Chapter Two - Differences
Gimli stood on the steps to the main entrance of the Hornburg looking out over the land for any sign of Legolas or Aragorn. He knew that Aragorn was perfectly fine after Éomer had informed him that the Man had gone to search for Legolas. To search for Legolas. That concerned him greatly. Apparently he had not ridden out with the others. He needed to tell the Elf his count - he was sure he had won their game...
His eyes found a figure coming briskly up the walkway and he was delighted to see it was Aragorn carrying something large in his arms. Then he realised what it was and released an exclamation of horror and grief, and set off hurrying down the stairs to his friend. He stopped before Aragorn, a pleading look in his eyes as he asked in a desperate, strangled voice: 'Is he dead?'
'No,' came the reply as Aragorn skirted around the Dwarf. 'But he is grievously hurt and very sick. Where are the wounded being tended?'
'In the main chamber.'
Aragorn raced up the steps, pausing before the doors to allow the Dwarf to open them for him. His eyes were greeted by a room filled with people with ailments - walking wounded mainly, but there were some that took up the corner at the far end. These were men lying on the floor on hastily constructed beds with women and the occasional man milling around them. It was there that Aragorn needed to be.
His feet sounded loudly as he crossed the chamber, depicting his urgency with their heaviness. He ignored the looks that he was receiving of curiosity from some that had nothing better to do.
'Please help me,' he called to a plump woman who seemed to be the one organising the others. 'My friend is wounded and I don't know where he can go.'
The woman stood before him, chewing her lip as she thought. She eyed the Elf as though he were a dog whose temperament she was not sure of. Legolas had shifted his head a little. He stared back. This seemed to make her feel uncomfortable, for she adjusted her weight on her feet and diverted her green eyes from his intense blue ones which he blinked slowly, never letting them wonder from her face. Eventually she said: 'I don't think we can treat the Fair Folk.'
'Why not?'
'Because they're - different.'
This kind of attitude angered Aragorn. 'The only difference between him and me,' he began curtly, 'is that he has pointy ears and I do not. Apart from that, I see no difference that could possibly present you any difficulties. While you're trying to think of some, do you think that you could find him a bed?'
The woman brought herself up to her full height as though she was about to speak out against his words when a light hand rested on Aragorn's shoulder, making him turn. There stood Éowyn smiling softly at him.
'Follow me.'
Aragorn did as she bid, not wishing to stay where they presently were; he felt that leaving Legolas with that carthorse would not be very wise, either for his benefit or indeed hers. He knew what the Elf had just done perfectly well, and he grinned despite himself. He jumped as Legolas said: 'They're not pointed: they're peaked.' Aragorn laughed softly at this.
'I apologise, mellon nin; I'd forgotten that you prefer to speak of them like mountains rather than ears.'
Legolas gave a brief snort at this and tucked his head into Aragorn's chest, his eyes closed. They had to hurry.
She led the way into a corridor and turned up a flight of spiral stairs, lit by a couple of torch-brackets whose light quivered as she passed, deepening and then making the shadows thinner on the worn stone steps in their wavering light.
At the top of these stairs they met with another corridor - down which they travelled - until they came to a doorway to their left into which they entered.
It was a chamber of a reasonable size, large enough for twenty men to feel comfortable in. As it was, there were about thirty in there, and it dawned upon Aragorn that they were all Elves, most of whom were on the floor on pallets with blankets on them to make them more comfortable. He saw bloodied rags and heard murmurs of pain as the able tended their companions.
'Is this all of you that are left?' He spoke in common tongue for the benefit of Éowyn and Gimli.
'No, Lord Aragorn. We are but a handful.' An Elf stepped forward and bowed deeply to them gracefully. As far as Aragorn could see, the only injury that this Elf had sustained was a cut on his cheek. 'I am Celdan of Lórien, and I am here to tend our own wounded, as the - erm - large lady will not see any of our folk.'
'Yes, we've already met with her,' commented Gimli, the resentment he felt for her showing in his tone.
Celdan smiled and gestured to an empty pallet close to the small fire that crackled in its grate.
Aragorn laid his burden gently upon the bed, cringing at the sharp hiss as Legolas inhaled abruptly at the fresh stab of pain that the movement gave him. He started to shiver again.
Celdan looked upon the face of the other Elf, and his eyes widened in shock at the sight of him.
'The Mirkwood prince lies before me in one of the worse states I have seen any in through the past hours. The night was evil indeed.'
