29: Recuperation

In spite of the rest he had gotten, the trip was still a grueling one for Maglor but he insisted that he could walk. “There is no hurry now, is there?” he asked them and the others agreed. So, Arthalion, with his one hand and Denethor with two helped him to climb the north ridge of the Cleft when they finally reached it about an hour after setting off. Haldir bounded ahead to clear the path if necessary. By the time he reached the top, Maglor was panting heavily and swaying, his back stiff with frozen blood again, for the exertion had opened up some of the wounds and they still throbbed.

“We had no real way of cleaning them,” Denethor told him when he asked. “We did check for infection and found none, else I think you would be in worse shape than you are. When we get back to the settlement we’ll see to your wounds.” And with that Maglor had to be satisfied.

Denethor handed Maglor a waterskin and told him to drink as much as he cared to. “We’re not that far from the encampment and I have no need for it.”

“We need to come up with a name for the place other than ‘Estolad’,” Maglor said after taking a long swig, feeling the world right itself as his thirst was quenched. Arthalion had his own waterskin and was also drinking and while there was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead, he did not appear to be in pain and was not unduly fatigued.

“But giving it a name smacks of permanence. Besides ‘Estolad’ was a perfectly good name for the Edain’s first settlement, you may recall.”

“But we are not the Edain,” Maglor said with a grin, “so I think we should come up with something more… elvish.”

The other three Elves just raised their eyebrows at that.

“Well, Loremaster, if you think of something, please let us know,” was Denethor’s response. “In the meantime, we had best be going, if you’re ready to move on.”

Maglor nodded and they set off, skirting the edge of the ridge that looked down into the ravine that was the Cleft. They made good time and as they went Maglor filled Denethor in on what he and Arthalion had learned about the cat-creatures and their lair.

“I have no idea how large the colony is,” he said at one point. “There was no way to count. I hope we destroyed the majority of them, or at least their males.”

“But if even one female was pregnant, that colony is still a danger to us,” Denethor said. “We need to either eliminate them completely or make them fear these hills so they never come to them.”

“Eliminating them would be easier,” Arthalion said, “though the thought of killing any creature to extinction, even these, does not sit well with me.”

“Nor with me,” Denethor said in agreement, “but if we must remain here for any length of time beyond a season or three, I want that particular threat to our continued existence eliminated. If these were any other creatures, I would not have a problem with them, but there is an intelligence there and it is inimical to us. It is very much like dealing with Orcs, as far as I am concerned.”

Maglor and Arthalion both nodded. “Well, I think for now we can leave them alone,” Maglor said. “We have decimated if not completely destroyed that colony and spring will be soon enough to deal with them.”

Thus, for the time being, the matter of the cat-creatures was dropped.

Maglor concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, wishing he could just lie down and sleep until spring, or whatever passed for spring in these northern climes. Arthalion had assured him that, as deep as the gashes from the cat’s claws were, they had not exposed bone or there would have been no hope of saving him, so he had to take what comfort he could from that thought. But as he trudged along, actually leaving tracks in the snow like some clod-plodded Adan, he was not entirely happy with that thought. He wanted to lose himself in memory, but he needed to stay alert, for their trail was treacherous at points and he felt guilty letting the others do all the work of leading him.

Still, they made good time in spite of Maglor setting the pace and a couple of hours past noon, as the sun danced upon the peaks of the Ered Luin, they climbed the last stretch of hills to see the three towers gleaming before them, or rather the one whole tower and what was left of the south one; from where they stood they could not see anything of the third tower. Maglor breathed a sigh of relief and was warmed by the sight of the others rushing to greet them, all of them asking after him, wishing to assure themselves that he was still among the living. Even Arthalion came under the attention of a couple of the ellith and Maglor watched with amusement as Amarthamíriel, especially, fussed over him, insisting on checking the ellon’s splint for herself.

Maglor cast Denethor a knowing smile, which the ellon returned.

