Sarn Ford
By Dwimordene 
dwimmer_laik@yahoo.com


Summary : An account of the attack of the Nazgul on the Rangers guarding the 
Shire at Sarn Ford. Aragorn and Gildor make appearances. Rating is for some 
violence.



The grey light of dawn fell over the land and glinted dully on a few lonely 
trees now crowned in wreathes of gold and red. A mist clung to the ground, and 
the birds were singing in a subdued manner, as if reluctant to break the 
silence. Danhúr, commander of the Sarn Ford guard stalked to the edge of the 
copse, the bluish vapours of the night swirling about his legs in a sinister 
manner, as if clutching at him with transluscent fingers. ‘Why do I choose that 
word, sinister?’ he wondered, and his mouth tightened in an unfulfilled grimace. 
The newborn day was yet cool and damp, though not chill, for autumn had only 
just begun. All the land lay sleeping still, seeming peaceful, and yet the 
Ranger’s heart was troubled. ‘The land may sleep, but I feel something deadly in 
this slumber….’

"Like a nightmare approaching," a soft voice spoke behind him, and seeming so 
privy to his own thoughts, Danhúr for a moment suffered a confusion of dream and 
reality. But it was only Cirallan, the youngest and newest member of the guard 
who stood there, peering out at the countryside from the depths of his hood. 
Danhúr, meanwhile, silently berated himself for such an inexcusable lapse, for 
no Ranger ought to become so distracted as to permit someone to approach him 
unnoticed. That he was the commander only made his criticism the harsher, but he 
let no sign of it show.

"Indeed?" he asked, looking closely at Cirallan’s eager young face which, 
shadowed by the hood, betrayed now signs of anxiety.

"Yes, sir. All this night I have lain uneasy, and my dreams were filled with 
darkness," the other replied, casting back his hood and breathing deeply as he 
stared out at the bright smudge on the horizon. ‘Tis no red dawn, yet I am 
restless… as I have not been since I arrived, sir." As he had come as a 
messenger and had only joined the guard five months ago, one might be inclined 
to dismiss such a premonition. But in that time, Danhúr had come to recognize in 
Cirallan a keen insight, and a sensitive nature; and he’d as sharp a sense of 
judgment as anyone could wish in men twice his age. Doubtless it was these 
qualities that had attracted the lord Aragorn’s attention, for Cirallan had made 
the journey south at his lord’s behest. He had been sent to Danhúr as a runner 
in the event of trouble, though what sort of trouble had not been specified. 
Danhúr had questioned Cirallan closely on that matter, but the youngster could 
not tell what he did not know, which implied to Danhúr that Aragorn himself was 
in the dark. Perhaps it was mere precaution, given the evils of the waning Third 
Age, and surely Cirallan would learn much from a stint at Sarn Ford, which was 
the southern (and largely ignored, at least by the hobbits) entrance to the 
Shire. Here the Rangers congregated most densely, for aside from the Brandywine 
Bridge, there was no easy way across the river without a boat, and Danhúr had 
had the command of the company of fourteen for seventeen years, ever since 
Aragorn had ordered the watch doubled on the Shire.

That sudden diversion of manpower had never been explained, and Danhúr wondered 
fleetingly whether it might not have some connection to his uneasiness this 
morning, but though he sensed that this was true, he could glean nothing further 
from the sudden insight. Glancing at his young companion, Danhúr watched as 
Cirallan frowned at the haze-obscured horizon, and strove in his turn with the 
uneasiness that filled his heart. "One can well nigh smell it…." he said softly, 
as if speaking to himself.

"Smell what?"

"Fear, sir," Cirallan said and lowered his eyes, embarrassed by the slip, but 
Danhúr ignored it. Instead he laid a heavy hand on the other’s shoulder and 
nodded, and smiled inwardly when the lad relaxed at his acceptance. Cirallan 
still felt he had to prove himself to his new commander and company, though 
Danhúr had no doubt that he would. That Aragorn trusted him enough to send him 
as an envoy to the Sarn Ford guard was testimony enough as to his worth. ‘And 
Cirallan feels it strongly, too, this brooding malevolance that lies across the 
land. Something is afoot, though I know not what,’ Danhúr thought. He squeezed 
the lad’s shoulder, then released him.

