Chapter 5

They rode through the night, the wind whipping past their faces, the steady beat of the mare's hooves striking the ground sending shudders through their bodies. Renée lost track of time. Whenever she opened her eyes, the stars seemed to wheel ever closer across the sky, and the movement of the horse's mane – up, down, up, down, and up, and down – had a soporific quality even Benadryl couldn't match. Pain periodically flared up and down her leg, much more immediate and intense than the dull ache of slower rides. Renée forced her mind to focus on the pain. If nothing else, it kept the nausea at bay. Alagion didn't speak a word the entire time.

She didn't know where they were headed, but they still were far from it, judging from the uncharacteristic viciousness with which Alagion spurred the horse on. The mare's strength was flagging – the steady gallop devolved into an interrupted series of canters – but they rode on. By the time they finally stopped, the mare's sides were soaked through with sweat and foam.

Alagion dismounted quickly and practically tugged Renée down behind him. The sudden pressure of her body weight on her bad leg was too much – Renée bit back a scream, tears leaking from her eyes. Alagion didn't even notice. All his attention was focused on the horse as he slowly walked it in circles, patting her sides and wincing at the stickiness of the foam clinging to his hand. The mare's eyes were still rolling wildly, but gradually, her labored snorting calmed down to more even breathing.

An owl hooted loudly behind Renée, startling her. Only now did she realize they were in quite a substantial clearing in the woods – its symmetry artificial even to her eyes. Alagion stopped just long enough to raise his hands to his mouth and repeated the same sound, exactly. An icy chill ran down Renée's back, settling into cold realization when she saw men melting out of the trees, dressed in a similar uniform to Alagion's, ranger's stars and muddied gray cloaks and all. First Boromir, then the strangers in the ruined city, Alagion, and now these rangers?

She could only stare at Alagion conversing in Sindarin with the oldest of the assembled rangers. All four of the other men were unusually tall, reaching at least six feet, with relatively aquiline features and light-colored eyes. All of them were bearded, but that was where the similarities ended.

The oldest man she'd heard Alagion identify as Esgalron. He had graying temples and an expression much like Boromir's: grim but also prone to wry optimism. The familiarity with which the men greeted each other and the more than passing resemblance led her to understand them as related. Esgalron was the first to come over to where she was doing her best impression of a deer in the headlights and ask for her name. "Re-renée" was all she managed to stutter out.

"Mae govannen, Renée. This means 'welcome' among rangers and elves alike." Renée nodded dumbly. Her Westron was still so bad that she only understood half the words, but she could guess the meaning well enough.

Esgalron had already moved on: he motioned to one of the rangers to take the mare's reins, while another moved closer to her. He had a shaved head and stank of garlic up close – or at least, those were the main impressions Renée got of him before he unceremoniously picked her up and over his shoulder. "No!" she cried repeatedly but she might as well have tried talking against a wall. She tried to aim a kick at his midsection, but he simply tightened his grip over her bad thigh enough that she was nearly reduced to tears again.

It was a good twenty minutes or more until they reached their final destination. During that time, bouncing along on some ranger's shoulder, the penny was slowly dropping for Renée. Every little detail she'd noticed – the impossible size and quality of Boromir's horn, the silver ranger's star Alagion never took off, the terrain itself – added up to two terrible conclusions: that either she'd completely lost it and her teenage fascination with Middle Earth had finally consumed her waking life, or else, more simply, she'd somehow crossed into this world that had all of Tolkien's trappings, and that it was real. You couldn't smell in dreams, and she'd never heard of anyone dreaming up imaginary vocabulary to fake languages.

The clearing gave way to a dirt track, which wound its way through the trees and ended in front of a set of imposing wooden gates. A massive palisade fence stretched into the darkness on either side of them, with tips sharpened to lethal points. The group continued through and two rangers shut the gates behind them with a heavy thud. The finality of the sound echoed in her thoughts: she went for the second option, for the sake of her sanity.

There was a lot more going on here than the outside suggested. Renee twisted around as much as she could to see everything: rows and rows of wooden bunk houses jostled against each other, their thatched roofs in varying conditions of structural integrity. Rangers and boys were practicing their combat skills, a woman with scraggly hair was packing up her herbal wares, and she could hear the screech of an unruly falcon as a man passed her. There were guard towers posted on all corners of the fort – in the distance, she could almost make out the guardsmen leaning on their spears.

