Okay, I did not manage to give this on New Year's Eve, but see it as a late present then ;)
I have to warn you though... Monday the exams are starting. They will last until 31th of January. I will keep on writing, but I guess the updates will come even slower then now... *sigh* too much to do! So I want to thank you for your patience, and assure you I will not abandon this story. i keep working on it every day! :)
BETA: Thewayfaringstrangers
aidan1999: In a moment I will be blushing ;) Thank you for your support. And don't worry, I'm not a native speaker either :P What's your first language?
C. : Thank you! I hope it will intruige you a little longer ;)
ElrondofImladris: Happy New Year to you too! :) And Hobbit Day (when is it and why is it that day? :P)
Epic Elven Warrior Princess: I'll tell Estel ;) But I'm sure he doesn't want Legolas to die either, so he will prevent it... if he can.
Jasper6509: Well, I would tell Aragorn, but I fear he is too stressed now - but he seems to be doing everything he can to save them! :)
Lazy Gaga: Thanks! I hope you'll like this chapter too :P
ShadowHawq35: You've made your point ;) Thank you!
Squiddy the Beth: That explains a lot :P I'l very glad you like it! I'm doing the best I can, and it encourages me that people think it's enough :) Thank you! :)
TheButterflyCurse996: Hihi, thanks for reviewing anyways ;) So, just to be certain... If I kill Legolas... I die too? Painfully? *swallows difficuly*
Ynnealay: Ever the first reviewer ;) Well... Yes and no. In years, she is a lot older than Aragorn. She was mature already when the man was born, and she often went with Legolas as one of his guards to visit Imladris and Estel. But mostly she lives in Mirkwood, fairly sheltered. She has seen battle of course, but most of the time, she serves in the palace, or accompanies Legolas. Aragorn has much more experience with life and pain and grief, and therefore, on these moments, he takes on the role from an older brother. ;)
Culumalda and Faramir
"When will he come?"
"He is coming as swift as his horse can carry him. Please, Tìri, he won't get here sooner just because you are looking for him all night. Go to bed. Get some sleep. You look as if you need it." Elentìriel shot him an irritated look, but she didn't move from her spot near the window. She had been standing there ever since Aragorn had called a bode to ask Faramir at court, and not matter what the man did or said, she would not be convinced to leave the place. Aragorn sighed.
"Tiri, even when Faramir arrives, he may not be able to provide us the answers we seek. It's a gamble. And when it turns out wrong, I'll need your quick mind to help me find another solution. You'll be of more use when you are rested." She snorted.
"Tells the one who hasn't seen a bed for at least three days." He couldn't really find an answer to that, so he just shook his head and sat down behind his desk, eying the Faramir's letter again, trying to find any clue.
The elves from Ithilien and those from Minas Tirith hadn't been in contact with each other – at least not recently before they got ill. Therefore, there had to be an external source of the plague, one that had infected both Celemceb, Sulfalas or Nelladel as the elves from Ithilien's delegation. He prayed fervently that Faramir knew enough of their roundabouts to find out what this source could be.
"Estel!" Abruptly, Aragorn looked up, only to find Elentìriel and a young servant staring at him, the first impatiently, the latter rather nervously.
"This young lad has been trying to get your attention for at least a few minutes," the elf continued. Aragorn frowned. He had been deep in thought indeed. Mentally slapping himself, he smiled reassuringly at the servant.
"Yes?" A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Did lord Faramir arrive?"
"No, my lord. Lady Ioreth sent me to inform you of the death of three more elves. She asks what we have to do with their bodies?" Aragorn almost felt Elentìriels anger radiating around her as she heard the servant speaking so carelessly about her dead friends. She stepped forwards, her eyes filled with lightning, every inch as wild and untamed as the Nando she was.
"How dare you speak about them like this! They…-"
"Will be treated with respect. Peace, Tiri. We will lay them in the Icy Cave and inform their families. I must insist however, that no elf will approach their bodies until we know more about this plague." Aragorn almost winced when he found himself at the centre of Elentìriel's glare, but he had had enough practice with Legolas not to appear cowed. He steadily held her gaze, until she averted her eyes, her anger drained. Only then did the the king turn to the young man.
