Folks, it may be awhile before I will be posting much again. My old nemesis, the archfiend Remoin (aka Repetitive Motion Injury), has succeeded in disabling both of my little fingers and now, completely lacking in mercy, is going after my right thumb. I'm taking industrial-strength doses of naproxen sodium, but I know if I don't stop typing, the inflammation won't subside.
On June 4th I am scheduled to receive a 'tablet' pc that comes equipped with voice recognition software. I hope I am able to rapidly master the software. I do have a little piece written for "The Clearing," and I going to tidy that up and send it off to Dragonfly for a beta reading.
On a more cheerful note, June 11th my daughter heads to New York City to perform with her choir. I'm going along as a chaperone. Anyone live in or near New York City? The choir is performing at TrinityChurch (Ground Zero) on Saturday, June 12th, at 1:00 p.m. If anybody happens to be in the vicinity, I'm the lady who looks like a Hobbit—short and round with curly hair ('salt and pepper' but with the 'salt' starting to win out).
Beta Reader: Dragonfly the Discriminating
Farflung: Don't worry about Haldir. Remember I manage to bring him back in "The Return of the Elf." Haldir Lives!
Silver Badger: Yes, the number nine represents the nine members of the Fellowship. I got the idea for the shared birthmarks from the tattoos that the nine actors (well, eight plus Gimli's double) are supposed to sport now.
Slivertongue, Gilraen, and Azure Dragoness: Thank you so much for your kind words!
Joee: Haven't updated this story in several days. Sorry.
Athena Diagon Cat: Thank you. I like providing Erestor with an extra dimension or two (or three).
Kelly Kragen: There is a little bit of Estel in this chapter, but probably not as much as you'd like. There will be more, I promise.
Dragonfly: Yes, if ever Gandalf were to be tempted to turn someone into something 'unnatural', this would have to have been the moment. Imagine a young Elf trying to boss around a Maia!
Estel was sparring with Legolas.
"Move your feet!" instructed Glorfindel as he watched the lesson with a critical eye. "Move your feet, Estel!"
Legolas smiled down indulgently at the little human. Suddenly his smile vanished. Estel had ducked underneath his guard.
"Ooooow!" Grimacing, the Elf crumpled onto the ground and drew up his legs to his chest, rocking back and forth in pain.
"Lucky for you that was a wooden sword," smirked Glorfindel. "Else you would never have any younglings of your own!"
"I don't want any younglings of my own," scowled Legolas, recovering somewhat, although he still winced and gasped. "And, Estel, that was a low blow."
"You never said I wasn't to hit below the belt," grinned the lad. "It was an effective maneuver, was it not?"
"Highly effective," grumbled Legolas. "I am very sorry for your future opponents if you continue on your present path."
"It was fair, wasn't it," Estel appealed to Glorfindel.
"Yes," agreed the balrog-slayer. "In a battle there is no time for niceties. You may chop off any body part you please if by doing so you disable your foe. And I am sure that stroke of yours would indeed have disabled your foe—aye, and set the rest of your enemies fleeing in fear of receiving the same treatment at your hands!"
Estel gloated as he walked back to the Great Hall in the company of Legolas and Glorfindel. He had never before succeeded in landing a blow on Legolas. Of course, he reflected, it probably wouldn't happen again for a long time. Legolas had underestimated him, a mistake he wasn't likely to repeat.
"Glorfindel," he said, "may I begin practicing with a real sword?"
"What say you, Legolas?" said the balrog-slayer. "Is Estel here ready to practice with a sword that has a sharp point and a keen edge?"
"You had better find him another partner, then, Glorfindel, for I wish to keep my point!"
"Seriously, Legolas."
"Seriously, Glorfindel, Estel has been ready for some time. Only my desire for self-preservation has prevented me from mentioning the fact."
"Good. Estel, we will see if Thranduil has a leather jerkin and wrist guards that would fit you, for if you are going to practice with a real sword, you will need to be better protected."
"What about me!?" exclaimed Legolas.
Glorfindel waved his hand dismissively.
"Oh, you are not in peril of losing anything important."
"Huh," scoffed Legolas. "I've got a few miles left on mine yet, whereas you, Glorfindel—aii!"
Glorfindel made a show of cuffing the younger Elf's ears. By then they had reached the entrance to the Great Hall, where the guards looked askance at seeing the Imladris Elf treat their Prince so. Lord Glorfindel was, however, known to be the balrog-slayer, so the guards held their tongues, fearing they might lose them else.
