~ Middle Earth Reclaimed ~
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I'm glad that people seem to be enjoying this little work, and I hope that it will continue to entertain. :) Thank you for the feedback so far!
Just a few notes: 'Edain' is the plural for 'Adan'. As for why Imladris isn't in Europe: Tolkien himself placed Imladris at the latitude of Florence, but the speculation here is that Middle Earth has been "broken" and reformed, and I thought it would be more interesting if Imladris appeared in a place we didn't expect.
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Chapter 4:
Glorfindel lifted the coin to the light.
"I would always take the silver counters, and Erestor would take ebony."
Some time that afternoon they'd found an old compendium of travel games wedged in the drawer, no doubt abandoned by he room's previous guests. There was the standard issue tiddlywinks tray, a snakes-and-ladders set and a draughts board. Since Glorfindel did not want to revisit the jungle till after sunset, Faramir had suggested playing chequers in half-jest, without suspecting that there was a great enthusiasm for board games in the elvish temperament. Most of the plastic counters were missing, so they'd substituted with coins - silver for white and copper for black.
"Did you have this game in Imladris?" asked Faramir, surprised.
"A game like it, but with a much larger board and different rules. A single game might stretch over many days." He smiled, perhaps the first smile free of melancholy that Faramir had seen on his features. "With Erestor, I won so often that he grew morose."
Faramir recalled something in The Lord of the Rings about the childlike qualities of elves, and smiled also. He knew, somehow, that there had been few opportunities for Glorfindel to reminisce about Rivendell without sorrow.
"Did Men not play this game in Gondor?" asked Glorfindel, and in the very next second looked profoundly embarrassed - he could see Faramir was disturbed. "I did not give thought to my words. I am sorry."
Faramir spent a few moments pretending to study the board. He made his move, and then looked up. "I'm not really the Faramir of the book; I've only borrowed his name."
"That is the caution I would expect from Faramir 'of the book'. But there is no need to doubt, Adan. You would not have heard the summons of Imladris otherwise." There was a little click as Glorfindel placed the coin in its square. "And there is an image draped about you which I saw from the beginning."
Faramir hesitated, unsure whether he wanted to hear more. "What do you see?"
"Numenor. The island made for the Edain to dwell upon, as reward for their stalwart defence against evil. Elendil, Isildur and Anarion were born there. And it was from Numenor that they escaped, when the day of destruction came."
By Glorfindel's hand was a glass of water. To Faramir's amazement he thought he could see a lip of liquid rise from the surface. It rolled to the wall of the tumbler, nearly over the rim, and broke itself against the glass. At once the water became completely tranquil again, leaving Faramir to wonder if it had merely been an illusion.
"I've had a recurring dream since I was very young. It always begins on the beach, and I'm looking out over the ocean. But a huge wave approaches, so high that it covers everything, and I see the underside of it as it blots out the sky. I used to think that was how Atlantis was destroyed... and maybe that's why I became an archaeologist. But of course Atlantis was only a legend."
"That is how Numenor ended," said Glorfindel. "Men became proud and wilful, thinking they could challenge the very powers that carved out the world, and their punishment was swift. But Elendil and his sons were spared because they were true-hearted. Their ships were washed to the shores of the greater continent, and there they founded the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor in remembrance of their lost home. Thus are all Men of Gondor sprung from Numenorean ancestry."
"I - " Faramir stopped short. An abrupt disquiet had fallen on him, the same strange pressure that he had felt two nights before. In the open air it had been an alarming sensation enough; here in the claustrophobic hotel room it was overpowering. Across the table the elf stood, his eyes darting about the room. Finally they settled on the balcony, where steam was rising from the wooden planking after another shower of rain. There was a shape in the steam, growing more opaque and defined till a man clearly stood there, tall and grey.
"Will you not speak this time?" said Glorfindel. His question held a note of command.
The shape flickered, as if it were produced by an old projector with a failing bulb. For a moment they thought it would vanish as it had before. When its lips moved, no sound issued from them, but they felt a terrible urgency emanating from it.
A ringwraith, thought Faramir, and the figure looked straight at him, shaking its head, as if Faramir had spoken aloud. For a moment he quailed, but then his fears dropped away, replaced by a hazy recognition.
"Mithrandir?" Glorfindel was saying. His knuckles were white where his hands gripped the table's edge. "Olorin?"
The figure continued to speak soundlessly, Glorfindel watching his lips to catch the words. Now it flickered for the last time, unable to hold its image together, and as it faded it raised its hand to draw a circle in the air. Then the balcony was empty once more.
Faramir leant back into the wicker chair, drawing a deep breath. He felt exhausted. "It was Gandalf, I was sure of it... And yet he looked wrong, somehow."
"The Gandalf that we knew was only a cloak he donned for his appointed task. His true form is as a Maia, Olorin."
Many are my names... Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkun to the Dwarves, Olorin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten.
"What did he say?"
"That this should not be. That Middle Earth - as I knew it - should have been separate from this world. He was speaking to us from far away." Glorfindel was evidently troubled. "I... I told you that my memories diverged, Faramir, but I had not thought..."
