(A/N:  Many thanks again to Nieriel Raina, who fixed some rather embarrassing errors in this chapter!  She is a beta without equal.)

Chapter 28. The Old Man

“Scrape it off of him,” panted Gimli; he folded the cloth over his hand again, and ran it down Legolas’ neck.  “Get it off his skin.  It is burning him.”

Tamin sobbed under his breath as he worked, his bright eyes blinded by tears; his hastily splinted leg stuck out straight and awkward, and his bare foot was purple and swollen; but he took the clean cloths and scraped and scraped, the black blood smoking on his Master’s battered flesh.  Vé was scrambling around their little fire, muttering to himself; he tried to put the little pot on the rocks but his hands trembled so much he nearly spilled it.

“Careful, there, Vé!” said Gimli.

“Oh, careful yourself,” snapped Vé; his voice shook.  “I’ve broke my elbow, and that damned drake knocked some of my teeth out.”

“Well, Tamin has a leg broken, and he is not complaining,” said Gimli.  “And I am fairly certain my ribs are currently in places where they were not meant to be.”  He tossed a filthy blackened rag aside, and groped for another.  “Where’s that hot water?” he asked, and pried Legolas’ hand open; the skin on the back of the Elf’s hand was blistered, but the palm where it had clasped the hilt of the sword was pink and clean.  “This stuff is like oil!”

“Gimli,” said Tamin, and Gimli glanced up at the boy; Tamin’s face was twisted with pain and fear, and he was holding Legolas’ chin in his fingers.  Gimli looked at the Green Knight’s face, now clean of the dragon’s blood, and his heart sank.  The sunken cheeks were grey, and the lips blue and slack; bloody foam oozed out of his nostrils and mouth, and his eyes were closed.

Gimli tore the rest of the stained tunic aside, and laid his ear on Legolas’ chest.  The heart beat still, but was slow and erratic, and he could hardly hear any breath in the lungs.  “Damn!” he said, and started to undress the Elf completely.  “Get this stuff off of him – it is soaked in that vile blood, and burns him even as he wears it!”

He and Tamin stripped Legolas, and Vé brought them rags wet with hot water; they scraped all the blood they could from the Elf’s face and hair and neck and hands.  At one point Tamin got a gobbet of blood on the back of his hand, and he hissed in pain; when he scraped the glutinous stuff off it had blistered.  But he applied himself earnestly to getting the horrible stuff off his Master’s skin, and at last satisfied Gimli said:  “All right, lads – let us turn him over.”  And putting their hands beneath Legolas’ limp body, they flipped him.

The long gash from the top of Legolas’ left shoulder to his right hip oozed blood and green slime, and the skin around it was swollen horribly, and a terrible grey color.  Tamin cried aloud in dismay, and Vé sat down heavily.

“Of all the rotten, stinking, foul, disgusting luck,” said the young Dwarf, covering his face with his hands.  “The tip of that fang must’ve got in one of the chain links and pierced him anyway.”

“What do we do now, Gimli?” asked Tamin, looking up at the Dwarf.

Gimli simply sat and stared at the wound, his face drained of color, his heart bled dry of hope.  Even as he watched, Legolas’ breathing slowed; the long pale hair, dirty and tangled, seemed to lose its gleam, and his friend’s skin was grey.  “That explains the convulsions,” said Vé.  “I’m sorry, chaps.  Horrible way for him to go.  I guess the only thing that can comfort us now is that he took that awful worm with him.”

“What?  No!” exclaimed Tamin, horrified.  “Do not give up on him – do not you give up on him, Gimli!”  he pleaded, grasping Gimli by the sleeve.  “It is not over – he is not gone – he is not.”  He glared at Gimli, who stared numbly at the wound, and shook the Dwarf’s sleeve hard.  “What do we do, Gimli?  Tell us!  How do we counteract this venom?”

“I, I do not know,” confessed Gimli, wiping his eyes; they were streaming with tears.  “I – I suppose some herb – or, or a spell … “  He trailed off, then fetched his breath in a sob.  “Do not do this, Legolas,” he whispered, putting his broad hands on either side of the awful wound.  “I feared I lost you once, and it near broke me.  Do not go like this – not like this – not before me!  Do not leave me here!”

