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You figure out which is which.
"Then, in the name of the king, go and find some old man of less lore and more wisdom who keeps some in his house!" ----Gandalf, to the herb master of Minas Tirith, regarding athelas, ROTK.
Less Lore and More Wisdom
A wrinkled old man sat hunched over a desk in the main room of his small house, deep in one of the poorer sections of Minas Tirith. He was writing a letter to his granddaughter, who was with the rest of the refugees of the city. The oldster had refused to go, claiming he was too old and set in his ways to leave. Furthermore, if worse came to worst, he'd rather die in his own home. Though the family did not like it, they had no choice but to comply. He could be a stubborn old coot when it suited him.
The days after the refugees left had been surprisingly quiet, given that the world was about to end. Of course, there had been war, and wounded, and that terrible day of no sunrise was entirely unpleasant, but all in all, these things did not really touch the old man. Life flowed past him much the way it always had done, with rising, living, sleeping, and not much else. Once, there had been family. Once, there had been friends and comrades. Once, he had had many visitors, but those days had gone past long ere the war touched the city itself. His family had lives of their own, with little time for a grumpy old codger. His friends and comrades from his Ranger days were mostly dead, or witless, or evacuated with the rest of Minas Tirith's noncombatants. So life slid by, war or no war. The only highpoint thus far had been the noise that Grond thing had made, when the enemy tried and failed to break into the city. And that had been more annoying than anything. It disturbed his quiet. Though soon, that would not be a trouble. The silence would be permanent.
Perhaps because he saw his own decay in the mirror every day, he had no fear of death, only a nonchalant impatience with it. He did not approve of the process, for it was messy, and he valued neatness. Death and destruction, in his opinion, should hurry up and be done with, so the work of rebuilding could begin. Then again, he also strongly believed death was a privilege of the aged, not the young, unless they be warriors. And even warriors served better by living to fight another day.
The elderly gentleman sighed. His musings had distracted him from his letter, costing him his momentum. There was no point in continuing now. He got up to make himself some tea. The day was cold, which made his bones ache, so he wrapped a shawl around his thin shoulders. He paused to put more wood on his fire, fretting at the dwindling pile. If the weather did not turn soon, he would run out completely.
"Old bones do not like frigid air. I wish spring would come properly," he grumbled to the flames. He knew full well that this unseasonable chill could be laid squarely at the feet of the Enemy, but that was no comfort for his aches. He questioned again the wisdom of remaining behind when the others left. Again, he dismissed is as quickly as he asked it of himself. He knew why he'd stayed.
"Here I was born and here I will die," he sternly informed the fire. "And no Dark Lord's minions will drive me from my home. Kill me they may, but force me out? Never!"
With a defiant shake of his fist, the oldster lapsed back into silence. Preparing tea took all his attention. He carefully removed the kettle from the fire, carefully began to pour hot water into the teapot. Without warning, a knock on his door distracted him, causing him to jostle the kettle. He spilled some water, nearly scalding his hand.
With a curse not fit for polite company, he returned the kettle to its hanger above the fire and made his way to the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he cried testily as the pounding continued.
The old gent tore open the door, slamming it back to vent his irritation. He startled the lad on the stoop in mid-knock.
"What do you want?" the geezer demanded none too gently.
"Please, Grandfather, I am on a vital errand. I have urgent need of athelas," the lad replied, ignoring the oldster's confrontational tone.
Well, now THIS was the last thing the old man expected. Actually, he had not been expecting visitors at all, let alone visitors in the form of a lad asking for a seldom-used herb he kept for his headaches. "What could you possibly want with athelas? Haven't the loremasters told you it's useless?"
"That they have, and repeatedly, too, Grandfather, but a new master has come, one who has use of the herb. Urgent use. Please, Grandfather, have you any?" the lad implored. He wrapped his arms around his body as he spoke, for it was colder outside than in.
The codger could ignore the question, but not the gesture. "Get yourself inside, boy, before you catch your death!" he grumped.
The lad happily obeyed. He slipped past the grumbling oldster, who closed the door behind him. The boy eyed the tea wistfully, but manners and the urgency of his errand forbade his requesting some. The old man noticed as he walked back to the table. He slowly and carefully sat himself down, out of consideration for his aged bones, and poured two cups. He gestured for the boy to sit opposite him, handed him a cup, and took his first good look at the lad.
