For Lindelea and the Master for their birthdays.  Enjoy!

A Storm Breaks

            During a break in the Council Meeting, Lord Húrin, the Keeper of the Keys for the Citadel, rose, stretched, and rubbed at the stump of his left arm.  Their Lord King Elessar noted the grimace on Húrin’s face and asked, “The place where the arm was lost—it still causes pain after two score years?”

            Húrin shrugged, nodding wryly.  “Some wounds are dreadfully slow to heal, if at all.  It would appear that the weather is once again about to change.  It always hurts more when it is about to rain, or so it seems.”

            Several of the more experienced lords attending the Council indicated their agreement.  “Where that orc caught me last year in Osgiliath has been aching all day,” one commented.  “Now, with the heat these last ten days it has been tight; but today there is a deep pain, right here.”  He patted his left hip.

            Aragorn caught Gandalf’s eye, both of them thinking on Frodo, cursed with a wound to his shoulder he’d been warned would not heal properly as long as he remained in Middle Earth.  The Wizard gave a short nod indicating he would check to make certain that the Ringbearer was able to sleep that night.

            An hour after the Council continued there was a brilliant flash of lightning that was immediately followed by a loud peal of thunder.  All looked to the windows, aware that at last the heat was indeed breaking with the onset of a storm.

            Many of the Men who had indicated that old wounds had begun troubling them with the signs rain was coming were now relaxing once it began to fall, great drops striking the panes of glass like a barrage of pebbles thrown with force at the Citadel’s windows.  But others were now displaying signs of distress, some of them Men who had not been seriously wounded in the past.  A younger Healer who represented the Houses of Healing and had joined Aragorn, Elladan, and Elrohir as they’d worked through the night after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields awakening those who had been suffering from the Black Breath, looked upward with concern as a particularly bright flash struck the sides of Mindolluin, immediately followed by a great peal of thunder that rolled through the Citadel as if it had been itself hit.  “Many of those who suffered through the battles will be in terror tonight,” he said.

            Gandalf made up his mind immediately that he should return to the guest house where the Fellowship was staying to check on the four Hobbits.  Even Aragorn, he knew, could feel highly uncomfortable when circumstances brought back certain memories; how much more would those four find wailing winds and thunder ringing off the walls of the mountain causing them to relive the shrieks of the Nazgûl or the terrors of battle?  He rose from his seat and stretched.  “I grieve to leave you, but now that you are turning to matters of trade between Gondor and Rohan I find it high time for me to go to my rest.  Some are in need of more rest than others, after all.  I wish you all a good even, my lords.  Lord Elessar.”

            As he respectfully bowed his head to the King, the Wizard noted that Aragorn was smiling his thanks for keeping an eye on his friends.

            Legolas stood by the sapling of the White Tree, gently caressing the crown of white blossoms it bore, ignoring the wind and rain that buffeted all the Seventh Level of the White City.  His attention, however, was focused at the Harlond, down across the fields of the Pelennor, where a peculiar light swirled above the pool beyond the quays.

            “What is it?” breathed the Elf.

            Gandalf smiled.  “I have not seen him since I first sailed into Mithlond, half an age ago.  He and his consort were oft my companions on that journey.  I suspect he has come to honour our new King and those who come to join him in the coming days.  That you have noted his presence is perhaps a result of you having heard the call of the Sea and now knowing the Sea Longing.  It is his delight to dance in the storm, although he seldom comes so far inland from the Mouths of the Sea.”

            Legolas’s eyes widened in appreciation.

            “Frodo and Sam—how are they faring?” the Wizard continued.

            “Frodo has been uncomfortable all afternoon, and expressed his intention to retire to his bed almost immediately after his evening meal, not that he ate much.  I believe Sam drew a cool bath for him.  All four Hobbits have been somewhat tense this afternoon, I would say.”

            “Then I will go down to them now.  I might be able to hearten them.”  So saying, Gandalf headed for the ramp down to the Sixth Circle and the guesthouse on Isil Lane.

            Once Sam and Frodo disappeared into the bathing room, Merry and Pippin gave each other significant looks.  “I hope,” Merry sighed, “the storm that’s been gathering all afternoon will break soon.  Even I’ve been feeling a headache, and I’m certain it’s been worse for Frodo.”

            Pippin nodded solemnly.  “Even I think I’d willingly make an early night of it.  I’ll go upstairs to use the privy there and will go to bed immediately after.”

            By the time the young Hobbit entered the room in which he and Merry slept, he found his Brandybuck cousin was already abed.  From the tension visible in his jaw and forehead, however, it was plain that the headache of which Merry had been complaining was even worse than he’d said.  Pippin withdrew from the room and went down to the cold cellar where a vat of lavender water was kept, and brought back a cloth that he’d soaked in the stuff, which he gently laid over his cousin’s forehead.  “This should help you sleep,” he whispered,

            “Thanks, Pip,” Merry said in return.  “I think the pain is easing already.  I hope you will sleep easily, too.” 