'There is something more to his detriment than meets the eye,' said Aragorn softly yet urgently. 'Do you know of what it is?'
'I fear that I do,' was the response. Celdan, with a brow furrowed with anxiety, placed his hand to Legolas' brow as Aragorn had previously done. His fingertips found Legolas' pulse, and he listened intently to his breathing. He even pulled up the top lip of the other Elf to make an examination of his gums, which were pale and dry. Last of all his long hands went to the wound, causing Legolas to give a sharp cry as they peeled back the dark and stiffened stuff of the jerkin and shirt, revealing the laceration, from where blood that had flowed - and still did - had caked over previously fair skin. Now it had visibly greyed beneath the blood. The condition of the skin itself confirmed his worst fear. His shoulders slumped and his head bowed, a heavy sigh parting his lips before he could stop it.
He rose and walked out into the corridor, indicating that the others should follow.
'The Orcs have developed a new toxin,' he informed them gravely. 'I had heard of it briefly before we parted Lórien. I shall not lie to you: it is deadly.' His frankness left the others in total shock. 'I have come across several men that have it in their systems, and it grieves me to say that they are dead.
'The way it works is this: the victim receives the poison via a wound - no matter how small - and it has no effect for a few minutes. Then they become light-headed and cannot see properly. Their eyes are unable to focus on anything no matter how close even with the greatest concentration.
'Their bodies become abnormally warm, but they feel cold, and their faces become sallow and their eyes dull. This is the mere beginning of a high fever that is very unpredictable in its length; I have heard tell of it all happening over an hour, others taking place over days.'
A silence ensued, during which Gimli and Aragorn felt the beginnings of grief start to settle in their hearts.
'However, there is the slimmest hope.' Their heads lifted at this, eyes raptly watching the tall Elf before them. 'With this toxin a fever-sweat does not normally break out. It is when it fails to happen that death occurs. If it does-'
'He'll live?'
Celdan grinned at the Dwarf's interjection. 'I am not making any promises, and the last thing I want to do is give you false hopes - but yes, he may live.
'But he is very ill; I could see that without even looking at the injury he has - which we will have to clean out...'
Aragorn drew from a pocket a small drawstring bag, which he opened, sending a sweet, uplifting aroma into the air. Celdan's grin broadened. 'You come prepared.'
'It isn't much, and the leaves are dry, but it will still hold most of its' virtue. It may be of some help,' said the Man, more to the bag of athelas than anyone else.
'I'm glad that you have any, no matter what state it is in,' commented Celdan. 'All of our stock has been spent.'
They re-entered the chamber and Celdan veered off to the fire to add Aragorn's pouch of dried athelas to a steaming pot of water.
Aragorn and Gimli crouched beside their sick companion, who watched them with a half-opened blue eye that blinked more frequently than was deemed natural for an Elf. He looked worse to them than he had done when they had parted company a few minutes ago.
'I would rather you did it, Aragorn,' he said quietly.
'Did what, mellon nin?'
Legolas swallowed before he replied: 'Clean my wound.'
Aragorn's eyes snapped to those of his friend. They were both open now, and from their stare he knew with a sickening feeling that the Elf had heard everything that had been said. He may be dying but there was absolutely nothing wrong with his hearing.
Celdan arrived with the water in a bucket that sent its scent washing over them. Legolas breathed it deeply, bracing himself for what he knew was about to come, as Aragorn wrung off a strip of clean cloth in the steaming solution, he too trying to harden himself.
Éowyn lifted Legolas' head and laid it upon her lap, placing her cool hands over his forehead gently yet firmly, smoothing his skin with her middle fingers in an attempt to keep him calm, speaking softly to him all the while.
Gimli came and took his friend's hand, continuously repeating: 'You're alright, lad, you're alright.' Whether he was trying to convince Legolas of this or himself he was not entirely sure.
Celdan had fetched another Elf, and the two of them were pinning Legolas' legs to the floor.
Aragorn removed his friend's belt and cast it to the side to rest with the discarded knife that he had picked up. The weapon looked rather sad without its companion and sheath, along with the bow and quiver that went with it. He would have to go and hunt for those when this task was done.
His hands drew back the stuff of the torn jerkin and shirt to reveal the wound, which gaped up at him like some grotesque attempt at a mouth just beneath the rib cage, a great diagonal slash. It was not a clean cut, and was situated too high for the jerkin and shirt to remain on; they would only be a hindrance as he cleaned, and Aragorn needed two hands for this. So he indicated to Celdan and his companion to come and aid him in the removal of the two items. Celdan lifted Legolas' upper body whilst the other two took off the garments delicately and threw them to the side. This done, they went back to their positions at his feet.
