~ Chapter 4 ~

'The counsel of Gandalf was not founded on foreknowledge of safety, for himself or for others,' said Aragorn.  'There are some things that it is better to begin than to refuse, even though the end may be dark.'

TTT: The Riders of Rohan

~oOo~

~TA 3008: 5^th day of Gwirith: -House of Melendir, with its toft, garden, sheds, and furnishings to remain property of Nienelen, his remaining daughter. Tithes due the House of Isildur fully discharged and as of this day in abeyance.  All lidded baskets of wool and linen and the tools of their shaping in the hall; one tall loom in the hall; one low chest of cedar and all clothing, combs, jars, soaps, and cloths therein in the hall; three oil lamps in the hall; own bound journal of sketches of heddle wrapping, list of dye ingredients, and lays of the clan of the Nadhorim; one writing desk of walnut with this book, parchments, quill, pumice, penknife, and ink horn in the hall; one potted bay tree in the hall; one potted aloe plant in the hall; leather bucket and tools therein in the garden; and all pots, baskets, buckets, ewers, and other such wares in the buttery to be conveyed to the Chieftain’s house on this day. Six hens and one rooster to be placed in the care of the house of Elder Maurus until sent for. All foodstuffs of dried herbs, butter, greens, salted pork, cracker, ale, roots, grains, flours, pease, lentils, and beans; and all other clothing, blankets, lamp oil, mattresses, and tools to be taken possession of by the Elders of the Council to be distributed as they see fit.  

~oOo~

My head is crowned with the earliest blooms of the brier rose. Pink and white their petals flutter as I spin the stem between my bound hands.

"Stop that," Mistress Pelara scolds around the rose she holds pressed between her lips.  

I sit upon a bench in the room I once shared with the women of my house and bend my head beneath her strong fingers.  

Here, in this very room, we had gathered the leaves of the beech, my aunt and I, and wove of them a crown for my sister to wear.  Here, in the warmth of the autumn sun that lay as coverlet upon our bed, we drank deep of a light, yellow wine from our folk to the south, sent by her betrothed.  Once more deeply in our cups, my sister told scandalous tales of the marriage bed that set my aunt to gasping.   

“Laenor!” she cried. “Sayest not such things!” She took then to a whisper. “Or wouldst thou not cease, sayest them not so loudly your father were to hear.”  

Here, we laved rose water and almond oil into Laenor’s hair and painted her lips with redcurrants and honey.  And when we had settled her dress to her shoulders, we twined and wound her raven curls about her head and pinned to them the band of leaves.  Golden they glowed against her hair and skin, but still could not rival the light that shown in her dark eyes below them.  Here, she had clasped my hands in hers and begged me to be happy for her, and so I had been, for a little. 

Here, too, my aunt lay in her last days. The cloud of her white hair lay about her head.  Her cheeks, once the pink of the first apples of summer, seemed shrunken and devoid of all color in the thin flickering light of the brazier I set beside our bed to keep her warm.  Atimes, when her thin blue of her eyes sharpened, and she knew me, she begged me to forgive her in the dry croak that was left of her voice. She would not have it that I spend my days rattling about in the echoes of my family’s hall with none for company between my father’s visits, but knew it not to be helped. I gave what comfort I could.  A cool cloth upon her brow. A clean bed.  Deep draughts of water steeped in mandrake to ease her pain and bring her sleep.  And my acceptance.  But in the end, when she let loose her breath as were it the unwinding of a long, thin thread and would not rouse to my touch, I could not stop but take her hand and weep over it, pleading for her, too, not to leave me here.  

Mistress Pelara plucks the rose from between my hands and through dint of prodding and scraping the stem against my head, she sets it to place in my hair with the others.

“There!” says she and twists my shoulders to and fro, the better to examine her work.  She tugs here and pulls there at the flowers and braids in my hair.  “Aye, that will do, I think.”  

With that, she pulls free the ends of the linen wound about one and another of my hands, where she had slathered them with a salve of fat and chamomile.  She had taken my hands each in her broad palms and rubbed it into skin made sore through dint of scrubbing with river sand, and then wrapped them in strips of linen to better take the remedy.  

“Aye, well, we’ve done what we can there,” she says ere releasing my hands.

