DW/LOTR crossover: Through the rain curtain (5 and epilogue); Nine
I'm trying to get some stories finished, I've got way too many unfinished fics on the hard drive. So here's chapter 5 and an epilogue for my LOTR/DW crossover. Many thanks to those who have commented on this to date; thoughts and criticism always very welcome.
Header information
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
The headache is not gone by the morning. In fact it is worse than ever, and it takes effort to eat the fresh bread left out for him. There is no sign of the Doctor, and after managing half the bread and sipping a cup of water Ronald pulls on his clothes and heads out into the city. It is another lovely spring morning, and his spirits lift somewhat - though the headache does not - as he makes his way through the citadel.
He finds the Doctor in a garden, talking plants with Samwise Gamgee, both of them on their hands and knees with dirt all over. Sam is gesturing excitedly, and the Doctor seems to be arguing about whether it would be possible to transplant flowers from Gondor to another part of the planet.
“It’s not warm enough!” says the Doctor, sitting back on his heels.
“Keep ‘em covered in the winter, and they’ll bloom in spring all right,” Sam argues. “I had a notion about a sort of cover for them, keep the frost off.”
“Not a bad idea,” the Doctor says. “Not bad at all. Morning, Ronald.”
“Good morning,” Ronald says, picking a bench and sinking down on to it. “How were the stars?”
“Fantastic. Should’ve come. All different to yours.”
Ronald rubs his brow. “I had a headache. Have a headache.”
The Doctor gets to his feet and comes across. “Let me have a look?”
“You’re the Doctor,” Ronald points out. “Are you?”
“I’m the Doctor, not a Doctor,” says the Doctor, “but I’ve picked up a bit of medical knowledge in my time.” He puts a cool hand on Ronald’s brow and peers at him.
Sam tenderly pulls a few weeds out from around the plant he is examining. “You should ask Strider, the King, I mean,” he says. “He’s good at tending folk.”
“Hands of a king!” exclaims the Doctor. “Of course.” He pauses. “Though I don’t know that even Aragorn’ll be able to help here, Ronald. I think you’ve got trench fever.”
The words echo in Ronald’s ears. He has seen many men invalided out of the trenches with the fever - some have returned, others have not. And it’s true, many complained of a headache before they fell seriously ill.
“Oh,” he says, the headache pounding. “Don’t you have something you can treat me with?”
The Doctor nods. “Yeah. But I can’t give it to you. I’m sorry, but that would be messing with time. They won’t invent a treatment for it for a while yet. It won’t kill you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” The Doctor smiles. “And I can’t say anything more about that. But come on, we’ll see what the King can do.”
Aragorn seems pleased to have an excuse to break away from papers, and makes Ronald sit down and servants bring hot water while another is sent to the Houses of Healing for something called athelas, which Ronald’s mind does not translate.
“That’s because there isn’t an equivalent in English,” says the Doctor, watching.
“It’s a herb, of sorts,” adds Aragorn, rolling his sleeves up. “It’s not the only healing herb, but it is soothing for aches and one of the more potent.” He thanks the servant who has brought a bowl of hot water. In a few moments the other servant returns with a folded cloth containing a few green leaves, which Aragorn throws into the water. Almost immediately there is a sweet, aromatic smell in the room, calming and getting to work on the headache.
Aragorn soaks a cloth in the water and bathes Ronald’s brow with it, his sword-calloused hands lingering on the temples. The headache is now subsiding.
“That stuff’s incredible,” says the Doctor, picking up a leaf and crushing it between his fingers.
The King dries his hands. “It has helped many people.”
“Got any seeds?” the Doctor asks. “I’ve got this garden. At least I hope I’ve still got it, haven’t seen it for a bit, but a bit of athelas wouldn’t go amiss. Might not have the hands of a king but occasionally I’m called upon to be a healer.”
“Most soldiers are,” the King agrees.
“I’m not a soldier,” the Doctor says, all the lightness going out of his tone.
Aragorn looks at him silently for a moment, and then turns away. “I can find you some seedlings,” he says. “Ronald, how are you feeling now?”
“A little better,” Ronald says. “Thank you.”
“I suggest you spend the day inside,” says Aragorn, “somewhere cool and shady. Faramir’s library would be ideal, although you must promise me not to over-exert yourself by reading too much.”
Ronald finds himself laughing. “I promise.”
“Good.”
“I’ll come with you,” the Doctor adds. “I’d like to see what’s in the collection.”
