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No Man's Child  by anoriath

~ Chapter 38 ~

 

‘A time may come soon,’ said he, ‘when none will return.  Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes.  Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.’

ROTK:  The Passing of the Grey Company

~oOo~

~ TA 3016, 29th of Súlimë:  Handful of sorrel leaves without the twigs, sliced into thin ribbons and ground til coarse.  Bring one mark cream to simmer.  Heat three pads butter in its own pot til melted, then add sorrel til dark green.  Add cream and bring to bare simmer.  Add stock until thinned and easily poured but thickened so lays atop meat and trencher. 

~oOo~

 

Onya!”

Ammë, ‘tis a bird.”

At the crackle of winter-dry bracken beneath his feet, my lord’s son winces and holds himself very still. The path to the Angle’s square is empty of folk and, ai, the journey is short, but we have bare begun it. High and blue is the sky, swept clean of its veil by the winds that blew in yestereve’s storm. The bright sun of early spring should warm my face and hands but sees fit to do naught but strike upon my eyes and cause them pain.  For the wind comes down upon us from the Misty Mountains.  Chill with the snows that lie upon their heads, I despair of finding a cloak that shall keep me warm, swollen belly and all.

We are alone as are not oft left to ourselves, for Halbarad rose early and departed the hall with little comment and no farewell.  Though, I must confess, I expected none.  The youth and the cart he was to bring was late in the coming.  We seemed to have been forgot, and so set out on our own. With his feet unweighted by years and swollen belly, Edainion most oft sprang ahead and sought somewhat to fill his mind while he waited for me to come upon him.  Already am I winded.  Oh, but I am slow upon my ungainly feet and unused to the exercise for the weeks of rest forced upon me.

Onya!” I call wearily after him.  ‘Tis not the first I have appealed for his attention. For I cannot follow a slight boy of his years into the woods that line the path we must follow.

Ah!  We are late and not like to make up the time on the path there. 

We awoke to find my lord’s son had misplaced his belt.  And though I had laid all out the night afore, upon the morn I came upon his best cloak lying beneath his muddy boots. Its good thick cloth was, to his surprise, thus soiled and damp. There was naught for it but to hang it afore the fire while I sent Edainion in a search through the house for his belt and brush away the dirt once it had dried. It is a good, I think, Halbarad had left for the barrows upon the sun’s rising, for I had arisen from my bed with a temper already thinned by my poor sleep and more than once did my lord’s son catch the edge of my sharp tongue.

OnyaWhatever it is, leave it be.

“I almost have it, Ammë.”

Here he crouches and reaches cautious hands to the nest of leaves beneath the gorse bush, but a sudden rush of flapping sets my lord’s son back on his heels. The twittering flight of the panicked dove speeds through the dark and naked trees.

Onya! Come!  It shall be a great insult to the Elder’s House should we be much later. They are already gathered and soon shall take Ranger Gelir to the barrows.”

At this, my lord’s son’s face, once lit with pleasure at his skill, now falls somber and he turns away from the brush. Ducking and pushing at the thin whips of ash and pine, he makes his way back to the path where I await him.

I drop the basket I carry as he draws near.

Ai! Onya!” I cry.

The boy’s clothes are full of pine needles and leaves and pulled into disarray by the thorns of the gorse bush. In his distraction, he has placed a dark smudge of dirt across his brow from I know not what. He screws up his face when I wet my thumb and rub at his skin, taking up a corner of his cloak to finish the work, but he knows better than to resist.

“I can get them, Ammë,” he protests when I then set to batting away the leaves clinging to his tunic.

Too many hours have I spent in the making of his clothes, and so I say naught and shake at the folds of his cloak. His tunic matches the brilliant blue of his father’s, as does the silken lines of stars I have set in thread to the collar and breast. His best clothes and we are not even a furlong distant from the house. 

“I thought its wing was broken,” he says, his voice small.

I let loose his cloak to find my lord’s son looking upon me anxiously. He has somewhat of his father’s coloring, with cheeks that turn a dusky rose upon the brush of early spring air.  He colors now, and not for the chill wind.

Ai, onya,” I sigh.

