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No Man's Child  by anoriath

~ Chapter 52 ~

 

~oOo~

“So the Company went on their long way, down the wide hurrying waters, borne ever southwards. Bare woods stalked along either bank, and they could not see any glimpse of the lands behind. The breeze died away and the River flowed without a sound. No voice of bird broke the silence. The sun grew misty as the day grew old, until it gleamed in a pale sky like a high white pearl. Then it faded into the West, and dusk came early, followed by a grey and starless night. Far into the dark quiet hours they floated on, guiding their boats under the overhanging shadows of the western woods. Great trees passed by like ghosts, thrusting their twisted thirsty roots through the mist down into the water. It was dreary and cold.”

FOTR: Farewell to Lórien

~oOo~

~ TA 3018 2nd day of Víressë:  Cotters Stevan and Lethril to be sentenced to two weeks foraging and trapping beyond the Methiethiel in punishment for the theft of five marks of Master Tandril’s stores of rye and oat.  Ploughman Gworon to be sentenced to ten days hard labor of Master Herdir’s choosing for the harassment of Master Orthoron’s family and the destruction of their shed. 

Elder Bachor has discovered the remaining three men who aided the destruction of the granaries.  He recommends banishment of them and those of their near kin who are known to be of the same mind.  In Halbarad's absence, Ranger Mathil called to the Council to report on plans for their apprehension.  As with the others, their property is forfeit and to be distributed among the folk of the Angle  As we did with the others, all chiefs of the pledge, híril and hír, and members of the Council to be called to witness the execution of their sentence.

~oOo~

 

Ai!  I am both chill for the cold soil and wet, and yet break to a sweat that burns beneath the touch of the winds that sweep down from the north.  The sun rides high behind his shroud of thin clouds. Our inconstant companion these past seasons, he gives us little warmth.  The squelch of mud beneath our feet and the slap of our hands upon the wet earth is broken by little but Master Bachor’s fitful coughing.  Ah!  My hands are as blocks of wood.

Dim comes the sounds of our folk at the low end of the spring fields.  They have cleared the tail ditches and now take hoes and spades to the ridges and furrows, undamming pools of water beneath which the roots of young seedlings drown.  Thin rills of water push all ahead of them as they rush downfield to collect in the ditches.  Thither the waterworks wind their way to our south, and there join the Tithecelon from which the water first sprang. 

Bachor, breathing heavily, stands, his fine leather coat long abandoned, and the edge of his tunic clinging about his knees for the mud pressed deep into its wool.  I think he as miserable as I.  Heat blooms upon his cheeks and there he attempts to wipe at his brow with what little clean skin upon his arm he can find.

I saw little of Master Bachor o’er the winter.  I know not what justice he meted out, and have not asked.  But, whether they grew dismayed at the harm done to the folk of the Angle on his behalf or were angered at his refusal to lead an assault upon the House or he thrust them from his protection, the ranks of those who follow him have thinned.  As the days grew cold and we eked out the hours of sun, he kept most to his own hearth, those of his oathmen left to him, and, to my wonderment, that of Master Orthoron and Mistress Istriel.  There he oft kept company with their eldest son, Muindir, but I saw them little. True, he attended the Angle’s councils and there put forth his votes, but he spoke seldom and looked upon me even less.  I had taken salt to the wounds between us.  Should the taste of it be bitter, I am left with none to blame but myself.    

This month past, the folk of the Angle followed behind the plough and struck at clods of dirt with mattock and hoe.  Where once the oxen would bellow and shake their great heads against flies and the halter, they hung their heads for the weary work to which they were set.  Thin in frame and number were the oxen left for this spring’s ploughing, their ribs plain beneath their skin with their breath.  Few survived the wet of summer and fall, for a sickness came upon them.  They set upon their pastures and lowed their distress until they dropped to the mud in which they stood.  The folk who, for their desperation, dared slaughter them themselves fell quickly ill and died in great pain just as had their beasts.

Where once the people would chant and raise their tools in time with the song, they, too, worked in silence.  Had they not the clothes to cover their ribs, I am sure they, too, would be as plainly seen.  In the fall we were left to stripping the leaves from the birch tree and making of them a stew for want of better greens to eat.  For want of meat, we hunted the small beasts of the forest until we must dare go beyond the bounds of the two rivers to find them. For want of grain, we ground acorns, beetles, and birch bark into our flour.  And against greater want to come, I put the seed for this spring’s harvest under guard.  More than once did Master Herdir’s men rely upon their cudgels to keep the Angle’s peace. 

‘Twas as Nesta foretold.  From highest to lowest of our folk, ‘twas a rare house had not suffered some grief.  Had not my lord’s kin and his Rangers defied his command and smuggled wines and what they could bear of foodstuffs from the western lands they guarded, we would surely have lost more. For the most part, they obeyed the constraints we put upon the folk’s gatherings, though it made for a cold and cheerless winter.  Even so, weary of body, our folk had little with which to arm themselves against sickness.  Mistress Nesta is hard pressed and I have stood upon our barrows far too oft of late.  There I attended each ritual and turned my back to the small mound of stone o’er which the flowering grasses of the meadow begin to crawl. 

