~ Chapter 45 ~

But soon there were few left in Minas Tirith who had the heart to stand up and defy the hosts of Mordor. For yet another weapon, swifter than hunger, the Lord of the Dark Tower had: dread and despair.

ROTK: The Siege of Gondor

~oOo~

~ TA 3017, 20^th of Nénimë: ‘Then did the women of the clans call upon their men to honor oaths taken by their forefathers or be foresworn.  For The Butcher of Umbar had followed those who had rebelled against him in their flight north to the hills of Arthedain.  He took a seat in Angmar and there declared himself king.  Once he had overrun Rhudaur and Cardolan, he set the hillmen upon the folk of the clans to reclaim them and exact his vengeance upon them.  

'For not long after the Deceiver betrayed Númenor, the forefathers of the clans beheld the horror that they wrought in his name in Umbar.  Gathering together, they called themselves the Defiant of Harad and, rising up, slew The Butcher of Umbar and his House.  Few spoke of it who survived the horror of his return among living men, so heavy was the weight of the terror of their memories of it.  And yet still they could not regret it and took upon themselves the name Gornwaith, the People of Defiance.

'And so, in an hour of great need, once again did the People of Defiance arise and take arms against the Witch-king of Angmar.  Answering the call of their young kin, Araphor son of Arveleg, there the many clans of the Gornwaith joined with the Elves of Lindon and flew down upon the Lord of Angmar where he lay siege to the royal city of Fornost.

'Though the cost was dear, and the clans were much diminished in folk and their herds and pastures e'er after, ne'er did the Witch-king return to the North and their children were free to live in peace.'

~oOo~

Many years ago, when the Dúnedain of the North retreated to the Angle, the folk took to this high place and erected a long hill o’er chambers of stone.  There our forefathers could watch o’er the land they had claimed as theirs and bury their dead.  Tall stones they carved from the cliffs where the Bruinen tumbles from the hills. They stand e’en now as sentinels about the entrance to the old barrow.  But the barrow of stone is closed and has not been opened in generations beyond count.  For, once filled, we lost the time to devote to building another and the skill with which to do it. 

‘Tis a rare thing, now, to lay stone upon this hill.  For naught but the heirs of Isildur do the folk of the Angle haul stone up the long climb and mark their place.  Most oft, we dig long trenches and, one by one, lay our folk within and cover them o’er with earth until they, too, lie beneath hills of tall grasses and flowers of buttercup, ox-eye daisies, knapweed, and corncockle. 

'Twas not a pleasing thing to many, Sereg’s death. There were those who called for sterner measures, who demanded I set my lord's men upon him and draw out his suffering for what he had cost us or to loosen his tongue.  There were those who would have cast his body out upon the Wild and not lay his bones to rest among us.   And for all the darkness of their thoughts, these did not puzzle me.  Their thoughts I understood for the fear that drove them.  ‘Twas for those who remained silent, who said naught, but watched with keen eyes, for them I knew I must pronounce a swift fate and bring the matter to near an end as I could achieve.  In the end, it seemed, I could strive to please none but myself. 

“’Tis a matter for the Council to judge and the Angle's lord to pronounce sentence," had said Halbarad, though he looked upon me with some pity.  "In Aragorn’s absence, ‘tis in your hands he left the matters of the Lord's law." 

Upon my lord’s toft, beneath the spreading arms of the oak, we gathered the Council and chiefs of the pledge as the Angle’s charter demanded. There I pronounced sentence and my lord’s men followed my command.  In the last, Sereg caught my eye and begged for mercy ere my lord’s men gagged him and forced him down.  I neither offered it nor looked away.   

There was no singing.  No effort to present guests with food we could not spare.  And no one to tell any tales.  And yet, for my asking, my lord’s men bore Sereg upon boughs of pine to this tall place and laid him in his grave.  I doubt there are many of the Angle who would dare attend the man’s burial, but there is one, and he stands now upon the crest of the hill, leaning upon his crutch. 

Soft comes the sound of men and their spades.  They hack at the turf, for the roots grew deep into the soil and we must expand our barrows into that which has yet been undisturbed.  Mistress Nesta’s cart lies empty and the linen-draped bodies of the dead lie in a row upon the dried grasses of the meadow.  I doubt not she had chosen this day apurpose and knew few of our folk would travel hence.  

