~ Chapter 53 ~

“But Boromir did not speak again.

‘Alas!’ said Aragorn. ‘Thus passes the heir of Denethor, Lord of the Tower of Guard! This is a bitter end. … He knelt for a while, bent with weeping, still clasping Boromir’s hand.”

TTT: The Departure of Boromir

~oOo~

~ TA 3018 30^th day of Lótessë:  This week alone seven families have come begging aid so they might safely flee to the Blue Mountains.  I have none to give them. 

~oOo~

This morning, I am at home.  The Angle cares for itself this one moment of the day.  For the sun has shown himself and the plum tree burst into blossom beneath his warm touch.  I have little desire to be elsewhere. 

For, in the small hours of the morning ere dawn, the youth who walks his lord’s toft o’er the night woke us with his pounding upon the great door.  I caught little of what he said at first.  ‘Twas not until Halbarad shouted up the stairs I knew it. 

“Fire!” he had shouted, and we tumbled from our beds and out of doors. 

I bound my daughter to me with her nursing blanket and, in naught but my shift and with my daughter’s screaming in my ear, pulled buckets filled with water from the well and the men threw their contents against the back wall of my lord’s house.  Even now the faint smell of scorched wood and the animal dung and straw of the daub lingers in the morning air. 

When done, Halbarad took my spade and dug out the last of the glowing embers from the base of the house and smothered them in strips of turf he ripped from the greensward. We stood, then, in our bare feet and looked upon the ruin that was the side of my lords’ hall.  For there beneath the lightening sky of the approaching dawn, the black, charred surface of the house was as a gaping hole reaching high to the windows of the solar, and the leaves that over-hang the roof had curled upon themselves in the heat.  I could only marvel the stench of the smoke had not awakened me. 

At the sight, the youth sank to the dew-covered grass of his lord’s toft, covered his face and wept in his pain and relief.  For he bore a great knot upon his head where he had been attacked from behind.  And though dazed, he had chased after them and had the wit to return when they scattered and the light behind his back quickened in the dark. 

Aye, the folk of the Angle are frightened.  Master Bachor no longer has their ear and what time I had bought upon the events of the hallmoot has come to an end.  For painted in dark mud stark against the whitewash of the house were ugly words I will not repeat here.  'Tis not the first either he or I have seem them of late.  But, this time, the come with fire.         

And so, this morning I sit in the garden with my baskets of wool about me and my daughter playing beneath branches bright with flowers.  Here, I await what news Halbarad can discover of the trail they left behind when they tore through the thicket behind my lord’s hall.  For, once he saw us safe, he followed it and, even now, pursues it path into the houses of the folk of the Angle.  Talk, I can abide, but not those who stir up the pot of enmity and resentments brewing among our folk and urge a remedy of violence.

The teeth of the carding brush catch at my skin and sleeves should I pay too little heed.  And so, I listen to the rhythmic rip of brush against brush as I pull the wool between their many teeth and consider what punishment I must visit upon their heads.  Life banished beyond the Wild is a poor choice, but mayhap, to their mind, the threat of orc and were and warg is not so near that starving in their own beds is a better one.  Exile has no teeth so sharp as hunger. 

And so, though I despair of ever spinning this wool, for it is too fine and breaks too oft for the poor diet of the beasts that once wore it, it gives me excuse to sit here and let the sun sink into my hair and clothing for a little.  My daughter has taken to piteous crying and clutching at my skirts should she discern my intent to step outside the bounds of my lord’s house.  I would have a morning of peace and so I wait until her midday rest ere I must walk the pasture in search of my lord’s dower and see the sheep settled. 

The garden repays my efforts with the faint scent of lavender, vervain, and rosemary, and the nodding of leaves of ivy upon the wattle fence, but I am slow to trust its beauty born of spring rains.  For no more am I awakened by a great chorus of birdsong upon the dawn.  'Twas not only the folk of the Angle that went hungry this winter past.  No more do the doves coo from the eaves of the house or do I hear the scrabble of the small claws and barking of the squirrels among the trees.  The bleating of the sheep comes seldom upon the morn when they wait for me to lead them to their pasture.  

Master Baran no longer cares for the beasts upon my lord's lands and it was left to my lord’s reeve and I to see to them.  In the midst of winter did we miss him.  I know not when or why Master Baran left, but he is gone.  Mayhap it was his intent to lighten our burden of his belly or mayhap some mischance took him.  I know not.  We could not find him.

My daughter squeals wordlessly and I look up to see her pointing to the top of the fence.  A flash of bright color and I see where the lizard scrabbles away from her and disappears through a chink between the withies and the vines. 

"Mamil! Mamil! What is it?" she cries and runs swiftly back to me, for she must tell me all she has seen.  And she does, babbling in her infant's voice and bouncing on her feet as she tugs at my skirts. 

Her face beams up at me and my heart aches for it.  I return to the carding brushes and she to holding onto my dress and twisting it in her fists.  Her curls hang loose behind her as she lays her head back.  I know not should she seek to pull me from my turf seat or see how far she can lean back and not tumble, but I know I like neither game. 

