~ Chapter 64 ~

“Arvedui was indeed the last king, as his name signifies. It is said that this name was given to him at his birth by Malbeth the Seer, who said to his father: “Arvedui you shall call him, for he will be the last in Arthedain. Though a choice will come to the Dúnedain, and if they take the one that seems less hopeful, then your son will change his name and become king of a great realm. If not, then much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again.”

Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

~oOo~

My lord left again ere I knew it, and, I confess it, I was in an ill-temper for it.  For my lord and husband had left with no farewell and no chance to speak further of his plans.  My daughter awoke one night some time after, fearful and crying for her father and I promised to find him upon the rising of the sun.  But I was foresworn without knowing it.  Oh, I doubt not the urgency of his leaving, but bitterly I resented learning of it from one who was a stranger to me.  As always, of late, it was from Tithiniel I learned of his errand.  Far upon the Wild were the scouts sent from Imladris.  Even the sons of Elrond the Halfelven had gone, and they with my lord.  Beneath the cover of night had they slipped away.    

I think my daughter must have caught my mood, for little pleases her.  Today seems the worst of all, and I fear greatly she is yet unrecovered from her illness.  She refused her nap, though reluctant to settle upon aught else, flinging even her beloved poppet across the room when it was offered to her.  All day she wept at the denial of her simplest wishes as sure it was her heart would break.  And, upon this even, when we are called to the Great Hall, she will neither sit on her own upon the cushions or upon my lap, but wishes only to crawl about upon the floor beneath the tables and run betwixt the benches.  Here we have gathered below the Master of Rivendell and his daughter to sup with the Mighty of his House, and my child kicks at the table, rattling the silver dishes and cups.  

"Hist, Elenir," I whisper, my voice grown fierce, but she throws herself back against me.

"No, Mamil! No!" she cries, her voice high-pitched and irksome, and I struggle to contain her flailing limbs, so she does not knock our meal and my neighbor’s upon the floor.  I am nigh to bursting into tears myself.  

"Ai, lapsinya," I sigh, and lift her into my arms and stand.  

Hands reach to steady me as I step o’er the bench, for she is heavy and far stronger than her small limbs would seem to make her.  Down upon the end of the table I see Tithiniel rise, her fair face anxious as she looks to the head of the table where the Lady sits and watches us.  I shall take my daughter to our chambers, for, aye, she is weary and out of sorts.  She will soon wear herself out with her crying and then, I hope, rest as she needs.  We will not dine with the great of the Free Peoples tonight.

She kicks and screams in protest as I settle her in my arms and walk from the hall, looking neither left nor right. She peers o’er my shoulder and stretches out her arms, pleading in her incoherent cries to be led back to the hall.  But, soon, I think, my daughter finds her cries have little effect, for neither do we return to the hall nor do I set her down.  She then comes to bury her face in my loose curls, whimpering, her tears making a mess of the fine fabric of my dress.  

"I be good!  Mamil, no," comes the muted wail atimes.  

“Aye, little one,” I say.  Were I not full grown and the Lady of the Dúnedain I know I might cry out thusly, as well.  For I think, now, she is quite well but misses her father terribly, as does her mother.  

I must have counted nigh to a hundred guests in passing ere I climb the weary steps to my lord's mother’s rooms.  There the fire has burned low and the lamps are unlit.  When I sit upon the couch where we have brought it indoors, my daughter snuffles and resists my laying her down.  And so we sit, she clinging to me with her small hands and me rubbing slow circles upon her back.  The wind rises beyond the shutters to the sound of the ever-present roar of water, and the irons tick as the coals settle in the covered hearth.  To their music Elenir's fingers soon loose their grip and fall.  Though she sleeps, I feel no need to lay her upon the couch.  I think I could stay thus for all the Ages of the world.

It is then I hear the soft knocking upon the door.  Swiftly, but with as gentle hands as I can manage, I lay my daughter down, pulling off her shoes and laying a blanket o’er all.  She stirs a little, but when, in a dash across the room, I find her poppet and place it in her arms, she murmurs in her sleep, and then curls upon her side and falls still.  

When I open the door, I stand as were I frozen by the shock of cold water, for I find not the fine features of Tithiniel there, but the cragged lines, thorny brows, and twinkling eyes of the wizard.   

"Oh!  Nienna’s tears!  Mithrandir, you should not have," I scold softly. 