Faramir’s “library” is airy and cool and stuffed with books and papers. There are some comfortable chairs and desks for writing on, and the Doctor instantly begins browsing the collection. He pulls volumes out and stacks them in a pile. “Try these,” he suggests.
Pulling one of the books towards him, Ronald has an idea.
“If I make notes about these, will they be in English?” he asks.
“Good thinking.” The Doctor flips through a book. “Yeah.”
Ronald selects a quill, checks the nib, and opens the book nearest to him.
The day passes in peaceful silence, broken only by the rustling of pages and the scratching of quill on parchment. By the window the Doctor reads voraciously, getting through three volumes before lunch. Ronald works more slowly, jotting down notes about names and places in the hope that this will help him decipher languages when he is back home. A part of him is beginning to wish he could stay in Gondor - work as a clerk, perhaps, or offer to sort out the jumbled and dusty archive. But another part of him is missing even the trenches and the knowledge that friends and family are just a letter away. He feels different and very alone in this great stone city, magnificent though it is and generous as its people have been.
During the afternoon Faramir comes in, looks through the books on Ronald’s desk, and divides them into two piles. “I have two copies of these,” he says, pushing them forwards. “Please.”
Ronald thanks him, looking through the books in his pile. There are several he has barely had a chance to touch and he is grateful not to have to speed-read them, particularly because his headache is returning full-force. As servants come and light candles, the Doctor gives him a look, strides across the room and takes his pen away.
“No more. You’ll make it worse. I think I’m going to have to take you back, Ronald; you need more medicine than athelas.”
Ronald leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. “How long do I have before I develop the fever properly?”
The Doctor lays a surprisingly cool hand on his forehead. “How long have you had the headache?”
“A day or so.”
“Then you’ve got a couple of weeks to incubate, before it hits you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s all right, they’ll invalid me out. I might even get to see Edith.” The thought of Edith is cheering.
“I’ll get them to take us back to the TARDIS tomorrow,” the Doctor says.
The evening is spent with the hobbits, who are solicitous of Ronald’s headache but good fun nevertheless. The Doctor tells some outrageous stories about outrunning monsters and Merry anecdotes about the Shire, their home. Only Frodo is quiet, watching the merriment with a slight smile.
The Doctor walks with Ronald back to their rooms, pointing out some of the different stars in the heavens. “That one’s a man,” he says, indicating a particularly bright star. “Eärendil, his name was. He’s Aragorn’s ancestor. Built himself a ship and left Arda in search of salvation.” His mouth twists.
“Salvation?” Ronald asks.
“An end to the fighting that was splitting Men and Elves,” the Doctor says, his eyes veiled and distant. “They believe in a kind of god, here - more powerful beings, really, but men will always give the name of ‘god’ to something they don’t understand. Eärendil found them, but once he’d left he could never come back. So they gave him the job of sailing the heavens, forever.”
Ronald looks up at the star. “It sounds similar to an ancient story we have,” he thinks aloud. “About a star, too. Actually I wrote a poem about it - from a line in Crist, by Cynewulf.”
“Don’t think I’ve met him,” says the Doctor.
“He lived a long time ago,” Ronald explains. “He wrote - hang on, will this make sense?”
“You’re speaking English now, to me,” the Doctor says.
“All right, then.” Ronald casts his mind back for the right phrase. “Cynewulf wrote this. ‘Éala éarendel engla beorhtast; ofer middangeard monnum sended’.”
“Hail Earendel, brightest of angels, over Middle Earth sent to men,” the Doctor translates. “Like I said; some legends are universal.”
Arriving at their rooms, Ronald sits down on his bed with a sigh. The Doctor gives him an appraising look.
“Will you be able to sleep?”
“I don’t know.”
The Doctor frowns. “All right. I’ll only do this once. Shoes off.”
Ronald obeys, swinging his legs on to the bed and eyeing the Doctor as he approaches. “Will it hurt?”
The Doctor grins. “Not unless I’ve got really bad at this in the past couple of decades. Just relax.”
He leans forward, puts his fingers against Ronald’s temples, and there is blackness.
By morning all is ready, and Ronald finds all he has to do is bid farewell to the hobbits, Mithrandir, Legolas and Gimli. To his delight both Aragorn and Faramir are riding with them, although he gathers from the way courtiers are buzzing around the King that this is not a popular decision.
