[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Their long race ended at dusk upon the banks of the Anduin. The great river stretched away upon either hand disappearing into the gathering darkness, and the Elves took a moment to bathe their heated limbs in its cool waters. The silence was broken only by the slight ripple of water and the distant call of waterfowl as they gathered once more upon the high bank and took counsel.

Calenvása spoke first. “We have made such a chase as is worthy of the song you crave Ambarturion.”

Ambarturion smiled at the slight jibe. His mood since the race began had been unusually light, as though a great burden had been lifted from him. In the long leagues that they had run, he had used the time and exertion to think back over his long years of battle and strife, and for the first time in an Age he had seen them in a new light. For too long had he regarded the long defeat as a source of despair, but there had been hope as well. Lorien remained steadfast, and there were still those within it who bore with them the memory of the West. Imladris, too, remained strong and Elrond ruled there with wisdom and courage. The thought of Elrond had brought to mind the Lady Arwen. Her choice of the Man Aragorn had long been a source of bitterness for Ambarturion, but as the miles had uncoiled beneath his feet, he had felt that perhaps it was not for him to question it. For so long he had been used to taking the counsel only of himself and his Lord and Lady that he had forgotten that there was other wisdom, other counsel, in the world. He had been so sure that his course of action was the only right one… It was not the disagreement of the others that had shaken this certainty; it was not even his own recognition that he had been wrong. The admission of his own despair, however, had shaken him deeply, for it had shown him the dark and dangerous realm in which he had lived for so long, and from within which he had acted.

He had long known that the greatest danger to his continued existence in Middle Earth was that in his retreat from the pale reality of it, he would lose himself in the glories and the light of the past. The sunshine of noon in the glades of Doriath, the pale hovering sheen of the moon upon the waters of the western sea, the unsullied glint of Earendil upon his first voyage across the sky – these had been the lights that he thought guided him, and that beckoned to him from the past. But in reality, it had not been the light at all that threatened to overwhelm him, but the darkness that lay behind and beyond the lights, and against which they had sparkled the more brightly. It was not to the lights that he had turned, but away from the darkness, and in this he had given the night precedence over the day. His flight into the past had not been a pursuit, but a retreat. He had come close to embracing the night entirely, so ready had he been to throw his life away in despair. But he had been saved by, of all things, a chance encounter with a group of youths who were as children compared to him. But before the light of their courage and hope he felt as though he were the younger.

Renewed by this encounter, he had run all the way from Mirkwood without once turning to the past. His feet had felt the grass of the Vale, and his eyes had beheld the far horizons of the present. And he had been happy.

The talk soon turned to how they were to cross the mighty River. They had made for the Anduin in a more or less straight line, and as a consequence had met with him at a point where he was broad and deep. The Mirkwood Elves asked how they were to cross. Ambarturion’s brow creased as he considered an answer. They were still some miles to the north of Lorien, for they had sought to avoid the army of Dol Guldur by circling around it. But now a difficult choice lay before them. “There are two possible crossings for us,” he said slowly. “One lies fifteen leagues to the north, where we were captured by the orcs. It is the safer route for our enemies are somewhere to the south of us, but it takes us in the wrong direction. It will take us at least a day and a half to reach Lorien should we attempt that route.”

“Where is the second crossing?” Calenvása’s voice betrayed that he suspected the answer.

“It is not far,” Ambarturion replied. “But it is, I fear, too far for absolute safety. The southerly crossing is but five leagues hence. Should we take it, we will find ourselves upon the very eaves of the Golden Wood and within hailing distance of the outer sentries of my land.”

“You fear that it is already held by the enemy,” Targil said.

“Or that it soon will be,” Ambarturion replied. “If we have guessed the enemy’s plans aright, the main press of the army should even now be attempting a crossing of the Anduin somewhere further to the south. Perhaps at or below the meeting of Anduin and the Nimrodel. If we are correct, then the smaller group will undoubtedly make for this nearer ford.” He saw the questioning look in Targil’s eyes. “It is the crossing closest to Caras Galadhon,” he explained simply.

“So which way do we go?” Ambarturion asked. “To the north, where we will find both safety and a longer road, or to the south, where we will either find ourselves beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood by morning, or a host of enemies intent upon our destruction?”