~ Chapter 63 ~

“There they made a refuge for all the enemies of the king, and a lordship independent of his crown. Umbar remained at war with Gondor for many lives of men, a threat to its coastlands and to all traffic on the sea. It was never again completely subdued until the days of Elessar; and the region of South Gondor became a debatable land between the Corsairs and the Kings.”

Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

~oOo~

My lord has asked to see his daughter and I bring her to him.

I did not attend the feast in honor of the Halfling's return to health and the victory at the Fords of Bruinen.  Though I have had glimpses of his elder and his companions in the halls, gardens, and woods of this place, I did not sit at the table to sup with them, nor, though I might wish to speak again with Lord Mithrandir, did I attend the festivities in the Hall of Fire afterward.  For my little one was ill.  

A trifling thing it was, I know, merely one of the many aches and fevers that plague the very young when the nights grow chill.  But the sight of her clammy face and the sound of the restlessness in her voice filled me with an unreasoning fear.  So, overcoming my pride, for what wife did not know where her husband was, I sent for him.  At my word, my lord came to our chambers and went swiftly to her.  

He had sent word not to expect him and to attend the feast without him, but, when he answered my call, my lord was dressed as I had ne'er seen him afore; as an elven prince in shining mail, his freshly-trimmed, black hair arrayed about his shoulders and a dark cloak of good green cloth falling down his back.  A bright stone I knew not shone at his breast.  And yet, above it all his face was taut and pale with a dread that did little to ease my own heart as he laid the back of his hand to Elenir’s brow and drilled me on his daughter's care.  

But it seems the fever had broken, and she was on the mend.  When this became clear to him, his face softened, and he drew a chair to her bedside, reassuring me with a smile, and held her hand.  There we sat and watched our daughter sleep as the singing from the Hall of Fire drifted in over the terraces, mingling with the roar of the Bruinen and the distant scent of fallen leaves.  But, soon, rising, he pleaded the call of duty that would keep him away for the next days.  Even then, he released his daughter's fingers only upon extracting a promise I would bring her to see him some day after, should she be well. 

It seemed to me that still his thoughts remained with her.  For later that night Tithiniel begged entrance and insisted I sleep while she watched the child.  My lord must have spoken to the Lady of Rivendell of our daughter's illness and my vigil, and in sending her companion to relieve me she did me yet another kindness I could not fully comprehend.  

In the days following, councils to which I was not privy filled my lord's time.  The halls and terraces of Rivendell were silent.  A hush had fallen upon them that seemed to mute even the river's voice.  The only sounds come in the muffled speech from the Master's council chambers.  It was as were all of Rivendell holding its breath, awaiting word of the outcome of their debates.  

‘Twas from Tithiniel I heard rumor of the coming of sons of kings, stewards, and dwarven warriors.  I marveled at the lord of Gondor who had come so far from the South Kingdom and tried to catch my glimpse of him.  I have never chanced to meet our kin to the south, though my lord lived so long in their midst.  But it was not to be.  Mayhap it was best.  Should I have come upon him, I did not wish to be forced to explain who I was and what I did here to the son of the House of the Stewards.  I did not think I could dissemble so well as to hide the curiosity of a mortal woman of the Dúnedain alone with her child in the House of the Elder-born.  Instead, after a time, I spent my day in my rooms and avoided all company.  It was not until the morning of the day after the Council I heard from my lord, calling his daughter to him.

A silver light fills the valley as we walk, my daughter and I, following Tithiniel as she leads us through twisting paths.  The day has dawned bright and clear, the ribbon of sky above the riven valley the thin blue of autumn.  At my lord's request, I carry my daughter and follow the music of a small stream as it winds its way through groves of beech and hawthorn.  The rains that come in the coolness of the night have struck leaves to the forest floor, where they lie in a soft carpet of gold and red.  The hawthorns hang heavy with their red fruit and the blackbirds and chaffinches squawk as they squabble over their feast in the branches.  

We turn upon the path, Tithiniel’s laughter light and my daughter giggling at somewhat said I did not catch, but stop of a sudden.  For, afore us stands an elf-lord of Master Elrond’s council and, beside him, a man of whom I had only heard.  Tall he is, though not of my lord’s height, but broader of shoulder.  His straight, dark hair lies in a fall from his brow and sways above fur of a deep pelt I do not recognize lying upon his shoulders.  Richly embroidered with threads of gold is his clothing, though worn and stained with his travels, and a thick collar of silver lay upon his breast on which was fixed a white stone.  It could be none other than the Lord of the Tower of Guard, eldest son of Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and his heir.  

