Chapter Twenty-Seven - One Step At A Time

Nemír lay prostrate on a cot, Elrohir wiping his forehead with a damp cloth to remove the stale sweat. He was completely still except for the rapid movements of his head from side to side. Dídauar was on her knees immediately.

"How long?" she asked, scooping up Nemír's hand.

"He was taken down by an Orc just after the Tower fell but seemed fine until three nights ago when he complained of being dizzy and nauseous," replied Elrohir. "I gave him some tea to help and the following morning he simply collapsed."

"Let me see his wound." Gently, Elrohir rolled Nemír on to his left side and rucked up the shirt to reveal a tight linen bandage the was wrapped just below Nemír's armpit.

"It's little more than a scratch," said Elrohir as Dídauar sliced through the material.

"A broken arm had Éowyn fighting for her life," replied Dídauar before swearing quite vehemently when Nemír's wound was revealed. The wound was slightly more than a scratch but Nemír had received worse sparring with Culas. It had been when tended by Aragorn and latterly Elrohir, leaving the site itself clean, but from the initial wound spread a web of black.

"It wasn't like that when I changed his bandage," protested Elrohir though exactly who he was defending himself to no one knew.

"Why is it bandaged in the first place?" asked Dídauar.

"He said it was more comfortable," muttered Elrohir, ducking his head to fidget with a loose thread on Nemír's blanket. Dídauar stopped her examination of the wound and canted Elrohir's face back up so that their eyes met.

"Hey," she said gently. "I'm not accusing you of any wrong doing, just asking for details as to what is before me." Elrohir nodded, looking nothing like the fierce warrior that had been his guise for over six hundred years. "It's a slow acting poison, the Haradrim use it to tip their darts."

"But he was caught by an Orc."

"Doesn't alter the fact that Nemír is suffering from a Haradrim poison," said Dídauar. "Culas come over here." Culas looked prepared to balk at the 'suggestion' but Tarcil wrapped his arm about the youth's shoulder and nudged him to Elrohir's side.

"Hold his hand and talk to him," ordered Dídauar before jamming her dagger into the embers of the brazier and ferreting around in Elrohir's pack. "Elrohir, I'm owe you a new shirt."

"Huh?" was the response of the Elf only to be answered by a tearing of fabric.

"I trust you drew the wound," said Dídauar.

"Of course!" exclaimed Elrohir.

"Salt water?"

"Kalya what are you implying?" demanded Elrohir, rounding on his foster-sister.

"Nothing, but it means that I can't use Athelas," replied Dídauar. "It will react with any traces of salt left in the wound and will speed up the rate at which it is spreading."

"Why can't you just reuse the salt?" asked Tarcil.

"Won't draw the poison from his body," explained Dídauar. Culas gave a strangled sob and his grip on Nemír's hand increased.

"Easy little one," murmured Dídauar, abandoning her task. "I know how to remove the poison but it will be a long and hard process. The wound needs reopened and redrawn, and he needs to be encouraged to sweat, which means no rinsing him down with cool water. Elrohir, I need him to drink some tea that will help him sweat as well as numb his pain, how do I do that without waking him?"

"With difficulty," replied Elrohir. "Sit him up, his wound lower than his heart, tip his head back, and you have to massage his throat to stimulate his swallowing reflex otherwise he will gag and choke," replied the Elf.

"Right. Culas, take off your armour and sit behind him," said Dídauar, grabbing a second blanket. "Keep this around your shoulders, it will trap the heat. If you get to warm place the material over Nemír, don't dump it on the ground. Keep the other blanket over his body, regardless of how uncomfortable he gets. He needs to sweat or he will die, understand?"

Culas looked terrified but nodded and quickly did as he was told. Force feeding Nemír the tea and then reopening the wound in his side, Dídauar kept murmuring, seemingly to herself considering most of it was in Sindarin and Rohirric, which had Tarcil confused.

"What is she saying?" he asked of Elrohir, who was sitting in what appeared to be a partial reverie. In truth he was concentrating on the bond that was between the pair, mutely acting as a support for the Dúnadan. He looked up at Tarcil with a small smile.

"She's recounting her childhood and time in Rohan," he said. Tarcil remained confused.

"She sounds happy," he said. Elrohir nodded.

