Chapter 3
They enter the building before them, and walk down a long, empty passageway. A pair of metal doors swing silently open. Before them there is a vast hall, with a lofty ceiling, tall pillars, and statues lining the walls on either side. It is almost cathedral-like in size and solemnity, but darker, with the light coming in from windows set high. At the end of the hall there is a dais, with a canopy above and a throne; a black chair is set at the bottom of the steps of the dais. Both throne and chair are empty - instead, a table littered with papers and books is set before the dais, and a small group is gathered around it.
As Faramir leads the way towards the dais, the group stops talking, and one man steps forwards. His clothes are simple, but well-made, and he has a thin circlet of metal bound about his brow. Faramir bows his head, respectfully; the other men go to their knees. Ronald exchanges a look with the Doctor, and opts for copying Faramir. The Doctor seems to be merely observing, with one eyebrow raised.
"My lord King," says Faramir.
"My lord Prince," the King returns, with a smile in his voice. "It's good to see you, Faramir. Damrod brought your message yesterday. Are these the travellers?"
Faramir straightens. "Yes, my lord."
Ronald finds himself under the gaze of a pair of stern grey eyes, which scrutinise him for a minute before moving on to the Doctor.
"Well," says the King, eventually. "I think you are right, Faramir; they do not seem evil."
"Definitely not evil," the Doctor puts in. "Your Majesty. I'm the Doctor."
"A healer?" asks the King. "You arrive too late. We could have made use of you only a few weeks ago."
"I do not believe he is a healer," breaks in another voice - deeper and more sonorous. Its owner gets up from a corner, using a tall white staff but, Ronald notices, not really needing it. "It is more of a general title, I think."
"You might say that," agrees the Doctor.
The old man in white comes forwards to stand by the King. "I also do not believe these two are a threat, Aragorn." He turns a warm glance on Faramir. "But you did right to bring them to the City, Faramir."
"Well, then," the King says. "I will, as ever, trust to your judgment, Mithrandir. Welcome to Minas Tirith, Doctor, and "
"Ronald," Ronald says, in answer to the King's look. "Ronald Tolkien, your Majesty. I'm I am a student of languages."
"You are most welcome," the King responds. "I'll have some lodgings prepared for you."
The old man - Mithrandir - nods approvingly. "I will show them the way. I would rather like a word with your guests, if I may, Aragorn."
The King assents, Faramir bids them "farewell - for now", and they are walking out of the great hall again with the old man, his staff tapping rhythmically on the stone floor.
Mithrandir takes them to a quiet garden, where early flowers are blooming. There is a stone bench, and the old man sits down, twitching his cloak out of the way. The Doctor stays standing, but Ronald finds a patch of dry grass and sits. He hasn't smelt the scent of summer grass for more than a year, and it is wonderful to breathe it in.
The Doctor and Mithrandir are regarding each other closely.
"I believed this age had seen enough miracles," Mithrandir says, eventually. "But apparently I was wrong."
"No miracle about someone travelling," the Doctor responds.
"That rather depends on the traveller," says Mithrandir, with a twinkle in his eye.
The Doctor grins. "Fair enough. Maia?"
"Here, they call me a wizard," Mithrandir says, but he seems to be agreeing. Ronald is not sure if he can believe his ears.
"Humans and their magic," the Doctor says, and Ronald digests that for a moment before his brain forces him to recognise what he had known all along; the Doctor is not human, whatever he may look like.
Mithrandir laughs, a joyous sound. "If it gives hope but why did you choose Arda, Doctor, and why now?"
The Doctor turns away and examines the tree behind him. Mithrandir looks at Ronald.
"I don't know why we're here," Ronald says. "Really." He frowns, considering the situation. "I followed him as an escape."
"From what?" asks Mithrandir, gently.
"War," Ronald says, the word itself somehow conjuring up an image of the hell he left behind.
"Thought you might appreciate a spot of peace," the Doctor cuts in. He waves a hand. "This will be one of the great kingdoms of the universe. We're here right at the beginning. If you don't like it, I can take you back."
Ronald shakes his head. "No. Thank you." He looks up at Mithrandir. "But what happened here, sir, to cause the war? And how was it won?"
The old man laughs again. "It was won by courage," he says, "and some luck, and I am the wrong person to tell you about it." He looks around, and waves at a boy who is passing with a sheaf of papers. The boy comes running over, and bows.
"Lord Mithrandir?"
"I want you to take this gentleman," says Mithrandir, "to see the Periannath. Tell them I asked them to tell him their stories."
"Yes, my lord." The boy bows again, and examines Ronald curiously.
Mithrandir nods at Ronald encouragingly. "Go with the lad. He'll take you to some dear friends of mine, and heroes of the war. Ask them to tell you all about it."
Ronald gets to his feet. "What about you?" he asks the Doctor.
By his tree, the Doctor folds his arms. "I'll see you later. Go on. Go and talk. I won't go without you." He flicks a hand at Ronald. "Go!"
The only thing to do seems to be to obey, so Ronald - with a backwards glance at the garden and the two still figures - follows the boy.
They go through passageways and down staircases and along several corridors. By the time the boy knocks at a wooden door, Ronald is breathless. Clearly too long sitting behind a radio.