"Mayhap it is time you found your poppet and played here beside me for a little while, hmm?" 

Her eyes widen with surprise and dismay and she drops my skirts.  She has forgotten her poppet!  She grabs my hand to lead me on the search.  But, soon, her determined face lights upon her treasure, and she slips from my grasp and leaps upon it.  Leaves cling to the hair of dark wool and dirt to the last of my lord's lady mother's velvets that makes for the soft face and arms of the poppet.  She scowls and then thrusts the toy up at me so I may set her friend to rights. 

"Mamil! Mida! Help me, Mamil," she says and then, when the poppet is back in her arms, presses it close and kisses its soft face, her little face beaming.

I shake my head and she follows as I retrieve the carding brushes.  Soon, she stands beside me, leaning against my hip and watching as I ease the wool into a roll atop the brush.  I turn away to add the roving to the growing pile within its basket, settling them to fitting more firmly therein.  And then I have lost the thread of my thoughts, for I am staring at the wool, a strand pinched between finger and thumb, and am unsure what I had intended.  I seem to recall my thoughts wandering through darkened paths, but I know not where. 

A high shriek sends my heart to racing and the brushes clatter to the stones. 

"Ah!  Little one!" I scold and pull Elenir to my lap.  Her face is a study in misery, her lip pouting and brow knotting.  "Touchest thou the brush?"

She nods, her eyes brimming with tears, and then buries her face in my breast, wailing as she clutches her poppet to her.  It takes but a brief moment of being held and she quiets. 

"Come, let me see," I say, and she sits to hold her hand up for inspection, her face solemn as she sniffs against more tears. There is not so much as a prickle of red upon her fingers, though I twist her hand to and fro and make good effort to examine her.  

"You seem to have taken no great hurt, lapsinya," I say, and she returns my look dubiously. 

"It hurts," she protests, her little brow drawn and dark. 

"Aye, and you have been quite brave."  I press a kiss onto her upturned nose. 

And this seems to be sufficient, for she slides from my lap and wipes at her nose with her sleeve, her poppet catching the worst of it, it seems. 

I think then we shall go on with our morning as afore, but of a sudden my daughter's eyes fall and she shrinks against my side.  At the prickle of hairs upon my neck I twist about and thrust her behind me, my heart leapt to my throat. 

He stands there, having come in through the gate without our knowing.  There he looks upon us as were we a dream that visited as he slept and now, to his shock, he finds upon his waking we are of flesh and blood. 

His hair hangs in greasy streaks and his skin is greatly begrimed.  His cloak is nigh a rag that hangs from a frame too spare for his coat and the black of his shirt has faded to a rusty grey in the rain and sun.  But I think I have ne’er found my lord to look so fair. 

This time, it is I who fly to him.  I am careless of my embrace and it seems to knock the strength from him, and we sink to the stones.  His fingers are upon my hair cradling my head against his as we kneel together.  I know not should he draw in a full breath, but I know I cannot. 

When we part, he says naught, nor do I, but he cups my cheeks with his hands.  Though his face is grim, the thumb that brushes across my skin speaks clearly of the greatness of his relief.  At the question in his glance o’er my shoulder, I push out of his arms and run to the small girl who stands staring mutely at us, shrunk against the vines climbing the wattle fence. As I approach, she abandons her poppet and lifts her arms to me, her little face bewildered and her fingers grasping at the air. 

"Mamil," she cries and her face puckers in distress, but I am already lifting her into the air and settling her warm weight to my hip.  Her hands cling to my shirt.  From the safety of my embrace, she stares at this stranger who is her father. 

"My lord, here you find your daughter," I say, my voice but a whisper bereft of breath, and kneel with her afore my lord.

She turns her face and buries it in my neck, unable to bear his scrutiny when his hand comes to brush upon her hair and arm, this man who has disrupted her world.  His eyes grow bleak and I think he would weep for the time lost. 

"I have called her Elenir, after my mother, but, my lord, you have the right to name her as you see fit."

He shakes his head and presses his lips to the face turned away from him.  And then his glance falls upon me, and I know it comes.  Ah, my lord, your House has such cold comfort with which to welcome you home.

"Where is my son?" asks he, clearing his throat so he might speak.  "Where is Edainion?" 

"My lord," I say and halt.  I have no words to soften the blow, but it seems even now I am too late, for he stares at me as one stricken and his hands tighten upon us.

"He sickened, my lord."  And for the clenching of my throat I can say no more.

He thrusts himself up from the stone, leaving our embrace and striding swiftly away.  I hear him in the house, throwing open the door to the buttery so it strikes the wall and leaping up the stairs.  I am the slower for the burden of our daughter I carry, but I follow. 

It was there I found my lord, standing at the top of the stairwell and staring into the empty solar.  The trundle bed is neatly tucked away and the feather mattress of the master bed lies o’er its foot, airing out the mattress of straw and wormwood below, its curtains tied tight to the posts.  The sun streams in through the windows, lighting motes of dust as they float through the room.  All else is still. 