"She does have some happy memories of us," said the Elf. "It's just that they are not always easy for her to find."

"But she can when tending Nemír?!" exclaimed Tarcil.

"I can always find them but they are all linked with a less than pleasant memory," said Dídauar, finally ditching her equipment, the soiled rag being cast into the fire along with her dagger. "I remember frequently roughhousing with Cempa and the numerous celebrations Eadwig dragged me along to, but then I see Eadwig laying in Cempa's arms with a horrific stab wound to his gut or Cempa laying in my arms with Dunlending bolts piercing his chest. I remember the forests and dells of Imladris but I also see Estel falling to protect me when I had a vision mid-ambush.

"Culas, I have done all I can for the moment but it will be a few hours before I know whether it is effective. I know this will be hard on you, but I need you to stay with him. Talk to him, talk to Tarcil, talk to your shadow for all I care, just make sure he hears your voice. He will need it to draw him back."

Culas once more increased his grip and nodded. Dídauar gave him a weak smile and pressed a kiss first to Nemír's forehead then to Culas' crown before leaving the tent as fast as she could without it seeming like she was fleeing. Elrohir on the other hand knew that was exactly what she was doing and hurried after her.

"Little one?" asked Elrohir, eventually finding Dídauar on the edge of the campsite, pacing and again muttering to herself it what sounded like an attempt to calm herself down. Her eyes were cast upwards to the stars, one appearing to be a main focal point, if the movement of her head was to be any indication.

"So pale," whispered Dídauar. "His star is so pale."

"Whose star?" asked Elrohir.

"Haldir."

"Pardon?"

"Falling figure wrapped in green," recited Dídauar. "Seen them twice but no face. Star that once put many to shame is fading. Fading so quickly and I don't know how to stop it."

"But no face," said Elrohir, hoping to instil some confidence into the Dúnadan. "You may still change the future."

"How?" asked Dídauar, looking lost and begging Elrohir to provide a solution. "I am here and Haldir is in Lothlórien. I cannot leave my people, especially Culas and Tarcil. It has been decades since I was last allowed to seek Haldir in my dreams. How am I to change this?"

"Allow Elladan and I to take a message to Lórien," he suggested. "You and Estel are together once more and are no longer in danger. Our job here is done."

"Would you?" asked Dídauar looking hopeful.

"You have but to ask," smiled Elrohir, capturing one of Dídauar's braids and tucking it behind her ear. "Is there anything you wish to send?"

"Give me an hour," Dídauar said. Elrohir inclined his head.

"I will tell Elladan," said the Elf. "Do not fret my little one, the days of light are upon us once more."

With that Elrohir kissed Dídauar's forehead and turning to hunt his twin. Dídauar on the other hand turned her gaze back to the stars, a feather crystal gripped within her hand, her language switching from Westron, Sindarin to Rohirric and back again.

Dídauar tended Nemír twice more during the night, wiping away dried sweat with warm water and encouraging him to drink the tea, and on each occasion the young Ranger gained more strength and the webbed lines slowly decreased but remained unconscious. Culas finally allowed himself to sleep around two hours before dawn, though his uncle's hand was firmly held in his grasp and his body curled around Nemír's. The Hobbits too made progress though similar to Nemír, they seemed reluctant to wake. It wasn't until two hours before noon that any of the injured made a move.

"Water?" husked Frodo, causing Aragorn to jerk.

"Frodo?" he asked cautiously. For four days he had hoped and prayed that Frodo wake and was scared to believe the Hobbit was really awake.

"Aye," whispered Frodo, sounding tired. Aragorn released a choked laugh an immediately delved into his travelling pack, digging out his water skin.

"Sip," ordered Aragorn gently holding the lip to Frodo's mouth. The previous liquid was gratefully accepted, Frodo smiling weakly.

"Sam?" he asked eventually, his voice sounding smoother as his throat and tongue were rehydrated. Aragorn cast his glance back to the other Hobbit.

"He's still asleep," said the Ranger. "Frodo, when was that last time he slept through the night?"

"Parth Galen," murmured Frodo. Behind him, Aragorn's eyes widened. The Hobbit's had parted company with the Fellowship nearly two months before.

"After Gollum found us, he barely slept for four hours a night," continued Frodo.