The ranger carrying her shifted his grip, and this time Renée was prepared for the sudden transition to walking. They had stopped as a group in front of a large house, the biggest she'd seen in the enclosure so far. Esgalron and Alagion exchanged words and worried glances. Renée blinked to focus her vision away from the black spots, but they stubbornly remained. Garlic-ranger turned to her and gripped her elbow hard enough to leave a bruise through her jacket. "We need to get you to the healer," he intoned gravely.

Renée tried to smack his hand away, but the action cost her balance and she would have fallen if it wasn't for his iron grip. Alagion moved closer to her, with an encouraging smile. "Follow Ganthir, he'll show you around. Ganthir." Alagion nodded to the garlic-ranger and Ganthir nodded resolutely.

"Come with me," Ganthir grunted.

The healer's house was not far away, maybe only a couple dozen feet, but it was almost too much for Renée. Not that she'd let anyone here know, although her wobbly gait probably gave away everything anyway. Ganthir knocked on the door. A man's piercing scream was the answer, a roar of pure pain that reduced to whimpering and then silence. Just a patient, Renée tried telling herself, it wouldn't be the healer screaming. But the sound raised goosebumps up and down her neck and she'd be lying if she wasn't rattled. A few minutes later, a tired-looking, middle-aged man opened the door, taking the opportunity to wipe his bloodied hands on his apron. "What is it, Ganthir? Can't you see I'm busy – oh, I see. Yes, come in."

Ganthir gave her a pointed push that seemed to extend all the way into her kidneys when she didn't budge immediately. Renée reached out for the doorframe and dragged her way inside. A fire was lit in the fireplace, and candles lined the walls, the shelves, and the low stools and tables. The rancid smell of vomit came from the young man lying in one of the cots, some of it still dribbling out the corner of his mouth. His back was a bloody mess. There was a broken arrow shaft lying in a basin beside him.

The healer motioned for Renée to take a seat on the remaining cot. She could feel straw poking her underneath the clean sheets, but she decided to simply enjoy the novelty of a mattress. Ganthir stood by stiffly as the healer pulled up a stool next to her.

"What happened to 'im?" Ganthir nodded towards the young man.

"Young Beren? Stupid sod got ambushed by an orc scouting party. Managed to kill two but the last one stuck him with an arrow." The healer shook his head. "We're lucky he didn't die. There's already not enough rangers to go around, and then they go and take damn fool risks. What about the girl?"

"Simpleton, or almost. Don't use big words on that 'un." Ganthir harrumphed.

The healer turned his attention to Renée. "How long have you had this wound?"

Renée didn't understand at first, but she wilted under Ganthir's glare. "Two… two weeks."

"May I see it?" The healer reached for her bad leg. It took all her strength to simply let him. She screwed her eyes shut, trying not think about Boromir's awful attempt to burn it away, but all she felt was gentle prodding from his fingers.

He was frowning in concentration. "Did you do this to yourself? Or another?" She was about to answer but he continued. "Half-healed burns, partial necrosis of the flesh, and the onset of sepsis. It's a wonder she hasn't already succumbed to the infections," he said, turning towards Ganthir. He let her leg go. "This is beyond my skill. I can give you a tea to help with the pain, but I daren't touch the wound any more than I already have."

Renée nodded slowly. She didn't need to be fluent to understand a lost cause. Behind her, the young man moaned in his sleep. The healer got up to wipe the rest of the vomit away from his face and the floor. She turned her attention to the dozens of herb bunches hanging from the rafters in groups of two and three – chamomile and fennel were ones she could still identify, but there were so many more unknowns. The healer went to the table and washed his hands in yet another basin, put an iron kettle in the hearth, and ground several ingredients together in a small mortar. Ganthir shifted his weight, re-crossed his arms.

"Will this take any longer, or can I go?"

"It'll be three castars," the healer muttered without lifting his head.