The cloth hovered for a moment over Legolas' bloodied side before Aragorn developed the resolve to bring it down firmly to flesh.
He did not scream at first - he tried to bury his face in Éowyn's lap, as if to hide from the pain. Only when that failed to work did he cry out with the intensity of his agony.
Gimli gasped as his hand was practically being crushed, his face reddening and small grunts escaping his mouth in his discomfort. Either Legolas did not hear or he did not care, for his grip never lessened, but intensified.
Éowyn was now holding his head firmer than before with one hand and stroking his cheek with the other, her face close to his ear, hushing and whispering words of comfort to him. She was shaking almost as much as he was.
The Elves at his legs were having a real test of their strength - they virtually had to lie on them to still them and prevent themselves being kicked.
Aragorn paid no heed to the discomfort of the others. He thought his task to be the hardest. He was the one inflicting the pain to his friend. This had to be done, he knew that well enough; but that did not prevent the tears obscuring his vision.
He rinsed the bloodied cloth in the pail and began again, not daring to pause for any length of time.
Legolas was now fully thrashing. No words of Éowyn could console him enough, nor could the two Elves at his feet restrain him as effectively as they wished, and the sudden movements were causing the blood to flow more again.
Aragorn finally drew back and threw the cloth into the fire, breathing heavily. He hastily bandaged the laceration with the aid of the two Elves before he sat back and declared that his work was done.
Legolas was panting in the aftermath of what had just happened, Éowyn now caressing his face with two hands.
Three blankets were placed over his shivering body with another one rolled up for a pillow for when Éowyn moved.
'You must sleep now,' Aragorn suggested gently. Legolas merely shook his head to this proposal. 'Yes, you must.'
'You mean sleep like Men sleep,' came the weak reply in a quavering voice. 'I cannot do that.' A single tear streamed down his cheek to settle upon Éowyn's finger.
'You are frightened and in pain and away from home, I know,' said Aragorn sensitively. 'But you are with your friends, and you know that we would never allow anything to happen to you. Do you hear me?' He clenched the Elf's shoulder reassuringly with a clasp that stated he would remain true to his word, and that he was there and always would be there just as a true friend would.
It was at that point that the singing began. Sweet, harmonious words that did not need the help of instruments to sound beautiful. The words were only distinguishable to a few in the Hornburg, but the majority of their chamber understood them.
It was a song that Legolas knew well; they sang it at home in Mirkwood. It reminded him so very much of home, of security, of his father...
His shoulders visibly relaxed as his muscles lost their tension that they had gained through his distress to the caress of sleep. And as this happened, his fingers too slackened their grip upon Gimli's hand.
'Is he asleep?'
Aragorn could not answer Gimli's question. Struck by a sudden inspiration, he lowered his mouth to the Elf's up-turned ear, knowing that what he had to say would undoubtedly provoke a response of some kind. When no such reaction came, he sat back upright nodding to the room.
The Dwarf clenched his teeth as he drew his hand slowly away, as if he feared that the Elf's hand would realise that it had let go and would grasp him again.
He flexed it tentatively, and Aragorn and Éowyn could not help laughing at him. Gimli, feeling a little embarrassed by this, commented gruffly: 'The lad has more strength than I anticipated.'
'That he does,' replied the Man, giving Legolas an affectionate glance. 'It is with that that I hope he shall prevail.'
'Of course he shall.' All turned at the voice that orientated from the doorway. There stood Gandalf, standing tall with his staff held in both hands, smiling benignly into the room, his old, kind twinkle in his eyes. 'Elves have a tendency to beat us all when it comes to survival.' He nodded his head to Celdan as the Elf bowed to him.
'The woman in the Hall informed me that you were up here with an Elf that has 'witch-eyes'. What she could have possibly meant by that I have no idea.'
Aragorn snorted disdainfully at this. 'Legolas stared her down, basically, and she didn't like it.' He sighed heavily. 'I would have thought that they'd be happy to treat those that came with the prospect of giving up their immortality for them. Clearly this is not so.'
'The minds of Men are not easy to bend towards new beliefs as you know; she has probably grown up with strange stories about the Fair Ones that her parents and forefathers deemed the appropriate manner with which to explain what they did not understand. Ignorance is sometimes deeper than we may think.'