"Wake the others. The watches shall be shortened today: whatever it is that 
haunts us, it shall not find us wanting as adversaries." Cirallan bowed then 
hurried to do his bidding, leaving Danhúr to contemplate anew the northeastern 
horizon which stretched out before him, the sun occasionally breaking through 
the mist to show green-gold against the grass of the plain. In that direction 
lay Bree, and indeed on a clear day a man could see the Bree-hill rising up 
above the land. Turning slowly southwards, he marked the remains of the old 
Tharbad-Shire road, and further still the Baranduin wound its way through 
Harlindon, past the southernmost reaches of the Blue mountains which showed dark 
and indistinct against the morning sky. To the west, one could see across the 
flatlands to the hazy outlines of the Tower Hills, behind which the Mithlond 
nestled at the tip of the Gulf of Lhûn. Completing his compass, he turned due 
north, to the dark-edged heights of the Old Forest that wrapped itself in a 
mystery so deep it needed no cloak of fog to repel the unwary. The air seemed to 
shimmer, giving the world a fragile appearance that morning, which impression 
did nothing to enhearten Danhúr. Awhile longer he stood, contemplating the 
malaise that lay over this part of Eriador, and then turned slowly back toward 
the Ford.

Back at the camp, which lay in a shallow trough behind some boulders, and 
beneath a few isolated trees, Cirallan stood looking down at the knot of 
sleeping men, in particular at the two closest to him. Tanfalan and Beledar 
slept restlessly, and in fact, their stirring had wakened him earlier that 
morning from his own dark dreams. Now they writhed as if in the grasp of some 
terror, and as he stooped to touch Tanfalan’s arm, they woke in tandem with a 
start. Indeed, such was Tanfalan’s alarm that his left hand grasped the hilt of 
a dagger before he recognized his comrade and breathed out a sigh of relief. 
"Give you good morrow. Danhúr wishes us all awake when he returns," said 
Cirallan, nevertheless stepping back a bit from his friend for safety’s sake.

"A good morrow, is it?" Beledar shook his head and reached over to jostle 
another of the Rangers, and so the alarm spread as sleeping men roused at a word 
or touch from a companion, and soon all were awake. "The very air seems tense!"

"What did you dream?" asked Cirallan.

Beledar grimaced, but Tanfalan spoke up in his place. "Tis difficult to say. All 
was pitch black, yet I felt something moving in darkness…seeking me ever." 
Cirallan caught his breath, for the words described his own nightmares; indeed, 
it seemed that every man had fared alike to judge by the murmurs of agreement. 
"I thought when you woke me that the dream had ended, yet for all that the sun 
shines, there is some shadow she cannot dispel, one more real than any 
nightmare’s casting," said Tanfalan, shaking his head.

"So it is," another voice spoke from the low ridge, and Gairon, of the first 
watch, stood there, gazing down at them with a somber mien. "We first became 
aware of this shadow as the night waned, some three hours past moonset. What 
this present gloom portends, I know not, but I like it not at all."

By the time Danhúr returned, it was clear that some evil had troubled all of 
them, whether in dreams or in waking life, and that all were convinced it would 
come only closer. Danhúr gave the orders about the shorter shifts, and sent out 
some men to scout all around the area before the ford, for though it was mostly 
flat there were dips and troughs, such as they used for shelter and cover, and a 
clever enemy would know to hide in them. "But, do not approach too closely, or 
engage it except in defense of your lives. If it comes this way at all, it will 
try to cross into the Shire, and we will have need of your help here," he told 
them, looking each man in the face before dismissing them to their duties. The 
first watch went to rest, and Cirallan joined Beledar and Talfaran upon the 
eastern bank of the Baranduin, where they concealed themselves among the rocks 
and brush that littered the area. The sun rose higher now into the sky, and 
after a while, the mists began to dissipate, showing the land empty all about. A 
few birds circled high in the sky, and here and there a darning needle darted, 
gleaming in the light.