“I will be gone three days, four at most,” Aragorn says eventually, turning on the courtiers with a gaze that could have torn stone asunder. “I am leaving Mithrandir here in my stead. Surely he will suffice as Regent?”
“But, my lord, there is so much to do!” a courtier says, helplessly.
“And Mithrandir will take advice and give orders,” Aragorn says, patiently. “I need to see Osgiliath.” He picks up the fine scabbard and sword belt leaning by the wall and buckles on the weapon with the quick ease of long practice. “Come, Doctor, Master Tolkien.”
They ride out through the City accompanied by a small group of Faramir’s men and cheers from the people. Aragorn acknowledges the cheers with a raised hand, a smile, occasionally nodding his head at someone. But as they exit the main Gate he gives Faramir a broad grin, his horse a sharp kick, and bends low over its neck.
Faramir laughs, and follows. The Doctor exchanges a shrug with Ronald, and they’re off too, their horses racing to catch the others, the grass rushing underneath the hoofs. They gallop until they are past the outer wall, and Aragorn reins his mount into a trot.
“That felt good,” he says. “Just to ride, for the sake of riding. I’ve been cooped up too many days.”
“Not one for stone cities,” remarks the Doctor.
“No more than you are,” Aragorn agrees. “I’m more used to sleeping under the stars and having the freedom to journey as I will.”
They ride. It is a beautiful spring day once more, and the breeze blowing past Ronald’s face takes some of the headache with it. As they ride Aragorn and Faramir exchange stories. It seems so normal, somehow, and yet Ronald is sure that when he leaves this place it will be like a dream in his mind, just a fading memory.
The journey, again, takes the rest of the day, and a night, and a morning, and at noon they arrive back in the woodland clearing where everything began and Faramir walked out of the trees. The Doctor, Ronald thinks, is happy to be back with his strange machine; he leaves his horse grazing to go up to it, patting its wooden sides.
Aragorn and Faramir are staring in open amazement, and stare more as the Doctor pulls a key from his pocket and opens the door.
“What wizardry is this?” asks Aragorn.
“Oh, come on,” the Doctor replies. “You know better than that. It’s not wizardry; it’s just something you don’t have on your world.” He lays a tender hand on the side of the TARDIS. “Something no worlds have, now.”
“Thank you,” says Ronald, lifting his bag of books out of his mount’s saddlebag. “I … I wish I could stay.”
“You can’t,” puts in the Doctor from the door of the TARDIS.
Aragorn nods. “You must return to your world, Master Tolkien. But I’m sure you too will have peace.” He looks across at the Doctor. “And to you, Doctor, I extend a permanent invitation. You have the freedom of Gondor as long as my house endures.”
The Doctor returns the King’s nod with his own, serious and formal. “Then I thank you for such an honour,” he says. “Better write that one down, y’r Majesty; save me having to explain it later to a descendant. Well, we’ll be away. C’mon, Ronald.”
Ronald follows him inside the machine and the doors close. The Doctor is hurrying around the central column, pushing buttons and winding things and wielding a hammer with enthusiasm. He pulls down a lever with a flourish.
“And we’re off!” he says, turning to Ronald with a grin.
“You look remarkably happy, considering I am going back to a war,” Ronald replies, his headache suddenly hitting him hard. He feels exhausted.
The Doctor’s expression changes in a blink. “Sorry,” he says. “Yeah. You’re right. Not a moment for happiness. You should change.”
His stained, filthy uniform is where he left it, and Ronald strips off the comfortable boots and fine tunic with regret. Putting his old things back on feels, somehow, like closing a book. He folds the clothes he has taken off and leaves them in a neat pile.
Back in the main control room, the Doctor is flicking through the books. “Good selection. They’ll be useful.”
“Useful? I doubt it. I’ll put them aside; I can’t go writing my thesis on - what was it? Quenya?”
“Maybe not a thesis,” the Doctor says, with a grin. “Don’t rule out the writing, though. Where there’s a gap, fill it. Use your brain - you’ve got a good one. A good myth always has a nice dash of imagination. Trust me.”
Ronald puts the books back in the canvas bag given him by Faramir. “Strangely, I do,” he says. A thought strikes him. “Doctor - can you tell me … will I have to go back to the trenches, after I get better?”
His attention on the controls, the Doctor shakes his head.
“No, I won’t have to go back, or no, you can’t tell me?” Ronald pursues.
