~ Chapter 12 ~

'I have waited on faltering feet long enough. Since they falter no longer, it seems, may I not now spend my life as I will?'

'Few may do that with honour,' he answered.

ROTK: The Passing of the Grey Company

~oOo~

~ TA 3007, 21^st day of Nárië:  Charges: 20 ewes, polled, most 50 to 60 pounds.  1 ram, horned, 93 pounds. Three wethers, horned, 70, 77, 83 pounds each, Outercoat staples of near hands-length – coarse to the hand. Undercoat of small-finger’s length, very soft, fine.  

~oOo~

Within days of his coming, Mithrandir left our company. He made no promise to return, no assurance he would send word, but embraced my lord, pressed my hand and, with a wink, turned and resumed his wandering. Short indeed, had been his visit, but the hall seemed the emptier for his having gone. For Halbarad, too, was gone, riding upon the Great Road, gathering news and seeing to the safety of the lands about the Angle. My lord and I spoke but little, settling back into our quiet routine. Now we are come near the weeks of midsummer, his men command much of his time.

Tonight, the spindle and loom lie untended and my lord is away from home. I spent my midday meal in the house of Elder Maurus, learning the ways of my lord's House and the tithes the Angle owes it. When done, I walked the path back without seeing the mud and stones beneath my feet, for my head teamed with numbers and complex interweaving of threads of exchanges of goods and services.

I was met on my journey by my lord's dower gift, a small herd of round bodies trotting briskly afore Master Herdir and his spotted dog.  A man in his mid-years, my lord’s reeve is thick-fingered, barreled-breasted, and bowed of legs.  His folk came to the Angle from nigh our southern borders many years past and he bears their look in light skin that chaps easily in the wind and leaves nose and cheeks reddened.  A man of good sense, he has an eye for the weather that goes unparalleled among our folk.  He speaks to me as were I a newly-wedded wife to his son; with good humor and a growing fondness, but without undue familiarity.  I have grown to like him already in the short time I have had with him.  

And so, I spent the afternoon with Master Herdir inspecting the sheep and settling them into their new home. They were well-purchased, healthy, solid of foot, hard of mouth, bright of eye, and soft of coat. Soon, they would be left to wander the meadow, trusting to their love of home to bring them back, but tonight they clustered about in the shed, bumping each other and bleating as they nudged for places at the manger.

When I finally arrived at the house, my lord was not yet come, nor were he and his men expected for the even’s meal. Duties kept my lord to the homes of his people, which was a good, for I stank of sheep, their fodder and the grease that clings to their coats.  And so, I sent Elesinda home and cut a long leaf from my mother’s aloe from where it is sat in the middle of the garden. 

Ah! I had neglected my hair for far too long.  But, there was no need to prepare a meal more demanding than slices of bread and cheese.  Naught of laundry, the accounting of the days, the tending to the plants of the garden, nor sweeping or laying of the hearth to be done.  No plans that could not wait until the morrow, and naught of my lord to see to his comfort.  And so, here, in the quiet, I could remove scarf and undo my braids and fear no interruption or eyes upon me.  

I let my mind drift, humming to myself as I rubbed and squeezed the aloe into my curls and awaited the water slowly heating upon the hearth and the comfort of a bath.  Though I took my time, my lord did not return until the water stood cooling in its great tub and I, my bath done, stood in my shift afore the fire, wringing out my hair with a towel.

The tall hinged screen I placed about the tub hid him from my view when he entered, but I knew it was my lord from his step. Firm and sure, I have come to know it. I knew, too, the youth walking the grounds would have let no other enter the house. My lord did not cross the hall to his table, as I thought he would, but, from the creak of the buttery door, sought somewhat of refreshment first. Skins of wine hang from the rafters and barrels of ale sit in the cool shadows of that room.

But he would soon come into his hall. And what then shall I do? Shall I retreat to the solar? True we share a bed and true he has seen me in my shift and e’en less ere now. But the swift undressing and wrapping of my hair in the dark ere slipping between the sheets shall in no way compare to standing afore the light of the hearth's flames. And yet, is not this, too, the proper place of a wife?