They are courteous as ever, our folk, and give salute as is proper, but ‘tis Ranger Mathil whom they greet warmly, for, after the hallmoot, it is he Halbarad assigned to stand in my shadow.  Few greetings am I given upon the barrows I do not issue first.  I think I would not have had the heart to continue the practice had not Bachor, after the first thaw, taken to meeting me there, seeming to know when to find me with little effort.  There he oft came to stand at my side and eased our entry into the bereaved kin with an offered hand, a story to tell, or an ear to listen.

And so, the thin days of a bitter winter eased into a cold and hungry spring.  I spent them most oft working aside the folk upon fields, pastures, ditch gates, sick rooms, and granaries, or sitting in my lord’s chair and attending upon every complaint and every trial and meting out sentence of banishment and harsh labor upon their heads.  Whither my errands took me, small children dogged my steps, their eyes bright with purpose, only to dart behind hedges or into alleys should I or Mathil turn to them.

’Twas not the most discrete of watches.  Indeed, Mathil made much of a game at catching them out.  I forbore from chastising him, for he chuckled at the whispering behind us and their startled faces when he turned and leapt at them and sent them scattering set a light in his eyes.  Once, I came upon him as he lounged against Master Maurus’ wall, waiting to escort me home.  He turned an impressed look upon the young lad standing at his feet.  There the boy stood afore him, his hands behind his back as had he just given report to his captain. 

“A good effort, Tyree,” Mathil said with an impressed smile, and the boy’s eyes lit with a mischievous pleasure.  He hid it quickly, biting at his lip and seeming to find his toes a fascinating subject.  “But you forgot our visit to Mistress Tanril at the smithy.” 

The boy’s eyes flashed upon the Ranger of a sudden, his mouth open as were, in his dismay, he about to give protest.

“Still, a worthy effort despite the lapse, and you, my dear lad, are the first to do it.  Very well,” Mathil said, holding up a bit of hardened honey and hazelnuts to catch the lad’s eye ere he tossed it to him.  “But now I am forewarned and know to look for you.  Should you give me the slip again and, this time, recite it in all detail, it shall earn you two pieces.  Remember, tell naught of this to Elder Bachor and you will have double, both his price and mine.  Aye?”

“Aye,” said the lad and grinned brightly.  Catching the sweet tossed to him, he gave me a brief glance ere Mathril ruffled his hair fondly.  He scampered away and we soon lost sight of him again.

“How long until Master Bachor learns of your efforts to turn his spies to your own purpose?” I asked.

Mathil shrugged and, with a jerk, lifted his shoulders from the wall upon which he had leaned.  “Not long, I would think.  ‘Tis harmless enough.  It is not as if the whole Angle doesn’t talk of where we go, as it is.”  He added with a grin, “But until then, we shall see how long we can best him at his own game.”  

I know not what price Master Bachor paid the children for their efforts, but it profited him well.  For soon after we knew of an attempt at being followed, he would oft chance to wander across my path, knock at the door through which I had entered, or call upon a craftsman with some small business of his own to conclude, and thereby join me in my efforts about the Angle.

The day had not yet fully dawned when I startled at the banging of a fist upon the wood of the great door to my lord’s house and raised voices in the hall below.  I was not asleep, no matter how mightily I desired rest, but stared at the wood that makes the canopy of my lord’s bed as the world out of doors lightened with the approaching sun.  Even now I think I could call to mind each spiral of grain and uneven edge of the thin planks above my head for how well and oft I studied them.  For, in my dreams, I kept company with the dead, and so, atimes, dreaded my sleep.  I will not speak of which of my lord’s men bore him down and took blade to Master Sereg, nor the manner of his death.  They matter not.  ‘Twas my hand that took his life, and he spends many nights reminding me of it.

“Take your hands off me, lad.  She will have your head should you hinder my news and you know it.”

“My lady is not yet awake, Master Herdir.”

“She is now.” 

Nail-studded boots strode quickly across the stones of the hall below.  At the sound, Elenir stirred against my side.  I closed my eyes and wrestled with my heart to find the will to leave my bed.  Wiping at my cheeks, I threw off the covers. 

“Lady Nienelen!”

Elenir rolled upon her belly to push herself to sitting from where she had been pressed to me.  Already her eyes filled with tears and she crawled to the high side of the bed I had left, calling to me.  There she reached out her small hand and clung with the other to the wooden board. 

I caught her up to still her crying.  She clung to me and tucked her wet face against my neck, whimpering and holding tight to a fistful of my shift. 

“What is it, Master Herdir?” I called down the stairs and jostled my infant daughter in my arms. 

“My lady, the water has spilled o’er the dams in the night and flooded the spring fields!” 

