Beta reader: Dragonfly the Discerning. By the way, Dragonfly, I was indeed thinking of Troy when I composed the discussion between Erestor and Rúmil.
Kelly Kragen: Ai! There will only be references to Estel in this chapter. But fear not! Estel shall reappear!
Grumpy: Sweet of him, yes, but foolish.
Athena Diagon Cat: Yes, so far I've managed to get in Ian McKellan's, Orlando Bloom's, Viggo Mortensen's, and John Rhys-Davies (although I understand that it is Rhys-Davies' size double who got the tattoo). I missed an opportunity to slip in Elijah Wood's tattoo when I had Anomen fish him out of the Brandywine River, but I am going to go back and revise that chapter. There will be more about the tattoo/birthmark in this chapter. Erestor is starting to catch on as to its significance, although his conclusions will not be correct in every detail.
SilentBanshee: As I mention above to Kelly Kragen, Estel doesn't get much play in this chapter, but he will in a future one. I am glad that you like Tawarmaenas!
Joee: Thanks for the observation about the cloak. I'll go back in and have him toss it aside before he begins removing his tunic.
Dragonfly: Yes, we're talking irony here considering Legolas' future friendship with Gimli.
Karri: Thank you!
Jebb: No, I hadn't noticed that mysterious metamorphosis. I have gone back in and changed the Elves back into Dwarves. Thank you for drawing that to my attention.
Gandalf strode restlessly back and forth across the talan where he and Erestor had been staying for the past several weeks whilst the tutor recovered from his illness and made a start toward growing out his hair.
"Mithrandir," complained Erestor, "you are making me dizzy. Whenever will you cease your pacing!?"
Gandalf paused.
"Your pardon, Erestor. I had not realized that I was doing it again. Yet I must do something. I cannot stand by whilst Legolas is in peril. Ah, I have it—my pipe!"
Erestor groaned, but Gandalf knelt by his pack and began to rummage about for the pipe which he had acquired to replace the one broken in the Misty Mountains when he had been seized by one of Sauron's minions. Strangely, though, he could not find it. At length he dumped the contents of his bag onto the flooring and spread them out. No pipe. He looked accusingly at Erestor.
"Have you made away with my pipe!?"
"What would I want with that foul object?" Erestor retorted.
"Oh, you wouldn't want it for yourself, I know, but I shouldn't put it past you to hide or destroy it so that I couldn't indulge myself in pipeweed."
"I wouldn't," said Erestor, "but if someone did, far be it from me to have stood in the way."
"Hmm," mused Gandalf. "Haldir and his brothers have but lately returned from Mirkwood. I suspect one of them had a hand in the disappearance of my pipe. Orophin is perhaps too diffident and Haldir too proper to have taken it. It is that scamp Rúmil who is responsible, I'll wager. Sometimes I think he and Elrohir should have been twins!"
One look at Erestor, who had put on a most innocent expression, convinced Gandalf of the truth of his supposition.
"So," he crowed, "Rúmil did take it, and you stood by—or mayhap you commissioned the act!"
"I may have encouraged him a little bit," admitted Erestor, "but I did not 'commission' him."
"Hmmph!" snorted Gandalf, "precious little difference in my mind between 'encouraging' and 'commissioning'—and you, fond as you are of word play, know that to be so. Now, where has he hidden it!?"
"I do not know," said Erestor petulantly—he had, after all, been confined with the wizard for several weeks. "Why don't you have a look at Galadriel's mirror," he sniggered, "and see if you can find out that way."
"Erestor, you know perfectly well that the mirror is no trinket to be played with! It is to be consulted over matters of import."
"Which," said Erestor triumphantly, "a pipe is not!"
Erestor had him there, and Gandalf was forced to subside. He picked up a stick and stuck it between his teeth, turning it over and over in his mouth. Erestor thought the wizard looked silly mouthing a stick, but he forbore mentioning that fact. As long as Mithrandir had something to gnaw upon, mayhap he would remain quiet! Ai! That was not to be so! After chewing on the stick for several minutes, Gandalf cast it aside and once again began to restlessly pace about the talan.
"Mithrandir," said Erestor coaxingly, "perhaps it would settle your nerves if you were to explain what it is that troubles you. You said something about Legolas being in peril. How is it that he could be in peril when he is Mirkwood surrounded by his kin and his friends?"
"I had a vision," mused Gandalf, "and in it I saw Legolas in deep water, struggling under a great weight."
"Mithrandir," said Erestor soothingly, "both the phrase 'in deep water' and 'struggling under a great weight' are liable to figurative interpretations. Legolas may not be in any physical danger."