A cheerful voice calls out a "Come in!" and the boy pushes the door open.
"The Lord Mithrandir has sent you a guest, masters," he says, sounding a little nervous, "and says you should tell him your tales."
Ronald follows the boy inside the room and, not for the first time in this decidedly strange day, finds himself lost for words. Looking back at him with interest are four people - he thinks, for a second, that they are children but realises they are not. They are, however, short; the feet of the one perched on the window seat are dangling well off the floor. They are evidently occupied in breakfast, for a low table is cluttered with dishes and plates and cups. The boy withdraws, closing the door behind him.
One of the very small occupants of the room stands up, brushes his clothes off and bows.
"Peregrin Took, at your service, sir."
"Ronald Tolkien, at yours," says Ronald, because it seems to be the right thing to say. "Am I intruding?"
Peregrin Took shakes his head. "No. Have you had breakfast? Sit down and join us - there's plenty left. They're still working out how much a hobbit can eat and we've got more than enough this morning." He sits down again, on a cushion. "Please."
Ronald finds another cushion and does as he's asked. In any case, it's easier to be on eye level with this odd quartet.
"So, you're a friend of old Gandalf?" Peregrin Took continues, picking up a piece of bread. "Mithrandir, I mean."
"I've only just met him," Ronald admits. "He thought I would like your tales."
"Haven't you heard them yet?" asks another of the four - hobbits, Ronald supposed they must be. "I thought the whole city had, by now, what with the minstrels and all."
"We only arrived here today," says Ronald. "I mean we were brought here today, by Faramir. Prince Faramir, I mean."
"We?" The speaker is the thinnest of the quartet, and looks as though he were recovering from an illness.
Ronald wonders how to explain the Doctor, when he does not really understand him fully yet.
"I came with another traveller," he says, after a moment's thought.
Peregrin Took pauses in demolishing his bread. "Where from? You don't look like you're from Gondor "
"Or Rohan," puts in the second hobbit.
"And you're definitely a Man, though on the short side," Peregrin concludes. They all look at him.
"A long way away," Ronald says, knowing this is woefully inadequate. "Truthfully, I don't actually know how far away it is. I study languages, and stories."
"We've heard a lot o' both," the fourth hobbit says. "And none of us are remembering our manners."
"Sam, you're right!" exclaims the thinnest of the four. He stands. "My apologies, Master Tolkien - do I have it aright? I am Frodo Baggins; my cousins, Meriadoc Brandybuck, Peregrin Took," his voice softens, "my dear friend and companion, Samwise Gamgee."
"Pleasure," says Samwise Gamgee, nodding. "You must've come from a long way not to have heard the stories. They're all round the city, how Mr Frodo carried that thing all the way to the mountain."
Frodo, Ronald noticed, looks abashed and takes refuge in his cup.
"I've come from so far," Ronald says, "that I must confess I've never heard of hobbits."
There is general uproar, led by Meriadoc, who begins to talk.
The tale does not come in order, by any means. It is told chiefly by Meriadoc and Peregrin - or Merry and Pippin, as Ronald is soon urged to call them. Frodo puts in e odd word here and there, mainly to correct something, while Sam adds observations and agreements. After an hour or so the hobbits lead Ronald outside, still talking, and they carry on with their tale in one of Minas Tirith's gardens. Lunch is brought to them there, and Ronald watches in astonishment as the four small hobbits devour a feast that would have daunted the same number of soldiers.
Their story gets darker, and more astonishing, as the day grows longer. Ronald learns of the role played by the King, by Mithrandir, and most of all by these four lively creatures, and marvels. He wishes he had a pen to write it all down.
"Oh, don't worry about that!" says Pippin cheerfully. "We plan to lock cousin Frodo away until he has it all down."
Frodo looks slightly pained at the thought, and after the story he has heard Ronald cannot blame him.
"Or we'll get Bilbo to do it," adds Merry. "When we're back in Rivendell. Have you met an Elf yet, Ronald?"
He shakes his head. "Then come to dinner!" Merry says. "Legolas and Gimli should both be there. And maybe Gandalf will bring your friend, what's he called, the Doctor. Sounds like an interesting fellow; I should love to meet him."
"Interesting is one word," Ronald agrees. "I wonder what he and the lord Mithrandir have been talking about all day?"
But the Doctor is not at dinner, and neither is the wizard. Instead, Ronald is introduced to Gimli the dwarf - who turns out to be slightly taller than the hobbits, stout, and blessed with a raucous laugh and an impressive beard - and Legolas the Elf, tall with sinewy strength and eyes Ronald cannot look into. With the hobbits leading the way, the evening turns into one of tales, song, and laughter. Ronald is encouraged into joining the singing and contributes a ditty composed at college - a bit of nonsense, really, but it goes down well. In this cheerful company it is easy to forget the war and the fact he is far, far from anything familiar.
The six of them take him back to his lodgings, and he bids them a tipsy farewell amid promises for the following day.
The rooms he and the Doctor have been assigned are clean and simple. Exploring, Ronald finds a balcony looking out over the city. The Doctor is there, motionless, gazing up at the clear night sky and the stars.
"Doctor?" Ronald says, from the doorway, his tipsiness dissipating. But the Doctor does not answer. Ronald turns, and falls into bed and into a deep sleep.