Thanks to the following reviewers for their kind words and encouragement: Kelly Kragen, Merenwen, Joee, and Dragonfly.
Thanks to Dragonfly for her continuing her careful work as a beta reader even when I send her loooong chapters such as the previous one.
Chapter 21: The Gift of Men
"You will suffer pain and cold, fear and exhaustion, hunger and thirst."
He did not understand. What were these things that Manwë spoke off? Pain and cold, fear and exhaustion, hunger and thirst? Manwë divined his thoughts.
"Novice that you are, you have had no experiences that would allow you to understand these sensations. But you will know them when you encounter them, and at the time they will seem torments indeed. But be sure that when you return to us, you will appreciate your place here all the more for having suffered them. It is the Gift of Men to appreciate greatly the pleasures that do come their way, for they comprehend the alternative in a fashion that no Maia can—at least no Maia who has not taken on their form and walked amongst them."
"I will take on the form of a Man?"
"Aye, an agéd Man, an elder, one numbered amongst the Wise. For it is counsel and encouragement that you should proffer most. Do not rely overmuch upon your powers!"
"What will I be called whilst I sojourn in Arda?"
"Go first to the Eldar. They will know who you are."
Manwë had left him. He was on a boat, staring down at hands that were wrinkled and mottled with age. He raised a hand to his face and stroked the tangled hair that hung down from his chin. A beard, Manwë had called it. He heard a bird cry and glanced up. A seagull. He looked to the west and saw land. The Grey Havens. As the boat drew near, he saw an Elf awaiting him upon the shore. Círdan, he thought, Guardian of the Havens. He stepped ashore, and Círdan opened his mouth to speak. He said—
"Mithrandir? Mithrandir? Can you hear me?"
Gandalf opened his eyes and looked about in a daze. Where was he? Oh, yes, Edoras. Fengel peered down anxiously at him. He held a bowl in one hand and a flask in the other.
"My friend, you have slept a full turning of the sun since we brought you here. You will sleep your way into your eternal rest if you do not rouse yourself enough to partake a little of food and drink."
Fengel laid the bowl and flask upon a table and helped Gandalf to sit up against some pillows propped against the headboard of the bed. Then he held the flask to the wizard's mouth. Gandalf took a mouthful and then spluttered.
"Beer! You dose your wounded with beer!?"
"Of course. You need to put on some weight, Mithrandir, and beer is well known for doing that to a Man."
"Yes, if I wanted a paunch!"
Fengel laughed.
"You would have to drink barrels of beer before you developed a paunch. Don't those Elves feed you?"
"They most certainly do," replied Gandalf indignantly. "And very well, too, I might add. But I don't always dwell amongst the Elves, and when I am on my own, I do confess that my meals are sometimes, well, irregular and scanty."
"I'll tell you what you need, my friend," smiled Fengel. "You need a wife. I could arrange—"
"No!" exclaimed Gandalf. "I do not need a wife! Although," he added to himself, "if I did want one, there is that one elleth in Thranduil's Great Hall—"
"Mithrandir?" Fengel interrupted his thoughts. "Mithrandir, come back. You have not had enough sustenance to slip back into dreams. Come. You must eat."
With an effort, Gandalf roused himself again and looked suspiciously at the bowl that Fengel proffered. The Rider laughed at his expression.
"'Tis only gruel, Mithrandir. Do you want me to feed you, or can you hold the spoon yourself?"
"I'll manage," the wizard huffed. Carefully he took the bowl and brought a spoonful to his mouth. "There. You see. I'm quite capable of looking out for myself."
"Yes," teased Fengel. "Which is why you were sprawled face down at a crow's banquet."
Gandalf shuddered. He did not want to be reminded of that!
"Has a Rider been dispatched to Lothlórien to inform them of my whereabouts?"
"Yes, and the Rider brought back the message that the news would be sent on to Mirkwood. No doubt some of your friends will shortly appear to collect you."
Gandalf sighed with contentment. This would be one time when he would be glad to be 'collected'. Manwë had promised him 'pain and cold, fear and exhaustion, hunger and thirst'. He had not, however, mentioned the friendships that to Gandalf's mind had more than counterbalanced the sufferings that he had endured and would continue to endure. When this task had been appointed him, he had dreaded it. Now, he knew that there was something he dreaded more: the day when he would be forced to relinquish the Gift of Men and return to the Grey Havens, thus forsaking his friends.