He has faltered and fallen back a step.  There he frowns at me ere he says somewhat I cannot understand.  ‘Tis not speech I have ever heard afore.  ‘Tis strange, its sounds, after so long with the lilt of elvish speech in my ears.  Though I know it not, clearly it was said with tones of both query and demand.  

I cannot think what response he wishes, but ere I can draw breath and call for an accounting for his manner, Tithiniel’s hand has come upon my arm to lead my daughter and I away, and I have put my back to him.  

The lord repeats the same phrase behind us, forming each sound with greater care and raising his voice, as were the words foreign to him, too, and he thought mayhap he had not said them aright.

Ere I can turn and address him, it seems the councilors of Imladris are learned in much beyond their bounds, including the languages of lands of the far south, and I need not speak.  For the elf-lord lays an arm across his breast prohibiting his following us, and says, “The lady and her child are here under Lord Elrond’s protection, Lord Boromir,” his voice firm.

“Ammë,” Elenir says, turning her face to me from where she had been examining the lord with as much curiosity as he did us.  “What does he say?”

At this, the lord blinks at her small face peering at him o’er my shoulder.  

“Forgive me,” he says and bows to his host as Tithiniel pulls me close.  

She does not urge me faster, but her arm is warm about me and her hip bumps against mine with the weight of the basket she carries as we walk.  And when we reach the head of the path into the wooded garth where we were to meet my lord, she takes her leave but did not herself go.  Instead, she stood with her back to us beneath the limbs of a tall, golden-leafed beech, her hands clasped afore her, watching the lord of Gondor until he had passed o’er path and under bridge until he could no longer be seen.  

But, still, it did not prevent my hearing his response.  For as he, himself, was ushered further down the path he said, “I beg thy pardon, Lord Erestor.  I had not meant to give offense.  I had not thought Lord Elrond would treat with the folk of Umbar.  Forgive me.  I succumbed to my surprise and was uncouth.”  

~oOo~

Her unease forgotten, Elenir leaps along gamely afore me, her high spirits returned with her strength.  She points her little finger at the berries and bright leaves and leaps after them until her fists are full of them.   As with her brother, I plant the seeds of regard for a father who must oft be absent, and she and I have agreed to bring the small pretties of the forest as a gift to my lord.  Ever and anon she runs to me, clinging to my skirt and lifting her glowing face.  She thrusts her arm aloft, insisting I see and approve of her discoveries.  Soon I carry them as well as the basket that swings heavily from the crook of my arm.   

His message said the way was short, but I fear he measured it with his long, ranging strides and not with those of his daughter's small legs.  So it was with relief I see him rise from the trunk of a great fallen tree.  Gone were the shirt of mail and the long heavy cloak.  In their place were the dark greens of a silk and velvet that fit him well.  He greets us, and, at his voice, Elenir squeals and runs to him.  Smiling, he swings her into his arms only to have her wriggle from his embrace.  She lands upon the ground already running and reaches up wide-spread fingers for the leaves and berries she had picked ere returning to her father.  

"Atto!" she cries and bounces upon her rounded legs, lifting her arms to him, but, instead, my lord lowers himself to her height, sitting upon his heels.

Their dark heads incline together as they speak, and it strikes me how like she grows to him.  I do not doubt but she tells him the long tale of the walk through the woods of Rivendell, though the words slide together unintelligibly.  He listens, his eyes fixed on her and his hand stroking her curls.  Her face is solemn as she offers the posy of woodland colors.  It is sticky and half-limp, but, still, he receives it with all the gravity reserved for accepting offerings from princes from faraway lands.  But when he bows his head and presses a kiss onto her hand, Elenir giggles and throws her arms about his neck, all pretense at courtliness abandoned.  His face is bright with laughter as he draws her against him and sits upon the fallen log.  

I am smiling.  Who would not?  I have seen the grim Chieftain of Rangers, the weary Lord of the Dúnedain, and, now, here in the place of his fostering, the shining elven prince, but ‘tis the loving father that most captures my heart and forces it to ache.  

