“What's on your mind, Doran?” Daevan asked his grand-father as he sat by the fire. He was seated at his left side, knowing the old man was almost deaf on his right ear. “You are quiet tonight.”

    “Aye.” Doran stared into the flames.

    “Anything I can help you with?”

    “There is something strange about this wanderer.”

    Daevan smirked.

    “Well, whoever had a beast like that on a leash, I would consider an imbecile.”

    But Doran did not even smile.

    “Tell me about the stranger.”

    The younger man lifted his brows, and flicked a strand of his flaxen hair behind his ear.

    “I thought you were already weary of that tale. Dinúvren spoke about nothing else last night.”

    “Tell me what it was strange about him.”

    “Besides that… thing on the leash?” Daevan jested, not understanding his grand-father's interest in the wanderer. Doran only snorted, a sign he was not willing to answer any more questions. “Well, he wore clothes, boots, a cloak, and a long leather coat. Rather a lot of clothes in my opinion. He had a pack with him and several weapons.” Doran lifted his head to face his grand-son. “If you want to know more about them, ask Nilana. She has all his belongings.”

    “Anything else?”

    “He clasped a brooch in his right hand.” Daevan shrugged. With a lazy gesture he added another twig to the fire, which illuminated his clear features and blue eyes. “If you ask me, that's the reason why he almost drowned: he wanted that jewel back.”

    “What did it look like?”

    The young fisherman stroked his beard. He wore it short-cropped, a habit others laughed about since it was unusual for the villagers to take much care of their outer appearances.

    “A star. It's shaped like a star with a jewel in its centre.”

    “Really.” Doran nodded to himself, and let his chin sink on his chest again to silently watch the flames.

    Daevan smirked and shook his head. There were times when not even he understood Doran's behaviour, though he spent much time with his grand-father, when he was not out for hunting or fishing. But since Doran's son had left for Minas Tirith, the old man had become stranger in his demeanour from week to week. Daevan loved him dearly, but at some times he wished that he were more ordinary. But maybe, so he told himself, old people needed to be a bit strange to not get lost among all the young folk.

A smile broadened on his youthful features when he thought about the children listening to his grand-father's tales. He too loved to listen to them. Doran had lived long enough to be full of wisdom and experience. He had served Steward Ecthelion II and had only returned to the village of his ancestors when he had been declared unfit for further service.

 Now his son had taken up the duty of serving the Steward of Gondor, and sometimes Daevan wanted to follow him. But then he looked at the old man with the thin, white beard and knew he had to stay. He could not abandon the old man like his father had done to follow a greater goal. He was the one Doran relied upon since Daevan’s mother had died long ago. There was no denying that Daevan wanted to leave this little village, and at some times, when the hunting left him with empty traps, and he could no longer stand the smell of fish, he was about to pack his few belongings and leave. And every time he changed his mind and stayed.

    “I once knew someone wearing such a jewel.”

    Daevan, sunken in his own thoughts, lifted his head.

    “You did?”

    “Did I not tell you about the mighty warrior, who had come from the west? Who no one knows where he actually came from?” Life sparkled in the old eyes, and, finally, a smile broadened on his wrinkled features. “Aye, I know, I did. You asked for the tale so often that I had no voice left after that!”

    “There were others too, who wanted to listen!” Daevan rebuked good-naturedly.

    “Yes, there were.”

    “And still are.”

    “Aye, sometimes. Tell me then about him.”

    “Thorongil,” Daevan replied with a sigh of pretended listlessness. “The Eagle of the Star.”

    Doran's eyes sparkled with friendly mockery.

   “Very well.” His voice sounded clearer and richer when he continued, as if it was suddenly untouched by age. “All the soldiers knew of his coming; the tidings of his great deeds in the service of Thengel, King of Rohan, had become legendary even before he passed the great gate of Minas Tirith. He was impressive to look upon. A soldier… nay, a captain they all respected from the first day on. His first deed was…”

   “…To summon all garrisons under arms to head south.” Doran squinted at his grand-son. “You are right. You told it more often than you might remember. But I was there with the young folk… most of the time.”

   Doran huffed, but a smile brightened his features.

   “So you listened indeed! Ah, those were times I like to remember, my son, I really do.” He glanced at the hut beyond the fire. “I don't know… That stranger… He reminded me of that great man, but.. it cannot be him, of course. The arrival of Thorongil at Minas Tirith was more than forty years ago. He is an old man now… like myself. If he still lives.” His gaze rested on the entrance of the hut a moment longer. “Yes, if he still lives.”

-o-o-o-o-

   Bradolla had not been polite when Nilana had come to ask for help again, and she was still angry that the young woman had interrupted her sleep. She wrapped her old brown scarf tightly around her shoulders, and followed Nilana to her hut, murmuring the whole time that the stranger would be better off at her side than with the young nuisance. Nilana's cheeks flushed instantly, and she feared the woman would continue the slander even in front of the stranger. Bracing herself against Bradolla's further complaints, they entered the hut.

   “So what are you worried about?” the old woman said impatiently. She knelt at the bedside, still shivering from the cold air outside. “You did the poultice. Good. You changed the bandages, didn't you?”