Ai!  And the days of ploughing had been so dry.  So much for my hopes for the spring harvest.  It shall do little to relieve us, now. 

“It is time, then. Send your men to call up the Elders.  Do not wait for me.  I will meet you there.”

“Aye, my lady!”  With this, his shadow disappeared from the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

“Ranger Aerion?”

“Aye, my lady?” called the youth.

“Send for Ranger Mathil and Elesinda.  Quickly now!”

When I set Elenir down amidst the folds of the coverlets upon the bed, she burrowed her face within them and sucked on her fingers, watching closely.  I took up the woolen nursing blanket tangled among the bedclothes so I might swaddle my daughter and keep her warm while I dressed, but it was caught on somewhat.  Only when I tugged sharply upon its end did it come free.  But a careless flick of the wrist and Mistress Berel’s gift of molded clay flew from where I had secreted it between mattress and headboard.  With a sharp crack it struck the floor and shattered. 

There I stood frozen with my wrap dangling from my fist, and a wrath arose within me for which I could not account.  I cannot say I had used it much of late.  Indeed, I could not recall the last my thoughts grew willful and, were not my lord here to lend the sweetness his touch, I yearned for my own. And yet, rage tightened my fists and I saw naught else but the sharp fragments of stoneware scattered beneath my feet, all else a reddened haze about me. 

Ere I know what I was at, I am sitting back upon my heels in the midst of the wreckage, my hands stinging and throat raw.  There I looked about me and gasped for breath.  For I had snatched up the metal pitcher from where it sat upon the tall chest and, falling to my knees, brought it down upon the shards until they shattered and the fragments bounced off the wall with the force with which I had struck them. 

‘Twas only when I looked upon her from where I knelt upon the floor, did Elenir begin to cry.  She had watched and startled with each crack of metal upon the floor.  And now she looked upon me with widened, fearful eyes filled with tears.

Ai!  What have I done?

I leapt to my feet and rushed to her, dropping the pitcher to clang upon the floor, its dented bottom no longer able to hold it upright.  There I took her up and threw the ends of the wrap about her as I held her in my lap.

Oh, ai!  Forgive me, little one

There we sat upon the bed, the sideboard cutting into the back of my thighs, and I could only be grateful the hall was empty below stairs and I would not have to explain myself. 

~oOo~

Yet again had black clouds sailed o’er our heads from the north.  Upon winter, the snow that fell from them lay as a drab blanket and, once warmed by the sun and melted, left behind a gray silt as soot from our fires.  And now with the spring, o’er the night they brought with them torrents of rain that flooded the troughs and tore the infant plants from their beds in the ridges.  Where e’er it pools, there wafts a faint but foul order.  Yavanna help us, I know not what it shall do to the grain and beans that grow of it. Nor what it shall do when we eat them.

“Will the gates hold, do you think, Master Herdir?” I ask, for having soothed and seen my daughter to Elesinda’s care, we tramp the northeastern edge of our spring fields where, upon the rise overlooking them, flows the head ditches ripe with water from the Tithecelon.  The river water rushes in its bed, dark with the soil it has stirred in its passing and taking branch and leaves and the remnants of baskets and fishing weirs torn from where they were anchored along with it. 

“Aye, should we not have more of that rain,” he says as we walk along the softened bank. 

Ranger Mathil, roused from his own bed in his family’s hall, has joined us and keeps several paces back.  For the chill and his night of drinking with Ranger Haldren, he has pulled his hood low o’er his face and squints in the early light.  Naught but the bright points of his eyes are to be seen.  But I doubt not he has done worse than survey muddy fields with even less of his wits than he now possesses, and so I have left him to his curt replies. 

“I think it done, for a little, should the pattern hold.”  I shade my eyes to look about.  Ribbons of thin clouds reach from horizon to horizon in the dawn light, the sun splashing pink and gold upon them. “

“Aye,” he says, “so my bones tell me, my lady, though we shall have little warmth from the sun.” 

And indeed, where once clouds seeded with ash came with much comment, now we can mark the change of the weeks upon their arrival.  There they shall remain through the day and veil the sun’s face.  He is sure to set tonight in a blaze as fire leaping from amongst the tops of the trees about the river to our west. 

Already, the chiefs of the pledge have rallied and others of our folk, men and women alike, pick their way through the rows of furrow and trough, carrying their tools against their shoulders. Dark their forms move against the flooded earth in the thin light of the morn.

“Aye, well, there is naught to be done for that.”  Master Herdir clutches his cap to his breast so it may not fall and be lost, and, kneeling, leans to tug at a wooden gate in the ditch’s bank.

When he rises, it is to give the gate an easy kick with the toe of his boot.  It holds and little water leaks about its edges.  Ere putting it upon his head, he motions with his cap down the fall of land to where stands pools of water upon which floats the gilding of the dawn. One lone form stands at the bottom of the slope, where the worst of it lies.  A full virgate he has now, discharged in payment for the services he had rendered. 