“There must be something – “ said Tamin desperately, looking round; but the little rocky dell they had carried his Master to was empty of all life, muddy and bare; Vé’s small fire flickered weakly in the gloom.  A breeze soughed about them; at first it carried upon it the reek of the dragon, but then it freshened; Tamin sniffed at the air; he could smell clean water and cold stone; it reminded him of the old keep of Osgiliath.  “Hísimë!” he said suddenly, and groped for his pendant; he unlatched the chain, and put it round his Master’s neck.  “It has moonstones,” he said hopefully; “they are supposed to protect you.”

“It is a little too late to protect him,” said Vé dryly.  Gimli shot him an evil look, and Tamin’s face fell.

“I tried to get him to wear it,” he insisted.  “I tried – I did, I did! I wanted it to stop his dreams.  But he would not take it of me – he said Hísimë gave it me, and I ought to wear it.”

“Well, you’re alive, and against great odds, so that is something,” Vé admitted, touching it lightly; the moonstone glimmered faint and soft in the firelight.  “Pretty trinket,” he added, frowning and looking more closely at it.  “Moonstone, citrine, jet … and … peridot?”  He looked up at Tamin, smiling crookedly.  “Pretty girl, is she, this Hísimë?”

“What?”  Tamin’s eyebrows puckered in confusion.  “Pretty?  Well yes, she is pretty, Vé, but I don’t see – “

“Citrine’s a healing stone,” broke in Gimli, glowering at Vé, “and moonstone protects one as one travels – or so they say.”

“Worked for Tamin, didn’t it?” grinned Vé.  “Though I suppose time will tell if the peridot is as lucky as the girl hopes.”

“I want the moonstone and citrine to work,” said Tamin firmly, sitting clumsily again by his Master’s side, and lightly dabbing the gash with a clean wet rag.  “Come, you two! Gimli, Vé; let us not give up yet!  We ought to clean it at least; it looks terribly dirty.”

Exchanging somber glances, the Dwarves joined him, and blotted the blood and venom away; but still Legolas lay motionless, his breath shallow and slow; still did his skin darken, and his nose began to bleed more heavily.  Shaking his head, Gimli wrapped his friend in a blanket and rolled him upon his back.  The ashen skin and blue lips on his quiet face belied the faint breath; already he looked as though he had gone, though the expression on the fair, pallid face was tranquil, the sunken eyes in dark repose, shuttered by heavy lids like a house abandoned and boarded up.  Gimli put Legolas’ head in his lap, and stroked the filthy golden hair, tears unbidden streaming down his face.  Tamin and Vé sat quietly by, each holding one of the Green Knight’s cold, limp hands; together the three kept vigil, listening to the thready breath and watching the skin leech of all color.  After a time, Gimli whispered:

“It was not supposed to end like this.”

Vé sighed.  “Well,” he said heavily.  “None of us woke up one morning last winter, thinking things’d come to this.  But they have, and all we can do is get through it, I guess.”  He shook his head and looked down at Legolas.  “Good-bye, prince of Elves!” he said, laying one broad hand on the Green Knight’s cold cheek.  “I regret not getting to know you better.  You seem like you would’ve made a jolly friend.”

Tamin cast his Master’s hand aside with an oath that puzzled Vé, but made Gimli, more used to Elvish vernacular, flinch a little. The boy staggered to his feet, but his leg gave beneath him and he fell gracelessly to the ground.  He struck the earth with his fist and exclaimed angrily:

“It is not over - it is NOT!  It cannot be over – I will not, I cannot bear it!”  He turned from them and dragged himself with surprising haste to the lip of the dell.

“Tamin – “ said Gimli, his voice breaking; but then Tamin stopped, and raised one hand; he lifted his face to the wind to sample it.

“What is it?” asked Vé, groping for his axe.

“Hush!” commanded Tamin, glaring at them; the two Dwarves fell silent and watched the lad look to and fro, his crouched form dark against the night sky.  The clouds rolled and roiled over them; but then the wind changed; the foul odor of decay soughed away, and the lowering clouds tattered and sighed to the west; stars twinkled in the purply dome, and Tamin’s golden head shone in their light. Then there was the sound of footsteps on stone, and they all jumped; the Dwarves hefted their axes, but Tamin clapped his hands with a glad cry.  “Isilmë!” he exclaimed.  “I can hear him – Isilmë; Isilmë!”  And he crawled down the far edge of the crest, and disappeared.

“Tamin!” cried Vé, jumping up and hefting his axe.  “Elves!” he exclaimed.  “Why must they be so impetuous!”

“Wait!” said Gimli.  “Give him a moment.  If it is truly Isilmë, then the other horses may be with him – we will not have to walk back to Erebor at least!”

