Folks, as I wrote to Dragonfly, beta extraordinaire, I need to get into a 12-step program for fanfiction writers. Anyway, tried to rest my hands—for one thing, wrote out four pages longhand and then entered it using a forefinger. And now the swelling and pain have subsided somewhat, so I've gone ahead and written an installment in which—wait! that would be a spoiler! You'll just have to read it.
Grumpy: I consider your review to have been a get well card to my fingers! Thank you.
Silver Badger: Yes, the word 'awesome' is not used as much as formerly. As my daughter used to say, "It has gone out of fad." Another good word used up and tossed aside. Pity.
Kelly Kragen: I'm glad you don't mind the Gandalf bits because there are some more in here. After all, what was he enduring during all those long years? We learn a little at the Council, but the rest of his centuries of wandering Middle Earth are left for the most part in shadow. He is a hero, too, and it is not even his land or his people that he defends, for he has neither.
Athena Diagon Cat: Sometimes it seems as if 'getting into trouble' is his reason for being.
AzureDragoness: My sentiments precisely. I get all shivery at the thought of those beady-eyed birds waiting for Gandalf to draw his last breath.
Dragonfly: You were right. Not being able to write made me crazy—well, crazier, anyway. That numbness you mentioned—that was one of my symptoms when I was diagnosed with carpal tunnel. (The current problem with my fingers is but the latest in the long line of problems with fingers and wrists.)
Joee: The next chapter of "The Clearing" will have Legolas flying through the air with the greatest of ease.
Chapter 18: Storm Crows
If Galadriel could ever be said to pace, she was doing it now. Back and forth she went, from one side of her talan to the other.
"Who is it this time?" asked Celeborn. "Is Legolas being chased by a spider?"
"I pity the spider who tries to chase Legolas," retorted Galadriel. "It would soon find itself wrapped in its own silk."
"Elladan is in trouble? Or Elrohir?"
"I no longer fear for the twins. If Elladan is in trouble, Elrohir will see to him, and vice versa. They have naught to fear but their father's retribution when they transgress one of his rules."
"Estel?"
"Estel is well guarded. Elrond will let no harm come to him."
"Who then?"
"Mithrandir."
"Mithrandir? Galadriel, no one knows how old Mithrandir is, but he was already agéd when he arrived at the Grey Havens. I think he can be counted on to look after himself."
"He takes too many risks."
"Of course. That is what he is here to do."
"No, Celeborn. He is not here to take risks; he simply takes them so that he may accomplish what he is here to do."
"Enlighten me on that score," said Celeborn. Of course, he knew as well as Galadriel why the Istar had been sent to Middle Earth; he merely thought that it would be good for Galadriel to remind herself of why Gandalf was present in Arda in the first place.
Galadriel smiled at Celeborn.
"You are so transparent, melethron-nîn. Very well, he was sent here to 'even the playing field', as Men say. He is not to fight Men's battles for them, but he is to encourage them and to make it possible for them to find within themselves the courage and the strength to face the Darkness."
Celeborn nodded.
"Yes, although sometimes it does seem a pity that he cannot simply with a wave of his staff banish all evil and heal all hurts."
"True, but that would be no victory. The Darkness is within as well as without, and that sort of Darkness can be defeated only by the person within whom it dwells. Should Mithrandir send the Darkness without back to the abyss, a new Darkness would grow, for Men would raise a new Dark Lord from amongst their own number. No, it is Men who must themselves throw off the evil within."
"I fear you are right, Galadriel," said Celeborn. "I also fear that it is a war that will never be won. One Man may battle and overcome the Darkness, but that will not save the next Man, and the next, from having to engage in the same struggle."
"You are right, Celeborn. 'Tis a war that will not and cannot be won for all eternity. Still, holding the evil at bay is itself a kind of victory. Gandalf would see that Men are capable of winning that battle on a daily basis in the mundane arena of everyday life. When he is sure of that he will depart for the Uttermost West—if he survives that long, of course!"
"What makes you doubt that he will?" asked Celeborn.
"My mirror is filled with crows—large black crows that perch upon branches and stare fixedly at something that lies upon the ground. I cannot clearly make out who or what it is, but I see the color grey."
"Mithrandir is not the only one in Middle Earth to wear a grey cloak."
"True, but my mirror is not in the habit of showing me visions of persons who have naught to do with me or mine!"
This was a sobering reflection, and Celeborn himself began to feel anxious.