“Can’t tell you. Sorry.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t trust you not to mess up your own timeline because of what I tell you,” the Doctor says. “And you would, you’d try and change it.” He twirls a dial. “You humans always try and change it.”
Ronald nods. “All right. I’ll accept that. What of you, Doctor? What will you do now?”
“Keep travelling.”
“Where?”
“Wherever the TARDIS takes me. That’s the joy of it.” But the Doctor does not look especially joyful. The spaceship judders to a halt. “Here we are. 1916, and just a few minutes after you went out for a smoke.”
Picking up the book bag, Ronald holds out his hand. “Thank you, Doctor,” he says, meaning it. “Generally, we shake hands, on Earth,” he adds, when the Doctor doesn’t take the hand.
“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” The Doctor shakes. “Pleasure.”
Ronald turns, makes for the door, opens it. He looks around, once, at the Doctor standing alone and strange in his incredible machine, and steps back out into the mud.
Epilogue
Blackwell’s Bookshop, Oxford, 1956
It’s been a long afternoon and Ronald’s hand is cramped from the signing. He hates signing - it takes time away from writing, and marking, and there’s a lecture he’s supposed to be preparing too - but he’s under orders to help promote the book and at least Blackwell’s is a convivial sort of place.
The readers have been mostly students; even, Ronald has been surprised to see, some of his own. He’s pleased, but wishes they would pay as much attention to Beowulf.
Towards the end of the queue there’s a tall thin man in a truly ridiculous long coat and a red-haired woman who appears to object to being here; she’s muttering something about elves under her breath.
Ronald stretches his fingers and looks up at them. “Hello.”
“Hello indeed!” says the man, grinning a mile-wide grin. “Absolutely hello. Lovely to see you, Professor!” He puts the book down. “Well done, too. Excellent work. Of course I always expected that, but still, good to be able to tell you. Brilliant!”
Ronald smiles politely back. “And who should I inscribe it to?” he asks.
The man sticks his hands in his pockets. “Oh, that’s a shame.” He lowers his voice, leans over. “Come on, have a guess.”
“How should I be able to guess?” Ronald says, glancing round to see if there’s a shop assistant to hand.
“Sorry, he gets like this sometimes,” says the red-haired woman. She raises her eyebrows at the man, who sighs deeply.
“Regeneration’s such a nuisance. I should carry a little book or something, like a passport. With pictures.” He leans over to Ronald. “How long did it take you to get over the trench fever, Ronald?”
Ronald looks up, meets the other man’s eyes - dark eyes, but suddenly he recognises the expression in them, despite the face, despite the changes. “Doctor?”
“Told you he was good, didn’t I?” The man - the Doctor - grins again. “Yup. Oh, this is Donna Noble. Donna, Professor Tolkien.”
“Charmed, my dear,” Ronald says, feeling a little swept away. “Doctor … did you know I would write this book?” He lays his hand on the open flyleaf.
The Doctor nods. “Of course. Couldn’t say anything - against the rules - but I sort of encouraged it along a bit. And now I can tell you how brilliant it is. They’d be pleased, you know, if they could see it.”
Ronald picks up his pen again. “It seems like a dream, most days,” he says. “But then I close my eyes and sometimes I can still see it, Minas Tirith rising from the plain.”
“And the wave?” the Doctor asks.
“Occasionally.” Ronald thinks for a moment, and writes quickly on the flyleaf in his crabbed hand. “And you? How are you?”
The Doctor meets his gaze, and Ronald is taken aback by the weight of what is suddenly revealed. “Oh, same old travelling,” he says. “Same old TARDIS. Not quite same old me.” He picks up the book, reads the inscription, and smiles. “Thank you.” The book disappears somewhere inside the coat. “Well, we’ve got to go and deal with a plague of alien piranha that’s about to appear in the Isis, so we’ll be off.” He holds out his hand. “Generally, I understand you shake.”
Ronald finds himself returning the smile. “Indeed, generally that is the case.” They shake hands again. “Doctor - there’s rather a lot of material I haven’t yet put into order. Even some of the material I began work on while I was convalescing with the fever. Gondolin, and so on. Should I continue?”
He’s rewarded with another of those blinding grins. “Oh yes,” says the Doctor. “Keep on writing, Professor. Keep on writing as long as ever you can.” And with that, he’s gone, Donna Noble in tow.
