Chapter Two
A/N: Please note that this is a collaborative work, slightly edited from a RP, with multiple contributors, each of whom wrote the actions, thoughts and dialogue of either one, or several characters as follows (in this chapter): FireflyOfTheShadowWolves - Lilliya. Rain Day - Faramir. Horseyyay - Oddberry, Merry. 7doom - Elrond. Scribe Of Heroes - Sam, Mellolaes. Wolf Of The Seas - Jovann
Liliya knew that elves, due to living so long, were often thought to be patient but it seemed that somewhere along the line she had missed out on that particular characteristic. She had only been sitting in her room for half an hour and she was bored. Her mind wandered to what the council was going to be about; Liliya had a general idea but she didn't know the specifics and she loved to know the specifics.
She got up and walked around her room trying to take her mind off the council; maybe she could go down to the healing rooms and see how Elrond was getting on with the Gondorian.
Yes I will do that.
Liliya walked through the halls until she came to the healing room and after speaking with one of the healers she walked over to Faramir's bed; the poor man was being held in a fever. She hoped that the fever would break soon.
Fever dream or vision, whatever it was, it drowned out everything else.
Reality became but a whisper in the back of Faramir's mind. The clean room in the healing wing where Elrond had taken him faded into the background. Bushes of bright, poisonous berries and the glowing, tiny eyes of orcs became more real than his own hands, clawing at the bed sheets in an attempt to hold onto something, anything at all, and avoid slipping into the shadows altogether. The sound of his own breath seemed far away and the ceiling above him had long turned into a cloudy sky.
The young Gondorian had turned deadly pale. His eyes, however, were anything but unfocused. Bright with fever, yes, but he clearly saw, watched, something. Something that no one else could see and that greatly troubled him.
Faramir's body felt leaden. Reality and fever-dream blended into each other seamlessly. He knew that someone was there and he thought that he even knew who it was. What he did not know was where 'there' was.
"Liliya." Even his voice seemed to be too close and too far away at once. He couldn't tell if it was a scream or a hoarse whisper.
At least he managed to lift one of his arms, reach out towards the shadowy figure close to him.
It hurts. He thought briefly.
Maybe the movement strained the wound on his side. "Where are you?"
In his vision? Somewhere where orcs attacked? Just imagination? Or in Imladris?
Liliya knew that while the body was healing the mind could interpret sound; so she sat by Faramir's bed just talking to him. Usually the person didn't reply so she was surprised when she heard Faramir calling her name; she turned and looked at him, not quite believing that he had spoken.
It was when he reached out to her that she really was shocked, but all the same she took his hand. He asked where I am? Not where he was; and that was a bit odd but she decided to tell him after he pleaded to know. "I am in the healing chambers in Rivendell, in the land of the living. You are in Rivendell too, but your body is half here and half there." Liliya told him gently.
Usually Faramir was able to differentiate well enough between reality and vision, between vision and dream. This time, however, it seemed near impossible. The thin line that separated them had all but disappeared, like the horizon line during heavy storms on the open sea, when sky and water became one. The fever did not allow him to see clearly.
Liliya, even though he barely understood what she said and it exhausted him to reach out to her, suddenly became his fixed star. The only thing he could hold on to, the only truth he could go by. Her soothing voice, her cool hand and her replies guided him.
Maybe with her help he would be able to tell what it was he saw, if it was true or not and if, if it was true, if it was a warning: where and when it happened. "What time of day?" Another important question. He needed to know. "Weather?"
"It is sunny out, Faramir, with a light breeze," Liliya answered him.
Sunny. Light breeze. The weather matched. But that didn't really prove anything, did it?
It was useless, wasn't it? It was all in vain. He could not see clearly. He could not think. It was not enough. "I...don't... know." Faramir said out loud what he believed to only have thought. "Can't tell... Weathertop...two men, one from Gondor... little ones... hobbits? children?... orcs... too many." That was all he knew and it was too little.
