~ Chapter 65 ~

“For the high men of Gondor already looked askance at the Northmen among them; and it was a thing unheard of before that the heir of the crown, or any son of the King, should wed one of lesser and alien race. There was already rebellion in the southern provinces when King Valacar grew old. His queen had been a fair and noble lady, but short-lived according to the fate of lesser Men, and the Dúnedain feared that her descendants would prove the same and fall from the majesty of the Kings of Men. Also they were unwilling to accept as lord her son, who though he was now called Eldacar, had been born in an alien country and was named in his youth Vinitharya, a name of his mother’s people.

But Eldacar did not prove easy to thrust from his heritage. To the lineage of Gondor he added the fearless spirit of the Northmen. He was handsome and valiant, and showed no sign of ageing more swiftly than his father. When the confederates led by descendants of the kings rose against him, he opposed them to the end of his strength.”

Appendix A: Annals of the Kings and Rulers

“But the stewards were wiser and more fortunate. Wiser, for they recruited the strength of our people from the sturdy folk of the sea-coast, and from the hardy mountaineers of Ered Nimrais. And they made a truce with the proud peoples of the North, who often had assailed us, men of fierce valour, but our kin from afar off, unlike the wild Easterlings or the cruel Haradrim… For so we reckon Men in our lore, calling them the High, or Men of the West, which were Númenóreans; and the Middle Peoples, Men of the Twilight, such as are the Rohirrim and their kin that dwell still far in the North; and the Wild, the Men of Darkness.”

Faramir, ROTK: The Window on the West

~oOo~

Their farewells had been said in the great hall by the fire, and they were only waiting now for Gandalf, who had not yet come out of the house. A gleam of firelight came from the open doors, and soft lights were glowing in many windows. Bilbo huddled in a cloak stood silent on the doorstep beside Frodo. Aragorn sat with his head bowed to his knees; only Elrond knew fully what this hour meant to him. 

FOTR: The Ring Goes South

Here in this place in which the folk of the Eldar race walk out of legend and share the same paths as I, sit at the same table, and are warmed by the same fire, I have had much time to think.  

I sit upon the terrace that abuts my lord's mother's rooms.  Here, once, I slept under boughs of white and pink blossoms.  They live as naught but shades of memory now.  For thin is the blue of the winter sky above bare and black branches and the wind scatters the leaves into dancing about where I sit, my hands bound within my sleeves and cloak against the chill.  Fire shudders and snaps in the brazier at my back where I sit perched upon a stranger’s chair.  Its flames do little to relieve the cold, for the sun makes its way swiftly to the tips of the mountains and soon the mist that floats above the River Bruinen shall flood o’er the valley and make ghosts of colonnades and trees and the folk walking amongst them.  Yet, loath am I to return indoors where my daughter sleeps.  

For I await my husband.  

Ai!  Husband.

No longer does the word taste oddly upon the tongue.  ‘Tis one I know now with much finer intimacy, both the bitter and the sweet.

Here, while my lord scouted out the wastes for signs of The Nine, I have had much time to reflect on the rise and fall of kingdoms and the fortunes of kings, their kith, and their kin.  No Aldarion, Mariner King of Númenor, is he; stubborn and prideful, weighing the need of land against those of the heart and finding his wife's wanting.   And no Erendis am I, his queen grown bitter and withdrawn for his neglect when he chooses to pursue the weary defense against the Nameless One, rather than remain caught within the bounds of my life.  

No.  For I have a fortress to rebuild.  And as with all such endeavors, I must begin by ensuring the foundation is strong and will endure the battering winds of misfortune, and the most wretched tendencies of Man.  My lord goes south and soon.  

Ah, but the path he shall tread is a treacherous one.  

I catch sight of him, striding swiftly along the halls and paths.  His shadow passes afore softly lit windows and open doors.  It could be no other.  They make their farewells in the Great Hall now, and soon Master Elrond and those of his household who wish shall gather outside its doors to see them away.  

