Ch. 7 Taint of Minas Morgul

Aila sequestered herself in her room increasingly over the following three days. Her conversation with Gandalf had nearly driven from her mind the event immediately preceding it, but as she stepped out of that room where their conversation had taken place she was once more enveloped in elven adoration. It was from this constant adoration that she fled. The Elves had begun to present her with gifts and tokens, the males would present her with flowers and sweets and combs for her hair and the females, though a rarer occurrence, would give her pretty scarves and silken handkerchiefs. They sang to her as she walked past them: slow, sorrowful songs and beautiful, trilling songs of gladness.

She had been walking through the gardens with Arwen when she encountered the last straw. An elf-lord came before her and presented her with a jeweled ring, a large sapphire set in the center and ringed with intricate silver. He spoke to her rapidly in breathless Sindarin and pressed the ring eagerly into her palm. Aila started and made as if to return the ring to its giver when Arwen stayed her hand. "You must accept," she told her, eyes flashing a warning. "To reject it would be to give him great insult. He means it as a token for the Light Bearer." Reluctantly and with deep guilt, Aila took the ring and since that event kept herself as much as possible to her own chamber. Duke, however, still came and went as he pleased and as soon as Aila's absence was felt throughout the House, the Doberman began to return at night with wondrous gifts tied to his collar. First was a new collar itself, silver rings wrought thin and delicate, fluid and soft to the touch, with a musical ring that heralded his coming. Duke would come back laden with flowers, with scarves tied to his collar, and even some jewels that jangled merrily from his silver collar. Aila couldn't help but laugh at him when he came through the door such adorned with a look that he was quite pleased with himself.

It was then the evening of the twentieth that a great commotion erupted from outside the House, bells rang and elven voices rose in shouts, clamoring and clanging and calling to each other urgently. Aila, understanding the import of the calamity, rushed from her room and out of the House. Following the torrent of Elves, she joined their crowd along the road from the Ford of Bruinen in time to see Asfaloth, Glorfindel's steed, trot carefully towards the House, Frodo lie limp across his back and he was led by Gandalf. Elrond walked beside the horse and kept his hands on Frodo. Aila saw Elrond's lips move rapidly but could not make out his words and she had the impression that he was speaking too low for any to hear. The procession had passed long before any of the gathered Elves began to break away from the murmuring crowd.

Aila wasn't sure what to do now that Frodo was in Rivendell. Surely the others wouldn't be far behind, and then what? Suddenly, an elf appeared at her side and wrapped a long hand around her elbow, pulling her towards him. She looked up, startled, and saw that it was the same elf that had kept her from falling to her knees as Gandalf opened the chest holding her sword. His eyes were bright and sorrowful. He uttered only one word: "Gandalf." Her feet moved to follow him automatically. He did not release his hold on her arm, but his fingers were soft and gentle on her skin.

"Ah," said Gandalf as she was led into the room, "it is as you said: Frodo, here on the twentieth and stabbed by Morgul-blade." His brow was creased in worry and he watched Elrond dolefully for a few moments, who still stood over the hobbit speaking low and swift, before glancing at the Elf who had led her in. "Gell 'hannon, Legolas." Aila turned and stared at the blond elf beside her. Legolas? Her mind reeled. She had not mentally prepared herself for meeting any of the Fellowship, though she chided herself that she should have thought on it.

Beside her Legolas bowed to the wizard and said, "Gell nîn." He removed himself from Gandalf's immediate presence but did not leave the room. He stood, as a sentry, close to the door.

Gandalf gestured that she should sit in a chair opposite to him, across the bed that held Frodo, groaning, at its center. His lips were blue and his skin pale and cold. Even sitting near him, Aila felt the chill of his body coming in erratic waves against her bare skin and face. Aila watched as an elf-maiden entered the room and handed a small pot and brush to Elrond, who began to paint a pale green substance on Frodo's exposed shoulder. She watched, wide-eyed, as the festering wound began to close.

"Wait!" she cried, "there is still a piece of that evil in his shoulder! A notch of the blade broke off inside of his shoulder and remains in his body. You cannot close the wound around it!" Elrond paused, set his lips together in a thin line, and set aside the pot and brush. He laid long, thin fingers against Frodo's skin and began to pull the wound open again, still whispering with fervor. Frodo screamed and writhed, but remained unconscious. At length, Elrond laid his palm of his right hand flat against the wound, a Blue Ring flashing brightly on his finger, and the elf-lord pressed on top of that hand with his left, and gave a loud cry of invocation. He lifted his hand and Aila saw that a small, almost insignificant, piece of bloody steel rested in the center of his palm. Gandalf rose at once and the shard of metal burst into flame and smoke. It disappeared from Elrond's palm and was no more. Gandalf settled back in his chair and looked hard at Aila.

"I believe that only your skill will save Frodo now," he confided, his eyes turned to gaze at the hobbit. "There is a taint in his mind which cannot be removed by even a Healing hand so powerful as Elrond possesses. You alone, I think, can remove the stain in his mind."

