~ Chapter 60 ~

This is our last parting, my son. I am aged by care, even as one of lesser Men; and now that it draws near I cannot face the darkness of our time that gathers upon Middle-earth. I shall leave it soon.”

Aragorn tried to comfort her, saying: “Yet there may be a light beyond the darkness; and if so, I would have you see it and be glad.”

But she answered only this:   Ónen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim

LOTR: Appendix A: Here Follows a Part of the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

~oOo~

In the morn, when my daughter's stirring wakes me, my lord is elsewhere, I know not where.  We have slept late into the day, for the sun rides into the sky.  Left to my own, I know not where to find my daughter somewhat to eat in this place but find with the nourishing food of the elves, safety, and rest, I can offer her to nurse.  So we lay there, she and I upon this small terrace, and the flowers glow overhead with the sun's light as shells from the western sea. The branches lift gently in the breeze, letting in glimmers of bright, silver light and setting the leaves to dancing in layers of green.  I stare at the sight, as were I enchanted by their simple magic. 

Her cheeks warm with sleep and her lashes lined dark upon them, I watch my daughter.  Her slumber yet clings to her and she is content to lay still and be quiet in her nursing as she is most oft not when fully awake.  I lift her hand from my breast and kiss fingers that in turn scrabble at my nose.  Her eyes open at my touch, but they are soft with sleep and her mouth busy.  So she captures even the Master of Imladris, this little one.  I smile.  And why not? 

We lie and soon fall to slumbering, she from her full belly and I from my heavy heart.  For I am weary with the journey and holding aloft the crumbling walls of my lord's fortress.  It is left now to others' hands.  At rest, grief lies upon me and I sleep beneath its burden.  I had thought my dreams would be of fear and loss unbidden, but they are not.  Indeed, I dream of the river, of dragonflies skimming over glimmering water and reeds bending in the breeze.  There, I linger and recall the scent of the grasses of the riverbank as they were when warmed by the summer sun. 

Thus the morning wears away and I am not aware of the steps that approach, nor the shadow that falls upon the floor near where we lie.  

"Atto?" my daughter calls, her voice thick with slumber.

"Aye, lapsinya," his voice whispers, "do you hunger?"

Dimly, I feel her nod against me, but I cannot move.  My body feels as though I am plunged beneath deep, still waters, the world distant above me and I untouched below. 

"Hush, quietly, your ammë sleeps."

Her weight is lifted from me amidst the soft rustling of the bedclothes.  Footsteps lead away, but do not go far.  Loath am I to leave this place of dream and memory mixed.  But, leave I must. 

When the dream fades, and I bring myself to open my eyes, I find my lord with his daughter.  He studies her as she clutches a crust of bread in her fist and balances her small feet precariously upon his lap.  She seems less interested in eating than in bouncing upon his knees.  He holds her secure and she is merry. 

"Elenir," he calls softly, catching her eye. 

She smiles her toothy grin at him in response, and slowly his face alights with joy. He presses a kiss to her cheek, lingering there. It comes to me, then, he looks upon her and breathes of her scent in the hope of imprinting what memories he can, stealing this moment ere he must leave again. 

"Atto!  Stop! No tickle!" she protests, giggling and shrugging away from his beard. 

He laughs gently with her.  His face is both fond and sorrowful as he gazes upon her. 

I make no noise that I know, but my lord's eyes find mine.  "You slept well, lady?"

Elenir's gaze follows his, and she throws out her arms and abandons the crust of bread to the terrace floor. 

"Mamil!" 

She fusses and dangles her legs to the floor, impatient for the delay in his releasing her, but, rising, my lord brings her to me.  There she clambers over my arms and legs until she is settled against my breast where I can dispense the caresses and kisses for which her bright face appeals. 

My lord has come to sit upon the foot of the bench upon which we lie.  There he watches.  I have not answered his question and have little desire to give him satisfaction.  In all our years, he has never had to ask how I spent my nights, having known the answer for himself.  I pull my daughter's poppet from where it has become wedged between the mattress and the high back of the couch during our sleep, and her face brightens.

"My Mida!  Mamil!  Mine!" she insists with her arms outstretched.  When I place it in her reach, she clutches it tight to her breast ere thrusting it away to babble brightly at it and smooth the hair and dress to tidy the poppet.

"You leave soon, my lord?" I ask, doing much the same to my daughter.  

"Aye," says he.  "Master Elrond asks you treat his home as were it your own.  You have been granted the services of one of the Lady of Rivendell's companions to show you what you need of his house and teach you the ways of its people." 

I have settled Elenir comfortably in the crook of my arm and there she babbles softly to her poppet, atimes bouncing it upon her legs and atimes pretending to feed her.

"I would I had a gift to give in farewell, my lord," say I and, indeed, I regret the lack.   

"I have one to ask of you."

At this, I look up to find my lord studying me with some hidden wariness.  I offer my hand and he takes it.  His fingers clasp mine and I worry at the pleading of which their warm pressure speaks.

"What would you have of me, my lord?"

"It may not be so simple to give, lady."

"You can but ask."

"I must beg you forgive me for bringing you here," he says, and though his face be resolute as always, I see there sorrow as well.  "Were there other fastness in which to make you safe, I would have found it." 