“Maglor, come into the tower and let me look at your back,” Glóredhel said as she took him by the arm. “Here, Aerin, give me a hand, will you? This ellon is barely able to stand and I doubt he can see straight.”

“I’m fine,” Maglor protested even as Aerin came and offered him her shoulder to lean on.

“You mean, you will be fine once you’re lying flat on your face,” Glóredhel countered. “Now stop arguing and let us help you. We don’t have to go far and there are furs all ready for you to lie on.”

Maglor allowed himself to be led away. He was surprised, though pleasantly so, at Glóredhel’s forthright manner. She had been shy and retiring before, but once she began helping him with Arthalion, she had become more open and assertive. She might not know one end of a sewing needle from the other, but she was by no means incompetent and he was glad to see her acting so confidently.

They had entered the passage linking the west and south towers and were heading for the west tower when he pulled to a halt. “Ah, if you would excuse me, there is something I need to do first before I join you in the tower.”

Glóredhel actually scowled at him while Aerin just looked bemused. “And what is so bloody important that it cannot wait until you’re able to stand on your feet without assistance?” Glóredhel demanded.

“Well, actually, I won’t be standing, but I will probably need assistance,” Maglor replied, looking about to see if anyone else was about. “Ragnor, a little help please.”

Ragnor, who was actually heading for the south tower with Finduilas, turned around at Maglor calling to him. He gave Finduilas a look that Maglor could not quite interpret and came back to them.

“Yes, Maglor. What seems to be the problem? Is my daughter being fresh with you again? Or is Glóredhel not being fresh enough?”

Both ellith glared at him but Maglor just chuckled. “Don’t I wish on both counts, but in truth, I need your assistance to….”

“But we’re quite capable of getting you to the tower, Maglor,” Glóredhel protested with a huff.

“The west tower, yes, and even the south, but I’m talking about the north tower,” and Maglor had the pleasure of watching both ellith suddenly redden as they realized the implication of his words.

“Oh, well… er… perhaps we’ll just… um… stay here and… ah… wait,” Glóredhel said, releasing her hold on him and not looking at anything in particular.

Ragnor, now understanding what Maglor was all about, just snorted. “You ellith go along. I’ll bring him once we’re done.”

Aerin needed no further encouragement and was already striding purposefully away. Glóredhel stood there uncertainly and Maglor couldn’t help needling her a little. “Unless you wish to join us,” he said and watched as she reddened even further and without another word turned and walked away. Maglor gave Ragnor a grin.

“Come, let me help you,” Ragnor said, “or was that just an excuse to get rid of the fair ellith?”

“No. I do need to use the privy but I am at my strength’s end. I know I cannot make it unassisted even though the distance is not very great.”

“Then lean on me and I’ll get you there. You won’t need any further help, will you?”

“No, I can manage, thank you.”

“I’ll just wait at the entrance once you’re settled.”

Several minutes later, Ragnor was helping Maglor into the west tower and brought him to where a pile of furs was laid out beside the fire. Glóredhel was there, directing them. “Lay him down here, Ragnor. Wait. Let’s get this cloak and the tunic off first… Oh mercy, Maglor, your tunic is soaked with blood. Aerin, we’re going to need more bandages… Let’s get these off him and then scrub them out with snow… We’ll boil them later... All right, lay him down… Gently now… Where’s the salve? Oh, thank you, dear….”

All the while, Maglor remained silent as they ministered to him, though he hissed in pain when they began removing his clothes. He was never so grateful as when they helped him to lie down, the furs soft and warm and in spite of himself, he drifted off into sleep to the sound of Glóredhel singing a song of healing as she rubbed the salve into his wounds.

****

His recovery proved slower than he or anyone expected. “Almost as if you were a Mortal,” Ragnor had commented as he took his turn tending to him, changing his dressing. Maglor’s retort was short and very much to the point. Ragnor just grinned. In spite of everything, one particularly deep gash did begin to fester and he became feverish again. He lost any sense of time and was plagued by nightmares.