Gandalf stopped and answered sharply. "Need a peril be physical for it to be grievous?"
Erestor conceded that point and watched anxiously as Gandalf resumed pacing.
"Mithrandir," he ventured at last, "perhaps we should make our way back to Mirkwood. It wouldn't do any harm, and it might do some good—at the very least it will save the floor of this flet from having a track worn into it from your incessant pacing!"
Gandalf looked at Erestor gratefully.
"You would not mind returning to Mirkwood? Your hair, after all, has not grown completely back."
Erestor shrugged.
"No, but surely it must be longer than those of the young Elves, for they lost their hair altogether. I shall not suffer by comparison!"
"Erestor, you are a gem among Elves."
"I know," replied Erestor insouciantly.
Gandalf rolled his eyes in mock astonishment.
"Always so modest, Erestor," the wizard declared dryly. Then he went in search of Galadriel and Celeborn to inform them that he and Erestor would be departing on the morrow.
"Are you sure this is necessary?" Celeborn said gravely. "I have just sent all available scouts to the western border because a large party of Orcs has been sighted in the Misty Mountains. I can spare only a few Elves to escort you."
"Ah," said Gandalf blithely, "if Orcs have been sighted to the west, and we are heading east, we won't in fact require much of an escort, will we?"
"That is silly logic," said Galadriel with unaccustomed severity. "The presence of Orcs to the west does not preclude the presence of another band to the east."
"Your pardon," said Gandalf. "My levity was inappropriate. Who can you spare to escort us?'
Celeborn considered.
"I could delegate Rúmil and place a handful of Elves under his command."
The wizard's eyes gleamed.
"Excellent!" he gloated. "I should very much like to have Rúmil along on this trip!"
Galadriel suppressed a smile. Even when she was not looking in her mirror, very little escaped her. She was certain that she knew why Mithrandir was pleased that Rúmil would be amongst the party. Poor Rúmil! No doubt the company would not have traveled far before Rúmil would be forced to produce the wizard's pipe.
On the morrow, Gandalf and Erestor, accompanied by Rúmil and five other scouts, headed east.
"I think," said Gandalf briskly as they left the trees of Lothlórien behind them, "that we needn't stop at Beorn's settlement this time. Let us make our way directly toward Mirkwood."
Rúmil was disappointed. He was happy that he would soon be reunited with Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir, but Beorn, although a formidable host, was also a generous one. Rúmil had been looking forward to the prospect of feasting at his table.
"Yes," continued Gandalf later that day after they had made camp and supped, "journeying straight to Mirkwood would be best. Normally I would wish to visit Beorn, but I feel too edgy to take the time to do so on this journey. Pity I can't indulge myself in a bit of pipeweed. 'Twould do my nerves good to sit back and take a long pull upon the stem of my pipe, but, alas, I seem to have mislaid it. And, as I cannot find it, I am so restless that we had better just push on with no breaks for merriment at Beorn's settlement, not to mention his excellent bread and his inestimable honey and butter."
Gandalf arose.
"Good-night, Erestor," he said cheerfully. "Good-night, Rúmil."
After Gandalf had retired to his bedroll, Rúmil glared at Erestor, but the tutor would not meet his eye. Instead, he arose and hastily bade the company good-night as well.
Gandalf slept soundly until morning—he and Erestor were of course exempt from taking a turn on watch. At dawn the wizard arose in as cheerful a frame of mind as when he had retired. Whistling a tuneless song, he picked up his boot, and smiled broadly when he heard something rattle about within it. Turning over the boot, he was delighted when out fell the pipe.
"Remarkable!" he declared. "Last night I was wishing for my pipe, and this morning here it is. Truly my magic grows more powerful each day that passes. Doesn't it seem that way to you, Rúmil, eh?" he said with a wink.
Rúmil looked a little silly.
"Um, yes, Mithrandir, your ability to control a situation is truly remarkable," the young Elf said meekly.
Mithrandir pulled a brand from the campfire and made a great show of lighting his pipe. After a few puffs, he sent a vaporous horse galloping toward Rúmil.
"Oft a new morning brings new counsel," observed the wizard. "I think we shall stop at Beorn's settlement after all. What say you, Rúmil?"
"I defer to your wisdom in all matters, Lord Mithrandir," said Rúmil, his tone respectful but his face eager.
"Well, well, in that case, let us make for the dwelling of the Shape Changer."
With a flourish, the wizard returned the pipe to his mouth.