            Pippin withdrew to his own bed, disrobed, and climbed under his covers, soon falling into slumber.

            Frodo did not spend long in the bath Sam had drawn for him.  “It is simply not helping that much,” he murmured as he rose and dried himself with the towelling set out for him, then set the tub to draining.  He donned the sleep shirt hanging from the nearby bar and went through the door into the library room where he himself slept.  He peeked through the door into the adjoining parlour where Sam had his bed and saw that his friend was lying on his back, apparently asleep already, although not perhaps as restfully as he might be.  Closing the door softly, he went to his own bed, pausing before getting into it to peer out the window.  “It is not that long after sunset,” he murmured to himself.  “I doubt I shall sleep all the way to sunrise.”  With that he laid himself down and drew the light blanket provided for him over himself, turned on his side and sought to find relief in slumber.

            The first burst of lightning woke him, and at the crash of thunder following that sudden light Frodo sat straight up, feeling the shock of it all coursing through him.  He’d been dreaming of the fighting he’d heard in the tower in which he’d been imprisoned and tortured, and his first thoughts were of the surety he’d known then that Aragorn and those with him were being slaughtered by the superior number of orcs that filled the Tower of Cirith Ungol.  He had to remember that that had been a false impression suffered under the lingering effects of the spider’s poison, that in fact Aragorn was far away in Gondor, helping to order the army that would approach Mordor from the northwest to draw Sauron’s attention to the Black Gate. 

            Well, at last the storm had broken, and with it the stifling heat that had plagued the last week and more.  He tried to focus on that promise of relief when of a sudden the door to Sam’s room crashed open.  Sam’s face was completely white with fear, a fear Frodo understood all too well.

            “You all right, Master?” Sam demanded, clearly trying to manage his own terror.

            “Oh, but I am, my dear Sam.  After all, you are here to see to me.”  His compassion for the gardener rose in Frodo’s heart.  “There was that dream again, when I thought the orcs were killing Aragorn and those who fought alongside him.  I’m certain the heaviness of the air had brought it on, and that blast of thunder made it worse.”

            Sam was shaking as he approached Frodo’s bed.  “I was hearin’ the cries of the Black Riders and the roars of them awful beasts on which they rode.  Those wasn’t dragons, though, not as Mr. Bilbo used to tell?”

            “No, they weren’t, not as I understood as well.  They were fearful, though—that I will agree.”

            There was another flash of lightning—two strikes almost at the same time, followed by a great peal of thunder that caused both of them to jump.

He noted the unrelieved fear in Sam’s face and bearing, and made a decision.  “Come here, Sam.  We both need one another.  The fear is too great, and the storm is bringing it all back.  Stay with me and help me deal with the storm,” Not that you aren’t worse off than I am tonight, he thought as he held open the blanket and allowed Sam to join him. 

            With the first peal of thunder Pippin leapt from his bed, sword in hand, clad only in his small clothes.  It took him a minute to realize that he was not being in the midst of the battle before the Black Gate, and that it was simply a storm.  “Not just a storm—the greatest of all storms, it sounds like.”

            He glanced about the room, and realized that Merry was lying stiff, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, wide with horror.  He dropped his sword and ran to Merry’s bed and leaned over him.  “Merry!  Meriadoc Brandybuck!  It’s all right!  It’s only a storm.  Wake up, Cousin!”

            Merry looked into Pippin’s face and whispered, “It was like I was back then, back at the Battle of the Pelennor, when the Witch King was threatening Lady Éowyn and I stabbed him in the leg.  My arm—it’s cold, like it was then!  And there were flashes of light and then all black—all black!  I can’t go through that again, Pip!  I can’t go through it again!  That shriek----“

            Another flash of intense light, followed by thunder that seemed to roll down the levels of the city and shake all of the buildings as it passed.  Both the Hobbits jerked at the noise, and Pippin cowered over his cousin’s body, tears streaming from his eyes.  “When the troll fell on me, it was like this—as if I were turned to stone and could not move as the battle roared all around us.”

            He shivered as Merry wrapped his arms about him and sat up beside him.  “All is well, Pippin.  We both made it, thanks to Strider, and we were both there when Sam and Frodo woke up.  I stabbed the Witch King, and you felled a troll, and we are both together now.  It is just a storm, just as you said, and we can weather a storm, especially as we have such a stout house around us.  Thank you for helping me recover.  Tell you what—just get your pillow and we will sleep here together in my bed, just as we did as youngsters, and we will then be facing the storm together.”

            Pippin nodded slowly.  “You did get the bigger bed,” he agreed.  “Let me get my pillow, then.”  He rose, stooped to pick up his sword, and went to fetch his pillow.  Soon they lay side by side as yet another bolt of lightning struck the mountainside above the White City, and they comforted each other as the next roll of thunder shook the buildings around their house.