Considering this, I squeeze out the dampness to the ends of my hair and move to a bench close to the hearth. There, I toss the towel to its surface and, sitting, tuck my bare feet beneath the seat. I have built up the fire and the flames run greedily across the dry wood and sap hisses and whines as it boils. I take up a small, glass stoppered bottle and shake it. Warmed by the fire and the rubbing of my palms, the oil and water I pour from it smells of my father’s gardens beneath the midsummer sun.  

I shake my head. I have no answer and my thoughts could easily convince me one way or the other, to stay or to go.

Soft footsteps come from the buttery. My lord enters his hall, ducking his head to avoid the lintel of the low-set door. He holds a cup in his hand from which he sips and, by the scent I know it to be the wine. His steps slow as he crosses the hall, watching as I take up handfuls of my hair and rub the oil into it, easing my way from scalp to ends.

"My lord," I say, and I catch his look ere I must drop my eyes.

His face seems, at first, carefully blank of all thought. Then he smiles briefly in greeting, more out of courtesy, I think, than with intent. The very air about me thins until I cannot breathe.  

"Lady," he says softly in greeting and then he has passed.

I know not whether to be disheartened or relieved. In my confusion, I cannot bring my eyes upon him and so do not see that his look yet lingers even as he moves behind me to set his cup upon the table. He does not seat himself, nor return to the work laid out there.

Had I seen through his eyes, I would have known that against the glow of the fire my form was a dark shadow in the halo of the thin linen I wear. And had I but turned my head a little, I would have seen my lord with his hand lying still on the rim of his cup where he set it. For a moment, he stands thus, with his eyes cast down. But all this I did not know, not until his hand covers mine.

"Allow me," he says when I twist about in surprise. My lord comes to straddle the bench beside me.

I had lifted the comb to draw it through the ends my hair when he stopped me. His face is more resolute than mayhap the task may demand, but I release the comb to him and turn to the hearth, so he may tend to my hair.

"When I was very young, my mother would sit by the fire after her bath." With that, he sets the comb to my hair. "I had almost forgotten, until now." A soft smile graces his features as he pulls the comb. "She would have me run for her comb and pins," he says, and his voice grows fond at the memory. "They were a gift from my father, she said. Silver, with pearls at their tips, I would play with them while I watched her dry her hair."

With that, my lord falls silent. I can think of naught to say in reply while the comb works its way into the hair about my scalp. It is difficult to imagine my lord as a small boy, innocent and eager to bask in his mother's warmth. In his grooming, my lord comes upon snarls of tight curls. His brow puckers gently as he works at it, pulling upon my hair. My lord is unpracticed in the skill and I wonder should I endure the pain for the sake of encouraging him to continue, that is until a particularly sharp tug upon my scalp forces the decision for me.

His hand stills when my fingers light upon his. And though I dare not meet his eyes while I do so, I show him the way of ease the tangle with his fingers and starting at the ends and holding the strands above the knot as the comb puzzles it out so that the hair does not tear, and my head does not smart.

He makes no comment when he takes up the comb again. Though he takes great care to do as I showed him and cause me no further discomfort, his face is solemn, and he seems to weigh somewhat in his mind.

The silence lengthens as my lord's fingers work, gathering up my hair and pulling the comb through it, and I hear naught but the wood settling in the hearth as it burns, the crack of the sap, and the creak of the bench as my lord moves. He is thorough in his work, drawing the comb through, and then, following my example, lifting each lock in turn and running it through his fingers and squeezing it in palms anointed with the oil.  I can feel each strand of hair as he touches it and soon, though the silence presses as a dark cloud upon me, I ache. The brush of his fingers along the nape of my neck as he gathers my hair and the slow, gentle breathing beside me do little to ease the pain.

"You did not mind it?" I ask and when his look is puzzled, go on, "waiting upon your mother."

"No," he says with a slight lift of his shoulders as he slowly teases apart strands of hair with the end of the comb. "She was beautiful."