"It is said that Master Elrond is wise," say I as I go to them.

"You have reason to question it?"  My lord settles his daughter upon his lap.  She is content, for the moment, to lean her head upon his breast.  

"Nay!" I say, sitting next to them.  The tree has lain long upon the forest floor, its wood shredding beneath cushions of green and gray moss.  "Indeed, his words come true e’en now."

My lord is puzzled, but he remains silent and his eyes twinkle with mirth, for he knows well enough I enjoy the spinning of my tale.  Had I known it, his thoughts would have told me of his amusement at the likeness between his daughter and her mother.  

"Did he not foretell the falling of your heart to this little one, my lord?"  I nod to my daughter where she now sings fragments of songs for her father, mixing words of elven tales of great glory in Aman with those of the simple loves of Arda.

Fond is his face when he turns his gaze to her.  At his scrutiny, she grows silent, a sudden shyness falling upon her, and she presses her face to his breast where he gathers her to him and squeezes her tight.  

"I believe I was doomed from the first, lady," he says and presses a kiss into her curls.  "It does my heart good to see her so well."  

Indeed it is so, though I can hear the echoes of grief in his words, for it is one that is ever present in my heart as well.  But it does not bear the saying and I turn away and busy myself with pulling the cloth from the basket.  I spread it at our feet, and my lord picks up the thread of the song his daughter had begun and sings it now to her.  His soft voice brings the prick of tears to my eyes.  I know not the tale of which he sings, but it is full of the yearning of long separation. 

'Shall we meet not in Aman,' he sings in the elven tongue, 'nor in glades of bright mallorn' and I wonder at the path his thoughts have wandered as he waited beneath the golden crowns of the tall beeches.  

Elenir, untutored in the ways of a polite audience, looks down at his hand as he holds her gift and plucks berries from their stems.  His voice drifts above me as I pull our meal of pies of cold salmon poached in wine formed in the shape of fish, fine-grained bread, a strong-smelling cheese, apples, and bundles of cress from the river from the basket.  For the quietness of my child, I know that my daughter has her ears fixed upon his voice as he sings.  

"Come, my lord," I say when all is ready, and he has finished his song.   

He kisses his daughter's brow and drops her to the cloth.  When he sits beside her, she pulls an apple from the basket and holds it out to him, begging him to prepare it for her.  There he cuts the fruit into fine wedges for his daughter's fingers.  She sits snugged into his side as she munches, and he cuts first one slice for her and then another for himself.  

The brook babbles brightly in its bed and the birds wing overhead.  The sweet scent of apple mixes with that of the tree's decay as we lean our backs against its bole.  I pour the light wine and its bite mingles with the smells of the forest and our humble feast.  I think I would forego all of the high dinners of the Master of this house should I dine with my lord and daughter in such peaceful simplicity.  It seems my lord would not disagree.  Lines of care that had lain engraved grimly upon his face these past few months seem to ease.

"I hope you did not wait long."  I hold out my hand for his knife.  He has finished slicing the apple and offers me its handle.  

"No matter. The time passed pleasantly enough."  He sips of his wine.  "I was remembering," he says, and I think my lord plays his wife's game, teasing his audience into requesting the story.  

I am cutting the bread I brought and do not answer.  The crust is thick and hard from its baking, demanding my attention, but the risen bread inside is soft and separates tenderly beneath the knife I wield.  'Tis still warm and smells of the kitchens from which we begged it.  

"Will you not ask?" 

"My lord," I say and, slicing into the cheese, hand the two to him, "these woods are fair, but I cannot think any memory of this place would be one that would bring me joy."

He looks long upon me, his keen eyes measuring my meaning as I lay a bit of cheese in my daughter's eager grasp.  She eats well, which, though she may smear apple and cheese upon her cheek and is in great danger of ruining her father's silks, is a great reassurance to her mother.  When my lord looks away, it is to gaze upon the dappled light sifting through the forest canopy. 

"I do have memories of this place, and aye, lady, they are fair.  Well do I remember them," says he, his voice soft nigh to the point of sorrow.  Then his eyes return to mine, his look somber. "But I remember, too, another stream, though deeper and more swiftly flowing, and you, with your skirts about your knees, wading through the water with your arms full of reeds."