My lord comes near, so that I see his face pale against the gathering dusk.  Grim is his look, but resolute.  He pauses mid-step when he sees me waiting here, but then strides on, making his way to me.  He wears the dark colors of his winter gear, and I marvel how he came upon the long, fur-lined vest I fashioned so long ago.  I know all of what he carries, but for his sword.  I have seen it ere now in glimpses clouded by blood and fear and screaming, but not with my waking eyes.    

I rise when his feet come upon the short flight of steps to the terrace.  Quickly he climbs them and then is afore me, but I say naught.  I think he must read my thoughts upon my face, for neither does he speak.  His look is determined, but he wears his conviction wearily and beneath, no doubt, seeks to quell voices that speak more of apprehension than assurance.  For we are now come to it, and there is no turning aside.

"She is inside," say I at length, and when he goes, sink to my seat.  It seems I have no bones within my limbs, for they refuse to hold me aloft.  

Long are the moments he spends indoors.  I doubt not he watches his daughter's slumber, not daring to wake her to press a farewell upon her she would not comprehend. It would only distress her.  There he must take care to steal what he can of the sight of her face and her movements in her sleep, and draw them deep to his heart.  For ‘tis greatly uncertain should he e’er have more of her.  I cannot begrudge him the time he has left. 

When he has returned, in silence, he closes the door upon the warmth and glow of the hearth.  For the solemn look in the gaze that is turned upon me, I throw the folds of my cloak off my hand and offer it to him.  

He takes it, coming to stand beside me, and speaks.  

"I have neglected thee."

I know not what to say.  Well I know the urgency of the councils that have filled my lord's time in these few days of his return.  And I had not had it in me to force his hand.

"Do you recall your promised gift to me at our last farewell?" asks he.

"I do."

"And how fare you in your attempts, lady?"

"Not well," say I, for, indeed, my heart has found little to ease it here.  

"I am sorry to hear it.”  He surveys me with his kind pity.

"Mayhap you shall allow me some little time more ere insisting the debt be paid."

"I would have you take whatever time you need, so long as you do not lose heart and abandon the attempt."  

He lifts his gaze to look upon the doors that open and spill light into a distant courtyard.  At the sight, somewhat heavy settles upon his shoulders.  

Indeed, he must go.

"When my daughter awakes," he says and withdraws his hand, "will you give her this?"  From his fingers dangles a fine silver chain.  Affixed upon the end is a green gem that catches the last of the sunlight and sparkles as it turns about.  "And tell her the tale of how her father found this stone upon the Last Bridge, and thus had hope, in an hour of great need, he need not face peril unaided."  

He slips the stone into my hand, where it is warm from when he carried it.  There he curls my fingers about it and, with his intent gaze, extracts my promise to do as he bids.  He need have no doubt, for my heart breaks for my daughter who is sure to have no more of her father than a stone to string about her neck.

"Fare thee well.  I go to search for light beyond the Shadow," he says softly and bows o’er my hand.  "Remember me to my daughter."  

I take back the hand he releases, slipping the stone into my sleeve, there to keep it safe until I can take it inside.  

His fingers come to cup my cheek in a brief caress, and I must take a great breath to speak o’er the beating of my heart.  For the time has come, else he shall turn and stride swiftly to the stairs that shall take him away, and I will have lost my chance. 

"Have you grown so high? Will you not take gift in farewell from me?" 

"Never, lady," he says, his face solemn.  "I would take whatever gift you would think to give, for I know its worth as no other."

"Then come," I say, raising my hands for his.

His eyes wonder, for though my voice is gentle, I cannot bring myself to smile upon him and the hands I offer shake.  Even so, he lays his hands in mine, and, of his own will, comes to kneel afore me and bends his head o’er my knee.  

It is not the dark gloss of his hair hanging as a curtain o’er his face I see.  Nay, in its place I see the black of the crow's wings as they swarm above a field writhing in violent struggle and hear the screaming of men and beasts.  Ai!  By what grace of the Valar shall he survive such a day?  

Even now, though it is I who clasp his hands, the strength of his grasp as he attempts vainly to warm flesh he finds too cold for his liking comes nigh to breaking my resolve.  Yet I must do this thing.