Shadows, whispers, always, always out of reach. Dulled, blurred, fleeting. Impossible to grasp, impossible to focus.
It could be anything. A memory, a nightmare, a simple fever dream. And even if it was a vision it could happen anytime, anywhere. Maybe he had been mistaken about the landmark he had briefly believed to recognize? "Don't know."
Even the elf's gentle voice and the comfort of her touch faded away, slowly but steadily.
If it was true and there were people that needed help, desperately, now, right now...but... "Might be... wrong."
"Don't worry yourself, I will tell Lord Elrond about the company of people there. He will send someone to make sure that they are okay." Liliya said comfortingly. Even as she did so though she got the feeling that he was slipping away again.
She believed him. Faramir didn't consider the possibility that she only pretended to in order to comfort him. Under different circumstances he would have, but not this time. The fever made it impossible to be suspicious. No, for him it was: she believed him. Though, he no longer knew if that was a good thing. He himself probably wouldn't have believed him, had a delirious stranger told him something similar.
Liliya, however, was an elf. Maybe elves viewed such things differently. Maybe they knew such things. Visions, confusion, whispers when no one was there, unseen shadows in the undergrowth, invisible hands reaching for unaware humans, guiding, mocking, never caught, the sky and the earth and the trees reacting to intruders, welcoming them or screaming in agony when crude axes hacked at them and poisonous, black arrows killed game left to rot afterwards.
Humans certainly didn't. Human's probably shouldn't.
Thank you. Was what he wanted to say. Thank you for being there and comforting, for listening, for that hand and that voice.
"Careful." Was what he said instead. Careful if you believe me. Careful if I am right.
Then gentle darkness drowned out the shapes of orc and that of the elf next to him alike. It was a slow, comfortable process, less like falling despite struggling not to and more like simply falling asleep after an exhausting day. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that staying awake would have been better, but his body and even more so his mind needed rest.
"Don't worry Faramir, everyone is careful when they go out to do things like this, also we elves have decades of experience if not centuries you don't need to worry." Liliya tried to reassure him. She squeezed his hand, and left to find Lord Elrond.
The suffering of a human had called her in from Imladris' gardens like the sound of a sobbing child. Mellolaes slipped into the room, spied the heart-stabbing sight, and put her hands on her hips with a frown. Now who had let a guest get into such a condition in Rivendell?
Faramir didn't know that Liliya had left. He hadn't even noticed when exactly she had gotten up and disappeared from the room. It could have happened moments, hours or days ago.
All he knew was that he had been comfortable until suddenly something was missing. It was not there any longer. Something terrible had happened. That was - that had to be- why it was gone.
All he knew was that suddenly he was not safe anymore. And the opposite of safe was dangerous. His mind worked with the logic of a frightened child, the instinct of a wounded animal. It was, after all, the mind of a sick soldier, too exhausted to process what was happening around him and at the same time too worried to fully lose consciousness and embrace a moment sweet oblivion.
Faramir had learned to always be on his guard, not just in battle. He had learned to pay attention to every tiny thing that happened around him, to every change, no matter of subtle. And to act, to react accordingly. A change in the birds' song, a strange smell, a rustle in the undergrowth. The tiniest change indicated something. Seldom something good.
He tried to get up, but not a single muscle moved. His body, heavy and numb, refused to obey him. No matter how hard he tried he could not even call out, not even open his eyes.
His breath quickened, his muscles tensed. A shiver. That was all the movement he managed.
Then, suddenly there was a presence, something or someone next to him. It was too close. It was strange, unknown, a possible threat. He didn't know. He couldn't tell.
What had happened? Where was he?
For a long time he had not felt that disorientated.
Had he been captured? There had been orcs, hadn't there? A battle? An ambush? Everything seemed so blurry. Memories, impressions. His mind seemed strangely detached from his body and he was caught somewhere in between, unable to reach either.
Orcs... But orcs took no prisoners. Easterlings?
Maybe that was why he couldn't move. Maybe they had bound him or used one of their poisons.