Gimli stood on the steps to the main entrance of the Hornburg looking out over the land for any sign of Legolas or Aragorn. He knew that Aragorn was perfectly fine after Éomer had informed him that the Man had gone to search for Legolas. To search for Legolas. That concerned him greatly. Apparently he had not ridden out with the others. He needed to tell the Elf his count - he was sure he had won their game...
His eyes found a figure coming briskly up the walkway and he was delighted to see it was Aragorn carrying something large in his arms. Then he realised what it was and released an exclamation of horror and grief, and set off hurrying down the stairs to his friend. He stopped before Aragorn, a pleading look in his eyes as he asked in a desperate, strangled voice: 'Is he dead?'
'No,' came the reply as Aragorn skirted around the Dwarf. 'But he is grievously hurt and very sick. Where are the wounded being tended?'
'In the main chamber.'
Aragorn raced up the steps, pausing before the doors to allow the Dwarf to open them for him. His eyes were greeted by a room filled with people with ailments - walking wounded mainly, but there were some that took up the corner at the far end. These were men lying on the floor on hastily constructed beds with women and the occasional man milling around them. It was there that Aragorn needed to be.
His feet sounded loudly as he crossed the chamber, depicting his urgency with their heaviness. He ignored the looks that he was receiving of curiosity from some that had nothing better to do.
'Please help me,' he called to a plump woman who seemed to be the one organising the others. 'My friend is wounded and I don't know where he can go.'
The woman stood before him, chewing her lip as she thought. She eyed the Elf as though he were a dog whose temperament she was not sure of. Legolas had shifted his head a little. He stared back. This seemed to make her feel uncomfortable, for she adjusted her weight on her feet and diverted her green eyes from his intense blue ones which he blinked slowly, never letting them wonder from her face. Eventually she said: 'I don't think we can treat the Fair Folk.'
'Why not?'
'Because they're - different.'
This kind of attitude angered Aragorn. 'The only difference between him and me,' he began curtly, 'is that he has pointy ears and I do not. Apart from that, I see no difference that could possibly present you any difficulties. While you're trying to think of some, do you think that you could find him a bed?'
The woman brought herself up to her full height as though she was about to speak out against his words when a light hand rested on Aragorn's shoulder, making him turn. There stood Éowyn smiling softly at him.
'Follow me.'
Aragorn did as she bid, not wishing to stay where they presently were; he felt that leaving Legolas with that carthorse would not be very wise, either for his benefit or indeed hers. He knew what the Elf had just done perfectly well, and he grinned despite himself. He jumped as Legolas said: 'They're not pointed: they're peaked.' Aragorn laughed softly at this.
'I apologise, mellon nin; I'd forgotten that you prefer to speak of them like mountains rather than ears.'
Legolas gave a brief snort at this and tucked his head into Aragorn's chest, his eyes closed. They had to hurry.
She led the way into a corridor and turned up a flight of spiral stairs, lit by a couple of torch-brackets whose light quivered as she passed, deepening and then making the shadows thinner on the worn stone steps in their wavering light.
At the top of these stairs they met with another corridor - down which they travelled - until they came to a doorway to their left into which they entered.
It was a chamber of a reasonable size, large enough for twenty men to feel comfortable in. As it was, there were about thirty in there, and it dawned upon Aragorn that they were all Elves, most of whom were on the floor on pallets with blankets on them to make them more comfortable. He saw bloodied rags and heard murmurs of pain as the able tended their companions.
'Is this all of you that are left?' He spoke in common tongue for the benefit of Éowyn and Gimli.
'No, Lord Aragorn. We are but a handful.' An Elf stepped forward and bowed deeply to them gracefully. As far as Aragorn could see, the only injury that this Elf had sustained was a cut on his cheek. 'I am Celdan of Lórien, and I am here to tend our own wounded, as the - erm - large lady will not see any of our folk.'
'Yes, we've already met with her,' commented Gimli, the resentment he felt for her showing in his tone.
Celdan smiled and gestured to an empty pallet close to the small fire that crackled in its grate.
Aragorn laid his burden gently upon the bed, cringing at the sharp hiss as Legolas inhaled abruptly at the fresh stab of pain that the movement gave him. He started to shiver again.
Celdan looked upon the face of the other Elf, and his eyes widened in shock at the sight of him.
'The Mirkwood prince lies before me in one of the worse states I have seen any in through the past hours. The night was evil indeed.'