I bite at my lip, looking upon him.  Only now, as his eye shine with incipient tears, do I wonder what had prevented me settling upon his second-best cloak and sparing him my tongue.  Or mayhap I could have thought to check his clothes upon our rising.  Or given the boy somewhat to do upon the journey to occupy his mind and hands so he would not go searching out somewhat else.  A hundred decisions I could have made and not brought tears of shame to my son’s eyes.

“No matter,” I say.  “‘Twas a good deed attempted, but I think it like to be a feint and its nest is nearby.” 

By his uncertain look I am unsure as to whether or not he places any trust in my words, but I have not the time to explain myself.  And so, instead, I offer a smile in its place and ease a wayward curl into place. 

“Remember what I told you?” I ask and tug at the hem of his tunic. 

“Aye, Ammë.  I remember.”

“There will be stories and sweets and singing, but, unlike other times, we do not go there to play. Stay by my side, unless I say otherwise.  ‘Tis not a pleasant duty, but one you must learn. You must be your father’s son and do what you can to give them comfort. I know you wish to make your father proud, but it will not be easy.” 

“I know, Ammë,” he says, and I leave off my lecturing.  He knows as much as a child his age can bend their mind to it, and by his earnest look will give it his best attempt.  I pull his cloak about him and touch my knuckles to his cheek. 

“Then let us go.”

“Aye, Ammë,” he says and submits to me taking his hand.

I take up the basket and we set down the path again.

Naught stirs upon the ploughed soil as we pass, no sight of our folk to be seen upon the fields. The scent of wet earth hangs o’er the morning and the distant sound of men rings atimes o’er the meadow. For Master Herdir has set them to the sluice gates of the head ditches that meander upon the upper reaches of our fields. Where the water had trickled shallow and cold for the hunger of the river with no winter snow to feed it, it now runs swift with the rain. There they repair the dams and gates that, when opened, flood the furrows ere trailing away to the tail ditches.  Water pools in rows across the fields. Silver as burnished steel the sky reflects in the ribbons of water and the sun strikes at the eye as it floats upon their surface. 

Singing arises from the path ahead and from around the bend stride cotters and ploughmen. A young lad with shorn curls calls the chorus and the men slap upon their thighs in time with the beat of their legs as they sing the refrain.  Grimed by the mud in which they have worked and carrying hoes and shovels upon their shoulders, they make for the tail ditches at the lower end of the spring fields. 

As we pass, cotters with the light faces of the folk born of the Angle or southern regions and the brown of the folk of the clans of the northern hills alike, they fall silent and one, and then another brings a free knuckle to their brow.  Aye, I know that look and have oft seen it turned to my lord.  Ai!  He is so young for such a burden as this.  Their eyes drink in the sight of him, my lord’s son with his feet swiftly striding beside me.

“Good morrow, young master!  Give us a smile!” comes the call from their midst and I must master the sudden urge to hide him behind my skirts. 

For, atimes, whether under the influence of too much ale or too much familiarity, my lord’s folk make too free with his son’s person, hands ruffling his hair or clutching upon his coat.  But, here, naught happens worse than they break into laughter at the boy’s somber nod ere his features light with a grin at the face some young man pulls to tease him into a response.  

They nod and give their greetings as they pass.  And when the last straggler has leapt to jogging to catch up with the crowd, a high voice gives the call.  They go again to their singing and I can breathe more freely. 

It is with much relief that I find we are not too late.  The mourners are many.  They have spilled out upon Elder Maurus’ toft.  There sits the old man upon the bench against the wall where he is wont to warm himself in the sun. The skin of his face seems as weathered wood and the years lie more deeply etched therein than I had seen afore.

Beside him sit his daughter’s eldest son and his wife, who have left the Angle’s baking to other hands today. His round and jovial face is quiet as he sits there. But they are not alone, for there gathered about them are the men of the Rangers, youth and elder alike, the few here for a short time upon the Angle. There they have taken up logs from Elder’s woodpile and settled in a circle about the kinsmen of their lost brother.

The men roar with laughter when we approach, and the Elder’s face shines with a gentle affection. I know not should he, with his aged ears, hear the tale in full. Mayhap he but looks to the men to warm his heart as the sun cannot, for they tell of Gelir’s exploits among them and their joy of him lights them from within.

The baker laughs, only to have his face twist at the pain. He looks quickly away and his wife leans into his shoulder.  But one of my lord’s men has come upon him and touches him on the shoulder.  He recalls himself and, rubbing at his eyes with rough hands, welcomes my lord’s man and offers him a seat beside him.