Yet for all that, the Rangers felt their unease grow, and Cirallan fought the 
urge to shift about restlessly. His companions, trained by many long and 
harrowing watches, sat still with their eyes focused on the Tharbad road, moving 
only to survey the countryside. It was near the end of that first stint that 
Danhúr appeared and called Cirallan to him. With a glance at his companions, who 
with a nod signalled that they had heard, the young man broke from cover and 
followed Danhúr a short distance downstream. When they were far enough that even 
a Ranger could not hear them, the commander looked Cirallan up and down and 
said, "At swiftest, how long would you need to make the journey to Bree?"

"Perhaps two days it might take me. Without a horse, I doubt I could go more 
quickly than that, sir." Cirallan replied, and frowned. Danhúr was silent for a 
time, and then he nodded.

"Well, we shall see. At least we know that Aragorn is there, and that he knows 
your face, and that he trusts you. Tis better than sending to Halbarad in the 
Angle, or to Fornost."

"Sir?"

"I have in mind for you to go to Bree tomorrow, and bring a message to the lord 
Aragorn. If this sense of menace has not abated, I would ask him whether he has 
heard any news, or has any counsel. And if we discover its cause, well then, he 
will need to know of it in any event. Will you take this charge on yourself?" 
Danhúr asked, looking directly into the other’s eyes.

Cirallan, for his part, was troubled, and though he accepted (for how could he 
refuse?), he said quickly, "But I would not leave you here, to face this thing, 
whatever it may be, alone."

"Hardly alone, lad. But I understand: you do not wish to leave for fear of 
deserting your friends and your place. You have a noble heart, Cirallan, as I 
would expect, but good will alone, alas! does not suffice to defeat all threats. 
And I think that one man, more or less, will make little difference in this 
case." When Cirallan hung his head, Danhúr laughed, though not unkindly, and 
laid hands on his shoulders, as a father to his son, and said, "Be not ashamed 
that I give this task to you. For the lord Aragorn sent you to me as his eyes 
and ears; in returning you to him, I merely return what is his in the first 
place. Sometimes, lad, it takes more courage to do what is needed than to stand 
and fight. Think you that Ohtar and his companion did not curse their fate even 
as they submitted to it?"

"I am certain of it, yet… I never thought to be in such a position. More, it is 
not clear to me that we are at all similar. Unless something has come to you, 
sir…?" Cirallan raised his eyes and scrutinized his commander’s closed face.

"Nay, lad. Nothing that the morning did not already disclose. I do but my own 
duty, to plan for all contingencies that I can foresee. Now, return to the 
others. Your watch ends soon."



Away north of Bree, Aragorn son of Arathorn crouched under cover, listening, but 
even his quick ears detected nothing. That troubled him, for the Bree-lands were 
home to many creatures, both good and evil. His own people, who kept watch some 
ten miles from the Buckland Bridge, reported that they had been busier than 
usual hunting spies that no hobbit could face, and so were spread quite thinly 
in the north. And yet today, the land was still for miles about, as if every 
living creature were holding its breath, awaiting some terrible revelation. From 
the south there was no recent news, and had not been for many days. But a month 
ago, Danhúr had sent word to Farondir of the Buckland Guard that his patrols had 
begun to encounter creatures in the night, though not so many as the northern 
patrols did. That information fit with what Aragorn had observed in his latest 
journey, down to the Gap of Rohan and back again, crossing Bruinen to reach the 
Angle, and thence to Bree by way of the Last Bridge. In the Westfold, rumour had 
trickled in from the east of a wind of terror that wailed in the night as it 
moved west, leeching one’s very blood of warmth as it went. From the north came 
stories of Orcs in Rhovanion, and when he had passed through the Angle, Halbarad 
had told of trolls that ranged south from the Ettenmoors, daring even the 
boundaries of of Elrond’s domain. Everywhere, it seemed, there were dark tales 
of new terrors, though to a Ranger’s ears, often they were simply new 
descriptions of old enemies long forgotten by most other folk.