They waited, listening intently; then they heard the whinny of a horse, and then a voice; and cresting the edge of the dell came Tamin’s little white stallion, with Tamin astride him; and to their amazement, there walking by his side were Dúrfinwen and an old man in tattered brown robes.  Gimli and Vé started in surprise as the odd grouping approached; Isilmë’s appearance was not so strange, considering his affinity for his little master; but the old man was a stranger to them, and Dúrfinwen, though thin and bald and disheveled, regarded them with clarity and intelligence in her dark eyes.  Tamin clung to his little horse, his hands round Isilmë’s stout short neck; he was gazing at Dúrfinwen with an expression of apprehension and approbation mingled.

“Dúrfinwen!” cried Gimli in surprise.

The old man gave her an irritable look.  “I do not like that name,” he grumbled to her, and took a sack off Isilmë’s back.  “Is that water boiling?” he demanded, stumping towards it.  “Good!  Step back, please; I’ve got work to do!”

“Who are you?” demanded Vé, jumping between the old man and Legolas’ body.  “Stay back!  We want no more evildoers here!”

“O let him through, do, Vé,” begged Tamin, sliding awkwardly off Isilmë’s back; his leg gave out beneath him again, and he sat in a little heap on the earth; Isilmë lipped at the boy’s hair, and blew on him, and Tamin absently stroked the horse’s nose.  “He says he can cure my Master!  Let him through!”

Tamin’s plea was superfluous, for the old man brushed past Vé as though the Dwarf was not even there; he said imperiously:  “Anóriel! The herbs!” and snapped his fingers at her.  Gimli saw a flicker of annoyance on Dúrfinwen’s face; but he noticed that she collected the sack of herbs and plants without comment, and handed them to the old man.

The old man busied himself at the pot of water over the fire.  Each plant was removed from the sack and carefully disassembled; he muttered under his breath as he worked, and taking a stick began to add the herbs to the pot and stir them round.  Gimli, Vé, and Tamin watched him, wordless and bemused; Dúrfinwen though kept her eyes upon her lord’s face, staring down at him, drooping.  After a moment Gimli noticed her, the bright brown eyes dim and the sweet dimpled mouth downturned; he gestured to her, and she raised her eyes to his.

“Come, Dúrfinwen,” he said kindly.  “Sit beside me, and take one of Legolas’ hands.”

She frowned, and plucked at the sleeve of her tunic; then dropping her gaze she made her way to Gimli’s side.  She lowered herself slowly to the earth, and gathered one of her lord’s limp pale hands in her own; she cradled it to her breast, and looked down with pity and anger mingled upon her scarred and lovely face.   Gimli, Vé, and Tamin were silent, dividing their attention between Dúrfinwen, her fair face a brown study, and the old man, grumbling over his stewing herbs.  At last he peevishly demanded a thin piece of cloth of Dúrfinwen, calling her “Anóriel” and telling her to “hop to it;” Tamin and Vé looked offended for her sake, but Gimli watched the old man narrowly, tucking a small smile secretly into his beard.

Dúrfinwen strained the herbs out of the pot, and the old man stirred the broth and ordered:  “Rub the herbs over his skin, Anóriel, starting with his face and all the front of him; then flip him over and rub it over the parts of him where the dragon’s blood touched him.  Then roll the sack into a long poultice, and lay it upon the wound, pressing the juices into it.”

“I’ll do it,” said Vé, seeing the slightly shocked look on both Dúrfinwen’s and Tamin’s faces at the old man’s presumption.  “Erm, you can, um, look away now, missy.” 

Dúrfinwen nodded, throwing Vé a grateful look; she walked a little ways away, turned her back to them, and sat upon the earth, pulling her limbs in around herself and tucking her head down into the cleft of her knees.  Vé grimaced and shot Gimli a look; Tamin bit his lip, and crawled over to where she sat as Vé unwound the Green Knight from his cocoon and began to wash him with the poultice.

Tamin sat painfully on the ground, wincing when his leg twitched beneath him; Dúrfinwen did not acknowledge his presence, but hid her face from him.  The boy racked his brain a moment for aught to say to her; then recalling the pride she took in her vestments he said shyly, “Dúrfinwen, um, my tunic looks very nice on you.”

She made a strange soft snuffling sound, and her shoulders shook; at first he thought she wept, and he was suffused in remorse; but then she raised her head, and he saw she smiled weakly, and her brown eyes sparkled.

“Tamin,” she said, her voice rough and trembling.  “You will make some maid, some day, a very fine husband.”

