Chapter 20: The Nature of the Beast

White Mountains

Aragorn knew not for how long they had treated the injured marshal on the ground before the fireplace, but it had felt like an eternity: steadily they had exchanged the cooling sheep stomachs for new, hot ones to gradually warm up Éomer from outside, while – at the same time - they also succeeded through endless patience in administering him two mugs of tea. By and by, the Rohir’s erratic breathing had steadied and along with the warming of his skin, some colour had crept back into his face, strengthening Aragorn’s hope that the warrior would survive. But it would not be a success to claim solely for himself.

As he leant back into the chair that would be his resting place for the remainder of the night, a tired smile wandered over the ranger’s face in fond memory of the three women’s help: Freya and her younger sisters – as he had quickly learned – had done more than their share, always quick to provide what he asked them for, no matter how odd his request had deemed them. His gaze unfocused on the flickering light of the candle that illuminated the room, Aragorn’s smile deepened as he recalled their aghast expressions upon his request for mouldy bread. Yet to their credit, instead of questioning him, they had actually succeeded in producing the needed substance and even in sufficient quantity for his purposes. Then they had waited and observed him with almost professional interest as he opened the wounds on Éomer’s hand with two quick incisions to drain the poisoned blood. With equal concentration they had watched him cleaning the cuts with the brandy after the red flow had slowed… and with fascinated expressions, they had followed his efforts of working the mould into the wounds before a bandage was tightly wrapped around it. At that point finally their questions became unavoidable.

"And this will help him?" Freya had asked him sceptically, but even though her expression had been doubtful, Aragorn had already detected a faint sparkle of intrigue in her tense features, as if no matter with which methods of healing he would surprise them, she would still lay her trust in his better knowledge. "It will not make the infection worse?"

"As astonishing as it may seem, the mould found on dark bread is a very potent remedy against infection," he had replied with a brief glance at his host while he quickly treated the arrow-wound in the same fashion and moved on to inspect the dark bruise on the Rohir’s side. "I learned about it some years ago from the elves."

"The elves!" Willa had exclaimed excitedly, and her sisters’ faces had mirrored her wonder. "I have never seen elves… before today. I thought they only existed in fairy-tales, like dragons, and fairies, and dwarves. Dwarves… your friends – excuse me – are they… you know… "

At this, Aragorn had laughed good-naturedly, and because his fingers had found no broken bones during their examination of his patient’s discoloured ribs, the tension had at last seeped from his body. It was then when they had all suddenly heard an audible moan from the man on the ground, and the sound had brightened their faces. Not only was he back from the brink of death, now it even appeared as if Éomer was on his way to consciousness. With a deep, satisfied sigh, Aragorn sat back on his heels and winked at the young woman who had inquired about his companions. As a people that had always preferred seclusion, the simple Rohirric peasants of course were not usually acquainted with the existence of other beings than men, except for orcs. Most of them never left the spot of land they were born on. It was only their armed forces and nobles who understood that the world beyond their borders did not solely belong to their kind, and that there forces out there – both good and evil – which far exceeded their knowledge and might.

At this thought, the ranger’s expression sobered. How sad to only know the vile side of creation when there were also such powers of light inhabiting this realm. He cleared his throat and again leant back, his thoughts returning to the rest of the conversation.

"As you have seen with your very own eyes now, Willa, many of these so-called ‘fairy-tales’ are deeply rooted in history, and not all that we take for make-believe is such. There were dragons once, and as you have seen, dwarves and elves are just as real as you and I. They may look strange to your eyes, and their language may sound foreign to your ears, and yet they are similar enough to man in their thoughts and deeds to understand and befriend each other. They know about the value of freedom; about the importance of friendship and compassion. They know about honour and pride, and they are fierce fighters for those causes. And in this battle against Evil, they are on our side."