"Aragorn, Arathorn's son," I say, my voice a mere whisper.  Though I make the attempt, I cannot bring it to full force.  

His fingers still as I tighten my grip.  

"Lord of the Dúnedain, this is my gift in farewell to you: I allow you the right to claim the seidiad, and beg you release me from the vows that bind me to you."

I may yet have his hands, but his head has risen and his eyes flash fire.  Had I not held tight, he would have pulled away and I know not what he would have done next.  His voice is cold when he speaks.

"You think to offer this thing to me as a gift?  I refuse it!  How is it the woman I married is so cruel she would make her children fatherless, cast her husband aside when he has need of her constancy the most?"  

"Do not mistake me!"  I have found my voice, and it is strong.  "Thy daughter and thy son are thine own and will ever be past even the Circles of the World!  For the rest, do not speak to me of constancy.  From thine own lips have I known of the love thou hast for another since the first day I was made thy wife, yet still have I borne thy touch, thy children, and the pain of thy commands for the love I bear for thee!"     

Had I, at one time, thought I might hear words of love softly spoken in return should I confess them, I do not think so now.  For his features tighten with anger.  

"Can you not see it?” I ask.  “Your destiny draws near.  Should you renew the line of Kings, you must have an heir, and I can give you none.”

"Nay! I have an heir, lady," says he firmly and shakes his head.  "You distress yourself without necessity.  You forget your child."

"Would you, then, bring strife to Gondor where the last of the kings of the North, in his wisdom, did not?"  

"Lady, the world unfolds as it must. It is not on us to order all things to the concerns of Men. Had the fates of this world given me a daughter and no other, then it is as it should be," he says with a steely finality.

I laugh, so caught in surprise am I, and he draws his hands from mine as they loosen.  He makes to rise from his knees, as had he had enough and only wishes now to bring our time together to a close. 

But we are not finished!  My hand darts to his wrist to restrain him and he halts, though, by the set of his jaw, he is clearly unwilling to hear aught else of what I might have to say. 

"Did you not order things according to the concerns of Men when I was chosen to be your wife?" I demand.  "Is this not what you did, you whose heart was most decidedly fixed upon another since you were made a man?  What greater sign of your destiny have you been given by the fates of this world than the love of one of the highest houses of our time returned."  

At this, he shakes his head, his displeasure at the reminder writ large upon his face.  “Lady, I had not known you so cruel as to taunt me with what I have sacrificed for thee and the suffering it forced upon one who has done naught but attempted to give thee comfort.  What does it matter?  That path is closed.  You cannot set me back upon it.  What conditions do you think were laid upon us to tolerate our stay here?”

"Hearken to me!" I say, interrupting him, but he goes on, speaking over me.  

“How do I make this clear to thee?  She has made her wishes very plain.  She will not see me!  I am disavowed!”

"I know you would not wish me pain, nor abandon me to the life your own mother lived.  But, still, no matter should it be the Lady of Rivendell or another, you must do this.”

“And should I insist,” he demands, “command you come to me, would still you harden your heart against me?  Must you then force me to send men to drag you from your lonely tower in the North?"

"Oh, no," say I, laughing sharply.  "Have you but to send for me, I shall come.  I shall outfit myself in all the dignity deserving of your queen.  And there I shall abase myself amidst the splendor of the King Returned and cast my body at your feet.  Even there shall I plead my cause for all of your court to hear and you shall bear the shame of it.  I shall not stand by your side, nor keep your house, nor sleep in your bed.  But should you wish it of me, oh aye, I shall come."  

His face hardens at this.  “And should I refuse you the chance of doing such a thing?  What then?”

“Oh, my husband, do not forget.  You do not yet hold the Sceptre of Annúminas nor is there guarantee the folk of Arnor shall welcome you to your throne there. You shall require their goodwill to do it, which you have frayed to a thread when you ordered your men to protect the Shire over them. You need my aid to regain it.  But should you confine my acts in any way, then you should take care the gilded cage you design for me has no means by which I may exit this mortal world.  For I will take whatever methods are to hand to leave it, and you will have the burden of explaining it to my kin.  From my deathbed shall I strike at thee and turn thy folk of the North against thee!”