At this, I must smile, though I turn my head to do so. For they say of the men of the House of Elendil are distant sons to Beren the One-Handed in this, that, for all their strength, it takes naught but a woman of fair form and face to lay them low.

My lord catches my eye. "Your father must have done much the same, did he not?"

"Aye," I say, "he would praise my swift feet just to give them speed when he had an errand for me to run."

"Just so," my lord says and briefly returns my smile, but then falls still.

The quiet of his hands draws my notice and I find my lord looking upon me solemnly, the comb and the hand that holds it lying upon his lap. Some debate passes behind his eyes, but I know not what it might be. After what seems a moment of hesitance, he lifts a hand to pull a wayward curl of my hair through his fingers. He frowns a little and releases it ere he speaks.

"Is it such a difficult thing to be at ease with me, lady?"

‘Tis not a question I expected, and, for an instant, my mind is empty of thought.

It is not that I lack for answers. I am far too rich with them. I cannot tell my lord to lay down the weight of experience his years give him that outstrips even those of my father. I cannot tell him to dull the keenness of his gaze that lays me bare. And I cannot tell him to set aside the power of his House that is far beyond my ken. That he might be born of mortal woman and have the appetites of a mere man seems a fearsome and yet powerfully stirring thing. I hardly know whether to cower or throw myself in his arms and pray I might somehow survive the stern fire that burns so brightly within him.

"I hardly know you, my lord," I finally say, for lack of aught easier to say.

By his expression, my lord considers this as he runs his hands upon his knees.

"What would you know?" he asks, and I wince at the meagerness of thought he must assume lies behind my explanation.

There I am, caught in the simple-mindedness of my own trap. What would I know? Do I wish to plumb the source of my lord's reluctance? Do I wish to know why he must gather his resolve when he thinks to touch me? Who the Tinúviel of his weary dreams might be? Why it is I who am here and not she?

And would the answers give me ease with my lord?

Distracted by my thoughts, I have reached for the comb where my lord holds it, for he has groomed all he can reach and the weight of wet and tangled hair upon one side begs for attention. The shake of his head breaks me from my musings and, with a jerk of his chin, my lord urges me to move.

"Come," he says and, taking my hand, directs me to step over the bench and settle beside him again where he can complete the task he started.

"Well?" my lord prompts gently as his fingers press into my scalp, and he pulls them through my hair ere setting the comb to it.

It seems my mouth is full of wool. Aye, I have my lord's ear, but, unfortunately, naught of great consequence to put in it. I had only hoped to break the silence with the first thing that came to mind. Now I only wish I had not opened my mouth.

Were they any other hands, I think, I would be content to forgo conversation and lose myself in the faint roar of the flames, the heat of the fire upon my back, the scent of lavender, and the strength of the fingers in my hair. In truth, I do not know this man who now works to divide a length of my hair from the rest. I nigh despair of finding a question to ask him, but then, I recall his look when my lord spoke of his mother.

"Have you memories of your father, my lord?"

"Few." He frowns in thought, but then his face lightens. "He was very tall."

I smile behind my curtain of damp hair, for I am sure the Lord of the Dúnedain must have looked as the very trees of the forest to his infant son.

"I think he must have placed me on his horse once. I remember him leading it about and I clutching to the saddle, just out there," he says and points the comb through the wall and at the garden ere drawing it again through my hair.

"Did it frighten you, my lord?"

"No, I recall being quite delighted," he says and smiles, "that is, until my mother pulled me from the saddle."

At that, I laugh, for I am sure the woman gave his father a tongue-lashing that awed their young son.

My lord's face is fond as his fingers slide through a length of hair at my scalp until he has it grasped by the roots, where he squeezes it, gently pressing the oil to it. For a long moment, we sit in the small circle of the hearth's light and he seems to relive the memory of a time when the house and its grounds must have been as wide as the world to him. Then my lord sighs a little and his face grows solemn.

"But I remember best my mother when he would return home," my lord says, though his look is far grave for what must be a remembrance of sudden joy.

