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Emissary of the Mark  by Soledad

Emissary of the Mark

(Elfhelm’s adventures in the land of Rhûn)

by Soledad

Disclaimer: see Introduction, because in this story it’s rather long.

Author’s notes: The rite of the hallowing of the bride is based on what I have read on the net about Anglo-Saxon heathen religion. Based on it, yet not the same.

The second part of this chapter wasn’t originally intended. It’s a birthday gift (Hobbit-style) for my good friend, Linda Hoyland, who wanted herself some more Aragorn. *g*

Time: about four years before the Ring War

Beta read by Borys, thanks.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter Thirteen – The Hallowing of the Bride

The news of the upcoming marriage of Imogen Ragnarsdaughter to a rich and powerful thegn of the Riddermark – and a remote kinsman to the King of the Horse-lords, at that – spread like wildfire through the Halls of Nimwarkinh. Some of the lesser jarls, belligerent and greedy ones, always hungry for livestock, slaves and riches that could be taken from the less-protected farmsteads and villages of the East-mark, were unhappy with the thought that the raids had to end (or, at the very least, turned to other places), of course,  and mourned the loss of the easy booty.

But these were few and quickly silenced. As a whole, the Tribe of the Bear was content to have a new, steady trading partner and one enemy less in their backs.

And so on the next evening the feasting began, filling the Mead Hall with people, with the pleasant aroma of woodfire and with music. A trestle table had been carried onto the throne dais, and there the two men who had forged this alliance by marriage – Lord Elfhelm of the Mark, the bridegroom, and his friend, Lord Aðalbrandr of the people of the Sea-kings, who had negotiated on his behalf – sat in a place of distinction, both decked out in festive garb in the fashion of the Horse-lords. Members of the chieftain’s family and his chief vassals also sat at that table.

Khimmer warriors needed little to have a good time. Soon enough, the Hall was alive with the boisterous noise of merrymaking, with laughter and bawdy jokes and drunken curses, with song and the harpestry, with carefree, blissful celebration, untained by any thought of the Shadow growing in the East. The cooking fire sent smoke and delicious smells up the cleverly hidden shafts, cut into the rock by Dwarven stone-masons Ages ago, out into the night. The fattest hog that could be found was hefted onto the chieftain’s table, its skin steaming and crisp, the mead flowed freely, and sweetmeats were distributed generously among the feasting crowd.

Imogen, too, had a place of distinction on her father’s left, between Ragnar and her future husband. Such thing had never happened before, as not even shieldmaidens could claim a place at the chieftain’s table, but today was her day, the feast in her honour, and no-one could question it. She looked exquisite: a slender young woman, adorned with gold, furs and glittering jewels, her raven hair braided in the most intricate manner and covered with a veil, as it was due to a noble bride on the night of her hallowing, the beautiful bracelet, the morgengifu of her groom, glittering on her wrist for everyone to see, just as Elfhelm was wearing the torque, Ragnar’s welcoming gift from the first evening.

Her grey eyes were calm, her beautiful face was carefully schooled into a serene smile, but behind that, she was watching the crowd with cold disdain. Regardless of the understanding between her and her bridegroom, these people had sold her to their own advantage, and that was something she did not intend to forget. Ever.

Ingolf, the ultimate cause of this all, was sitting on their father’s right, hands clenched into fists on the table before him, silent, his jaw set, his teeth clenched. He was the only one not drinking, and though his face showed nothing of his true feelings, everyone present knew this feast to be the greatest humiliation of his life – the very life bought by his sister’s marriage.

The two witan, seated further down the High Table, exchanged looks of grim understanding. They knew that Ragnar might be forced to name another heir yet. For –unless Ingolf found a way to perform great deeds that would make his name remembered by future generations – the warriors might choose not to follow him after his father’s death, seeing that his life had been bought by a woman’s sacrifice.

Khimmer warriors took such things very seriously.

Choices were there enough – which made things even more worrisome. Ybba, Ragnar’s firstborn, was well of age and beyond the bear-test, but so were Rollo and Knud and Einarr and Wulfstan – and even though Ragnar had chosen to send Einarr and his brother Eyríkr into exile under the thin mantle of making them Imogen’s personal guards and his own eyes and ears in Lord Hengest’s house, three of the other four could also rightfully expect to be chose. Each of them had a considerable following, and each had skills that could prove useful for a future chieftain.

Of all of Ragnar’s son, Ybba was the most experienced; a good warrior, but also a man of even temper. A bit heavy-handed perhaps when dealing with belligerent warriors – resulting in some of them losing their heads – but still the best-suited for leadership.