Relieved that the matter was at an end, Rúmil saw to the breaking of the camp and marshaled his small band of scouts. Before too long they were cantering in the direction of Beorn's land. Suddenly, however, the scout in the lead gave a shout and held up his hand, signaling to the others to halt. He dismounted and crouched down, carefully studying something at his feet. Rúmil likewise dismounted and, bidding his horse remain behind, he strode forward to join the lead scout.
"Rúmil," exclaimed that Elf, "I have never seen tracks such as these."
Rúmil wrinkled his forehead.
"Nor have I. 'Tis a small creature, not even as large as a Dwarf, I think. It is two-footed like a Dwarf or a Man or an Elf. The marks are splay-footed, but these are clearly neither the prints of hooves nor claws. See, you can make out five toes here, from the small to the big, and the foot is arched. Yet it would appear that the creature was scrambling about on its hands as well as its feet. Look at these marks here," he said, pointing to several hand prints. Bewildered, he shook his head.
"An upright creature yet not so," he mused. "Here is a riddle."
He arose and beckoned to Gandalf to join them.
"Mithrandir," he called as the wizard approached, "you have traveled throughout Middle Earth. Have you ever seen such tracks as these?"
In all the years that Rúmil had known Gandalf, he had never seen him look shocked, but there was no denying that such an expression flashed across the wizard's face at the sight of the splay-footed tracks. Almost immediately, however, the wizard regained command of his countenance.
"These tracks are heading south," the wizard observed, his voice trembling just a little with suppressed excitement and anxiety. "We must follow."
"And Legolas?" said Rúmil.
"That errand must wait. Here is a peril more immediate."
With amazing speed for a Man who appeared so agéd, Gandalf ran back to his horse and leaped upon it, reining it about and immediately setting out in a southerly direction, leaning down beside the horse's neck as he rode, examining the ground with a keenness that would have done credit to a Ranger. The others scrambled to their horses and raced to catch up.
For hours they rode in this fashion, Gandalf in the lead, intent upon the mysterious trail. Suddenly he gave an exclamation and pulled up. Leaping from his horse, he bent down to examine a new trail that now overlay the old one. These were the marks of creatures who had come from the west, from the Misty Mountains, and had now turned south, in pursuit, evidently, of the very creature that Gandalf hunted.
"Yrch," hissed Rúmil.
"Aye," said Gandalf, "Orcs from the Misty Mountains."
For a moment, Rúmil saw real fear in the wizard's eyes.
"The Orcs must not lay hold of him," he muttered. "I misdoubt he will bring great evil upon us if they learn what he knows."
"What does he know?" asked Erestor, confused.
"I do not know that myself, mellon-nîn," Gandalf replied enigmatically. "I only know what I fear he knows."
"You speak in riddles!" exclaimed Erestor.
"Of course. I am a wizard. What did you expect? But enough chatter. I must ride on."
"Mount up," Rúmil called to his scouts, who stood by their horses awaiting orders.
"Nay!" said Gandalf. "I ride on alone."
"But, Mithrandir," cried Rúmil in bewilderment, "by these marks you would ride in pursuit of at least a dozen foes. Should you catch up with them, you would become the hunted rather than the hunter."
"Not 'would', 'may'," Gandalf corrected him. "Do not forget that I am Gandalf the Grey. I do have some strength at my command—not to mention tricks up my sleeve."
"Nevertheless," said Rúmil said stubbornly, "I will not let you go on alone."
"You will not let me? You will not let me?"
"No I will not," Rúmil declared stoutly, although, truth be told, he was astonished at his temerity. He had just told a Maia that he was not to wander off alone.
"Um, Mithrandir," Erestor interjected nervously, "you do remember that one time in the Misty Mountains when you went off by yourself and were captured—oh, never mind," he finished hastily at the wrathful expression on Gandalf's face.
The wizard, however, suddenly seemed to undergo a change of feeling.
"Well, well," he said. "Perhaps you are right. Wouldn't want to do anything rash now, would I?"
Rúmil exhaled in relief. That had been a dodgy moment if ever there were one. The entire company remounted and rode on to the south. They did not halt until the last rays of the sun had vanished and they could no longer see the trail. There was no moon that night. They dismounted and made camp but kindled no fires. Gandalf took out his pipe but did not light it. He turned it around and around in his hands. At length he arose and went to Rúmil. He spoke in the kindly voice that Rúmil was much more accustomed to than the commanding one he had used earlier.