“What was it he spirited into our lord’s pipeweed pouch, do you know?”

“I know not, but it gave him a rash for somewhat of a month or more.”

“A rash, who, our lord?”

“Nay, ‘twas Gelir who suffered the rash. The scamp kept the leaves in his boot for a fortnight ere he made the attempt.”

“Aye, aye!” calls out a man, laughing so that he can bare speak. ‘Tis Ranger Mathil, assigned here to the Angle for a short time.  Light of frame, he can ride with a swiftness unmatched by others his age and experience and so brings news and supplies to those stationed further away. “To give the leaf its proper sweetness, he said.”

“Oh, aye! How could I have forgotten? Boot-bottom leaf, he called it.”

This last sends them to hooting, and the baker laughs and wipes at his eyes under the gentle smile of his wife. Elder Maurus, too, smiles, though he speaks not.

“And did you see our lord’s face when he went to fill his pipe?” Mathil asks, laughing. “None but Gelir could have caused that bewildered and vexed look.”

“Ah, don’t I know it well,” says the baker and they smile upon the man.

“I thought for sure Gelir had finally taken his sport too far.”

“What did the lord Aragorn make of it?”

The men halt and, turning about in their seats, make quick to rise. For it is I who ask the question of them.

“My lady,” I hear about the group and they touch their knuckles upon their brow.

I nod to Elder Maurus where he remains seated, forgiven of the exercise for the age of his joints and his status among us.

“My lady,” croaks the old man.

“My greetings, Elder,” I say, bowing my head.  I would go on, but the man has already turned his gaze again to the men about him.

In his place, ‘tis the baker who speaks for him. “Our thanks to you for your coming, my lady,” he says, and I nod.

“Master Edainion,” says Mathil and the others echo him as they return to their seats. They look warmly upon my lord’s son and smile with some fondness, I think, when he bows his head in return. The boy clings to my hand and looks solemnly upon his father’s men, puzzling, I think, the meaning of their smiles and stories.

“I take it Ranger Halbarad did not hear of this tale?” I ask, and they smile broadly and as one turn to Ranger Mathil with pointed looks.

“Nay, my lady,” Mathil says.  “Not from me at the least,” he goes on in protest, “else Gelir would have spent the rest of his years atop Weathertop under Haldren’s tender care.”

“Ha!  Not should Haldren have a say in it!”

This sets them to chuckling, some exchanging more knowing looks than others. 

“What was it the lord Aragorn said?” asks a youth I know little.  He must raise his voice over the snickering greeting Mathil’s pronouncement.

“Eh? Oh!” Mathil pauses a moment to smile upon me ere seating himself and answering. “He said any man who had the boldness and skill to play the Lord of the Dúnedain for a fool had the mark of a man who might perform deeds of great merit. And so he hoped Gelir might set his mind to duty more oft than he had in the past, but now he must set his mind to finding him somewhat decent to smoke or else he would be set to naught but watching the open wastes for the next year.”

I smile, for well can I imagine it.  Here, with a pang, it only comes to me that my lord shall not know of Gelir’s death until it is long passed. 

And then naught more is said.  My mirth has faded, as has theirs.  And when it seems the silence would lengthen for our presence, I take my lord’s son’s hand.

I am much gladdened to find thee here and hope thou shalt find comfort in it,” I say and their gaze upon me softens somewhat.  With this, they salute from where they sit and nod their farewells.

“Did I ever tell ye of the crickets?” I hear as I lean to take up my basket again. 

“Ah, he kept a box of them under our bed when he was young,” says the baker.  “Drove me mad with them, he did.  I once told him I would be as glad to be rid of him as the crickets when I married and moved to a home of my own.” 

His wife laughs and shakes her head.  “Aye, and then he waited until the dancing when naught would see it and let some loose beneath the sheets of our marriage bed.”  

“I confess it, not all of the shouting that night was of pleasure.” 

She slaps lightly at her husband’s knee and lets him draw her close when he would wrap his arm about her. “Some of it was.”

My lord’s son pulls upon the tether of my arm, for I promised him sweet cakes.  Should we not stay for the stories, then I doubt not he will be eager for them. 