"I know you!" he exclaimed. "You are that rapscallion of a grandson of mine, Bertrand or some such, who never comes to visit. What are you doing here, rascal? Where are your parents, my daughter and that Guard who took her away from me?"
"My name is Bergil, Grandfather. Not Bertrand. And I am here in search of athelas, as I told you at the door," the lad replied. He did not address the issue of his infrequent visits, for he did not care to tell his grandfather that the old man's irascible temper kept him away. Nor did he touch on the subject of his parents, for that too was a sore spot. Grandfather considered no one good enough for his favorite daughter, let alone a mere Guardsman such as Beregond. He was never shy about saying so as rudely as possible. The tension eventually became too much to bear, so the family kept visits down to an absolute minimum. Bergil had seen his grandfather perhaps half a dozen times in his entire life.
"Athelas? What do you want that for? Nobody uses that anymore but old folks. You youngsters nowadays don't know the value of a useful herb," Grandfather complained.
"One has come who does know its value, sir, and has urgent need of it. Please, if you have some to spare, may I take it?" Bergil said.
"Take my athelas??" the old man cried, aghast. "But I need that for my headaches! I get horrible headaches, you know, and only the athelas can cure them. I cannot give it away. I have little enough as it is. And just who is this one you speak of, who has the smidgen of wisdom to know a valuable herb when he sees it?"
"The King, sir, and he needs..." Bergil began.
"The King? The King has been gone forever. He will not return," Grandfather interrupted.
"But he has, Grandfather, and he needs...." the lad tried again.
"He has?" the old man broke in. "How do you know? Why should I believe you?"
"I've seen him, Grandfather, and spoken to him. He truly needs some athelas!" Bergil rushed to get his words out before the codger could interrupt him again. He saw the doubt in the old man's eyes. "Please, Grandfather, when have I ever lied to you? I know you don't know me well, but you must trust me on this! I have not the time to argue. Lives are at stake!" the boy pleaded.
"Lives, eh? Whose lives?" the gent asked, softening at the boy's distress.
"Lord Faramir, for one, and....." Bergil began to answer.
"Faramir? What need has he of my athelas?" Grandfather interrupted yet again.
"He was sorely wounded by a poisoned arrow, sir, and lies near death. So near, in fact, that Lord Denethor thought to immure his son in his funeral pyre, but Mithrandir and Peregrin, the perian prince, stopped him," Bergil explained.
"Denethor, bah! He was never half the Steward his father Ecthelion was. Minas Tirith will feel no loss at his passing. Faramir, though, he's another story. If he needs athelas, as you say, I suppose I can spare a leaf or two," Grandfather said.
"The King needs more than two leaves, for there are more in need than Lord Faramir, sir."
"More in need? Who?"
"The Lady Eowyn, and the perian Merry, who together slew the Lord of the Nazgul, have fallen into darkness and also need healing."
"A lady, you say? Is she fair?" the old man asked as though it were the most important thing in the world.
"She is wonderous fair, Grandfather, and valiant beyond words. But she sorrows, and fades into the dark, and the halfling with her," Bergil replied.
"Halfling? This is thrice you've mentioned them, by two different names. What are they, truly? For I had always thought them mere legend and naught more."
Bergil's face lit up as he considered the halflings. "Oh, but they are real, as real as you or me! They are small, smaller even than I, but courageous and true, and cheerful even in the worst of plights. The world will be a darker place if we lose little Merry. Pippin will grieve, and I would not have that. He is my friend."
The aged codger was silent for a time, thinking. His wrinkled face was impassive, rendering it impossible to read. As the quiet stretched, Bergil began to wonder if approaching his estranged relative was such a good idea. But he knew of no other that kept the herb and remained in the city. If Grandfather did not come through for him, he had no recourse but to admit defeat. He would fail, and people would die.
Finally, the old man spoke. "The Lord Faramir, a fair and valiant Lady, and a creature of legend that you call friend? These are who you need my herb for? And at the order of the King, no less. Boy, this is an outrageous story. Were we not living in strange times indeed, I would call you liar to your face. As it is, I have seen odder things of late, so I believe your tale. Let me fetch the athelas. You may take what I have, though I'll warn you, it is little, and not fresh."
Bergil could have screamed with relief. He restrained himself with effort, only saying "Please hurry, Grandfather, for time grows short. I did not exaggerate the urgency. I have spent too much time searching already."
"I'm going, I'm going!" he snarled, but gently and without real bite. "Have patience, boy. Old bones do not move as quickly as young ones."