Tamin blushed to the roots of his golden hair, unable to reply; she but chuckled softly, and rested her chin on her knees.  Behind them they heard the old man say, “That’s right – clean it out with the juices.  Lay the whole thing over the wound – the whole thing, damn you!  Cover every inch of it with the poultice.  It must leech the poison out or all my work will be for naught!  Idiots!”

Tamin glanced over his shoulder; Vé was laboring over Legolas’ back, and Gimli was carefully turning the Elf’s body so that it would rest upon the poultice.  The old man had poured the herb water into a cup, and was adding something to it from a little bottle from his satchel; the water steamed and hissed and smelled very vile.  “Who is he, Dúrfinwen?” he asked curiously.

She smiled crookedly.  “Can you not guess, Rúmilion?”

“I think I might,” he said, unsure; “but if I am wrong, you will mock me.”

“I will do no such thing,” she said.  “You know who he is.”

“Yes,” said Tamin.  “I suppose Vé got his wish after all.”

Dúrfinwen was silent for a moment, her dark eyes abstract and her face very sober.  Then she said, “Tell me what happened.”

Tamin paused.  “Must I?” he said, a little plaintively.  “If I do not think of it, Dúrfinwen, then it does not hurt.  The hurt is in my heart like a kicked dog ready to bite, and talking of it will kick the dog again.”

“Kick the stuffing out of it then,” she said tiredly.  “I must know, and the dog will stop biting you eventually.”

So Tamin sighed, and in a broken voice told her of the battle with Muhk; when he got to the part where Bandobras was eaten, he stopped, and pressed his face into her shoulder.  She put her arm round him and he wept and wept, and she wept too; then without raising his head he related in a muffled voice how his Master had slain the worm.

“I do not know where the second sword came from,” he sobbed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.  “I looked over, and he was holding Irmatenagar; then I looked away, and when I looked back he was holding his sword and another strange sword, very long and bright and sharp.  He cut off Muhk’s tongue and gouged out his eyes, and stuck both blades deep into Muhk’s head through is mouth, and the dragon started thrashing round and round, his body and tail going – Oh!  Everywhere – even as he was dying we had to keep dodging him, for he thrashed ever so much – and at last he twisted and coiled and went stiff and the mouth hung open, and there was blood everywhere – steaming and smoking, and Vé and Gimli went over, and there was my Master lying in it.  Gimli said we must get the blood off him immediately so we picked him up and left the cave, and Vé built a fire and got some water – there is water now; it has started springing up out of the ground in spots, washing all the slime away – and we started cleaning him and we saw where the dragon’s fang had slashed him and then you showed up, Dúrfinwen.”  He paused while she absorbed this, then added, “Why does he call you ‘Anóriel’?  It is a pretty name, but it is not yours.”

“Apparently it is mine,” said Dúrfinwen.  “I will tell you of it later, though, Tamin.”  She rose and turned, and helped him to his feet.  “Take my arm,” she said.  “Let us see how your Master is.”

Vé and Gimli had wrapped Legolas once again in the wool blanket; the skin on his face was blotched and burned, but no longer grey; but still he lay in swoon.  The old man knelt over him with the cup, and Gimli held the Elf’s head still.  “Prop open his mouth,” the old man ordered Vé, and Vé did so. 

The old man poured his concoction into Legolas’ mouth.  It steamed and bubbled and hissed, and it dribbled from between the slack lips; but the old man rubbed Legolas’ throat, and the Green Knight convulsively swallowed, then coughed.  Again the old man poured the drink into Legolas’ mouth, and though his eyes were shut, Legolas drank it; then with a sigh settled back upon Gimli’s lap.  The old man set the cup down, and leant over the Elf; he took Legolas’ face in his hands, and closed his eyes, and went very still.

They waited and watched as the old man muttered under his breath, beads of perspiration gathering on his forehead; the gnarled hands trembled round Legolas’ sunken pale cheeks, the knobby thumbs gently stroking the darkened skin beneath the Elf’s eyes.  Then they descried amongst the strange words that the old man was saying softly:

“Wake up.  Wake up.  Do not go yet.  Wake up, little prince.”

“Just a few more minutes,” whispered Legolas in a thin, thready voice, his eyes shut tight.

“No,” said the old man.  “You must wake up now.  Come back, little prince.”

“But I am so tired, Radagast,” Legolas complained.  “And it hurts me so much.  Let me go.”

“No,” said the old man.  “You are too close to it already.  Come back.  Wake up.  You have much to do.”