"Gollum?" exclaimed Dídauar as she appeared with Merry and Pippin. Frodo nodded while the two younger Hobbits looked quizzical.

"From Bilbo's tales?" asked Pippin.

"The riddler?" asked Merry. Frodo and Aragorn nodded.

"Was he the one who bit your finger?" asked Dídauar as she made her way to Sam's side. Again Frodo nodded, subconsciously cradling his battered limb to his chest.

"I tried to keep the Ring," he confessed. "I made it all the way to the Mountain and then refused to give it up. Gollum bit it off, taking my finger with him."

"From what I know of the creature that wasn't a self sacrificial act or one done for the greater good," commented Aragorn.

"He wanted it back," said Frodo. "And he did get it back."

"So then how was it destroyed?" asked Pippin, the first to admit he was confused.

"He fell," said Frodo. "He was dancing too close to the edge and fell in."

"So he went from thief to hero," said Dídauar. The others turned to face her, Aragorn wearing a strange look. Frodo nodded once more but the conversation was changed by Pippin who was back to acting like a child and delighted to have an audience.

"Me and Merry did tell you our adventures yesterday but you were asleep. Now that you're awake, we'll tell you again and you have to tell us who has the better story to tell at the Green Dragon," he said, grinning happily as he took centre stage.

"Estel, I'm going to check on Nemír," smiled Dídauar. "I'll send someone with food."

"Nemír please!" Culas was protesting as Dídauar pushed back the tent flap. "Shadow, would you please tell him that he is to stay laying down?"

"Nope," smiled Dídauar. "If he can walk, let him walk. It's his side that was skewered not his leg."

"But…." began Culas, scowling at Nemír as the elder man stuck out his tongue.

"It will get his blood flowing properly, and teach him his limits," said Dídauar. "Besides, sunshine will do him good."

Nemír grinned and began to make his way outside, only to have Culas catch his arm and sling it over his shoulder. Nemír did not look impressed by the move but Culas refused to be shaken off.

"Do I really have to tell father you were uncooperative?" asked the youth. Nemír scowled while Dídauar laughed. Culas' father was Nemír's eldest brother and notorious for being overprotective of his youngest sibling. A trait that apparently Culas had inherited.

"Fireside," directed Dídauar, holding the tent flap up again. "And food," she added as Nemír's stomach gurgled.

"Shouldn't you still be in the City, what with your brother and temporary Steward being here?" asked Gandalf as he settled beside Dídauar, who was watching her kin – Nemír's strength not nearly as high as he thought – and the younger Hobbits banter back and forth in the same way they had when sojourned at Isengard as she ate her stew. Dídauar canted her head in the direction of the Istari.

"Faramir's physical health is compromised but his mental capacities are sound," she said. "And he knew I was headed out and didn't stop me. If anyone knows the laws of State then it is Faramir. He always did. Even at three he would chastise me for sitting on the steps to the Throne."

"That sounds like Faramir," chuckled Gandalf. "Why is it I never saw you in Gondor during those eight years?"

"You did not arrive as unannounced as Denethor made out," smiled Dídauar. "And with Boromir as my tour guide, I knew the streets of Minas Tirith well enough to hide if you did. Denethor never questioned my aversion to seeing you, though he was usually thoroughly unimpressed that I left him to carry out such meetings alone."

"So will Faerlain return to Gondor or does Shadow remain?" asked the wizard, reaching forward and withdrawing a small stick from the fire so as to light his pipe. Dídauar scowled at the object and moved so that she was downwind from the smoke.

"I don't know," sighed the Dúnadan, turning her attention to the bowl in her lap. "For the moment I am Shadow. What will happen when Estel ascends to the throne, I don't know, though it is doubtful I will settle in Minas Tirith."

"I knew Thranduil was speaking sense when he named you Sadorennor," said Gandalf, chuckling as Merry flopped dramatically sideways and then realise how close to Culas' rocky perch he actually was. Dídauar smiled lightly.

"Words spoken in jest may hold as much truth as those spoken in the councils of the great," she said. Gandalf continued to chuckle.

"May be you should remain in Gondor for a while. You are sounding a lot like your Elven kin," he said. Dídauar grinned before skewering a piece of meat with her dagger.

"That one is from Halbarad," she said before filling her mouth.