Chapter 126
Reunion
Even wizards can sometime overlook the obvious and in this case Gandalf most certainly had. The human mind is endlessly creative and with the right kind of incentive it can come up with all sorts of solutions that wizards in all their wisdom can quite easily overlook. That was the case that day.
While I had been busy dealing with elves and the running of a palace, my box had landed on Mary's kitchen table while she was out to do her shopping. Naturally it was a bit of a surprise to her to come home and find that someone had deposited a box in her house while she was out. Curiosity is an Andrews trait so of course she had opened it and looked at the contents.
Then she'd had to sit down for a bit. Nothing usually fazes her, but this was quite unprecedented. Nothing like this had ever happened, at least not in our lifetimes. So she sat down with a cup of tea and had a bit of a think. Then Terrence came home, had a look at the box and they'd had a bit of a think together.
Their next port of call had been Peter. He was back in England, because after my disappearance he'd decided to stay close for a bit, even if only to reassure our parents that he was not about to drop off the face of the Earth as well. He was the resident Tolkien expert and Mary called him in very specifically to verify what I'd written. As soon as she got off the phone with him, she also called our parents, so that the small assembly that gathered at Mary's house that night had all the looks of a small family council.
At first none of them believed it.
That was as I had feared, but that made it no less hard to find out. Of course they couldn't believe it. It sounded insane. If I'd been in their shoes at that exact moment, I would not have believed it either. I would have declared, as Mary did, that this was nonsense, that we should call the police, have them dust the box for fingerprints and see what happened after that.
Wiser heads prevailed. Terrence really came through in this, because he was the one who suggested that they should simply put my claims to the test by trying to send something back. Of course, then Peter came in and wondered that if the box could disappear with all that it contained, what exactly would happen if someone held on to it when they switched on travel mode. It couldn't hurt to try it, he argued. If it didn't work and this was the farce they thought it was, nothing was lost and no one was hurt. If it did take them to another world, well, so much the better for trying to find some answers, wasn't it?
He made it all sound very sensible and logical and so he did eventually talk them round. It took him most of the night, but they got round to it eventually. They stuck a note inside the box, just to be on the safe side, and then gathered around it for the big test. They pressed their hands to the carving on the top and the rest, as they say, is history…
Beth
'Where the hell is my daughter?'
Beth froze. She knew that voice.
'I know you've got her! This is where the box went, so you must know where she is. What have you done with her?'
Boromir was already on his feet and going for his sword. This at last jolted Beth into action. 'No, don't!'
He sent her a quizzical look.
So she elaborated: 'I think…' Oh, she hardly dared to hope now, but who else could it be? 'I think that's my father.' No one in Middle Earth threw that kind of language around apart from her and she knew his voice. True, he did not often shout, but when he did, it was the kind of sound that could make the mountains shake on their foundations. This was such a sound.
'You said he couldn't.'
'I thought he couldn't.'
She was about to find out what was and wasn't possible, but she preferred to do that before someone outside could decide that he was a threat and run him through just to be on the safe side. She grabbed her cloak and her boots. The rest would have to wait until this was all sorted out. Thus attired, she opened the door and emerged into chaos.
She was just in time in fact to see her father lunge for Gandalf and break his nose with a right hook that would have stood him in good stead in dirty street fighting. Aragorn and Théodred were there too. Aragorn tried to pull her father away, underestimated him and received a broken nose for his troubles as well. It took Théodred to pull his arms behind his back and that took some visible effort, because he probably wasn't fully healed yet.
'I have seen you two!' Patrick Andrews said. 'In the video. You were there. You know where she is. Tell me, damn it!'
Strong language from him was rare, very rare, and therefore so much more alarming.
'Please, calm down,' Théodred told him. He had not been in the video because he was the one standing behind the camera and so for the moment that saved him from any serious repercussions.
Beth stood and stared. He was here. When she looked down the corridor, she found that he had not come alone either. Two guards stood with their backs against the wall, held at knifepoint by Mary and her mother, both of whom had armed themselves with kitchen knives prior to setting out on this trip. Meanwhile Peter had stepped up his game. He had acquired a crowbar and a chainsaw – the latter of which did not appear to have been used yet – in his hands and an assortment of knives tucked behind his belt. He had knocked some guards over the head – they were leaning against the wall looking cross-eyed – and now held up the chainsaw to two other guards in a manner that suggested he was keen to use it.
