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Chapter Four - A Bit Feeble in the Feathers

Gandalf stood in the cave opening, his staff glowing and all his thought bent on the Eagle flying overhead. He could only hope that it would see him and be intrigued enough to come investigate this odd new glow on its doorstep. It was all well and good to know that Eagles were around, but convincing one to come to one’s aid was often a tricky matter. They held themselves aloof from the affairs of Men and Elves and all those creatures that were tied to the earth, including wizards. But these majestic Northern birds, much like the Men of Westernesse themselves, had kept their ties to Manwë, and as Gandalf also had a strong connection with that great Vala, he could only hope that such affinity might hold him in good stead when it came to convincing an eagle to come calling.

He frowned, adding Manwë to his thoughts, and the tip of his staff burned brighter.

After quite a number of minutes, Gandalf felt a change in the air. It was subtle, but he had felt it before, while perched in burning trees with goblins and wolves howling for his blood and the blood of his fourteen diminutive companions. He looked to the sky and smiled. The Eagle now circled directly above, looming larger and larger as it slowly descended toward him. Before very long, Gandalf could see the great shining eyes and the variegated shades of brown and cream on the mighty bird’s feathers, and the glint of gold around its neck. Gandalf chuckled quietly; it seemed the Eagles were still enjoying their share of the Dwarves’ gold.

It was not the Lord of Eagles, but this one was very nearly as large. If Gandalf were not mistaken, it seemed he was about to be visited by a female eagle, for females were often larger than their male counterparts. As she passed overhead, the rush of wind from her vast wings buffeted Gandalf and blew his hat completely off his head. She landed as he bent to retrieve it. He picked it up, brushed the snow from its brim and held it in his hands as he turned and bowed to her. She lifted most of her feathers and let them settle again as she looked him up and down with golden eyes that shone with fierce intelligence but also benign good will. "Gandalf the Grey," she said, bowing her noble head. "It has been many years since you last met with my kind."

"Too long an interval, my lady."

She preened a bit, then nodded. "I am Menelris, one of the Chieftains of the Eagles."

"A queen of the sky, indeed. Great are your wings, and lovely are your feathers."

She accepted the compliment as her due, then looked beyond Gandalf’s shoulder to the cave within, where Aragorn was just visible, still sleeping by the fire, the blanket clutched in both hands and pulled to his chin. "The man found you, then?"

"Ah, so you know of him."

"I saw him fall, but then billowing snow from the avalanche hid him from my eyes and I lost track of him. I am glad he found succor. Surprised, but glad. Few who suffer his fate live to tell the tale."

"It is uncertain yet that he will live, which is why I am so grateful you deigned to land."

"Whether my landing benefits you or your friend remains to be seen, wizard," she said with some asperity. "What was he doing on our mountain?"

"He and I are hunting."

"A bit late in the year and high on the crags to be looking for game. Indeed, my mate and I will be starting our southward journey within days. It is warmer there, and in those lands the Anduin will not be so stingy with her fish during the winter months."

"The game we seek is not for eating, but for questioning. We hunt a creature, a pale, gangling thing named Gollum, who skulks in caves and shadowed places and who may tell us important information regarding a bit of treasure he once possessed."

"Treasure again! Always treasure with you and whatever companions with which you array yourself. I like my necklace, but I will not put myself in jeopardy for a trinket. Nor to help you find a trinket of your own."

"We already know of the treasure’s location, but we now seek knowledge of its significance. I fear it may be a force of unspeakable evil."

She tilted her head. "Evil, you say. Yes, there is much evil growing in the south, and its stench grows thicker each day. I fear it will spread North ere long. Indeed, we watched nearly two years ago as evil stalked the lands to the west, in the guise of a darkly-clad wretch the likes of whom we have not seen for generations.* Tell me: was it seeking this same creature?"

"No, I do not believe so. I believe it may have been seeking my wounded companion, for reasons I cannot share at this time."

"Does your companion have a name?"

"He calls himself Strider."

A knowing glint appeared in Menelris’ eye. "‘Calls himself’. Interesting choice of words. I take it he has some other given name that he would prefer remain unknown."

Gandalf smiled. "You are as canny as you are beautiful. It could go ill for him, were his identity to become widely known."

"It takes no great intelligence to read the meaning behind your words, wizard. But I thank you for the compliment nonetheless." She lowered her head and again looked toward the cave. "Far be it for an Eagle to involve herself too closely in the affairs of wizards and men, although I admit I am very intrigued by this Strider of yours. I have seen him before, wandering the lands. And when he was young, he dwelt in Imladris, am I correct?"

"Nothing seems to miss your sharp eyes."

"I know of him, and can make a fair guess as to his true identity, but his business and whatever name he now goes by may remain his own, so long as the evil one was not searching him out as an ally."