"What, Glorfindel?"
The elf's expression was distant, as if he were struggling with a truth too awful to bear. "This is indeed our Council, Faramir, ill-timed and with only the two of us. We shall receive little guidance from hereon. Tonight I will go back to the site, to collect what remnants I can. You must rest; tomorrow we will be travelling away from here."
The words were enigmatic, but Faramir was unwilling to ask for more. He had a feeling that soon the answers would be thrust upon him, whether he wanted them or not.
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The news that morning was dominated by reports of the night's fire. The latest pictures showed the aftermath - in place of the blue and white buildings, there was now a smouldering husk. Despite sprinklers, fire doors, fire-retardant walls and the gallant efforts of the fire department, Mount Caron Hospital was now a collection of cinders, crawling with men in uniform. The death toll had not been determined, but it was likely to be high. It had all happened so suddenly, and the cause was still a mystery.
And so it was that Nurse Owen made her her way not to work, but to her colleague's house on Claverton Street. Maria's husband had called earlier that morning - apart from having inhaled too much smoke, Maria had managed to escape unharmed. In fact, both the press and investigators were waiting for her to recover a little before they could question her. They now suspected that the fire had initiated from a location very close to the ward where she had been working.
"Mr Asenjo, hi."
The harassed-looking man had only opened the door a fraction; at the sight of the blonde woman he made a little sound of relief. "It's you, Evelyn. Come in, come in. I thought it was reporters."
She stepped through and saw Maria hovering in the hallway with a weak smile. She embraced her friend. "I'm so glad you're alright."
Maria acknowledged this with a nod, but her eyes held tears. "I tried to help patients out of the ward. But I don't think... many people got out. Just too many stairs, you know?"
They went into the kitchen, where they sat silently for many minutes. Finally Evelyn spoke. "I don't know if this is the best time to say this, but I'm quitting the job."
This seemed to rouse Maria out of her blank expression. "What? You're giving up nursing?"
"Yes. I think I've been waiting for a sign, and if anything, this is it."
"But what will you do?"
"I'm not sure yet. I might go to my uncle's place - he runs riding camps over the summer and there's always a need for extra help. At least I'm not paying off loans, I got my training on a scholarship."
Maria sighed. "I was getting tired myself, but with the hospital destroyed I may not be working for awhile."
"You deserve the rest."
Maria looked off to one side. Then something occurred to her. "You were right about the old man."
"Sorry?" asked Evelyn, confused.
"Mr Laird. He did wake up... I was in the nurse's station when he walked out of the ward. I was so surprised I didn't know what to do. I think I tried to stop him... And then I saw smoke pouring in from God knows where, and heard the sprinklers going off, and there was chaos after that..."
"He escaped the fire, then?"
"Oh, I hope so. He just... just walked out without help. It was... kind of frightening." She pulled absently on her dressing gown, and Evelyn gasped as the cotton robe shifted to expose Maria's arm. There were four parallel welts just beneath the elbow, each about three inches long and half and inch thick; the skin was red and blistered.
Evelyn rose. "Where's your first aid cupboard? It's a terrible burn - why didn't you dress it?"
"I - I didn't notice. I don't remember being burned..." Maria's voice had been growing fainter and fainter throughout the conversation, and now she was virtually inaudible. Her last words were "I'm sorry" before she lost consciousness.
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The spirit's essence is like oil, needing a vessel to contain it. When spilled from the body it is formless and impotent, easily dispersed and lost. Only when gathered into one can it be lit.
The old man laughed at his own thought, so absurdly highflown it sounded. He was still heady with the rush of exhilaration at leaving the hospital, but even that was ebbing away. Now he was a jumble of mundane wants and cravings that needed to be fed. Like those little cigarettes with red bands, he wanted lots of them; and he wanted a juicy dripping steak, all blood and fat and charcoal. In his head were more desires than there were memories...
A few passers-by stared at him, sitting on the bench in white pyjamas, the rest ignored him.
Contempt is a luxury for the powerful.
He gave a little chuckle, his wrinkles accentuating. The face of the nurse appeared in his mind, her blonde hair pinned up neatly, and her smile full of pity. But no - there was a different face above his, a man's face smeared with dirt and tears. His steel grey eyes were hard.
This I will have as weregild for my father, and my brother - !
Gripped by the vision, the old man shrank against the bench. He was falling backwards into a bed of soft grey ash, sliding down it with the red sky far above...
"Are you lost?" A woman with polished brown cheeks and wavy black hair was standing in front of him. "You look lost, mister. Do you need to get home?"
"I don't know you, my dear."
"No, you don't." She spoke very slowly, with the kind of patience that people always reserve for small children and the elderly. "But it doesn't matter. I'll walk you back, okay?"
Back - ?
She reached out to take his frail arm, and as she did so something gleamed on her finger. It was a ring, an ordinary ring, plain and unadorned and made of impure gold. And suddenly, he remembered.
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End of Chapter 4
To be continued...
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AlexeCinz
July 2001
http://www.btinternet.com/~reitaira/izumi.htm