~ Chapter 1 ~

'The road must be trod, but it will be very hard.  And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it.  This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong.  Yet such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world.'

FOTR: The Council of Elrond

~oOo~

Herein find the accounting of the days of the House of Melendir, Ranger of our Lord of the Dúnedain as scribed by his daughter, Nienelen. 

~ This the Third Age 3007, 3^rd day of Gwirith: Discharges paid of one woolen blanket, one large basket of tightly woven reed with fastened lid, and one thin woolen tunic with sleeves, tendered in exchange for the charges of conveyance of my father’s person to the barrows, the digging of his grave, and one length of fine, bleached linen no less than eight ells in length. 

~oOo~

‘Tis said the Dúnadan, our lord Aragorn, Arathorn's son, lies as close to death as one could and yet still breathe. They brought him home to the Angle, a long column of weary men, along with their dead.

What befell them, they would not say. Even now they speak little. Their tall frames cloaked in the grays of the Rangers of the North, they stride without word beside their sisters, mothers, and wives as we make that slow journey back to our homes from the barrows. Behind us, the winds bend the heads of the grasses to the ground above our dead. We left them there to the weeping grasses and return to walk paths a little more silent and sit at hearths a little colder. 

Twilight falls upon the Third Age, though we knew it not. We knew only this; ever has The Deceiver borne us a long, patient contempt. Once Arnor fell, broken upon the great wave from the north, we ever slide slowly to the depths of our decline. We are a dwindled people, skulking in the hills, wandering in the wastes, and awaiting the day our Enemy shall deign to extend his reach from Mordor and sweep us aside.

He will not forget us, the Dúnedain of the North, but neither will the end come swiftly. He will hoard his hate and wear away at all dignity until we break asunder as a frail ship upon the waves. We cling to Isildur's heirs as would a sailor to a beacon when long upon stormy waters and far from home. They are the walls of our harbor. Tired stone upon stone are the lives of our heirs of kings, but ne’er have they failed us. Had we not the hope of the house of Elendil to strengthen us, we would have long sunk to the dark and bitter depths beneath the flood.

Thistles catch upon the hem of my skirt and I stop to pull its seeds that latch upon the threads there. The sun beats down upon my head until I am dull with lack of sleep. I have wound about my hair and neck a cowl of thin black wool. ‘Tis a comfort to me.  For its dark folds confound the bitter touch of the wind and the mourning eyes of the folk of the North as they pass, brushing past me silently, lost each in their own memory of grief and burdens to bear. Soon the line of men and women will disappear beneath the eaves of the pines and I will have no more to brush from my skirts. 

I turn for one last look upon the bald head of the summit. The mounds of raw earth stark against the hillside are hidden from my sight. Instead, the morning light paints the grasses silver along their edges as the wind sends ripples through last summer's growth. Though I squint against wind and sun, there is naught to see of what I left behind.

At a prickle along my neck, I know I am being watched. The last of my lord's Rangers looks upon me. He is tall, as are all those that descend from Westernesse, but with a height near unmatched here in the North. ‘Tis Halbarad, friend to my father and kinsman to our lord, and he holds aside the thin whip of a branch, so I might follow him. The wind blows upon my back, pressing my skirts onto my legs and lifting tendrils of his straight, dark hair from his face. But he remains unmoved under its force and watches me steadily. 

It is dark beneath the boughs of the forest where the needles lay in a thick carpet along the path. As our people make their way, the sharp bite of resin and melting snow rises from beneath their feet. The sound of their passage soaks into the soft bed beneath the pines and I can no longer hear their footfalls for the soughing of the wind through the trees. No end is there to be seen to the shadowed tunnel.  ‘Tis a journey forever in the dark without cease, a mere plodding of one step in front of the other with no purpose. It seems my feet would rather grow roots here on the edge of the wood.

I turn away so I cannot see the Ranger should he raise his arm and usher me on. 

Ai! In truth, what is it I wish? Shall I lie myself down beside the wounds at the crest of the hill? Bury myself in the broken turf and refuse to move? Wait until my fingers curl their way into the ground and the wind has scoured my body clean of life as it has the grasses?

Halbarad awaits, silent, a tall pillar guarding the path, his grey eyes bright upon me.

For a brief moment as I draw nigh, it seems Halbarad gazes at me intently and words crowd behind his eyes. But when I stoop to walk below his upraised arm, his look falters. Mayhap he has seen the questions in my own eyes.

What of your kin, Halbarad, Ranger of the North? What fate has befallen the Lord of the Dúnedain, the last of his line?

He says naught.  Instead, he lets fall the branch behind us. We plunge into darkness and his firm footfalls follow upon the path I now tread.

~oOo~