Along the Anduin

It was cold outside Lothlorién, but much less misty. The air was drier than it had been in the Golden woods. Aragorn consented to light a fire. Neither him nor Legolas sensed any danger on this particular spot.

On they went, for several days paddling down the Anduin, munching on the supplies from the golden wood for lunch, and cooking at night. The river meandered around cliffs, sometimes gaining more speed, sometimes snailing gently. As they reached further south, the company progressively tensed. Discord was once again brewing between Boromir and Aragorn, much to everyone's distress. Frances knew better than to approach Boromir whenever he was angry. His words could wound as icily as a blade when his pride took over reason.

Legolas, impervious to his moods, remained his calm self all along. It somehow helped to travel alongside the elf. His soothing presence allowed Frances' mind to stay clear. And Gimli was as sturdy as a rock. No disagreement among men would tame his cheerful character.

On the fourth day, the current suddenly picked up. Boromir and Aragorn started shouting orders to paddle up and set the boats on the bank. But it was too late. The elvish crafts grated on the rocks as they were caught in the flow. Adrenaline shot into Frances's body. In this moment, she realised how frail their raft was and how easily they could be turned over and thrown into the water. She doubted she could drag Gimli ashore. Fearing the icy touch of the water splashing, the young lady followed the elf's instructions without fault.

In front of them, Aragorn's own little boat came in and out of the view as he tried to negotiate the currents. And then, in the middle of chaos, black arrows whizzed past them.

- "Yrch" yelled Legolas as he turned around.

The elf attempted to seize his bow but the current was too strong. It forced him to get back to paddling lest they be drowned. Several arrows plunged into the agitated waters. Setting her fright aside, Frances blessed the current to lead them away. She'd rather end up in the river than face the orcs. A quick look at the passing boat of Boromir told her that neither Merry nor Pippin knew how to swim. Pure terror oozed from them as they clutched the edge of their raft. Frances tried to send them some comfort with a smile, but she doubted it reached its intended destination. The hobbits' eyes were wide with terror.

Finally, the black arrows ceased their assault, and the company went on for a little while before accosting on the western bank. Although most of their clothing was wet, Aragorn couldn't consent on making a fire. Miserable, they huddled together to keep warm. Dread had seized the hobbits at hearing that they would not be able to eat stew, and there was disagreement in the ranks.

Frances felt unnerved. As usual, Frodo sat, flanked by his ever companion Sam Gamgee. The gardener offered comfort and shuffled around the ring bearer, never asking anything in return.

Frances had long ago stopped her attempts at making conversation with Frodo. If he answered politely to any question she might have, he would not share his suffering with any of them. The effort of making conversation seemed to take a toll on him and Frances didn't want to make him uncomfortable. The hobbit was slowly fading from the world of the living, and there was nothing that could be done to prevent it.

The ring called to her sometimes. The jewel tried to pull all the strings. Compassion, anger, envy and power. All of it. She heard it when she slumbered. And now, sitting by the company as the day settled, it was stronger than usual.

Frances decided to cast its whispers out of her mind; she concentrated on the elf's glow sitting beside her. His light, so soft and ethereal, appeased her heart until she heard the ring no more. The eldar's aura was soothing; would he ever know how he protected her from the ring ?

Today, though, even the elf was agitated. As Legolas suddenly stood up, Frances started. His keen eyes were set on the dark sky. The young lady creased her eyes, but saw nothing. The prince lifted his bow, then pulled the string. An arrow flew; a black shape fell with a shrill cry that echoed around the cliffs of the Anduin. Frances shuddered, suddenly frozen to the core. She knew this screech all too well. The coldness of its tone crept into her bones, and soon her whole body was trembling.

While Gimli seemed undeterred, the hobbits had stiffened.

— "It is one of those horrible beasts, isn'it?", asked Pippin.

His eyes were filled with terror. Yet no one refuted his assertion.

The Nazgûl had found them.

After the orc's attack, this took the battle to a new stage. Frances shivered; away was the pleasant journey down the river. Now more than ever, the company knew to be hunted. The urgency of their situation made no doubt. And yet, what more could they do than go on?

Once more, Boromir an Aragorn were arguing about the route to take. The steward's son wanted to make for Minas Tirith. But to this their leader was opposed. Aragorn had not clearly stated his intentions. But one thing was sure in Frances' mind, he feared to go south to the city of men. Despite the symbol that the white city represented - his inheritance - Aragorn was reluctant to lead the company to its walls. But Boromir would not be deterred.

- " … to the Tall Isle I will go, but not further" said the steward's son. Then I shall return to my home, alone if my help has not earned the reward of any companionship.

His grey eyes turned to Frances, asking her, begging her for some support. Unsure about what to do, the young lady averted her eyes. Shame overtook her for acting so cowardly. Yet, there was so much that was unsaid. She needed to speak with Boromir to understand what she was missing. Why would Aragorn fear to reach for the city? Of course, Boromir's allegiance went to the steward. But she thought that he would have given up this "no king" nonsense for now.

Legolas and Gimli seemed unaware of the issue at hand. If they did, none made a comment on the route. Both would follow wherever the ring bearer went.

Fortunately, the conversation drifted to the phase of the moon, lifting some of the tension. Sam had just come to realise that the company had spent a month in Lorién. To this, Legolas tried to explain how time was different in the eyes of the eldar. Frances' thoughts wandered off as she listened to the melodic voice of the woodland prince.

— "… the world moves, and it moves both very swift and very slow …"

As Legolas' voice guided her imagination, the young lady tried to fathom how difficult it would be for her to be immortal. In her nearly twenty years of age, she had already started to grasp how things had changed around her. Her home, her parents, the world was moving so fast. Seasons came and went, people died, cities were built and crumbled, wars took place. How did it feel to live a century? Five hundred years? A millenia? Even if your family, your friends didn't age, the world would inevitably change. Weather would shift, mountains would crumble, rivers would change their course. How could one's memory handle all of it?