However, many of the lesser jarls would wish for a chieftain who would be a warlord, first and foremost, and Rollo the Large would fit that requirement best. He was a true bear of a man, in whom the mythical ancestor of the Tribe could be recognised best. He was also a berserk who, if his blood grew hot with battle-rage, could mow down entire armies on his own – or so his admirers liked to say anyway.

Unfortunately, he was also a bit slow-witted, easy for others to manipulate. An excellent weapon in the hand of an able leader, but not a leader himself. With him on Nimwarkinh’s throne, the Tribe would soon return to the old ways of raiding and pillaging, and everything Ragnar had worked for all his life would be lost.

Knud was an able warrior, too, of great strength and virtue, but he had little interest for anything else but weapons, women and mead. He could be amazingly shrewd if he needed to, but he would get bored quickly with the burden of caring for the entire Tribe. And again, all Ragnar had built through decades of slow, painful struggle, would be lost.

Einarr was the quickest of mind from all. He alone had inherited the wisdom of their father; the ability to plan ahead and the patience to follow his plans. Alas that his temper was as quick as his mind; he made enemies as fast as he made friends. And he was good at holding long grudges; they both were, he and his brother Eyríkr. They never forgave Ingolf for taking their women and spoke openly against the rightful heir, getting exiled for their pains. Which was a great loss for the Tribe but could not be helped.

It was unfortunate that Ingolf had never learned to control his rage, the druid thought. His mistake with Lords Elfhelm and Aðalbrandr had led to the fact that now he was the heir by sufferance only. And should the fate of the Tribe take a turn to the worse – which Amanar knew it would happen sooner or later, with he power of the Black Land growing steadily – that sufferance might grow very thin, very quickly… a thought that worried the druid greatly.

Amanar and his brethren were the last remnants of the once powerful people of Rhovanion; a kingdom that had been able to measure itself with Gondor in its heyday. They had learned from their own history that trapped between Mordor in the East, Gondor in the South and hostile other tribes all around could bring down a realm very quickly. He had tried to make Ingolf understand that – so far with no results.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The head druid looked around in the Mead Hall. The lesser jarls and their wives and women had all assembled; the night was full of drunken laughter and of the clatter of plates and knives. The harpists were playing and the scop was singing, off-key yet merrily. They all lived for the present, without learning from the past, without thinking of the future. And that, in Amanar’s experience, was a perilous way to live.

Yet it seemed the only way of living the Tribe of the Bear – or indeed any of the Khimmer tribes – had ever known. All of them, save for Ragnar and his father and his father before them. Only the men of that particular bloodline appeared to have been born with some limited foresight and were willing to follow their inspiration. It was a shame that Ingolf, the last of that line born in wedlock, apparently had not inherited the same gift at all.

But again, that was something that could not be helped.

“Let us hear the bride!” howled Old Weohstan, interrupting the druid’s thoughts. “’Tis her hallowing feast, is it not? She should sing for us!”

Strictly seen, this was an insult, as only slave women were supposed to sing on feasts. And as Old Weohstan was the father of Ingolf’s late mother, there could be little doubt that the offence had been very much intended. After all, a woman – and one who did no longer count as a shieldmaiden – could not beat him up or challenge him to the duel to the death to satisfy her honour. Doing so would have dire consequences. Not doing so would mean that she accepted her lessened position. In either way, she would lose face in the eyes of the warriors.

Yet Imogen did not even blink at the provocation. Instead, she rose from her seat and left the dais, moving through the drunken crowd like a naked sword would go through water, ‘til she reached the corner where the musicians had gathered.

One of the harpists stood, surrendering his instrument, and she took his place. Her long, graceful fingers – who would have thought that they were wrapped around a sword-hilt most of the time? – plucked the strings with a skill that spoke of long practice, and she began a ballad that was both lovely and melancholy; a song of elder days, of great deeds and of loss. Her voice was low and clear, as the other musicians accompanied her, sending shivers down the spines of all men present. Well… most of them anyway.

Even Old Weohstan’s beady eyes gleamed wetly, making Amanar wonder if the old man was in tears.

Both Elfhelm and Aðalbrandr raised their cups to toast Imogen; seeing the gesture she smiled with unexpected warm and nodded to them from her place at the harp. And it seemed to Elfhelm that there was something more to her smile than mere gratitude; something not so far removed from desire and invitation.

And for the first time since he had set foot in Nimwarkinh, the Marshal of Edoras actually began to believe that their marriage might work, beyond its political purpose.