The room within is crowded with folk and a long table set with swiftly vanishing food. Upon a bench upon the far side, Elesinda sits there with her head lying upon her mother’s shoulder, her eyes red and face disfigured by tears that have been long in the shedding. Her mother reaches a gentle hand to pat and stroke the young woman’s cheek. Later, aye, later when she need not cling so tightly to her mother’s hand, shall I go to her and offer what comfort I can.

They have laid Gelir upon a bed of pine in the hall, there to rest upon the boughs on which they will bear him to the barrows. The sharp scent of its dark leaves hangs about him. They have rubbed a bit of earth upon his brow. Dark it lies smeared against his pale skin. I cannot look upon his face, no longer pleasant with mirth but flat and still. And I can think of naught but the little boy I once knew, his face alight with mischief, who took as great delight in the pranks he pulled as the scolding he would receive for them.

I start at my lord’s son’s movement, for he has brought his fingers to his brow, as I had taught him. 

Ammë?” Edainion asks in whisper, turning upon me. “Will they bury him like this?”

My lord’s son glances swiftly upon the closed and sunken eyes.  A child of open meadows, wooded boundaries, and beast raised upon pastures and in pens, he is no stranger to death, but had not seen it in one he knew and held dear. 

“Aye, onya.”

“Why has he got dirt on him,” he observes, taking in the smear of earth upon Gelir’s brow. 

“Of Arda are we made and to it our bodies are bound, onya. And so by its soil are we greeted when we are born and to it we go when we die,” I say, the words coming forth by rote. 

“Lothel!” come the cry hard upon a crash of crockery.

The folk gathered in the small hall stop their quiet murmuring to turn to the door through which the sound comes.

“Och, girl!  See what you have done!”

Ah, but a pitiful sight she makes, the young lass, for she bursts through the door, her cheeks wet and a hand to her eye to wipe at tears. 

“Can you not look ere you set your feet to walking, eh? You knocked the sweets clear off the table for your clumsiness,” comes Pelara’s voice, but the girl has fled, brushing past the forest of breeches and skirts about her for the door. I have all but turned to go into the inner rooms when a hand tugs upon my skirts.

Ammë?” asks Edainion, peering up at me.  “May I go back and listen to the stories, now?”

“Nay, onya.  Go find Lothel,” I say. “And keep her away for a while, will you not?”

He peers about him uncertainly and keeps his voice low.  “But everyone already ate the cakes and I want to hear about Ranger Gelir,” he protests to my skirts, plucking at the folds that hang from my belly. 

“Ai, onya, no. We spoke of this. I tug the fold of cloth from his grip.  He peers about my skirts at the door and bites at his lip.  “You need do little but sit with her and give her company.”  I push at his shoulders.  “Thou art needed.

Though with feet slowed by his unease, he goes, following the path of his friend’s flight and leaving me the thornier problem of the girl’s grandmother. Ai! And my head already aches.

When I enter the family’s inner hall, I am greeted by the scents of roast meats that sets my mouth to watering.  A thin cloth of white linen adorns the long table, its surface crowded with trays of sliced bread, wooden bowls of dried fruits, baskets of I know not what, mortar and pestle, and pitchers needing filling. It has been months since I have seen so much of food in one place, I confess it difficult to look away. What must it have cost them to make such an effort?

Pots lie stacked by the hearth.  Cloths drape over the benches and damp and dirty linens litter the table.  A black pot hangs from its metal frame o’er the hearth, within which butter swiftly comes to foaming and is soon to boil should it be left there overlong.  But it troubles Mistress Pelara not, for she is upon her knees beside the table muttering. 

“Like as not she has made for the barn, confound the girl.”  She tosses a sharp piece of crockery onto the pile of it afore her where it clanks thinly.  “Good as place as any for her, today.”

“Let me help you with that,” I say and set my basket down. 

“Nay, my lady, you shall not,” Pelara says.  Her eyes come upon me sharply from where she kneels upon the floor. 

I clutch at the table and lean to the floor, seeking to grasp a shard close to my foot, but she grabs it up ere I can come upon it.

“I will not have my lady either cutting her finger on one of these sharp-edged things nor ask you to lower yourself to my floor in your state.”

“Oh, Pelara,” I hear said in a weary voice and only then rise and turn to find Mistress Nesta seated upon a bench near the door behind me. 

“Do not ‘oh Pelara’ me, Nesta,” the mistress snaps from where she picks up squares of gingerbread from the stone floor.  “You can complain of me once you have had your own child.”