A distant jingling of harness and clopping of hooves interrupts us and we turn to the window at the noise. It comes as little surprise, but still, at the sound, I feel as had I swallowed a bowl of stones.

“That would be the cart, then,” says the mistress.  She drops the linen strips in a heap upon the tall chest, where they join the litter of wrinkled and brown petals she had plucked from the flowers.  “Leave those, Nienelen,” she says when I move to brush them into a pile.  “I will get them upon the morrow when we come to inventory what is left behind.” 

With that she grabs up the combs, wooden tweezer, linens, various jars, and scissors with which she had done her work and, placing them in a basket, walks briskly out the door into my father’s hall. 

“Ranger Halbarad will follow soon enough, so, should it please you, Nienelen, take a care not to worry at the flowers ere he arrives.”

I hear her moving about in the hall, putting the fire to rights and putting things away until, by the sound of rattling of the wheels and hard, quick footsteps outside my father’s door, the cart that shall take her to our lord’s house has arrived. 

I should thank her.

“There, that should leave you with naught but the shutters in your room and the lamps.  Take care not to spatter the oil.  The Valar knows we shall never get it out should it spoil that dress.”

“Nienelen?” she calls from the other room and I should speak.  

“Well then,” she says low and with that, the mistress is gone and soon the cart rumbles from my hearing.  

I douse the lamps but one, careful to hold aside my long sleeves for fear of catching them in the flames. For a moment, I watch the flickering of the one remaining flame and listen as the wind rises. Leaves rustle afore its fitful breath, scattering about the path that runs afore my father's home. A glance out upon the track ere I lift the shutters and fix them in place, and I bite at my lip. The way is clear. There is naught but gathering clouds and rising wind.

For want of aught else to do, I wander the room, touching upon the wool that covers the bed I shared with my aunt and sister.  Here I had slept alone and, of late, been troubled by dreams of a child’s fretful cries amidst the smell of wine and a bitterness I could not place. And when I had not those, I dreamt of shores I had ne’er seen, and the swell of waves that lapped at stone walls, the light from above glimmering upon them.  I know them not.  Here, ‘tis but a small world within the circle of light cast by the lamp I bear, but it is mine.  Aye, there is yet more wideness of the world beyond this.  But it does not have them in it.  

Ai! With the suddenness of the thought my hand jerks and oil spatters upon the floor.  

The hall is dark and filled with unknown shapes as I stumble through it without heed. Dropping the lamp to my father’s table, I shove aside and lift baskets, chests, and piles of small items in a pile upon the buttery door.  I care not for this dress nor the silks that fall from it. 

Oh, Nienna, have pity on me.  Where could it be?

It seems I put my hand upon it of a chance in this the twilight of the hall.  A round thing of tightly twined reed it is. I take it with me to my father’s table and then set it afore me as I sit.  It is a small basket of my aunt’s sewing.  I had not thought to send it ahead of me to my lord’s hall, for I have my own and much of the tools of the house were shared between us and carry her memories there.  I have little that was my sister’s, for she had taken much with her of her own when she left.  

At the bottom of the basket I find it, much as I had remembered, a small purse of sky-blue linen much adorned with threads the green of new-furled leaves and burnished gold.  From it I draw but a small plait of dark, tightly-curled hair.  My aunt had clipped it from my sister’s head that night, nigh on four years now, when we, the women of her family, had bathed and dressed her for the last time.  She put it here, where it would be near, but she had no need to look upon it.  

Ah, I must be swift.  

I draw out a length of linen cord and, with a hand that shakes so that I despair of threading it through a bone needle, I fasten a length about the mouth of the purse, so it may draw it closed and hang from my neck.   

When I draw it about my head, I must tug upon the knots so that it hangs low, and there I can tuck it beneath the fine silks.  I care not should it sit as a lump between my breasts but clutch at it through the fabric.

Aye, now, now I can sit upon the bench in what was my father’s hall and wait.  

~oOo~

That night, of all nights, it rained. Oft, since then, have I wondered what portents the weather told. Clouds hung heavy in the sky as I rode to my lord's family home. Dark they scudded against the far horizon and hid the sun's setting. It is said rain upon the day of a wedding brings good luck, a blessing of fertility upon both land and wife. Mayhap it is so.