He says naught when I come to stand beside him, nor looks upon me, but stares into the shallow well that is Sereg’s last resting place.  I set down my basket, now empty of the herbs we had gathered, and lean to the broken earth.  There I take up a handful of dirt from between the grasses.  When Master Bachor struggles to attempt the same, I offer some of what I have taken.  No matter what complaint I have of him, Sereg was a man of the Dúnedain of the Northlands, and remains so, whether living or dead.  The dirt is cold with the frost that lies upon it, but together, without word, we let it fall to the linen that winds tightly about him. They will come ere long and fill in the grave and build the mound above it.  There is naught left to do, for they covered his face ere he was borne here.  And so, instead, we stand at the lip of where he is laid and are silent. 

"Your kin, Master Bachor, how do they fare?" I ask after some time in which he does not speak. 

At first, I think he will pass off the question with some pleasantry, but then he shrugs a little.  "As well as you would think.  The youngest will not sleep unless I lay down with him.  The eldest is still not fully convinced he could have done naught, and the boy between them, he is too quiet for my liking.  Einiond?”

Here he sighs and shakes his head.  “He cannot settle and loses restraint at the least of things, and he usually so good with the children.  It matters not what I try with him. Matilde has kept them at home.  I would think you understand why." 

I nod and can think of naught to say.

"His lands are forfeit and are the House's should you so claim them," he says, not looking upon me but motioning to the open earth at our feet.

"No,” I say.  “I would rather they revert to those whose claims took precedence ere his."

"And so I am to have my fields, again, and you your father's house.  We fare rather well in the bargain, then, would you not say?" he asks, the bitterness in his voice giving lie to his words.

"No, sir, I would not."  Indeed, there is much that was done that cannot be undone and I know not when we shall last feel the effects of it. 

“No.”

I think then our conversation ended, for I can find little else to say and Master Bachor leans heavily upon his stick and speaks not. 

‘Tis chill in this high place, where the wind races o’er the high tips of the trees upon the hillside below us.  I would be glad to turn my back to it. 

“Do you still keep the rituals of the High Days of Aderthad a Egleria?”

The question comes of a sudden and I stare at Master Bachor a moment ere his words make sense.  Even then I cannot discern his mind, for his face has not changed and he yet stares at the body afore us.  Both of our houses kept the traditions of the high days of reunion and pleas for mercy first set by the wandering clans of the north and passed down to us, their children. 

“I have been thinking,” he goes on, “of what I know of our kin and forefathers who fled Umbar so long ago.  I thought it enough, ere now. Truly it had been enough for those folk whose sires were born here to call me a son of the wandering clans, or Southron, when their thoughts were less than kind.  But I know naught but what a child knows; the rituals of the high days of praise and stories told by my grandsire of his clan and of the land o’er which they drove their herds.  In his day, so plentiful were the lines of trade with our folk in the north we had not enough men to attend to them.  I was to travel there with your sister, to see to what was left and to find what we could of your mother’s folk.  But then Father died, and Laenor –“

Here he stops and falls quiet for a moment. He rubs at the growth of beard upon his jaw, dark against bronze skin.  “But now it has dwindled to naught and I never went.”

I can think of but one reason he would wish to speak upon this matter now of all times.

“I am well aware of the ways in which I failed Sereg and his house,” I say, cutting him off ere he can speak again.  “You need not tutor me in them!”

“Indeed?  Think you so?”

‘Tis only now does he turn to me.  “I am surprised you got as many of the folk from outside the Angle to make oath to the pledgeholders as you did, and most of those from the south.  Did you know that the men of the northern wandering folk do not hold oaths?  It is their women who do.  ‘Tis the híril, the lady of the clan’s House who guards all things that must be preserved; the house and hearth upon their winter pastures, the peace among the clans, and the oaths that bind one to another.”

The look he turns to me is severe, and I find it hard to bear. Bitter is the taste of this knowledge and difficult to swallow.  For I did not know of this.  Keenly do I feel the lack of voices that could tell me such things.   

He leaves off staring at me, and, with a sharp gesture, flings the last of the dirt in his hand to the grave.  “But mayhap they were just desperate enough.” 

“There is no faster way to make those who have fled here a pariah among our folk than for me to show them favor,” I snap, tucking my hands into the crook of my arms beneath my hood. 

Bachor makes a rude noise.  “And whose fault is that?”