Mistress Nesta’s face falls closed and she turns away.

Ai!  Merciful Nienna!

“Your butter is soon to brown.  Do you wish me to swing it away?” I pull at the pin that secures my cloak and unwind its fold from about me.  Mayhap there is somewhat else I can do and distract Pelara enough to soothe her ire. 

“You may do as you wish, my lady” she says, gracing neither Nesta nor I with her attention.  Instead, she jerks a damp cloth from the table, unsettling a wood bowl to rocking upon its shallow hip.  

The metal of the hanger is hot, and so with the corner of my cloak I push at it with the tips of my fingers, spinning it away from the hearth. 

At a loss, I lower myself to the bench beside Mistress Nesta, where she clutches her hands between her knees and watches Pelara sweep at the crumbs of crockery and food upon the floor.

“Has she been like this the whole morn?” I ask. 

“I have not my father’s ears,” Pelara snaps, her back to us. 

I cannot account for it, but this, of all things, sets Mistress Nesta’s eyes to welling with tears, her hands coming to cover her face.  I sigh and put my arm about her broad shoulders.  She is solid and her hands are squarely made. It had seemed there was naught they could not set to rights.  I pull her into leaning upon me and she allows it.

Pelara tosses the pile of broken crockery to the table where it jangles loudly ere rising from the floor.  She twists about, her smallest fingers scratching at her brow, and searches about her. “A tray. Aye, a tray. That is what I need.”

“Will not that bowl do?” I ask, lighting upon a shallow wooden thing near to her hand.

“That?” She looks upon me without comprehension.

“Will it not do? Should you have but a bit of cloth for me to wipe it dry –"

With that, she takes up a cloth from the table and scowls at its dampness. This she tosses back to the table and turns about, only to do the same to the next. She curses, her face growing dark.  “What must I do for clean linens in this place?”

“Pelara,” I say, rising from the bench, but she is gone, striding quickly to a chest and flinging open the lid so it bangs against the wall. 

“Pelara, shall you not go to your father?” comes Nesta’s voice from by the door.

Pelara slams the lid closed.  “Ah!” she exclaims, returning to the table and rifling through the bowls, cups, and linens there. “Is there not a single dry piece of cloth in this entire hall?” Angered now, she takes up the damp linens by their corners and yanks them from the table and bench, piling them in her arm. “What use my daughter!  My hall full of guests and not a single clean piece of linen to be found.”

“Do you not remember? She went to the barrows to see to laying the evergreens in the grave,” says Nesta.

‘Tis then the light of the hearth catches upon her cheeks, and I can see that Pelara is weeping in the midst of her wrath.

“Pelara!” No longer gentle, I come upon her and lay a hand on her arm. I would turn her about to face me, but it is then she pulls away.

“Sweet Valar! I can find naught in all this mess!” Pelara shouts and flings the towels she holds to the floor, putting her back to me. There she stands, and I think she is as stunned by the quiet as am I, for she lets herself down to a bench afore the hearth, her back still to us. She clasps the bench, her knuckles white upon the wood.

I know not what to say or do and am caught in the middle of room. I still my hands, for they have been wringing themselves upon the crest of my belly. 

“Oh, my lady,” Pelara says at length, her voice muffled behind her hand and strained with weariness. “I had hoped you would bring the savory pies. He liked them so.”

Ai! 

Sighing, Nesta gathers her skirts, and, pressing against her knees, rises heavily from where she sits.  The soles of her shoes scuff upon the floor as had she not the strength to lift them. 

“Come, Pelara,” she says when she stands beside her.  She rubs one hand upon the woman’s back, and when Pelara’s hand comes up, she takes it in her other and sits next to her.

There they sit together, Nesta peering at Pelara’s face.  Outside the hall, a deep voice calls out a refrain and many voices give him response, muted though the music is by the walls of the Elder’s house.

“Will you not join your guests?” Nesta asks, running a hand firmly down the back of Pelara’s head and clasping her upon her neck.  “You will regret it should you not.  Do you not hear?  They have begun the singing.”

I pick up the mess of linen from the floor, groaning a little at the effort, now their attention is upon each other. Truly they are damp and their scent sour. I drop them to a bench and settle on the linen I brought to wipe the wooden bowl clean for what Pelara was able to salvage of the gingerbread. 