The box stood on a side table next to him.
Small wonder that everyone assumed a hostile takeover was in progress. Better put an end to this before someone got seriously hurt.
'Enough!' she shouted at the top of her lungs. The acoustic here was great; her voice carried all the way down the hallway, sounding much more booming and impressive than she knew it was.
Everyone froze.
Then all eyes were on her.
For a moment Beth was beyond words as well. She only stood and stared. They were here. Against all the odds they'd found a way to circumvent the rules. They'd come to her. She couldn't come to them, so they had figured out a way to find her instead. Just yesterday she'd thought she'd never see them again, not ever, and now here they were, alive and well. It was almost too much to take in.
She wanted to run and hug them and hold them tight and never let go, but they were all standing in different places and far apart, so she couldn't decide who she should run to first, so the whole running at them scheme never got off the ground at all. She could only stand there like an idiot whilst she tried to wrap her head around this.
She failed.
Mary was kind enough to take the decision out of her hands. She dropped the knife and ran. All Beth had to do was open her arms and let her sister run right into them. The hug was intense and painful, but only because the two of them were squeezing so hard, holding on for dear life, with no intention whatsoever of ever letting go again. Here was Mary, her fussy overbearing sister whom she loved so much, despite all her flaws and her lack of child-rearing skills. Here was Mary who'd known all along that there was something off about this whole interview in Bristol thing.
'You're alive,' Mary breathed. 'Thank God, you're alive!'
'You're here,' Beth returned. She still didn't understand how it was possible. Right now she didn't care much about the how.
Mary held her at arm's length and gave her a critical onceover. 'Where's the rest of you?'
'What do you mean, where's the rest of me?'
'I can feel your ribs, Beth.'
Ah. She knew she'd lost weight, but she'd not yet got round to comparing the before and the after. Mary's words suggested that she had better see to that sooner rather than later. 'Ah,' she said. 'Well, ehm, rations, running and riding.' Those would be the main contributing factors. 'And a bit of rowing.'
Mary stared at her.
No one else had come to her to say hello, so Beth looked around to see what was happening. Théodred still had her father in a strong grip. Peter was at a stalemate with the guards. Both parties had weapons at the ready and were prepared to use them should they need to. And her mother had been pressed against the wall with a dagger to her throat when Mary broke ranks.
Best put an end to that. 'Let them go,' she said. 'It's my family. And I think there's been some misunderstanding.'
Théodred threw her a disbelieving look. 'A misunderstanding?' It was hard to argue with given the state of Aragorn and Gandalf's noses at the moment.
'They think I was abducted to this world, which, let's be honest, I was.' She sent a pointed look at Gandalf, who didn't see it on account of being too busy to stem the bleeding. 'But they think you're all holding me captive and you're not, so for heaven's sake, Peter, can you drop the chainsaw? Please?'
'Are you sure, Beth?' he asked.
'Very sure. No one here is going to hurt me. Or you.' Her head was still reeling. How? Just how? 'Where did you get the chainsaw from anyway?'
He grinned and then he put it on the ground. 'Pilfered from Mary's garden shed, if you must know. Hiya, Beth.'
Tension diffused. Thank goodness. The guards stepped back and Théodred released her father, who wasted no time in running over to her and hugging her. In fact, there was a lot of hugging going on. Beth found herself at the very heart of a group hug that involved her, her parents, Peter and Mary, because there was apparently no such thing as too much. Beth did not complain. This was what better than she had dared to hope for. This was undreamed of.
Am I still asleep? Is all this an illusion?
Then again, it felt all too real for that. Peter accidentally standing on her toes actually helped with that. There was laughter and tears and most of it at the same time. She contributed a good deal of it herself. This is real. This is happening. She still had no idea how, but it was happening.
'So,' said Peter when they at last all broke apart, still grinning like a madman. 'Where shall we begin? Introductions?' He grinned a little wider. 'Or the fact that we're in Middle Earth? We are in Middle Earth, aren't we?' He'd held up remarkably well up to this point, but there was a reason why everyone always knew him as the Tolkien nerd.