“What chance have I of increasing the numbers of the chiefs of the pledge from among the wandering folk?” I demand, grown hot with his accusation. Ever was he slow to look to his own failings.  “There they could make oaths as they see fit and need not sacrifice what is dear to them to secure their own safety and there might be more than just my voice speaking for them  afore the Council.  But I cannot do it of my own nor through any who might be known as my ally.  No matter who we put forward to the hallmoot, he would be but seen as the House’s tool.  Where would your vote be placed, Elder?  Would you stand behind the House should it make such an effort?  Or, should you not support my efforts, would you take them on as your own?” 

I need not look upon him to know he is frowning, his face soured with his thoughts.

“No, you would not, would you,” I go on flatly.  “For more chiefs of the pledge would increase the votes of the House upon the Council.  So speak not to me of neglect and how I have taken advantage of our kin’s fears until you have removed yourself as my greatest impediment. 

“Ever it is a negotiation with you; a jostling for power and position,” I say.

He lets loose a harsh breath and raises his voice.  “Do not think me chastened, my lady. Should this be the only lesson you would take from what I said, then upon my truth, let us have it out!  Know this; I would have men of our wandering kin as chiefs of the pledge and Elders upon the Council both, but only were your husband to sit upon the Council himself.”

“Have I done so poorly in your eyes?”

“Ah!” He waves his hand in a sharp gesture of dismissal.  “You have done well enough.  But the lord of the Dúnedain is not here with his people.  No, he has gone off on some errand among the high and mighty of elves and wizards; off on errantry of his own devising, with not a word of where and when to expect him back.  An your husband refuses to put the folk of the Angle’s concerns first, then I will block all and every attempt by the House to hold more sway o’er them.”

“Aye, well, mayhap then our folk will find unity under you in their distrust of the House.”

“I will not allow any one of the people under my care to suffer, could I prevent it, but I do not hope for such a thing, my lady.” 

Ah, indeed he might say so, but his ambitions put the lie to it.  My skepticism must show upon my face, for he stabs at the man at our feet.

“With this deed have you sealed your fate.  To a man born of the Angle many find you as strange as had our lord brought home a foreign bride, no matter who your father or the facts of your birth.  And, now, to those who came from without, e’er shall you be a stranger, when it need not have been so.”

“You think I should have shown mercy?” I ask.  “What?  Banished him to the Wild, where he could align with those who have argument with our lord’s men as it is?  And what should he tell them of the Angle and our defenses?  Even had he no knowledge of the attack that came upon us, he was such a man as would take advantage of the movements of our Enemy to deal death in pursuit of his own cause.  At best, shall we now fight upon two fronts when just the one is more than we can manage?  At worst?  He was in league with our Enemy and knew when to strike and we shall then have given them news of just how poorly defended we are?  Had he not raised a hand to me or threatened my lord’s heir he was such a man as to give aid and comfort to our Enemy and slew a man of the Dúnedain without just cause in the act of it.  Any of these would have earned him his sentence twice o’er.”

“You are so afraid from the threat from without, my lady, you have given little thought to what shall come from within.”

“I am not blind to it.  But had you thought those born of the Angle disposed to think me preferential to those who have fled here afore, would be not like should I have followed your advice.”

He shakes his head, his lips pursed.  “Those born of the Angle who cannot see you as one of them will never think you aught but of the wandering clans of the hills, lady.  They have but to look at you and see your brown skin and their mind is already fixed.  When it comes to it, they shall turn their backs to you. 

“Think you those who have your ear can assist you with this?  Halbarad cannot help you in this. That youth, that boy playing at a man you brought here today?”  He stabs his crutch at the distant head of the path within which Ranger Saer lingers in the shadows and waits.  “Did Halbarad not recommend him to you?  Made he a good and true accounting of his reliability and faithfulness?  Halbarad has not the eyes to see it.  He will ne’er see.  He cannot.  Be rid of that boy, and quickly, too. You are safer without the pretense of his guard.  He is one of them, they who will take all you do and do naught but twist it to reinforce their distrust of you, and they shall recognize it in him.”

I shift upon my feet and clutch my arms more tightly, ere I catch myself and bring stillness.  For I think my heart had known it, but I had listened only to my head.  But still, I would not let slip my dismay for Bachor to latch upon. 

“An you thought to court their good opinion, those like him, it has come at a cost with little to be gained,” he goes on. “You think you have the measure of the ways in which you failed Sereg?  I know not all the ways I failed him, and he lived under my care and had my ear. There is a deep well of ways in which I failed him I have yet to fathom.”

I have had enough.  Let him talk.  It matters not.  What good the knowledge of it an I cannot do a thing to unwind the weaving and repair the fault nor change the pattern by which the cloth shall be made.