"Ask that Alagion for 'em, I'm off to the mess hall." Ganthir stopped at the door. His eyes snapped towards hers, and he gave her a rough nod. "Do as the healer says, girl."

She was still shaking when the healer pressed a cup of herbal tea into her hands.

...

This time, the horse was different, a towering mountain of muscle and seething equine hatred. The black stallion snorted, stamped his gigantic feet – hooves! – as soon as Renée approached, although if she hadn't been so concentrated on walking, she would have noticed that the stallion's attention might just as well have applied to Alagion at her side, helping her keep her balance. The handler managed to soothe the horse enough for a saddle and tack to be fitted, and then Renée was hoisted onto its back. "Don't worry, girl, he won't bite – much!" The handler laughed so hard that the single braid in his dark hair swung back and forth in tandem. A moment later, she could feel Alagion settling in behind her, and then he mercifully took the reins.

Another ranger stepped into the stables. She knew that tread, that voice, without even needing to turn around. Ganthir tossed an apple into the air, caught it. "Sure you've got everything, Alagion? Won't be another way-station for miles yet."

Alagion twisted around, patted the provision bags down, which were filled to bursting. "Should be able to see us through, and hopefully to spare," he answered.

The handler rolled his eyes. "You could feed an orc-pack for a week with what you're making him carry." He moved closer. "You still remember the way, don't you? Make for the Three Trees marker, then on to-"

Alagion pulled on the reins hard, drawing a shrill whinny from the beast. "Of course. Best be off now." The horse started dancing nervously, and it took all of her concentration and effort to keep her balance on the moving hell-beast. Alagion nodded at both men and put the stallion into an easy canter out of the fort. Renée was surprised to see how many men stopped in their actions and watched them leave – although it was hard to tell whether it was respect for Alagion himself or his relationship with the head man here.

The trail was much harder today, and not only because the new horse had much more stamina than the poor old mare. There was no telling whether Alagion was following instinct or a familiar trail – all she knew was that they were heading forward as if hell itself was on their heels. For once she didn't feel bad about being silent. Her dizzy spells came and went with increasing frequency, and despite the healer's teas, she couldn't shake off the lethargy that was settling in her bones.

By the time they made camp, Renée was exhausted. Alagion had to drag her down from the saddle, because there was no more strength in her arms to let herself down gently. They huddled around the fire he'd made, Renée's face almost hidden in the hood of her jacket. She chewed mechanically on the handful of dried fish he'd given her. Alagion looked up at her with a faint smile. Renée forced one back, but without Boromir there, it was harder to ignore his hopeful glances and to pretend that she didn't know. It's a kindness, she kept telling herself, although it sounded hollower by the day.

And the days passed. Alagion was even more conscientious, hardly leaving her enough privacy to piss on her own. He took over the duty of washing and changing her bandages. He made the fire, he cooked, he refilled the water skins and brewed herbal teas for her in his one busted-up tin pot. With Boromir, she'd also felt useless, but she was suffocating under the enormity of Alagion's care. Just one more day, she thought, just one more day in the saddle, and then you'll get to Rivendell. No more fussing Alagion, no more gimp leg, no more hardtack. No more dealing with someone else's annoying crush.

The thoughts were almost enough to distract her from the fact that her body was quite literally in the process of shutting down on her. It was always easier to blame someone else's fussiness than to dwell on your own frightening decline. She wasn't even fully conscious by the time they reached Rivendell.

...

"Lord Boromir!"

Boromir eyes fluttered, but before he could awake properly, the door to his chambers was violently opened, driving a spear of sunlight straight into the back of his eye sockets. He was already waving off the intruder with one hand as he rubbed at his sore eyes with the other.

"Lord Boromir!" The hated voice was much closer. Was he at the-? Boromir opened his eyes to find the elf manservant bare inches away from the bed. "Lady Renei has awakened!" All Boromir could think of was ways to contrive putting more distance between his naked self and the preternaturally chipper elf. Damn strange folk. He settled for yanking the blanket closer to his midsection and glaring up at the elf.

"Repeat that. Slowly."

The elf – damn me, what was his name again? – nodded sagely. "Lady Renei has awakened from her slumber. I had come here as soon as I knew. As you bade me." The elf's smooth features were sincerity itself. Much the same with any other expressions the elves here could manage. "Is this news not to the lord's liking?"