'Yes, we're in Middle Earth.' It seemed best to get that out of the way first. 'Minas Tirith, sixth of March 3019 of the Third Age.' She caught Peter doing a mental calculation and added: 'After the battle. The timeline's been all screwed to hell.'
All the while she had her father's arm around her shoulder, a gesture that meant comfort for both of them. It always had. She thought she'd never had that again. Last night she had gone to bed thinking that she'd never have it again. Now here she stood, in a nightgown, boots and cloak, relishing the experience. Her mother, on her other side, held her hand, warm and comforting. Peter was standing there, still grinning in a way that would put the Cheshire Cat out of business, and Mary, next to him, couldn't quite suppress a smile either.
Last night I knew that I had to give up one of two things. Today she knew she could have it all. It was a heady feeling, one that made her believe that she was slightly tipsy, though she hadn't touched alcohol in forever.
'Introductions?' Mary suggested.
'Right,' said Beth, turning back to her husband, who had been suspiciously quiet throughout the proceedings. Surely he didn't think she'd back out now? She had made a promise to him in front of witnesses, after all. All this meant was that they could go and have Christmas dinner in England.
'This is my husband, Boromir,' she announced, smiling widely at him. The few words melted the tension from his shoulders. 'Boromir, these are my parents, Patrick and Fiona Andrews, my brother Peter and my sister Mary.'
Her father sized him up. Boromir drew himself up straight and didn't look away, which in turn satisfied Beth's father. He held out his right hand for him to shake. 'Welcome to the family, Boromir.'
It was here that cultural differences put in their first appearance. Boromir stared at the hand, unsure of what to do. Handshakes were not a thing in Middle Earth, Beth had discovered, and they'd never gone in to the polite behaviour in her society, because it'd be irrelevant. She was staying here, not going back.
Only now her family was here.
Peter was the one who stepped in before matters could truly get awkward. He grabbed Boromir's hand in his and shook it. 'Welcome to the family,' he said. 'And may I say what an absolute honour it is to meet you, sir. A very great honour indeed.'
Well, so much for it not getting awkward. Perhaps Elrohir or Elladan – it was really annoying not knowing which one of them it was – had known what he was doing when he picked her instead of Peter. He might have spent most of the quest doing his fanboy routine and then what would have happened?
Fortunately Boromir was never speechless for very long. He bowed his head in acknowledgement and spoke: 'Well met, Master Peter.' When Peter let him go at last, he did shake her father's hand as well and repeated the greeting. He might not know it, but he scored major points with that one.
From what she could see, he liked her parents as well. She wondered if he drew the comparisons between her father and his, as she did. How often had she not felt for him lately, seeing the absolute train wreck that was Denethor and then comparing him to her own father, who had never been anything but gentle and warm, who just now had literally fought the white wizard when he believed that he had hurt his daughter. The contrast was staggering and undoubtedly painful.
He bowed to her mother and sister and consequently scored some more points. Courtesy was not dead in this world and many times it was like a breath of fresh air, Beth found.
She then turned her attention to the other people in the hallway, two of whom were still dealing with the effects of a broken nose. 'And may I introduce you to Théodred, the King of Rohan, Aragorn, the not-quite-crowned King of Gondor and Gandalf, the white wizard? Dad, you've met them already of course.'
Perhaps later she would laugh about this, about Gandalf and Aragorn, both formidable fighters, having their arses kicked by an elderly man in a fury. Truth be told, she did feel sorry for Aragorn. He was an innocent in this whole thing. Gandalf's case was a little more complex. She did understand why he'd done what he'd done. He'd even done his best to make amends for the damage he had caused. She knew and understood this. On some level she might even be ready to forgive him for the way he turned her life on its head.
Yet she was not the only injured party. As far as Beth's relatives were concerned, he'd taken her without so much as a by-your-leave and the price for that had yet to be paid. Beth's father had a go at Gandalf already, so he might consider that payment enough for the time being, but Beth's mother on the other hand was not so easily pleased.
It was interesting to note that she was not an Andrews by blood – she had married into the family – but she had the temperament that Kate had been infamous for. She was not as easy to anger, it was true, but she had good cause for grievance now. She let go of Beth's hand with a last reassuring squeeze and then marched over to Gandalf until she was right in his face.
'It was you then, who took her?' she demanded.