I close the door behind me on my daughter, for the even is mild and the sun sets in a mist upon the gold and red leaves of fall.  Here upon the terrace we may sit and be comfortable for a little longer ere the night’s chill settles upon us.  

"She sleeps, I take it, then," he says, and I nod.  "Ah, good.  She seemed in much need of rest.  You, lady, on the other hand, seem in much need of food."

Here I see he has set a laden tray upon the table and he motions to it, stepping to a chair nearby.  "And mayhap of company, as well."  

"I would welcome your company at any time, Lord Mithrandir," say I, following him.  "And I thank you for your kindness, but would you not rather sup in the Great Hall?"

"Humph," say he, and waves away the notion ere resting his hands upon his knees and lowering himself to the chair.  "I have eaten and the hall is soon to empty.  I shall have my fill of them ere too long, lady."  

There he sighs and leans back.  I come to a bench set near him. 

"I am afraid you may find me poor company in their stead."  

He grunts lightly.  "Are not we all, at one time or another?"

"Will you not have the chance to rest from your labors, Lord Mithrandir?" I ask, for the wizard has fallen into a leaden silence from which I have little gaiety to distract him.  

"Eh, now?"  His gaze rises from some distant point.  "Ah!  Some little, mayhap.  Our greatest efforts are yet afore us, lady, and we must gather our strength for them."  At the thought, his face takes on an unyielding cast and his eyes gleam darkly beneath his brow.    

I find, of a sudden, I fear for my lord.  For well I know whatever plans occupy the wizard's mind, he is sure to figure prominently in them.  

"Then I wish you what comfort you may take from your time here, Gandalf."    

At this, his keen eyes come upon me and there he takes my measure, for, now I hear it, my voice was flat and no doubt did little to provide comfort.  I have turned away from him, and under the guise of pulling the tray toward me, will not look at him.  

"Aye, I sent your husband yet again into danger and he would leave it for no other.  

"Indeed," the wizard goes on, leaning again to the back of the chair, "there is none better to do it. We must send those as are willing, no matter what perilous paths must be tread.”

I pluck the bread from where it sits upon the tray.  I do not argue the point, for it is of no use.  

Here his voice grows softer and more weary.  “It requires but the heart to set them upon it."  

I know not what troubles him and am unsure what I would have to say that might lighten his mood even should I know more of it.

"And you, lady, do you not take comfort while you may?"  

At this I sigh at the boldness of the Mighty.  They make their plans and leave those who love them to follow in their wake, and then plead us to release them from seeing the pain of the buffeting we suffer because of it.

"Have I need of your pity, Gandalf?"  I toss the crust of bread I had been tearing apart on the tray, whereupon his eyes come swiftly upon me, piercing me with their light.  

"I would have thought gardeners to be the more steadfast for the patience growing things require of them."  

At this I laugh, though with some bitterness.  "Ai, Gandalf!  My gardens," I say, sighing.  "I fear I shall ne’er have the need for patience with them.  They are much diminished, and I am afraid they shall ne'er bear fruit again."   

"So it shall be with many things," he says.  "The world does not reward all our efforts, lady, but that does not mean all our labors are complete."

I would the wizard's words were not so pointed in their delivery.  My vexation must have played upon my face, for he speaks further.  

"Even during times of drought and poor harvest, is it not then your gardens are most in need of your best efforts?  Why then do you sit idle?"  

Stung, my back stiffens.  "Mayhap you think I have neglected them of my choice. Mayhap it is of my lord you should demand your answers, for it is he who has removed the gardener from her soil.  Aye, indeed it requires much labor, but I am not there to put my back to it."

"Nay, lady," he says.  "A gardener tills the ground on which he is set and chooses those growing things that will take to it accordingly."  

"This ground on which I am set is not my own to shape according to my designs, Master Gandalf.  A gardener you call me!  Say rather a weed, for I have been plucked from my native soil."  

"And you think you buffeted by the winds of ill fortune and unable to do aught but bend to them?"

"Am I not?" 

The sound he makes is sharp with displeasure.  "Lady, it does you no good to keep your eyes fixed upon a past which is no more!"

Ah, but I bite my tongue, for should I let it loose it would cut sharply.  Aye, yes, the past is gone, and I need little reminder of this.  And then, it seems, I lose the battle.  

"What would you have me do?  Did you not just praise my steadfastness, Gandalf?  Or shall I believe myself mistaken in that?"