Awe-struck by his elaboration, the young woman had only silently nodded, her blue eyes wide with wonder as he shifted his attention back at her older sister. "I find no broken bones, so it appears to be merely a bruise. A hideous one, I agree, but a bruise nonetheless. If he rests for a few days – and by that I mean that he should stay in bed - he should recover quickly. Perhaps you could apply a salve to help the distribution of the clotted blood underneath his skin, but apart from that, I believe that this injury will need no further treatment." At his statement, the faces in front of him had visibly brightened despite the women’s obvious exhaustion. It had been a long, intense evening and time to get some much-needed rest, at least for his hosts. "I believe then that we are ready to carry him over. Would you have a spare bed for him?"

Upon calling Osred, Gimli and Legolas over from the other house, the men had carefully carried Éomer into the children’s vacated room and laid him on their bed, still wrapped in the three layers of woollen blankets, and Aragorn had begun his silent vigil by the sleeping man’s side. While he believed that the Marshal had braved the worst of the storm, he was nonetheless determined to stay with him for at least this first night. Hardly had he settled back into the chair when Freya entered the room, a tray in her hands on which a bowl of strong-smelling stew and two thick pieces of dark bread in addition to two mugs had been placed.

"I know you said that it wasn’t necessary, Lord Aragorn, but I fixed you something to eat. Your friends told me that they already had the evening meal at my brother’s house while we were treating Éomer, but now it is late, and still you had nothing to eat. You must be very hungry, and I do not want to be a bad host." She held out the tray to him invitingly and with a warm, slightly shy smile now that they were alone in the room, and he accepted it with a thankful nod, his empty stomach rumbling in anticipation as the delicious smell of the stew reached his nose.

"That is very kind of you, Freya. I am indeed very hungry." He tried a first spoon full, and his smile broadened at the spicy taste. "It is very good." He looked down and found to his surprise that the stew contained a great amount meat, something in no way to be taken for granted in a land where many people were starving because of the damage of war. "I know that in these hard times, it is not easy to feed additional mouths when you have a family to be taken care of, so my gratitude is even greater. But I hope you are not giving us something you cannot afford to spare in this hard winter."

"You saved Éomer. That alone is worth more to me than everything I own." Freya’s expression became sombre as she tilted her head to regard the sleeping warrior.

"But it is not your task to pay for it. We were merely paying off a debt, but even that was not our reason for helping him. It is a duty to help others in need, no matter who they are, " Aragorn said pensively, following her gaze. "We met him and his men on the plains some days earlier, and he greatly helped us in our errand by lending us horses even against the orders of his king, although we were strangers to him." He sighed and shook his head, once again silently contemplating what had brought the young Rohir into this dire situation. Aware that Freya was still listening to him as she sat on the edge of the bed, he met her gaze again, urgency in his grey eyes as he spoke the next words: "In these dark times, we must stand united against the enemy, or we will be defeated." He fell silent, and his powerful statement seemed to echo in the air.

Thinking about his words as she absent-mindedly caressed the unmoving shape of Éomer through the blankets, Freya bit her lip. "You said that he was attacked by orcs," she said at length, not sure why she was asking, for her guest’s answer would surely upset her even more. "Forgive me my ignorance, please, but what can you tell me about our enemies? Out here in the wild, far from the lords, we do not hear much. Éomer sometimes told me about incidents and battles, and that he suspected that those dreadful creatures were sent by some evil necromancer in the west." She laughed nervously. "Please... an evil necromancer? I do sound like Willa with her dragons and fairies when I say such things, don’t I?"

Aragorn regarded her silently, using the moment while he was still chewing on his mouthful of stew to cautiously consider his reply. Should he say the truth and frighten her further by telling her that the evil wizard was only one of two enemies, and the weaker one at that? Should he tell her that the world that she knew lay in the hands of two Halflings, and that it would end if they failed to destroy the enemy’s mightiest weapon; that each being refusing to serve the Dark Lord would die and the sun be extinguished in the sky, plunging all of Middle Earth into a second darkness? Or should he lie? He chose a middle path.

