I should have posted an apology at the end of the last chapter, but I'll put it here since I'm going to trespass again in this one anyway…
I am positive my Quenya is not correct. I did the best I could with the research I was able to conduct. If someone wants to email me the correct translation, I'll amend my errors. (In truth, I was going more for the effect than for perfection, but I did research as thoroughly as I could before I inserted a guessed-at word.)
Thanks! On to chapter 11…
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The trio stepped lightly along the forest path, taking care not to disturb even the smallest leaf. Éowyn barely dared to breathe, finding it hard to believe that the firm ground beneath her feet was merely illusion, the breeze that lifted the golden hair from her shoulders a figment of her imagination. Though she knew that her body sat in a dark room, the air made thick with herbs and sickness, her every sense strove to convince her that she was not. It seemed a pleasant enough deception, but something deep within screamed at her that if she allowed herself to be taken in, to believe this peaceful illusion and wander from the path, her spirit would be lost, with no chance of ever returning to her body.
The way was lined with trees, and for all intents and purposes it seemed a natural forest, until she noticed how the trees seemed to form a wall on either side, leading them in only one direction. The lady elf and crowned king did not turn back to make sure she followed, merely continued their hasty trek.
Then, they came to an abrupt stop, so abrupt that Éowyn collided with Arwen's back, swallowing a sharp cry. Aragorn had raised his fisted hand, signaling them to stillness. In front of them the path forked, and both ways looked – for all intents and purposes – identical. They stood in the silence with baited breath, closely examining each branch for some indication which way they should take, knowing instinctively that the wrong choice would lead to death.
Arwen closed her eyes and began to whisper, low and full of power. "Luvamme ealan lo losse malle. Aistanamme. Tulme saca mellon nin."
(We bow to the spirits of the snow-white road. Bless us. We come in search of our friend.)
Her voice crested, then died, like a wave on the sea. For a moment, all was dangerously silent, the very birds seeming to wait with them for an answer. Then, a stale breeze blew almost imperceptively from right to left, as if something had attempted to pass them by in stealth. Without hesitation, Aragorn turned and led them to the left where it had disappeared.
As soon as Éowyn's foot stepped across the fork's threshold, the scene on either side of them shifted, and instead of trees they found themselves flanked by rushing water, the dirt path turning to a stone bridge, half submerged, with water hungrily licking its sides. Arwen's hand reached back; the Lady of Rohan did not know how to swim. After all, in the Mark where would she have had the chance to learn? Streams there were shallow enough to easily be forded on foot most days, and when they could not they ran much too swiftly for the beginning swimmer to traverse.
The Road seemed to know, and played to her deepest fear.
As for the White Lady herself, Éowyn was petrified. She latched onto the elven hand, desperate for reassurance. Her heart hammered in her chest, her mouth turned dry and her knees knocking in spite of herself. Not even as Dernhelm, fighting the Witch-king among the ranks on the Pelennor did she feel such terror! Knowing that she possessed skill with a blade gave her some measure of confidence; but she had no skill in the water and was certain that if she lost her footing she would sink like a stone!
'Do not fear,' came Arwen's voice in her mind. 'It is not real.'
That was of little help, as her stricken mind was convinced of the truth in the cold spray that landed on her skin, the wet scent that besieged her breath.
'Estel!' Arwen called out in his mind.
The king stopped and turned. Éowyn's eyes rolled like a panicked steed's, whites showing, legs balking at the queen's attempts to pull her forward. Fear ensured the woman could not have spoken aloud if she wished it, could not have forced her throat to cry out over the roaring of the water.
Aragorn stepped nimbly past his wife, coming to stand before his charge, she white-faced and shaking. In one fell swoop he bent and lifted her into his arms, one hand under her legs behind the knees, the other around her quivering shoulders. Turning back, he nodded once to his elven lady, expression grim and set. Éowyn pushed her face into his chest, burning with fear and shame and anger all at once. She knew not how she came to trust his feet to carry them both, but not her own to manage only herself. But she was slightly calmer knowing that if she fell into the thunderous depths it would only be after the High King of Gondor had first perished there himself...
Holding tight to his burden, Lord Aragorn followed his lady as she pressed on, noticing that the stone bridge seemed to end in the white mist of some falls. He watched her tall slender form disappear beneath the wet curtain, and then plunged in after her without a moment's hesitation.
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Faramir watched the clouds swirl and shift for what seemed like many marks before a niggling question surfaced in his mind.
Why did the sun not move? he wondered.
It seemed as if he had passed at least half a day within the peaceful garden, and yet the shadows did not lengthen, no darkening appeared at the edge of the sky. What patch of sky I can see, he amended, once again inspecting the high stone walls. Perhaps it was time to head back home…
Home.
He stood, and then stopped, brow furrowing. Flashes of memory strobed in his mind's eye: the imposing mansion of the Ruling Stewards in Minas Tirith, the familiar falls at Henneth Annûn, a strangely familiar humble (yet infinitely more inviting) stone house in the forests of Ithilien….his father's stern face, his brother's mischievous smile, an enigmatic woman with golden hair…
Home…
He took a breath to dispel the sudden ache in his chest, and shook his head in an attempt to clear it.
Enough.
His gift for clear sight did not often overwhelm his waking thoughts, but when it did he knew it was a sign he was weary and should make for his bed to rest. This fair-haired lady… pale and perfect… was no doubt someone he would meet in the coming weeks. Perhaps a delegation was coming from Rohan: he knew the people there were lightly-complected. Perhaps his father had finally arranged a marriage for Boromir, an alliance with the Horse Lords of the North; it was about time he settled down…
Turning to one of the two mirrored gates, he strolled through the stone arch…
… and found himself standing back inside the garden he had just left.