“Should we clear the tail ditches of debris now, we may yet be able to drain some of the water from the lower furrows there, and save some of the planting,” Master Herdir says and I must leave off my staring to follow him as we make our way down the furrow.  “So long as they used good sense and put beans or dredge to it, and left their wheat to the higher ground.”

“Then let us hope the Valar shall be so kind as to delay more rain.” 

“Aye, and, begging your pardon, my lady, that gorgol of Angmar take his boot from off our neck.   Fair weather or wet, I cannot get a read upon it atimes for the overshadowing ill will that clouds the skies.  I know not what to plan for, but it seems best to plan for the worst.”

I do not resent him his cursing.  Indeed, I might use words as coarse, were I not within his hearing. 

I nod to the seedlings of barley and oat beneath our feet.  They lie torn from where they had been seeded and washed into eddies of green.  “Put these back to bed in the driest of the furrows and see should they take?  They have not yet drowned, have they?”

Herdir shakes his head.  “We have another day, no more than two at the most. At best we will lose two for every ten, should our luck hold, but more should we keep this clouded sun in the next few days. But should it rain again, we will be lucky to keep half.” 

“Very well,” I say and sigh.  “Speak to Elder Tanaes.  He will have the list of men who are on the rotation.” 

“Aye, my lady,” says he and brings his knuckles to his brow in an absent salute as he turns to go. 

“Stay here,” I command, looking downfield. 

Ranger Mathil follows my gaze.  His fingers play upon the pommel of his sword for a moment ere he nods his assent.  He stands at easy rest where he may watch from afar, his arms folded across his breast. 

With but my hood to keep me warm, I pull handfuls of cloth from my skirts up from under my belt as I walk to shorten them, so they need not drag through the wet earth. Already the mud clings to their hem, and soon I shall need to move more freely than their length would allow. 

I make for the lone figure at the end of the slow fall of land.  Dark he stands against the surface of the standing water, shimmering as it is with the force of the wind that blows upon it and the rising sun to our backs. 

Sure it is he hears me approach, for I can do little to quell the squelching of mud beneath my boots.  He wipes his palms across his cheeks and breathes in deep. 

“Ranger Mathil would not wish you so near me, my lady,” he calls when I draw nigh.

“Ranger Mathil has no say in the matter, Master Fimon.”

“Then you know not what I have spoken against you.”

“I know what you have said.”

I have reached his side and the wind drives the faint scent of fouled eggs from the water.  He had spared not a glance to see who was coming upon him, and e’en now looks o’er the bean seedlings beneath its surface.

“Then mayhap you should not have walked all this way to crow at my misfortune,” he says and    laughs.  ‘Tis a harsh, bitter sound.  “I had thought our fortunes made.  Now I will not see half of this come to fruit.”

“No, you will not.  But half is more than none.” 

“Forgive me, my lady, an I speak plainly, but should you think your help with this repair my thoughts of the House, or what you do in its name –“

“Master Fimon, the day may yet come when you shall regret not having taken up Halbarad’s sword and pressed it to my throat for the good of the Dúnedain.  One day I may yet deserve it.  But today is not that day.”

This earns me a quick look, sour though it is.

“And I am not ready to cede this particular field of battle,” I go on.  “Who will it feed, of your kin, should you have just the half?”

“Leave off, my lady, ‘tis no use.”  He shakes his head and turns his back to me.

“Your daughters?  Will it be enough for them?”

He sighs and his shoulders sag.  True it is, we both know I make unfair use of his devotion to them, but it does not follow that he will not remain unmoved under its prod. 

“Then we shall do it for them.”  I step back and leave room in the furrow for the man to walk past, should he so wish.  “Come, Master Fimon, show me where I am to start.” 

After a long moment in which we stand in the wind and the water beneath our feet seeps into our boots, he wipes again at his face and turns away from the pool of water under which his crops drown.  He labors through the mud past me up the slope and I follow.

~oOo~

“Ugh!” Master Bachor lets loose a breath in disgust and coughs.  “A plague on this wind!

“What say you, my lady, we leave off with the barley and see what we can make of the beans ere we break for the midday meal?” He waves a muddied hand down the slope, where the worst of the water has been drained and the mud is soaked and glistens darkly.   

I look about to find we have worked our way through o’er half of what we had set ourselves to do, and other folk now bend o’er Master Fimon’s furrow upland.  My hands are deep in mud.  It clings and binds my fingers one tother with the sucking weight of the clay.  Though I attempt to shake my hand free of it, the act does little more than fling globs of it about. The wet weights my dress, so I must push myself from the earth when I rise.

Bachor squints up at the thin sun ere motioning us down the slope. 

I care little for the man’s look.  He had not seemed to be doing so poorly when first he had come upon me.  There he had stood upon the edge of the field with his fists upon his hips, considering me where I knelt in the mud, attempting to speak to Ranger Mathil. About what, I know not, but I think my lord’s man would have naught of it, for his gaze ne’er turned to the Elder and he did not speak.  

