Chapter Thirty-Eight - Brushed By Evil

Indis sat, still in shock, still trying to come to terms with what she had seen. Her heart beat quickly against her breast; her cheeks, flushed in exhilaration and fear, burned. Her hands, sitting unnoticed upon her lap, shook, while her legs trembled as cramps ran up and down them. Her breath, once staccato and harsh as she tried to grasp what had happened to her, began to slow. Her eyes were burnt closed; she could not open them if she tried.

‘Is it a gift, this Palantír? Gifted supposedly from the Elves for Gondor’s aid. Yet, what kind of aid is this that leaves the wielder so overcome?’ None were left alive who had seen her grandfather, Turgon, after he had looked upon the stone. Since that day, that one time, the Steward had changed. She knew he had looked using the excuse that peace had flown from their lands. Though not the best of Stewards, Turgon’s love for Gondor forced him to use it. But it addled his brain, weakened him, and caused him to fear his own shadow.

Ecthelion, seeing the damage wrought by the globe’s use, had never touched it. Now she, his daughter, had done what he could not, would not do. She had used the right of the descendants of Mardil and had looked into its depths. And survived! Though, at the moment, she wondered if her own mind had survived.

Denethor had never looked, of that she was sure. She supposed he did not even know it existed. Even upon his deathbed, Ecthelion had scorned his son. None of his knowledge of the things only the Steward was privileged to know was imparted to his son. In his contempt for Denethor, he put his beloved Gondor at risk. Who knew how many other secrets he kept to himself? If it were not for the fact that Ecthelion had valued her own counsel, had trusted her with many things that none else knew, she would not have known what it was when she saw it. Húrin did not even have a key to the Tower room. She was certain the Warden had no knowledge of the room or what it contained. He must have known of the stone’s existence; however, she knew he did not know where it was.

She saw Ecthelion before her again, on his deathbed, and she wept. Not for her father, though she loved him dearly, but for the cruelty he had bestowed upon his only son, even to his last breath. And Denethor had stood and accepted it, as he always had, until Ecthelion had tried to corrupt Boromir with his hatred. At that, Denethor stood forth, drew his young son back from the enfeebled hands that clutched at the boy. Her tears fell. ‘Denethor, my beloved brother, you stood through it all. Yet, you did not lose your gentleness. I miss you, beloved brother. I failed you. I am sorry; I was not strong enough to help you. And now Boromir is gone. Do I continue to use this gift, for Faramir’s sake?’

She suddenly felt the weight of her sixty-five years. Though of Númenórean blood, the feeling of lethargy and heaviness about her heart and her limbs exhausted her. It had been so easy; she merely placed her hands on either side of the Palantír, took a deep breath, and looked into it. After only a moment, the surface changed, moved, turned various colors and, before she was even aware, she found herself looking upon the Pelennor. The fields were being harvested of their last crops as winter approached. The Anduin sparkled in the distance. She remembered tears falling as she looked upon her home, Gondor, beloved Gondor. Her gaze was swept northward. She saw the fields of Anórien, already stripped of their crops and newly ploughed for the winter wheat crop. Sweeping southward, her gaze came upon him. Upon Faramir. She had seen her nephew, sitting upon Imrahil’s lap on the shores of the Sea. Joy had filled her heart at the sight. Imrahil loved Faramir beyond endurance. Always had. Perhaps he knew that Boromir was the shining star in Denethor’s heart? But nay, Imrahil loved Boromir almost as much and Boromir knew it. It gladdened the oldest boy’s heart to know that Faramir was loved unconditionally. Though Denethor never demeaned his youngest, both Boromir and Faramir were aware that all Denethor’s hopes for Gondor were pinned on Boromir. She let those thoughts go and once again rejoiced at the knowledge that, no matter what happened to her, Imrahil would be there for Faramir.

She searched her mind, trying to discover what had frightened her so in the midst of her joy at seeing her nephew. A violent shiver ran through her and the reason became clear. She felt the wizard! Nay. Not the wizard, not Curunír. Something or someone even more evil, more malevolent. It or he had touched her mind for only an instant. She did not know what had saved her, pulled her back as she felt herself falling forward into the mists of the stone, but she had been saved. Even as muddled as her mind felt, she knew she had been saved from some dreadful catastrophe. Whatever it was…

Mithrandir! Mithrandir had been in the Tower room with her. And yet, that was not possible. None knew of the room, much less what was in it, nor that she had gone to it. Yet, she distinctly remembered Mithrandir pulling her from it, saving her from… Enslavement! That is what the wicked presence wanted, to enslave her! She whimpered in fear.

“So you are still with us,” a gentle, rasping voice spoke.

Struggling mightily, Indis tried to open her eyes, but they would not obey her. Some part of her mind rebelled, terrified that she would open them and see… The Eye! She swooned.

“I do not understand. Is this still from the wizard’s visit?”

“Nay, Listöwel,” Mithrandir’s voice was filled with sorrow. “Brave woman that Indis is, she found a tool that brought her in contact with the Enemy.”

Gondor’s Captain-General gasped. “Nay. And yet, she lives? She will recover?”