'There is something more to his detriment than meets the eye,' said Aragorn softly yet urgently. 'Do you know of what it is?'
'I fear that I do,' was the response. Celdan, with a brow furrowed with anxiety, placed his hand to Legolas' brow as Aragorn had previously done. His fingertips found Legolas' pulse, and he listened intently to his breathing. He even pulled up the top lip of the other Elf to make an examination of his gums, which were pale and dry. Last of all his long hands went to the wound, causing Legolas to give a sharp cry as they peeled back the dark and stiffened stuff of the jerkin and shirt, revealing the laceration, from where blood that had flowed - and still did - had caked over previously fair skin. Now it had visibly greyed beneath the blood. The condition of the skin itself confirmed his worst fear. His shoulders slumped and his head bowed, a heavy sigh parting his lips before he could stop it.
He rose and walked out into the corridor, indicating that the others should follow.
'The Orcs have developed a new toxin,' he informed them gravely. 'I had heard of it briefly before we parted Lórien. I shall not lie to you: it is deadly.' His frankness left the others in total shock. 'I have come across several men that have it in their systems, and it grieves me to say that they are dead.
'The way it works is this: the victim receives the poison via a wound - no matter how small - and it has no effect for a few minutes. Then they become light-headed and cannot see properly. Their eyes are unable to focus on anything no matter how close even with the greatest concentration.
'Their bodies become abnormally warm, but they feel cold, and their faces become sallow and their eyes dull. This is the mere beginning of a high fever that is very unpredictable in its length; I have heard tell of it all happening over an hour, others taking place over days.'
A silence ensued, during which Gimli and Aragorn felt the beginnings of grief start to settle in their hearts.
'However, there is the slimmest hope.' Their heads lifted at this, eyes raptly watching the tall Elf before them. 'With this toxin a fever-sweat does not normally break out. It is when it fails to happen that death occurs. If it does-'
'He'll live?'
Celdan grinned at the Dwarf's interjection. 'I am not making any promises, and the last thing I want to do is give you false hopes - but yes, he may live.
'But he is very ill; I could see that without even looking at the injury he has - which we will have to clean out...'
Aragorn drew from a pocket a small drawstring bag, which he opened, sending a sweet, uplifting aroma into the air. Celdan's grin broadened. 'You come prepared.'
'It isn't much, and the leaves are dry, but it will still hold most of its' virtue. It may be of some help,' said the Man, more to the bag of athelas than anyone else.
'I'm glad that you have any, no matter what state it is in,' commented Celdan. 'All of our stock has been spent.'
They re-entered the chamber and Celdan veered off to the fire to add Aragorn's pouch of dried athelas to a steaming pot of water.
Aragorn and Gimli crouched beside their sick companion, who watched them with a half-opened blue eye that blinked more frequently than was deemed natural for an Elf. He looked worse to them than he had done when they had parted company a few minutes ago.
'I would rather you did it, Aragorn,' he said quietly.
'Did what, mellon nin?'
Legolas swallowed before he replied: 'Clean my wound.'
Aragorn's eyes snapped to those of his friend. They were both open now, and from their stare he knew with a sickening feeling that the Elf had heard everything that had been said. He may be dying but there was absolutely nothing wrong with his hearing.
Celdan arrived with the water in a bucket that sent its scent washing over them. Legolas breathed it deeply, bracing himself for what he knew was about to come, as Aragorn wrung off a strip of clean cloth in the steaming solution, he too trying to harden himself.
Éowyn lifted Legolas' head and laid it upon her lap, placing her cool hands over his forehead gently yet firmly, smoothing his skin with her middle fingers in an attempt to keep him calm, speaking softly to him all the while.
Gimli came and took his friend's hand, continuously repeating: 'You're alright, lad, you're alright.' Whether he was trying to convince Legolas of this or himself he was not entirely sure.
Celdan had fetched another Elf, and the two of them were pinning Legolas' legs to the floor.
Aragorn removed his friend's belt and cast it to the side to rest with the discarded knife that he had picked up. The weapon looked rather sad without its companion and sheath, along with the bow and quiver that went with it. He would have to go and hunt for those when this task was done.
His hands drew back the stuff of the torn jerkin and shirt to reveal the wound, which gaped up at him like some grotesque attempt at a mouth just beneath the rib cage, a great diagonal slash. It was not a clean cut, and was situated too high for the jerkin and shirt to remain on; they would only be a hindrance as he cleaned, and Aragorn needed two hands for this. So he indicated to Celdan and his companion to come and aid him in the removal of the two items. Celdan lifted Legolas' upper body whilst the other two took off the garments delicately and threw them to the side. This done, they went back to their positions at his feet.