Bachor shook his head and, shrugging his great leather and fur coat from off his shoulders, dropped it to the grass.  He made his way steadily down the furrows, slow in his steps to avoid both seedlings and incautious movement upon the loose soil.  Once he came upon me, he said naught, but knelt beside me and, for lack of spade, took up unmoored seedlings and put them to bed in each hole I dug.  Now, the skin beneath his eyes is dark and loose and his lips have a faint blue cast for all the bright color upon his cheeks.  It comes to me that he moves with a slowness that is not his wont, as would he guard against the movement of aching joints. 

“Are you well, Master Bachor?”

“Ah!  ‘Tis naught,” he says, waving an irritable hand at me as he passes.  “A chill and a bad night’s sleep, or, rather, no sleep, is all.” 

He speaks no further and so I follow, and we set to our work again, this time moving downland.  Here the water had slowed in its rush upon the fields and so few seedlings are torn out and swept away, but much work will be needed to cover their roots. What I would give for the hoe that sits in its leather bucket in my buttery, but it is not to be had and I would not send one of our folk to retrieve it. They are needed here. 

And so we set to our work and the sun passes in its unseen arc o’erhead.

Bachor groans and let himself fall heavily to sitting.  There he leans his arms upon his knees and lets his muddy hands dangle from his wrists. 

“Ah, what I wouldn’t give for somewhat hot,” he says and, coughing a little, clears his throat and breathes heavily.  “Are you not weary?  I feel I could lay down and fall asleep e’en here.” 

I grunt in response, my attention more on the soil that seems to drain away the more I push it around the roots of the bean plant.  The further downfield we work, the less progress we make. 

“Stop. Give it a rest, my lady,” he says and, digging his hands into the soil, flings a handful of mud at me so that it spatters at my knees and flings up water and droplets of mud.

“Leave off, Bachor,” I say and, sighing, search about for a clod of dirt to hem in the small mound I have built. For the pity of the Valar, we have not the time to fuss with each plant. 

“Ah, what happened to you, my lady? Time was you would have had your revenge already.”  He bites at his lip and, glancing quickly around him, takes up yet another handful of dirt and flings it in my direction. 

At that I peer about from where I lean o’er the bean plants. 

“Ah, they are not looking,” he says.  “You need not worry they think the Lady of the Dúnedain giving her attentions where she should not.”

I sigh and sit back on my heels, wiping my hands upon my dress.  “What do you want, Bachor?”  For the man is clearly begging for my notice. 

“And you have never more looked the part as you do now, my lady,” says he, grinning, his eyes fixed upon my chin.     

“What?” I demand.  I cannot think what has gotten into the man.

He points roughly at my face and then lets his hand fall to dangling again.  “You have got some mud on your chin.”

I shrug my jaw against my shoulder.

“No, ‘tis still there,” he says.  He pushes a hand against the dirt and rolls to his knees as were he about to crawl to me.  “Hold.  Allow me, my lady.”

With little thought to it, I lift my chin for his aid, only for him to then to reach o’er the distance and smear muddy fingers upon my cheek and lips.

I start back from his hand, spitting grains of mud from between my teeth and wiping at my mouth with my sleeve.

“Bachor!” I hiss.  Ai!  He is giggling, and it draws the eyes of the folk upon the furrows about us.  “Stop with this nonsense!” 

But with this he breaks into full, high laughter, his eyes bright, only to fall to a deep coughing.  His face darkens with his efforts and his breast heaves in his attempt to take in breath until, his eyes widening of a sudden, he launches himself from the grip of the clay, clutching at his throat and wheezing thinly.  He is not fully aloft when he then teeters upon his feet and comes crashing down as had every string of sinew upon his bones been cut of the once. 

“Bachor!” I cry and, abandoning my spade, crawl through the clinging mud to where he has fallen, dragging my skirts with me.     

Men drop their tools and splash water and mud in their wake as they come running down the furrow.

“Come no nearer!” I shout, and they halt, staring at us. 

Even now Bachor stirs groggily and grunts with the effort to rise from the wet earth that clings to him, but on his lips and cheek lies a great clot of phlegm and spittle of white and pink froth from his coughing. 

I have groped my way to him and, after much squeezing of my hand through the folds of my hood, clean it enough to lay my wrist upon his brow.  

“What -” He peers at me, his eyes clouded and slow to focus. 

Oh, ai!   I had thought his color high for the chill wind and the rising of his blood with our work, but his skin is hot as were there banked coals beneath it.

“Bachor, whatever possessed you to work in the cold and mud at such a time?” I demand.

He blinks muzzily up at me.  “’Twas not so bad.  I thought it would pass.” 

Folk ring about us, muttering.  More come and, soon, the word has spread.  They call for Master Fimon, but dare come no nearer.  Bachor grabs at the cloth about my shoulder and, through dint of him pulling and my hand upon his arm, we have got him to sitting where he might breathe more freely. 

