~ Chapter 37 ~

Moreover, in Númenor of old the sceptre descended to the eldest child of the king, whether man or woman. It is true that the law has not been observed in the lands of exile ever troubled by war; but such was the law of our people, to which we now refer, seeing that the sons of Ondoher died childless.

To this Gondor made no answer.

Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

~oOo~

~ TA 3016, 28^th of Súlimë:  Learn this lesson well, Edainion, for you are the son of the Lord of the Dúnedain and must take our history to heart.  The Witch-king of Angmar cursed our land, slaying our people and throwing down our tower upon Amon Sûl.  There we lost much the three kingdoms prized.  Thus began his long war to reclaim the wandering folk who had defied him in Umbar and those who had sheltered them in their flight to the North that lead to our ruin.  But he would have found no foothold had we remained a unified people and not fought over the Weather Hills ourselves.

~oOo~

Ara-gost, Ara-vorn, Ara-had,” my lord’s son laboriously recites, checking over his work as he rubs absently at scraped and bruised skin upon his brow.  I have set him to putting to memory the lines of the Kings of the Northkingdom and the Chieftains of the Dúnedain.

Thunder rattles the rafters, sending a fine sift of chaff and dust to float shimmering above our heads. Cold and wet is the wind that seeps through the shuttered windows of my lord’s hall and my nose and fingers are red and chill for it, though I have built up the fire and am wrapped about in wool.  We sit together after the even’s meal, my lord’s table lit by the flicker of oil lamps, Edainion with his lessons and I with my journal.

It has rained all through the day and looks to continue through the night. My lord’s son has been restless. He played upon the floor about the hearth, lining his carved figures into battles and I was much pressed to pay no heed to his harsh yells and the clatter of his toys. When that no longer held his mind, he donned the rough quilted tunic I had made for him, its folds filled with river-sand to accustom his young limbs to the weight and took up his wooden sword.

There he dashed about the hearth and thrust and feinted at shadows until he had tripped o’er the bench and startled Elesinda at her work one too many times and then finally knocked into the chest, setting the precious little crockery we have to jangling. At that, for the hope it might ease the pain in my head, I sent him up to the solar, where, beneath the rustle of rain in the thatch, he might beat upon the mattress and the fur that covered it to no great harm. And for much of the hour after, the boards groaned beneath his light feet and the bed took much abuse. But even that only held his mind so long, and soon he wandered about the hall, listless in his lack of occupation, and came to hang upon my arm.

“Onya,” I said, “do not pull on me so.” For, upon Elesinda’s leaving and the end of preparations for the day to come, I have sat myself down with my ledgers and begun the day’s accounting. Should he tug on my arm, soon I would smear ink o’er the page and I greatly hoped not to force stiff fingers to do work again I completed the once.

My lord’s son’s head came to lean upon my shoulder and I was forced to look upon him, for he peered most intently up at me. His eyes were deep, piteous wells of grief and apprehension.

I sighed. “Very well,” I said and laid aside my quill. “Go find your father’s chest.”

His face brightened of an instant and he leapt from my side. I laughed. ‘Twas not long ere he sat snugged up against my side upon the cushioned bench, a small chest opened afore him. My lord, I think, had tired of finding his things in disarray upon his return, for we could not keep his child’s curious fingers out of his father’s belongings.

I would enter the hall only to find Edainion starting with guilt and pulling his hand from out his father’s pack or slamming the door of the tall chest closed. The chest was not his to disturb, for the scrolls and bound books were not for a child’s fingers. And I know not what my lord kept in his pack, but it was of enough peril or import that, upon learning of it, he was greatly dismayed. It was Halbarad who lit upon the idea of keeping a chest of small, castoff things of my lord’s. And it was my lord’s thought to add things atimes to it and allow his son to open it seldom, so it remained fresh and distracted the child’s mind from those things he could not have.

“Ammë,” he said, pulling a worn fragment of woven leather from the chest. It was a bit of gear from some horse long gone, whether part of bridle or strap or what, I knew not. “What is this?”

“Thou knowest what it is,” I said, for my lord had told him the tale of it in my hearing.

“I know, Ammë, but I want you to tell me,” he said and then added in a rush when he saw my look, “Should it please thee, amminya.”