"You heard it. Please tell lady Ioreth that the elves will be treated with the utmost respect. And make sure you lay them upon soft blankets, not upon the cold stone. Was there anything else?" The servant quickly bowed.
"Yes, my lord. Lady Ioreth also wanted me to inform you that lord Legolas is faring worse. She would like you to have a look at him." Before he had uttered these last words, Elentìriel had opened the door and was now hurrying to the Healing Hall, Aragorn in her wake.
Within a few minutes, they were standing at the bed where their ill friend was thrashing around, caught in feverish dreams. A stream of unintelligible elvish words streamed from his lips, and he almost hit Aragorn with his flailing hand. Next to him, Ioreth was patting his face gently with a cool cloth. She barely looked up when the king and the elf joined her, trying to hush the ill prince – and failing.
Quickly, Aragorn sat down next to Legolas and started to softly sing an ancient woodland song that his friend had taught him once. It was written in the Nando-dialect, so he didn't understand every word of it, but Legolas had told him the song captured the blossoming of the trees and the fragile silence of the winter, the pure white of the snow and the scent of the grass, the colors of autumn and the chilly cobwebs of a frosty breath. His mother had sung it to him often. Even now, after all those years, the tune still soothed him.
Slowly, Legolas relaxed, until only a soft whimper or moaning escaped him only every now and then. His grasp upon Aragorn's hand weakened. Still, his cheeks were flushed with fever, and the frown upon his features didn't diminish. They had only bought him some peace, nothing more – but it was enough for now.
Only once the elf was deeply asleep, Aragorn ceased singing. He gently brushed some hair out of Legolas' face, taking in the paleness of his skin, and the few drops of blood in the corner of his mouth.
"How long has he been like this?" He held his voice low, so as not to disturb the sleeping prince. Ioreth too spoke softly, as she always did near patients, her hands for once folded silently upon her lap, since Elentìriel had taken over her damp cloth to fresh up Legolas.
"About half an hour, my lord. I immediately sent for you. I know how much you care about him."
"That was attentive of you. Thank you." For a few seconds, Ioreth seemed to struggle with her words, unsure whether she should speak her mind, but after a nod from the king, she sighed.
"My lord, I do not wish to cause you more grieve but… he's not doing well. The fever is ravaging his body and making him very weak. I fear his strength will not last long enough to fight off the illness."
"I know. I know, Ioreth. But what can I do? Neither Athelas nor any other herb seems to help." The lady seemed to think for a few seconds, her gaze pointed out of the window, to the North.
"In Ithilien, in the Field of Cormallen, folk speak of a rare tree. Its foliage is red as robins, yet the leaves are of gold. I do not know whether it's the true name, but some old herbmasters and witches call it Culumalda. It is said to have healing powers."
"Culumalda…" Aragorn whispered. The name was familiar, yet he was certain Elrond nor his books had ever mentioned any purifying abilities. But Ioreth knew many practical things about herbs. Perhaps he should give it a try. What was there to lose, anyway?
"Ioreth, do you have some of the bark here?"
"Only a little. It should suffice to make tea from for about two, maybe three days, but only for Legolas."
"Then please do so, but before you let him drink it, show it to me."
"Of course, my lord." Immediately, the woman hurried away, already ordering a servant to rake up the fire, and another to bring some water. Ioreth had barely disappeared between the hurrying healers and servants, when a guard fought his way his way to Legolas' bed. He was a somewhat elderly man, his beard and hair already greying, but his eyes wereever sparkled merrily. Even now, he had a gentle expression upon his face, though his cheeks were flushed and his hair sweaty. For once forgetting his manners in excitement, he called the king while pushing his way through the healers.
Aragorn frowned. This was unusual behavior for the normally polite man.
"What is it, Barol?"
"My lord! Lord Faramir has arrived! He's on his way through the city as we speak!"
"That is wonderful news indeed. Thank you, Barol. Please send him to my private rooms when he arrives."
"I fear it's a bit too late for that," a gentle voice intervened. Aragorn looked around, right into the smiling face of his steward. "Good day, my lord. I came as swiftly as I could. How can I be of service?" Releasing a laugh of pure relief, the king enveloped the lord of Ithilien in the arms.