Now the time of hallowing the bride had come – the only part of the wedding ceremony that would take place in her home of old, according to the agreement between her father and her future husband. Finishing her song. Imogen returned the harp to the harpist and crossed the Hall to the seat that had been prepared for the ceremony and sat down.

The guests followed suit, for it was required that all should be seated at the beginning of the rite. It was one that the people of Rhûn and those of the Mark actually shared; the latter ones called it the brydeala, the “bride ale”.

According to ancient custom, the hallowing of the bride should have been performed by her mother. As Imogen’s mother had died many years ago, however, and she had no older female kin left, the norna had offered to do it – and offer that could not be refused. She had been her tutor all her life, after all.

The Hall fell in respectful silence as the door swung open. The harpists stopped playing, the scop stopped singing, and even the drunken jarls fell silent, following with their eyes the square, veiled shape of Tanfana, as she all but glided in, carrying the great sword Helôic on her outstretched arm.

She was followed by two of Ingolf’s women, the red-headed Brigid and the gold-tressed Hemma, who carried the blot bowl and the so-called loving cup: a fairly large drinking vessel of gold that had two handles and was engraved with running horses al around it, under its rim – clearly a part of Lord Elfhelm’s handgeld to his bride.

The norna now laid the sword across Imogen’s lap and said, “Hertha, Earth-lady, bless the bride hallowed by the sword in her father’s hall.”

Then she helped Imogen to her feet, allowing her to put Helôic back to its scabbard, held by the young servant that would follow him to the Mark.

Now fire-haired Brigid stepped forth with the blot bowl, and Hemma handed the loving cup to Imogen who filled it from the bowl with mead. The norna then led them to the fire pit in the middle of the Hall and had them pass both bowl and cup over the flame, saying, “Hertha, Earth-mother, wassail this mead.”

The flame and the words were intended to ensure that the mead would bring health, by driving away any illness caused by wights. And even if one did not believe that the rite alone could do that, no-one doubted that the one speaking the blessing would.

When this was done, Imogen and Elfhelm and Imogen spoke the time-honoured words of blessing between bride and groom, each in her or his own tongue. Imogen then assisted the norna in sprinkling the gathered guests with mead by carrying the blot bowl while Tanfana blessed all present.

After they had done their round in the Hall, the bride and the groom used the loving cup to make their toast to Hertha, the Earth-lady – whom the Men of the Mark called Eostre and those of Gondor Yavanna – to ensure a good marriage. Finally, when their toasts were spoken, they both drank from the cup at once.

With that, the official part of the brydeala was finished, and the Fulls continued until well beyond midnight, even after the departure of the bride of the groom, to the inevitable point sometime near dawn when everybody still in the Hall had passed out and was left to sleep out their drunken stupor.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Aragorn left the betrothal feast as soon as it was possible without insulting his hosts. The wanton debauchery displayed by the Khimmer jarls at any feasts was something he had learned to endure while serving Ragnar’s father, but he did not indulge if he could help it. Fortunately, now that Elfhelm and Imogen were the centre of attention – until everyone got too drunk to care – no-one really gave him any of that attention.

Or so he thought… but he was apparently mistaken. For barely had he left the Mead Hall, heading towards his guest chamber, when someone intercepted him in the empty corridor.

It was a woman if indeterminate age, wearing a long leather skirt and a fur-lined tunic of rough, homespun wool. Her long, greying black hair was braided away from her face, ands he looked at him in a manner no Khimmer woman save the shieldmaidens ever did: directly and calmly, from equal to equal.

And yet this woman was not – and had likely never been – a shieldmaiden. Her strong, white hands were roughened by hard work and not by weapons training, and her body was too lean and angular for a female warrior, even for a former one. She walked with a slight limp yet carried herself proudly, and her dark grey eyes seemed unnaturally large in her hawkish face. Clearly, she was of the old, now almost extinct people of Rhovanion; perhaps a kinswoman of one of the druids.

“Lord Aðalbrandr,” she said with a slight bow. “I am Sigga, tirewoman of Mistress Tanfana. My mistress would speak with you if you were amenable.”

Her voice was low and soft, almost gentle, and she spoke in a more refined manner than Easterlings usually did; also with a faint northern accent, just like the head druid.

“I thought men were not allowed in the deep halls of the norna,” said Aragorn in surprise.

In all the years he had spent in Rhûn, he had never caught a glimpse of the norna before this very day, and he had been warned repeatedly to stay away from her halls.