The horse I rode was not mine, nor was the dress found for me to wear. Indeed, I was lifted atop my lord's own mare, her coat a grey the color of unburnished steel, and her mane wound with ribbons. I ride seldom, and my lord's mare is many hands tall, but, as he led the horse, Halbarad set a gentle pace and she moved easily. I, on the other hand, clung to the high saddle and struggled with the wind for control of my dress and the mantle that hung from my shoulders.   

The velvet garment was beautiful, of a rich, dark gloss I had not heretofore seen. Tiny stars sparkled in clusters at the neckline and hem, both lower than is my wont. The fabric of the sleeves was a silk so fine they floated in the slightest breeze. I wrapped the sleeves about my hands and was grateful for their length, for my fingers and nails still bore the mark of woad leaves, lending them an age greater than my years. The mantle, of the same material as the sleeves, drifted shimmering behind me as we moved. The dress was overlong for me, for it had been my lord's lady mother's, brought with her from the house of Master Elrond when she removed herself hence. The lady Gilraen was a woman of fairness of frame as well as face. I was not so tall. 

Natheless, so we proceed, I atop my lord's mount, and his kin striding tall and silent afore me, his hands upon the reins and halter of the steed. Ribbons of a light green stream from where they are tied to his belt and catch the eye among his somber gear.  Glad am I for Halbarad's quiet, for I cannot think what I would say in reply to even the simplest of speech.   

Ai! What terrible pride or perversity forced me to give my consent to this marriage?  

The steady clopping of hooves draws our folk from their homes and they stand in their doors to watch as we pass. Many nod in greeting at their lord's lady and salute their lord's man. A young girl, her dark hair bouncing upon her shoulders as she runs from her granddame's side, lifts a handful of flowers plucked from the forest. I clutch at the saddle, for I must lean dangerously low to receive them, though she stands on the tips of her toes.

"Blessings upon you and our lord," she recites in a breathless rush as our hands meet.

I hold the bluebells lightly, fearful of crushing their delicate stems, and stare as she runs back to her family's side. She is not the only to offer me flowers, and soon my hands are full of the delicate white petals of nightcap, the bold yellow of buttercup, and the soft pink of butterbur, as well. With each touch exchanged when they press flowers into my hands, it seems the pit of my stomach drops further, for eyes old and young, man and woman search mine. What sign they seek from me, they do not say, but my heart tells me they wish for hope. So should I wish, were our places reversed.

We collect people in our wake as were we riding the current of some slow-moving stream. Soon, the women of the Angle follow us, leading their children by the hand. At first, their look is subdued and their voices soft. But, when we reach the last of the homes, first one and then other voices rise in song. The women begin to clap, and their steps match the brisk tempo of the music they sing. Smiles warm their faces.

They weave a tale of two young lovers who meet by chance by the river. They sing of hands that touch, of kisses sought and kisses found. Much more is alluded to but not fully said. ‘Tis a song of love offered and love received. I go not to a lover's house, yet it lightens my heart, for it brings a faint blush upon Halbarad's cheeks and, though his manner is forthright in all other things, he cannot seem to meet their eyes. This, more than aught else, makes me smile. ‘Tis not oft my lord's Rangers find themselves out of their depths.

When we come within sight of his family's home, my lord steps from his door to stand in the midst of his men clustered upon his croft. My heart thuds to a stop and I know, now, there is no turning back. He is much as I remember him, dark of hair, tall of frame, keen of eye, and grim of countenance. His look is resolute, as he is in all things. I am less well acquainted with the marks that mar his face and the hollows that darken his eyes and cheeks. About him he bears the pains of battle but barely healed, as do his men. His breath is shallow, and he stands very still, as should he dare not move. Yet, he holds himself with a quiet authority that even this cannot abuse. Were you to come upon this gathering and not know who he is, still your eye would be drawn to him.

The light laughter of women must be a welcome thing to Rangers' ears, for the eyes of the men about my lord gleam with a warm light as they wait, holding aloft torches that flare in the false twilight of the heavy sky. Their flames sputter and stream upon the fitful wind as they watch our arrival. Halbarad's gaze has sought my lord out and he measures him with nigh the care I take as well. I think then, should he have the strength to stand so tall, mayhap my lord is not so bad as they say. I know not what are Halbarad's thoughts.