Laying down his pen, Ronald rubs his brow. No dream after all, then. He thinks of the piles of papers back in his study, and tucked away in a safe corner, the books brought out of Gondor. He resolves to settle down to it now with a vengeance - because the Doctor’s advice had been good before. Surely it would be again.
Header information
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
The headache is not gone by the morning. In fact it is worse than ever, and it takes effort to eat the fresh bread left out for him. There is no sign of the Doctor, and after managing half the bread and sipping a cup of water Ronald pulls on his clothes and heads out into the city. It is another lovely spring morning, and his spirits lift somewhat - though the headache does not - as he makes his way through the citadel.
He finds the Doctor in a garden, talking plants with Samwise Gamgee, both of them on their hands and knees with dirt all over. Sam is gesturing excitedly, and the Doctor seems to be arguing about whether it would be possible to transplant flowers from Gondor to another part of the planet.
“It’s not warm enough!” says the Doctor, sitting back on his heels.
“Keep ‘em covered in the winter, and they’ll bloom in spring all right,” Sam argues. “I had a notion about a sort of cover for them, keep the frost off.”
“Not a bad idea,” the Doctor says. “Not bad at all. Morning, Ronald.”
“Good morning,” Ronald says, picking a bench and sinking down on to it. “How were the stars?”
“Fantastic. Should’ve come. All different to yours.”
Ronald rubs his brow. “I had a headache. Have a headache.”
The Doctor gets to his feet and comes across. “Let me have a look?”
“You’re the Doctor,” Ronald points out. “Are you?”
“I’m the Doctor, not a Doctor,” says the Doctor, “but I’ve picked up a bit of medical knowledge in my time.” He puts a cool hand on Ronald’s brow and peers at him.
Sam tenderly pulls a few weeds out from around the plant he is examining. “You should ask Strider, the King, I mean,” he says. “He’s good at tending folk.”
“Hands of a king!” exclaims the Doctor. “Of course.” He pauses. “Though I don’t know that even Aragorn’ll be able to help here, Ronald. I think you’ve got trench fever.”
The words echo in Ronald’s ears. He has seen many men invalided out of the trenches with the fever - some have returned, others have not. And it’s true, many complained of a headache before they fell seriously ill.
“Oh,” he says, the headache pounding. “Don’t you have something you can treat me with?”
The Doctor nods. “Yeah. But I can’t give it to you. I’m sorry, but that would be messing with time. They won’t invent a treatment for it for a while yet. It won’t kill you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” The Doctor smiles. “And I can’t say anything more about that. But come on, we’ll see what the King can do.”
Aragorn seems pleased to have an excuse to break away from papers, and makes Ronald sit down and servants bring hot water while another is sent to the Houses of Healing for something called athelas, which Ronald’s mind does not translate.
“That’s because there isn’t an equivalent in English,” says the Doctor, watching.
“It’s a herb, of sorts,” adds Aragorn, rolling his sleeves up. “It’s not the only healing herb, but it is soothing for aches and one of the more potent.” He thanks the servant who has brought a bowl of hot water. In a few moments the other servant returns with a folded cloth containing a few green leaves, which Aragorn throws into the water. Almost immediately there is a sweet, aromatic smell in the room, calming and getting to work on the headache.
Aragorn soaks a cloth in the water and bathes Ronald’s brow with it, his sword-calloused hands lingering on the temples. The headache is now subsiding.
“That stuff’s incredible,” says the Doctor, picking up a leaf and crushing it between his fingers.
The King dries his hands. “It has helped many people.”
“Got any seeds?” the Doctor asks. “I’ve got this garden. At least I hope I’ve still got it, haven’t seen it for a bit, but a bit of athelas wouldn’t go amiss. Might not have the hands of a king but occasionally I’m called upon to be a healer.”
“Most soldiers are,” the King agrees.
“I’m not a soldier,” the Doctor says, all the lightness going out of his tone.
Aragorn looks at him silently for a moment, and then turns away. “I can find you some seedlings,” he says. “Ronald, how are you feeling now?”
“A little better,” Ronald says. “Thank you.”
“I suggest you spend the day inside,” says Aragorn, “somewhere cool and shady. Faramir’s library would be ideal, although you must promise me not to over-exert yourself by reading too much.”
Ronald finds himself laughing. “I promise.”
“Good.”
“I’ll come with you,” the Doctor adds. “I’d like to see what’s in the collection.”
Faramir’s “library” is airy and cool and stuffed with books and papers. There are some comfortable chairs and desks for writing on, and the Doctor instantly begins browsing the collection. He pulls volumes out and stacks them in a pile. “Try these,” he suggests.