Laughing and singing, Glorfindel, Estel, and Legolas proceeded to Thranduil's presence chamber, where the King of Mirkwood was engaged in conversation with Lord Elrond.
"Ada," cried Estel as they entered the room, "I landed a blow on Legolas. Indeed, I felled him, Ada!"
"You landed a blow on Prince Legolas?" said Thranduil, who was, of course, the Prince's father.
Suddenly Estel paled. It hadn't occurred to him that the Elf he had struck was in fact a prince and heir to the throne of Mirkwood.
"Lucky you are not a commoner," continued Thranduil with a smile, "else I should have to return you to the dungeon—although, as the tunnel is much enlarged, no doubt you would soon make your way out again!" Still smiling, Thranduil turned to Elrond. "I think a celebration is in order. 'Tis not everyday my son is bested on the training field!"
Estel was relieved but confused. What had Thranduil meant—'lucky you are not a commoner'?
As for Elrond, he was vexed, but he took care not to let it show. How, he wondered, had Thranduil known of Estel's true identity? Had Legolas told him? Well, if so, he couldn't very well chide Legolas for speaking freely to his own father. On the other hand, Thranduil may have simply deduced the truth. Starting with Arahael son of Aranarth, each descendant of Isildur had been fostered in Imladris. This fact was not generally known, and Elrond had not thought that Thranduil was aware of the practice, but he may have learned of it through a word innocently uttered by an Elf who had been traveling back and forth betwixt the three elven realms. If Thranduil did know of the custom, when he saw a human boy in the company of Elrond, he would naturally have assumed that the child was the latest in the long line of the Dúnadain chieftains to be so fostered. No matter how Thranduil had happened upon the truth, though, Elrond resolved to have a private word with him in order to ask him to remain silent on the matter in the future. Outside of Elrond's immediate domestic circle, only Mithrandir, Celeborn, and Galadriel were privy to the full story behind Estel's parentage. Even Saruman had been kept in the dark.
Elrond turned his attention back to the gathering, for gathering it had become. Elladan, Elrohir, Gilglîr, and Tawarmaenas had arrived, and Legolas was participating in a good-natured recreation of the encounter with Estel, which was becoming more and more 'epic' in nature with every minute that passed. Pity Mithrandir and Erestor weren't here to enjoy the spectacle—or did Elrond's eyes deceive him?
"Erestor?" he said as a familiar form materialized before him.
"Rúmil!" shouted the younger Elves.
"Mithrandir!" clamored Estel. "Where is Mithrandir? I've got something important to tell him!"
Erestor spoke hesitantly.
"Mithrandir is—on a quest, as is his wont."
Elrond raised his eyebrows and arose from his seat.
"Thranduil, if you would pardon me, no doubt my councilor carries messages from my kin in Lothlórien."
"Of course, Elrond. Of course."
Elrond left the room, accompanied not only by Erestor but by Glorfindel and Rúmil as well. When they reached Elrond's chamber, the Lord of Imladris spared only a few words for formalities.
"You are well, I hope, Erestor."
"Yes, Elrond. I have largely recovered from both my illness and my baldness. But never mind me."
"What news of Mithrandir? You set out with him but return alone."
Erestor sighed.
"Elrond, I think Mithrandir must have taught Legolas everything he knows about absconding. He gave us the slip during the night and set off for the south in pursuit of that wretched creature he has been hunting on and off for several years."
Elrond relaxed a little.
"Ah, that is not so bad. I am certain, should Mithrandir catch up with the creature, he will be more than a match for the miserable thing."
"Yes, I am sure that Mithrandir would be able to manage the creature, but the thing itself is being pursued by Orcs, and Mithrandir will have to somehow get around or go through the band before he can lay hands on his prize."
Glorfindel leaped to his feet.
"I will set out at once, Elrond!"
Erestor shook his head.
"Glorfindel, Mithrandir has a head start of many days. When he escaped us, we were so far south that we were within the Brown Lands. You will not reach him in time. No, we must await word of him."
"At least we can send out messengers to ask that all our friends watch for him and assist him should he require it," said Elrond.
"Celeborn and Galadriel have already done so," said Erestor. "Rúmil and I went first to Lothlórien. Arwen sends you greetings, Elrond."
Erestor pulled forth a scroll from his tunic and handed it to Elrond, who accepted it gratefully but put it aside to read later in private. Rúmil drew forth a pipe and proffered it to the Elf Lord.
"What is this?"
"Mithrandir left behind his pipe. He is more often in Imladris than in Lothlórien, so I thought it would be best to entrust it to you against the day of his return."
Elrond smiled.