“Should you and your oathmen have need of aid to replace what was lost in the fire, Master Bachor, no matter our disagreements you have but to say the word –”

“Would it have been so ill to live with those of my house?” he asks, as had I said naught.  “There are those there who care for you.  My brother still asks are you of an age to marry, despite the many years since we first begged off his appeals.  And my sister adored you, do you not recall it?  She once dressed you in her finest silks and linens and set ribbons to your hair.”

“I was not her plaything and I am no longer a child!”

“No, you are not, my lady.”  He pauses and regards me steadily for a moment.  “Your father came to me when your aunt was failing and begged me to recall the oath I had given him to care for you when I married your sister.  For he knew one day you would be alone.  But you chose this instead.  You chose this.”

“What of it?” I demand.  It comes not as a surprise my father had wrung such an oath from him, but I find I cannot account for how deeply it stings.

“I need not your aid,” he says.  “It may not be what it once was, but my folk are provided for.”

“How is this?” I demand, turning upon him.  Ah!  For, indeed, it should not be so had our accounting of his stores been true. 

“None of the Angle need suffer,” he insists, coming close.  “My lady, you have but to allow it, and I will pull every favor I am owed, every debt I have purchased, every measure of coin I own, every line of credit I can wrangle, and I will fill every pantry and granary to feed us twice o’er.  I beg you, Nienelen!  Unleash me and I will lay every acre of my family’s land at the feet of the money lenders for it, an I must.  We could then trade with the folk of the Shire or Chetwood or Bree and spend little effort doing it.”

Here he stands so near, should I take a deeper breath we would touch. 

“We have not the men to ensure the safety of those of our folk who might be willing to travel – “

“Do not mistake me for a fool, my lady!”

His eyes search mine with an earnestness I had not thought he still possessed.  I know not what else to say.  All that I cannot say of my lord’s hopes and fears as they reside to our east are as a stopper within my throat.

Bachor huffs a sharp breath and steps away, his eyes now hard upon me.  “Then you will not.  You cannot.  For our lord will not allow it.  And you will not go against him.

“Should you thought to e’er know much of your mother’s kin, and the folk whose name by which you will be known and judged, then I pity you, Nienelen. Oh, they will speak you fair to your face, but our wandering kin will have weighed the fine calculus of your decisions.  Already the folk wonder why you keep such a sharp grip upon any who might go beyond the Angle’s bounds.  You most thoroughly silenced the one man who had the temerity to point out your lack.  After this last, and you still do naught to allay their fears or give them hope, I doubt now you will come to know a single one of them. 

“This will not be the last Mistress Nesta must have her cart hauled up this hill,” he says, thrusting his chin at the southwest corner where lies the line of linen-bound forms.  “Make no mistake, my lady, this is but the beginning.  Should you not change your course, every grave we dig and every barrow we build above it, no matter how many, will be done by your hands. Not by the lord Aragorn, not his kinsman Halbarad, not his House no matter how great and noble he would make it, but you. We will weaken beneath the burden of want and suffer and die because of you.”

Ai!  I have no answer I can give him and it not threaten the very hope I have been charged to protect.  I had not thought I still cared aught for Bachor’s regard, yet I cannot look upon him and bear the disdain in his eyes. 

“What price did you pay for your comfort, Nienelen?” he asks.  “Tell me.  Is it worth it?”

And as had he regret for the pain visited by his word, he sighs, his shoulders softening.  “Will you not allow me --?”

“No!” I say, and for all my tears, my voice is firm. 

He halts and stands staring at me, his mouth working against the bitterness of his thoughts. 

“On your head be it then,” he says and, turning away, takes a final look at the man at our feet. “I wish you had not married him, Nienelen.”

He has not gone but a halting step or two, when he turns about of a sudden.  “And you may stop with your attempts to discover my sources of wine and aught else I might see fit to have brought to the Angle.  Halbarad has beaten you to it.  I’ve not seen my man from the south in six months, now, and have had no word of him.”

With these words then, Master Bachor turns his back to me and makes his slow way across the uncertain tangle of dead grasses and wet soil. 

The wind brushes chill against my cheeks and I swipe against the tears fallen there, clearing my throat.  Nay, I will not let more fall.

Ai!  Greatly do I miss my lord and his counsel, but I think not even he could guide me in this. 

For here where the wind of the north bears down upon us, I stand upon the boundary of earth and sky as were I not of either world.  And but for Sereg, who remains silent, I am alone. 

~oOo~