To Face the Wolf

CHAPTER 2

The Stranger

At first, the brightness was agony after weeks of darkness in which the eyes of the beast had been the sole, terrible source of light. He flinched, closed his own eyes, opened and closed them again. He had been told that the Houses of the Dead were a place of recovery and rest; whatever light illuminated them ought to be soothing, not piercingly bright like this.

Was it possible, then, that he had not died? Death robbed the soul of its house - yet he hurt in many places, and pain was a thing of the body. Could he be alive? Then why did he no longer lie bound in darkness? Once again he opened his eyes, struggling to adjust.

Where had they taken him? He was stretched out on his back between white sheets, in a room lit by the pale rays of Anar. A room with whitewashed stone walls and tall windows: no dampness, no chains, no bones of faithful companions strewn all about him. Nor did he see the friend he had sworn to save.

Instead, three odd people were gazing down on him: two men, one on each side of the bed, and a woman at the foot. She wore a clean, white apron, and she looked relieved. The man to the right, who smiled at him, was shabbily dressed, and the strands of grey in his brown hair contradicted the youth lingering in his face - but then, what did one who had the life of the Eldar know about ageing? The other man, the one to the left of the bed, wore long robes as black as his lanky hair, and his dark eyes were narrowed in suspicion.

Mortals, unmistakably, all three of them, looking frayed like those who had slaved in the pits of the Enemy, he though.

The woman opened her mouth and spoke. A question, to judge by her tone, but the tongue was foreign. This was regrettable, however much he loved to learn new languages. Unless he had lost his ability to read the minds of mortals he would be able to understand these people well enough, but learning to reply properly would take a while.

When the woman repeated her words, his reading confirmed that she was inquiring after his well being. He smiled reassuringly, for despite the pain he knew that there was naught wrong with his body that time would not heal. He remembered that he had been dying before the darkness took him, so these people must have aided his recovery in some way.

He looked at the friendly mortal to his right, somewhat surprised to find the kindness mixed with apprehension, and something darker underneath it all. Not all was well with this mortal - and why did his mind dwell on werewolves? What did he know?

Yet when he spoke, pointing at himself, he merely said: 'Remus Lupin.'

Now the black-robed mortal spoke harshly, claiming that communication would near-impossible and that the other was wasting his time. He did not name himself.

He turned his head to the left, searching the hard, dark eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of the mind behind them - and finding naught but a cloud of rejection and displeasure, as if he had entered a bleak, inhospitable cavern instead of a well-furnished home of thoughts and feelings . As he had no wish to lose his way, he withdrew in astonishment. This mortal knew to ward his thoughts as firmly as the Eldar of Aman did, and they had been instructed by the Powers.

Then He remembered to close his own mind against intrusions. No trust for this one. To judge by the man's expression he was well aware of it. His thin lips curled in an unpleasant way.

Extricating his hand from the sheets, the Elda pointed at himself: 'Finrod Felagund.'

Suddenly the man in black strode to the door and left.

***

Poppy Pomfrey

With raised eyebrows, Remus Lupin gazed after the disappearing Potions Master. 'Well,' he said, pausing a moment to suppress a yawn, 'if he keeps up this pace, he'll be just in time to take over my fifth year DADA class.'

'Ah yes,' Poppy hadn't thought of this. 'I supposed he was going to the Headmaster to tell him Mr. Felagund is a foreigner. This does complicate things, doesn't it?

'It does, unless we manage to teach him English pretty soon, so we'll can explain... the situation.' The glance Remus cast at the patient was deeply troubled and though Poppy couldn't, or rather, wouldn't imagine he was the cause of the patient's predicament it was apparent that he did feel responsible in some way. Meanwhile the patient - Mr. Felagund, she reminded herself - was blithely unaware of his probable fate, and again she hoped fervently that they would turn out to be wrong about his bites.

At Remus's sigh Poppy shook her head. 'You look tired, Remus. You should take more rest after your transformations.'

As if he'd been waiting for the cue Remus nodded, walked over to the second bed in the room and sat. 'Do you mind if I use this for my necessary beauty sleep?' Without waiting for permission he began to take off his shoes.

Poppy smirked. Nicely done - Potter Sr. and Black hadn't befriended the young werewolf without a reason when they were students, all those years ago; Remus could be as tricky as they came, if he wanted. Well, as far as she was concerned he was welcome to try and communicate with this Finrod Felagund. Maybe he would be able to find out more about him.

Lying down Remus looked aside. 'You won't mind my company, will you, sir? he asked amiably. 'I hardly snore at all.'

Mr. Felagund smiled as if he understood, a gleam in his strangely bright eyes. She knew it wasn't fever that made them shine like that. He seemed far too aware of his surroundings, and he didn't even sweat; in fact, he was recovering with astonishing speed, given the gravity of his wounds.

It was rather, she thought, as if those eyes shone with the reflection of some bright flame that he alone could see.

Remus turned to the healer. 'If I'm still asleep half an hour or so before dinnertime, would you be so kind to wake me up, Poppy?'