Mellolaes approached the mortal's bedside, took a slack hand, and squeezed it. The man stirred. The healer could tell he would have groaned had he not been so tired. She almost absent-mindedly took the patient's pulse while studying his face.
Someone touched him. Did they check if he yet lived?
Where were his men? Had not Boromir been with him as well? Had they not fought side by side?
The elleth cocked her head. Her brow furrowed and lips pursed in thought. Something told her he was young, not a child, but not long a man. Yet, something else told her he was old, aged by fear, and discipline, and heavy responsibility. She brushed a bit of damp hair back and began to speak in Westron, with a hint of a Silvan accent.
"Ai . . . What would your mother think to see her child like this? Are soldiers considered, in your land, to be made of rock and stone that they are treated so? You have been wearied by far more than this wound, or I am no healer to the children of men." The elleth pulled up a stool, and sat down, ready for a long wait. She had come with hopes of seeing another certain human, and avoiding a certain elf. Now that certain elf was here, had accompanied her actually, that certain man had not arrived yet, and she had an unexpected patient. Oh, well, such was fate. And such was the calling of a healer and friend of the second-born.
Someone spoke, talked. Orcs did not talk like that.
Faramir remembered fighting men. Men enforcing Sauron's growing army. The first stray groups of many yet to come. He and his men had tried to waylay them and failed. They had been noticed too early. There had been no chance to retreat, barely any cover. He remembered.
Faramir's reaction did not happen instantly, even though he thought it did. It took his body time to react, but when it did it reacted all the more strongly, flinching away and lashing out blindly with surprising strength.
He didn't know if he hit someone. All he knew, somehow, somewhere, was that he had to defend himself.
"AI!" Mellolaes jumped back. The flailing arm still slapped her in the arm. The spot stung, but she had received worse from delirious patients before. The healer was more worried for the man. She rubbed the spot and wondered at her own ineptitude. His condition had changed so suddenly. She thought him sinking into a coma she would have call him back from, but now he was awake enough to fight. She had felt his fear, tried to speak to him, but that had not seemed to help. Should she try Athelas? Soon, perhaps, but that would take time. He needed to be calmed now. Song then. A simple lullaby was all that came to her, but perhaps it would be enough. She took a long breath in and dove into the melody with all the elven sweetness and calm her troubled spirit could still muster.
When sunlight fades
And sky grows dim
darkness creeps out,
from shadows grim,
but just look up
And you will find
One-thousand lights
That brightly shine
May the stars fill
Your dreams with light
May you rest well
Beneath their sight
When day returns
Raise up your head
Find yourself strong
And leap from bed
Greet the morning
With joyous song
Fear not the dark
It ne'er stays not long
Iluvatar's song
plays on and on
Iluvatar's song
plays on and on
Even though he was too far gone to recognize little else, Faramir could tell that the voice he heard was not that of an Easterling speaking Westron with a thick accent, nor that of any human. It was elven. He would have recognized it anywhere, even though 'elven' had no meaning for him at the moment. It was nothing that needed to be named. It just felt, pure and good, no threat. The meaning of the words or even that it was a song he could not tell, nor did he care to. Muffled as it was, it sounded nice and even vaguely familiar. Nice was good, good was safe, a promise of it at least. Familiar was even better.
It calmed him a little. That was all that counted to his semi-conscious mind and to his survival instincts.
Survival instincts. Faramir did not know how much he resembled the great cat he had once seen, cowering in the corner of its cage in a traveling artist's wagon. It could not have been fully grown either.
His muscles remained tense, his body trembling and cold with sweat from the effort, tousled mane clinging to his face. He breathed heavily through his nose and his fists opened and closed. Yet, he did not try to hit the person next to him a second time. Instead he moved his head a little, unconsciously trying to capture more of that pleasant sound. His eyelids fluttered, but did not open.
Mellolaes saw her patient stop thrashing. She took a step nearer. When he turned his head to listen to her better, the healer knew she could touch him again. The elleth kept up the singing as she also began to stroke his hair once more. Her thoughts were both more pitying and less tranquil.