Though they keep their voices low, I am not far, and turn away so I need not press my presence upon them.

“I cannot look upon him, Nesta,” I hear behind me.  “What am I to do?  I will never be able to set him in the ground like this.  I have not the heart to even look upon him.” 

“Do not fear it so.  I will be with you.  You are not expected to bear it on your own.  We will be there with you, all your kin.  An there is somewhat you cannot do, we will do for you.” 

“Oh, Nesta,” Pelara says, her voice faltering. “I made Lothel cry.”

I have taken up the sorrel leaves the mistress asked me to bring and rolled them into a tight bundle.  “I sent Edainion after her,” I say from where I slice the greens into thin ribbons and set them in the stone mortar.  “He is with her.”

“See, Pelara.  Give her some time and take some comfort yourself, will you not?”

I halt at her silence and turn about to look upon them.  Pelara takes in the table full of food, the pile of damp linens upon the bench, and the crumbs of bread and broken crockery that yet lie upon the floor and her shoulders sag. “Go. I will see to it,” I say.  

“‘Tis not the first wake for which I have cooked, Mistress,” I go on when seems she would yet protest.  “Go,” I command, pointing the tip of her own kitchen knife at her and waving her toward the door. 

“You need not order me, my lady,” she grumbles, though I care naught for her protests so long as she continues to rise from her bench.   

Nesta snorts and pulls her to her feet.  “She would not need to should you but listen to me!”

“Aye, quit with your fussing,” Pelara protests and flaps at Nesta’s hands where she yanks at Pelara’s apron and pulls it o’er her head.  “I am not so daft as to defy both of ye.  I will go.” 

I take the apron Nesta offers me and have pulled it o’er my head and am settling it about my belly and hips when their silence draws my attention. Nesta has taken Pelara’s face between her palms.  Her thumbs tease at the fine hairs that spring from about Pelara’s scarf as she presses her lips to Pelara’s brow. 

I would smile at the tenderness of it, but pink floods Pelara’s face and her eyes cut at me.  For all their fond bickering, I had not seen them so afore. 

“Are you ready?” asks Nesta. 

Pelara shakes her head, but for all that, squeezes the hand that Nesta has drawn down her arm.  

“We shall do it together, then.” 

And with a deep breath, Pelara nods, wiping at her eyes and settling her skirts and the scarf upon her head.  Squaring her shoulders, she allows the other women to gentle her forward with her hand about her back. 

Loud is the singing of a sudden at the opening of the door and I catch the glimpse of men and women raising both voice and glass in farewell ere the door falls shut of itself. 

Ai! I lean my palms upon the table and, after a moment of resting there, a quick laugh surprises me. I had not thought I would feel mirth at such a time.

Ah, what would my lord have done? A longing for the sight of him rises so swiftly I choke on my laughter.  My heart is sure ‘tis his shadow that darkens the floor beneath the closed door and he is soon to duck his head beneath its low lintel.  Oh, ai, do I wish he was here.  But this is our fate, is it not?  Those of us left behind.  To watch and wait, and wonder should we clutch more tightly to what is dear or build fortresses about our hearts instead. 

My lord is not here, and it is his lady who must then labor to make up the lack.

Aye, well.  The hall could be set to rights and the last effort to put the food to their guests could be done.  I rub at my brow and hope to wrest my thoughts into some order. The roast hens are resting ere I shall carve them and lay them upon the sliced bread for serving.  They are few, but with the boiled eggs I have brought, it will be enough.  But first, I take up the Mistress’ pestle, dropping handfuls of the chopped sorrel to the mortar and there grinding it.  A green scent of lemon and herb arises from the stone bowl.  Soon I shall swing the pot of butter back to the hearth and therein cook the crushed greens.  Cream shall be heated, too, and therewith the butter make a good, tart and thick sauce to go o’er all.  Mayhap I have not the hands of the healer, but at least this I can do.

~oOo~

My lord’s son does not sleep but lies still beneath his wool and fur coverlets. This is most unlike him. As most children his age, he runs through the hours as had he but a few to spend and only rests upon the end of the day. Then, as soon as he lays upon the mattress, he falls into a deep slumber from which he will not stir until the morning, when he may begin it all again.