I, too, know a day when the return does not bring joy and he must see it in my face.

My lord lifts aside the weight of my hair.

"It seems you and I must take what comfort in memories we can." With the very tip of a finger, he traces the line of cord that lies upon my neck.

I fall still beneath his touch, as were I to move I might cut myself upon his hand. I am unsure how I thought he would not know it for what it is, this thing I wear, for I do not remove the string with its small, colorful purse, bearing it about my neck even into my lord's bed. He must wonder at what it contains, and who gifted it to me. Mayhap he thinks I come to him wearing the token of a love lost, a heart already broken ere I might offer it to him and would banish the mystery of this ghost that stands between us. I know not what a man such as my lord might think of having a rival, no matter how insubstantial.

But when I raise my eyes from the floor, the look I receive from my lord is a thing of sorrow and pity. I am unsure what impulse drives me next, but I grasp the small packet and pull the necklace of string o’er my head.  I draw the cord down my hair while my lord watches in silence.  When I pull at the purse’s strings and have it open, I draw from it the length of twined hair in its coil.  My aunt had wound about its ends threads of gold and they glow warmly in the flickering of firelight.  

My lord studies it and then my face, for I hold it as were it the most precious of things. He waits for explanation but does not demand it.

“I had a sister, my lord.  She was my elder,” I say and then halt. No matter my lord might command me to continue, I can say no more.  Even now, after all this time, tears threaten and stop my voice.

“Your father would oft speak of her.  It seems there were few whose hearts she did not touch,” he says softly. “I have heard tales, too, of her passing.  ‘Tis said your grief for her was so great you would suffer none other to lay her to rest, no matter who would have it otherwise.”  

I coil the length of hair upon itself and slip it back into its purse. My lord is silent, watching while I pull the cord over my head and clutch the bit of cloth to my breast.  I match him in his silence.  I cannot defy him, but greatly do I hope he will not ask me to speak of that time.  I have neither the words nor the heart for it.  

But then, of a sudden he lays the comb aside and rises, striding swiftly to a chest upon the opposite wall. There he rifles through his gear until he holds a pouch that must hang from his belt when he is about. He brings it with him when he returns to the bench and resumes his seat. The pouch is greatly worn and the thong that keeps it secure has been recently replaced. My lord's face betrays little when he opens it.  It is a very small thing he withdraws from its depths. I cannot see it until he places it in my palm. There we look at it together.

A single hairpin lies in my hand, gleaming darkly. Air and damp long ago marred the shine of its silver surface. At its tip, where it would have nestled in my lord's mother's dark tresses, is fixed a teardrop of pearl that glows with the light of the hearth. I think it would have shown in her hair as a soft, small gem, a thing of simple beauty.

"She had many of these that my father gifted her, and she wore them in the last," he says, "but for this one."

He takes the small thing back from me, his fingers careful when they pluck it from my palm.  “She was as wise as she was fair,” he says, studying it. “I regret the loss of her counsel e’en now.”

My lord's face is so filled with grief as he puts the pin back inside its pouch, my heart gives a startling thump in answer. With a barely heard sigh, he closes the pouch and smooths its leather flap in place as were the bag itself precious to him.

My lord lays the pouch aside and lifts his eyes to mine. His face is as resolute as at my first view of him standing afore his door and awaiting my arrival and, by this, I know the time has come.

The first touch of my lord's lips is unpracticed, slow and soft, almost were he discovering for himself the way of it. His hands remain in his lap, o’er which he leans.  I know not what to do with my own but to clasp the bench, so I may not fall. When he breaks the kiss I must catch myself, for in seeking his lips I am unbalanced.

My lord's face is solemn and his hands gentle as he sweeps my hair from my face to lay its length upon my back. There he studies me, gauging my mood. The fine brush of his fingers makes me long to see him smile and feel his kiss again. Though willingly he bends to press his lips to mine, his face does not soften, and he does not smile. And yet, his hands come to grasp my shoulders and draw me near, and mine have found their way to his arms, to clasp cloth warmed by the flesh it covers.