Legolas’ eyes opened slowly; they were dull and incurious.  “Have I not suffered enough?” he asked; his voice was low and uneven.  “Let me go, Radagast.  You have no authority to impede me.”

“I have,” said the old man angrily.  “And I tell you, you are not finished.  Ushtâk and Muhk are gone, but there are some small things to see to yet.  It is not your time, little prince.”

“My father.”

“Yes, and your friends.  Wake up.  Do not go there.  There is too much to do.”

“Oh,” sighed Legolas, and took a deep breath, and stretched his long arms out, eyes closed and smiling like a cat in the sunshine.  He looked up and espied Gimli staring anxiously down at him; his smile broadened.

“I slew Muhk, did I not, Gimli?” he asked.

“You did, my friend!” said Gimli, relieved; he kissed Legolas’ brow.  “Slew him well and good.  Very impressive.”

“You owe me a barrel of wine then,” said Legolas, and gave a tremendous yawn.  “Oh!  I am so sleepy.”

“Sleep, then,” said Radagast, laying one hand on the prince’s head.  “Rest.  You may leave at dawn.”

“Thank you,” said Legolas simply, and tucking his arms back inside the warm blanket he closed his eyes, and fell promptly asleep.  Radagast sighed, rose, and dusted off his robe, shaking his head.

“Here,” said Vé suddenly, scowling.  “Who are you?  And what do you mean by all this?  He’s a prince, you know; you can’t go ordering him about like that!”

“Think you not?” growled Radagast, pouring the rest of the liquor into the pot.  It gurgled and sizzled, and its sour reek filled the dell.  “I’ve ordered bigger men than Legolas here around.”

Vé looked very affronted, but Tamin said earnestly, “O do you not offend him, Vé; he certainly must have the authority for he is a wizard!”

“A wizard!” exclaimed Vé, looking with astonishment at the old man.  He made a face, and Radagast suddenly laughed.

“Disappointed?” he asked, his amber eyes twinkling beneath the lowered brows.

“Well,” admitted Vé.  “Er, yes.”  He shifted a little on his feet, regarding the old man with suspicion.  “I don’t believe it,” he said suddenly.  “Prove you’re a wizard.  Do something magic!”

Radagast’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull, and he snarled; then gestured with one gnarled hand back to Legolas.  Vé glanced at the peacefully slumbering Elf, and cleared his throat, coloring deeply.

“Oh,” he said.  “Um.”

Radagast stumped back over to where Legolas slept, his golden head pillowed upon Gimli’s lap.  “Little fool,” he growled.  “Trying to slip off like that!  Never thought he’d be one to give up that easily.”

“Grief will make an Elf do strange things,” said Dúrfinwen; her voice was harsh and she looked angry.  But Radagast quirked her a smile, and went to her; he took one of her hands in his own, and laid the other upon her cheek.

“Grief is like eating a rich and heavy meal,” he said gently, looking deep into her eyes, his gaze sharp and adamant.  “It takes a while to digest, but if you give it time, soon you’ll be hungry again.”  Dúrfinwen said nothing, but looked up at him curiously, her brows knit; then Radagast said lightly:  “You know, Anóriel, there is more to your future than you might guess.  Middle-earth is only a part of this world, and there are glories unnamed in the domains of the Valar.  My tasks are accomplished, and I return at last to my home.  Follow me when your labors have been brought to fruition, and meet me there; I did not speak lightly of Thingol and Melian.”

Dúrfinwen opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged; Gimli and Tamin were so shocked they were speechless.  Radagast released her, and gathered up his sacks; he said gruffly:  “Make him drink the rest of it when he gets up, and at the earliest opportunity make him bathe in clean water.  He’ll look a bit piebald for a few days, but he should be well.”  He looked round the dell, checking to make sure he left nothing behind; he scratched little Isilmë on the nose, looked with satisfaction upon the slumbering form of the prince, and turned one last time to Dúrfinwen.  “Remember me, Anóriel!” he said, and walked away, up out over the lip of the dell and into the darkness; then he was gone.

There was silence, broken only by the crackle of the flames, and Isilmë poking around at the leftover herbs and snuffling into the earth.  Then Gimli said carefully, “How many is that, now, Dúrfinwen?”

“Seventeen,” she said, dazed; “though this is the first suit I have heard from an Istar!”

“And her name is Anóriel,” supplied Tamin, looking with admiration at her.  But she turned to him with a frown.

“My name is Dúrfinwen,” she said, and rolling up her sleeves, she set about ordering their little camp.