Most of them seemed to center around the Silmaril and he appeared to be hunting for it, searching across landscapes both familiar and surreal. There was a feeling of desperation in his search and he had the sense that time was running out, yet he could never find it. Then he would come upon the cat-creatures and discover them playing with the Silmaril much as a kitten would play with a ball of yarn, chasing it about, picking it up in their jaws and running with it while the other creatures bounded after. He would shout in anger and attack the creatures, yet he had no sword or even a bow. He was reduced to hitting them with rocks and once he even found himself wrestling with one of the cats for his adar’s jewel. Yet, in the end, the Silmaril would disappear and the creatures with it and he would have to start his hunt all over again.

Once, that he remembered, he woke screaming from one such nightmare and it took three ellyn to hold him down while someone sang soothingly at him, stroking his hair. He only realized it was Glóredhel comforting him as he felt the last tremors of the nightmare dissipate and he sank into a more restful sleep. Her sweet voice followed him into sleep and for a time the nightmares were held at bay.

When he finally woke clearheaded and no longer in pain, he found himself still lying beside the fire and he had no idea if hours or days had passed. He attempted to sit up.

“Here, let me help you.”

He looked to see Arthalion there and allowed him to help him. The ellon then went to the fire and began dishing up some broth from a pot heating over it. It took Maglor a few seconds to realize that the ellon no longer had a splint on his arm.

“How long have I been out?” he rasped and he wondered at the rawness of his throat.

“Long enough, as you can see,” Arthalion said as he handed him the bowl. “How are you feeling now?”

“I am no longer feeling any pain but I do feel weak.”

“That is easily remedied,” Arthalion said with a nod toward the bowl in Maglor’s hand and he dutifully sipped the meaty broth, reveling at its warmth and the feeling of well-being it evoked in him. For the next several minutes, neither spoke as Maglor concentrated on drinking the bowl dry. Finally, he handed the now empty bowl back and sighed in contentment.

“Would you like more?” Arthalion asked.

“Perhaps later. Right now I need to use the privy.”

“Well, we can help you there,” Arthalion said with a smile and he easily helped Maglor to stand.

“Where is everyone?” Maglor asked as Arthalion helped him out of the tower. He gasped almost in pain as the brightness of the sun on snow nearly blinded him and he was forced to stop and shade his eyes until they had adjusted to the light.

“Out and about,” Arthalion replied as he waited for Maglor to move again. “Most of them removed themselves to the south tower to get away from your thrashing and screaming when you were in the throes of a nightmare.”

Maglor stared at him in bemusement. “Was I really that bad?”

“Worse, but we took turns tending to you. Here, stop and catch your breath. Are you feeling dizzy or nauseous?”

“No, just incredibly tired.”

“Well, once we get you squared away, you can rest, perhaps have some more broth. I imagine you’ll be sleeping a lot to build up your strength again.”

Maglor could only nod to that as Arthalion continued to help him to the north tower. On the way back they encountered Denethor who gave him a searching look then nodded, apparently pleased at what he saw.

“Welcome back, my friend,” he said as he walked on Maglor’s other side and gave him his support. “How are you feeling?”

“Weak, but clearheaded. Arthalion said I was screaming?”

Denethor nodded. “Yes, at least a couple of times. Whatever nightmare assailed you had to be horrific given how you were acting.”

“I barely remember, but I think it involved those cat-creatures and the Silmaril was mixed up with it somehow.”

The other two ellyn remained studiously silent and Maglor grimaced. “I promise, I have no intention of going hunting for it. Wherever Ragnor hid it, it’s safe from me. I have no desire to ever lay eyes upon it again.”

“Yet, lay eyes upon it again you must, we all must,” Denethor responded gravely. “The Silmaril is too dangerous to just leave lying about. When we finally leave here, we must take it with us.”

“Do you think the Belain would allow us to return to Dor Rodyn with it?” Arthalion asked.

Denethor shrugged. “I cannot say, but I do know it cannot remain here in Middle-earth.”