"Faramir. You have no idea how glad I am to see you." The smile disappeared from his face.
"I think I do. So the plague has reached the White City as well? It's a sorry time when elves have to suffer illness and death while they were never destined to do so… But I fail to see why you need me. I'm not a healer, Aragorn." The king sighed.
"I know." Slowly, he moved aside, no longer blocking Faramir's view on Legolas' bed, and watched the emotions playing on the man's face. Confusion. Fear. Recognition. Shock. Anguish. He sat down next to him, stroking the elf's face.
"Valar, Legolas. How long has he been like this?"
"A couple of days. Since just before your message arrived."
"So it wasn't my messenger who brought the plague here?" The question shocked Aragorn. Apparently, the steward had been able to hide his guilt and unease so skillfully, that he hadn't noticed anything until he admitted his fear himself. Or perhaps he had been too distracted… He couldn't let another pay for his worries. He clasped Faramir's shoulder in a gesture of friendship.
"No, my friend. It was not your fault at all. The plague has been ravishing this city long before it came to Ithilien. That is why I sent for you. The elves have been infected by an external source. I want to know everything of the roundabouts of your delegation, to see if we could trace this source. Elentìriel," the elf nodded, but didn't rise, "will match your knowledge with hers."
"That seems like a good idea, my lord. My lady, perhaps we could…"
"He's waking." Immediately, both the steward and the king focused on the pale face in the bed. Indeed, Legolas' eyelids were fluttering as if he was fighting to get them open, and he moaned softly. Next to him, Elentìriel muttered something in the Nando-dialect. The familiar sound seemed to help. The elf quieted, and after a moment of hesitation, opened his eyes. He looked around, rather uncertainly, before focusing blurrily on Faramir. A weak smile showed upon his lips.
"Faramir." His voice sounded so terribly soft and crooked, but to Aragorn, it was the most beautiful noise he had ever heard. Smiling, Faramir sat down and clasped his hand
"Yes, mellon nin, it is I. How fare you?"
"Well enough. Why are you here? Did Eowyn come too?"
"No, she is still in Ithilien. She rules the realm in my name now, while I am here." As usual, Faramir's voice was laced in the gentleness and love he usually bore when he was speaking about his beloved, making Legolas grin softly. It wasn't such a good idea though. The light tremor in his throat turned into an ache, and he started to cough vehemently. Blood trickled down over his cheek, crimson, offensively. Alarmed, Faramir turned to Aragorn.
"What can we do?"
"Help me holding him upright. It will ease his breathing."
"Alright. Good." Forcing down the panic on seeing his strong friend lying here so vulnerable, the young man disappeared to make a place for the ranger who had led men to victory despite the often hopeless odds. Ever so gently, he took Legolas in his arms and let him leaning against him, making sure nothing prevented his breast from filling with air. With a rag, he cleaned away the blood on his lips, and in his ears, he softly sang an elvish song Legolas had taught him – because, though his voice was trembling a little, and it was heavier and hoarser then the elf's, it always helped.
But even with all these careful administrations, it took a couple of minutes before the spasms to lay down, leaving the elf in pain and exhaustion. Feebly, Legolas closed his eyes, letting his head rest upon Faramir's muscular shoulder. When the steward lowered him into his bed however, he fixed his gaze upon the young man.
"I am sorry… for my weakness."
"Don't even dare to apologize, Legolas. You are not weak. You are ill. And we are going to make you better. I promise." The corners of the elf's lips raised slightly, his eyes already losing their fight against sleep. With the merest touch, Faramir closed them.
"Rest, mellon nin. Save your strength. We will be here when you need us." He doubted whether the elf could still hear him though. Legolas seemed to have slipped away into unconsciousness once more.
With moist eyes, the steward looked up at Aragorn. The king had gone to crush some Athelas in boiling water, so that the healing scent of it could help Legolas' breathing, and was now putting it next to his bed.
"Has he gotten this ill in merely a few days?"
"Yes. I fear the plague moves with great speed through territories and through bodies. Most elves died between the first and second week."
