Incunabulum 3: Back in Mirkwood

Hrothmar's return with news of pending war and seven Lorien elves caused something of a stir in the elvenking's palace. His elder brother Horthir, captain of the elvenking's guard, met the party as they entered the palace gates.

"It seems you made good time," he said to Hrothmar. "Did you meet any orcs?"

"No."

"That's a good sign. Few, I feel, reached the mountains after the battle."

"Let us hope," said Hrothmar. "And by the way, I hope nobody's meddled with my forge since I left."

"No, no, it's quite all right; it's been locked. Here's the key back. How did the council go?"

People often had trouble believing Hrothmar and Halrodil (who was nearly blond) were brothers until they met Horthir, whose brown hair managed to strike a happy compromise between his brothers' complexions. He and Hrothmar parted from the company, leaving the Lothlorien elves to face the elvenking and explain their errand.

"I hope Thranduil doesn't blame me for bringing them along," said Hrothmar. "It was no doing of mine."

"It was an unnecessary arrangement of Elrohir's," said Horthir. "I doubt not it will cause much trouble. The elves of Lothlorien may be our kin, but they do not understand our ways."

He glanced at Hrothmar.

"You look terrible," he said. "Have you gotten much sleep?"

"Not a lot."

"You haven't slept at all, have you?"

Hrothmar did not answer and Horthir continued with averted eyes.

"I've set up an appointment for you with Emeril, by the way—while you were gone."

"Why? I told you, I don't need that. I'll be fine."

"You're getting worse—I can tell. You can't go on like this forever."

They had reached the door of Hrothmar's forge.

"She can't hurt you, you know," said Horthir. "It's for tomorrow at two thirty. If you don't go, I'll come and make you."

Hrothmar unlocked the door of his smithy in sulky silence.

"Well, see you later," said Horthir. "See you tomorrow at two twenty, actually."

He departed. Hrothmar went into the low hut, leaving the door swinging on its hinges. Everything was just as he had left it. He always felt most at home in his forge—in fact, it was the only place he ever felt at home in. He liked its gloom and heat and the general sense of usefulness about the place.

There were several chunks of various metals piled neatly on the forge beside the ashes of his last fire. They had been delivered during his absence and Horthir had left them there. Horthir was a good brother, he reflected. Perhaps he would go to see Emeril if it would make him happy.

Hrothmar took his hammer from his belt and laid it on his anvil, then threw himself down on the bed in the corner and lay on his back for a time, staring up at the smoke-blackened ceiling. He might have dozed off for a minute or two—he wasn't sure—but he was aroused shortly by a tap at the open door and the entrance of Elvisir.

"Hello, hope I'm not bothering you," he said, coming in with a sheaf of loose sheet music under his arm. "Halrodil said you'd probably be here, so I thought I'd come down."

He looked admiringly round the small apartment.

"Did you make all these things?"

"Yes," said Hrothmar, and then added modestly, "Took a while, of course."

He and Elvisir had grown to be good friends during the journey back to Mirkwood, and therefore he did not treat him as he did the usual visitors to his forge—by throwing odd bits of metal or firewood at them until they decided to end the visit.

"This is a nice little place," said Elvisir, sitting down on the forge. "They've put the lot of us Lorien elves up in guest chambers—decent rooms, actually, but not much character. This place is really nice. Oh, I see you're wearing the good luck charm. Is it working?"

"No, not really," said Hrothmar. "Of course it might later—it might just take a while. How did the meeting with Thranduil go?"

"Oh, awful. We had a row."

"Why? What happened?" asked Hrothmar, sitting up.

"It was Findor's fault. He said Elrohir had placed him in charge of the bands of orc-fighters from Mirkwood—which if Elrohir did, it was silly of him. But I think it's more likely that Findor just made it up. Anyway, the king didn't like the idea and said so. And Findor said that since they only sent two messengers to Elrond's council, they couldn't complain if the decisions made there didn't benefit the Wood-elves."