'Of course I will. Sleep well,' she replied, keeping a straight face but never doubting for a moment he'd be awake enough to warn her, if necessary. Once she'd left the room she considered casting a sound-enhancing spell, though she realised it would be a little unethical.

***

Remus Lupin

They stared at each other across the space between the beds, Remus trying to decide what to say. He strongly suspected that this Finrod Felagund, whose piercing grey eyes were observing him with unflinching intensity, had understood a great deal of his conversation with Madam Pomfrey.

Finally he said: 'Finrod, - you don't mind if I call you by that name?'

Finrod shook his head.

'Do you understand what I say?'

'I... do.'

That was unexpected. 'So you do speak English, after all,' Remus concluded.

Another shake of the head. 'Not... yet.'

Deliberately averting his eyes, Remus asked the next question without voicing it: Are you reading my mind?

'I am.'

If he spoke the truth, the man had to be a Legilimens in Snape's league at the least, maybe even in Dumbledore's. If this was legilimency, and not something entirely different. Finrod had no wand and he did not need eye contact, nor did he seem to be using any kind of spell.

'Why are you doing it?' Remus wondered, facing those eyes again. 'To learn our language?'

Finrod nodded. 'Speak much,' he suggested with an encouraging smile.

Though Remus would rather ask questions, he could see the virtues of verbal communication. So he began to tell Finrod what had happened from the moment he was found unconscious and badly injured in a dungeon underneath Hogwarts Castle to the instant he woke up. As this earned him a puzzled stare Remus paused to give the other the opportunity to speak.

'Where?' Finrod wanted to know.

Why not? Remus thought. If the man could use Legilimency, he had to be a wizard of some kind So he took a breath and told Finrod about Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, about its staff and its students, the subjects taught, the four Houses, the moving stairs and the portraits, the towers and the dungeons, the lake with the giant squid, the Enchanted Forest and the Whomping Willow (though he omitted the reason why it had been planted there). He was about to mention Quidditch when he noticed that Finrod's puzzlement had shifted to the dismay of someone who is completely lost.

Remus's hart sank. Had he been speaking to a Muggle, after all? Had he overstepped his bounds? In that case he'd have no other choice than to obliviate Finrod. His hand had already closed on his wand when it occurred to him that jumping to conclusions was something better left to Severus Snape. 'All this sounds unfamiliar to you?'

'Very.'

'Where are you from? Which country?'

'Beleriand. Na-' Finrod broke off. 'Beleriand,' he repeated, almost anxiously.

Now where was that supposed to be? Remus had always considered himself well acquainted with world geography. If one taught about magical creatures, one needed to know where to find them. But this name was wholly unfamiliar to him; maybe he had misheard it? It had a vaguely Celtic ring. 'Did you say Broceliande? The enchanted forest of Brittany figuring in some Arthurian tales?'

Finrod shook his head. 'Be-le-ri-and?'

Once more, they stared at each other across the space between the beds, and it seemed to Remus that it had grown slightly wider. 'Finrod,' he asked slowly, 'are you a wizard or a Muggle - I mean, an "ordinary mortal", as non-magical people call it sometimes?'

The man in the other bed caught and held his gaze for a long time. When he finally spoke it was to say: 'I am... no mortal.'

***

Finrod Felagund

Shock and disbelief warred on Remus Lupin's face. He shook his head jerkily, as if to rid himself of an undesirable thought. 'But...' he began, and faltered.

Finrod's heart sank; had he made a mistake? His mind must have been slightly befuddled still and his usual caution must have failed him when he answered Remus's query, instead of remembering how speaking is as silver to the gold that is silence. He knew nothing of these people, nor was he sufficiently well versed yet in their language to express himself properly or engage in subtle conversation.

When he first encountered mortals in East-Beleriand, Finrod had been on familiar territory, while they were not. Here, he was a stranger; either the existence of a deathless race closely resembling that of Men was unheard of in this place, or if they existed, they were not supposed to be here. In his own way, Finrod was as bewildered as Remus appeared to be. What had transpired since he had lost consciousness in that dungeon on Tol-in-Gaurhoth, where he had wrestled with Sauron's evil beast? Was he in the waking world, or was this a venom-induced vision on the threshold of death? What Remus had told him resembled a child's embellished account of a garbled dream more than anything else; yet he knew that the man believed each word and every corresponding image that his mind had conjured up for Finrod to read. If he lied, it was only by omission.

But if this was no fever vision, how could it be that he found himself in this unfamiliar place? And where was this place?" Had he been transported to some remote region of Arda, where the stars were strange? Or - and it was as if his mind burst out of a cloud, not downward, but upward, at the side of the heavens - did the created universe encompass more planes of being than his or anyone's philosophy had dreamt of?

It was a thought, too large and unwieldy for a finite consciousness to grasp on such short notice. His sister, Finrod mused wryly, would have told him that his mind and soul were straying further from home than his body ever could. Why such a thing would happen to him of all people, Finrod son of Finarfin, was something he could not even begin to fathom.