The rushlight flickers from its place on the tall chest, throwing shadows across the closed room. Halbarad’s voice sounds low in the hall below stairs, where he and the latest youth to join us secure the house and prepare their pallets. My lord’s kin shall leave upon the morrow, for now we have laid Gelir in his grave and said our farewells over him, Halbarad has called for a muster of our lord’s men.

The solar is yet warm from the rising heat from the hearth. Soon, the chill of the night will creep in and we will be glad of the thick blankets that cover us. My lord’s son lies in the trundle bed while I quickly wet my hair and comb my fingers through the tangles. The floor grows cold and I press the length of my hair in a cloth and dry myself about my shoulders swiftly. A glance at the bed and it comes to me that I have heard little of the boy this day.

Upon our return to the house, he amused himself silently in the garden and in a corner of the solar when not at his lessons. He left little of the outdoors strewn behind him in the hall. His voice did not spill in through its high windows. Dirt did not sift from his garments and when he undressed for the night there were no wriggling bits of the forest or pasture to capture and set free.

I hang the cloth on the hook above the basin, take up my stoppered jar, and throw a wrap about my shoulders. Tonight, Edainion’s look is troubled, his brows dark and drawn, and he does not sleep. I sit at the edge of the trundle bed, the boards biting into the flesh behind my knees. There, I smile at my lord’s son and part my hair to begin my braiding.

When he does not speak, I say, my hands busy, “Have you been thinking today of Gelir?”

He says naught but nods, watching as I first rub the oil into my hair and then pull my thickened fingers through it, picking lengths to add to the braid as it winds from temple to nape. There is little of the infant left to him, with his long limbs and somber eyes. Give him but another season and his father might not know him.  Soon, I have all but one braid plaited and tied, and still he has not spoken.

“What did you do with Lothel?”

He shrugs and then says, “We played in the Elder’s barn with Ruful.”

“I see.  Was she crying when you found her?”  I take up the jar and shake it.

He nods, and his eyes follow my hands as I rub my palms tother and then press oil into my curls and tease out their tangles with my fingers.  “But she stopped when we were playing.”

“It was good of you to go to her,” I say, but his thoughts have moved on and he grasps a lock of my hair that sways over him with the movement of my fingers, testing it for the oil I wipe into it.

Amminya? Why do you put oil in your hair?”

I smile. “Because, onya, otherwise, it will become as matted as yours after you roll about in Master Baran’s hayloft.  I once oiled your scalp when you were younger and your skin more tender.  Do you wish some now?”

Here, at the sudden thought mayhap I have neglected him, I run fingers deep into his hair about the crown of his head to test them. I had thought his hair more like to his father’s than mine, with its loose curls that grew into waves of dark hair as he aged. 

He shrugs his head from beneath my touch, wrinkling his nose at the smell of flowers that rises from my hand.

“Mayhap I shall make you some less sweet to use upon the winter, eh?”   I swipe at his nose with my oiled finger and he gives me a weak smile in return.  Aye, ‘tis no surprise after the day we have had, somewhat weighs heavily upon his mind. I no longer smile.

When I stop tending my hair and rub his leg, Edainion plucks at the pilled fibers upon his coverlet, his face again solemn. He will speak when he has a mind, and, like his father, no pressure will open his mouth until he is ready. When he does speak, what he has to say surprises me. I cannot think what could have started this round of thought in the boy.

“Lothel said that the House of the Dúnadan can see things ere they happen.”

“Aye, ‘tis true,” I say. “Your father’s mother and her parents afore her were given foresight, though it came seldom. And your father, at times is so gifted as well.”

“Did you ever know what will happen?” he asks, glancing at me.

“No, it is not given to all.”

“Shall I see it?”

“Mayhap. But not all things that are seen will come to be.”

I now have his full attention. “How do you know?” he says, his eyes fixed upon me.   He searches my face.  Ah, we have come to the heart of the matter at last.

“What is it that you have seen, hmm?” I fold the wool of his coverlet and smooth it into place against his breast.

His look is grave. “When they put Ranger Gelir in his grave, they shoveled the dirt atop him to build up his barrow.  He was cold. I touched him.”

“Aye, I remember.” And I do remember Gelir’s face, as well as that of my own father, aunt, and sister. Unmoving as stone, pale against the dark earth below it ere we lay the last fold of cloth over them. I have not forgotten.