Bergil kept his peace, but he could not keep from fidgeting. Grandfather ever-so-slowly stood, even more slowly walked to his small kitchen and removed a clay jar. He doddered back to the table, jar shaking in aged hands, and set it down. Bergil, out of patience, pulled out his own handkerchief and laid it out on the table. Grandfather unstoppered the jar and shook the contents out onto the cloth.
Six dried leaves settled onto the linen. "I told you it is not fresh, lad," Grandfather sighed. "My granddaughter culled it for me before she evacuated, two weeks ago at least. I hope it will serve. I would not like to see young Faramir perish, nor your fair lady, nor the perian."
"It will serve, Grandfather," the lad replied, wrapping up the precious herbs. "It will have to. I cannot thank you enough, sir, and I am certain the King thanks you as well. Mithrandir, too. Now, I must hurry back."
"That you must, boy. Get you gone, lad, and save your friends. Tell the King where you got this, for I want my credit. I would like to meet him, someday, as well, but that is neither here nor there. Well? What are you lingering for? Did you not say this was urgently needed?" Grandfather grumbled, ruffling the boy's hair.
Bergil grinned. Impulsively, he hugged the oldster around the waist, then dashed out the door with renewed hope. His mission had been successful.
"Shut the door!" the old man called after the lad, but he was already too far away to hear. So Grandfather got up to close it himself. He stared briefly at the boy's retreating back, hoping this meeting would bring his family back to him. His gift of athelas was not entirely selfless.
"King, indeed," he muttered to himself as he turned back into the warmth of his house. "I never thought to live to see the day. I hope he knows what he is doing with my herb. Oh well, back to my letter. I have much to write about now."
A/N pt II---ye gods, what a pain in my tuchis this was to write! It demanded attention, then refused to flow once I sat down to type. Every word was a battle with this fic. So please, reward my hard work with a nice little click of the review button. There is more to come in my imagination, if I can but get it out. I hope the next chapter is not such a struggle as this one was.
Oh! I almost forgot! Will somebody please tell me if I used "laid" correctly? For the life of me, I cannot remember if it is "lay it out on the table" or "laid it out on the table". I'll fix it if it's wrong, but I need to know first. And I call myself a writer....sheesh!
"Then, in the name of the king, go and find some old man of less lore and more wisdom who keeps some in his house!" ----Gandalf, to the herb master of Minas Tirith, regarding athelas, ROTK.
Less Lore and More Wisdom
A wrinkled old man sat hunched over a desk in the main room of his small house, deep in one of the poorer sections of Minas Tirith. He was writing a letter to his granddaughter, who was with the rest of the refugees of the city. The oldster had refused to go, claiming he was too old and set in his ways to leave. Furthermore, if worse came to worst, he'd rather die in his own home. Though the family did not like it, they had no choice but to comply. He could be a stubborn old coot when it suited him.
The days after the refugees left had been surprisingly quiet, given that the world was about to end. Of course, there had been war, and wounded, and that terrible day of no sunrise was entirely unpleasant, but all in all, these things did not really touch the old man. Life flowed past him much the way it always had done, with rising, living, sleeping, and not much else. Once, there had been family. Once, there had been friends and comrades. Once, he had had many visitors, but those days had gone past long ere the war touched the city itself. His family had lives of their own, with little time for a grumpy old codger. His friends and comrades from his Ranger days were mostly dead, or witless, or evacuated with the rest of Minas Tirith's noncombatants. So life slid by, war or no war. The only highpoint thus far had been the noise that Grond thing had made, when the enemy tried and failed to break into the city. And that had been more annoying than anything. It disturbed his quiet. Though soon, that would not be a trouble. The silence would be permanent.
Perhaps because he saw his own decay in the mirror every day, he had no fear of death, only a nonchalant impatience with it. He did not approve of the process, for it was messy, and he valued neatness. Death and destruction, in his opinion, should hurry up and be done with, so the work of rebuilding could begin. Then again, he also strongly believed death was a privilege of the aged, not the young, unless they be warriors. And even warriors served better by living to fight another day.
The elderly gentleman sighed. His musings had distracted him from his letter, costing him his momentum. There was no point in continuing now. He got up to make himself some tea. The day was cold, which made his bones ache, so he wrapped a shawl around his thin shoulders. He paused to put more wood on his fire, fretting at the dwindling pile. If the weather did not turn soon, he would run out completely.