Pulling one of the books towards him, Ronald has an idea.
“If I make notes about these, will they be in English?” he asks.
“Good thinking.” The Doctor flips through a book. “Yeah.”
Ronald selects a quill, checks the nib, and opens the book nearest to him.
The day passes in peaceful silence, broken only by the rustling of pages and the scratching of quill on parchment. By the window the Doctor reads voraciously, getting through three volumes before lunch. Ronald works more slowly, jotting down notes about names and places in the hope that this will help him decipher languages when he is back home. A part of him is beginning to wish he could stay in Gondor - work as a clerk, perhaps, or offer to sort out the jumbled and dusty archive. But another part of him is missing even the trenches and the knowledge that friends and family are just a letter away. He feels different and very alone in this great stone city, magnificent though it is and generous as its people have been.
During the afternoon Faramir comes in, looks through the books on Ronald’s desk, and divides them into two piles. “I have two copies of these,” he says, pushing them forwards. “Please.”
Ronald thanks him, looking through the books in his pile. There are several he has barely had a chance to touch and he is grateful not to have to speed-read them, particularly because his headache is returning full-force. As servants come and light candles, the Doctor gives him a look, strides across the room and takes his pen away.
“No more. You’ll make it worse. I think I’m going to have to take you back, Ronald; you need more medicine than athelas.”
Ronald leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. “How long do I have before I develop the fever properly?”
The Doctor lays a surprisingly cool hand on his forehead. “How long have you had the headache?”
“A day or so.”
“Then you’ve got a couple of weeks to incubate, before it hits you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s all right, they’ll invalid me out. I might even get to see Edith.” The thought of Edith is cheering.
“I’ll get them to take us back to the TARDIS tomorrow,” the Doctor says.
The evening is spent with the hobbits, who are solicitous of Ronald’s headache but good fun nevertheless. The Doctor tells some outrageous stories about outrunning monsters and Merry anecdotes about the Shire, their home. Only Frodo is quiet, watching the merriment with a slight smile.
The Doctor walks with Ronald back to their rooms, pointing out some of the different stars in the heavens. “That one’s a man,” he says, indicating a particularly bright star. “Eärendil, his name was. He’s Aragorn’s ancestor. Built himself a ship and left Arda in search of salvation.” His mouth twists.
“Salvation?” Ronald asks.
“An end to the fighting that was splitting Men and Elves,” the Doctor says, his eyes veiled and distant. “They believe in a kind of god, here - more powerful beings, really, but men will always give the name of ‘god’ to something they don’t understand. Eärendil found them, but once he’d left he could never come back. So they gave him the job of sailing the heavens, forever.”
Ronald looks up at the star. “It sounds similar to an ancient story we have,” he thinks aloud. “About a star, too. Actually I wrote a poem about it - from a line in Crist, by Cynewulf.”
“Don’t think I’ve met him,” says the Doctor.
“He lived a long time ago,” Ronald explains. “He wrote - hang on, will this make sense?”
“You’re speaking English now, to me,” the Doctor says.
“All right, then.” Ronald casts his mind back for the right phrase. “Cynewulf wrote this. ‘Éala éarendel engla beorhtast; ofer middangeard monnum sended’.”
“Hail Earendel, brightest of angels, over Middle Earth sent to men,” the Doctor translates. “Like I said; some legends are universal.”
Arriving at their rooms, Ronald sits down on his bed with a sigh. The Doctor gives him an appraising look.
“Will you be able to sleep?”
“I don’t know.”
The Doctor frowns. “All right. I’ll only do this once. Shoes off.”
Ronald obeys, swinging his legs on to the bed and eyeing the Doctor as he approaches. “Will it hurt?”
The Doctor grins. “Not unless I’ve got really bad at this in the past couple of decades. Just relax.”
He leans forward, puts his fingers against Ronald’s temples, and there is blackness.
By morning all is ready, and Ronald finds all he has to do is bid farewell to the hobbits, Mithrandir, Legolas and Gimli. To his delight both Aragorn and Faramir are riding with them, although he gathers from the way courtiers are buzzing around the King that this is not a popular decision.
“I will be gone three days, four at most,” Aragorn says eventually, turning on the courtiers with a gaze that could have torn stone asunder. “I am leaving Mithrandir here in my stead. Surely he will suffice as Regent?”