At this, he lets loose a short, choked sound and a spasm twists his features. “Alas, lady, what madness has its hold upon thee?”

“Know this,” I go on.  “Until thou hast gotten a male heir by another woman, I shall never allow my daughter to set foot in the lands of Gondor!  There are those amongst our folk willing to take her into hiding in the hills of my mother’s kin.  Slow will the clans be to surrender one of their children to such a fate as would befall her should you claim her as heir.  There, should you e’er wish to see her again, you will be forced to paint the hills in their blood.  The Defiant of Harad and their children have stood firm against worse tyrants than you would have to make yourself in any attempt to secure her, and would do so again.”  

“What manner of man dost thou believe me to be,” he shouts, “that would not have put great thought into preparing for our daughter’s protection or would even consider ordering such an attack upon my own people?”  

“You will not be there when it comes, and neither will I.”  I grab him about his wrists ere he can pull away.  By the Light of Aman, he will listen to me! “They will wait until you are gone and she is at her weakest, and then they shall strike. Should the high men of Gondor have taken great offense to being ruled by a son of a woman of Rohan, what shall they shall see when they look upon our daughter?  They will see naught but the blood of their enemy of old in the darkness of her skin and the color of her eyes. Aye, there will be those that shall come to cherish her, but it takes just the one, should he have the power, and the rest will turn their back to her for fear of him or be crushed in the attempt to protect her.  I refuse to allow it! You must do this!”

He shakes off my grip, but only to gather my hands in his.  My hands are shaking, and he must know it, for so are his, so enraged is he. He brings our hands to his brow and there presses his face to them.  With some effort, he closes his eyes and breathes deep, setting aside his fury.  It take some time, but, when done, and his shoulders have gentled and face softened, he sits back upon his heels and looks up at me.  

When he speaks, his voice is low.  In it, I hear clear the aching of his heart that I might think he would abandon my daughter and I to bear the brunt of his choice alone. 

“Had I the time, lady, mayhap we could discuss this more, and I could ease your fears.  Had I known of them – “

“And yet you found every excuse to avoid your obligations to me since I learned of your plans.”  

He does not deny it, nor does he plead the necessity of his absences, but presses his lips tight together ere speaking again.  

“Thou art híril nín,” says he. “I have not forgotten it.”

“You need not explain yourself, my lord.”

“Lady, I beg thee,” he says and for the pleading upon his face, ‘tis clear he hopes I shall hear him out and be comforted.  “I would have you be my queen in full, with all its powers, not in name only to appease those who have not yet come to know you and judge you only upon what they see.  There is much good we could do, you and I.  Much we could heal that has long been broken.  Aye, it will take work, and aye, I would not have you remove yourself south nor our daughter assume her throne until all was in readiness.  But I have not known you to shirk any burden for its weight or the length of the road to achieve it.”

“Had you thought my aid necessary for such endeavors, mayhap you should have informed me of your intent and begged my thoughts on it.”

“Aye, lady, and deeply do I regret not having done so,” he cries.  “I can only plead the weight of other demands on my time of late and the belief that you and I would be of like mind. Aye!  Hold me to account for the manner in which this has been revealed to you, but surely it is not so great a thing as the choices we have afore us.”

“Ah!” I exclaim.  “Do you wish to convince me or yourself of this?  For it is not the full truth.  I have never afore said you nay, but that is not why you have not spoken to me of this.  For never once have you spoken to me of your time in Gondor serving its steward, nor of your journeys after in the lands of my forefathers, even when you knew me hungry for all I could learn of my mother’s folk and stymied in my attempts to do so.”  

He rubs at my knuckles, his gaze flicking from them to my eyes and back.  I would say that the disquiet with which he looks upon me was unlike him, had I not sure knowledge of its source.

“That does not mean I have not heard the tales told of it,” I say.  “But you meant them for other ears, not mine.”  

Should there have been any heat to my thoughts, they have now cooled.  So have his and when I consider him, he accepts my examination but when I next speak, he cannot look upon me.  

