Chapter Twenty-Six

Revelations in the Dark

We stopped to rest only when it was fully night, all of us terribly stiff. I had to be pried off Shadowfax, and collapsed in a heap, nearly sobbing. Aragorn sensed it, even in the dark, as did Mithrandir, I think. They converged on me, and the Ranger examined my bandages by the light of the wizard's staff.

Though he said nothing, I could tell Aragorn did not like what he saw. Twisting around, I agreed. Angry red streaks stretched up my right arm and leg, and the wounds themselves had not scabbed over. Recognizing the preliminary signs of blood poisoning, I swallowed hard and asked, "Am I going to die?"

"No," said Aragorn, and put a hand on my head.

"Not yet," Mithrandir qualified, leaning closer with the light.

Much comforted by this, I locked eyes with the Ranger. "Swear to me, on your lady's life and on the hilt of Anduril, that, should I be unable to protest it, you will not cut off either my arm or my leg, nor allow another to do so." I saw his eyes go hard, and then suspiciously blank. He did not move. I blinked back tears, wondering what I could do to convince him. "Please," I whispered, "I would rather die than live a cripple."

Aragorn's mouth twitched with some emotion I could not name, and then his right hand went to his heart and his left to Anduril's hilt. "I so swear."

Mithrandir rolled his eyes. Both of us saw him, and this broke the moment. Aragorn returned to his dressing, and I lay back on the icy grass, sighing.

"Aragorn," the wizard began quietly in Elvish, "I had meant to wish you many happy returns of the day, if it is not tomorrow yet. Which is this, eighty-eight or eighty-nine?"

The Ranger froze. "You know well it is eighty-eight," he muttered in the same tongue. "Need we discuss your age, old man?"

"I have been reborn," said the wizard smugly, "and as such have not even one year to my tally."

"So you must concern yourself with mine?" Aragorn snorted.

The wizard coughed. "I believe you are upset because I have not brought you a present."

Not deigning to answer this, Aragorn stood and wiped his hands on a corner of his cloak. "If I am to be of any use tomorrow, I must rest. Do what you can." To me, he said, "Firiel, sleep if you can. If not, wake me, and I will give you a draught. It would be better if you could do without, for we ride before dawn, and it will last far longer."

I nodded as well as I could from a prone position and, as Aragorn lay down next to Legolas and Gimli's prone forms, heard Mithrandir mutter something that sounded suspiciously like, "Young fool."

Grinning in spite of the pain, I asked, "Is he really eighty-eight?"

"He is," the wizard answered, "and may live to see as many years again. His blood is that of the Ancient Kings from across the Sea, the Numenoreans."

Galadriel had told me some of this, but even though I was very tired and sore, I wanted to know more. "And that blood gives him the right to Gondor's throne?"

Mithrandir touched the bandage on my leg, and I yelped in spite of myself. He took his time before answering. "The blood of Numenor runs in the veins of many, though not so many as there once were. But Aragorn is descended from Isildur, whose father was Elendil, High King of Gondor and Arnor. If anyone may claim that title now, it is Aragorn."

"But is not Lord Denethor the Steward of Gondor?" I asked, though I knew the answer. Boromir had filled the times when I would not talk about my family by speaking of his.

"He is, but a steward is not a king, which the line of Hurin has known for nearly a thousand years. They are merely placeholders, powerful ones, but without the throne."

I wondered how to phrase my next question. "How receptive will Lord Denethor be if Aragorn makes a claim for the throne?"

Mithrandir sighed. "I do not know. The Steward's mind has long been hid from me. I believe he will follow the decision of his Council."

This raised another question. "Will Aragorn make such a claim?"

Another sigh from the wizard. "That, only he may answer, though it may depend on the questioner and the manner of the asking." He fixed me with a glance that clearly said, 'Mind your own business.'

And I would, until I got to Gondor. There, I might find a problem. Boromir had described his father as a just man, but sometimes harsh, and prone to keeping his own counsel in all things. And though no one had ever come out and said it, I had inferred that the Steward favored his older son over the younger, though Boromir had said his brother was more like their father in temperament and perception.