"Rúmil, my lad, you must pardon me if some of my words and actions appear rash and overbearing from time to time. I assure that I do have my reasons, although it is generally best if I do not discuss them with you or anyone else. Would it comfort you to know that I do not always share my mind even with the head of my order?"
"I do not doubt your reasons, Mithrandir. I merely fear for your safety."
"That is very kind of you, Rúmil. You may be sure that I will not take any needless risks."
"Why must you take any risks at all?" said Rúmil unhappily.
"Oh, and do you not take risks when you are patrolling the borders of Lothlórien?"
"Yes," admitted Rúmil, "but the risks come to me. You go looking for them."
"That was the task appointed me. You would not have me neglect my duty?"
"No, but I would also not have you neglect your safety."
"It is, of course, necessary for me to remain safe in order to do my duty," said Gandalf, smiling. "If I am dead, I serve no one but the Enemy. Do not fear! I have no wish to serve the Dark Lord. Rest now, Rúmil, and I will do likewise."
Rúmil slept so deeply that afterward he wondered whether Gandalf had set a spell upon him. He awoke to Erestor's voice as that Elf urgently shook him
"Rúmil, wake up! wake up! Mithrandir is gone. His horse remains, and his bedroll and saddle bag, but his staff and the small bag he wears slung over his shoulder are gone."
Rúmil sat up abruptly. As he did so, Gandalf's pipe, which unbeknownst to him had been lying on his chest, fell into his lap. Rúmil picked it up and gazed at it in dismay.
"Why has he left you his pipe?" asked one of the scouts.
Rúmil arose to his feet and stood quietly a little while before answering. At last he spoke.
"It is his way of promising to return," he said softly.
"Aye," added Erestor pensively. "But more than that. Mithrandir will have no need of his pipe until he has come back to us, for he will not be at liberty to indulge in pipeweed in the place to which he is going. I warrant it will be days before he will even risk a fire to cook his food. I hope he carries much lembas in his pack!"
"What shall we do?" asked Rúmil. "We could follow him, or we could make for either Mirkwood or Lothlórien." To Rúmil, a visit to Beorn's settlement no longer held any appeal.
"I think," said Erestor, "that we had better not follow him. By slipping away, he has made it clear that it is not his wish that we do so. Almost I would say that we should split up, some of us carrying the news to Mirkwood, some to Lórien, but our company is too small to do so safely."
He considered a little longer.
"Here is what we shall do," he said at last. "Because we have been traveling south, we are much further from Mirkwood than from Lórien. We shall therefore return to the Golden Land. From there, Celeborn and Galadriel can dispatch messengers who will ride with all speed to Thranduil's Hall. Elrond and Glorfindel will want to know what has transpired."
"As will Legolas," Rúmil pointed out.
Erestor made a face.
"Aye, but let us hope that he can be prevented from running off this time! I should not like to think of him trying to make his way alone to the land of Mordor."
Rúmil shuddered.
"The land of Mordor! Let us hope that he will never go to that place."
Suddenly Erestor looked as if he were in a trance, his eyes looking inward rather than outward.
"Someday," he said tonelessly, "Legolas will indeed stand before the Black Gate."
"Erestor!" exclaimed Rúmil, alarmed at both the older Elf's words and his manner.
"Ah, but not today," said Erestor, resuming his usual expression and tone of voice. He shook himself like a dog shaking off water. "Brrrr. A great chill came over me just then," he said, "but it has passed."
Rúmil stared at Erestor with a mixture of awe and fear, but as that Elf had, he shook the feeling off. Quickly he and the others broke camp. As they gathered their belongings, Rúmil was delighted to notice that the leaf-wrapped packages of lembas in his pack had vanished.
"Take them and welcome, mellon-nîn," he whispered to the morning mists as he gazed toward the south before mounting his horse and heading north.
As they rode along, Rúmil thought of Erestor's odd statement about Legolas before the Black Gate. Had there been any truth to it?
"Erestor," said Rúmil cautiously, "have you looked in Galadriel's mirror?"
"As a matter of fact, she invited me into her Glade the night before we set out. Very hospitable she was."
"Hospitable?"
"Yes, she offered me a beverage. When I partook of it, methought it sweeter than even the finest Dorwinion wine. Rather strong, though."
"So it is true, then," Rúmil thought to himself, appalled. "Legolas will someday go to Mordor. But why? And when? And most important, will he return from that place?"
Aloud, Rúmil said, "Erestor, when you said a little while ago that Legolas would stand before the Black Gate—"
"What! I said no such thing!"
"But you did!"
"Stuff and nonsense! Legolas has no business to the south! Whatever would take him there?"
