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It took ten days to reach the poisoned surroundings of
Dol Guldur. They saw evidence of something great that had happened for the
tower showed fresh marks of damage and they had not encountered any foe during
their approach.
“Do you think he is still inside?” asked Elrond.
“There is only one way to tell: see for ourselves.”
Glorfindel unsheathed his sword. They proceeded across the bridge that led to
the main gate when the captain stopped so suddenly that Erestor ran into him
with full force, stumbled and fell.
Glorfindel had been too slow and with only one hand he
could not stop Erestor’s downfall. Now he pulled the elf back to his feet. “Are
you wounded?”
“Nay, why –“ Erestor stared at his hand: it was red
with blood. Elrond was immediately there, fussing around and not finding any
injury.
“This is no orc-blood.” Glorfindel had sniffed at
Erestor’s hand and now crouched down to inspect the ground closer. “Here!” he
held up a strand of wiry gray hair. His sharp eyes now saw that what had looked
like the swish of a dragon’s tail was really a dragged foot, leaving a strange track,
leading AWAY from the tower!
“He went out this way, limping, bleeding...”
Glorfindel muttered, eyes on the track, following it.
“Thank the Valar!” Elrond sighed with relief.
Following the bloodied trail led the three elves to
the cave in which Mithrandir had retreated days ago. Not knowing what to
expect, they called tentatively “Mithrandir? Gandalf!” there was no reply. They
lit a lantern and slowly proceeded inside the cavern. Not too far away they
made out a large lump and Glorfindel sped forth “Olorin?” he whispered. “It is
him!” he called to those following him.
A shiver ran through the feverish wizard and he moaned
softly before he started to chant with a broken, raspy voice.
“He must not sing, Glorfindel! By the grace of the
Valar, quiet him!” Elrond’s voice had an almost hysterical pitch that Erestor
had hardly ever heard in his Lord’s. Glorfindel acted immediately, pressing his
hand over the wounded wizard’s mouth. After a short struggle the weakened body
sagged back. Gandalf had lost consciousness.
Elrond knelt at the meager form. “He is burning with a
fever. We need to take him to Imladris as quickly as possible. Erestor, get the
horses!” Elrond saw the sickly twisted arm and prepared a makeshift splint for
the broken limb. In the meantime Erestor had brought the horses.
“I can carry him.” Glorfindel cradled the meager
wizard in his arms and carried him outside, to lift him atop of his mount.
“Why did you gag him?” the counselor could hardly
believe what he saw. Mithrandir was wounded and sick and they actually treated
him like a fiend!
“He must not sing.” Elrond said curtly, assisting
Glorfindel with getting the wizard onto the horse and then having Glorfindel
seated behind so that he could hold the wizard while they rode.
“But why?” Erestor was at a complete loss. It was
true, Mithrandir had always warned them about his horrible voice but it could
impossibly be THAT bad, could it?
“It’s too dangerous. After all we want to make it back
home, don’t we?” Elrond mounted his horse. “Erestor, will you find the way back
yourself?”
“I think so, aye. But –“
“Then ride ahead, have a messenger sent to Isengart,
we need Saruman at Imladris as soon as possible. Ride hard!” he and Glorfindel were
already spurring their horses, Erestor fought to get onto his mare.
“My Lord!” this was not good! “Please, my Lord…” the
counselor was almost pleading.
“Erestor! For once in your life just do as you are
told!” Elrond, unnerved, barked at him.
“Aye, my Lord.” Erestor dug his heels into the mare’s
flanks and rode off, the wind drying the tears of hurt he could not bite back
any longer. For some strange reason had he lost his Lord’s trust. He felt like
being thrown out of his home and only his deep sense of duty made him ride as
hard as he could.
+++++++++++++
“How is he?” the Balrog-slayer asked his Lord on the
sixth night of their journey back to Imladris. They had made camp shortly
before nightfall and Glorfindel had taken care of everything so that Elrond
could focus on healing – or at least sustaining – Mithrandir.