I cannot tell his thoughts for the blankness of his face, but, in his hand, my lord has crushed the pouch I have seen him draw from his pack, that in which he gathers athelas against the need of its use. 

"My lord," I say and lift his hand in mine.  "Come, eat.  When you have rested, I will take you to your son."

~oOo~

‘Twas not I who made my lord's seat soft nor set the best of the meal afore him.  I was much occupied in tending to the hearth and the child who scampered about it, pulling her wheeled hare behind her on its string and calling to it.  In my stead it was my lord's kin who sat him down and lay the choicest morsels of squirrel stewed in fiddleheads that we had left, a tea of pine needles, and what little, gray bread we had upon his place.  Long had my lord gazed upon his kin upon his arrival and hard was their embrace, but though Halbarad sat by his side, my lord asked no questions and made no comment.  Later they would speak of the Angle and the wider lands placed in Halbarad's care.  Now, my lord ate little, no matter the hunger of his road, and said even less.  Only his eyes spoke for him. 

For, throughout the meal, my lord watched his daughter.  She refused to sit upon her cushion and clambered o’er my lap and tugged on my hair while I fed her from my bowl.  And when done, when my lord would retreat to the solar to dress after having cleaned the dirt of his travels from him, his gaze fell all places but upon his wife where she sat nursing his child and easing her into her midday slumber upon their bed.  When refreshed and dressed anew, he left the solar on swift feet and wandered the house and grounds, his eyes mutely cataloguing places of memory, until it was time. 

"Lady?" my lord asks, for it seems my feet have grown roots.  He has turned and looks upon me, his hand raised as should he wish to take mine.  “Will you not come with me?”

Here we stand in the cool shadows of the pines as were we beneath a great gate.  The high meadow is clothed in its spring garments.  Warm is the sun and cool the breeze that bends the buttercups where they spring between the grasses.  The sight of the hillside seems nigh a glimpse into another world, eerily bright as were it another's sun that looks down upon it.  I listen to the soft whispering of the wind.  My lord and I, without word, walked the dim path from the square to this high place, his footsteps soft beside mine, deep in the loam of fallen needles, and his hand upon my arm when he thought I might falter.  And yet, I can go no further into that bright and windswept world. 

"Shall you not show me where he lies?" my lord asks.  His hand falls to his side. 

I dare not look upon his face.  "You will know it, my lord." 

He is silent, and, though his gaze is fixed upon me, asks no more.  Soon, he will turn away and wander the paths amidst our dead until he finds what he seeks. 

I leave my lord among the golden, nodding heads of buttercup, there to be private in his grief.  When last I see him, he lowers himself beside the small mound that is his son's and he is lost to my sight. 

Later, with the setting of the day's sun, we shall lie upon our bed, my lord and I, as have not for many months, and listen to our daughter's breathing.  His hand shall find mine below the covers, and there clutch it tightly it until the soft sounds below us come slow and scarcely heard. 

When my lord's fingers play upon my ribs, he makes a small and dismayed sound.  Bitter have been my lord's days, I think, and I have little left with which to sweeten his nights.  By the rustling of bedclothes and rocking of the bed, I know he comes near and would turn to me.  For the shadows of the solar, I see not his face.  The moon rises late and we lie yet in darkness.

“My lord,” I say but it seems he hears me not and his hands tighten painfully upon me. 

Faint though it is, his eyes catch the glitter of the stars and refuse to let me look away.  And when I allow the kiss, it is harsh and my lord's lips are of salt, a bitter taste.  Heedless of me, he pulls at bedclothes and shift until I am bare to him, where he then travels across my skin with kisses that seem more to devour than caress.

“My lord, wait!” I hiss and push at his shoulder.

He has settled himself between my thighs but then comes to a sudden halt of himself.  His lips have come upon the scar that brought his daughter into this world and there he pulls his thumb across my flesh to confirm what his eyes cannot see.

“What is this?” comes his demand in a harsh whisper. 

"My lord," I say to the dark above our heads, "your daughter came at the price of her brothers, for, upon her birth, I can bear no other of you."

At that, his face hovers over me and deeply do I dread what are sure to be his next words.  But then his brow falls wearily upon the bone of my hip.  I need not see my lord's features to know what plays upon them now.

"'Tis no use, my lord. Thou canst not split thyself asunder and be both hither and yon." 

His body lays stiffly braced between my thighs, as were each muscle strung for either battle or flight. The long breath he looses trembles across my skin.  It seems, then, he will put me away from him and we shall sleep side by side much as we had afore, and I shall fall into sleep lulled by no more than the sound of his breathing and warmed by the heat of his skin. But it is not so, for my lord wraps his arms to my back and clutches yet more tightly onto me and there, against my hip, he takes in and releases uncertain draughts of air. 

“My lord,” I say yet again after a moment we are thus, but falter.  I know not what I wish to say but know only I cannot bear the waiting for what must surely come next. 

With this, his hands loosen their hold upon me.

“Aye, lady,” he says low, and, withdrawing to his side of the bed, turns away and there, drawing the bedclothes up about us, falls still. 

~oOo~