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The Road to Edoras  by Dreamflower

CHAPTER 24

After a while, the flute was silenced. The encampment was quiet, as it had been since Bergil took ill.

Poppy had finished her meal, and was about to go check on her patient, when Anwynd came out.

“Little Mistress!” he called, “I think the boy’s fever is worse!”

The healer rose with alacrity, and with Viola at her heels, went at once into the tent. Bergil was weeping, though he seemed to be deeply asleep. She went over and put a hand to his brow.

“He’s burning up!” She shook her head. “Viola, we need some more willow-bark.” The apprentice hurried to prepare it, and was soon back with a cup.

“I made certain it is not too hot, Mistress.”

“Good lass, for we’ll have to be spooning it down him.”

She looked up to see that Targon and Freddy had followed Viola into the tent. “You may stay,” she said, “if you promise to keep out of the way.”

They both nodded.

Suddenly, Bergil began to writhe and moan, making desperate whimpers.

It was dark, but it was dark all the time now, Bergil had no idea of the hour--the Sun had not shown her face since he could not remember when. He ran, down corridors, and down stairs and up ramps and through streets and along walls, running endlessly. He knew he had a mission of some importance for the healers, if he could only remember what it was.

He was so hot, he was so very hot. He could see ahead of him flames, and he knew the whole City was on fire. If only he could find his father. Suddenly, he found himself in the Courtyard of the White Tree. His father should be there, he would know what to do! But where was his father--he was nowhere to be seen, and Bergil was suddenly frantic.

Why was his father not at his post? His father could get in terrible trouble for not being at his post. “Father!” he called, or tried to, but for some reason his voice would not work, he could not seem to make any noise.

Suddenly, he heard a sound that froze him to his very marrow; an unearthly screech from overhead. Nazgűl! He had to hide! But there was no where--he was in the middle of the courtyard, all exposed to the winged wraith--it was coming for him. He cowered down, and tried once more to cry out, but still his voice would not work. He could feel its shadow, coming over him, he was lost, lost. Lost forever.

Then, without warning, he felt his arm yanked. He looked up into the stern face of Lord Denethor! Lord Denethor had saved him! He tried to thank him, but all that came out was a whisper, and the Steward paid him no mind, but pulled him along, yanking his arm.

They were headed to the Hallows.

“Now, boy” said the Steward grimly, “you can join your father and these other traitors.

The wide doors to the tomb of the Stewards stood open, and on the steps there lay his father, sightless eyes staring up into the darkest of skies. Bergil pulled and tried to yank himself away, yet still the Steward was unrelenting.

Inside a fire raged, and there--there were Captain Faramir and Sir Pippin--they were going to burn up! Pleading, they called out, “Bergil, help us! Help us!”

With a maniacal laugh, Denethor flung Bergil towards the raging fire. He could feel it burning him, and he screamed out, finding his voice at last.

And as he screamed, he could feel himself begin to fall--

With a gasp, he opened his eyes, drawing great heaving breaths.

“They’re all dead, all burned,” he wept, “I’ll burn, too!”

But instead, he felt cool gentle hands holding him.

“Easy lad, it was just a fever dream,” and he felt a cold wet cloth placed upon his brow. “Here, take a bit of this tea, child. It will help you.”

With a good deal of care, Poppy and Viola drew down the blankets, and Bergil began to shudder as though chilled. Poppy gestured, and Targon came over to help the two hobbits remove the lad’s sweat drenched tunic. Then came the application of more cold wet cloths, as they bathed him to bring down his fever.

Freddy watched with wide and dry eyes, thinking of all the young boy had come to mean to him in recent weeks, and wondering what he would find to say to Pippin and the others if Bergil did not make it. He could not bear to think of the grief that would bring to his young Took cousin--one more bit of awful pain on top of all he’d already borne. And he knew the other Travellers would take it almost as hard.

As for he, himself, the thought of losing another friend was unthinkable. He’d do anything to keep it from happening.

He took the flute out of his pocket, and looked at it again, in the dimness of the tent, and a sudden and irrational resolution came to him. Yet, somehow, it seemed utterly right. Yes. It was right.

It seemed that hours must have passed. At one point, Berilac came in to check on things, and at another point, it was Jolly, who worried to see the intent look on Freddy’s face, and the fear on the healers’. Targon also wore a look of near desperation.

It was shortly after the middle of the night, Bergil broke out into a sweat, and the wet cloths were wrung out. Poppy took off her pendulum for the third time that night, and watched it for a few moments, an expression of satisfaction beginning to appear on her broad face, while one of hope began to dawn on Viola’s.

Poppy gave a deep sigh. Then she turned with a smile. “The fever has broken, and I believe the crisis has passed. I think that by morning we shall see a marked improvement in young Master Bergil.”

Targon stood up, and bowed to the healer. “Mistress Poppy, you have my deepest gratitude. The thought of what I should have to say, how I could face his father--I--” He stopped for a moment, nearly choking with emotion.

“Captain Targon, I think that he will begin to recover well, now, and so we’ve no need now to worry over might have beens.” She turned to Viola. “Come now, we must get our own rest, as tomorrow we are supposed to have those swimming lessons.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The apprentice was nearly stumbling with exhaustion.

Targon turned to Freddy. “I will be watching over him tonight.”

Freddy looked at the sleeping child, peacefully resting for the first time that night not wracked with nightmares and coughing. He felt an immense wave of relief wash over him. He gave a nod to Targon, and passed out of the tent, where he saw most of the others gathered about, in a mood of subdued jubilation, for Mistress Poppy had delivered the good news.

Jolly came up to him. “It’s a wonderful thing, Mr. Freddy, that the lad will be all right now!” He took Freddy’s arm and began to lead him to the tent they shared with the Gondorians. “But you need to come along now and get some sleep, sir.”

He nodded. Everything was going to be all right. And tomorrow, he would have a few quiet words with young Bergil.





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