Glorfindel had ignited a fire with his flint and was
now cooking a rabbit he had caught earlier that day. Like every day since they
had found Gandalf, they would try to feed the broth to the apathetic wizard.
“The fever seems to have a bit lessened but he has not
been conscious all day.” Worried eyes sought out Elrond’s face “Will he heal,
my Lord?”
“Of course.” Elrond had no doubt whatsoever. “The
question is more: will he cause damage to anybody until he is healed again? And
even more important: is he still on our side or has he been corrupted like so
many others before?”
“Never!” Glorfindel would never doubt Olorin’s
loyalty. He brushed strand of wiry gray hair from the wizard’s forehead and
tucked it into the ribbon he had used to loosely hold back the wild mane.
“Olorin, old friend? Can you hear me? Will you not wake up? Please.” Glorfindel
would never forget that it had been Olorin who had comforted him in the Halls
of Waiting. That this spirit had been the one to pull him out of the madness of
pain and fire that would not let go of his soul even in death.
The next step had become a sad routine – Glorfindel
would sit behind the limp form in order to support him into a sitting position
so that Elrond could feed the wizard.
After the first few spoonfuls the wizard’s eyes flew
open, his mouth opened and he immediately began to chant. The first note
already did its work. Elrond crumpled with a pained outcry, dropping the bowl
and spilling the hot broth in doing so. Yet that did not register with the Lord
of Imladris: too big was the pain caused by the magic of the Istar’s song.
Glorfindel’s body bucked and writhed wildly, arms
flailing aimlessly about as the wizard, still caught in a nightmarish afterglow
of his battle with Sauron, kept on with his destructive chant. Trees were set
ablaze, their trunks bursting with loud explosions, the ground started to shake
and a deep rumbling was in the air. Gandalf’s spells were immensely powerful
with no opponent present to dampen their effects.
Elrond rolled helplessly on the ground, rolled up to a
tight ball of flesh and bone in a futile attempt to protect himself against the
spell’s impact. His pained screams added to the chaos.
Somehow Glorfindel managed to muster enough coherence
to reach for the wizard. His mind was set to live, was neither willing nor
ready to surrender to death once again and so he overcame the agony and moved.
Blood trickling form his ears and nose, the Balrog-slayer rose his hand, formed
a fist and slammed it down against Gandalf’s temple. It connected with the
sickening sound of cracking bone.
The silence that followed was of an eerie quality. All
three laid as if dead. They were deaf to the world, consumed by either pain or
merciful unconsciousness. It was Glorfindel who first stirred with a moan.
“My Lord? My Lord Elrond, are you well?” Glorfindel
tried to wipe off the blood from his face but ended up smearing it all over
like some scary war-paint. When he tried to get up the hand he tried to support
himself on caused an arrow of wild pain to shoot through his system and the elf
realized that it had not been Gandalf’s skull that had cracked under his blow.
“I will be, Glorfindel.” Elrond whispered, slowly
raising to his knees. It was fully dark now, the fire had ruined the food and
consumed more or less everything they had brought along. The horses had fled in
terror – they were alone and without arms in the middle of a ruined patch of
land.
“We better gag him again, my Lord.” The blond
suggested, still trying to calm his racing pulse.
“Aye, captain, we should.”
“Ai, my Lord! I broke my hand – I cannot do so.”
Elrond struggled to his feet and stumbled across the
campsite where he ripped off some cloth from his tunic to gag the unconscious
wizard, then bandaged Glorfindel’s hand. Then he slumped down against a
tree-trunk. “There is nothing we can do now. Hopefully the horses will return
by dawn. It seems we have to go hungry for tonight.”
“I actually had not known what a terrible singer he
truly was.” Glorfindel snickered.
Elrond stared at his captain with shock, then joined
in the chuckle, laughed louder, pulling Glorfindel along until both elves
roared with laughter.
TBC...