"I can assure you, Strider is no ally of evil, in whatever guise it takes."

"So you vouch for him?"

"Most definitely."

"That, then, is sufficient for me, for you have ever been a friend to the Eagles, and to all living things. You said this Strider – such a landbound name! It is harsh on my tongue. Better was another name by which he traveled. But you say he is injured? How may I assist?"

It took Gandalf a moment to recover, so great was his surprise that she seemed to know all about Aragorn and his many guises, especially Thorongil. But he supposed Eagles likely knew far more than they told, for they saw things far and wide from their great circling flights above the earth. But did she know of the import of his true name, he wondered, and then decided even if she did, the secret would be safe with her. He relaxed. "He is injured, yes. A wound to the back that threatens to suppurate, and a blow to the head that has left him dazed. I have cleaned the back wound and stitched it, but he will need rest and warmth and good food, all of which are in short supply in this small cave."

"I can carry him to Rivendell."

"I was thinking of Beorn’s Hall, actually."

She shifted, her feathers ruffling slightly. "The Beornings will shoot me." A glimmering amusement lit her eyes. If anything, Gandalf would have to say she looked mischievous. "Allies they have become since the great battle, but they still think we enjoy too much of their mutton."

"I see things have not changed in the years since I last spoke with the Eagles."

She let out a chirruping laugh, a high whistling note of mirth. "Ever will Beornings raise sheep, and ever will Eagles view their flocks as banquets set upon the hillside in our honor."

"I understand your hesitancy to brave the bowshots of the Beornings, but I fear it too far to Rivendell, and the height too great. The chill air may do him greater harm than staying here."

"I can take you as far as The Carrock, then."

"And how then will I get Strider, weakened as he is, across all those dales?"

She walked to the cave entrance and peered in, then clicked her yellow beak in sympathy. "Men always seem pale to me, but he does seem pale beyond what is healthy. If he were an Eagle, I would say he looks more than a bit feeble in the feathers. Definitely in no shape for hiking, is he. Perhaps if I brought you food, and wood for your fire, you could stay here until he is stronger, and then I can carry you both to The Carrock."

Gandalf stroked his beard, frowning as he stared into the middle distance, weighing the risks of staying. A blizzard could strike, trapping them here for who knew how long and preventing Menelris from bringing food or wood. And there was still the matter of orcs. As close as they were to the Eyrie, they were likely safe enough, but if a stray band were to come upon them here, defense of such a small cave was hardly tenable. And truly, he did not fancy calling upon Menelris to wait on them hand and foot for so long; it was too much to ask even of her evidently very generous nature. Perhaps Rivendell were the best option. But he needed to know the answer to one last question before he could decide. "How fares the weather in the High Pass?"

"Foul. Winter has struck early, and there are storms nearly every day, though it falls as rain still in the lower reaches. The High Pass is already closed to those who travel afoot. Flying through there, though possible, is difficult. We have to soar over the tops of storms more often than not."

"A man, injured or no, cannot live in such heights above the clouds, even for a short while," Gandalf said. It was decided, then. The Carrock it must be, and he would make do with whatever shelter he found there. "If you could return in the heat of the day, when the chill of flying will be lessened for my friend, I will gratefully accept your offer to take us to The Carrock, and hope from there to find help among the Beornings. I could, if need be, leave him for a time as I seek assistance."

Menelris bowed her head, and then she stretched her wings. Gandalf expected her to fly away, but she suddenly folded them back. She looked toward the cave, her eyes troubled, then stepped into the opening. She was far too large to enter, but she stretched her neck so she could take a closer look at Aragorn. Gandalf moved closer, stooping low to look through her legs, ready to intervene should Aragorn become alarmed. But Aragorn lay insensate, completely unaware that he was under the close scrutiny of a very large eagle. She gently brushed her beak against his cheek, a surprisingly motherly gesture from one so fierce. She cooed softly, but when Aragorn failed to stir, she backed out of the cave, stepping lightly back onto the snow. "Even one as ignorant of the ways of Men as I can see he is weak and in no small jeopardy of losing his life. He breathes too lightly." She clacked her beak several times, obviously agitated. "No. I do not like the idea of your leaving him once you get to The Carrock; it could mean his death. So I will make this promise: if there are no hunters about – if the way seems clear – I will take you to Beorn’s Hall itself, or as close to it as I safely can. Archers shooting at me could as easily hit you or your companion, after all. But looking at him.... yes, I feel we must risk the danger."

Her tender concern touched Gandalf deeply. "That is more than a fair promise, and I thank you."

"Of course, what you do from there is your own affair. I have heard that Beorn does not suffer unexpected guests with good grace."

"I have had dealings with him before; I am certain I can convince him to let us stay."