Now Aragorn pondered the possibility that these apparently disparate events 
might have some common cause, and wondered anew at the unease that troubled the 
hearts of folk in the Bree-lands. As he did so, his eyes were drawn south to the 
great East Road. He knew that Gandalf planned to take Frodo from the Shire this 
week, and that if all went as planned, the wizard would leave the Road just past 
the old dike-wall. There Aragorn would meet the travelers and accompany them to 
Rivendell. But as of yet, there was no sign of the wizard, and the week drew on 
towards its close. Intuition stirred, insisting that there existed some pattern, 
some logical connection in all of this, and that the departure of the Ring was 
the last clue that would ravel the knot. But for all the strength of that 
conviction, that intuition could not articulate itself to him, and until it 
could, he had no choice but to wait. Bree was under watch, as was the Brandywine 
Bridge, and Sarn Ford. He considered briefly sending the Buckland company south 
to the Ford, for the hobbits at least had gates and wardens on the bridge. In 
the end, however, though doubt nagged gently at him, he decided against it. If 
there were truly something determined to enter the Shire, he could not trust 
that a group of hobbits would be able to stand against it. ‘Nor can I guarantee 
that my own people can stand against a determined enemy,’ the voice of doubt 
whispered, but though he acknowledged it, Aragorn’s mind was made up. All 
evidence pointed to unusual enemy movement in this area, not in the south, and 
that made sense enough. Buckland was the obvious route into the Shire, whereas 
Sarn Ford did not even appear on some maps. ‘And at least at Sarn Ford, I have 
Danhúr to reply upon, and Cirallan as messenger,’ he reminded himself. ‘We could 
do far worse than that, and at the first sign of trouble, they will send north.’ 
If there were evil in the land, a Ranger would discover it eventually. But for 
now, he could do nothing but watch patiently and hope that a resolution was at 
hand.

At Sarn Ford, the day wore on, and still nothing untoward happened. Watch 
followed watch, and men replaced each other while the sun moved serenely along 
its appointed path, and the tension mounted. Everything was preternaturally 
silent, as if the animals that inhabited the plains had taken to flight, 
clearing out the land as if in preparation for some great disaster. By evening, 
everyone was on edge, and there was less talk than usual even for a group of 
Rangers about the fire. The scouts had come in and been replaced; and the sun 
went down in a blood-red blaze, its light quickly extinguished. When the moon 
rose, it was pale and its light seemed somehow pallid, almost sickly. A lone owl 
let out a long, mournful cry and streaked overhead, disappearing into the night. 
So unexpected was its flight, after so long and silent a day that all eyes 
instantly fixed on it, tracking the winged shadow’s progress across the sky, and 
Cirallan felt his heart pounding in his chest.

‘Would that this wait would end!’ he thought, reading in the faces of his 
companions the strain of the day. Though he had the off-watch, he did not rest. 
Indeed, no one did: all were gathered together before the ford, determined, it 
seemed, to greet whatever enemy lurked beyond the edge of the fire-lit circle 
with open eyes. The night deepened, and still there was no sign of any living 
thing, yet slowly the feeling crept over Cirallan that something walked in the 
darkness. In spite of himself, he found himself shifting, as if he sat on an 
anthill. Once, Cirallan glanced up and saw Danhúr’s eyes on him. The commander’s 
gaze pierced him, and he felt the question in those dark eyes, but said nothing 
to answer it. There was nothing he could say, and yet the feeling grew, and with 
it an unreasoning terror. Indeed, as the pale moon set just after midnight, so 
strong was his conviction that their enemy awaited him that he rose to his feet, 
and began to walk slowly away from the ford. He heard Tanfalan call after him, 
puzzled, and then Danhúr spoke his name sharply, but he could scarcely 
understand them, seemingly deaef before that throbbing compulsion that moved him 
steadily towards the darkness outside of that lighted circle.