"I don't know how," she resisted, her eyes set on the face of the hobbit, who though now was free of the knife shard was still not free of his illness. She did not watch as Elrond began again his attempts to close and heal the physical wound in his shoulder.

Gandalf shook his head remorsefully. "I fear there is no instruction or advice I can give you in this, nor can any other in this Middle Earth. It is the most that we can hope for, therefore, that you try."

She stared at Frodo for some minutes, thinking deep. Was this what she had been brought to Middle Earth for? If she could not heal Frodo now, would his purpose be lost? Would the Ring find its way back to its Master if Frodo could not carry It? Aila lifted an unsteady hand to her mouth, resting her lips against her first knuckle, and knitted her eyebrows together as she studied Frodo's labored breaths. Opening her mouth and taking in a quick breath, she moved her hand over Frodo's and wrapped her fingers gently around his small hand. She wasn't sure why she did this, but the connection felt right to her and she hoped her instinct would guide her. Aila closed her eyes tightly.

At first, there was only the darkness behind her eyelids, but she internally she felt herself push outward, expanding beyond the bounds of her body, and out of the darkness there grew a pale grey light and she found herself standing once more in a long hallway. It was not, however, the glass-walled hall that she had seen previously, but this one looked actually rather like a hobbit hole, with large round windows on the left side that, she imagined, usually let in bright, cheerful sunlight. Now however there was a fog hanging beyond and a dull luster of moisture clung to the windows. It was painfully cold in the hall and all about her was a noise, persistent and insipid and dark. There was a voice talking, she was sure of it, murmuring and chanting in a sinister manner. She was not familiar with the language but recognized the tone and knew immediately that its taint was what she was meant to remove.

Fear swept over her and overwhelmed her, grown out of the sound of that voice as it washed over her and in the chill of the air and the damp darkness of the fog beyond the windows. Still, some small shred of determination kept her feet planted, and if it was barely enough to keep her from turning and running it was still enough, and she stayed.

She looked at her hands and found, surprised, that she carried a large clay urn, open in her hands, its lid held tightly to the side. Even as she looked at it, a silvery mist began to form, swirling and collected above that urn, and after condensing a little began to drain into the depths of the jar. The mist draining into the jar began to build greater density and flowed with increasing speed and force into the urn, and Aila struggled to hold the urn aloft against the pressing insistence of the mist. But she knew this was right, she knew she must catch all the swirling, dense, dark mist into the urn and close it. Swirling, collecting, draining, and swirling some more, it took no small amount of time for the mist to drain completely into the urn. When the last drop of its remnant fell into the jar, Aila slammed the lid on top and held it shut. There was no sound now in the hall but the creak of the floorboards beneath her feet, and she could just barely hear, though muffled and contained, that dark voice as it continued its whisperings from inside the urn. Now she began to think of how she was meant to remove the urn from this place, or better yet, how to destroy it. Aila focused her gaze on the urn, holding its lid tightly shut, and concentrated hard on it, as if hoping it could give her an answer.

It presently burst into dark red flame and its fire shot upward several feet above her head. The heat and intensity burned her palm where the urn touched her skin and she cried out in surprise and pain. Vaguely, she felt a hand on her shoulder, but when she turned to look there was no one behind her. As the fire subsided, she looked back in her hands and the urn was gone entirely. She listened intently to find that the whisperings had ceased and a prolonged look out the windows suggested to her that the fog was fading as well, very slowly but definitely receding. The entire scene began to fade again to darkness.

Aila opened her eyes and gave a blank look to Gandalf, who studied her intently. Pain seared from her left hand and she opened her fist gingerly to reveal angry red burns on the soft skin there. She made a small exclamation of surprise and, though Elrond did not stop his ministrations of Frodo, she saw Legolas quickly dip a finger into the pot he held and wipe some of the green paste across her palm. A quick glance revealed his other hand clenched quite tightly on her shoulder, but its pressure was soft and comforting. The paste soothed the burning in her hand and in a moment the pain subsided to a dull, unnoticeable ache, and she let the hand fall into her lap. Looking again to Frodo, she fancied that his skin looked less sallow and that his breathing was more even than it had been before.

She looked to Gandalf, who said nothing but kept his gaze steadily on her, watching her behavior and waiting. "I think," she began, and paused because her throat was scratchy and sore. She began again, "It is done." The wizard's eyes opened a bit wider in wonder and cautious disbelief, in response to which she could only nod encouragingly.

Abruptly, she felt exhausted and powerless, as though she had little strength left in her body. She let her head fall back to rest against the chair and closed her eyes softly. She heard, dimly as though through a fog, movement next to her, and a hand moved from her shoulder to her cheek, and then Gandalf's steady voice, as if in the distance, "Yes, I expect she will need to rest. She has taken great evil into herself and then destroyed it. It is a surprising strength and has proved invaluable to us now. Let her rest." And so she gave in herself to the sweet sleep that beckoned her.

. . .

Gen 'hannon, Legolas = Thank you, Legolas

Gell nîn = It was my pleasure