“They are not,” the woman whose name was Sigga replied. “But my mistress has not yet returned to her halls. And as you are both here for a short while yet, she would make good use of that time.”

Refusing the norna’s invitation would have been a mortal insult not only towards her but towards the entire Tribe. And admittedly, Aragorn was curious. Curious at the most powerful person seconded only by Ragnar himself (if indeed that was true) whom even the Khimmer nobles hardly got to see once in a lifetime. 

Besides, if she had asked to see a stranger in private, she must have had her reasons. Important reasons.

Therefore Aragorn agreed to accept the invitation and followed the woman to the chambers assigned to the norna for the time of her stay in Ragnar’s court, knowing that he would be probably the first man for many years to see her face to face. Sigga led him to the women’s wing of Ragnar’s family, for the old priestess was Imogen’s guest.

Then she halted before the heavy wooden door and knocked with the brass knocker shaped like a bear’s paw… and entered without waiting for an answer.

“Lord Aðalbrandr is come, Mistress,” she said with a bow and melded with the shadows in the back of the chamber.

“Come closer, son of the Sea-kings,” said a deep, hollow voice, and Aragorn obeyed.

A small crystal lamp was lit, although he could not tell what did keep it burning, as he could not see any actual flame, but it was enough to illuminate the chamber, and he looked with interest at the blue-clad figure that was sitting in a low stone chair in the middle of the room, solid and unmovable as if made of stone herself.

As he went obediently closer, the norna stood and looked him directly in the eyes, as if she were looking straight into his thoughts, indeed, into his very heart. She was taller than he had originally thought, albeit still a head shorter than him – and very obviously not a Khimmer woman. Her oval face was pale – understandably, as she spent her entire life in the deep halls under the mountains – and while she seemed ageless, there were depths in her gold-flecked, grey-blue eyes that spoke of high age and wisdom Aragorn had only seen by Elves before - and yet she was not an Elf, either.

In any case wariness and proper courtesy seemed the right way when dealing with her.

“My lady,” he said with a respectful bow. “You asked to see me. To what do I owe the honour?”

“To your own deeds,” she replied promptly. “You have forged a bond here – you and that young warrior from the Mark – that will have a great effect on the future and needs to be discussed between people who understand the ramifications… and you and I are the only people here who do.”

“Do you mean the marriage between Elfhelm and Ragnar’s daughter?”

It was fairly obvious that she meant it, but Aragorn found I better to clarify. She nodded.

“I do. The alliance you have forged may give both sides a few more years of peace, at least with each other; but the great war, long planned by the Dark Lord of Mordor, will come sooner or later. Within your lifetime, I fear. And Rohan is in greater peril than ever before; for the Mark is not threatened by the forces of the Dark Lord and the other Khimmer tribes alone.”

Aragorn nodded in understanding; these facts had been known to him for a long time.

“The Dunlendings,” he said.

‘Twas nothing new. Rohan and the Dunland had been enemies since the coming of Eorl the Young; the Dunlendings, understandably enough when one considered that they lived in harsh and ungrateful lands, were still angered by the fact that Steward Cirion had gifted the fertile land of Calenardhon to his new northern allies.

“The Dunlendings,” she agreed. “But this is growing worse than the usual skirmishes along the borders or the occasional raid; bad enough those might be. Dunland is preparing for an all-out war with the Mark; they have even tried to forge an alliance with the Lord of Nimwarkinh. Fortunately, Ragnar Jarl has not trust in their promises of friendship and chose to seek an alliance with the Mark instead of helping Dunland to rise as a new rival realm on the West. Yet they are growing in strength and will soon become a serious danger. Théoden-king must be warned.”

“I cannot turn to the South right now,” said Aragorn. “I have got other obligations that have already been dangerously delayed by my coming here. Elfhelm will have to do it… if Théoden is willing to listen. He seems to have become oddly dependent on his counsellor lately, or so Elfhelm says.”

“Then he must go to the King’s son and heir,” warned the norna. “The rising of a strong Dunlending realm could upset the balance of power in Middle-earth to the disadvantage of all free peoples.”

“Can Saruman not help?” asked Aragorn. “Isengard has always been the last time of defence against Dunland, and it has stood, unshaken, ever since Steward Beren entrusted it to Saruman. And has the White Wizard not been a friend and supporter of the Mark ever since?”

“He was; for a while rather actively so,” she agreed. “However, it concerns me deeply that his thoughts have been closed to me for some time. Ever since the last meeting of the White Council.”