Booted feet slap at the mud and a harsh voice shouts at the edge of the crowd. 

“Make way, damn you!  Make way!” comes Ranger Mathil’s voice. 

I think now he must regret his choice to forego standing in watch for bending his own back to the labor in the Angle’s fields.  For he pushes men aside in his haste so that they slip upon the mud and grasp upon their mates to stay aloft.

“I am in no danger, Mathil,” I call, and he slides to a stop, taking in Bachor’s grip deep in the wool of my hood and his labored breathing. 

Bachor blinks at the folk surrounding us.

Ranger Mathil’s breast heaves from his efforts at running through the mud and looks at me with some relief, I think, ere releasing his hands from where he had clutched the pommel of his sword with one and its housing with the other.  “What do you wish, my lady?”

I shiver at the mark I have left upon Bachor’s brow and rub at it with the folds of his own hood.  He blinks at me and shakes to clear his head.  

Ai!  Bachor has little time and Mistress Nesta’s sickhouses lie upon the far side of the Angle.  The wet and cold do him no favors. An he is confused and muddle-headed now, should his fever strengthen much more, he is like to start seizing. 

“We need to get him home, I think, ‘tis the closer,” I say.

Mathil nods and squints about for what may be at hand to give us aid.  I cannot think what he shall find, for much of the Angle’s carts and the horses that pull them have carried men to their work upon the dam. 

“Let him through!” I hear and heavy footfalls running upon us up the rise and through mud though it is. 

“Bachor!” calls Master Fimon.  He has stopped well beyond reach, panting and leaning upon his knees.  His look darts from my face to Mathil’s to Bachor’s and takes in the unsteadiness of Bachor’s limbs and uneven rising of his breast.  “You fell?”

“Aye, Fimon,” says Bachor and pushes against the grip of the mud, slipping against it.  “I am not well, but not gone yet.” 

“Bachor, stop.” I insist but ‘tis to little effect, for the man shakes off my hand and gets his feet beneath him. 

“Have none of you survived the coughing sickness?” I call to the folk about us, but all I receive in response are the shaking of heads, muttering, and shifting of feet away.  I have no need to look to Ranger Mathil, for I know he has not.  Still, his lips thin and he shakes his head, though he makes no move to distance himself. 

With this, Bachor clutches at my shoulder and, levering his weight against it, pushes himself aloft.  “Stop, all of you,” he commands, his face grim and teeth set.  Though a little unsteady upon his feet, he keeps upright.  “I am not a child.  You need not make the decision for me.”

“I will take him, my lady,” says Mathil reaching a hand to the man’s arm, but I launch myself to my feet. 

“No, you will not!” I say and Bachor lets out an irritable huff.

“Enough of this,” he says.  “I can walk.” 

“Stay with your crops, Fimon,” he goes on when his oathman scowls at him. “They have need of you here and I can walk.  ‘Tis short, the distance.  I will make it.”

Ai! The stubbornness of men. 

“Enough of your gawking,” he shouts, flinging his hand in a loose gesture at the crowd. “I will be well enough. There is work to do and not much time to do it in.  Every little counts.  Go to it and leave me be!” 

They step away, though slowly, for Bachor has overbalanced himself in his pique. 

“I need not your pity!” he shouts and for their faces, I think he does little to reassure them with his protests.  “The Bloody Butcher take you all should you not stop with your dour looks!”

He slips upon the mud and I grab upon the crook of his arm to steady him.  For all his ire, he does not protest it, but coughs and curses, leaning upon me. 

“Nienelen?” he says low, and I catch his look for but an instant ere he swallows and draws away.

At least, in my confusion and grief, I was spared this, this grappling with the suddenness of my fate.

Licking his lips, Master Fimon leans in as close as he dares and says low so fewer ears can hear him.  “Bachor, are you certain?  I would go with you, should you allow it.”

“Do not be a fool, Fimon,” Bachor says, his voice harsh.  “It will just serve to take the sickness home with you to your wife and daughters.”  He sighs and takes pity on the man.  “Send for Mistress Nesta and have her meet us an you would have somewhat to do.” 

He takes in the state of the fields below us and I think he assesses the most likely path around the standing water and ditches.  But for Ranger Mathil, who has remained silent and watches us steadily, we are now alone.  Fimon strides as quickly as he might through the furrows upfield and the folk have returned to their work, though true their attention is not fully upon it. 

“I will go with you,” say I and Bachor nods, sniffing and wiping at his face with his sleeve ere he turns.  We start our slow tramping down to the bottom of the field where lies the footpath o’er the tail ditches.

“Where you go, I go, my lady,” says Mathil when his movement catches my eye.

“Only should you keep your distance, Ranger Mathil.”  