"Mithrandir," Fengel said chidingly. "You said you could feed yourself."
Gandalf recalled himself to the present and dutifully swallowed another mouthful. If he didn't want to relinquish the Gift prematurely, he had better eat!
After Gandalf had finished the bowl of gruel and drunk a little more beer, Fengel was at last satisfied and left him to his rest. As he lay there, eyes closed, relishing the softness of the mattress and the coolness of the sheets, he heard a slight noise. Opening his eyes, he saw three youngsters peering at him from behind a wall hanging—two boys and a girl. The girl looked very similar to one of the boys, and Gandalf thought they might be brother and sister. He smiled encouragingly at them, and those two ventured nearer. The third child remained behind the hanging, however, warily scrutinizing the wizard.
"Who might you be?" Gandalf gently said to the two who had drawn near.
The boy answered.
"I am Theoden son of Thengel, and this is my sister Théodwyn. Our grandfather is King Fengel. Yonder," he added, gesturing to the tapestry, "is Gríma son of Gríma."
Gandalf smiled at Gríma son of Gríma, but the boy did not smile back. There was something about the boy that the wizard found vaguely unsettling, but he could not pin down what it was. Perhaps it was the odd appearance that his face took on from the lightness of his eyebrows. Indeed, Gandalf could not see that the boy had any eyebrows at all, and their absence, when combined with the child's thin lips and scanty hair, gave a somewhat reptilian cast to his face. This was unfortunate, thought Gandalf sympathetically, and he hoped the boy did not suffer overmuch for it.
Theoden drew nearer.
"Is it true," he said solemnly, "that you are a magician? Will you perform some tricks for us?"
"I prefer," replied Gandalf, "to be considered a wizard, and, no, I will be performing no tricks. I am feeling rather low. Also, my staff is broken. In fact," he added, looking around the chamber, "I seem to have lost it and may need a new one altogether."
Gríma at last spoke.
"My father," he announced, "can pull gold coins from my ear, and perform all manner of other tricks. He is a very clever man, my father."
"No doubt he is," answered Gandalf.
"But he is no warrior," Theoden pointed out.
"He is too valuable to be ventured in battle," Gríma replied haughtily. "Anyone can be a warrior. My father is a councilor to the King. And I shall be one as well," he added. "I shall advise you, Theoden, so that the decisions you make are wise ones."
Gandalf expected Theoden to utter an angry reply, but the boy merely shrugged good-naturedly.
"If you are like your father, you will hardly ever ride about outside in the sun. You will be as pale as a grub. It's not the life I'd want for myself, but if it's what you desire, you are welcome to it!"
Gríma's eyes glittered, making him look even more snakelike, and Gandalf found himself hoping that he was not indeed destined to grow up to be one of Theoden's advisers. Just then someone cleared his throat, and Gríma darted back behind the tapestry. Theoden and Théodwyn, however, calmly turned in the direction of the sound. Fengel had returned. He spoke in a voice both mild and stern.
"I do not recall giving you youngsters permission to disturb the rest of our visitor."
"I am sorry, grandfather," answered Theoden. "We did not mean to disturb him. We only meant to take a peek at him, but he heard us, seemingly."
"See that it does not happen again. Now be off with you. 'Tis too fine a day for children to be indoors. You too, Gríma," Fengel added, directing his attention to the tapestry. "I know you are behind that wall hanging."
Gríma slithered out from behind the tapestry and, hugging the wall, made for the door. Once there, he looked back at Gandalf and at last smiled at him. Gandalf had to force himself to smile in return, for he sensed that the smile was more ingratiating than friendly. "That one will bear watching," he thought to himself.
Fengel sat down upon a chair.
"I have been just talking with my councilor Gríma," he said.
"That one's father?" said Gandalf, nodding toward the door.
"No, his grandfather. The boy is Gríma son of Gríma son of Gríma. His family has long served my family."
"Ah," said Gandalf, now understanding Theoden's nonchalant reaction to Gríma's impertinence. "Well, then, what does this oldest Gríma say?"