"He said that? Really? To Thranduil? He's got nerve. What did Thranduil say?"

"Oh, he told him off properly. Said he was king in Mirkwood and he would appoint whom he pleased over his army, and that if Findor didn't like it he could go back to Lothlorien and no one would hinder him. Then he sent us all out before Findor could think of something to say back. It was all very unfriendly."

"Yes, we're not very nice to strangers here," said Hrothmar. He got up and began to lay a fire on the forge.

"Yes, so I've heard. But I can't say I blame you, living in a wood infested with giant spiders and whatnot. Not a single Mellorn as far as I saw. And there's a queer smell—comes up from the south sometimes—have you noticed it?"

"That's from the Dead Marshes."

"What are those?"

"Marshes, of course."

"Well, where are they?"

"They're pretty far away—several days' journey to the south; just before you come to Mordor. There was a big battle there a long time ago and now there are a lot of dead people there."

"Is that why they call them the Dead Marshes?" asked Elvisir. Getting no reply he added, "Was that the battle where Gil-galad and the rest defeated Sau— I mean—you know, the dark lord."

"I guess. I don't know."

"Oh, so it was before your time, then?"

"It was in the second age," said Hrothmar. "How old do you think I am?"

"How old are you?"

"I was born in the third age."

"I thought you were older than that. Pooh, you're just a kid."

"You're one to talk," said Hrothmar scornfully. "I'm far more mature than you."

He blew up the fire to an orange glow and took out an unfinished blade. Elvisir pulled out his harp (which he seemed to always carry with him), made himself comfortable on Hrothmar's bed, and began to arrange his music.

"What's that you're singing?" asked Hrothmar, interrupting him in the middle of a song.

"What? Oh, it's high elvish. It means, all paths are drowned deep in shadow; and out of a grey country darkness lies on the foaming waves between us, and mist covers the jewels of—"

"I know what it means," cut in Hrothmar. "I studied high elvish in electives. I meant what song is it?"

"I don't remember what it's called. It's very popular in Lothlorien just now—Lady Galadriel sings it all the time."

Since it was popular Hrothmar decided not to like it, but the tune stuck easily in the mind and he found the words running through his head against his will. Elvisir plucked the strings of his harp idly for a few minutes, and then began to amuse himself by composing a rap number to the rhythm of Hrothmar's blows until Hrothmar shied a hammer at him.

The next day at two thirty found Hrothmar, without Horthir's impulsion, sitting in the waiting room at Dr. Emeril's. He was not happy to be there. He had a strong aversion to doctors of any kind—they had the disagreeable tendency to probe searching fingers into old wounds—and women doctors were especially unsettling*.

Emeril was of the strenuous, efficient sort of elven woman who always seemed more interested by a problem than a person—you know, the sort who likes calculus. She had studied psychiatry from the High Elves and was the most prestigious mental practitioner in Mirkwood, but unfortunately, she was not really suited for the job by nature. Her cold gaze unnerved most people and her searching questions rarely received satisfactory answers. To do her justice, she believed herself to be a very warm and caring person, and therefore she always thought her patients to be in a worse state than they really were—they were always so terribly tense.

"Now, Hrothmar, I want you to relax," she said, as soon as they were seated in her office. "I'm not going to do a thing to you, I just want you to talk about yourself—as if I weren't here, if that would help."

"All right," said Hrothmar. "What do you want to know about me?"

"Well… tell me about your interests. What do you enjoy doing?"

"I don't know. Not much, really."

"You make swords, or something?"

"Yes."

"You don't like talking to people, do you?"

"No."

"Your brother says you have trust issues."

"What else did he tell you?" asked Hrothmar, annoyed.

"Um, let me see…" Emeril consulted her clipboard. "He said you're left-handed, you… scribble on walls with pencils, you're always using his toothbrush, you're a Hishe fan, and you used to collect insects when you were a kid."

"You got all that out of him?"