“Tell me, my lord, how many folk of Umbar did you meet in battle then, when you led the attack upon their city?  You thought it a certain thing, the people there would swear allegiance to the Deceiver and wished to prevent it.  How many died at your own hand?  What thought did you give it then?  Did you see the people there as naught but a threat and regret the necessity of taking their lives?”

And now you must return there and meet the folk of Umbar again in battle.  But now they are your kin where they were not afore, distant though it may be. And you shall see them with new eyes and wonder had you given proper weight to other paths to preventing their attendance upon the Nameless One other than their deaths.  And you must ask yourself why you had deemed their lives not worthy of the effort.

Throughout my speech, his hands would tighten upon me and his breast heaves, as were he fighting for breath. But now, now I think he knows what I shall say next, for he looks away and naught shows upon his face but his eyes glittering in the light of the brazier.  

“For how many shall you meet in battle now and look upon them and know, had chance not brought his forefathers north, you look upon the face of your own son?”

It is at this a spasm of pain contorts his face and he turns swiftly to press his face to our clasped hands, as had, only now, his heart broken open.  

“I can only think, then, when you traveled more closely among the folk of Harad, you saw what the Mighty of Númenor had wrought there.  You have not returned to Gondor since, and, indeed, fled to solace amongst the Galadhrim of Lothlorien.  

“I do not know had you another choice, my lord.  But the dread that mayhap there had been another way, but you had not considered it because your thoughts were akin to those of your forefathers of Númenor and your kin of the kings of Gondor, who have ever sought rule over  Umbar and Harad and homage of their folk, and thought them lesser, it is this you hid within your heart where you could leave it unnamed.  And it is this why you have remained silent.  You knew you could not lie to me and must confront it.  For you cannot partake of the gifts of Númenor, should you also not assume the burden of its ills.  

“This is why you have found every excuse to avoid your obligations to me of late.  For should you wish to ascend to the throne of Gondor, what must I think of what they have done?  And you feared what you might see of yourself reflected back to you in my eyes.”

When I have done, my lord releases a long breath from where he is bent to my knees.  Sniffing, he presses a kiss to my knuckles ere raising his head.  

“I have never wished to give you any reason to think I saw you as lesser, lady,” he says, “nor our children any less worthy of every effort or every aspiration, no matter its height.”

“I know it.”  Indeed I do, no matter my lord’s fears.  And had he only spoken to me of them, I would have told him so.  

“A worthy goal, my lord,” I go on, “to bring peace among such disparate enemies of old with age upon age of suffering and pain between them, and indeed I shall hold you foresworn should not you do your utmost to attain it.  But you may not atone for your regrets upon the back of my daughter.  I will not allow it.”

He stares at my hands as were he caught there, watching the pull of skin o’er the bones of my hand as his finger play upon it, his shoulders sagging.

“Alas, lady, I cannot say your fears are unfounded,” he says, his hands stilling upon me as he searches my face, ‘but will you not put your faith in me as you once did?”

Ai!  I can only hope, now he has turned to tenderness, he shall soon desist.  Oh, how I long to place myself in his hands as I have afore.  I trust he would buoy me up and do his utmost for our child, and my heart aches for it.  For it is not enough.   

When I shake my head, he goes on with a heaviness to his voice I have not heard afore. 

“I know I have asked much of you and you have suffered for it.”  Here he halts, stopping and considering me.  “Has the burden grown too much, then, and, at the last, cost me your love?”

At this, my voice has again been reduced to a thing of thin, trembling air.  “Nay, even now, though I ask this, I yearn for thee and love thee still.  But I want peace more and there are things I refuse to sacrifice.  Our people have the greater claim.  What I have of hope, I cannot keep for myself but must give to the Dúnedain.”

With a flash of a startled and pained look upon his face, it seems I have struck a wounded part of him and, for a moment, he cannot speak for the shock of it. His eyes track the tears that well and fall upon my cheeks. 

“Is it me you doubt, then?” he asks.  “Aye, though I came late to it, I have treasured thee.”