"Then we have no time to lose." The steward turned to Lady Elentìriel, who had been listening quietly to the conversation. Her sad deer eyes now met Faramir's. "Let us please go to my chambers to compare our knowledge." To his surprise, she shook her head.
"I can't leave him alone here, my lord."
"But you also can't discuss these matters here. For one, it's not the most comfortable environment to talk, and secondly, you will disturb Legolas," Aragorn pointed out. Elentìriel looked as if she positively loathed the idea, yet she could not deny the logic. Even so, she didn't offer up to stand at all. She just sat there, locking Legolas' hand in hers. Aragorn decided to take matters in hand. He addressed Faramir.
"You can use the garden pavilion, if you want. I will send a servant with some refreshments there," the man offered, earning a surprised look.
"I thought you would be coming with us?"
"No, I do not know anything more than Tiri – even less I must admit. I will watch over Legolas and the other ill. Now shoo."
"My lord, I-"
"Shoo. Faramir, Tiri, we cannot do anything about this disease without knowing the source of it. The sooner we find it, the sooner we can start stopping the plague from spreading and perhaps there will be a clue for a cure. If it's poison, it can be used to make an antidote. If not… well, we will surely know more about the sickness than now. So shoo." Finally, his reasoning seemed to work, and an slightly red Faramir and a definitely irritated Elentìriel left the Healing hall.
Aragorn prayed they would find an answer to their questions.
They hadn't quite disappeared when Ioreth came back. In her hands, she held a steaming cup. The scent that arose from it was sweet, yet sturdy.
"The culumalda tea you requested, my lord." Aragorn nodded gratefully and took it. Even though no memory of this tree came back to him now he saw it, Elrond had always taught him to trust his senses. After inhaling the scent, he thoroughly examined the color. Reddish, yet transparent, with no traces of spoiling or darkness. The structure too, seemed all right. It looked like it was safe enough. Still, to give an unknown tea to his sick friend…
"You are certain it is not poisonous."
"No, my lord. But I have never heard of any ill effects." Aragorn stared ahead thoughtfully. Was it worth the risk? Ioreth seemed to have guessed his thoughts.
"I have drunken it myself, my lord. I had no side effects."
"Elves react different to herbs then we. Some perfectly fine herbs can kill them, and vice versa." He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "He seems to be resting peacefully now. Keep it in stock for now. I will decide about it tomorrow. I fear my mind isn't clear enough anymore tonight."
"As you wish, my lord." She hesitated. "Perhaps you should rest a little. You don't look to well." He gave her a wry grin.
"Thank you."
"Certainly, my lord. Now sleep. My healers and I will take care of the elves." Without being deterred by his astonished gazes and shocked refutation, she draped a think blanket around him, effectively capturing him in his chair.
"So. Rest. I will wake you when I need you." Then she went of, already ordering some healers around to improve the comfort of the ill. Aragorn smiled wearily. The warmth did well to his already sleepy body, and he found himself dozing off. Perhaps a little sleep would do him well… With one last look upon his pale friend, he closed his eyes.
It was already well past midnight before a loud elven voice woke Aragorn from his dosing. Opening his blurry eyes, he saw Tiri standing before him, her cheeks flushed, her hair disarrayed. Her hands were trembling while she was shaking him.
"Estel, Estel!"
"Yes, I'm awake. What is it?"
"We found it!" Aragorn's mind was still too hazy to grasp the new information. He blinked groggily.
"You found what?"
"We know what is causing this plague."
REMARK: A friend of mine has written her first fan-fic. It's not LOTR, but Harry Potter, and centers Peeves. It's written well (if I, as non-native speaker, am authorised to be the judge of that), so you should check it out! It definitely is relaxing and humorous, AND original :) If you've read it, tell me what you think about it ;)
Author: Little Miss Disney Geek
Story: The story of Peeves
- I don't know how I came into existence, I do know why I came into
existence: to reign Hogwarts with chaos. I am Peeves. - Follow Peeves through
the centuries, from the founding of Hogwarts to the final battle between Harry
and Voldemort. FIRST FANFIC!
Rated: K
I'm off now, working on the next chapter. I'll post it as soon as I can! Until then! :)
xXx Archiril