We said little as we made our way, Master Bachor and I.  I know not his thoughts, but I doubt not they troubled him.  For he stumbled atimes, and I think not for his weariness but for want of attention to aught below his feet.  And so, I kept my hold upon his arm and attended where he could not.  He, breathing heavily and weaving upon his feet, allowed it. 

‘Twas not until we had put the ditches behind us and walked the path between the tall laid hedgerows of hawthorn about his pastures, did Master Bachor speak. 

“When they take me to barrows, I do not want you there, my lady.”

“What?” I ask, stunned, for of all the matters I thought him contemplating, this was not one of them.  And true it is, it stings, that he would not want me there at the last. 

He shakes his head, his face grim.  “There is burden enough between us, Nienelen, and deeply do I regret the words I said there  -” 

“Bachor, stop this talk,” I say, shaking his arm where I have ahold of it.  Ai, merciful Nienna!

“Nay, my lady,” he continues, “I have seen you stand upon that high place oft enough. If you have aught of kindness left for me, you will not make me the cause of yet more of your grief.” 

“You need not speak so.  We have time yet.”

“I know my chances, my lady, as well as you.  Mistress Nesta may fill my gullet full of her cure, but the odds are not in my favor.  I know not their temper should it come to it.  We will say our goodbyes, but not there, and not in the company of my oathmen.” 

I glance back, and indeed Ranger Mathil strides behind us.  His look uneasy, I doubt not he and Master Bachor’s thoughts in accord on the subject.  An the risks be great should I disregard his wishes and attend both wake and burial, I cannot think there shall not be e’en greater risks should I not pay him and them the respects he deserves.

“And you will not let Matilde near me,” Bachor says ere I can gather my thoughts and it is all I can do to stare at him and not stumble on the path. “You must swear it, Nienelen!  She will protest and wish to tend to me herself, but you must not let her.”

“Should you wish it, Bachor,” I say, but it seems this not enough to satisfy, for his look is the more stern. 

“Swear it, or I shall refuse passage beyond the Circles of the World and wear out your days causing you such misery as you shall wish they were no more.”

“You need not speak so. I will see to it.”

“Swear to it!  On your husband’s life, my lady, for surely hers would be as forfeit should you fail.” 

“I swear it.” 

He nods, his face grim. 

“I have been thinking.”  Here he stops and stiffens beneath my touch as must he either gird himself against some threat to come or to keep himself from collapsing upon the path.   

“You had the right of it. This rift between us, it only makes the Angle weaker.  Can we not put an end to it?” he asks, his eyes searching mine.  I know what he sees there, but he blinks and, wiping at his face, looks off down the path ere speaking again.  “I do not understand how any can live in these times and not find themselves moved to reconsider what they think of the world and their place in it.  I thought the world one thing, but have come to know it is another.”

He coughs a little and clears his throat. A sweat has sprung up on his brow and his eyes glitter.  He looks upon me earnestly, weighing my silence, as had he long prepared words for me and hopes to give them greater weight. 

“She was my first, Nienelen,” he says when I do not protest, “my first of love, and my first of loss. I was young, foolish, and protected from want, and gave no thought to the future.  I had thought us immune to the whims of the world and so gave little heed to the risks.  ‘Twas she who paid the price for it.  I will e’er regret it.  I will die regretting it, but I would beg your forgiveness for the hurt it did to you, should you give it.”

He waits in silence and he grips my hand the tighter for the tears I must still, for during his speech I had sought out his hand and clasped it. Beneath the dirt that lays as a film upon our skin, his hand is warm and, of the first in many years, a comfort to me.  I do not know what shall become of me should I be forced to let it go.

“You were my brother,” I say when I can speak, “and I was cruel to you when I should not have been.”

His face lightens and he laughs ere his face contorts in sudden grief, and he draws my hand to his lips to press a swift kiss upon my knuckles. 

“That is good, aye, that is good,” he says and laughs again, wiping at his eyes.  He stumbles a little when he turns to resume walking.  Catching up my hand, he presses it to his arm.

“Were we not merry, the three of us?’ he asks.  “Such adventures we had. Do you not recall it?”

“Aye, I recall many of them, and the switch my father would take to me upon his return home for it.”

He snorts, needing no explanation further than that.  ‘Tis an argument as old as an unwashed, over-worn garment; ill-fitting and unpleasant for both the wearer and those close to him. 

“Ah, you forget. There was naught Laenor could have done would have changed my mind about her.  Her future was well-secured.  But you?  Your father harbored great doubts as to what place you might find in the Angle.”

I sigh, for e’er had he taken my father’s side in my youthful grievances against him.  I pull him more upright and away from the ditch abutting our path.

“Aragorn the Grim,” he intones. “I cannot fathom why you chose to marry a man such as him instead. Gone a’ranging for years a time.  What a lonely existence you must have.” 

“Come, Bachor, stop with your dawdling.”  Oh, this is not good.  His feet have begun to wander, along with his mind. 