For they were there: out there in that night something deeper than shadow moved, 
drawing nearer, and a muted sound of thunder reached him over the blood roaring 
in his ears. Behind him, dimly, came the ring of steel on leather, and Danhúr 
calling orders to the others, but Cirallan could not move to save his life. A 
solid wedge of horror swept towards them, and a high, feral cry was heard, as of 
a soul in agony, and he blanched at the sound, staggering back a pace as a dark 
wind flew past him. He only just managed to draw his sword and slash blindly at 
something—a cloak? A rider? Perhaps only a horse?—before he was thrown aside 
like a moth in a storm. Something hard cracked him across the head, and his 
weapon was wrenched out of his hand with such force that he cried out in pain as 
he fell. He lay stunned a moment, tasting blood in his mouth, and all his senses 
seemed awhirl with confusion. His right arm was numb; he could barely close his 
fingers into a fist, and cold seemed to spread out from his shoulder. Yet as he 
lay, the pain seemed to clear his head somewhat. Cirallan could hear the screams 
behind him, but as he staggered to his feet, a strange calm descended upon him, 
seeming to slip between his terror and his reason, allowing him to see clearly 
at last.

Raising his eyes, he saw in the firelight nine horsemen, swathed all in deepest 
midnight black, and from them spread terror like ripples in a pond, reaching out 
to engulf and drown the unfortunate. Cirallan was young among his people, but he 
knew suddenly that the last time mortal eyes had seen these creatures, Gondor 
had still had a king. "Nine for mortal men," he murmured, and his voice was grim 
and filled with loathing, though he swayed with the effort of standing. Before 
the Riders stood the remnants of the guard: Danhúr, and two others at his back, 
swords abandoned in favor of flaming brands, though Danhúr still gripped the 
hilts of his weapon in one hand. Tanfalan was there, and Gairon. All about them 
lay the crumpled forms of their comrades, and the light of the fire reflected 
with obscene beauty off spreading pools of blood. The lead Nazgûl raised his 
left hand, and at that moment, Danhúr looked beyond them to where Cirallan stood 
and their eyes met. Go! The thought crossed the distance between them, almost 
palpable in its fierceness, and then Danhúr cried out and raising his sword, 
hurled it point first into the face of the foremost rider. It shattered with a 
sun-bright flash, but then the last of the guard charged forward into the midst 
of the enemy. Cirallan blanched whiter than snow, and turned and sped north as 
fast as he could run, feeling the bile rise in his throat at the thought of what 
his commander and friends had just suffered.

A deadly cry pierced the night, and he plunged blindly into the darkness, 
expecting at any moment to hear iron-shod hoofs pounding after him in dogged 
pursuit, and to feel the bite of steel. Instead, he heard splashing as one by 
one the Riders crossed the ford and disappeared into the Shire. Unbelievably, he 
was being allowed to escape, but he had no time to rejoice in his fortune. 
Indeed, that strange calm had abandonned him, and tears flowed freely down his 
cheeks as he ran, licked away by the wind that stirred suddenly. His legs felt 
weak and watery, and he stumbled several times, falling to his knees only to 
claw his way back to his feet. He had no clear notion of where he would end, 
having but one thought in his mind, and it burned as brightly as flame: Go 
north! Northwards lay Bree, and the East Road, and there Aragorn waited. He knew 
not what had happened to the scouts who had seemingly vanished into the night, 
but even were they alive, they did not know what had occurred at Sarn Ford. He 
clung to the knowledge that he alone could tell that Sarn Ford was open, and 
that already the Nine were in the Shire.