“When atarinya dies, will he be like that when we bury him?” His voice is stiff and his eyes shimmer in the thin light.

“Ah, child!” I say and cluck my tongue. My hands have fallen still on him.

His breath hitches and he moves swiftly, his small hands clutching at my leg as he lays his head upon my lap and buries his face into my shift.

“I do not want Atto to die,” comes the very small, muffled voice.

Ai, onya!” I say and, sighing, draw my fingers over his curls and back.

Ai!  What to say to the boy? I cannot give him false hope, for one day we may yet need do as he fears, place his father’s body in the ground and say our last words o’er him. Or it may be we must say our farewells to the darkness of night that covers him we know not where. It is this that pricks my eyes with sudden tears. Ah, I would not have my lord suffer an end such as that, alone and unmourned in some dark corner of the Shadow. But this is not my child’s fear and I must recall myself to it.

“Were you dreaming?” I ask as I caress my lord’s son and he nods his head against my lap. “Ah, then, it was but a simple dream. It need not come to be.”

Soon, his face appears, abandoning my skirts to stare at the hair that falls onto the swell of my belly where I lean o’er him.  He lies quiet under my hand. He looks to be considering my words with the weight only a child can muster.

Onya,” I say, “We fear most to lose those we love the greatest. Do you not love your father above all things?”

He looks up from where he has taken to twisting his fingers into my hair and nods.

“’Tis no wonder, then, that your darkest dreams are of his passing. This dream you had, it means no more than you love him well.”

He frowns up at me, his brow crinkling. He looks about speak, but I shake my head at him.

“Thou must not lose sight of thy faith in thy father.” I know my lord’s son.  Should I let him, this child will lead me down endless paths of argument. “We will wait and hope for his return, as we ever have. Come,” say I, taking up my jar again and setting the stopper to it ere putting it aside. “It is past time for you to be asleep.”

He removes his head from my lap, though reluctantly.

“Hold this so it does not become lost,” I say, handing him the ribbon. He makes a game of rolling it about his fingers while I hastily twine the last of my hair.

“I will do it,” he says, holding the ribbon out of my reach when I attempt to take it from him.

His face scrunches in concentration, fingers tangling in the ribbon and pulling at my head. But, when he is done and the braid seems secure enough for at least one night, and mayhap many more to come with its endless, uneven knots, he climbs out from under the covers and into my crowded lap as he has not done for many months. There, he clings to my arm and presses his head to my breast. There, we rock for a little while, my arms about him and my cheek lying upon the crown of his head.

“Such a clever boy you are,” say I and I feel his smile against me. “What say you, just tonight,” I whisper into his hair, “you lay in the big bed with me like you did when you were little? Would that help you sleep?” He nods.

“Come then,” I say, pushing him off my lap.

Ammë, I want to say goodnight to my brother first,” he says ere he lets me rise.

“Very well.”

He presses his face against my belly, his eyes wide and elbow digging into my thigh. But I would endure any pain just to see the look of wonder on his face as he listens for the sound of his brother moving about in their mother’s womb. My lord’s son is convinced he is to have a playmate of his own, tiring as he is of the games of little girls.

“Good night, torinya,” he says and presses a quick kiss to where he has just lifted his head.

With that he leaves my lap and clambers over the mattress to flop onto the bigger of the two beds.

“Did you hear aught?” I ask and push myself up from the bed.

“No,” says he, pulling on the blankets. “I think he is already asleep.”

“Mayhap he is,” I admit wryly. For all that may be true now, the babe has a habit of waking whenever I am at rest and I have not yet laid myself down.

“May I sleep where atarinya sleeps?” Edainion asks.

Smiling, I say, “Yes, you may.”

Done, I pull the curtains about the bed closed, the better to shut out the cold night drafts. I blow out the rushlight ere sitting upon the mattress and drawing the last of the curtains.  The shutters are lifted tightly shut and it is dark within the small house of the curtains. I must crawl over my child to reach my side of the bed, but we are soon settled, he with his head upon my shoulder and small body tucked into my side. Soon, his arm lies heavy upon me, but I do not mind. Here we shall be snug. Here I lie and listen to his breathing and feel the press of his ribs upon mine. His hair is heavy and fragrant beneath my lips when I press them there, and long I linger there to breathe in the scent that is his.

~oOo~

 





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