What troubles you, young one? You are usually strong of body and mind, I can tell. You must have pushed yourself too far. Is there no one who tells you to slow down? Where have you come from anyway? Where were you headed? Here? Farther on?
Mellolaes cocked her head and squinted again. He reminded her of the rangers who still guarded what was once the kingdom of Arnor. He was just dissimilar enough for her to be sure he wasn't one, though. Still, his face resembled those of Dunedain she had been told favored their renowned ancestors. If he was like them in other ways, that could explain many things. He was a warrior. That was plain enough. She hoped Elrond or someone came soon with answers and Athelas. There was only so much even Elven song and healing hands could do.
Liliya returned to the healing wing and was disappointed to find that Lord Elrond wasn't there yet; she sighed knowing that he would come into see his patient eventually, and walked over to Faramir's bed and was pleased to find that there was someone sitting with him.
Then Elrond swept in, bottles and herbs in his arms. He saw Faramir thrash a little, in what almost seemed like a spasm. What surprised him though was the elleth by him, stroking his hair and singing. Calming him. But the elleth had the air of a fellow healer about her, that much was obvious.
Next to her sat another elleth who Elrond recognised well - Liliya, princess of Mirkwood. What was she doing here?
Elrond walked up to the bedside and put the poultices down on the table. "What are you doing here?" Elrond asked. "Has anything happened to him?" It was a fairly stupid question to ask-obviously something had happened, he just needed to know what. It may mean that his patient was heading for better or for worse, going to the land of the living or dead. It wouldn't have been anything completely situation changing-he had only been gone five or ten minutes after all. But the one thing Elrond could be certain of, is that he needed to get to work quickly.
Mellolaes stiffened. "I'm comforting a patient whose name I don't know, because I found him alone sinking into a coma. Then he got violent. Do you want to administer the poultice or should I?""
"I'll administer it." Elrond replied. He put his hand on Faramir's forehead, feeling the temperature. "Could one of you please get a cloth and cold water, his fever's building." He then turned back to Mellolaes. "What do you mean by he got violent? Did he have some sort of fit?" He hoped Mellolaes could tell him, she seemed competent. Elrond was many things, but a mind reader he was not.
As the two healers got to work Lilliya once again slipped off, sensing she was not needed any longer, and fearing she may only get in the way.
Mellolaes began striding towards a pitcher, shallow dish, and clean cloth sitting on a nearby table. "I sensed fear in him. Then he began thrashing. I sang to him and he calmed down. I think his thoughts are not here, but in the past and places far away, or perhaps not here, but also not the past."
'Well, that explains the singing then.' Elrond thought as he administered a few drops of grape-leaf extract onto the man's tongue. As for the fear, Elrond could still feel a little coming from the Gondorian, even as he slept quite stilly. What she described did not sound like a hallucination, although the symptoms did sound similar. 'Could it be..' no, that was unlikely. The race of men rarely got visions. But it sounded similar, very similar, almost identical. And despite having only recently met the brown-haired elleth, he felt as though she knew what she was doing. "Did he say anything?" Elrond asked both women, sternly but not unkindly. "Anything at all?"
Mellolaes laid the cold cloth on the mortal's forehead. "Liliya needs to come back. He smiled at her approach and the sound of her voice. Now he's frightened again. What is his name?"
"He is Faramir of Gondor." Elrond replied. But how exactly did Liliya and Faramir know each other that well? A question for another time, at the moment though Liliya was needed. "Do you know where she went? She was here but a moment ago." Elrond asked, unwrapping the bandages around the wound.
"Faramir of Gondor. That fits. I know not where she went. To answer your earlier question. He said nothing to me, but he might have to her."
"Bother." Elrond muttered under his breath. He got out a dropper and Athelas in a pot at the end of the hall began to boil. "You may have to hold him down momentarily." Elrond said to Mellelaos. "This will sting him a little." He dropped the liquid around the edge of the wound, cleansing it.