Hours he ran, and heeded not to stealth, which was as well for it seemed he 
found every stone and hole the land had to offer. His knees were cut and sore by 
dawn, and for all that he had run through the night, cold assailed him. The 
rising sun did nothing to drive the chill from his marrow, nor to clear the fog 
from his vision, though he felt a measure of strength and calm return to him as 
the sun cleared the horizon. He managed a fair pace, though with much effort, 
until midday, when his spirits began to flag again. Still he pushed forward, 
afraid to halt lest he never begin again. He could not understand what was 
happening to him, for the Nine Servants of Sauron were but little known to him 
outside of ancient myth and lore, and few in Middle Earth knew what wounds the 
Ringwraiths dealt to the spirits of those whom they touched. Cirallan knew only 
that as the afternoon grew full, every step was a torment of ice and fire: ice 
from his arm and side, flame from muscles protesting their abuse. He was 
scarcely aware of the evening, and missed entirely the moment when the sun set, 
lost in a waking nightmare of dreer confusion. Weaving through the darkness, he 
passed through the land, and if any living creature crossed his path, it fled 
before him, seeking to escape the horror that surrounded him. At last, as the 
moon set, his steps faltered, and his legs gave out from under him. Cirallan 
collapsed, curling about himself, shivering uncontrollably, beyond exhaustion 
and even despair. He did not sleep—his mind simply withdrew as far as it could 
from the pain and confusion, and heeded not his surroundings—and so he did not 
dream, only chanted deep within his soul the command that drove him: Go north to 
Bree!

When the sun rose again, he rose with it, and continued on, a ghost in the 
dawnlight doggedly fulfilling its mortal directive.

Gildor Inglorion was troubled at heart as he made his way across the Baranduin, 
following a path that would’ve leeched the color from a hobbit’s face. He called 
to the rope, and at his tug, it came, and he coiled it up carefully and replaced 
it in his pack. He had sent his messengers north, but premonition had touched on 
him yesterday when he had met Frodo. Having left the hobbits behind, he now 
followed another prompting, and went out himself into the wide lands of Eriador. 
The waxing moon rode low in the sky, but he needed not its light, sure-footed as 
a cat in the dark. Yet he knew not what he sought, only that he was called 
south. He had come perhaps ten miles that evening when he stopped abruptly and 
stood stiff and still, listening. For he had caught a sound on the night breeze, 
a moan or a sob that seemed to him human, and he considered his course. Turning 
back toward Baranduin, he moved now more cautiously, searching for the source of 
the noise. Finally, as he crested a small rise, he beheld a huddled figure lying 
out of sight at the base of the southward slope. With a cry, the Elf leapt down 
and came to crouch beside it, striking a match for light.

Before him lay a Man, young enough even in the short years of mortals, he 
judged, and Gildor caught his breath at the veil of darkness, visible to elvish 
eyes, that shrouded him. Carefully, he began to examine him, feeling for broken 
bones, but he quickly found that the only significant injury was to his sword 
arm, which was lifelessly cold, and the Elf shivered, knowing he had found the 
locus of the evil power that was suffocating the man. He had not yet determined 
whether he might be able to save him, when the lad roused to his touch. Grasping 
the Elf’s forearm in a one-handed grip whose strength belied his desperate 
condition, he raised feverish eyes to Gildor and gasped "Nazgûl… Nazgûl crossed 
Sarn Ford!" Gildor stiffened, realizing at last that this must be one of the 
Rangers who had kept watch on the vulnerable crossing. ‘So that is how they 
entered! And what has become of the others I dare not guess, though my heart 
misgives me.’

"When did they come?" he asked instead, placing a hand over the other’s heart. 
It beat weakly, and too fast, and Gildor frowned.

"Night… on the twenty-second… nine of them. W-Where is Aragorn? I must tell 
him!"

"Rest easy, my friend, he shall know of this," Gildor replied, sensing the 
other’s strength failing. "What is your name?"

"Cirallan. Danhúr is dead… they are all dead there," the boy’s voice broke at 
last, growing weaker, almost listless. "Is it night?"