So great is the feeling that strikes at my heart, I cannot speak.  Ah, neither can I look upon him!   I lower my head to hide what must be clear upon my face. Ai!  So long have been the years I have yearned to hear words of these kind from him, only to hear them now.   He could not have caused me more pain had he, instead, treated my heart with disdain. 

I know not his thoughts, for I can see naught but the shadows of my lap. He takes in breath as to speak but, at first, only silence follows.  

“In truth, lady, I had given up on it,” he says.  “The years wore on and such was the plight of the Dúnedain of the Northland, I came to know aught else I might aspire to a fool’s dream. As lost and out of place as you find yourself here, so was I.” His thumbs brush gently upon my wrists.  “Then I came upon you singing and gathering reeds upon the edge of the river.  And you offered me a way back, a path and a companion upon it.

“Do you wish it of me?” he asks. “Would you have me reject the chance offered, set aside my claim upon the throne, and return to you in the North as I am now?”

Oh, how I long to say “aye.”  I know not an he truly offers it, nor what he would do should I say I wish it of him.  But I do not think I shall tempt either of our hearts with such a thing.   

“Nay,” I say and lift my head to look upon him. I must clear my throat so I may speak.  My hands are not free to wipe at my cheeks and there I must suffer the chill of the rising winter air upon them.  “Do not return to the North without having made the attempt.  Should you not succeed in your claim to the throne of Gondor, there is little you and I can do to fend off the years of weary defeat that shall follow.  It would break both your will and your heart to have not done all within your power to prevent it. I have no great wish for you to return home to find you can do little but watch your folk pass to naught but the tumble of stone upon our heights and the curiosity of middens and odd sounding words from a long-gone tongue.”

I feel empty, as had a wind blown through my heart and swept it clean.  I have but one last thing to say.  

“And yet, though still, I love thee, I must cling to the hope you love your people and your daughter more.  You must set me aside,” I say and his grip on my hands tightens painfully and he drops his head to press it tightly against my knuckles. 

“Should you, Aragorn, Lord of the Dúnedain, not fulfill your vow to protect your child and your kin of the Northlands, I, as híril nín, will hold you in default and act in accord to ensure it done.”

Slowly, he shakes his head.  His voice rises from where he lies, and I think my heart shall break for the wretchedness I hear in it.  

“Thou art my wife!  I beg of thee, set not thy heart nor thy will against me.”

"It is already done.  We were bound upon the condition I provide you with an heir and by my barrenness are our vows dissolved.  You may set me aside without rancor, without blame or bitterness.  You must make your choice anew."

He does not speak, nor move.  But, in the long moment we stay thus, I hear what he does not say.  

He does not speak of regret, of the vanity of allowing the intellect to reason away what the spirit would have moved him to do those years ago when the Elders pressed him to bind himself to a woman of his kind.  He does not speak of the suffering that followed his decision to excise a part of his heart.  He does not speak of his dismay at the pain I have felt at his hands for it.  He does not speak of the deep well of what we owe in penitence to the small child we left behind in that high place with its windblown grasses and nodding heads of buttercup.  And now it seems it had all been but an illusion, the fear and the duty that had driven reason to demand so high a price of our hearts.  

Though he may be so greatly shocked at the chasm I have opened afore his feet he cannot find speech for it, to me the choice is clear.  Should he succeed or sacrifice his life in the attempt, it ends here.  I will not see him again. 

It is time.  

"Aragorn," I whisper into his dark crown, "go with my blessing."  I take a breath to still the trembling in my voice.  "Thou facest a shadowed road and a long one. I pray the Valar watch over thee and those in thy care, give thee strength for thy task, and keep thee safe."  

His head lifts from my hands but remains bowed as he rises to his knees.  I think he waits for me to say one thing more, for ne’er have I failed to end with a plea for him to return home each other time we have taken our farewells.  When it does not come, his eyes glitter beneath his lowered lids.  

"Nienelen," he says low and takes my hands in his to make of them a tender cup.  There he lays his face.  His skin warms mine.  So soft is the press of his lips there I nigh cannot feel their touch.  

He rises then and, when he turns, his stride leads him swiftly away.  

~oOo~