            Gandalf found he had to fight the wind as he crossed the length of the pavement leading to the ramp down to the Sixth Circle.  Now and then he glimpsed the shimmering shape of Ossë dancing within the storm over the Harlond, and smiled.  It was reported that Elrond was arriving with a party of the High Elves of Imladris and Loth Lórien soon, most likely on the eve of Midsummer.  These were more that the Grey Wanderer knew the Maia of Storms at Sea would wish to honour—to honour and to confirm the call to return Home.  Oh, but he knew now that he’d been right to deny Aragorn’s desire that he remain here in Middle Earth to rule the whole of his realm.  Not right away would he go, but still it would seem but a minute before he would go aboard that Grey Ship, forsaking the Mortal Lands and this shape he’d borne for so long.

            He realized then that there was one more individual Ossë wished to honour, a small soul who doubted he was worthy of such regard.

            Aye, Brother.  He, too, is honoured and loved by our Masters and Beyond.  Let him know—again—that none could have done more than he did, reaching the Sammath Naur still in the body and carrying that horror yet upon him.  That the Ring needed another to take It into the Fire is not due to any fault he showed.  It was the one once known as Sméogol who needed to do that for his own redemption.  Iorhael succeeded far beyond any expectations, and Perhael with him.  A laita te, laita te!

            Was that a promise? the Wizard asked himself.  A hint of a promise?  He started down the ramp through the tunnel, eager to see what state he would find the four Hobbits in when he reached the guesthouse in which they stayed.

            The house was still when he arrived.  Legolas was above them in the Court of the White Tree, and he knew that Gimli was staying the night as the guest of the Master of the Guild of Stonewrights where he had been discussing the need for marble to replace that destroyed by the Enemy’s forces.  Only the four Hobbits remained here this night, and it appeared they were all abed.  He settled his staff against the hall tree and softly opened the door to the room where Merry and Pippin slept.  He found them lying in the same bed, now sound asleep.  They lay back-to-back, each with sword in hand. 

            That, he realized, was right, for they were now blooded warriors, soldiers who would ever guard one another’s back as they faced the challenges and dangers that might meet them in the future.  He raised his hand over them in blessing, knowing they would guard the Shire for Frodo’s sake when the time came that he must leave it.

            Sam was not lying in the bed in the small, private parlour that had been made his bedroom.  When Gandalf opened the door from that room into the chamber in which Frodo slept he found the missing gardener sleeping in Frodo’s bed, his head pressed against Frodo’s chest, Frodo’s head lying comfortingly against Sam’s scalp, his arms protectively around Sam’s body.

            So, the Wizard thought, they must have lain in the uncertain darkness of Mordor after they escaped from the Tower of Cirith Ungol, seeking to comfort one another as the Wraiths circled high above the desert land below and the Mountain spouted ash and fire.  Again he raised his hand in blessing for these two, the one who had persevered beyond hope, and the one who had held that hope for the both of them.

            Still another flash of lightning lit the window at the head of Frodo’s bed, and as the following thunder rolled Sam shuddered and Frodo’s glass rods hung on the window frame clashed.  Frodo’s arms tightened about Sam, reassuring him, and once again the gardener relaxed.  Neither quite awoke.

            The storm was abating as the Wizard gently closed that door and passed through the small parlour to the main room of the house, slipping out onto the balcony that looked out over the lower city.  A separate Light had joined that of Ossë over the Harlond, this one as full of peace as her consort was filled with chaos.  Gandalf the White bowed to acknowledge the arrival of Uinen, the Lady of Calm Waters, and she bespoke him.

            Do you think that these two beloved ones lay thus in the darkness of Mairon’s chosen lands here in Endorë, Olórin? Ah, but both yes and no, for there it was Perhael who was the comforter, not Iorhael. 

            “And you know this how?” he whispered.

            Manwë sent his winds to tear apart the clouds over the Black Land when Eärendil soared over it.  Several times he saw them so.  Know this:  what the Cormacolindo has endured has strengthened him beyond his realization, and has indeed removed most of his fears, save for his fear of hurting his beloved companion and those others he loves best.

            Gandalf bowed his head, knowing the truth of this description of Frodo’s character.  Alas, that fear was likely to cause grief to the very ones Frodo would seek to protect.

***

Ossë and Uinen are Maiar, servants to the Valar and vassals to Ulmo, Vala of the Seas and Waters of this world.

Olórin was the name by which Gandalf was addressed when he served as a Maia of Manwë’s train within the Undying Lands, before he was chosen to join the order of the Istari or Wizards, who were charged with leading the fight against Sauron’s challenge for ultimate power within the Mortal Lands.

Mairon was the name of Sauron before he aligned himself with Melkor/Morgoth and followed his chosen Master from amongst the Valar back into the Mortal Lands.

Endorë is the Elvish name for the Mortal Lands.

Iorhael and Perhael are the Elvish translations of Frodo and Sam’s names.

Manwë Is the chieftain of the Valar, and is Vala of the Winds and of Breath.

Cormacolindo is the Elvish translation of Ringbearer.