"Dawn comes," the Elf assured him, though it was several hours before sunrise. 
He cradled Cirallan in his arms like a babe, feeling his pulse weaken til at 
last, with a sigh, the Ranger slumped in his arms. Gildor held him a minute 
longer, to be certain, then sighed and stood. He would carry the message north 
to Aragorn before he went west, but first, he must see to this brave lad. ‘The 
great testing begins, for Men,’ he thought, gazing east. ‘This will be my final 
part in it, I guess. Then I, like Cirallan, will go to the doom appointed me.’

The sun was setting in the west, fair and splendid, but it brought little 
comfort to Aragorn as he reviewed the events of the past several days. The new 
week had already begun, was in fact ending its third day, and only hard-won 
discipline kept fear at bay. Gildor’s people, hurrying east as swiftly as only 
Elves could go, had reached him in Bree the night of the twenty-sixth, and their 
news had been confirmed the very next morning, when a Nazgûl had ridden through 
Westgate, having come south down the Greenway. Harry the gatekeeper had been 
pale as a ghost after their brief conversation, and Aragorn, watching from the 
shadows of a nearby alleyway, had not liked the way the man looked after the 
Ringwraith. Harry had looked as a beast cowed by a cruel master, and the Ranger 
had marked him in his mind before moving on. Knowing that the Nazgûl had 
breached the Shire, he had hurried westward, to the hedge that lay along the 
northern side of the road, just past the dike-wall. He knew that the Nine had 
not entered through Buckland: he had not let the Road out of his sight, except 
for the few brief hours of sleep that he would snatch in the middle of the day, 
when Sauron’s creatures were least likely to travel abroad. If anything had 
slipped by him, one of his people would have found it. That meant they had to 
have crossed at Tharbad and made for the Ford, and Aragorn was wracked with 
uncertainty and guilt. No news had come north other than that of the Elves, who 
had been at Woody End when they had met Frodo Baggins. Granted it might take a 
few days to travel between Bree and Sarn Ford, but a week? Though no word was in 
one way a good sign, he knew in his heart that every passing day lessened the 
hope that any of his people had survived.

Rather than wait for time to wear away all hope, he would have gone himself to 
the Ford, but as it had become increasingly apparent that something was badly 
amiss—Frodo had begun his journey without Gandalf, and Aragorn had yet to see 
any sign either of the wizard (though the appointed time had come and gone) or 
hobbits—he knew that it was now his duty to bring Frodo safely to Rivendell. How 
he would accomplish that feat was a problem to which he had devoted much 
thought, for Frodo knew him not at all and would hardly trust a stranger’s offer 
of assistance in a supposedly secret task. In the mean time, he had sent two men 
south on Monday afternoon, two days ago, but at best they would have arrived at 
Sarn Ford that very morning, condemning him to his silent watch and (thus far) 
fruitless scheming as to how to gain the trust of a wary and frightened hobbit. 
That he could do no more was a sore trial, but Aragorn had the patience of an 
experienced hunter, and refused to allow fear to disturb his plans overmuch. He 
had faced many horrors in his life, and would see many more, and he had learned 
that in times such as these, faith was all he could rely upon. Faith in 
Gandalf’s good opinion of Frodo, faith in his own people, faith that he had done 
all that a man could do in his position, and faith that when the time came, he 
would find some way, however improbable, to win Frodo’s trust.

Just then, he heard from nearby a clear voice rise in imitation of a bird, but 
not even a bird would produce so sweet a note. Aragorn rose and stepped warily 
out from cover to find himself staring at an Elf on the south side of the road. 
The Elf raised a hand in greeting and swiftly crossed to meet him with a 
courteous bow. "Aragorn Dúnadan, well met, and quite timely."

Returning the bow, Aragorn replied, "Gildor Inglorion, it is long since we have 
spoken, though I thank you for the messengers you sent. What brings you to this 
place?"

"I have yet one more message for you that you will grieve to hear, but hear it 
you must." The Elf paused a moment, "I would that we might make a swift journey 
southwards some distance, but I fear that neither of us can afford the time. 
Have you had any contact with your folk, Aragorn?"

"Nay, if you mean with any beyond those who watch the East Road. From Sarn Ford 
there is no word."

