They had been on foot for ten days now. The stream they had come to was a narrow one, and as soon as they saw it, they knew they were lost. ‘The Greyflood is a wide, deep river – like the Anduin. This is a mere slip of a stream, and shallow. Somehow we have taken a wrong turning.’ Aldwulf voiced his observations in a weary voice.
Brytta had called a rest to get their bearings, and Aldwulf had slumped down on the ground, leaning against his pack. He plucked a stalk of dried grass from a clump near him and chewed on the end of it. The day was waning, and a brisk wind was picking up. He drew his cloak closer about him and surveyed the rest of the group. They were all tired, their faces drawn with the pace they had pushed themselves to.
‘What say we camp here, beneath the trees tonight? They’ll give us some shelter from the wind, and we can gather firewood for warmth and a hot meal. There’s a stream nearby for water, and if we hurry we can catch the evening rise of trout.’
He grinned at Heldór, his tired eyes suddenly filled with new life. ‘You cut us some lengths of saplings and I’ll get out my thin cord. We’ll fish for our dinner like we did when we were boys.’ He searched in his pack for his roll of cord. ‘Who wants to join us?’
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‘Many are the strange chances of the world,’ said Mithrandir, ‘and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the Wise falter.’
– Gandalf in: The Silmarillion, 'Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age'
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