Húrin interrupted. “You saved her, Mithrandir. How did you know? How could you know?”

“Let me answer Listöwel’s concerns first, if I may be so allowed.” The wizard’s tone was dry, but there was a hint of amusement in it. “She will recover. I know not how long it will take, but she is strong. As for you, Warden of the Keys, I did not know. If you remember, I had been summoned.”

“But that was months ago!”

“I was far from Gondor, when the missive was placed in my hands. I do not have magic to fly through the air, nor a kindly eagle to carry me hence.” The wizard chuckled.

“You have some kind of magic. To have found her at exactly the right time to save her,” Húrin said dryly.

“Whatever you wish to ascribe my presence to, you may. That is no concern of mine. However, I need to know how long she was there?”

Húrin flushed. “I know not. Neither does Listöwel. We knew naught of the existence of the room, nor did I have the key.”

“Humph.” Mithrandir sat back in his chair.

“Will she be all right?” Listöwel knelt before the wizard. “Will her mind be her own? Did you save her in time?”

“I did. She is merely exhausted. The tool needs great strength of will to wield it.”

“That she has,” Húrin sighed. “What is this tool?”

“I will leave that question for your Regent to answer, if it so pleases her.”

Húrin immediately felt the rebuke, Mithrandir knew. The Warden was a good man, and the wizard was not surprised that Húrin recognized and accepted the rebuke.

“Of course. Is there aught further you need of me?”

“Nay. I have closed the room and put a locking spell on it. None will be able to enter it.”

“You would block it from the Regent?” Listöwel gasped.

“Nay. When she recovers, if she asks, I will remove the spell. I only protect it whilst she is indisposed.”

“Since my Regent and the Room are safe, I will leave you.” Húrin stood. “You frightened many of our guards and the Chamberlain when you carried Indis from the Tower. I must assuage their concerns, and their fears.” The Warden of the Keys bowed to the wizard, saluted Gondor’s Captain-General, and left.

Silence filled the room.

~*~

Sometime later, Indis woke. Her head ached terribly; her mouth was dry. “Here,” a familiar voice said, “drink a little of this. It is whiskey.” She nodded, took a small sip and gasped. Her eyes flew open as she recognized the owner of the voice. “Mithrandir!” she cried and flung her arms about the old wizard. “You came! You came! And in the nick of time.” Her tears fell and she wept bitterly into the pipeweed-smelling garment. Finally catching her breath, she drew her arms back. “Forgive me,” she whispered, as fear took her heart. “Forgive me.”

The old wizard chuckled. “It has been quite some time since last I was given such a warm embrace. I think I liked it.”

She giggled, much as a schoolgirl, relief flooding through her after her temerity. “All you have to do is ask. If I had known you were partial to hugs, I would have given them a long time ago.”

The Maia took her hands in his and looked deeply into her eyes. “Ah! Not soiled, I see, only brushed by evil.”

She shivered and fell into his arms again. “You know what I did?” she whispered.

“I do. It is not such a bad thing. As Regent, you are entitled but,” his bushy eyebrows lifted, “it is dangerous.”

“That I have discovered.”

“What did you learn? Was it worth the cost?”

She started at the question and once again withdrew from the warm, comforting arms. “Have you ever looked into it? Did my father let you look?”

“I have never looked into one of the stones. It is not my right.”

“But you have the power.” She sighed, then thought better of pursuing this. “I saw many wondrous things; I saw all of Gondor, even to the Sea.”

“You saw Faramir?” the wizard interrupted.

“How do you…? He is not in the City: he is in Dol Amroth. Protected.”

“Much as I suspected.”

“No one told you?”

He smiled. “None. There is no magic here, dear Indis. If Faramir were in the City, he would know of my arrival, and would be here even as we speak.”

“Yes,” she muttered. “I saw Rohan,” her voice filled with wonder. “Even as far as the Fords of Isen. And to the promontory of Andrast. The stone is a mighty gift indeed,” but her body belied her words as uncontrollable shaking seized her.

The wizard moved forward and took her into his arms. “However?”

She again buried her face in his garments. “The Eye. I saw the Enemy, Mithrandir.” She whispered so low, the wizard was hard-pressed to hear her, but he understood immediately. “Did He see you?”

“Nay.” She shuddered again. “I think I surprised Him. As soon as I saw Him, I fell back. That is when you caught me and helped pull me from the stone.” She could not help the shuddering that ran through her. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing. I merely caught you.”

“Nothing!” Her head snapped up as she pushed herself away from him. “I would be His slave now, enthralled to Him until I died or worse. You saved me, Mithrandir! You saved Gondor, you saved Faramir for I fear what I might have done to him.” A gasp and then a sob left her. “I would have taken the Chair! Nay,” she quickly put her hand over her mouth in horror. “I would have taken the Throne.”

“You would not, fair lady,” Mithrandir said with warmth. “You had already pulled yourself from the Palantír when I came into the room. I was there only to catch you as you fell.”

Shrewdly she looked at him. “Do you speak the truth?”

“I do. You are not as weak as you think.” He stood up, towering over her. “I need to ask one thing.”

“Anything!”

"Will you use it again?"