"Old bones do not like frigid air. I wish spring would come properly," he grumbled to the flames. He knew full well that this unseasonable chill could be laid squarely at the feet of the Enemy, but that was no comfort for his aches. He questioned again the wisdom of remaining behind when the others left. Again, he dismissed is as quickly as he asked it of himself. He knew why he'd stayed.
"Here I was born and here I will die," he sternly informed the fire. "And no Dark Lord's minions will drive me from my home. Kill me they may, but force me out? Never!"
With a defiant shake of his fist, the oldster lapsed back into silence. Preparing tea took all his attention. He carefully removed the kettle from the fire, carefully began to pour hot water into the teapot. Without warning, a knock on his door distracted him, causing him to jostle the kettle. He spilled some water, nearly scalding his hand.
With a curse not fit for polite company, he returned the kettle to its hanger above the fire and made his way to the door. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he cried testily as the pounding continued.
The old gent tore open the door, slamming it back to vent his irritation. He startled the lad on the stoop in mid-knock.
"What do you want?" the geezer demanded none too gently.
"Please, Grandfather, I am on a vital errand. I have urgent need of athelas," the lad replied, ignoring the oldster's confrontational tone.
Well, now THIS was the last thing the old man expected. Actually, he had not been expecting visitors at all, let alone visitors in the form of a lad asking for a seldom-used herb he kept for his headaches. "What could you possibly want with athelas? Haven't the loremasters told you it's useless?"
"That they have, and repeatedly, too, Grandfather, but a new master has come, one who has use of the herb. Urgent use. Please, Grandfather, have you any?" the lad implored. He wrapped his arms around his body as he spoke, for it was colder outside than in.
The codger could ignore the question, but not the gesture. "Get yourself inside, boy, before you catch your death!" he grumped.
The lad happily obeyed. He slipped past the grumbling oldster, who closed the door behind him. The boy eyed the tea wistfully, but manners and the urgency of his errand forbade his requesting some. The old man noticed as he walked back to the table. He slowly and carefully sat himself down, out of consideration for his aged bones, and poured two cups. He gestured for the boy to sit opposite him, handed him a cup, and took his first good look at the lad.
"I know you!" he exclaimed. "You are that rapscallion of a grandson of mine, Bertrand or some such, who never comes to visit. What are you doing here, rascal? Where are your parents, my daughter and that Guard who took her away from me?"
"My name is Bergil, Grandfather. Not Bertrand. And I am here in search of athelas, as I told you at the door," the lad replied. He did not address the issue of his infrequent visits, for he did not care to tell his grandfather that the old man's irascible temper kept him away. Nor did he touch on the subject of his parents, for that too was a sore spot. Grandfather considered no one good enough for his favorite daughter, let alone a mere Guardsman such as Beregond. He was never shy about saying so as rudely as possible. The tension eventually became too much to bear, so the family kept visits down to an absolute minimum. Bergil had seen his grandfather perhaps half a dozen times in his entire life.
"Athelas? What do you want that for? Nobody uses that anymore but old folks. You youngsters nowadays don't know the value of a useful herb," Grandfather complained.
"One has come who does know its value, sir, and has urgent need of it. Please, if you have some to spare, may I take it?" Bergil said.
"Take my athelas??" the old man cried, aghast. "But I need that for my headaches! I get horrible headaches, you know, and only the athelas can cure them. I cannot give it away. I have little enough as it is. And just who is this one you speak of, who has the smidgen of wisdom to know a valuable herb when he sees it?"
"The King, sir, and he needs..." Bergil began.
"The King? The King has been gone forever. He will not return," Grandfather interrupted.
"But he has, Grandfather, and he needs...." the lad tried again.
"He has?" the old man broke in. "How do you know? Why should I believe you?"
"I've seen him, Grandfather, and spoken to him. He truly needs some athelas!" Bergil rushed to get his words out before the codger could interrupt him again. He saw the doubt in the old man's eyes. "Please, Grandfather, when have I ever lied to you? I know you don't know me well, but you must trust me on this! I have not the time to argue. Lives are at stake!" the boy pleaded.
"Lives, eh? Whose lives?" the gent asked, softening at the boy's distress.
"Lord Faramir, for one, and....." Bergil began to answer.
"Faramir? What need has he of my athelas?" Grandfather interrupted yet again.
"He was sorely wounded by a poisoned arrow, sir, and lies near death. So near, in fact, that Lord Denethor thought to immure his son in his funeral pyre, but Mithrandir and Peregrin, the perian prince, stopped him," Bergil explained.