My lord's thoughts are the more plain to tell. When I meet his gaze, I refuse the reserve that rises within me. His glance is sharp, appraising me keenly and, as I lean upon Halbarad's shoulder to alight to the ground, it lends steel to my spine. ‘Twas my lord who asked for my hand, be he satisfied with what he sees or no. I must lift my chin to meet his gaze, for he is a full head taller than I, and when I do so, somewhat about his look gentles.

I keep my eyes upon my lord, hoping to forget all those assembled here. I do not think I have e’er had as many of our folk looking upon me at once, and I fear most to trip upon the overlong skirts I wear. The thought of sprawling upon the ground afore my lord in the company of his Rangers on such an occasion both alarms and amuses me, so that when I come to him, I need not betray my misgivings so easily should he look for them.

I shall not enter his house until we are wed, so my journey ends when I stand afore my groom. The wind stirs his hair, sending tendrils across his face, and lifts my sleeves and mantle to dance about me. With it, the air brings the smell of the softness of night and wet earth. My lord's voice is deep when he says his first words to me. Though he speaks low, as were it just the two of us here, in the hush that has settled upon the gathering I think even those upon its fringes know what he asks.

"Lady," he says, "you know what it is that has been asked of you?"

"Aye, my lord."

"And you are willing?" His eyes search my face.

"I am."

"Then let us proceed." 

His face loses none of its hardness of expression when he steps back and nods to his kin, nor does his voice betray feeling. I know not how he perceives our union, but, natheless, it is soon to be.

We have neither mother nor father between us to join our hands, so it is Ranger Halbarad who comes to stand at our sides. 

"Who is it would take this daughter of the Dúnedain?" And so, he begins the ritual with the tongue of the Elves and the lifting of my lord’s hand.

"It is I, Aragorn, Arathornion," my lord says, his voice smooth and sure. "Afore my kin gathered here and in the presence of the One, I bind myself to this daughter of the Dúnedain. May they hear and consecrate my oath. Here and from henceforward, I vow to give her and the children she bears of me my name and my safekeeping."

"Who is this would give her hand?" asks Ranger Halbarad as he raises his own to me.  Mixed with the words of binding, thunder rumbles distantly above our heads.

I lift my hand and he clasps my fingers firmly between his.  

"It is I, Nienelen, Melendiriell," I say, bringing as much force to my voice as I am able to overcome the sound of thunder and rising wind. "Afore my kin gathered here and in the presence of the One, I bind myself to this son of the Dúnedain. May he hear and accept my oath. Here and from henceforward, I vow to take upon myself the duties of his lady, to provide for the safekeeping of my lord, his people and his heirs, as my lord commands.”

“Then I pass her into thy care, Aragorn, Arathornion, and to that of thy house. May thy days with her be filled with the blessings of the Valar."  

So saying, Ranger Halbarad passes my hand to my lord, who takes it in his own. He lifts it afore him. His knuckles are much battered, but his touch gentle. I feel the first drop strike my shoulder and find that my lord's sleeve is spotted with rain. As he speaks, Halbarad tugs the ribbons from where they are tied about his belt. The wind catches them, and they flicker in the firelight.

"Thus do I receive the hand of Nienelen, Dúnedainiell," my lord says, and his kinsman captures the ends of the shimmering bits of cloth and winds them about our clasped hands, "I accept and hold her vow and count myself blessed."

About us, rain strikes the leaves and roof with a restless patter. Ranger Halbarad tucks in the ends of the ribbon gently so that the wind will not pull them asunder and releases us.  

"Thus do I forsake the house of my father for that of Aragorn, son and Lord of the Dúnedain," I say, "and count myself blessed."

Ranger Halbarad steps aside and winces as a drop falls upon his brow. Light splits the shrouded sky asunder and here and there the folk gathered there shift and turn their faces to the darkening sky. A wind chill with the touch of rain rushes through the trees and, lifting my mantle, tosses it about my head.

I struggle to contain its flapping, but my free hand is filled with flowers and I cannot grasp upon the fabric.  I am trapped in a film of silk and do not see the corner of the cloth that floats dangerously close to the torch until my lord steps afore the flames, grabbing the material. He waits until the wind abates, his breath shallow, and face pale and quite still, ere drawing the mantle from about my head and letting it drift behind me.

"Come, let us inside," my lord says, drawing my wide-eyed gaze away from the flames. With our hands bound, he leads me through the door and into my new home.

~oOo~