"He volunteered most of it. He thought it might help reveal your subliminal drives." Emeril made a determined effort. "We're only trying to help you, Hrothmar."

There was a pause.

"Tell me about your dreams," she said. "Is it the same dream over and over, or different every time?"

"I don't know. I can't ever remember them afterwards."

"But they keep you from sleeping?"

"Yes, I wake up all in a sweat and shaky, like I smoked something I shouldn't, and then I can't get back to sleep."

"Are they terrifying?"

"Yes… I think so. They give me a feeling…"

"Can you describe it?"

"It's… sort of like…"

"Like falling?"

"No. Like dark water."

"When did you first start having these dreams?"

"A long time ago. Since I was a kid. But they've been getting worse lately."

"And do you know what brought them on?" Emeril was writing rapidly on the clipboard.

"No. I've no idea. I've tried just about everything to get rid of them."

"Are they in some way related to your father's death, do you think?"

Hrothmar wondered if she had remembered how his father had died or if Horthir had told her. He was beginning to get edgy. Emeril knew too much.

"No, because I had them before he died."

"His death was probably traumatic for you. Do you think that's why you're afraid of orcs?"

There it was again—how had she known that?

"I'm not really afraid of orcs," said Hrothmar; 'they just creep me out, that's all."

"I know. It's a subliminal fear that's worked its way into your subconscious and is manifesting itself in your dreams. The question is, why? What's connecting the two things? Is it something in your past?"

"No," said Hrothmar. "It's nothing like that. It's not me. It's, it's something else. I can't help it."

He stopped and looked apprehensively at Emeril. Her dark eyes were fixed on him.

"What is it you fear?" she said.

"I… I fear the dark…" began Hrothmar uncertainly.

"The darkness inside you?"

"No… I don't know. I… can't…"

His words trailed off weakly.

"Hrothmar, how much do you want to be cured of this?" she asked.

"I was hoping I'd just get over it," said Hrothmar, abashed. "A lot of people simply live with it."

"Some people can," said Emeril. "Men can because they don't live very long. It's different for us."

"I suppose there are some advantages of mortality, then."

"Yes, everything is temporary for them. They compress the essence of a lifetime—which is for us eternity—into a brief period: a few years, or even a day, or a single hour. I've had a few humans as patients and they're very interesting to analyse."

She was silent for about a minute, writing something on a piece of paper.

"Here you are, Hrothmar," she said at last, handing the paper to him. "I'm referring your case to the Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien. She does hypnosis and is extremely good—she's cured a lot of people. I think she can help you. You ought to set up an appointment with her as soon as possible. Just give her this paper—it has all the details of your case on it."

Hrothmar took the paper unwillingly and left the office. He was surprised on reaching his forge again to hear the sound of blows coming from within and was ready to be furious with the invader until he found that it was Elvisir, who had scattered sheet music about the usually tidy room and was passing the time banging the anvil with Hrothmar's best hammer.

"Hello, I've been looking all over for you," said Elvisir. "Where have you been? You look like you've been put through the wringer."

"I went to see a shrink," said Hrothmar.

"What? Why? Oh—for your orcphobia? Well, what did he say?"

"She said I should go see Galadriel."

"Oh, of course. Why didn't I think of that? Yes, I have a friend who went to her for manic depression and he was completely cured."

"Well, I'm not going to see her."

"Why not?"

Hrothmar tossed the paper onto the embers on his forge and pumped the bellows.

"I hear she can get inside your head and read your mind."

"Well… you don't have anything to hide, do you?"

"No, but I'm not going to go let some strange woman mesmerise me. Once she gets inside your head you might not be able to her back out again. I'd rather be stuck with the nightmares."

"Even if you can't sleep?" asked Elvisir.

"I'll get over it," said Hrothmar.

* No doubt Hrothmar also feared being sent to Mirkwood's mental institution, the dreaded Banwell (see Frithiel, chapter 10).