"Is there anything we can do? Any steps we can take?"
Galadriel shook her head.
"That is what is so vexing about that mirror sometimes. It tantalizes with images of what may be, but it gives no guidance as to how events may be either brought to pass or prevented. Sometimes I think the Valar have cursed me rather than gifted me! Would that I could cast aside this ring and be a simple elleth, laughing and singing in the glades amidst the mallorn trees. I do not wish to be Galadriel the seer, Galadriel the sorceress, one who inspires awe amongst the Elves and fear amongst Men!"
"Oh, and do you suppose Mithrandir wants to be the Grey Pilgrim, constantly wandering hither and thither, exposed to both the elements and the scorn or outright enmity of those who either fear him or hate him?"
Galadriel smiled. She had a sudden vision of a reluctant Mithrandir being dragged by the Valar to a boat and bodily tossed into it. How had the Maia taken the news when told that he was being sent on a mission to Middle Earth? Not too badly, she hoped. Certainly she had never heard him utter a word of complaint in all the years she had known him. But was it not conceivable that there were times, during respites between battles, when the old wizard may have muttered 'to Mordor with it all' as he struggled to light a pipe stuffed with damp pipeweed? Galadriel laughed outright.
"What do you see, O Sorceress?" teased Celeborn.
"I see a wizard soaked and swearing, one who is tempted to light his fireworks under the seats of pesky Periannath."
"I like that vision!" exclaimed Celeborn, taking his lady's hand. "But another vision I would like better. The night wears on. Come to bed."
"And what makes you think that a vision is to be found in bed?" said Galadriel playfully.
"You are a vision, my Lady," said Celeborn gallantly. "Indeed, so enchanting you are that I would like to see more of you!"
"I will consult my mirror," replied Galadriel with mock gravity, "to see if your wish will be vouchsafed."
"But you have already said that your mirror is equivocal. Let us essay the question ourselves."
"Very well," said Galadriel. "It is to be hoped that this time Haldir does not disturb us whilst we try out matters."
Celeborn rolled his eyes.
"And Haldir's report could have waited until morning, too. To be interrupted because a mere dozen Orcs have been sighted to the west. Ai!"
"Celeborn, we must give Haldir credit for taking his responsibilities so seriously."
"True, but next time I hope he comes tromping up like a Dwarf. A little warning would have been nice."
"I think Haldir wishes that he had been tromping like a Dwarf. Did you see his face?"
"No, I was too busy scrambling about in search of a robe. I find it difficult to look ethereal without it."
"I think you look ethereal without it," teased Galadriel.
Just then heavy steps were heard. The Lord and Lady looked at one another.
"I think we have gotten our wish," said Celeborn sourly. "Sounds like a Dwarf."
Haldir cautiously peeked up over the edge of the talan.
"My Lord, my Lady."
"Haldir," said Celeborn pleasantly, "mae govannen."
Encouraged, Haldir stepped onto the flet.
"My pardon for, ah, interrupting you, but a Rider of Rohan has just arrived bearing a message. As it pertains to the wizard Mithrandir—"
"Hah!" Galadriel exclaimed. "I knew it! Crows! Large black crows!"
She seized the scroll from Haldir's hand, startling the young Elf and no doubt surprising both Celeborn and herself. Hastily she broke the seal.
Anxiously, Celeborn o'erlooked her shoulder. Forgotten, Haldir gratefully backed toward the edge of the talan and slipped away. At the Lord and Lady's flet, things were becoming altogether too unpredictable for an Elf who liked his world to be tidy and formal.
The message that the Lord and the Lady read with such avidity had been sent by Fengel, King of Rohan. Several days earlier, he and his son Thengel had been riding a circuit around an encampment in the Eastemnet. They had been near turning back when something to the east caught Fengel's attention. He gazed intently in that direction.
"A large number of crows are perched yonder," he observed. "Whatever lies injured there, it must be of a fair size to have attracted such a large number of scavengers."
"Perchance a dead horse," said Thengel.
Fengel shook his head.
"Not dead. The crows wouldn't be perched up in the trees if it were dead. They'd be down on the ground feasting."
"Unless it were an Orc," Thengel pointed out.
"True," agreed Fengel. "Crows pluck at the flesh of Orcs without giving them the courtesy of waiting for them to die first. So it is no Orc that lies yonder but instead an injured horse or man. We must offer the sufferer aid, or, at the very least, ease the victim's passing. It is an ill thing for either horse or man to die alone and unmarked."