I cannot meet his glance, for I know I am blushing, growing hot not with the pleasant embarrassment of remembrance, but with the fierce beating of my heart.  I wish he would not say such things here in this place where his face falls when touched by the burning gaze of the Lady of Rivendell and he takes great care to avoid us being seen together.  I cannot speak nor move, caught as I am between the hammer of his love for another and the anvil of his vows to me.  

I know not what I would have said in reply, for, at that moment, our daughter grasps her father's sleeve to pull herself to her feet.  She has finished her meal and part of my lord's, biting into the cheese and bread he abandoned.  

"Mamil!" she calls, and my lord releases me from his gaze to steady his daughter upon her feet.  

He guides her on the treacherous path o’er cups of wine and wheel of cheese and I take her from him.  I do not know what impulse set her to breaking our confidence, but I could not be more grateful.  Sure it is that he meant to reassure me of his faithfulness, but it is one thing to hold the belief that I share my husband's heart with another, and quite another to have him tell me so.  I do not think I could have spoken had it been required of me.  

Ere she reaches my lap, Elenir squats to fill her hands with the berries and bright leaves we gathered on our walk.  She plops herself down heavily upon my lap as were I a mattress of straw and not made of living flesh.  

"Aye, lapsinya!" I say to her delicate frown.  "What is it you wish that you throw yourself upon me as were you some little piglet splashing about in a puddle?"

She bursts into bright laughter at the thought.  "Mamil!  Me not a pig’et!  Me lapsi'ya!" 

"Are you certain of that?" I ask, taking the leaves from her hands, for I know what she wishes.  It was a poor Loëndë we celebrated, of a thin and weary cheer, but one she is slow to forget in her young life with so little of good things in it.  

"Atto!" she cries.  "I not pig’et!"

I think my lord takes in the smear of cheese across his daughter's face, for he smiles, and soft laughter comes to his lips.  

"I have not oft known your mother to be wrong, little one," he says and, setting down the pie of salmon he had been eating, brushes at the crumbs upon her face.  

"No!  Lapsi'ya," she says, now frowning and seemingly nigh to tears with the quick turning of mood of the very young.  

"Aye, you are my Elenir, never fear," I croon, and placing my hands about her waist, push her to standing while I clutch the yellow leaves.  "Now, my pet, gather you more of these and I shall weave your crown for you."  

Her face brightens instantly, and she leaps up from the blanket on which our meal rests, heedless of what she tramples though my lord may attempt to steady her and guide her swift feet.  

My lord rescues the wine skin from where its mouth has tipped precariously low and dribbles its contents upon the cloth and, scraping up a bit of smeared cheese, he flings it far into the undergrowth.  He is much occupied in clearing the shambles our child has made of our meal while I begin the exacting task of winding the leaves and berries upon each other.  But their stems are long and thin, and it goes quickly.  

When he is done and poured more wine into our cups, my lord watches his daughter as she shakes a leaf vigorously and smiles at the face she pulls when she discovers her efforts fail to dislodge the slug that clings there.  I think, at one point, he will join her, for he draws his feet to him and seems about to rise, but then he again stretches out his long legs and leans against the old trunk that makes our bench.  Mayhap she had merely passed beyond his sight and now reappears, bursting from place to place between the trees, her fists full of brightly colored leaves and the air full of her tuneless humming.  

When she returns, my daughter flings the bits of gold at me, laughing when they fall all about my dress and hair.  

"Elenir!" I say, my voice grown stern though her father might smile at the sight.  "Come, help me pick these up!"  And when she flees, giggling, I call after her, "Wish thee to have thy crown?  Then thou wilt do as thou art bid."  

True it is she takes her time in returning, but she joins my lord in retrieving the leaves.  When done, she settles to my lap and spins the leaves about by their stems as she chatters, and I must weave them with my arms about my daughter.  Natheless, I am soon done and place the circlet about her head, the leaves fluttering as she rises. 

My lord leans his head upon his hand and seems content to watch our daughter twirl about.  The weaving slips and, retrieving it from the ground, she must clap a hand tight to her head to keep it there.  From the rustling coming from about us, she dances about as were she an elfling new to the world unstained.  I find myself lost in memory, looking as I am upon her father.  Ah, but his joy springs from an untiring font deep within, despite all the long pity and grief of his life.  Even now it shines from his face, though as through a veil of weariness.  This very man who takes delight in the gamboling about of a small child once tread the dread flowers of the Morgul Vale and could speak of greater horrors still, had he the mind.  Ah, but they are etched upon the grim lines of his face, and yet his mirth lights him from within.  