Gandalf was many things, but he was not a liar. 'I did.'
He'd never denied that, which she appreciated. He was a wizard who owned his actions. He took responsibility for them. And yet he'd done a bad thing for all the right reasons. Beth knew this. She also knew that as a result of what he'd done the world had changed from the way the book would have it.
Not so long ago she had identified Thráin as the root cause of all the things that had turned out different from the book. Most of that was still true. But if Beth had not been brought to Middle Earth with Kate's book in her possessions, Thráin would not have joined the quest. He eschewed responsibilities. Family loyalty had compelled him to sign up. As a result of that he had done all the things that had made such a huge impact. If Beth had not shown up in Rivendell, he'd have gone home to Erebor and then where would the world have been?
It did not bear thinking about.
Fiona Andrews did not let such considerations hold her back. She was not in possession of all the facts, but she knew enough to identify the culprit of all her recent woes and he just so happened to be right in front of her.
'I am not going to hit you,' she announced.
Anyone more gullible might have presumed that she was very calm and collected, dignified even. Beth knew her and did not make this mistake. There was more to come and it was about to get ugly.
'You absolute prick,' said Fiona Andrews in cut-glass tones. Beth often suspected that her mother could trace her ancestry back to some aristocratic family who had centuries worth of experience in looking down on people, because she managed to do all of this while still carrying herself with complete dignity.
Then she spat in his face.
'Well,' said Mary, 'that went well.'
Thráin
'You are quiet, my friend.'
Thráin looked over his shoulder at the elf. 'I am.' It served no point to deny it.
'Yet you have not borne the Ring today.'
Another observation that he could not possibly deny. Truth be told, he was not much of a chatterbox at any rate, but a persistent feeling kept warning him of something gone awry and he could not put his finger on it. It had started late in the afternoon yesterday and it had not left him alone since.
At first he had assumed it was because of the orcs they'd slain and left to find for their comrades, but night had passed and nothing had happened. They'd walked all through the night to put some distance between them and the corpses. Thráin and Gimli had carried the hobbits for most of that time. Sam had bravely volunteered to carry the Ring throughout the night provided that he could ride on someone's back for the duration. Gimli had carried him without complaint and so they'd made some decent speed at last. The Ring had not liked this, so by morning Sam was in a right state, pale and bleeding and nauseous. He admitted to it that the Ring had assaulted his mind without interruption, but he'd held strong.
He'd paid heavily for it.
'Is it the orcs that you fear?'
He had pondered this question on the long silent march and so could answer promptly: 'No. No, I do not.' They were far enough away now. 'Even if the orcs find their fallen kindred, they might assume that they turned on one another in one of their endless feuds.' It was hardly a great accomplishment to get one orc to draw steel on another. They were always feuding over something. This was not unusual.
By this stage he was even beginning to question whether the orcs would be found at all. Mordor was empty. The longer he was here, the more he began to realise that no one lived here. Nothing moved here. Mordor was empty. Yes, he had no doubt that Sauron was still here, but his minions had all gone elsewhere to wage war on the lands of the Free Folk.
What a fool he is.
Not that he was in any great hurry to bring this oversight to Sauron's attention.
Legolas looked at him. 'What is it that worries you then, my friend?'
The Fellowship had decided on a short rest before they continued. They must eat to keep up their strength and they craved sleep as well. It was their fifth day in Mordor, but it felt as though it was much longer. The continuous half-dark, the emptiness and the whisperings of the Ring confounded their sense of time. Even Thráin now had to rely on Legolas, the only one who still could tell how much time had passed.
'I cannot define it,' he said. 'There is a sense of foreboding and doom at the edge of my mind. I cannot tell why, yet it has not left me be since yesterday.'
Legolas nodded. 'You are a dwarf,' he said, rather stating the obvious, but he was not yet done. 'Your kind don't often hold with undefined feelings, I know. That you admit to one such now unsettles me.'
Thráin snorted. 'It unsettles me.'
If they had been in any other place, Legolas might have laughed. Here he did not even smile. 'Do not ignore such a warning lightly,' he counselled. 'We are in great danger here. Sometimes our souls warn us before our minds can see.'