"If he has a heart at all, he will take one look at your friend and pity will consume him," she said, again with a tender note in her voice. "Until this afternoon, then. We will fare each other well properly after I deliver you however far to the East as I may," she said, and then with a mighty flap of her great wings, she was airborne and riding the updrafts back to the heights of the mountains.

Gandalf watched her until she disappeared, then ducked back into the cave.

Aragorn was awake, and looking at him. "Am I mad with fever, or did an eagle just touch me?" he asked, his voice far too weak for Gandalf’s ease of mind.

Gandalf pressed the back of his hand against Aragorn’s cheek; his skin felt almost painfully hot, and a sheen of perspiration matted his hair against his forehead. But the droop was gone from his right eye, and some of the bleariness. "You have fever, yes, but you are not mad. Menelris is her name. Queen of the Sky, one of their Chieftains. She has agreed to take us to the east, hopefully as far as Beorn’s Hall."

Aragorn’s eyes grew troubled. "How..." He stopped, then said in a very quiet voice, "I have never ridden an eagle."

"You will be fine. It’s quite like riding a horse, in many ways."

Aragorn said nothing, but Gandalf could tell he was beset with great unease, and he wondered what worried Aragorn more: the idea of flying itself, or the idea of flying while weak and injured. He thought about asking, but Aragorn tensed suddenly, gritting his teeth against a wave of pain. The spasm, when it passed, left him pale and trembling. "I’m sorry," he gasped.

"My dear fellow, do not apologize. Let me see what is going on back there," Gandalf said, and stepped around to kneel behind him. He gently peeled the bandages back and was surprised to find that last night’s redness had faded. There was a small amount of swelling but the wound looked far better than Gandalf would have expected. But there was little doubt Aragorn had a fever; even now he shivered as he fell back into uneasy sleep.

What could be causing this fever, Gandalf wondered. The wound seemed better, so perhaps it was simply due to too-long exposure to the cold. Even the hardiest of Númenóreans in the days since that isle was drowned sometimes fell to divers fevers and plagues. Broken indeed were the gifts of Númenor, even in one whose blood was as pure as Aragorn’s; for as great as Elendil himself was, his span was not as long as the Lords of Andunië, and theirs not as long as the days given Elros before them. Waning, waning... to ever wane seemed always the fate of Men. Gandalf sighed. Not since those early days had the Dúnedain lived the intended span of their lives. Still, Gandalf had felt that strong pillar of strength in Aragorn, and he somehow knew this would not defeat him. "Long indeed will be your days, Aragorn. They shall not end in shivering and suffering in a cave on an unnamed and misbegotten mountain."

He stepped over Aragorn and settled down again beside him to keep watch. Try as he might, he could not keep his thoughts marshaled toward hope, and that was a rare and unsettling thing. He looked down at Aragorn, at the suffering etched in his face, and seldom had he felt such impotent anger. This was the king lying here, injured, ill, forgotten by all save a remnant few of his own people, and a scattering of Elves and apparently at least one Eagle. Gondor herself had no inkling, no prescience that her king cometh. No, for all her seers and men wise in lore, even to the Steward Denethor himself, none knew that their king lived and breathed, crownless as he moved from peril to peril, seeking a way, often alone, to defeat the Shadow, at whatever considerable cost to his own life.

It was enough to embitter even the most hopeful.

Aragorn muttered something. Gandalf bent close, but Aragorn did not repeat himself.

"Crownless you may be, but a king you are, Aragorn, and a king you shall ever be, even if you never see your throne," Gandalf whispered. He brushed Aragorn’s hair from his face, and did not try to blink away the tears pricking his eyes.

_____

*You may read of the events of a Nazgûl terrorizing the eastern edges of Eriador in my story, At Hope’s Edge.

In canon, all the Eagles were male, but as Tolkien had an occasional queen in Númenor, I do not think it beyond reason to have a female among the Lord of the Eagles’ chieftains.

A note about Eagles: In the real world, female eagles are generally larger than their male counterparts. Extrapolating that to Tolkien’s Eagles, Menelris therefore is quite large, though she would not be larger, in my estimation, than the Lord of Eagles.

Another extrapolation may be less defensible, but nonetheless, I think it possible that the Eagles would know, at least in general terms, that Aragorn was the Chieftain of the Dúnedain and even make the connection that he is therefore the Heir of Elendil. Eagles keep themselves apart from Men, but they watch everything from the heights and are often privy to secrets as they function as messengers. Additionally, Eagles were once honored residents of Númenór, and Witnesses of Manwë, sent by him to keep watch over all the land (UT page 166 in my copy), so it does not seem too unlikely a stretch to believe that they would pass down stories of those great Númenórean Eagles as part of their lore. Likewise, it would not be beyond the realm of possibility to imagine they would have continued keeping watch, either at Manwë’s order or simply from custom, over the lives of the dwindling Dúnedain and especially of the heirs of Elendil.

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