Aragorn stared at her in shock. “What do you mean with that? What could you possibly know about Saruman and the White Council?”

She gave him a wry almost-smile. “I know about a great many things, Scion of the Kings of Westernesse. That I chose to live with the Tribe of the Bear did not mean that I would share their ignorance.”

“That does not answer my question,” said Aragorn quietly.

“Nay, it does not,” she agreed amiably. “Yet that is the only answer you will get from me.”

“I fear that may not be enough,” Said Aragorn. “Who are you? For you certainly are not from the peoples of Rhûn.”

“You are right; I am not,” she answered calmly. “Yet I have been living among them much longer than Saruman has been living in Isengard. Almost as long as Radagast has been living in Rhosgobel, although my brother Pallando and I came to Middle-earth earlier than him.”

Having heard her mention those great wizards in such a casual manner finally helped Aragorn to make the necessary connections – although that only made him even more confused.

“That cannot be!” he protested. “The Five were all men!”

She almost laughed in his face at that. Almost.

“I see that Gandalf the Grey told you a few things not even the Heirs of Isildur were supposed to know,” she said. “But he has always been a risk-taker. However, he apparently did not tell you everything that is there to know about us. What do you know about the Five?”

“That they were sent by the Powers from the West to help the peoples of Middle-earth in their struggle against Sauron,” replied Aragorn. “They came in the shape of Men, for they were supposed to influence and advise only, not to take an active role in the fight itself. They were never truly young, but they also age very slowly. Radagast the Brown settled in the Gerenwood – in Mirkwood – almost immediately. Saruman the White used to travel in the East for a while, before becoming a counsellor of the Stewards of Gondor, and later received Isengard from Steward Beren to dwell there and protect the Mark from the Dunlendings. Gandalf the Grey, however,  kept wandering all over Middle-earth, meddling with the affairs of Elves and men, and later of Hobbits, too; for which we are all grateful, for his help was always invaluable.”

“And the other two?” she asked. “Were you taught anything about them?”

Aragorn nodded. “The Blue Wizards came with Saruman, it is said. Their names were Alatar and Pallando. As far as anyone knows, they went to the East and were never heard of again.”

“That is mostly correct,” she said with another of those almost-smiles. “Save for one minor detail: the name of the one Blue Wizard was, in truth, Alatariel.”

“But that is one of the Lady Galadriel’s names!” cried out Aragorn in surprise.

She shrugged. “After whom, do you think, has she been named?”

“I do not understand,” confessed Aragorn. “If you truly are one of the Ithryn Luin, why have you come in the disguise of a man? And why have you spent all this time among such barbarians?”

“Your arrogance does not suit the blood of Elros Tar-Minyatur, Scion of the Sea-kings,” she said coldly. “The peoples of Rhûn are as much the Children of Ilúvatar as your own kind. They deserve a chance to struggle free from Sauron’s clutches; which, for them, is a much harder struggle than for those who have always been free. My brother in the thought of Ilúvatar, Rómestámo, who you know by the name of Pallando, and myself have been sent to the East. It was our task to hinder Sauron’s operations as well as we could, and to ensure that the forces of the East would not outnumber those of the West beyond measure.”

“Then you failed in your task, I would say,” commented Aragorn.

“You would say so, and you would be both arrogant and wrong,” she returned, her eyes glittering in cold anger. “For you do not know half as much as you think you do; nor do your tutors, for that matter. I am Morinehtar Darkness-slayer, and my brother and I came from the West a great deal earlier than the others. We journeyed the East for hundreds of years and aided the defeat of Sauron in the Last Alliance. After that, still wearing the mantle of a man, for that helped my advice to be heard, I went to Rhovanion as the advisor of their Kings.”

“You were the one who forged the bond between Valacar and Princess Vidumavi, Vidugavia’s daughter!” realised Aragorn in awe. She nodded simply.

“I did. That was a unique chance to forge a strong bond between all kingdoms east of the Anduin against a possible new threat from the Easterlings and Mordor.”

“A shame that it did not work,” said Aragon grimly. “In fact, it led straight to the Kin-strife of Gondor.”

“That it did,” she agreed. “But that was not my fault. Your forefathers have always been way too arrogant for their own good – and see where it led them! Arnor is gone, and Gondor has become isolated, under constant siege from all sides. With a strong kingdom in Rhovanion it would not have happened.”

“Perhaps not,” allowed Aragorn reluctantly. “But how did you end up here?”