"I admit that it sounds strange... but such things like magic and spells do exist, and there are people... or beings... who are born with a natural talent for mastering them. That may be all there is to the title of a ‘Wizard’; that he is a man gifted with a special talent – or cursed, it depends on how you see it and what use that man is making of it."

"But even if there is such a man, and spells, as you say... why does he seek to destroy us?" Freya shook her head, searching for answers in the deep grey eyes of the man in front of her. She did not know why she thought that he could answer that question, except that there seemed to be an endless depth to him, a wealth of knowledge gained only by far journeys and the open mind willing to understand all those journeys brought. "What did we ever to do him to incur his wrath?"

"Not all evil deeds are borne from wrath, or revenge," Aragorn spoke carefully. "In fact, I would say that it is greed that does the most harm. And that necromancer, he lusts for power."

"Power over a land of grass and horses?" She did not understand. "What would that man win by destroying us? This land is rough; it takes a lot of very hard work to get anything out of it at all. I doubt that he would set fields or plough the ground himself, would he? Apart from our horses, there are no treasures to be found in the Mark."

"It seems to be the very nature of evil that if often comes without apparent cause. We cannot always understand why evil deeds are committed; we can only try to fight back," Aragorn admitted. Even he did not have all the answers. "The mind of man often defies all explanation. Even the men themselves cannot say why they must act in a certain way; except for an inner urge."

"But this has been going on for so long. So many have lost their lives, men, women and children alike, and it appears to get even worse all the time." In an attempt to wipe the weariness away, Freya ran a hand over her face, but of course the gesture did not help. "Please, Lord Aragorn… I do not know who you are, or what your errand is in our land, but my feelings tell me that you are a good man, and you seem to know a lot about the nature of men and of war. So please, tell me if you think that this evil will end one day? Will we brave this storm? Or will the Mark become a vast, empty land once all of us have been slaughtered? When I see him—" she nodded at Éomer, "—I fear for the worst. He is a capable man, said to be one of our best warriors. He must be, or he wouldn’t be a marshal at his young age. But even he was overcome." She had no defence left against the sudden surge of desperation that rose in her, choking her. Suddenly, she found herself in the stranger’s embrace. "Oh, Béma, no…"

"Do not despair, Freya," Aragorn spoke lowly, the warmth of his breath comforting on her skin. She tried in vain to hold back the tears surging up from the bottom of her soul. "´Éomer will live, and so shall the people of the Mark. My friends and I are here to help Rohan in its need, and for as long as there is a single drop of blood left in our veins, we will not yield." For a wile, he just held her while suppressed sobs shook her thin frame. "It is good, Freya. It will come to a good end."

Sniffling, she separated from him at last, an embarrassed smile of apology on her lips as she wiped her eyes.

"I am sorry, Lord Aragorn. I did not mean to break into tears in front of you, I usually don’t. It is only…" she shrugged, her hand performing a little, helpless gesture. "The shock to see him like this… and all this misery we keep hearing of…"

"It is hard to bear, and even harder not to despair, aye, I understand that very well, my lady." With his rough hand, Aragorn cupped her cheek, and his gaze intensified as he looked at her, almost burning her with his urgency. "Some days, it would appear as if there is no hope, but in these times, we must avert our eyes from the evil around us and concentrate on the good things which still exist, and we must draw our hope from them." He could see the question forming in her features, and provided the answer before she could even voice it: "Éomer is still alive, and he will recover. The people of the Mark are still alive, and still fighting, and nothing is lost yet. Life was never easy for the sons of Éorl, and yet after five hundred years of struggle, you still endure, and your enemies fear you for your hardiness, your courage and your determination. No one has ever defeated the Rohirrim for as long as they stood united... and now my friends and I have come to aid you in that fight; you stand not alone." He pointed his chin at Éomer. "On the plains, I promised him that we would draw our swords together one day, and I intend to keep my promise. Believe me, my lady, it is far too early to give up hope."