"Denethor, bah! He was never half the Steward his father Ecthelion was. Minas Tirith will feel no loss at his passing. Faramir, though, he's another story. If he needs athelas, as you say, I suppose I can spare a leaf or two," Grandfather said.
"The King needs more than two leaves, for there are more in need than Lord Faramir, sir."
"More in need? Who?"
"The Lady Eowyn, and the perian Merry, who together slew the Lord of the Nazgul, have fallen into darkness and also need healing."
"A lady, you say? Is she fair?" the old man asked as though it were the most important thing in the world.
"She is wonderous fair, Grandfather, and valiant beyond words. But she sorrows, and fades into the dark, and the halfling with her," Bergil replied.
"Halfling? This is thrice you've mentioned them, by two different names. What are they, truly? For I had always thought them mere legend and naught more."
Bergil's face lit up as he considered the halflings. "Oh, but they are real, as real as you or me! They are small, smaller even than I, but courageous and true, and cheerful even in the worst of plights. The world will be a darker place if we lose little Merry. Pippin will grieve, and I would not have that. He is my friend."
The aged codger was silent for a time, thinking. His wrinkled face was impassive, rendering it impossible to read. As the quiet stretched, Bergil began to wonder if approaching his estranged relative was such a good idea. But he knew of no other that kept the herb and remained in the city. If Grandfather did not come through for him, he had no recourse but to admit defeat. He would fail, and people would die.
Finally, the old man spoke. "The Lord Faramir, a fair and valiant Lady, and a creature of legend that you call friend? These are who you need my herb for? And at the order of the King, no less. Boy, this is an outrageous story. Were we not living in strange times indeed, I would call you liar to your face. As it is, I have seen odder things of late, so I believe your tale. Let me fetch the athelas. You may take what I have, though I'll warn you, it is little, and not fresh."
Bergil could have screamed with relief. He restrained himself with effort, only saying "Please hurry, Grandfather, for time grows short. I did not exaggerate the urgency. I have spent too much time searching already."
"I'm going, I'm going!" he snarled, but gently and without real bite. "Have patience, boy. Old bones do not move as quickly as young ones."
Bergil kept his peace, but he could not keep from fidgeting. Grandfather ever-so-slowly stood, even more slowly walked to his small kitchen and removed a clay jar. He doddered back to the table, jar shaking in aged hands, and set it down. Bergil, out of patience, pulled out his own handkerchief and laid it out on the table. Grandfather unstoppered the jar and shook the contents out onto the cloth.
Six dried leaves settled onto the linen. "I told you it is not fresh, lad," Grandfather sighed. "My granddaughter culled it for me before she evacuated, two weeks ago at least. I hope it will serve. I would not like to see young Faramir perish, nor your fair lady, nor the perian."
"It will serve, Grandfather," the lad replied, wrapping up the precious herbs. "It will have to. I cannot thank you enough, sir, and I am certain the King thanks you as well. Mithrandir, too. Now, I must hurry back."
"That you must, boy. Get you gone, lad, and save your friends. Tell the King where you got this, for I want my credit. I would like to meet him, someday, as well, but that is neither here nor there. Well? What are you lingering for? Did you not say this was urgently needed?" Grandfather grumbled, ruffling the boy's hair.
Bergil grinned. Impulsively, he hugged the oldster around the waist, then dashed out the door with renewed hope. His mission had been successful.
"Shut the door!" the old man called after the lad, but he was already too far away to hear. So Grandfather got up to close it himself. He stared briefly at the boy's retreating back, hoping this meeting would bring his family back to him. His gift of athelas was not entirely selfless.
"King, indeed," he muttered to himself as he turned back into the warmth of his house. "I never thought to live to see the day. I hope he knows what he is doing with my herb. Oh well, back to my letter. I have much to write about now."
A/N pt II---ye gods, what a pain in my tuchis this was to write! It demanded attention, then refused to flow once I sat down to type. Every word was a battle with this fic. So please, reward my hard work with a nice little click of the review button. There is more to come in my imagination, if I can but get it out. I hope the next chapter is not such a struggle as this one was.
Oh! I almost forgot! Will somebody please tell me if I used "laid" correctly? For the life of me, I cannot remember if it is "lay it out on the table" or "laid it out on the table". I'll fix it if it's wrong, but I need to know first. And I call myself a writer....sheesh!