I think it might have pleased me better to be done with my books. For my hands ache with their use. I had taken again to drinking a tea of willowbark with my meals, but it seemed not as effective as afore.  And so, when Mistress Nesta urged me to greater rest, I found the days to be long, for even my hands protested what work I might put them to.  But, still, I took the strap from my lord’s son and ran my fingers along its fine work, for the leather was evenly cut and braided into an intricate pattern. I had liked it so much upon first seeing it I snuck into my lord’s chest of myself one night in the hall when my lord’s son was asleep and added a sketch of its twining to my mother’s journals.

“Well, onya,” I said. “I know not its full tale, for that you must ask your father. But, I know it was once his when he traveled far from this house and far from the house of his childhood, there in the hidden valley of the Elves. He was a young man. Not so young as Ranger Gelir, Lothel’s uncle. Nor so old as her grandsire, Master Maurus.”

My lord’s son snorted in sudden disbelief. “No one is as old as Master Maurus!’

“And who says so?” I asked, but I thought my lord’s son could tell the mischief I would make, for I was sure it shone in my eyes when I looked upon him.

“All the Angle knows that, Ammë!”

“Indeed?” I asked, and he gave me a look of great weariness. “Then they are mistaken, onya. For your father is the elder of the two. Did you not know that?”

His look was doubtful, but he did not protest, but looked up at me with wide eyes. True it is, my lord is not the elder by more than a season, but I thought then it mattered little. Should I tell him his father could grow wings and fly about the air above the Misty Mountains as do the Great Eagles, he would believe it.

“Your father is of the line of Elendil, undiminished, onya. With it comes long life. He will not grow old for many years.”

My lord’s son’s face was then blank and wide open with awe. I could laugh for it, were it not also true he most like would share of his father’s years.

“Shall I finish my story, then?” He nodded vigorously.

“Very well. And being young, your father wished to know more of the world and traveled far from the lands his father knew. But ‘tis great peril for any son of Isildur to walk upon the lands of Arda and his name be known. For the Nameless One is restless and loves not the men of the West. And the name Elendil and Isildur are heard by him with much wrath. Ever has he plotted for their Houses to fall. He sent of his lieutenant, the Witch-King of whom you know, and our cities were taken from us. He sends armies of fell creatures to assault the lands of Gondor, and they have lost of the wild beauties of Ithilien, their capitol, Osgiliath, and the last of their kings. And so, your father took another name and guise and set his feet on unknown paths.

“But do not think, my child, that peril comes ever from without, for we, the men of Westernesse, gave aid unwitting to our Enemy. It was our foolishness and pride, too, that cost us the kingdom of Arnor and kings of the South. Had we stood as one in the North and had the kings of Gondor seen to their House’s need for heirs and made not foolish vows, we might have them yet.”

“Is that why atarinya went first to the land of the Horse-Masters?” my lord’s son asked, taking the strap from me and twisting it about. Both eyes and hands were tender upon it.

“Mayhap,” I said. “Many good lessons could be learned of the Rohirrim. For though they have strife amongst them, they have ever stood firm as one. Mayhap, though they be all separate threads, they bind one tother as tight as this weaving.” He looked at its knots with new eyes, traveling the tale of its complex winding, for no one thread repeated its journey and none were like the other, but, together, they were the stronger for it. And there I left my story, for it seemed its lesson was well-taken, and set my lord’s son to the lesson of his own folk.

“Ara-,” my lord’s son now recites and halts, for having told the tale of his father’s things, we have set them aside. He draws in a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut, resolute in his determination to master the names without reading them from the page afore him. “Ara-Ara-ssuil,” he says then with rising certainty and opens his eyes quickly to check.

A breeze, chill and wet, comes upon us through the shutters and we work to the music of the patter of drops striking the ground and the snap of the fire. Beyond doors, light flashes bright, bringing the lines of the shutters into relief at one moment and setting their wood shuddering in their moorings the next.  Ah, bless the rain. ‘Tis the first we have had this season and the ground is thirsty. I hope only the soil shall absorb much of it and our dikes shall hold the rest.

“Ammë?” he asks, looking up from the ragged and much scraped hide. I had hoped, though it seems in vain, I be allowed to complete my work. “Did you name me?”