“By my own choice,” she replied. “When Princess Freya was banned, I shed the mantle of a man and accompanied her on her flight to Rhûn and stayed here to keep the sisterhood of the shieldmaidens alive, as the only means for Khimmer women to break out of their subjugated position. I have been here ever since; and I have helped the chieftains of the Tribe of the Bear to rise in power; for only a strong and united Rhûn could hope to free itself from Sauron’s overlordship.”

“Would that not overthrow the balance of power in Middle-earth?” asked Aragorn.

“Oh yes, it would; and in a good way,” answered the norna… or rather the Blue Wizard, unlikely as that seemed. “Alas, it is slow work. It took me many generations to help Ragnar’s family to get where they are now. Oh, he and his forefather did their part, too; they fought very hard to become chieftains. But it was I who negotiated the marriage that helped them to gain ownership over the Deep Furnaces and made them Lords of Nimwarkinh.”

“Which was no small feat,” admitted Aragorn. “But how can you live with their barbaric customs? And their superstitions, all this nonsense about descending from a bear… I certainly had a hard time to keep my disdain under control.”

Now she did truly smile. “That part is actually true… in a manner. One of Ragnar’s female ancestors was a Beorning; a daughter of the leading clan that could change into the shape of a bear.”

“A match also made by you, I presume,” said Aragorn, and she nodded.

“Naturally. The clan supposed to lead the wild warriors of Rhûn had to be strong. And they are strong, as you can see. Of course,” she added with an amused snort, “the other tribes felt the need to find an animal ancestor, too, after that. They did not want to be outdone by the Sons of the Bear. They even created their own brand of shieldmaidens; although theirs are merely female warriors who are not taught any of the ancient knowledge our Guardians possess. ‘Tis my hope that one day Nimwarkinh will become the source of culture and wisdom for all Rhunic people.”

“You can wait for that,” Aragorn was not entirely free of the prejudices of his own people, he admitted freely; but in his case those prejudices were based on the experiences made among the Rhunim.

Tanfana… Alatariel… Morinehtar… simply shrugged. “That matters not. I have got the time; and the patience.”

“You shall need it,” commented Aragorn dryly. “What has become of the other Blue Wizard, though? Of Pallando?”

She sighed. “I cannot be certain. During the early Third Age and until the end of the Watchful Peace, we were tasked with finding where Sauron dwelt. We failed, and I turned back to go to Rhovanion. My brother went on… I never had word of him since then.”

“Can it be that he was slain?” asked Aragorn carefully.

She shook her head. “Had he been, I would know that. We are siblings in the thought of Ilúvatar; we would feel if the other one perished. Nay; he is still out there, somewhere. I strongly believe that we shall be reunited ere our task in Middle-earth is finished.”

“And what for now?” asked Aragorn. “Will you remain here, with the Tribe of the Bear?”

She nodded. “This is where I am needed most. More so as Ingolf Ragnarsson has weakened his own authority in the eyes of the lesser jarls. Ragnar Jarl will need my support; and he will have it, for he is the best possible choice to rule over a united Rhûn after the war – if there will be an after.”

Aragorn nodded in agreement, for that was certainly true. Then another question occurred to him. “Do the other Wizards know that you are here?”

“Nay, they do not,” she replied. “And they are not supposed to know, not even Radagast. They might try to use my influence for their own designs, which doubtlessly are noble, but it would upset everything I have worked for here for two thirds of the recent Age. I cannot risk that. So I must ask you, Scion of the Sea-kings to keep my secret as closely as you keep your own. Many lives depend on it.”

Aragorn nodded. “I shall do as you ask me, my lady. But allow me one last question: how can you know who I am? As you said, ‘tis one of the closely-guarded secrets of these days.”

“Child,” she replied with a true smile again. “My powers might be limited in this form, but do you truly believe I would not recognise Melian’s blood, even so? She was of the Lady Yavanna’s people, I was one of Lord Oromë’s, but we have known each other since the shaping of Arda. Go now; your secret is safe with me. Make sure that mine will be safe with you, too.”

Recognising a dismissal when he was given one, Aragorn bowed and left her chambers but did not return to his own just yet. Instead, he sought out one of the small balconies that could be accessed from the guest wing as he knew from his latest visit to Nimwarkinh, hoping that it would still exist. He had a great deal to think about, and fresh air made it easier to do so.

~TBC~

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Note: Tolkien has changed his mind about the Blue Wizards several times. In one version they arrived in Middle-earth in the Second Age already, at the time when Sauron forged the One Ring. My solution is a mix of the various ideas, so that it would fit this story best.

 





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