Taradan swayed as the horse stumbled on the stony path. He steadied himself by gripping Andros’ cloak, regaining his balance. How long had he been riding: hours, days, weeks? He had no recollection of the time that had passed. His head ached less, now that they had left the oppressive air of the forest, yet he felt his weakness still. It irked him to be doomed to this helplessness, and brooding thoughts filled his mind during the waking hours.
He had been a leader of men, used to decisive action and easy comradeship with those who followed his command. Now he felt as if he had failed his men; were Gurthden, Baranthôl, Leoden and the others still alive? Andros had spoken to Thenamir; would he have the skill and character to lead those who had survived? Taradan felt unnecessary, a burden to the stranger who shared his horse and campfire with him. It would have been better if I had died, perhaps doing some heroic deed, than to be alive and useless, he thought.
And yet, in the midst of his dark thoughts, an image arose unbidden. He recalled the eyes of the man who had drawn him back into life. That gaze had filled him with warmth then and seemed to pour hope into his heart now. With the shadow of a smile softening the hard lines of his face, he lifted his head. Suddenly he became aware of the surroundings.
They were going steadily upwards, into scrub-covered hills ahead of them. The air was clearer now, and cooler as well. Already the sun was sinking to their left, its rays reflecting from the white tip of a mountain far ahead.
“Andros,” he asked, “what is that mountain ahead of us?”
His companion turned his head slightly to answer. “That is Redhorn; there is a pass on the south side of the mountain. We will cross there and travel west to Ost-in-Edhil, where the others hope to meet us.”
“Caradhras the Cruel!" Taradan exclaimed. "I have heard tales of strange and dangerous things there.”
“I doubt we could pass in winter,” agreed Andros, “but now only the top is snowy; Redhorn Gate should be clear, though perhaps not easily passable.”
Despite the other’s confidence, Taradan shivered.
° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °
As the days went on, the peak of the mountain was visible at times, when lesser hills did not hinder their vision. It seemed to get no nearer, though they rode on in the same direction. Taradan felt somewhat stronger and was able to help gather what brush and wood they could find for a fire in the evenings. He was glad to be able to use his legs as often as he could. And he found himself talking to Andros with an ease that he had not known since the friendships of his youth.
They conversed as equals, and Andros’ unobtrusive friendliness opened his heart and loosened his tongue more than he would have thought possible. Almost without realizing it, he told him of the death of his father and his feelings of guilt. He spoke of his beloved home in Gondor and why he had thought it necessary to leave. For the first time, he was able to speak of Nimroth, his beloved white mare, who had been killed in the fight with the Wargs. Andros’ sympathetic companionship brought cheer into the darkness of his thoughts; gradually, his wounded heart began to heal as well as his body.
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'Mercy!' cried Gandalf. 'If the giving of information is to be the cure of your inquisitiveness, I shall spend all the rest of my days in answering you. What more do you want to know?' 'The whole history of Middle-earth.. .'
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