“No, onya. ‘Tis not the way of our people, you know this.  Your atto did, as did his father afore him and all their fathers afore them. Why do you ask?”

“All the names of the chieftains begin with ‘ara-‘,” says he, his eyes moving about the column of words he has just written, “but my name does not.”

I blink at him, stunned, unable to speak though he looks to me for an answer. ‘Tis true, this thing he says. With the word of the Elves, each chieftain bore kingliness in his name, but for my lord’s son.

“I know not why,” say I. “You must ask your father when he returns.”

This seems to satisfy him and his head bows again over the page. I do not so readily return to mine.  Verily, I shall ask his father myself. The “son of Man.” What could my lord have meant by it? Had it been the foreshadowing of his heart or the reason of the mind that drove him to his choice?

“Ammë,” Edainion says, “Atto said ‘twas Arnath decided we were not to be kings.”

“Aranarth,” say I, gently correcting him and he scrunches his face up for the effort of hearing the difference.

“Atto said it was a hard choice to keep the Men of the North hidden and not be king. Atto said a man who can be humble and give up his hopes for the good of others should be remembered with honor, even were he not a king.

“I remember him,” says he proudly.

At this, I give up all pretense of writing in my journal. I had not thought to gain insight into my lord’s heart through his son, but there it is. Tears prick at my eyes.

“And so I hope you remember your father when he has passed, and you carry his name, onya,” I say and hope the smile I turn upon my lord’s son is fond.

His gaze lowers at the kiss I press to his hair, though he says naught and submits willingly, and now I truly smile for his newfound modesty. There was a time when he would have giggled and lifted his cheek for more.

Aye! To keep the folk of the Dúnedain of the North. ‘Tis the charge my lord left me, though I am unsure how well I shall fulfill it. For the skies do not seem to look upon us with much kindness. Of the winter, it was cold and it seemed the constant biting wind blew all hope of rain from the skies. Then, when the wind relented and the sun emerged, the spring wheat and flowers of the fruiting trees were burned, not by its rays, but by an untimely and bitter frost.  

Our folk tell of great fires burning upon the heights of the mountains of Angmar so that plumes of smoke and ash could be seen issuing from it from afar.  Ever since, a pall reaches from the north as a great hand and weakens the sun.  Though he wakens to skies of a brilliant hue, the sun shines upon us as a thin, white disk at his height and we are chill for it.    

And yet we have had precious little rain.  Until last even, when the clouds gathered upon the far horizon and stained the sky with their golds, pinks, and reds, we had seen naught of rain this spring. Aye, at Master Herdir’s urging, we delayed not the planting. Wheat, lentils, and beans lay upon their earthen beds beneath a thin blanket of soil, but there has been little of water to coax them to rise from the ground. ‘Tis already late in the season for their growing. I have little heart for the tale of my journal, but it must be told.

But, not all goes ill, for soon upon my lord’s leaving I found his attentions had taken root and I bear him yet another child. The swell of belly beneath my skirts is a fond reminder of the days of late summer when the sun was a blessing and its heat ripened all things.

“Ammë?”

“Yes, onya?” I am beginning to wonder should my lord’s son ever settle into his lessons.

“Why cannot Atto be king?  The House of Elendil ruled all of the Dúnedain, in the Southkingdom, too? Gondor does not have a king and it has a kingdom.”

I think to explain the vagaries of the descent from the House of Isildur, son of Elendil, and the convoluted politics of pride and kinstrife in Gondor and the murder of his heirs when a king dare wed a women not of the Dúnedain, but think better of it.  That tale is for another time.

“Ah, well, Arvedui, the last king, attempted to claim the throne of Gondor through the rights of his wife, daughter to the king of the Dúnedain of the South, but they would not recognize the claim of a woman to the throne.”

I think him satisfied and so return to leaning over my figures.  Ah, so few.  I have redone the addition thrice over and still the numbers have yet to lie to me.

“They say that Atto should lead the Council. And that when he is not here, another man should take his place.”

I sigh. I doubt not the folk say such a thing, but it is difficult to take coming from the voice of a child of six years. In any case, ‘twould be a very great surprise should any man be willing to take up the trust at such a time when it is obvious the next year shall be a troubled one. 