   “I did, but…” Nilana swallowed, and could not stand Bradolla's glare when she crouched beside her to unwrap the man's right wrist. The stranger stirred the same moment, and – obviously waking from another unpleasant dream – drew away his arm. “No! It's just me! Don't be afraid!” She saw his frightened, haunted eyes. He averted his gaze instantly, but she knew. He breathed too fast and shallowly, and the coughing fit that followed threw him into heaving again.

   “He's not out of the woods yet,” Bradolla stated bluntly as she watched the sick man lean back on the pillow after a moment. She lifted her brows, and her stare became earnest. “And he should be covered up with more blankets than this. He'll catch a cold at least!”

   Nilana hurried to bring a wet cloth to clean the man's face.

   “I will take care of it,” she assured Bradolla hastily, afraid that due to the noise her brother and daughter would wake up. “But…” She hesitated, then looked at the old woman, wringing the cloth in her hands before she put it down, “that is not my main concern.” Knowing the stranger was fully awake; she undid the bandage and showed the deep cut to Bradolla. “See? It does…”

   “It looks very bad,” the healer stressed. She threw her thin hands in the air. “Inflamed! Well, he needs a salve for that, but the herbs…” Resting her hands on the rim of the bed, she faced the stranger, who pointed to the stove. “What say you?”

   “He can't speak!” Nilana stated as if she was talking to a stubborn child.

   “I know that!” Bradolla rebuked her eyes ablaze with anger. “Don't you dare start telling me about that sickness!” The stranger grabbed her hand, and she inhaled, startled by the sudden contact. Letting go of her hand, the man repeated his gesture toward the stove, and his look was pleading. “Nilana, you might better explain what he's trying to tell us.”

   Nilana frowned, confused by the healer's harshness, but then she remembered.

   “He gave me a pouch.” She rose and brought it to Bradolla, who snatched it out of her hands. “I don't know what…”

   “Of course you don't!” Bradolla sniffed the contents, and with her anger still aflame she stared down the young woman. “Why didn't you tell me before? Why did you wait so long?”

   “I thought…”

   “You didn't.” Reining in her temper, Bradolla faced the sick man. “Don't blame her. She would not know a tree from a bush if you did not tell her. So how would she know this?” Standing two steps away, Nilana immediately felt tears coming to her eyes, and she fought hard to suppress the urge to cry. “And since you looked like a scabby wolf she did not expect you to carry these herbs with you.” She patted his arm reassuringly. “But Bradolla knows. She will go and make that salve for you.” She rose with an effort, and stared at the young woman. “Uncover the other hand, too, and wait until I come back. Wrap him in more blankets, but don't do anything else, you hear me?”

   “That was not very kind,” Nilana whispered, unable to stand the grim stare.

   “That is true. But didn't you…”

   “Bradolla, you ought better go.”

    Sensing that she had done enough, the old healer turned to leave, but Nilana could hear her murmuring for a good part of the way back.

    Nilana felt beat. Turning away from the stranger, she could no longer hold back the sobs, and tears streamed down her cheeks freely. She hid her face behind her hands, trying to be quiet, trying to regain her composure. The thought of what else could have gone wrong without Bradolla's help crossed her mind, and instead of stopping she cried even more. Pictures of her husband lying in a bed like this, getting weaker from day to day, appeared unbidden, and she stood for a while trying to calm down again.

    When she turned to do what Bradolla had told her, the stranger's grey eyes rested on her, and the expression of understanding and compassion was almost too much for her to bear. She wiped her cheeks with both hands, drew up her nose, and knelt at the bedside once more.

    “I know I should have…,” she started, but stopped when he touched her forearm, making her look at him. ‘I know’ she read from his lips. “You might,” she whispered, “but there is no forgiveness.” He frowned, but she ignored it, and took off the bandage from his left hand. The bite wound was swollen, and he flinched at the slight touch. “I'm sorry. I caused you more pain than I took from you.” With the soiled bandage in her hands she fought the tears of misery. “I'm of not much use.” He could not ease her self-accusation, and when she rose, she avoided looking at his gaunt face again. “I will bring you another cover.”

    At the same moment she spread the blanket on the bed, Bradolla returned with a small pottery bowl, and its contents diffused a pleasant and wholesome scent. Nilana turned and made way for the old woman, casting her eyes down.

    “Nilana, I…” The old woman smacked her lips, frowning, and searching for words. “I meant no offence,” she then uttered gruffly. “I was upset, yes, and I can't deny it that I still am. But you could not know. Look at me.” The young woman slowly, hesitantly, lifted her chin. The healer's voice grew soft. “You should have asked me… right away.”

    “Aye.”

    “Good.” She seemed about to pat Nilana's arm, but the younger woman moved aside, so that Bradolla could take her place at the bedside. She asked for fresh bandages, and put down the little bowl beside her. “It looks terrible indeed,” she mumbled and shook her head. Facing the man again she asked with a frown, “Why'd you carry this around? Did someone tell you about the use of herbs?” She received a nod and a small smile. “Ah, I see. Well, you don't look like a healer, but at least you know some things.” She applied the salve to his wounds and covered them with the cloth Nilana provided, not caring for the distress she caused. “That should help, and I'll come back to have a look tomorrow.” She straightened carefully, the little bowl in her hands. The stranger – relaxing after the not so gentle treatment – closed his eyes for a moment to thank her, and her face finally brightened to a grin. “Aye, lad, I'd know ways to thank me you haven't yet trod!” She laughed suddenly, and, waving her hand in his direction, left for her home.

 -o-o-o-o-