Suspending both his disbelief and his judgement, he decided that he had to gain more knowledge first - in itself a pleasant task for one blessed with an insatiable curiosity. 'What is -' he began, but Remus spoke simultaneously and both of them fell silent, exchanging apologising smiles. 'You first,' Remus said courteously.

Finrod acknowledged it with a nod. 'What is this - magic, you named it? Wizardry?' He thought of some of the mortals he had befriended, who were of the opinion that if an Elda could do things a Man could not, such as using mind-speech, these things fell into a special category demanding a special name. They were invariably surprised when the Eldar were unable to explain what was so special about these abilities, and in what way they differed from those of an excellent archer, or a harper or a master smith. It was simply their Art.

Perhaps Remus was experiencing the same difficulty, as he hesitated for a considerable time. But at last, he seemed to make up his mind. 'I'll show you,' he said, sitting up and pulling a thin stick of about eleven inches from inside his patched robe. 'This is a wand, and we use it to channel the magic.' He pointed the wand at the empty cup on Finrod's bedside table. 'Accio cup.' The drinking vessel flew into his free hand. 'This is one of the things magic can do,' he explained. 'Accio is a spell. And here's another one.' He dropped the cup on the floor, where it promptly shattered, and pointed his wand at it. 'Reparo.' The pieces reassembled themselves until the cup was smooth and flawless again. Then Remus shrank it to the size of a thimble and expanded it, explaining that this was a useful charm if one wanted to move large objects. And finally he transformed the cup into a saucer, levitated it to the bedside table and turned it back into a cup.

'Magic,' he finished in a lecturing tone, 'is a faculty wizards and witches are born with and it's use is taught in schools like Hogwarts. Muggles is our name for non-magical people.'

His lecture had been most instructive and Finrod nodded to show that he understood. Unlike the Eldar, these wizards had apparently given their special ability a separate name. To judge by what Remus had shown him this magic was an innate power, a way of controlling the building blocks of matter, honed into a craftsman's tool. And as far as he could tell its workings were true, not illusions.

An interesting ability, if one wished to save time and energy - precisely what mortals would long for, craving swift mastery and instant results in most things they undertook. If one possessed all the time in Arda, like the Eldar did, and had their love of the material world, their desire to know it intimately, manipulations like these would only reveal the extent of one's laziness or impatience.

However, he suspected that there was more to it. Sensing the reticence underneath this wizard's semblance of openness, Finrod doubted he had seen even half of what he could do. Nor would all applications of this magic be as innocent as the ones he had just seen. Power over matter could be as dangerous or harmless and as destructive or useful as the strength of the body. Any desire to dominate, in whatever guise it appeared, had better be regarded with suspicion. And as for matter as such - was it not all contaminated by Morgoth, who had diffused part of his power throughout Creation?

It was Remus who broke the silence 'Could you do the sort of thing I just demonstrated?'

Finrod shook his head. 'Wizards do these things? Then I am no wizard,' he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

Remus stared at him, fumbling with his wand as if he was about to cast another spell but apparently deciding against it. Finrod sensed that the wizard was both disappointed and unconvinced, but instead of voicing his doubts he decided to challenge Finrod's other claim.

'My turn to ask you a question,' he said. 'They told me you were near death when you were found in our dungeons. How is that possible when you're immortal?'

This was difficult. 'I die not of old age,' Finrod replied. 'But I can be...' this was a concept that had not come up, either in Remus's survey or during the rest of their conversation, so he did not know how to put it.

'... killed?' the other suggested hesitantly.

The image that came with this word was as unambiguous as it was distressing. Finrod nodded, suddenly saddened and worried again: what fate would befall Beren son of Barahir in faraway Beleriand, now that the one who had sworn an oath to defend him with his life had been spirited away?

'What, or who was it that wounded you?' he heard Remus ask.

Why was he looking so anxious? What did he fear? What evils lurked in this place that could rip people apart?

'How did you come by those injuries?' Remus insisted. Suddenly he looked more tired and frail than he had before, and Finrod pitied him.

'I do not... have the word,' he said.

'Was it a werewolf?'

Now he did have the word. The image of the beast was vivid, violent and fearsome. What was it with this wizard and werewolves? Had he lost a loved one to such a foul creature? What had the healer said again, after telling him that he looked tired? Once more, Finrod's mind touched on the shadow within Remus's soul, the dark veil that he would not penetrate even if he could, because assailing the mind was as bad as raping the body.

Before he could reply the door opened. It was the woman called Poppy, the healer, bearing two cups. 'I do not want to know what that noise was,' she said, probably referring to the shattering earthenware, 'but I think there is far too much activity in here. This is an infirmary, after all.' She frowned. 'Remus, you look dreadful, but fretting won't change a thing and a few hours of sound sleep can make a world of difference. I'm sure that Mr Felagund could do with some more rest, too.'

Finrod realised that he could. His injuries were not fully healed yet, and trying to converse in an unfamiliar language had drained him. He accepted the cup with a smile and a nod.

(TBC)