“They say Elder Bachor waits for the right time to take over the Council, so then a man of the people will keep them safe.”

Of course.  Who else?

I suppose I should count myself lucky it is he who takes up their cause.  Had not Bachor been a son of the wandering clan of the Randírim and not borne their dark eyes and bronze skin himself, I might be battling more than just accusations of being a woman.

I set aside my quill upon its rest and look at my lord’s son. He returns my look with one that is uncertain, as had he heard somewhat he would wish to test upon me.  Aye, there are matching cuts upon his brow and knuckles.  He bears a bruise upon his jaw I had thought due to his rough play, but now do not. 

“People say many things when they are frightened,” I say. “What think you of what they say, onya?”

“But I am the protector of the House,” he protests, looking upon the page afore him and playing along its corner with his finger.  “You said so.”

“Do you wish to sit upon the Council in my stead, then?”  I truly I wish to know, but then must bite at my lip for the flash of terror the question raises upon the boy’s face as he turns it upon me of a sudden.  “I could arrange it, should you wish.”

“Should it please thee, no, Ammë,” my lord’s son says.  “Why must they argue about everything?”

I laugh, for the boy has stuck out his tongue with such loathing I have not seen since the last I had attempted to serve him a dish of pease.

“Never fear, onya, give it but a few years and you will have your turn.”

“I would not let them talk so much,” he insists and returns to flipping the edge of his parchment, curling it against its edge.

“Aye, well, they have strong feelings about all that is put to them, but with good reason.  Some day you will see your father at the Council and learn to heed the advice he gave me, to listen first ere speaking.”

This he considers solemnly, and his finger stills.

“Onya, listen to me carefully,” I say and turn to him more fully. “There are times ‘tis better to let people talk. The House has the right to wield the power of life and death o’er the folk of the Dúnedain. It is a weighty burden.  You are our lord’s son, and you will bear it one day.  No one who speaks to you will forget it. At all times it is as were you bearing a sword in your fist.  You must be careful when you threaten your folk with it.” 

With this, I slip my fingers beneath the hand that plays upon the edge of his work and run my thumb lightly over the rough skin upon his knuckles, all while holding his eyes.  He jerks his hand away and hides it in his lap, his face fallen as he turns away to stare at his fists.  He is silent for a long moment.

“Art thou angered with me, Mamil?” he asks in a soft voice when I do not speak but continue to look at him. 

“No. Will you tell me?”

He squirms and screws up his face.  Whatever he considers, it causes him distress, for he picks at the bits of skin upon his knuckles and looks to be close to tears. 

“They said bad things about you,” he mumbles at last. 

Ai, onya.  My heart drops.  I knew it would come, this moment, but had not thought it to be so soon.

“Let them talk,” I say, and his face rises from where he had been studying his knuckles, and I think him about to protest.  “Nay, onya.  Our folk are frightened and must be allowed their words. You, too, may use words to defend the House.  But until you are old enough to decide on your own, I say this, you must forebear from using your fists unless it be to defend those who are threatened with hurt. Aught else must be left to Halbarad or I, until your father returns.  Dost thou understand?”

“Aye, Ammë,” he says quietly, but then launches himself to wrap his arms about my middle as far as they can reach and press his head to my breast, setting my quill to fluttering off its rest. 

“You will not tell Atto, should it please thee, Ammë?” comes his voice muffled against the wool I have wrapped around me.

I squeeze him in return and bend to press a kiss to his hair.  “I need not, should you wish it.”

He shakes his head sharply and burrows in just a little deeper.

“Will you tell Halbarad what was said and who did the saying?” I ask, and he nods against me, albeit with more reluctance. 

“Now, onya,” I say and put him away from me, pleased to see that he is clear-eyed, though more somber than I have oft seen him.  “I shall tell your father you do not finish what is put to you should he find fault with your lessons upon his return.”  I tap at the table beside his scrap of parchment.

His smile beams from him and I wonder should the boy ever take my attempts at sternness with any seriousness.  Still, he bows his head over his work with an eager will.

Having won a short space of time in which to work my figures, I find I have little taste for it and wonder had I set Edainion beside me because of it, only wishing to be interrupted so I may not need to examine them too closely.  I stare at the numbers.  Aye, that is their tale. Mayhap it would be best simply to plan for it and urge the rationing of last winter’s grains so we may make up for the lack. Ai! And shall the Council agree?