The cloth hovered for a moment over Legolas' bloodied side before Aragorn developed the resolve to bring it down firmly to flesh.
He did not scream at first - he tried to bury his face in Éowyn's lap, as if to hide from the pain. Only when that failed to work did he cry out with the intensity of his agony.
Gimli gasped as his hand was practically being crushed, his face reddening and small grunts escaping his mouth in his discomfort. Either Legolas did not hear or he did not care, for his grip never lessened, but intensified.
Éowyn was now holding his head firmer than before with one hand and stroking his cheek with the other, her face close to his ear, hushing and whispering words of comfort to him. She was shaking almost as much as he was.
The Elves at his legs were having a real test of their strength - they virtually had to lie on them to still them and prevent themselves being kicked.
Aragorn paid no heed to the discomfort of the others. He thought his task to be the hardest. He was the one inflicting the pain to his friend. This had to be done, he knew that well enough; but that did not prevent the tears obscuring his vision.
He rinsed the bloodied cloth in the pail and began again, not daring to pause for any length of time.
Legolas was now fully thrashing. No words of Éowyn could console him enough, nor could the two Elves at his feet restrain him as effectively as they wished, and the sudden movements were causing the blood to flow more again.
Aragorn finally drew back and threw the cloth into the fire, breathing heavily. He hastily bandaged the laceration with the aid of the two Elves before he sat back and declared that his work was done.
Legolas was panting in the aftermath of what had just happened, Éowyn now caressing his face with two hands.
Three blankets were placed over his shivering body with another one rolled up for a pillow for when Éowyn moved.
'You must sleep now,' Aragorn suggested gently. Legolas merely shook his head to this proposal. 'Yes, you must.'
'You mean sleep like Men sleep,' came the weak reply in a quavering voice. 'I cannot do that.' A single tear streamed down his cheek to settle upon Éowyn's finger.
'You are frightened and in pain and away from home, I know,' said Aragorn sensitively. 'But you are with your friends, and you know that we would never allow anything to happen to you. Do you hear me?' He clenched the Elf's shoulder reassuringly with a clasp that stated he would remain true to his word, and that he was there and always would be there just as a true friend would.
It was at that point that the singing began. Sweet, harmonious words that did not need the help of instruments to sound beautiful. The words were only distinguishable to a few in the Hornburg, but the majority of their chamber understood them.
It was a song that Legolas knew well; they sang it at home in Mirkwood. It reminded him so very much of home, of security, of his father...
His shoulders visibly relaxed as his muscles lost their tension that they had gained through his distress to the caress of sleep. And as this happened, his fingers too slackened their grip upon Gimli's hand.
'Is he asleep?'
Aragorn could not answer Gimli's question. Struck by a sudden inspiration, he lowered his mouth to the Elf's up-turned ear, knowing that what he had to say would undoubtedly provoke a response of some kind. When no such reaction came, he sat back upright nodding to the room.
The Dwarf clenched his teeth as he drew his hand slowly away, as if he feared that the Elf's hand would realise that it had let go and would grasp him again.
He flexed it tentatively, and Aragorn and Éowyn could not help laughing at him. Gimli, feeling a little embarrassed by this, commented gruffly: 'The lad has more strength than I anticipated.'
'That he does,' replied the Man, giving Legolas an affectionate glance. 'It is with that that I hope he shall prevail.'
'Of course he shall.' All turned at the voice that orientated from the doorway. There stood Gandalf, standing tall with his staff held in both hands, smiling benignly into the room, his old, kind twinkle in his eyes. 'Elves have a tendency to beat us all when it comes to survival.' He nodded his head to Celdan as the Elf bowed to him.
'The woman in the Hall informed me that you were up here with an Elf that has 'witch-eyes'. What she could have possibly meant by that I have no idea.'
Aragorn snorted disdainfully at this. 'Legolas stared her down, basically, and she didn't like it.' He sighed heavily. 'I would have thought that they'd be happy to treat those that came with the prospect of giving up their immortality for them. Clearly this is not so.'
'The minds of Men are not easy to bend towards new beliefs as you know; she has probably grown up with strange stories about the Fair Ones that her parents and forefathers deemed the appropriate manner with which to explain what they did not understand. Ignorance is sometimes deeper than we may think.'