“But, my lord, there is so much to do!” a courtier says, helplessly.
“And Mithrandir will take advice and give orders,” Aragorn says, patiently. “I need to see Osgiliath.” He picks up the fine scabbard and sword belt leaning by the wall and buckles on the weapon with the quick ease of long practice. “Come, Doctor, Master Tolkien.”
They ride out through the City accompanied by a small group of Faramir’s men and cheers from the people. Aragorn acknowledges the cheers with a raised hand, a smile, occasionally nodding his head at someone. But as they exit the main Gate he gives Faramir a broad grin, his horse a sharp kick, and bends low over its neck.
Faramir laughs, and follows. The Doctor exchanges a shrug with Ronald, and they’re off too, their horses racing to catch the others, the grass rushing underneath the hoofs. They gallop until they are past the outer wall, and Aragorn reins his mount into a trot.
“That felt good,” he says. “Just to ride, for the sake of riding. I’ve been cooped up too many days.”
“Not one for stone cities,” remarks the Doctor.
“No more than you are,” Aragorn agrees. “I’m more used to sleeping under the stars and having the freedom to journey as I will.”
They ride. It is a beautiful spring day once more, and the breeze blowing past Ronald’s face takes some of the headache with it. As they ride Aragorn and Faramir exchange stories. It seems so normal, somehow, and yet Ronald is sure that when he leaves this place it will be like a dream in his mind, just a fading memory.
The journey, again, takes the rest of the day, and a night, and a morning, and at noon they arrive back in the woodland clearing where everything began and Faramir walked out of the trees. The Doctor, Ronald thinks, is happy to be back with his strange machine; he leaves his horse grazing to go up to it, patting its wooden sides.
Aragorn and Faramir are staring in open amazement, and stare more as the Doctor pulls a key from his pocket and opens the door.
“What wizardry is this?” asks Aragorn.
“Oh, come on,” the Doctor replies. “You know better than that. It’s not wizardry; it’s just something you don’t have on your world.” He lays a tender hand on the side of the TARDIS. “Something no worlds have, now.”
“Thank you,” says Ronald, lifting his bag of books out of his mount’s saddlebag. “I … I wish I could stay.”
“You can’t,” puts in the Doctor from the door of the TARDIS.
Aragorn nods. “You must return to your world, Master Tolkien. But I’m sure you too will have peace.” He looks across at the Doctor. “And to you, Doctor, I extend a permanent invitation. You have the freedom of Gondor as long as my house endures.”
The Doctor returns the King’s nod with his own, serious and formal. “Then I thank you for such an honour,” he says. “Better write that one down, y’r Majesty; save me having to explain it later to a descendant. Well, we’ll be away. C’mon, Ronald.”
Ronald follows him inside the machine and the doors close. The Doctor is hurrying around the central column, pushing buttons and winding things and wielding a hammer with enthusiasm. He pulls down a lever with a flourish.
“And we’re off!” he says, turning to Ronald with a grin.
“You look remarkably happy, considering I am going back to a war,” Ronald replies, his headache suddenly hitting him hard. He feels exhausted.
The Doctor’s expression changes in a blink. “Sorry,” he says. “Yeah. You’re right. Not a moment for happiness. You should change.”
His stained, filthy uniform is where he left it, and Ronald strips off the comfortable boots and fine tunic with regret. Putting his old things back on feels, somehow, like closing a book. He folds the clothes he has taken off and leaves them in a neat pile.
Back in the main control room, the Doctor is flicking through the books. “Good selection. They’ll be useful.”
“Useful? I doubt it. I’ll put them aside; I can’t go writing my thesis on - what was it? Quenya?”
“Maybe not a thesis,” the Doctor says, with a grin. “Don’t rule out the writing, though. Where there’s a gap, fill it. Use your brain - you’ve got a good one. A good myth always has a nice dash of imagination. Trust me.”
Ronald puts the books back in the canvas bag given him by Faramir. “Strangely, I do,” he says. A thought strikes him. “Doctor - can you tell me … will I have to go back to the trenches, after I get better?”
His attention on the controls, the Doctor shakes his head.
“No, I won’t have to go back, or no, you can’t tell me?” Ronald pursues.
“Can’t tell you. Sorry.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t trust you not to mess up your own timeline because of what I tell you,” the Doctor says. “And you would, you’d try and change it.” He twirls a dial. “You humans always try and change it.”