The clack of the latch startles my lord’s son so badly a pool of ink spreads from where he now copies the names of the chieftains of the Watchful Peace. I am the more lucky and had lifted my quill, but am no less startled, for the thunder had masked any warning of footstep we may have received. 

“Halbarad!” he cries and swiftly climbs over the bench, abandoning parchment and quill.

The man is soaked for the rain and his look grave upon his entering, but his face lights at my lord’s son’s greeting and quickly he throws off his pack.

“Hold now, Master Edainion,” he commands when the child would fling himself about his legs. “I am wet through and will only make you so, too.” He tugs at the ties of his cloak with stiff fingers.

I set aside my quill and rescue the other from making a greater mess, and rise, though more slowly, burdened as I am. For my lord’s kinsman looks much chilled and could no doubt use some warming.

Once he has hung his cloak upon the peg, Halbarad drops to his knee and then welcomes his lord’s son’s embrace.

“It gladdens my heart to see thee, young master.”

“Did you kill trolls while you were gone, Halbarad?” my lord’s son asks once he is released and his kinsman rises. I cluck my tongue at the thoughtlessness of his query from where I pour water into a pot and place it upon the grate.

“No, I did not,” Halbarad says, coming to the hearth. “I found none and was glad for it. And so should you be, Master Edainion.”

There I await, and he takes up the linen I had pulled from a chest. He scrubs at his hair and face with it while Edainion hangs upon the man’s belt. Little effect does his chastisement seem to have had, for the child tugs at the tall man’s purse strings.

“What do you, young master?” Halbarad says and Edainion stills, tilting his chin so he might peer up into his kin’s face high above him. Though the words may speak of censure, my lord’s son hears it not, for they were delivered with much fondness. The boy grins broadly at his kin.

“Did you not make me somewhat?” he asks.

“I was certainly gone long enough. I suppose I had the time to put to good use. In truth, I had little else to occupy my time other than the tracking of our enemies, the care of your father’s Rangers, and the safety of all the lands of Eriador from the Misty Mountains to the Gulf of Lune.”

My lord’s son hangs upon the man’s belt, turning upon him the look of weary forbearance he had directed to his mother earlier. He suffers so for the dimness of thought of both mother and kin. Halbarad laughs for it, his voice deep and merry.

“Aye, how could I not?” he says and sits upon a bench afore the fire. Laying aside the linen, he opens his pouch beneath my lord’s son’s intent gaze. For the boy has come to his side and leans against his shoulder.

“There it is,” Halbarad says and the boy can barely contain his glee. Yet he glances from the small toy in his hand to his mother, for he holds a fair copy of a were carved in wood and doubts should I approve.

But I have little opinion on the matter and indeed peer over Edainion’s head at the toy.  It looks not much like my thoughts had made it, but I must defer to my lord’s kin in this matter.

“Your skill continues to improve,” say I, to which Halbarad responds with a quick glance my way and crinkling of the lines about his eyes as he smiles down upon his kin’s son.

 “Now, add it to your others, young master.” He nods at the figures littered about the floor by the hearth. “And, should it please you, gather them up, for I think it comes soon upon your time for sleep.”

“Ammë?” my lord’s son pleads, and I think him much dismayed he shall have little of the man’s time tonight.

“Aye, onya, ‘tis time,” say I and smooth his curls upon his neck for the fallen look that comes over his face. “But you shall see Halbarad upon the morrow.”

“Will you teach me my lessons with my sword, Halbarad?” he asks, finding at least one promise of hope.

“Aye, after we have eaten, and I have had the chance to see to the folk of the Angle,” comes his muffled reply. The man has leaned over to pull off his boots, for they are much soaked and muddied.

“I have been practicing as you told me.”

“We shall see, then, shall we not?” Halbarad says, his eyes alighting upon the lad and pleasure coming upon my lord’s son’s face at the smile he finds there.

The boy then sets to clearing the floor of his toys with a good will and I lay a thick blanket beside Halbarad.

