be past, present, or future. Turned out to be present, though, pretty much.”
Belatedly he realised that Elladan and Elrohir were no longer smiling but intent.
“Daernaneth showed you her mirror?”
“She did not tell us that.”
“She showed Frodo and Sam, not us.”
The brothers looked at one another. “And what did Frodo see?”
“If you know.”
“I don’t. He never said, only that he’d offered her the Ring and she’d stood very tall and white for a moment, and then refused it utterly.”
Merry didn’t think he’d ever seen an elf speechless before, but now saw two. Glorfindel gave a rich laugh that had the brothers staring at him indignantly.
“And swiftly I am avenged. What did you suppose your Daernaneth had done that would lead the Valar to end her exile? The ban punished her share in Fëanor’s madness and revolt, which was for desire of his Silmarils. Nothing less than such a refusal, of a gift freely offered, would have ended it. And now you know why she agreed to make the petition on behalf of Frodo.”
Merry had been trying to remember what he knew about Fëanor and his revolt, a part of the story that seemed always to have been skimmed very lightly, but stiffened, feeling Pip do so as well.
“What petition about Frodo?”
“He has not told you? Ah, that is awkward.” Glorfindel hesitated, then shrugged slightly. “And yet it is no secret among elves. At the request of Artanis and Undómiel the Valar have agreed Frodo might take the place Undómiel will not now use, on the next ship to depart Mithlond. And the Valar extended greater bounty, for Artanis and all the Ringbearers may go, and Gimli, if they so desire.”
Merry and Pippin stared at one another. “On a ship?”
“To Aman, you mean? But …”
“The next ship? Isn’t that leaving soon?”
Glorfindel sighed. “Yes, quite soon. Elrond and Artanis will leave, though Celeborn and I will stay a while. And these two, as that is also now permitted. The Ringbearers and Gimli may travel on any ship, and I do not think Sam will leave the Shire for many years, if ever. But Bilbo is already beyond the natural span of your kind and cannot endure in Arda much longer, while Frodo … I am sorry, but have you not seen? He is fading, Merry, and cannot be healed, even by Elrond. Not within Arda. If he stays he will accept the Gift of Ilúvatar within five years at most.”
“No!”
“It’s not right.”
Merry and Pippin were clutching one another, tears in their eyes, and Glorfindel sighed again.
“I am sorry for your distress, but it is what is. And it is not wrong. Frodo bore the Ring for eighteen years, and in the last it was full awake - as if he had Sauron’s own mind hanging about his neck. There is not enough of him left to heal. But in Tol Eressëa the Valar may come to him directly. The healing of Aman is offered that he may know joy and fullness again ere he accepts the Gift.”
Elladan’s voice was very gentle. “Bilbo is excited by the idea - one more great journey he may undertake. I aver he was near to asking Adar if he might meet Daeradar Eärendil. And he very much hopes Frodo will accompany him, though he does not altogether understand that for Frodo as much as for himself the next ship is their only chance.”
Much of the pain was because Merry had seen, but not understood. Frodo had always been private and for a hobbit quite austere, but from his awakening in Cormallen he had also been less than well, eating far too little and giving up the pipe he had once enjoyed. He rubbed at his shoulder and neck much more often than Merry at his arm, and often hid his maimed hand, clutching the jewel Arwen had given him with the other. All of them had been horrified by what they had found on their return to the Shire, but Frodo’s responses had been strangest, repelled even by the most necessary violence in defeating Ruffians, and he had been the least willing or able to envisage hobbits learning to deal with the world beyond their borders, rather than shunning it. But to know they must lose him, one way or another, and soon, was a great misery, and though they spoke no word as they left the elves, he and Pippin set their bedrolls together and at last slept with wet faces, hands entwined.