"I am strongly tempted to toss it into the bottom of my pack so that it might be broken, but if I do so he will only procure another, I suppose, either from the Dwarves or the Periannath. Very well. I will safeguard it. And now, Rúmil, no doubt you wish to rejoin your friends."
"If I may be permitted, my Lord."
"You may," said Elrond, inclining his head.
Rúmil bowed deeply, backing toward the door. When he reached it, he vanished.
"Rúmil has yet to complete his second millennium," observed Erestor, "but in spite of his youth, he is turning into quite the responsible Elf—although I do not think he will ever be as serious-minded as Haldir."
"Let us hope not," Glorfindel remarked drolly. "Sometimes Haldir can make a weeping willow look ecstatic."
If Haldir could have made a weeping willow look ecstatic, Gandalf at that very moment would have made one appear positively delirious with joy. He was huddled under a rock overhang, but as the wind was driving the rain vertically, he might as well have been sitting out in the open. He sat hunched over, knees draw up, and hat tilted forward over his face. The rain that poured off that item created a waterfall that blocked his vision. Fortunately, the weather was so dreadful that few foes were likely to be out wandering about. If Mithrandir had been comfortable enough to sleep, he might have been perfectly safe. However, he was, without a doubt, not comfortable enough.
"Just as well that I left behind my pipe," he muttered, "because I could never have gotten it lit these past several days. At least the weather has bogged down not only me but also my friends the Orcs. Now, as for my quarry, he would just as soon slither through the mud as plod through the dust, so he has probably gone on ahead. Fine! I won't catch him this time, but as long as he stays out of the hands of the servants of Sauron, that will do for now."
Mithrandir had, however, underestimated both the sneakiness and the desperation of Gollum. The creature was very, very hungry, and he had only two preferred methods of dealing with hunger—murder or theft. Gollum knew that he was being followed by Orcs because they were so noisy. He also knew that Orcs were stupid, lazy, and careless. In the past, he'd done very well pinching food from Orc encampments—also on a couple of occasions pinching half-grown Orcs as well. Nasty, but they would do when nothing else would serve. And so he was indeed slithering through the mud at this moment—right into the Orc camp. Like Gandalf, the Orcs were sitting with hunched shoulders, knees drawn up, scraps of cloth over their heads. Stupefied by the cold and damp, they did not notice the shadow that flitted from pack to pack, snuffling and rummaging. At length Gollum found a few strips of dried meat of indeterminate origin. He had never been finicky, and he at once retired from the camp to gnaw upon the scraps.
Ai! As Gollum slobbered over his winnings, he himself grew careless. This band of Orcs, rag-tag as it was, had had enough discipline to set a watch. One lone Orc had been set to guarding the camp. He had in fact been dozing, but at last, roused by hunger, he decided to creep into the camp to retrieve a bone that the captain of the band had earlier discarded. "Might be a few shreds o' flesh left on it," he thought to himself. Sneak-thief number two slipped toward the camp, and, quiet as he was, succeeded in coming up on sneak-thief number one, entirely by accident, mind you, but that did not lessen the honor that he meant to claim for the accomplishment.
"Got'im!" he shrieked, launching himself at Gollum. "Got'im!"
Actually, as the Orc's companions swarmed from the camp and surrounded the two wriggling sneak-thieves, there was considerable doubt as to who had whom. The Orc had a firm grip on one of Gollum's legs, but Gollum had sunk his jagged teeth into the Orc's neck and so in that sense had a firm grip on him. Be that as it may, what mattered to Gandalf, who, alerted by the racket, was doing some sneaking of his own, was that Gollum was hemmed in by a dozen Orcs. The two thieves were soon separated, and Gollum was trussed hand and foot. Of all the things that could have happened, thought Gandalf, this was the worst.
"Now," gloated the leader of the Orcs, "we can leave off trampin' about this Mordor-forsaken place and get back to our holes."
"Holes is probably filled with water by now," grumbled one Orc.
"Cain't you never see the dark side o' nothin'?" snapped the captain.
"What dark side? It's rainin'. Been rainin' for sivin days."
"That's just it. No sun. Ain't that dark enow for ye?"
There was an appreciative murmur from the other Orcs in the band. Clearly there was a reason why this one Orc was the captain. Very perceptive for a goblin, he was.
The captain ordered his Orcs to break camp. Then, with Gollum slung over the shoulders of one of the larger Orcs, the creatures set out at a rapid pace for the south. Gandalf trailed after, looking for an opportunity to deprive them of their captive.