Elves were often melancholic. She started to understand why. To see so much happening as time flowed like a river through their outstretched hands. And yet, they moved with such speed, such efficiency. All this time they had at hand they used to become skilful warriors and magnificent artists. There was so much that Frances couldn't grasp about their way of life. The eldar were a paradox in flesh. A glowing paradox.

Frodo's voice called her out of her digression. He was speaking about a ring of power. An elven ring. One of those forged by the elves before the great alliance. Frances frowned. She couldn't recall the names of those rings, but knew how important they were to the elven community.

Gandalf had used one against the Balrog, and now the ring was lost with its owner in the depth of Moria. A wave of sadness overtook her at the memory. She had not known Gandalf for long but the wizard had grown on her. Alas, his death had left a void in their company, and now Aragorn had to take his place as a leader. And admirably so. He was actually lecturing Frodo about mentioning the ring wielded by Galadriel. Hobbits were definitely not accustomed to hardships.

— "That should not have been said outside Lórien, not even to me. Speak no more of it."

Frodo seemed to bite his tongue, but Aragorn smiled at him and then turned to Sam.

— "But so it is Sam: in that land you lost your count. There time flowed swiftly by us, as for all the Elves. Winter is nearly gone."

Frances shivered but kept her tongue; she was too tired to be ironic about the biting cold. Speaking of the elven rings was a touchy subject. In Rivendell, her questions had always been answered, sometimes with so many details that she had trouble remembering her initial query. Neither Erestor nor Arwen or any other elf were lacking regarding the history of middle earth. But here in the wild lands, knowledge had a different price. With the enemy lurking about, no wonder Aragorn called for discretion and prudence.

Frances slept poorly, so did the others. Morning came with a heavy fog, and on they went on the Anduin's waters. There was no song to accompany them, no conversation to be had. The silence was only broken by the gentle flapping of the paddle into the water. The icy fog enveloped them so tightly that Frances could only make out the forms of Merry and Pippin in front of the hunched warrior that led their boat.

Thanking the lady of the woods once more in her mind, Frances wrapped the elvish cloak around her trembling form. Legolas did not seem to mind the hostile weather, and Gimli. Well. With his stout form, he was more than adapted to anything that the sky could launch at him. Once more, Frances resented her lack of padding. A hundred pounds were definitely not enough to withstand the local weather.

Miserable to the core, the young lady waited anxiously. For what? She didn't even know. The route seemed unsure, orcs were on their trails and Nazgûls lurking in the shadows. There was no way out. Aragorn's words came back to her. He always said to never lose hope. His very name meant hope. So she repeated his name as a mantra. "Estel, Estel, give us hope."

Maybe the Valar heard her silent prayer, for at this instant the company emerged from the fog. The Anduin's waters were rushing faster than before, sucking the boats further south and out of the silvery droplets of water. As the mist dissolved, they found themselves in a canyon. The steep rises of the hills surrounded them, and the river gave them little chance to stop or turn around. Hence they followed the flow. On the left, the unforgiving mountains of Emyn Muil towered above them.

Frances' eyes were looked for an opening; she found none. Only sharp ridges and steep falls. Yet, this was their road.

Fortunately, some portion of the blue sky was visible. It lightened her mood. If the soft rays of sunshine didn't reach the bottom of the canyon, it illuminated the summit of the western hills. As Frances' eyes followed the series of ridges, two huge pillars came into view. Framing the river, they were so tall that their head seemed to reach the sky. Frances creased her brow, adjusting to the golden light that graced the top of the pillars. And she gasped. Those were not pillars but two immense statues. Two great men with their hands set in a warning motion to guard the passage.

— "Behold the Argonath, the Pillars of the kings" cried Aragorn. "We shall pass them soon, keep the boats in line, and as far apart as you can."

As the river rushed them forward, Frances could not prevent from staring in awe. The statues were magnificently carved, helm firmly in place, an axe resting in their other hand. There was such majesty, such beauty in them. The sun caressed the back of their heads, as if the kingdom of light reigned beyond the great watchers of old. So caught she was in her admiration that she forgot her restraint and inched towards the elf.

— "Who are those people?" she asked innocently.

— "Kings of old, ancestors to Aragorn," he answered, his head lifted in awe. "They are Isildur and Anarion, kings or Arnor."

The elf's eyes were set in a foreign expression. Never had she seen Legolas so moved. Well, apart from the Balrog adventure.

As they approached the Argonath, the waters became more treacherous, and Legolas had to struggle to keep the raft at flow. They passed the great pillars with great speed, and yet not fast enough so that Frances could miss that the carving's height was tremendous. In their boats, they were not even reaching the top of one foot.

What an impressive work of art !

The company emerged in a wide lake and the waters settled. So did Frances' heart.

The sun greeted her face, and for a moment of grace, none remembered the dire situation they found themselves in. In the southern end, clouds of vapour rose steadily, its droplets diffracted into the golden light.

The falls of Rauros waited upon the imprudent traveller, their roar growing stronger as they angled to the western bank of the lake. Legolas pointed a peak towering above the hill.

— "There stands Amon Hen, the hills of hearing and of sights. In the days of the great Kings, there were high seats upon them to keep watch."

His eyes were alight with a melancholy, and Frances asked no more. She had heard Aragorn speak of the greatness of Arnor, and of his wish to sit on Amen Hen to seek counsel. She was as anxious as any of them to get any piece of advice that might help them on their quest. So Amon Hen it was.

It was not yet dark when they reached the bank but they settled to make camp. It was time to set on a course.