This sounded like the usual elvish gibberish to him, but still he could not shake the feeling. It showed itself in the occasional shiver – almost unheard of in this terrible dry heat – and the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Somehow he was being warned of something wrong, but of what?
'I trust in what I can see and hear and smell.' That was the only way to be. No dwarf worth his beard could exist in any other way. 'We leave the odd tingling sensations to your kindred.'
Legolas nodded and smiled indulgently in a way that made Thráin want to punch him. 'We both know that this is not entirely true,' he said. 'For if that was so, we would not have moved through Moria with such speed. You trusted in sensations then that you could not define.'
Sooner rather than later Legolas would always find a way to bring the conversation back to that. He wondered why. Had not all been said that should be said? He knew where he was headed even if he was not reminded of it every day.
He might have said something about it, but refrained. It served no point to tell Legolas to not do this again, because he inevitably would do it again anyway. Besides, the elf had a point. Khazad-dûm had spoken to him in ways that defied rational thought. He did not say that this worried him, so he turned back and walked the short way back to where the Fellowship had made camp.
He found Sam in trouble.
Their resilient gardener no longer had the Ring. This Fellowship now had enough stick experts to keep it out of Sam's hands for the time being, at least until he had recovered enough from his ordeal from last night. Recovery was not in the cards for him yet; Sam looked pale and sweaty and had just thrown up everything he'd eaten.
There was naked panic in Frodo's eyes.
'He is not well,' Gimli observed once Thráin had asked exactly what had happened.
He could see that much for himself. 'Allow me.'
In this Fellowship he was the one most experienced in the healing arts. One had to be when one travelled alone for sometimes months on end. Brigands and orcs – sometimes combined into one – lay in wait everywhere. Over the years he'd learned how to treat his injuries on his own out of sheer necessity. Illnesses were not something he understood much of, but for Sam's sake, he would try.
He placed his hand against Sam's forehead and found it too hot. The look in his eyes was feverish too.
'How long have you been like this?' he asked, as gently as he could.
'It came on in the night,' Gimli replied when Sam took too long in answering. 'At first I thought it was just the heat of this cursed place.'
It very obviously wasn't.
He crouched down before Sam. 'Sam, what did the Ring do to you?' He had never yet heard of that thing making a body ill, but of late he had no idea what it would and wouldn't do. Its destruction was not so far away now. The true battle for their minds it had already fought and lost. Now it was the battle to bring them down that it attempted.
'Did it not all but starve Gollum?' Legolas asked, making it very clear that the Ring was capable of physically weakening its victims.
Thráin could have done without the reminder.
First things first. 'Legolas, we need more water.' Dwarves knew little of illness, but wounds would get inflamed and cause fevers. Aunt Thora had always made it clear that to bring down the fever was the first thing he ought to do after treating the wound. Cool water would help him, but in the absence of cool, simply water would have to suffice. 'Is there any nearby that may be of use to us? Clean, if possible.'
Legolas stood still and looked around him. 'I can hear a trickle of a stream not too far away. If it is clean I cannot tell.' Concern was in his eyes. 'What ails him?'
'I aim to find out.' He could only hope that it was no true illness such as men would often suffer. Neither he nor Legolas – elves were never ill – would truly know how to treat this. He harboured suspicions about the cause, but he'd need to examine Sam in order to find out. In the meantime treating the fever remained important. 'Take Gimli and bring back as much as you can.'
He was loath to use the water in Gimli's barrel for this. Many miles yet separated them from Mount Doom. Maker only knew how many sources of water they'd find between here and there. He had not worried much since Gimli found the barrel, but now he did. Water was always the greatest challenge in this barren land.
'What can I do?' Frodo asked. He had the Ring at present and the strain of it was showing on his face, but his care for Sam overrode his own troubles.
'Nothing yet.' He put his hand against Sam's forehead again. So far he had said nothing and it was this that alarmed him as well. He'd paid a heavy price for his decision indeed. All so that the Fellowship could make some more speed.
Is that the dilemma we now face? Must we sacrifice our own for speed? He misliked the notion, but the longer they were in this land, the more he also knew that they could not carry on much longer as they were. Either through the Ring or through lack of water, their strength would fail. If they were to run into another orc patrol, he did not like their chances. Gimli hadn't spoken another word about his injury since Thráin treated it and he had carried Sam through the night without complaint, but Thráin saw him wince when he put Sam down again. He favoured his other arm too.