When she tires of her play and the effort she must put forth to keep the leaves upon her head, my lord calls to her.  

"Here, lapsinya, I shall take it," says he when it seems she would fling it upon the forest floor.  

I think she will place it in his outstretched hand, but when she nears, she steps neatly around his reach and plops the crown upon his head.  Laughing, she trips backward to avoid his grasp, for he growls teasingly and calls her name.  For all that she falls hard upon her buttocks, his daughter laughs the more brightly and scrambles away.

"Pretty, pretty!" her voice sings as she skips about, paying no heed to her father and on to her next game.  "Pretty leaf!  Pretty tree!  Pretty Atto!  Pretty Mamil!  Pretty bird!  Pretty dirt!"  Here she halts and giggles breathlessly, nigh collapsing to the ground for the suddenness of her merriment ere resuming her song and the steps of her dance.  

My lord shakes his head, a soft sound of wry amusement rising from him.  He turns away and takes up his cup, leaving the circlet of leaves and berries upon his head as were he humoring his daughter.  

"I think I know just which of Master Elrond's folk have had the tutoring of our daughter, lady," he says.  

Indeed our daughter has merry playmates among the Silvan folk of Imladris, and, of late, has grown to protest the need for sleep.  For she would much rather stay awake under the stars with them.  

"Aye, my lord," say I.  "And grows more as one of the Eldar every day."  

He makes no answer but raises his brow briefly as he searches amongst our things. The crown of gold and red shines brightly against his dark hair.

"How long are you here, my lord?"  

"Not long," says he and settles upon the cheese, drawing his knife so he might prepare himself more to eat.  "The Council has decided, lady, and there is much to be prepared."  

"Have you taken enough rest, my lord?"

"Aye, be easy, lady," he says and sends a swift smile my way.  "The greatest danger will come only later.  I am to go south, lady, to Gondor, should I have the chance.”  

"My lord?"  So startled am I, I can think of naught to say.  

I stare at him as he works at the cheese, cutting thin slices as had he not just spoken of the return of the House of Elendil to the South Kingdom.  For he cannot go under another guise, much as he had afore, now the son of the Steward has chanced upon him here.  

"I am called there, lady," he says, his voice firm.  He takes up a slice to eat it.

"And the lord, what has he to say of the matter?  Will the House of Hurin now welcome the return of Elendil's heir?"  The words burst from me without much thought, but my lord need not ask of whom I speak.

"Aye, well, he will welcome the return of Elendil's sword, it seems."  

"Elendil's sword!"  A laugh bursts from me.  "For all its glory, my lord, it will do you and the lords of Gondor little good in beating back the hosts of the Nameless One.  Does he not know it was broken when Elendil fell?"  

"He knows it," says he.  "But it shall be forged anew ere I go, lady."

I stare at him, dumfounded.  The golden crown rests lightly upon his head with its jewels of red berries.  His face is bright beneath it as he wipes at his fingers and smiles at his daughter's capering, now I have fallen silent.  But it is as had a veil fallen between us.  I could not be more stunned had my lord raised a hand in anger and slapped me.  The warmth of his smiles seems a distant thing.  

"You will attempt this thing, then?" I ask, my voice a mere whisper, and his face turns to me of a sudden.  

I do not wait for him to answer, for I know now he will.  No matter should my lord fail, or should he prevail, all things I know are to be unmade and I must wonder at all I had thought I had known of him.  

And I think my lord knows my thoughts.  No doubt they play across my face, for he has fallen silent and considers me with a solemn pity.  Mayhap, the will of the Council had opened this road afore his feet and he had hoped to speak of it later when behind closed doors.  But it seems he had failed to account for his wife’s familiarity with his desires and her ability to see the path to which they tend.   

When next he moves, it is to pluck the crown from his head, untangling it gently from his hair.  His fingers graze upon my cheek after he has placed the band of leaves upon my head, tucking it with care between the braids that encircle my head so that the stems do not scratch at my scalp.  

"Wilt thou give thought to thy people?" I ask, and, with his grave look, my lord thumbs away the furrow between my brows.

"As e’er I have, so I do now, híril nín."

~oOo~