Through her tears, he saw her smiling, and was glad to have lifted the young woman’s spirits. Like a true woman of Rohan she deemed him; simple but honest, proud and hardy, and yet warm-hearted and compassionate at the same time to those deserving of it. A people like that deserved to endure, and if it was in his power, he would do his part in ensuring their survival. His hand sank from her face, and she took it and pressed it affectionately, thankful for his comfort.

"You cannot know what your words and your deeds tonight mean to me, Lord Aragorn. I can only repeat what I already said: the Gods sent you to us in this dark hour. Perhaps, they still look kindly upon us after all, even if they have a strange way of showing it."

"That I am convinced of," he assured her, giving back the pressure. "Even if I do not know whether it was them who led me here. But now that I am here, I am intent on making the most of it." His smile deepened, and carefully, he smoothed away a strand of ashen hair which had fallen into her face. "It is already very late, you should go and get some rest now. I promise you that I will stay with him."

"But you must be tired yourself."

"I am used to long watches. And while I do believe that the worst is behind him, I will find not rest myself until I am sure that he is on the way to recovery." Seeing that she was still not glad with his answer, he offered: "But if you insist, I will wake you around dawn for the continuation of the watch. Will you accept that?"

"Gladly," she nodded, and rose to her feet, no longer able to disguise how very weary she felt. Her hand reluctantly left its place upon the shape of Éomer’s arm below the blanket. "And since you say that you are a man of your word, I expect you to keep your promise..."

"I will."

"...and that you will wake me if you need my help."

"I will do that, my lady. I know how dear he is to you."

She believed him. However reluctant she was of leaving Éomer, she needed to sleep. He was in good hands, and the thought of a man she had known only for a few hours yet being the only one awake in their house did not trouble her at all; in her mind, Aragorn had already ceased to be a stranger. With a last glance back, Freya silently closed the door behind her, the despair which had haunted her for weeks suddenly replaced by a feeling so unusual that she at first fail to name it for it had been a long time since she had last felt it. But yes, there was no denying anymore that with these three strangers, hope had returned into her home...

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CENTRAL PLAINS

The night was cold and too bright for Elfhelm’s liking. The light of the waxing moon in addition to the blanket of snow on the ground allowed them to see far, and no doubt had their approach been visible from the watchtower of Edoras if the guards had paid attention. The city lights had died down approximately a while ago, and while they waited in the cover of the group of rocks upon the river’s edge, shivering from the cold even though they sat huddled into their thick blankets, hardly a word was spoken between the men.

"There is the signal! Look!" Arnhelm suddenly hissed, pointing a finger in the direction of a small moving light in front of the gates, and his words prompted his comrades into motion. Still they did not talk, and as they swung into their saddles with limbs stiff from the hours of sitting unmoving in the cold temperatures, Elfhelm saw his own tension mirrored in their drawn faces. How easy it would be for the Worm to lead them all into a trap if his spies had found out about Céorl’s plan! The feeling of foreboding was strong in him, and growing stronger with each step that took them closer to the mighty wooden fence surrounding the city. Suddenly, Éon stopped.

"Captain?" His scout regarded him from underneath a furrowed brow, and it was only then when Elfhelm realised that – in his reluctance to enter the city – he had involuntarily pulled at the reins. Angry at himself, the experienced warrior gave his waiting men the signal to proceed, although his instincts were crying out at him to turn back. Stubbornly, he told himself that his disquiet stemmed from the exposure on this last part of their approach which offered no cover; something an experienced warrior always sought to avoid even if he wasn’t riding into battle. Their horses, sensing their riders’ tension, remained silent as well, although the familiar scents of home and of others of their kin would have prompted them to welcoming neighs under normal circumstances.

These were no normal circumstances. They were here to plan a revolution, an unprecedented event in the history of the Mark. His lips a thin, bloodless line, Elfhelm’s eyes narrowed as he tried to identify the man with the now extinguished torch waiting for them in front of the opened gates. It was not Céorl, and it was not Éothain, so much he could see already, and his discovery brought about another fit of anxiety rumbling through Elfhelm’s broad frame. Who else was left the Captain of Edoras trusted enough to appoint with this precarious task?