Is that our fate?
He brushed the collar of Sam's shirt away from his neck and found his worst fear there. This was the Ring's doing. It had chafed until it had broken through the cloth they all bound around their neck and shoulders to prevent against such a thing. Once through it had bit into the skin and broken it open. The cloth was stiff and dark with dried blood. The little wounds themselves looked dark and angry.
Maker be good.
'I should clean this,' he said in brisk tones as to not alarm Frodo any more than he already was. 'Do we have any clean cloths and bandages left?'
'I don't know.'
'Dig through Legolas's pack,' Thráin instructed. 'He's most likely to have them. And for Durin's… Mahal's sake, make sure the Ring does not make you drop them should you find them.' He turned back to Sam. 'Sam, can you hear me?'
The lack of response told him all he wanted to know.
He did what little he could with the water he had available. It was not nearly as clean as he'd like it, but it washed away some of the dirt that had accumulated there, so he counted it a win.
Legolas and Gimli returned with more water. 'The wounds?' Legolas asked, though Maker only knew why. No doubt his sharp ears had heard every word that had been spoken.
'Boiling the water would be best,' Thráin said. He hardly trusted it enough to drink it, but to pour it over an open wound? 'I know that it cannot be done, but it would be best. I must wash it at any rate. The wound is already inflamed and threads of cloth have got in.' And that was never a good development. 'Legolas, there are herbs in my pack that should bring down his fever. There are others I may use on the wound itself.' Aunt Thora had taught him well in this. Nevertheless he wished that Aragorn was here to take care of this in his stead; he had always been well-versed in the healing arts.
The others accepted his word on this and hastened to comply. It was hard working, not only because of the heat, but because of the dust that was everywhere, most particularly where he did not want it. Sam never spoke. He never responded in any way.
'I shall carry him,' Thráin announced. 'Frodo, let me see your neck. I should prefer to add more layers.' Maker forbid that another fell to the same affliction.
It was just as well that he did. The Ring was not in a charitable mood – was it ever? – and it had almost torn through the cloths around Frodo's neck as well. Malice vibrated in the air around it, the kind that made Thráin want to wash his hands to rid himself of the stain of it in water that they did not have. It was altogether evil.
He applied some more bandages and then rose to his feet. 'We must go.' They had rested some hours and yet none of them felt refreshed. This land drained their spirit and their strength. It seemed to go worse for them the longer they were here. Time was of the essence.
Legolas nodded. 'I shall carry the Ring-bearer,' he said. 'Frodo, if you would?'
Frodo nodded. He stood up and drew himself up to his full height. 'If you have the strength for another long march, I can carry it for as long as you have the strength to walk.' Given what had happened to Sam when he had made a similar offer, this was a brave decision indeed.
They all knew what it might cost him.
But they all knew what delay might cost them all. They had not spoken of it, but they all knew. And none of them had forgotten the great armies that had marched from Mordor to bring war on the lands of the Free Folk of Middle Earth. Maker only knew what had happened in Gondor. Had Minas Tirith withstood the siege? Had the book predicted the truth for that battle? Did Erebor still stand? Too many questions and too few answers. All they knew was that the chances of the Free Folk decreased with every day that the Ring existed.
So their course was clear.
Legolas placed a hand over his heart and bowed his head in acknowledgement. 'If you can bear this burden, then for as long as you can bear it, I shall carry you to our destination,' he vowed. 'Come, we must be on our way.'
'I'll hoist our Master Gamgee on your back,' Gimli said to Thráin. He lifted Sam up and placed him with the utmost care on Thráin's back. He also tied him securely there to make sure that he did not fall. Even now he did not respond. 'And I shall carry the barrel.'
'What of your injury?' Thráin asked. 'Does it not trouble you?'
'The barrel is lighter than it was some days past,' Gimli said. This was not an answer, but he offered no other. He took it up and hoisted it onto his own back. He winced when he did so. Yet he did not run a fever – not yet at least – and he firmly ignored the questioning looks Thráin bestowed upon him.
They moved on again.
Next time: Thoren renews his acquaintance with the waking world.
Thank you so much for reading. Reviews, as always, would be very, very welcome!