My lord's breath plays upon my cheek where he rests his brow. I can do little but lean against him, for his fingers of one hand are deep in my hair and he pulls the cord that gathers the linen about my neck with the other.  There the cloth falls to my shoulders.  I had thought his look on me would make me wish to curl in upon myself, but it is not so. I wonder only what he will do next.

I am not disappointed, for my lord skims the tips of his fingers upon the skin of neck and shoulder he exposed, bemused, it seems, by its softness. Ah, his touch is as fire upon me. My hand has found my lord's knee. He does not protest, indeed, at the touch he gathers me to him, so he might press his lips against skin only his fingers have yet explored.

Almost chaste, his kisses seem; a mere brush of warmth from his lips and tickle from the graze of his beard that is gone as soon as it alights. His touch is unhurried, and he breathes deeply of the scent of lavender that rises from my skin where he has touched it.  Incited by the sweetness of his lips, I weave my fingers into my lord's hair and push it aside. I wish to see his face and the mouth that teases my skin. 

The tip of his nose presses against me and the lids of his eyes have fallen until all I can see is a faint glimmer beneath them. His look is more beautiful than I had had wit to imagine.  The sight sends a thrill shivering down my limbs and I gasp.  Ah! I did not know! Had I thought my heart could stand aside and be full only of duty? I am a fool!  So warm and so sweet his lips as they slip across my skin. So hard and supple the muscles of his back and neck beneath my hand.

His hands had tightened upon me at the sound and my lord pauses to glance up at me.  I know not what he saw, but his eyes seem to burn through to my very heart.  With a swift breath, I turn to my lord, grabbing the thick cloth of his tunic as had I no intent of e'er turning him loose and pushing him upright. The kiss is deep, our lips open to each other so that, by chance, the very tip of my tongue brushes his. My lord startles with the contact, pulling away and regarding me with a stunned look. I am lightheaded and dumb, unable to speak. But it is not words my lord next requires of my lips, for when he lowers his head, he gives himself over to the sweetness of tasting my mouth as he kisses me, and I return the caresses with equal eagerness.

There we sway with the pressure of our kisses until my hands are wrapped in my lord's hair. The weight of his dark tresses is as silk as it runs through my fingers. Emboldened by the heat that rises from his breast, I pluck at my lord's lips with my own, drawing the tender flesh in, suckling upon it and playing upon it with my tongue.  Ai!  His lips are as plums warmed by the late summer sun and I want only to suck out their sweetness and lap at the juice that may run down my chin. I want none of it to go to untasted.

Of a sudden, my lord's lips leave mine and he holds me away from him so that I may not follow. He speaks but few words, and that in a voice so low and thickened I hardly know what he says.

"Come with me."

And so I follow my lord up the stairs, his hand gently tugging on my fingers where I trail behind him.

Once we stand in the dim light of the solar, my lord seems intent upon putting me at ease, expecting to see the fruition of all my fears played out afore him. But when he would pull on the ties that close his long vest I do not wait for him. Aye, his look is not grim, nor does he speak of duty, nor sacrifice for the sake of defense against the Shadow.  His face soft, he watches as I then brush his fingers away, and put my hands upon him, untying and parting and throwing aside.  

My lord guarded against any pain he may cause me, until he himself was sunk so deep he could no longer attend to the effects of his fervor. But there was no need. For I have no hurt, no discomfort.  I feel only pleasure and the warmth of skin on skin, and wonder at the tales my aunt told of blood and the need of forbearance.  Mine is not the pain to be borne this night and, it seems, my lord had planned poor defense against it. For, even in the height of the pleasure he took, somewhat of grief and longing steals over his face. And when we lie drowsing and sated, he gently sees me comfortable, then turns away.

~oOo~

My lord left by the end of the week. For all that he had lain with me as does a groom with his bride, his farewell was swift.

He gave me little sign of his going, and yet, I knew, for his face had grown grim and his feet restless. No longer did he ride upon the lands of the Angle, for he had seen to what must be seen. No longer did his men attend upon him, for he had sent them across the Wild to see to what he could not. But it was not enough.