Laying his right hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword to be ready, just in case, he approached the waiting figure… and finally recognised it as one of the men who had accompanied his Edoras’ counterpart to Aldburg .

"Westu hal, Anlaf! Is Céorl inside?"

"Westu hal, Captain Elfhelm. Aye, he sent me to bring you to the meeting place." He craned his neck to look up, and again Elfhelm felt a strange shudder at the sight of his guarded face. "Will you allow me to share the saddle with you, Captain? I did not bring my own horse, for it would only have raised unneeded questions of why I needed it during my watch."

"I understand," Elfhelm said, extending his hand to help the guard mount behind him. Of course the man was tense, he berated himself, after all, he was risking his life by allowing them into the city as much as they were. "We do not meet him at his home?"

Anlaf shook his head.

"The Captain fears that his home is under surveillance by the enemy, therefore he chose another place. Let us proceed inside quickly. The city appears to be sleeping, but one can never know whether there not malicious eyes watching from behind one of these dark windows."

Heeding the man’s words, Elfhelm urged his steed through the narrow gap in the gate, and with a click of his tongue, reminded the stallion to move cautiously. His gaze fell upon the houses surrounding the square they entered now, and a chill travelled down his spine at the thought of the guard’s words. Were they being watched? Was there a group of the Worm’s men waiting in the shadows for them to approach, their arrows already fitted to the string of their bows and ready to loose them as soon as their aim was true? Their horses hoof-beats seemed treacherously loud to his ears, certain to alarm the entire lower city. Perhaps it would have been better to leave them outside… but then again, five fully saddled, riderless Rohirric war-horses in front the gates would likewise rise suspicion, and Elfhelm had no way of knowing for how long their secret meeting would take. No, better to take them along and hide them away in a barn. The snow and mud muffled the sound, and it probably seemed only loud to his strained ears and would not wake a man sleeping inside these houses.

In silence, the short line of riders proceeded through the sleeping city until they came to the last building in a hidden back-street, a weather-worn wooden structure that seemed to have been used as a shed for the craftsmen living close by until a fire had recently destroyed part of it. Even in the moonlight, the charred black scars in the wood were still visible, and a faint burnt stench still wafted toward them through the clear air. Upon Anlaf’s silent signal, Elfhelm brought his steed to a halt, and after a long, thorough look at his surroundings, he finally dismounted, followed by his men. The columns of their frozen breaths rising into the chill night, the warriors strained their senses until at last, all faces turned to Elfhelm and the guard, awaiting their orders. With a deep breath, Anlaf walked up to the large door and knocked his knuckles against the wood in a careful rhythm. Rigid, all hands on their swords and muscles strained to react to whatever situation they would find once the door opened, the men waited. Finally, the muffled sound of steps could be heard from inside.

"Who is it?"

"It is I, Anlaf. I bring Elfhelm and his men."

They held their breath. At last, the sound of a bolt sliding aside reached their ears, and the door opened... to darkness. The face of the man whispering to them from inside to enter quickly was hidden by the shadow, and yet Anlaf seemed to recognise him as he disappeared into the blackness. Hesitant, the warriors looked at each other, until at last, Elfhelm took his heart in both hand and followed the guard inside, his fingers clenched around the hilt of his blade.

"Céorl?" It was too dark. He understood the import of secrecy, but not even a candle had been lit to help him see where he was going, and suddenly, the darkness was complete when the door closed behind them. "Céorl?" It was a reflex that made him draw his sword, the barest notion of a presence near him, but it was already too late: his vision exploded in a fireball as a heavy object connected with his head, and the blade slipped from his hands. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

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This is for Maddy, without whose medical knowledge Aragorn would have looked pretty stupid in this chapter! Thank you, and I hope you recover quickly and give us another delicious episode of "Unexpected"!