He then took a thought to look on the bright side. At least Faramir wasn't worsening.
Mellolaes took firm hold of Faramir's forearms, and pressed them down into the mattress. "Easy Faramir, easy. You are in Imladris and no one is here but two healers trying to care for you." She turned to look at Elrond. "Do you know how he got this wound?"
"He slipped and cut himself on an Orc blade." Elrond replied. "It's infected and a little poisoned, as you can undoubtedly tell, but I have a feeling that something more is at work."
Mellolaes frowned. "No, I do not think those circumstances could have caused this fear. No one else was with him? No one he loved, and might suspect of being in danger this moment, or in the near future? How much do you know about him? What can I say to calm him?"
"I do not think so, but we did not get to talk long. His condition deteriorated almost the instant we met. All that I can think of is that he was remembering a loved one- he mentioned he had a brother, but anything about him I do not know. You could try singing again, as that helped before, but there does not seem to be anyone he is familiar with apart from Liliya."
Mellolaes sighed and looked back to her patient. "Hush now, Faramir. I think your brother and Liliya would like you to rest, so I am telling you for them. Relax . . . You are safe, Liliya is safe." Then Mellolaes' voice shifted into the same melody again.
The air is cool,
The blankets warm,
So snuggle down,
You're safe from harm,
When you have grown
both well and strong,
You can return,
to where you belong.
As Mellolaes sung, Elrond paced over to the fire and ladled some of the stewing Athelas into a bowl, adding some water to cool it. Bringing it over to Faramir he pulled some leaves out and gently placed them on the wound. He also placed a leaf on Faramir's tongue: the fragrance released would also help him heal, and had a quality that relaxed the patient. "We should leave the wound to air a little before putting the bandages on." Elrond said quietly. The elleth was doing a good job of keeping the man soothed. "Hopefully his fever will drop within an hour."
Mellolaes nodded while running her fingers through the mortal's hair. She was pleased that Athelas was now in her patient's system and the calm she felt flowing through him now told her it was working. "I shall stay until his fever does subside, and perhaps longer."
"Alright." Elrond said, relieved that the Athelas was beginning to work its way through Faramir's system. "If anything unusual begins to happen, even if it is slight, please send someone to me immediately. I will go find Liliya and ask her what happened; I have a feeling that something happened whilst neither of us were here, something more important than we may think. Thank-you for your help." With a grateful nod, Elrond got up and went to find the elusive princess of Mirkwood.
Mellolaes watched Elrond leave. Then she righted and pulled her chair back up to the bedside, took the mortal's hand, and began to sing low and soft. Now it was just a little nonsense song of the Silvans about different plants and creatures of the forest reacting to a soft, summer rain. She did not bother to translate it into Westron. Her patient would not likely notice the words anyway.
It had been a long day of travelling here, followed by a brief stroll, and then this. Her healer's instinct to come alert at a sign of distress from a patient was as honed as any soldier's was to come alert at a hint of danger. So, Mellolaes let her eyelids fall half closed and slipped into a half awake and half asleep state. Yet, still she sang, on and on, and still she held her patient's hand.
It didn't escape Oddberry that Sam was watching Boromir like a hawk. She was glad, two eyes were better than one and she couldn't watch him every second herself. She hoped her instincts were right and he wasn't going to attack them. He was rather big and it would be just a little bit of a big challenge for her to take him down. And if she failed he would get the Ring.
She fingered the 'family heirloom' around her neck nervously. That would be a disaster.
Oddberry was pulled from her speculative reverie by Merry. "Aren't those the berries you like to collect?" Merry had been dragged on many a foraging trip.
"Yes! Fantastic! I wanted more of these!" Odbberry happily bounced towards the clump of Deadly Nightshade plants nestled underneath a group of straggly trees.
The Ranger could hear their voices clearly now as he hid behind a log near the bush of Nightshade. He watched silently as the unaware traveller pranced over to the bushes. He realized that these were no enemy or threat, but he could feel an evil presence here… "Do not pick those. Nightshades are poisonous."