The Men urged their horses into a gallop. As they neared the trees, they saw that on the ground a Man lay face down, not moving. Thengel dismounted and turned him over.
"'Tis Gandalf," exclaimed Thengel.
Fengel now also leapt down from his horse. He knelt by the wizard, examining him.
"He has been wounded in the side—see how the blood has seeped through these bandages?"
The Istar muttered something, although he did not open his eyes.
"What is he saying?" asked Thengel.
"I do not know. I think it is elvish. Although he speaks the Common Tongue, I believe his first tongue has ever been that of the Eldar."
The wizard twisted and moaned.
"It sounds as if he is saying 'nen'," observed Thengel.
"Yes, but whatever does that mean?" said Fengel.
"Wa-ter," said Gandalf distinctly. "Thirsty, you fool."
Chagrined, Fengel and Thengel looked at each other.
"Should have known he was thirsty without being told," said Fengel. "Look at how desiccated his skin is, and even with his eyes closed, you can tell that they are sunken."
"Nen, saes," muttered Gandalf. "Please," he added in the Common Tongue.
"Right," said Fengel. "Enough talk."
Thengel hurried back to his horse to fetch his water bladder. Fengel supported Gandalf's head whilst Thengel held the neck of the bladder to the wizard's mouth. Gandalf drank greedily, not caring that water was running down his chin. At last he sighed and fell back in Fengel's arms. He still had not opened his eyes.
"Gandalf," said Fengel, "do you think you could eat a bite?"
"No."
"You look very thin."
"Not hungry."
"Let us get him back to camp," suggested Thengel. "We carry only jerked meat in our saddlebags, and that would not tempt him in his current condition. We must prepare a broth and try to get him to take a little of that."
"True, but let us attend to his wound before we try to move him. In my saddlebag you will find some rolls of linen as well as a bottle of ointment."
Thengel fetched what was needful as Fengel unwound the old bandages.
"Well," he said at last as he examined the wound, "if you must be skewered in the side, you have gone about having it done in the very best fashion. The sword thrust went in just above your liver. An inch lower, the blow would have pierced that organ, and you would have bled to death in short order. Clean wound, too. Doesn't feel hot to the touch. No sign of swelling. No foul drainage. Yes, Gandalf, all things considered, you've managed matters quite well.
"What did you expect?" said Gandalf faintly. "I am a wizard."
He opened his eyes and smiled a little, although it was obvious that he was weak and in pain. Fengel smiled back as Thengel returned with the bandages and the ointment.
"Now," the Rider teased, "you have at last in truth earned the epithet 'Stormcrow'. Hitherto you have not deserved it, but now without a question you do. Had the horizon not been clouded by a large number of crows, we would never have found you."
"I think 'Foilcrow' would be much more fitting title," replied Gandalf, closing his eyes but still smiling. "Yes, Gandalf Foilcrow. Ow!"
"My pardon," said Fengel, who was spreading the ointment as gently as he could, which was not, apparently, gentle enough. "I'm done with that now. All that remains is to wrap the wound once more. Thengel, help lift Gandalf into a sitting position so that I can wind these bandages around him."
Once Gandalf's wound had been tended, the Rohirrim set about transporting him to their camp.
"Thengel," said Fengel, "you are the lighter, and my horse is the larger. I think he could carry both you and Gandalf, who most assuredly cannot ride unassisted. Here, you mount up, and then you can pull Gandalf up before you whilst I help by giving him a boost."
Wincing, Gandalf was soon securely mounted before Thengel. Then Fengel leapt onto Thengel's horse, and they slowly rode west, toward the Rohirrim encampment. Gandalf sighed with contentment.
"Didn't want to leave just yet," he murmured.
"Gandalf?" said Thengel.
"I like these ridiculous Bagginses and Boffins, Bolgers and Bracegirdles. Didn't want to leave them in the lurch."
"What is he saying?" called Fengel.
"I think he is delirious," Thengel called back. "He's uttering nonsense syllables."
"Want to stay," muttered Gandalf. "See it through to the end. Will leave then if I must. Suppose they'll make me. Back to the boat, Mithrandir. Yes, that's what they'll say. Middle Earth is not for you. Wish it were. The Shire. Would like to settle in the Shire."
"Gandalf," Thengel said, shaking him gently. "Come back."