"Given that it may be some time before your friends will arrive, Gríma suggests it might be best if we carry you to Isengard so that you may be tended by Saruman, the head of your order. As he is a wizard and you are a wizard, he might better understand what medicine is needful for you to recover quickly and fully."
Gandalf shook his head.
"If you would not mind, I would rather remain at Edoras. My friends expect to find me here, and I would not add to their labors on my behalf. Moreover, no especial potions are needful, for the Orc blade was not poisoned, and I am mending well. I have suffered more from hunger and thirst than from the wound itself. Indeed, were I to move, I believe that itself might interfere with my healing, for the journey would tire me."
"I think you are right, Mithrandir, but I promised Gríma that I would pass on his advice. Well, that's settled then. You will remain here and recuperate until you friends arrive to fetch you away. Do not hesitate to ask for anything that you need or desire. More beer, perhaps?"
Fengel spoke the latter sentence with a smile on his face, and Gandalf smiled back.
"No, thank you, but I will take some wine, if you have some."
"Lucky for you we keep some wine on hand for elven emissaries. I will see that a bottle is brought to you. Do you think you might be able to eat anything more substantial than gruel?"
"Yes, I think I could."
"Good. Something tasty and nourishing will be brought to you forthwith. Is there anything else we might furnish you?"
"Do you know aught of my staff? I seem to have misplaced it."
"Your staff? I believe Gríma took it for safekeeping, to be delivered up again upon your recovery."
"I should like to have it now, if that wouldn't be too much trouble."
"I will tell Gríma to bring it to you at once."
"Thank you, my friend."
Fengel arose and departed the chamber, and shortly thereafter Gríma arrived bearing Gandalf's staff. He seemed reluctant to relinquish it, however.
"Master Mithrandir, you will be abed several more days. Your staff would be much safer in my keeping."
"Why is that, Master Gríma? Is there a thief about?"
"Oh, no," Gríma replied hastily. "But as the top is splintered, someone might mistake it for a piece of waste wood and consign it to the fire."
"I shall keep it close," Gandalf assured him. "And, as it is warm, there is no fire in this chamber."
"Very well," said Gríma unhappily. "If you are quite sure."
"I am," said Gandalf firmly.
Gríma hesitated a moment more, but Gandalf looked at him levelly, and the councilor slowly handed over the staff.
"May I serve you in any other way, Master Gandalf?"
"Thank you, but I think not, Master Gríma."
A knock was heard at the door just then, and a servant arrived bearing a bottle of wine and a goblet. Gríma excused himself then, and Gandalf indulged himself in a glass before drifting off to sleep.
Several hours later, he suddenly awoke. Someone was in his chamber. The staff was lying by his bed, and he quietly laid hold of it. Damaged though it was, at a muttered incantation it gave off a soft glow. In its light stood a startled Gríma, who was clutching the wine bottle. Gandalf had thought that he had replaced the stopper, but Gríma held the cork in his hand.
"What are you doing?" the wizard said sharply.
The councilor quickly recovered his countenance.
"Your pardon, Master Mithrandir," he said smoothly. "I did not wish to disturb you. I merely came to fetch the wine back to the wine cellar, lest it spoil uncorked in the warmth of this room."
"Is it your custom to perform such errands in the dead of night?"
"I often stay up late in the service of my Lord the King. I was just going to my rest when I bethought myself of this one last task that I could perform."
"So dedicated a servant," said Gandalf sarcastically.
Gríma ignored the tone and bowed as if the compliment were sincere.
"Would you prefer that I leave the wine here for you, Master Mithrandir, even though it has quite lost its chill?"
"No," said Gandalf decidedly, giving Gríma a hard look. "I will not drink any more from that bottle. Or from any other bottle whose seal has been broken," he added to himself.
"Very well, Master Mithrandir. I bid you good night."
Gandalf inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, and Gríma left the room. As soon as the councilor was gone, the wizard arose and bolted the door. Then he returned to his bed. This time, however, he placed the staff in the bed beside him, and for the remainder of his stay in Edoras, that is how he slept, an arm curved around his staff. No infant ever fisted his blanket more tightly than Gandalf held on to that staff. Truly he clutched that stick of wood as if his life depended upon it—and that, as Erestor would no doubt have pointed out, is no metaphor.