“Sit you down, my lady,” Halbarad says when I fuss with pot, for it seems not over a good portion of the coals and shall take all night to boil. “I shall see to that and you are not to be on your feet.” 

Off comes the boot and Halbarad wipes his hand upon his breeches ere offering it to me to aid me in settling beside him.

Slow am I to move, lingering in my bed as much as I am able and shuffling about the hall in these the last weeks of my confinement, and timid am I to lower myself too far down for fear I shall be unable to rise.  I am oft weary and have relied much upon Elesinda and Mistress Pelara to provide for the care required by my lord’s hall.  

When first she learned of my quickening, Mistress Nesta looked long upon me, her face tightened with what she dare not say.  It passed and she then sat me down, demanded she see my lord’s records for herself and refused to leave until I found them.  It was for naught.  Neither Mistress Nesta nor I could make hide nor hair of my lord’s notes, written as they were in the same script as their source.  And so, she made the attempt of addressing the swelling of my hands and feet much as my lord had when I carried his son. I cannot say it did not help, but to not near as great of an effect as afore.  I know not should we have missed somewhat in the preparation of the remedies, or ‘twas no use unless it were to be my lord’s hands that prepared them.

Halbarad busies himself with ridding himself of damp boots and socks and wrapping himself about with the blanket while my lord’s son stuffs the toys he had wrought for him in a sack. Its sides bulge and I smile, for I think I shall need fashion him another pouch of greater size should his kinsman continue to indulge him so. When Edainion has finished and gazes upon us, his look seems uncertain, for I am sure he finds the quiet on our bench and the fondness of our mutual regard upon him a trifle unnerving.

“Come, onya,” I say, “bid Halbarad good night and I shall soon follow.”

My lord’s son comes to his kinsman’s side and their parting is without words, for the boy lays his head upon the tall man’s breast and wraps his arms about his middle. Fond and warm is the embrace that is returned.

“What say you to your kin for his kindness?” I ask when he has turned away and makes to leave the hall.

He turns about and bows but does not linger. “My thanks to thee, Ranger Halbarad.”

“Shall you come and tell me a story?” Edainion asks me, his hand linger upon the frame of the door to the solar.

“Aye,” I say, though I would have thought he had his fill of stories. “Get yourself ready.” And he disappears up the stairs and leaves us to the quiet of the hall.

“And what did you find north of the Road, Halbarad, were they not trolls?” I ask at length, for the look Halbarad had given me over my lord’s son’s head when they first embraced had been grim.

“Orc,” he says. “But only what they left behind.”

And ere I may ask, he rises from the bench and takes up a fold of linen so he may move the pot, for the water has taken to galloping therein. It is awkward work, for the blanket swings from his shoulders and threatens to catch in the fire. When I offer the small bundle of dried mint and apple he prefers I leave him be. His look is bleak.

‘Tis not until he has settled with his chilled fingers wrapped around a warming cup sweetened with honey he speaks.

“’Twas Gelir,” he says and blows upon the tea.

My heart sinks, and for a long moment, filled by the sound of the crackling of the fire upon the hearth and the spatters of rain blown against the shutters, I cannot speak.

“You have seen them?”

“Aye, I have just come from there. We brought him home,” he says after taking a cautious sip.

Ah, but they shall have little sleep this night.

“A curious thing it was,” Halbarad says grimly, halting my attempt to push myself from the bench. “He had not a mark on him but the blow that overthrew him.”

A chill comes upon my heart, for I have learned much living in my lord’s house. I ask, though fain I know the answer. “What do you make of it?”

“They had not the time to linger for their sport. Some secret purpose drove them. I know it not,” he says, but by the clenching his jaw he is sure to spend much effort in the attempt to discover it. He rolls the cup between his broad palms, lost in thought.

Sighing, I rise from the bench. “They shall bury him upon the morrow?”

“Aye, so they said, should the rain let up.” He downs the last of the tea in his cup and rises for more.

I nod and leave him to it, ascending the stairs slowly so I may attend upon my lord’s son. There is little I can say to ease the heart of the Ranger who stays below. He will not find rest for his grief until he has exacted his price upon those who caused it. Moreso, for, in his desperation, he had ordered the men to venture atimes on their own upon the Wild, and ‘twas Gelir who first paid the price for it. 

~oOo~