"Aye!  Steadfastness!  Not blind stubbornness," he says, insistent over the ill-humor that must show from my face.  "No tendency is a good in itself, but for what it serves.  Should you think honor a good thing?  Courage?  Should you bind yourself by strongly-held belief when you hear the cries of suffering about you?  Is that steadfastness?

"Aye," he goes on and settles back into his seat.  "What came afore is now gone, as many things change upon this ground we tread.  Mourn them as you should but abandon not your work.  The path does not end simply because the land about it changes."

I rub at my brow and hope to loosen the knot that forms there.  The wizard allows me but a moment ere he speaks again, and then in a voice at the most weary and vexed I have yet heard from him.  

"Sometimes, my dear Nienelen, that which is hardest to give is what is most required of us." 

At that, I close my eyes and press my hands to my face, and wonder.  This task they set themselves, my lord and his friends, shall they have the strength to complete it?  And should they succeed, shall it leave aught left to them? 

Mayhap the manner of my lord's leaving is a small thing, not worth the thought I have spent on it.  

I break into laughter and drop my hands.  

"I know not why I enjoy your company, Gandalf, why I look forward to your visits so.  In truth, I should quail in fear and hide when your shadow so much as crosses my path."

"My counsel is not for those who would despair, Nienelen."

"Nor for the faint of heart, it seems." 

He makes a small sound, and I think it not in disagreement.  "But you, dear lady," he says, "have yet to be one of either of them.  Is that not true?"

I know not, for it seems my heart would shrink upon itself for having no walls behind which to hide.  

The wood of the chair creaks faintly with the wizard's movement.  He leans forward and fixes me with his keen gaze.  "Do you not provide shelter to tender roots in the deepest of winters?  When the sun darkens, do you not gather the seeds of what you hold most dear and make plans for the coming season?  Will you sit and bemoan your fate until the frost has alighted upon them and burned away their promise for the next spring?  Hmm?"

"What is it I am to do, Gandalf?"  It is as had I a glimpse of a great beast running along the far bank of a dark river, shrouded in the cold mist that arises from it.  I feel it in the stab of hunger in an empty belly and the ache of the heart upon the barrows.  I hear it in words spoken at me as should I understand them.  I see it in the glow of sunlight upon golden leaves of beech against a fall of dark hair.  

I know what it is in my heart, but my thoughts cannot yet name it. 

"That is not for me to say, lady," says he, his eyes stern.  "In truth, I know not, but it is not to sit idly by.  That is most unlike you."  

With a long sigh, he rises from the chair and comes to sit next to me on the bench I had chosen, for, sure it is, I have fixed him with a most pathetic look.  I am more lost than when I had not yet spoken to him.  

"Aye, there are times of rest on any journey, and you should take what healing you can from them.  But you, Nienelen, daughter of the Defiant of Harad who did not break beneath the Butcher of Umbar and of the Faithful of Númenor whose spines did not bend, find little comfort in idleness.”  His voice has softened, and his look is now more one of pity.  My eyes burn.  “My heart tells me you have a part yet to play, dear child, but it is your heart you must search.  I had not known you to lack the courage."  

"Nay, Gandalf, more the understanding, I daresay."  I wipe at my eyes with my sleeve.  

Ah, my poor dress.  More fine than aught I had worn yet, so high was the occasion, and between my daughter and I, not even the skill of the elves, I deem, shall get it clean.  I take his hand from where he leans it against the bench and press it in mine.  His fingers are thick and calloused, and strong.  He smiles upon me and I see, yet again, those eyes twinkling with light.  

"Come now," says he, squeezing my fingers.  "Now is not the time for weeping."

"Is it the time for laughing, then, Gandalf?" I ask and shake my head at his smile.

"Nay, lady, 'tis time for eating," he says briskly, and I laugh.  "You would do well to learn this lesson from the Halflings.  They would not have let their food lie idle and grow cold after a wizard had carried it across half the length of Imladris for them.  Indeed not."  

"Come, come," he says and rises from the bench, pulling me gently after.  "The night draws upon us and I would have a fire by which to keep my feet warm.  Come join me, at the very least, and I shall have a pipe and you shall have your meal.  Soon, you and I must face the trials set afore us, and we shall draw what strength we can from each thing."

He takes up the tray and I follow close by.

"Aye, Mithrandir," I say, for who am I to question a wizard of his years and wisdom.

~oOo~