"I thought it would be so, though there was always a very small chance that 
another might have escaped," the Elf sighed. "I bear a message from one Cirallan 
of the Sarn Ford company. Very young, I thought him."

"He is young. Or he was. That is what you will tell me next, is it not?" Aragorn 
replied grimly.

"There are some wounds that no power in this world can heal. He told me what had 
befallen at the ford, and I promised to bring the news to you," Gildor said. 
"Late at night on the twenty-second the enemy came there, all nine together, 
where your people awaited them. I think they could not have stood long against 
the Witch-king of Angmar, but stand they did, for as long as it took the Riders 
to defeat them. Cirallan was the only one to escape the slaughter at the Ford, 
at least insofar as he knew. He was overcome by the Black Breath, for it seems 
he struck one of the creatures. There was nothing I could do for him, not after 
so many days." There followed a long moment of silence between them, which 
Aragorn at last broke.

"I could wish the message more comforting, but I cannot say it was unexpected. I 
thank you for it nonetheless."

"'Twas no chance that I met Frodo Baggins in the woods, for it led me to 
Cirallan, and thence to you. And you need not fear: I and mine have seen to the 
fallen, so do not divert your own people to their care. You are needed here, 
whereas we are called away from this place."

"You seek the havens at last, Gildor?"

"Yes. This age is no longer for us, I fear. But I will say this, ere I shake the 
dust of Middle Earth from my feet: this war, once launched in earnest, will end 
swiftly, either in victory or defeat. And Frodo Baggins will come to you. 
Therefore gird yourself, Dunadan, and have faith!" With that, Gildor turned and 
went swiftly away, soon disappearing into the distance. Aragorn watched him go, 
then gazed south for long minutes before returning to cover, mourning his folk 
in silence, and mourning also that he could give but little in acknowledgement 
of their sacrifice. Little at this time, at least, though perhaps much in the 
end, if only he could get Frodo safely to Elrond. Later, much later, he would 
remember the terrible days of waiting, caught between grief and fear, and would 
marvel at how close to failure they had come before ever the fellowship was 
formed. Now, though, he caught the sound of approaching hoofs, a steady 
clip-clop of steeds with a stride too short and a step too light to be horses 
proper. That was a hopeful sign, but for the moment, he only drew a deep breath, 
and—heeding Gildor’s words—returned to his stealthy vigil, patiently awaiting 
the arrival of the travelers. Words flowed back and forth between them, somewhat 
indistinct in the distance, though one voice caught his attention with its 
music. ‘So Old Tom Bombadil has guests,’ he thought, and a glimmer of 
anticipation shone in his heart.

After some time, he heard the hoofs pause somewhere nearby, and Tom bid his 
guests farewell. Aragorn marked the inn name, as the others pleaded with 
Bombadil to stay but to no avail. As Iarwain rode away, the others spoke in low 
voices amongst themselves, anxious, plainly, but trying to put a good face on 
their fears—and Aragorn knew now that they were indeed out of the Shire, which 
made it almost certain that among them was the hobbit he sought. A voice spoke 
up then: a light voice, one now bent to sound stern and cautionary, but he heard 
the underlying fear in it as it spoke to others yet unseen: "It may be all we 
could wish, but it is outside the Shire all the same. Don’t make yourselves too 
much at home! Please remember, all of you, that the name of Baggins must not be 
mentioned. I am Mr. Underhill, if any name must be given." Baggins! Aragorn 
caught his breath; if long experience as Gandalf’s confidant had not taught him 
to expect it, he would hardly have believed the coincidence. It remained now 
only for him to see these hobbits face to face to satisfy himself of their 
intentions, and then… . The travelers fell silent at that moment, and the 
hobbits’ ponies resumed their staid march towards Bree, as Aragorn quickly 
pulled on his own pack and followed, unnoticed, behind. The first move had gone 
to the Enemy, but the next, he vowed, would be his, for the vengeance of those 
who had fallen and the good of Middle-earth.