"Haven't gone anywhere," replied Mithrandir. "No, that's wrong. I've gone everywhere but been nowhere. A pilgrim. Yes, they call me the Grey Pilgrim."
"Gandalf, are you thirsty still? There's plenty more water."
Gandalf shook his head.
"No," he said sadly. "I have a thirst, but it is not one can be satisfied with water."
Thengel called over to Fengel, "He's a little better, I think. He's talking in riddles now."
"Ah, that's good," said Fengel, relieved. "A wizard talks in riddles cannot be too ill."
Gandalf smiled a little. He had been gifted with good friends. What was preferable: to have had the joy of knowing them and loving them coupled with the pain of losing them or to never have suffered the pain of loss but never to have known the joy either? At least he would have memories to take back with him to the Undying Lands. Aye, and it was to be hoped that his friends and their descendants would continue to revel in the beauty and majesty of Middle Earth. He would not be here to see it, but it would give him pleasure to think on it.
"I will be fine," he reassured Thengel. "Went through a bad spell back there, but I am recovering nicely, I think."
Thengel shook his head in disbelief.
"Gandalf, now you talk as lightly as if you had never been skewered in the first place. Pity you are such a fast healer. Maybe you would behave with greater caution if you suffered more!"
"Believe me, Thengel, I have suffered and will suffer mightily. Unfortunately, my wounds are such as cannot be bandaged."
"There you go—riddling again!"
"'Tis a way of keeping my wits sharp. You maintain readiness through swordplay; I through wordplay. I wield words more often than weapons, and in that respect I must keep in tiptop shape."
"Apparently an exchange of words did not figure in your latest encounter, however."
"True," conceded Gandalf.
"How many foes did you face?"
"Twelve Orcs at the outset, but," the wizard hastened to add, "I never had to face more than five at the same time."
Thengel let out a whistle.
"Five Orcs at once. You wield a blade at least as well as you wield your tongue. If you ever wish to give over riddling for riding, I am sure there will be a place for you amongst the Rohirrim!"
"Thank you," said Gandalf gravely. "Perhaps someday I shall indeed draw sword in company with the Riders of Rohan. Ah, is this your encampment?"
"And how many encampments did you think there would be hereabouts?" Thengel twitted him.
Gandalf laughed as he slid carefully from the horse with the assistance of a guard who had at once come forward when he saw a horse burdened with two riders.
"Spoken like a true wizard, Thengel. Now I would ask of you a favor. Another one," he said hastily as he saw Thengel preparing to chaff him once again. "Would you send a messenger to Lothlórien on my behalf? I gave one of the Galadhrim the slip, and I wish to reassure the Lord and Lady that I am safe. They will send on word to others of my friends who are presently in Mirkwood."
"A full account of this matter will be dispatched at once," said Thengel, turning to go.
"Not too full an account," Gandalf called after him. "I do not want anyone worried unnecessarily on my behalf."
And so it was that several days later a Rider of Rohan presented himself at the border of Lothlórien with a message for its Lord and Lady. The narrative it contained was not complete in all its details, but it did not take a wizard to divine the elements that were missing. No mention was made of crows hovering over a dying wizard in anticipation of an easy meal, but Galadriel knew well enough that they had been there.
"He was run through with a sword," she declared with a certainty born of years of friendship with the wizard. "None of this 'suffered a wound to his side that did not penetrate any vital organs'! He was run through with a sword and came very near dying."
"No doubt you are correct," said Celeborn, "but it must be true that the sword 'did not penetrate any vital organs', else he would in fact be dead. There are no lies in this letter."
"No lies," retorted Galadriel, "but not the whole truth, neither."
"Oh, and are you someone who is entitled to complain about that?" teased Celeborn. "If I recall correctly, isn't that your stock in trade—enigmatic and partial 'truths'?"
That drew a smile from Galadriel. Seeing this, Celeborn seized his opportunity.
"I see that your fears have at last been put to rest, my Lady. Would it be too much to hope that we may now retire for the night?"
Smiling archly, Galadriel allowed Celeborn to draw her toward a more secluded area of the talan, and it is to be hoped that Haldir had no cause to disturb them again that night. There is, alas, a page missing from the chronicle at this point, else I should be able to tell you for a surety whether the Lord and Lady whiled away the remainder of the evening uninterrupted. You shall have to be merely satisfied with knowing that they did at least intend to retire to bed and its attendant pleasures. And so, Reader, on that note, whether satisfying or unsatisfying, I bid thee farewell for now.