And so, he rose upon the morn and called me to him. There he stood afore our door, his pack at his feet and his kin caught up in a hard embrace.

"Ah, Halbarad," says he. "Be well."

"And you," is the reply, and Halbarad slaps his great hands upon my lord's back and his kin does the same.

My lord puts his kinsman from him, though not far. "Look for me, but not too soon."

At this Halbarad huffs a soft laugh and, with his hand upon his neck, pulls my lord's head to him until they are brow to brow. "As ever."

My lord smiles and buffets him upon his ear with his open hand. And with that Halbarad releases him and steps away, for it has come time for my lord to say his farewells to his wife. Still, though silent, Halbarad's eyes never leave his kin, and I marvel at the yearning kindled there, whether it be Halbarad would wish my lord to remain or he to go with him out into the broader lands of the Wild.

"Lady," says my lord and, taking my hand in his, bows gravely o’er it. "Keep well my House until my return. It is yours to do with as you see fit and make it prosper, as it e’er has been the right and responsibility of the lady of the House of my sires."

"Aye, my lord." I bow my head as deserves his command.

"Be well, lady," says he and releases my hand.

His feet are swiftly set to take him upon the path from our door when I step after him, calling out.

"My lord," I ask, "will you take no gift in farewell?"

My heart thuds loudly and it is a wonder I can hear above the noise. I know not what my lord shall think of this. But it is my duty as a woman of the Dúnedain, wedded as I am now to a Ranger who must travel far from his family's hearth, to give him the family's well-wishes to take with him. My lord goes I know not where and what dangers he faces I know not. No matter my timid heart, I would not send him away unblessed.

The face that turns upon me is dark with startlement, but, as I approach, his look softens and seems more grave and full of a kind pity.

"Aye, lady, I would gladly take your blessing," he says and stands as were he ready to submit to it. "But I am loath to take more than your words as gift."

It comes to me, then, my lord must have some regret at this leave-taking, for I hear the words he does not say. He speaks not of what little comfort he will provide in his absence. He speaks not of what shall be the loneliness of my days and the burden of care that wore down his own lady mother to her untimely end. But I would not have it said my lord gives naught in return, that he makes a poor husband, not when by his efforts is my home made safe and my days free of care but for the lack of his company.

"I have both words and gift to give, my lord," I say. "And both are mine for the offering."

At this, a gentle light gleams in his eyes. "Very well, lady, but I, too have the right of refusal."

"As is only just, my lord." With that I reach deep into my sleeve and withdraw what I had hidden there upon my dressing.

He takes it from me, and, at first, I think him puzzled, but quickly does understanding dawn upon him and his eyes rise to mine.

"I cannot take this, lady," he says and offers back the small, silver box I had placed in his hand. Bright is the morning light upon the vines and leaves that chase across its surface.

"Have you better, my lord?"

"Nay, lady, mine was lost to mischance, and so I have none at all."

"Then will you not take it?" When he yet hesitates, shaking his head, I go on. "You said, once, your mother would not care for her things to be idle, should there be need, my lord. I would think my father of a similar bent."

He considers this, his brow drawn and then sighs. "Very well, lady, I shall take it." He brings it to his breast, his face solemn, and bows in salute to me. "I shall be honored to carry it, then, as I was honored by him whose once this was."

Sternly I call myself to task, for my lord's words do lodge most piteously within my breast, even more so for the rumor I have heard of how my father met his end.

"Then, my lord," I say to the dark crown of his head, "hear you this blessing and may its words carry you through times when you are troubled. May thy feet find their way sure though the path be unknown. May thy heart speak ever true though the way be dark. May thine enemies' sight be clouded by doubt and fear. May the Valar stay the hand of those who might strike at thee. And may they see thee safely home." 

And with that, my lord left, and his kin ushered me back into his house.

~oOo~

AN: The explicit version of this chapter is posted to archiveofourown.org.  My pen name is the same there.