Ronald nods. “All right. I’ll accept that. What of you, Doctor? What will you do now?”
“Keep travelling.”
“Where?”
“Wherever the TARDIS takes me. That’s the joy of it.” But the Doctor does not look especially joyful. The spaceship judders to a halt. “Here we are. 1916, and just a few minutes after you went out for a smoke.”
Picking up the book bag, Ronald holds out his hand. “Thank you, Doctor,” he says, meaning it. “Generally, we shake hands, on Earth,” he adds, when the Doctor doesn’t take the hand.
“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” The Doctor shakes. “Pleasure.”
Ronald turns, makes for the door, opens it. He looks around, once, at the Doctor standing alone and strange in his incredible machine, and steps back out into the mud.
Epilogue
Blackwell’s Bookshop, Oxford, 1956
It’s been a long afternoon and Ronald’s hand is cramped from the signing. He hates signing - it takes time away from writing, and marking, and there’s a lecture he’s supposed to be preparing too - but he’s under orders to help promote the book and at least Blackwell’s is a convivial sort of place.
The readers have been mostly students; even, Ronald has been surprised to see, some of his own. He’s pleased, but wishes they would pay as much attention to Beowulf.
Towards the end of the queue there’s a tall thin man in a truly ridiculous long coat and a red-haired woman who appears to object to being here; she’s muttering something about elves under her breath.
Ronald stretches his fingers and looks up at them. “Hello.”
“Hello indeed!” says the man, grinning a mile-wide grin. “Absolutely hello. Lovely to see you, Professor!” He puts the book down. “Well done, too. Excellent work. Of course I always expected that, but still, good to be able to tell you. Brilliant!”
Ronald smiles politely back. “And who should I inscribe it to?” he asks.
The man sticks his hands in his pockets. “Oh, that’s a shame.” He lowers his voice, leans over. “Come on, have a guess.”
“How should I be able to guess?” Ronald says, glancing round to see if there’s a shop assistant to hand.
“Sorry, he gets like this sometimes,” says the red-haired woman. She raises her eyebrows at the man, who sighs deeply.
“Regeneration’s such a nuisance. I should carry a little book or something, like a passport. With pictures.” He leans over to Ronald. “How long did it take you to get over the trench fever, Ronald?”
Ronald looks up, meets the other man’s eyes - dark eyes, but suddenly he recognises the expression in them, despite the face, despite the changes. “Doctor?”
“Told you he was good, didn’t I?” The man - the Doctor - grins again. “Yup. Oh, this is Donna Noble. Donna, Professor Tolkien.”
“Charmed, my dear,” Ronald says, feeling a little swept away. “Doctor … did you know I would write this book?” He lays his hand on the open flyleaf.
The Doctor nods. “Of course. Couldn’t say anything - against the rules - but I sort of encouraged it along a bit. And now I can tell you how brilliant it is. They’d be pleased, you know, if they could see it.”
Ronald picks up his pen again. “It seems like a dream, most days,” he says. “But then I close my eyes and sometimes I can still see it, Minas Tirith rising from the plain.”
“And the wave?” the Doctor asks.
“Occasionally.” Ronald thinks for a moment, and writes quickly on the flyleaf in his crabbed hand. “And you? How are you?”
The Doctor meets his gaze, and Ronald is taken aback by the weight of what is suddenly revealed. “Oh, same old travelling,” he says. “Same old TARDIS. Not quite same old me.” He picks up the book, reads the inscription, and smiles. “Thank you.” The book disappears somewhere inside the coat. “Well, we’ve got to go and deal with a plague of alien piranha that’s about to appear in the Isis, so we’ll be off.” He holds out his hand. “Generally, I understand you shake.”
Ronald finds himself returning the smile. “Indeed, generally that is the case.” They shake hands again. “Doctor - there’s rather a lot of material I haven’t yet put into order. Even some of the material I began work on while I was convalescing with the fever. Gondolin, and so on. Should I continue?”
He’s rewarded with another of those blinding grins. “Oh yes,” says the Doctor. “Keep on writing, Professor. Keep on writing as long as ever you can.” And with that, he’s gone, Donna Noble in tow.
Laying down his pen, Ronald rubs his brow. No dream after all, then. He thinks of the piles of papers back in his study, and tucked away in a safe corner, the books brought out of Gondor. He resolves to settle down to it now with a vengeance - because the Doctor’s advice had been good before. Surely it would be again.