Healing Hands

Chapter Six: A Heavy Decision

"Strangers from distant lands, friends of old," began Lord Elrond, his keen eyes piercing each member of the Council in turn. Twenty-three people sat arranged in a circle in the middle of the courtyard, each chair facing a stone pedestal; Eyrell had been placed with the other humans. "You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-Earth stands upon the brink of destruction—none can escape it. You will unite, or you will fall."

He paused, extending his hand to Frodo.

"Bring forth the Ring, Frodo." he said solemnly.

A hiss of whispers snaked through the Council as Frodo quietly stood up, walked forward to the pedestal, and carefully placed the golden Ring in the center.

Eyrell had almost forgotten about it—almost. But as soon as she saw it again, she sucked in a small breath and sat up a little straighter to look at it. It was so beautiful, so delicately made, yet it radiated a power that she could do so much with, so much ... Rohan could be free once again ... No one would ever die, or become ill ... All she wanted and more at the tips of her fingers...

"So it's true," muttered a voice to her right, snapping her back to reality. The man next to her, with strong features and caramel-colored hair, leaned back in his seat with a manner almost of reverence. Then, he slowly stood up. "In a dream," he said, loud enough for the rest to hear this time, "I saw the eastern sky grow dark ... but in the West, a pale light lingered. A voice was crying: 'Your doom is near at hand, Isildur's bane is found...'"

As he spoke, he began walking toward the pedestal, his hand creeping to the golden band upon it. "Isildur's bane ..."

"Boromir," said Lord Elrond sternly.

Another man stood up, the old man Eyrell had seen speaking to Strider earlier—but she noticed with a start that he no longer looked wizened and stooped. He stood tall enough to loom over the man at the pedestal.

"Ash nazg durbutulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul!"

Eyrell leaned back in her seat, gasping as though the breath had been stolen from the air. The words hurt, so terribly she found herself clutching her head as it throbbed violently. Then, after a moment, the pain vanished as suddenly as it began—as did the dark cloud hanging over the assembly. She looked fearfully at the old man—if he was an old man, she had never heard any mortal utter such terrible spells—but he was breathing as heavily as she was, and seemed to have shrunk down to a normal size.

"Never before has anyone dared to utter words of that tongue here in Imladris," Lord Elrond said in a low voice, taking his hand from his temple and straightening up; he had been leaning on his chair for support.

The old man glanced at the Elf only for a moment as he replied, "I will not ask your pardon, Master Elrond, for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West." He sat back down in his seat and threw a hard look at Boromir, who had shrunk back from the old man and the Ring, his hand now gripping the scabbard on his waist; next to it was a horn of carved ivory.

He opened his mouth a few times, as though struggling to form words, before he shook his head. "It is a gift," he persisted, pacing the circle to implore every member of the Council. "A gift to the foes of Mordor! Why not use this Ring? Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of our people are your lands kept safe! Give Gondor the weapon of the Enemy, let us use it against him!"

Eyrell furrowed her brow at him, an inexplicable rush of indignation flaring inside of her. "What of my people?" she said, "the people of Rohan I represent—there are none of them here besides me, I notice."