“I thought I was done with it all,” Maglor whispered, stopping in the passageway and closing his eyes, feeling despair.

“Perhaps it is not yet done with you, my friend,” he heard Denethor say softly, his voice full of compassion. “But come, let us get you back to the tower and settled. Now that you are on the mend, the rest of us can move back in.”

Maglor thought he was expected to offer a biting retort to that statement, but still feeling a sense of defeat, he simply nodded and allowed Denethor and Arthalion to lead him back to the tower in silence. Almost as soon as he was settled on the furs again, he felt himself drooping and before Arthalion could offer him some more broth, he was fast asleep.

****

That was his routine for nearly a week afterwards: waking to eat and attend to personal needs and then sleeping the rest of the time. Yet, every day he stayed awake longer and ate more solid foods. By the end of the week he was actually taking short walks around the encampment, always attended by one of the others. The days stayed clear of storms though it was getting progressively colder and in his weakened state, he welcomed the warmth of cloak and fire more than he normally would.

“I still think we should give this place a name besides ‘Estolad’,” he said to Glóredhel one day as the two were taking a walk. The last few times he had walked, Glóredhel seemed to be always available to accompany him. Not that he was complaining, for she had a soothing presence and their conversations tended to be more technical than those he had with others. It reminded him of when he would hold similar discussions with his brothers or Lord Aulë’s Maiar as they gathered about the Earthsmith’s forge in Valmar. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed that time, and now here was someone who shared the same enthusiasm for a branch of knowledge that most could not bother with.

“Well, it already has a name, or have you forgotten that Gil-galad called it Elostirion?” Glóredhel responded.

“But do you see towers?” Maglor commented, sweeping a hand to encompass the plateau on which the three towers sat. “Two of them are no longer whole and indeed the north tower doesn’t even exist save for its foundation and what stone we didn’t cart off to build the walls that now encompass part of this place. It needs a new name, one that reflects its present reality.”

“Why do you even care?” Glóredhel shot back. “It’s not as if we plan to take up permanent residence here. If anything, we would just move to Mithlond instead. Even if we have to stay here through several ennin until the ice has retreated and trees return, we would still need to move to Mithlond, for that is where we would need to build our ship. This place is just a temporary place for us. I suspect Denethor will have us moving to Mithlond in the spring.”

Maglor gave her a rueful look, recognizing the truth of her words. “I guess I just felt it deserved another name.”

“And what name would you give this sorry excuse for a town with only thirty-odd people living in it and not even in proper homes?” she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something along the lines of Baradobel.”

Glóredhel’s response was a roll of her eyes. “I think we’ll just stick to Estolad.”

“What about Barad Harthadrim? Minas Glóredhel? Ow!” He rubbed the spot on his arm where she had punched him and grinned mischievously at her. She glared at him but he thought he detected a glint of amusement in her eyes.

“Well, it was just a thought,” he said, pretending to sound aggrieved. Then, seeing her begin to scowl, he wisely changed the subject. “So, what do you think are the chances that Arthalion and Amarthamíriel will declare their love for one another before spring?”

“Depends on which spring you mean,” Glóredhel said, giving him a sly look and he threw back his head and laughed as he had not laughed in a very long while, giving the elleth a hug, and he was unsure which was better: the sound of his laughter or the feel of his arms around her.

****

Estolad: ‘The Encampment’, the name of the land south of Nan Elmoth where the people of Bëor and Marach first settled in Beleriand.

Elostirion: Elf-Towers, but also called the White Towers in LoTR.

Baradobel: Tower-town [barad ‘tower, fortress, fort’+ lenited form of gobel ‘enclosed dwelling, walled house or village’].

Barad Harthadrim: Tower of the Harthadrim.

Minas Glóredhel: Tower of Glóredhel [minas can mean simply ‘tower’ or ‘city with a citadel/central watchtower’, as in Minas Tirith ‘Tower of Guard/Vigilance’].