Boromir blinked. "It is. Now, could you leave me please, Un…?"

"Undorion, lord. As the lord requests!" The elf made a smart bow and exited the room with as much noise as a cat's footsteps.

Boromir took a few minutes to simply process being awake, before he could even manage the portentous news. Renei – awake! He pulled on the sumptuous clothing the elves had loaned him, caught between admiration and the riddle of how they managed to afford such luxury. A small part of him trembled at the thought of seeing her again. He told himself that it was simply natural, the desire to make sure the life he'd saved in the river had not gone to waste, but even he knew that wasn't the whole truth.

He passed a gaggle of elf-maids conversing in one of the many gardens whose names he'd not bothered remembering. As one they rose, each dropping into a curtsey executed with matchless grace.

"Good morning, lord."

"A fair day to thee."

"Merry morning."

Boromir bowed to each of them. They were all raven-haired and tall, with knowing smiles and ageless eyes, set in faces that were both unearthly, and, strangely, uniformly beautiful. He couldn't say whether it was even pleasant to behold. Boromir rushed onwards, feeling the elf-maids' eyes on him long after he'd disappeared from their view.

He was walking so fast, he hardly noticed Lord Elrond's presence until he'd nearly collided with him. The elf-lord shut the heavy oak door behind him and fixed Boromir with a level stare. "Well met, Lord Boromir."

"Apologies, my lord. My mind was elsewhere."

"Rein it in then. Your ward has only but awakened from artificial sleep. She will be weak, she will likely have no memories of arriving here. I will not have my patient die of shock because of careless visitors." Lord Elrond clasped his hands, somewhere in the voluminous folds of his robe. I see the centuries have not helped your temper. What haven't the scribes missed?

"I follow your wisdom in this matter, my lord. May I go in?"

"As if it were possible to restrain you at this point." Lord Elrond seemed to glide away down the corridor, as if even footsteps were beneath him.

Inside, two elf-maids were busy reapplying the bandages to Renei's wound. They hardly looked up as Boromir took a seat next to the bed. The elf-lord had been exaggerating slightly when he'd said Renei was awake, because she was still taking in everything through half-lidded eyes. Then again, that was how she had looked most mornings when they had been in the wilderness, fussier than a half-drowned cat.

"Good morning, Renei."

Renei blinked and turned towards him with a weak smile. "Boromir! I am happy… you are here."

The elf-maids had finished. They stood up and bowed, but one remained in the room. "Lady, if you would leave us?" Boromir asked.

"It is not proper, lord, for a man to keep company unsupervised with a maid. Lord Elrond has requested -"

He waved her away. "I will speak to him later about it. Please, leave."

Something like indecision was warring on the elf-maid's face but she composed herself and left with infinite grace. "Should you require me, lord, I shall be down the hall."

Boromir did not notice. He reached out and took Renei's hand, and smiled back.

It was a shame Alagion had already left. He shouldn't have been surprised. As it was, however, Boromir was now left alone in the realm of Elves without a companion to speak to.

After the initial (and expected) bout of words with Lord Elrond about Renei's visiting hours, he had been temporarily banned from her company. He took the time to explore his surroundings more, tried convincing himself that doing so was a worthwhile activity, that Faramir and posterity would demand an accurate picture of Rivendell in the first decades of the Third Age… But he still could not shake the feeling that each day he spent in idleness was one more day, wasted. Naturally, Lord Elrond had also declined his request for a private audience – pettiness, no doubt. What use would an immortal elf-lord have for an unlooked-for messenger, even from a kingdom such as Gondor?

Dark thoughts indeed. From his position on the west porch, the vale was narrow and confining, a gash through which the River Bruinen cut on its way west. The mountains on either side were tall and mighty, and only pale fingers of the weak northern sunset struggled above them this late in the evening. Somewhere in the house, someone began playing the first notes to the Lay of Luthien on a harp, and more and more unearthly beautiful voices joined in. A stiff breeze, with the promise of frost, began to pick up, and even Boromir, warmed against the cold with copious amounts of wine from the feast, shivered.