"Mithrandir, maybe?"
"Mithrandir!? Mithrandir would not take Legolas into danger. He is convinced that Legolas has a great destiny before him, that he is to participate in a momentous quest that will determine the fate of Middle Earth!"
"Maybe standing before the Black Gate of Mordor will be part of that quest."
"Oh," Erestor said stupidly.
If the matter hadn't been so serious, Erestor would have felt silly. Instead, he felt sick at the vision of his belovéd pupil confronting the power of the Dark Lord.
"Estel!" he said suddenly.
"Estel?" repeated Rúmil, puzzled.
"Do you know that Estel has a birthmark that looks like the number nine in Elvish lettering?"
"Does he?—but Legolas has one, too!"
"Yes," said Erestor grimly, "and so does Mithrandir, on his shoulder. Legolas' destiny is in some way linked to both Estel's and Mithrandir's."
"I have never seen such a birthmark on Mithrandir," declared Rúmil skeptically.
"Of course not, you ninny! Mithrandir is not in the habit of bathing with you hellions. He prefers the chamber frequented by elders who desire to wash themselves without fear of having buckets of cold water suddenly dumped upon their heads! You will just have to take my word for it—Mithrandir and Estel and Legolas all share the selfsame birthmark."
"The letter nine in Elvish," mused Rúmil. "What could that signify? Nine years? Nine leagues? Nine battles?"
"Nine years is an insignificant length of time," said Erestor, "and nine leagues a trivial distance. More likely nine battles."
"Perhaps Dol Guldur was one."
Erestor shook his head.
"Estel did not participate in that battle. I think the battles lie in the future."
"What will Thranduil say?" Rúmil wondered.
"Do not mention this to Thranduil," warned Erestor.
"Why not?"
"Think, Rúmil! What would Thranduil do if he knew that Legolas' path will lead him to the Black Gate of Mordor?"
"Oh, that's easy," declared Rúmil. "Thranduil would furnish a room in the dungeon with fine tapestries and thick carpets and ebon and gold furnishings, and that room, comfortable and elegant but a prison, would henceforth and forever be Legolas' chamber. Legolas would be allowed to venture forth only with an escort of one hundred of Thranduil's best warriors. No horseback riding, let alone barrel riding! No impulsive jaunts through the forest. No swimming in ponds with only the company of his friends."
"Yes," agreed Erestor. "Thranduil would try everything in his power to prevent Legolas from being swept up on a quest that would lead him to Mordor. But destiny should not be thwarted. It would be an ill thing for Legolas—but also for Middle Earth. If he has a mission to fulfill, then fulfill it he must."
"Erestor, I want to go with him on this mission."
"But you do not bear the birthmark. I think it will be only for those who carry that sign."
"And there are at least the three of them."
"Aye. Three that we know of. There may be more."
"I wonder," said Rúmil hopefully. "Do birthmarks ever spontaneously appear?"
"Rúmil, they are called 'birthmarks' for a reason. But do not fret. Everyone has a destiny."
"Haldir," said Rúmil thoughtfully, "has a mark on his hand that looks like a scar left from a knife wound. Galadriel has ever said that this is a portent of his future. I wish I bore some such mark!"
"One can be marked in many ways, Rúmil, not all of them visible. Legolas will go to Mordor someday; you, I think, will not. But would you have the Golden Land overwhelmed by foes so that, even should Legolas and his companions prevail, there is nothing for them to return to? That is your destiny, I deem, to be a Marchwarden of the Land of Lórien. Your strength, your vigor—ferocity, even—will serve your people well as you guard them from evil. Not for you the wandering life, but the life of a warrior fiercely determined to protect his homeland from any who might harm it. Is this so negligible a task that you would wish to abandon it?"
Thoughtfully, Rúmil shook his head.
"No, I would not—although," he admitted, "I am a little envious. No one will tell tales about a mere Marchwarden, but I am sure Legolas will be celebrated for as long as the stars still drift above the lands of Middle Earth. That sounds petty, I know, but I cannot help but be a little sorry that I will be the hero of no story."
"It is natural to desire fame," Erestor said, "and many are the warriors who have performed great deeds in part for that reason—although I think to defend one's homeland is the better motive. Still, you need not apologize. But tell me, Rúmil, are you so sure that you will figure in no tale? I would not be so certain if I were you!"
Mayhap it was the lingering effect of the brew that Galadriel had furnished Erestor when the Elf visited her Glade, but in this, as in his prediction that Legolas would journey to Mordor, the elf-lord proved to be prophetic.