He blinked and shook his head. I have sat too long in the sun, he mused. Turning, his eyes narrowed at the gate by which he stood, and then looked across at the other gate. "I shall take my leave, now," he said aloud, though not knowing why he felt it necessary to make the pronouncement. Taking a deep breath, he once more attempted to step through the archway...
…and found himself again back where he started.
Three more times he attempted to depart, and each time he found himself returned to the softly splashing fountain.
"What wizardry is this!" he cried out, hearing his own voice echo back to him from the white stone. What had begun as merely a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at the first return had now grown to gut-wrenching proportions. Something was deeply, deeply wrong.
"It is apparent that I may not exit by these bewitched portals," he called, voice unsteady, still expecting someone to appear – Mithrandir perhaps, though he had never known the wizard to play such thoughtless tricks. "Perhaps you will kindly inform me by which way I may return home?"
No flash of light nor swirl of smoke appeared in reply, but something did disappear in the space between one breath and the next – both the mirrored archways. A cold sweat broke out on his neck. What in the name of all that is holy…
Some power or other might have thought to simplify his choice, but in reality it had done just the opposite. The two remaining gates yawned at him – the seemingly bright and peaceful path that whispered and enticed him, and the dark and menacing hole that gaped as if a fearful grave. His mind's rational thought was of course to choose the harmless path, but his gut stubbornly rebelled. Somehow he was sure that if he stepped through that fair gate it would not lead him to the destination he sought.
On the other hand, the dark gate made him shudder with an irrational fear, his heart protesting that it had not the strength for another fight. Some fell beast on the other side would surely snatch his soul and rend his body to pieces, and if it did not, he might instead face a violent tempest, or a black knight of Morgul, or one of the fabled giant spiders…
His body shivered involuntarily. He hated spiders.
Returning to the fountain, he sat back down warily, positioning his tense body such that he could glance at each gate with a small turn of the head. "If that is the way it is to be," he barked, voice low and hard. "Then I shall simply wait. Eventually my father or my brother or my lieutenant will send out a search party for me. I pity the wizard who thinks to stand up to the city's wrath. I am a son of the Steward!" He had a feeling whoever was holding him prisoner already knew, nevertheless he thought he would state the fact, just in case.
But the yawning portals did not change, the absent ones did not reappear, nor did any figure step from the shadows of the blossoming trees to negotiate or offer demands.
That is all right, he reflected. I am a patient man.
Faramir had once gone two weeks without food, when rations were low and his men had been starving. He trusted that he could withstand such penury again, if this imprisonment were to continue. That should give plenty of time for someone to notice he was missing. If he got thirsty, the fountain would provide him water.
Someone will come, he reassured himself. Someone will come soon.
At least, he certainly hoped they did.
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Arwen stepped through the misty curtain and found herself suddenly surrounded on all sides by heavy, oppressive rock. The wall of water had fallen away, all sound dampened by the thick mineral closing in on all sides. Instinctively the she-elf drew a sharp breath and closed her eyes, heart pounding.
Behind her, she felt her husband stop, lowering the White Lady to the ground.
A cave…
While Éowyn would not know the reason for her pause, Estel would know at once her hesitation. The Eldar were not meant to dwell inside stone walls, away from the warm light, far from the song of the trees. Lowering her head, she clenched her fists at her sides. She had not been in one since that fateful day, centuries ago…
…when I killed the child…
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"Her fever burns."
"Seven others also are ill. It happens sometimes, with the cave-dwelling folk of the mountains. High fever, aches, and swelling. Something in the water, I believe, and though it passes easily by touch it cannot be passed by drinking after another. The others are older, more able to withstand the fever. I have done for them what I could. Willow bark may help the child… or perhaps hyssop, root, and thyme to bring down the fever."
"I have meted two cups of willow bark tea since we arrived. It has not helped…"
"You did inquire of the mother, did you not, whether the child has ever had any averse encounters with herbs? There are some who should not drink willow bark…"
"…no…"
x
She should have known! Her father had taught her well – she was sure he would not have made such a childish mistake! Faces still swam in her memory: her father's grim countenance, tinged with what she was sure had been deep disappointment, the mother's furious grief, the child's bloodless lips…
Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. If she left any part of herself behind – be it so small a thing as a tear – she would be lost.
This is what the White Maze would do to a healer who attempted to traverse its depths - it could see inside her to the most desperate griefs, the most desolate fears, would use those sorrows and terrors to tempt the soul into error, to turn the mind to madness and then to death.
Behind her she could hear her husband's careful breath; he had trusted her not to lose herself to her past, even if he did not know what memories she held. He had come to study with Elrond after she had forsaken the office of healer, did not know that innocent blood stained the hands of his beloved wife. She had never suffered to tell him. A heat warmed her back – Estel's love and trust in her, the love of the Lady of Rohan for her threatened husband…
I must not fail them! I must take nothing more for granted!
She had made a dreadful mistake once, she knew. But she would not make such a mistake again. Opening her eyes and steeling herself against the pressing stone, she clenched her jaw and continued, following the narrowing, darkening tunnel as it wended its way into the dark hole of the earth.
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There has been a published report of a 25 year old woman who was admitted to emergency with anaphylaxis after taking 2 capsules of a weight loss supplement that contained willow bark. The patient had a history of allergy to acetylsalicylic acid. So while I am fairly sure Tolkien hasn't attributed any kinds of allergies in Middle Earth, just chalk it up to another invention of mine.