With this in mind I laid my plans. At Edoras, I would beg a fresh horse and supplies from Théoden King, get directions from Aragorn, if he would not go with me, and ride posthaste for Gondor. Assuming I arrived unmolested by Orcs or other foes, I would seek out the Lord Faramir, in Ithilien or Minas Tirith, and tell him my story. If his powers of perception were as keen a Boromir had described them, he would believe my tale. From there, I would ask for a position in his Rangers or among the general soldiery of Gondor. If he balked at this, I would play as my trump the fact that I'd already sworn allegiance to Gondor.

So many aspects of the plan could go wrong, the most immediate of which already had: my leg. While I stewed over this, I heard Mithrandir muttering to himself. "If only Radagast or Alatar were in my place. They have some skill with healing."

The second name he'd mentioned rang a bell within the foggy recesses of my memory. "And who may they be, lord?"

He did not look up. "Wizards of my Order; Radagast the Brown and Alatar the Blue."

Now a picture accompanied the name: a woman with straw-colored hair, wearing a blue caftan and bending over a silver basin filled with stormy water. A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with my fever or the chill air. My voice cracked as I asked, "This Alatar, where is she now?"

The wizard did look at me now, his gaze going straight out the back of my head. He moved away from me, and I sat up in spite of the pain. "Alatar and Pallando, the Ithryn Luin, were sent to other Earths, those that Eru created before and after Middle-Earth. They traveled east with Saruman and did not return. How is it that you have seen her? For your eyes tell me that you have."

"I-she sent me here, lord, on the grounds that my path lay in another realm-this one." It sounded pitifully vague, but I didn't know what else to say.

"How?" I wouldn't have minded a detailed answer to that myself.

"She had a basin that showed-things, much like the Lady Galadriel's. She told me not to touch the water in it, and I...did."

Mithrandir humphed. "She always was contrary. And, so?"

"So I awoke in Lorien, speaking the tongues of Elves and Men, helped at times by something in the back of my head. I think her presence is still with me, but I still do not know why I am here. Lady Galadriel sent me with the Fellowship-in your place, maybe, my lord-but I think you would have done a better job of-" How had Aragorn put it? "Keeping their minds off their troubles and Boromir's desire from the Ring."

The wizard snorted again. "You grow melancholy in your delirium. Sleep now. I will watch."

Slightly hurt, and with no real answers, I curled up around my pains and, after thinking that I would never fall asleep, I did. I dreamed about Madame Alatar, but she seemed to speak straight past me to Mithrandir. It was my dream, and I understood none of it.

It was still dark when Legolas shook me awake, but paused with his hand on my shoulder. "She burns with fever!"

Four anxious faces and one cool hand on my forehead later, I sat up, groaning. My head was floating somewhere above my left shoulder. The mere thought of standing, much less getting on a horse, was, well, unthinkable. I swallowed some water and lembas while Aragorn and Mithrandir held a hasty council.

The Ranger handed me a phial from his belt pouch, warning me not to swallow the contents until I had something substantial in my stomach. After dispatching Legolas to hunt and Gimli to gather wood, my remaining companions readied the horses and then simply sat by me until the others returned.

They were empty-handed. No wood to be found on a marshy plain, Gimli reported, and something had frightened the game away for miles. "More of Saruman's doings," Mithrandir grumbled.

Four pairs of eyes stared at me. I addressed Aragorn, holding up the phial. "This won't work on an empty stomach, will it?"

He hesitated, and then shook his head. "It would likely kill you."

I pressed the draught back into his hand, and began to pray. 'Boromir, Valar, God above, help me!' Something my mother used to quote flashed into my head: 'Sometimes grace is given to the undeserving in their hour of need, that they may go on.'

I levered myself up, but, having only one arm to push with, fell backwards with my right leg bent under me. Blinking back tears and spangles of pain, I looked up at my companions. "Help me?"

Strong, infinitely gentle hands lifted me, and even Shadowfax nuzzled my hand as they hoisted me onto his back. Once Mithrandir was behind me, and the others on their respective mounts, we set off.

I would not call the fevered, pain-filled daze I slid into sleep, but it took me away from the pounding horse beneath me, and the miles that passed beneath him. My mother visited me, speaking words of hope and comfort but slipping away before I could hold her. And so I knew it was not she. Boromir's voice was also in my mind, and his arms strong around me. I wept then, into the solid warmth of his chest, and he stroked my hair, but when I came back to consciousness, my cheeks were dry. He had gone.