He stood up, with bow in hand but not raised. Standing at his full 6'8, heavily armed with shield, arrows, swords and heavy steel armor with a bright white Mithril tunic bearing the red cross.
Oddberry suppressed the urge to squeak loudly as the very tall man rose from behind the bushes, smoothly un-slinging her axe and shield from her back. She watched him with wary eyes, noting the multitude of weapons and unconsciously searching for a weak point in his armour, even as she noted the nonthreatening way he held his bow.
Sensing that he wasn't immediately going to turn her into a hobbit pincushion she mustered a smirk. "That's the point. If you didn't have your head in the clouds you would know that the berries are good to slip into meals, and can be turned into a lovely poison for my little friend here." She patted her axe. Laugh (or smirk) in the face of danger, that's the way to go. "As can the leaves."
She briefly wondered if the head in the clouds bit had been necessary but it was too late now. He was remarkably tall, even for a man. Their new friend might come in handy right now.
Jovann stood there, looking at the axe calmly. "Steady thy axe, friend. I mean no harm...but why poison the food of your companions?"
Oddberry rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to poison my friends. I poison my enemies and I always like to be prepared and have some berries on hand case it's not appropriate to give them a little nick with my axe."
Jovann nodded, and raised an eyebrow. "What an odd way to handle the enemy." He crossed his arms.
Oddberry slung her axe and shield back on her back and proceeded to harvest the bushes, leaving some leaves and berries intact so they would continue to grow. She kept the man in her sight. Having finished her collection, Oddberry began storing her loot in many jars and pouches. "And well, when the rest of the world is over 2ft taller than you, you can't exactly rely on brawn. So who are you?" She enquired.
"My name is of no importance...I am simply a Ranger..."
"I do like your name Of No Importance. And I've always wanted to meet a ranger! Where are you headed? If you are going to Rivendell you are welcome to join us." Oddberry secured the flaps on her bag and gave the mystery man her brightest smile. "I should get back before my fellow hobbits wonder what evil man I've met in the bushes." She began to bounce off calling over her shoulder "Nice to meet you Of No Importance." She giggled to herself as she went. Sam would have loved him.
Jovann was confused. "I'm headed to Rivendell for supplies, but..."
He thought to himself as she bounced off. So she's not alone...I figured the wilderness would be too dangerous for a Lone Hobbit...I must determine the nature of this group, seeing how Orcs have sent scavengers out here... Jovann chose to follow the trail of the gleeful she-hobbit. He didn't expect her to take him seriously when he said Of No Importance.
Whilst waiting for Oddberry to finish berry picking, the hobbits had decided that it was a fantastic opportunity to have second breakfast and Merry was just getting some bacon cooking when she re-emerged with a tall, heavily armoured man and horse a little way behind.
"Oddberry! Behind you!"
She glanced over her shoulder. So he was coming. Brilliant! "I know!" She giggled back at her friend's worried face. "I'm collecting them!"
Jovann stopped and hesitated as Merry pointed him out, anticipating an attack. He then turned to see his white horse behind him. "Silver, what are you doing here girl?"
Silver licked his face and shivered.
"Something frightened you?...Hmm..."
Merry continued to stare at the man as the horse began to lick his face.
Oddberry shrugged and giggled. "He's a ranger." That was a fantastic explanation for his weird behaviour. "His name is Of No Importance." Merry's eyes boggled. Men were just getting weirder.
Oddberry's laugh tinkled in the air as she saw Merry's expression. "It's not really that, he's just not being all that forthcoming and I have to call him something..."
Not forthcoming did not sound encouraging in Merry's book.
Jovann ignored their conversation about his name. He frowned thinking to himself. "Something's not right...Silver only runs to me when there is a threat nearby..."
He looked at them.
"We aren't alone."
A/N: We'd love to know what you think (reviews are treasured)
And if you are interested in joining the fun, you can find us at fanfiction forum/Lord-of-the-Rings-RP/180999/
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