"I've got to rescue the wretched creature," he grumbled to himself. "Curious state of affairs, having to rescue a lying, murdering, thieving, treacherous wretch. But if I don't save his miserable skin, a lot of good folk may lose theirs. Besides, no matter how miserable a creature it is, I suppose it wouldn't do to abandon it to the tender mercies of Orcs who are themselves even more accomplished at lying, murdering, thieving, and betraying."
This sparked some rather interesting reflections on the Istar's part as he wearily trudged along in the rain.
"Let us posit," he said to himself—he had had some training in philosophy—"let us posit that a lying, murdering, thieving, treacherous Orc has been captured by a creature that is itself even worse. Would it be appropriate to feel any sympathy for the goblin? I am quite certain that Orcs can both feel and fear pain. As they can fear pain—that is, they can anticipate the future—they are therefore sentient beings. Granted, they are wicked creatures, but sentient nonetheless. Now, Men may be more or less good. Some of them can behave very ill indeed. Yet they are all sentient creatures, and one can feel sorry for a Man who has suffered and come to a bad end even if he has committed evil acts. Moreover, one feels an impulse to rescue a Man from a painful situation even if one knows he is not the best of Men. Could one argue that the difference between a Man and an Orc is one of scale and degree and not an absolute difference?"
Poor Gandalf must have been very cold and very tired to have indulged in such reflections, and after awhile he gave it up as a bad business.
"Be practical, Gandalf," he growled. "There is no reforming an Orc, but one may hope to reform a Man. A Man may cease to be wicked; an Orc never will. Exterminate the brutes! Yes, that's the only answer!"
He reached this hard-hearted conclusion at exactly the right moment, for one of the Orcs had fallen back and was unlacing its breeches. This was not a very heroic way of eliminating the opposition, but Gandalf did not hesitate for a moment in taking advantage of the fact that he had literally caught his opponent 'with his pants down'.
Having dispensed with one foe, Gandalf resumed trailing the band and was soon able to take advantage of similar opportunities. The Orcs being deficient in arithmetic skills, Gandalf was able to do away with five in this fashion before the captain noticed that there did not seem to be as many Orcs as there had been formerly. He called a halt and stared bewildered at the company.
"How many have we got 'ere?" he said to his companions.
There was considerable counting and recounting—"six' said some, 'seven' said others, and 'eight' claimed yet others. It turned out that some Orcs counted themselves in the tally; some didn't. Moreover, sometimes Gollum was included in the reckoning; sometimes he wasn't. After considerable argument, the Orcs concluded that there were seven goblins plus one prisoner.
"But didn't we start out with more Orcs?" said the captain.
Gradually it dawned upon the Orcs that no one had thought to do a head count at the outset. However, at length all agreed that, although they weren't sure how many Orcs were missing, they were indeed short several.
"Whadya s'pose happened to 'em?" asked one goblin nervously.
"I hear that Elves eat Orcs," proclaimed another. "A real treat they think Orcs is."
"Eeew. Nasty!" shuddered a third, who was apparently a little more squeamish than most Orcs.
"I should say so!" declared a fourth, who was likewise particular about his diet. "Oncit I was trapped in a cave and ate one o' me mates, and he did taste awful. But there's no accountin' for some folk's likes'n'dislikes, ye know. Those pointy eared Elves be peculiar, doubtless."
"You maggot-brain," snarled the captain. "We have pointy ears, too, in case ye didn' notice, which I guess ye hain't. And none of this jabberin' is gettin' us anywhere."
"If we recommenced walkin', we might get somewhere," offered one of the smaller Orcs.
The captain's sword slashed through the air.
"Awright," he growled, "now we got six plus a prisoner. Any others o' ye have any cheeky idears?"
The other Orcs fell silent, and the company did recommence walking, although they were warier now, both of the captain and of the danger that lurked without their ranks. They were on the Mordor side of the Anduin, to the west of Emyn Muil and passing through the Dagorlad, the Battle Plain of the Last Alliance. No doubt they were making for the Black Gate, for that would provide a more direct approach to Barad-dûr than entering Mordor through Minas Morgul. Gandalf knew that he had very little time remaining in which to wrest the captive away from the Orcs.
That morning, when the Orcs made camp, Gandalf crouched nearby considering his options. The Orcs seemed to be careless, perhaps because they were so close to their destination. He decided that their numbers had dwindled sufficiently for him to risk slipping into their camp. He settled back to wait until full noon, when all the Orcs would likely be asleep. Idly he watched as the captain undid his breeches and wandered into the bush on the far side of the camp. He would not risk going after him, for if the captain vanished, the remaining Orcs might be thrown into a panic and scurry pell mell the remainder of the distance to the Black Gate.