At this, I withdraw my hand.  "It seems you should ask this forgiveness of another, my lord."

He does not reply, and a pain strikes my heart as had he loosed a bolt into my breast.  His silence speaks where his words say naught.  He sought her out as I slept and, ere he spoke to me, begged of her her pardon.  For, in taking his hand, I find he wears a ring I have not seen afore.  My lord is wont to go without adornment, but now wears a ring of twin serpents of silver with eyes of a green gem that flash with the light of the morning sun.  There is but one other to whom he would have gifted such a thing, and that only in vow of betrothal.  

I do not know why it had not occurred to me.  For why else would he be so uncertain of our welcome, and so quick to humble himself to beg it.  Indeed, my lord gives it no comment as had he assumed I knew.  Ah, no wonder then how quick his face has been to darken with shame at any reminder.  Ai!  I am a fool.  I had not thought it had gone so far as that.

"Worry not,” I say.  “I shall not shame you with displays of ill-temper while you are gone, my lord."

"I had not thought it," he says.  "I ask only for myself."  And when I do not speak nor meet his gaze, he goes on, "I cannot yet earn your forgiveness, lady, but I would plead for your mercy all the same."

"My lord," I insist, an ache gathering swiftly behind my eyes, "you have it. I hold naught against you.  As in all things, it shall be as it pleases you."

The look he bends upon me at this is full of weary reproach. 

Aye, well, it is the best I can do.  I will not place blame.  I will not draw the attention of the master of this house and thus test his good will.  Nor will I resent the lady who lays claim to my lord's heart, but to do more would be to abandon the very deepest rooms of my own heart in which he resides. 

"Should this be what you would ask of me in parting, my lord, why are you not satisfied?" I ask, my voice growing crisp.

"Lady, I have not yet asked what I would have of you in parting." 

"What, my lord?  What is it you could ask of me I have not already given?"

I think his face now grows somewhat pained.  "What I would wish, lady," he begins sternly, but then, with some effort, his voice softens, "I would have you not give in to despair but find your heart's comfort here." 

I lie back upon the pillows, my palm splayed upon my brow.  Here I have traveled far from my people, whom I have abandoned to the Shadow.  I shall live in comfort while they live with hunger and fear and the near threat of death.  The house and garden in which I have found a small measure of peace shall soon be overrun and fall to ruin.  And all to live in a place whither I cannot share a bed with my husband and must, instead, watch as his heart dies a thousand deaths under another’s regard, and then share table and hall with her while her father watches her heart do the same.

Even his lady mother had found her position here untenable after some time, and she had not these with which to contend.  Is it any wonder, then, that I laugh? 

At this, my lord sits all the more stiffly at my feet.  "You think me a fool?" 

"I think, my lord, I have never known you to ask for too little," I say with a wry, broken laugh and, for the sudden ache in my breast, close my eyes, for I do not wish him to see too closely into my heart.  Or must he see, I would not know it. 

I say when I trust my voice again, "Nor ever more than what must be given."

When I look about again, I find Elenir has fallen quiet, gazing at us with her solemn eyes.  Here, with a pang, having become aware of my daughter, I sigh and smile upon her.  She then twists about and presses deeply to my breast where I can run my hand through her dark curls and she occupies herself with some inscrutable game with her fingers.  For a long moment we are thus and once she is easy, I speak.

"My lord, I cannot give you what you ask ere you leave.  It is the work of more than one day.  But I can give you my promise that I shall endeavor to be at peace upon your return." 

"Then I shall hope for it," says he, it seems with some relief. 

"Come, lapsinya," I whisper and her little face tilts of a sudden to mine.  I rise from the couch.  I am hungry and thirsty and wish to begin whatever day awaits me. 

"This lady who comes to guide me, am I to go to her?" I ask as I settle my daughter upon my hip and go to the tray of fruits, drink, and prepared foods my lord has carried hither.

"No, she will find you here."

I nod. 

My child finely balanced against me, I lean down to pick up a slice of a sweetly smelling, golden fruit.  I know it not, but nibble cautiously of it, for, after the poor rations of winter, I know my belly unused to such rich commons.  I think, mayhap, I should restrain myself, though it tastes of summer and sunshine and clear wine, and so take up the cup instead.  I have my back to him, but I know my lord rises and stands silent as I drink from it. 

"Am I to depart without your blessing, lady?"

I turn to him.  "You leave so soon?"

"Even now."

Now I truly look at my lord as he stands at the foot of my new bed.  Pink and white petals of flowering trees flutter about him in the rising breeze, the light of morning in his eyes.  No matter weary, nor grieved, nor shamed; he is as fair as ever. He wears the clothes I crafted for him.  Carries the blanket of which I taught him the weaving. Has packed the food I prepared for him, carried from the home I made for him.  I weary of wondering what the Lady of Rivendell gives him I cannot.

"No, never that," I say and lay down both cup and child.  For the moment, she is content to splay her small fingers about its rim and tip the cool water to her mouth.

When I slip against my lord's breast and embrace him, his arms tighten about me and his face presses deep into my hair.  He smells of leather and wool and the cleanness of soap.  He breathes deeply, and his breast rises against me.  My blessing is without words, but truly I wish him safe upon the road and safe in his return. 

When he releases me and would go, I turn my back to reclaim my child. 

~oOo~