“Does he ne’er smile?” he goes on as had I not spoken.  “Oh, aye, I am sure our Lord of the Dúnedain would be ascendant in all things, but, still, what must it be like to bed such a man?”

“Ai!  Curb thy tongue, Bachor, I hiss at him, glancing back at Mathil, to find him biting his lip and studiously looking elsewhere.  “Else I shall drop thee into the muck and let thee crawl home of thyself.”

“Aye!  That is the Nienelen I recall from those days!”  High and harsh comes his laughter, but this only sets off another round of coughing.  He halts under the force of it, his face dark and eyes straining.  When done, he swallows against the irritation in his throat. 

His face twists with pain.  “I have been so careless!” he cries.  His knees buckle beneath him, so I must bear the greater of his weight.  “Alas, I have squandered it all.”

“You have not!  Harken to me, Bachor!”  I grip the man by handfuls of his tunic and hood and shake him so his head jolts upon his neck and his eyes roll.  “You are not yourself!” 

“Laenor?” he asks low when he has settled.  His eyes glitter brightly and chase my features from my chin to the hair pulled from my scarf to my eyes.  “Oh,” he whispers, his gaze going soft and sad, and his hand coming up to brush at my cheek, “how I have missed thee.” 

Ai!  I skirt his touch by but a hairs-breadth.  For the pity of the Valar!  I give him another great shake and he blinks at me with eyes that are slow to come to see me. 

His brows draw into a thin line and he peers at me. “You are not Laenor,” he says, and I hope him done and ready to move.  “Though you sound much like her.  Did I tell you that, my lady?  You sound like your sister, when she was screaming.” 

Merciful Nienna!  I do not wish to hear this!

“Bachor, we must go. We must do somewhat about your fever.  You need your bed!”  I tug upon him, but he has set his feet and merely stumbles a step or two ere stopping.

“For a moment, my heart said ‘twas her, screaming above stairs.” His eyes widen with the remembrance.  “It was not.  It was you, Nienelen.  And I could do naught but await the sound of your convulsions rattling the wood above us.”

“Bachor, wilt thou not come?” I plead, but he grasps my hands and stills my pulling upon him.

“They were all there, the Council and chiefs of the pledge.”  Here he looks upon me with pity and then lets loose a huff of breath.  “And he was not.  Just long enough to get thee with child and then gone again.” 

“Bachor.”  I drop my brow to his shoulder, so weary of this am I, I care not should Mathil see it.  Sorely am I tempted to leave Bachor here to the chances of the cold and the wind. “I beg of thee, stop.”    

“Bachor!” calls Mathil, his voice more commanding than it seems his years would give him. “Move!  Else I must make thee move.

Bachor starts at the sound, jerking beneath me where I am pressed against his hood.  His hands come up to grasp my shoulders and put me away from him, where he blinks and frowns at me.  “Who has made thee weep?”  “Ai!” he goes on, his hand come to press my cheek.  “No more tears, little sister, not for thee, aye?  No more.” 

He stumbles so I must throw my arms about him.  Ai!  I should ne’er get him up from the ground should he fall. 

“My lady?” calls Mathil.  I know him nigh ready to forego all my orders and lay hands upon the man, torn between the surety of infection and distaste at his helpless state.    

“Oh, Bachor,” I say, sighing. 

“You have but to command it, my lady,” says Mathil.  He has closed some of the distance between him though I shake my head at him. 

“Come, Nienelen,” Bachor says, wrapping his arm about my shoulders and pulling me close into his side. 

“Let us go home,” he says, his voice low in my ear when he has leaned to me.  “We shall have mulled wine and steal honeyed figs from my mother’s pantry again.”

“This way, then,” I say and wipe hastily at my eyes when he rights himself and peers uncertainly about him.  He sets one foot afore the other under the force of my pulling, weaving and bumping into me.

“She is not so clever as she thinks, my mother.  I know where she has hidden them,” he leans in again to whisper and I must push him upright.  “Would you like that?   Dry thine eyes.  I shall beg my sister see thee cleaned of the mud, warmed afore our hearth, and made presentable again ere thine aunt has chance to know of it. All will be well.” 

Behind us, in the distance, comes the thud of hooves and faint rattle of wood wheels.  I would not have known it but for Ranger Mathil’s abrupt turning about.  Thank the Valar! 

And soon e’en Master Bachor knows it for what it is, for he halts and clings to me. 

“She is come for me, is she not, with her cart?” he asks.

Most oft Nesta and her folk put it to use for carrying the dead, and I wonder should he be so muddled he thinks he is already gone.  For his face has gone slack, and his eyes, once bright with remembrance, have dulled. 

Aye, Nesta will make thee well again, as best she is able, Bachor.”

He nods and turns to face the oncoming cart, still distant though it is. 

“Will you stay with me, Nienelen?” he asks, in a voice much younger than e’er I remembered of him.  “Just for a little.” 

“Aye, Bachor. I will stay.” 

~oOo~

 





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