Unbeknownst to Gandalf, the captain had been doing some thinking, an activity that even Orcs will engage in if driven to it. It seemed to the captain that the missing Orcs had vanished one by one. They were being stalked then and perhaps were still being stalked. After he had refastened his breeches, he decided to take a circuit around the camp, far enough back, he hoped, so that he might be able to spy out their foe. So it was that he caught sight of Gandalf, his back to him, as he patiently waited for his opportunity to slip into the camp. With great care, the Orc captain drew his scimitar and crept up behind the wizard.
Fortunately, in this place it seemed not to have rained as much as it had further north, and a twig snapped under the foot of the Orc. Gandalf spun about and was able to deflect the scimitar thrust with his staff. Unfortunately, in doing so, the head of his staff broke off. Gandalf drew his sword. Dodging and weaving, thrusting and parrying, he fended off his assailant until at last he saw an opening and drove his sword home.
He enjoyed not even a moment's respite. Drawn by the sound of the scuffle, the remaining five Orcs were scrambling about looking for him. They broke through the brush just as their captain fell and launched themselves at the wizard. One by one they were slain by the Istar, but the last Orc, before he was skewered, managed to drive a blade into the Istar's side. After making sure that his enemies were dead, Gandalf collapsed to his knees and then fell forward onto all fours, gasping and retching. His vision went gray, and all sounds became muffled, as if dampened by cotton wool. Gradually he recovered himself a little bit. Seizing upon the remnant of his staff, he levered himself to his feet, and, pressing one hand against his side, he staggered toward the Orc camp.
It was deserted. As soon as the Orcs had rushed from the camp, Gollum had slithered to a knife that lay by the fire where an Orc had been preparing a meal. Quickly he had cut his bonds.
"He'll be miles away from here by now," Gandalf thought to himself, part rueful, part relieved. Rueful because Gollum had escaped. Relieved because the creature was no longer in the hands of the Orcs. Also, truth be told, Gandalf knew that he now was not up to the task of dragging the wretched thing to Mirkwood. It would be all he could do to drag himself back to Mirkwood.
In fact, Gollum was only yards away, hidden in the brush and eagerly waiting for the wizard to depart. After all, a veritable feast awaited him—six Orcs, two of them on the small side and therefore undoubtedly tender. His dinner wouldn't be wriggling, but at least it would be raw. Gandalf, however, did not think along these lines. At the moment, he was ripping strips from his cloak—the Orc's blankets looked too filthy to be used as bandages. As soon as he had tended his wound as best he could, he considered what he ought to do.
"The nearest aid," he thought to himself, "would be in Rohan. First I must make for Sarn Gebir. I will cross the Anduin above those rapids, and then I will head due west. The Eastemnet is well patrolled. Once I enter it, it will not be long before I am found by the Rohirrim."
Leaning heavily upon his damaged staff, he set off. He could never afterward say how many days he walked before he reached the Anduin. He remembered running out of water long before he stood on its banks, and he recalled throwing himself down beside the river and drinking greedily. Then he refilled his water bladder and carefully picked his way across the rocks that filled the river at the place. It had not rained since the skirmish, and the water was lower than it had been when he had initially crossed over during his pursuit of the Orcs.
Once on the other side, he resumed his weary trudging. He had long ago eaten the last crumb of lembas, and he was dizzy from hunger.
"Rohan," he thought feverishly. "Edoras."
On he staggered. He finished the last of the water. Heedlessly, he cast aside the water bladder.
The sun rose high. A cloud, high and thin, slid tantalizingly across the sky and vanished into the west.
"Water. Thirsty."
Gandalf squinted at the horizon. Trees. They would grow by a water course. That way.
He stumbled onward. Trees. That way. He heard harsh cries in the air. He glanced upward. Circling birds. Large birds. Dark they were. Crows.
For a long time the trees seemed to grow no nearer. Suddenly, without being aware of how he had got there, he stood in their shade. At his feet was a streambed. It was dry. Desperately, Gandalf used his staff to dig into the cracked soil. Little by little, the hole filled with water. It was cloudy, but it would do. Gandalf tore off another strip of his cloak, used it to sop up the water, and threw back his head, squeezing every last drop of water into his mouth. The hole slowly refilled, and Gandalf repeated the process. Little by little, he satisfied his thirst.
"Must keep going," he muttered to himself. Again he used his staff to lever himself to his feet. He took a few halting steps toward the west, but then he pitched forward upon the dry grass and did not move again. As he lay there motionless, the branches of the trees grew heavy with crows.