Enemies and Allies

          Gilthor and his wife Arien ate with Halbaleg’s family within the Keep.  Halbarad could tell that his cousin was intrigued by this inclusion of the couple he’d just met that day.

          “You called me your kinsman,” Aragorn said to Gilthor.

          “And so you are.  I am a grandson to Argonui, my mother Nienoreth being the youngest of his five children, with Arador, your grandsire, being his eldest.  Thus I am two degrees removed from the line of Kings while you are the direct heir, and your uncle Halbaleg being four degrees removed.  Almost all of us who are of the Northern Dúnedain are related to one degree or another, and it is likely many will address you as my Lord Kinsman.”

          “Is this true of you also, my lady?” he asked of Gilthor’s wife.

          She shared an amused glance with her husband before answering, “I fear that our relationship is rather more distant.  You see, I was a princess of Dol Amroth, far in the south of Gondor.  Yes, I suspect that we are indeed related, but nowhere as closely as is my husband to you.  After all, it is said that my family is also descended from Elros Tar-Minyatur, as are you, and we have at times intermarried with the children of the Kings and Stewards of Gondor.  But we are more closely related to the descendants of Anárion than to those of Isildur.”

          He took a sip of the soup that had been placed before him before commenting, “I did not realize we had made such an alliance with Dol Amroth.  Does Ecthelion know?”

          Gilthor and Arien both broke out in laughter.  Arien explained, “Such an alliance between north and south?  I doubt even my father would have agreed.  No, Gilthor and I chose one another, and I knew not that he was grandson to a former Lord of Arnor until we arrived here together and we asked Lord Halbaleg to marry us.  To have him question me as to whether or not I had a birth high enough to be allowed to marry a lord of this people caused me to be astounded.”

          “So,” he said considering, “you went willful missing to marry the Man you loved, and now find yourself an unacknowledged Princess of Arnor, even though our nation is no longer recognized as a kingdom.”

          She smiled, a dimple to be seen in her cheek.  “So it is indeed, my Lord Aragorn.  I rejoice to greet you as you are recognized by your people.”

          He gave a brief nod.  “I wonder what will happen when I will be in a position to allow your family to know you not only survived, but are happily married to one of my apparently close kinsmen?”

          “And do you foresee such a situation?”

          His expression went distant.  “I see it as a possibility.  I cannot tell you when, but I will one day know at least three who are or will be ruling Prince of Dol Amroth, each in his turn.  Possibly more than three.”

          Her expression became solemn.  “Do not tell them yourself.  Allow one of us, or the son I suspect I now carry, to do so for us.  When they learn of my fate, let them know I indeed followed my own heart and desire, by my own will, and that I have had all reason to rejoice in my choice.”

          “So be it, then, Lady.  Would you like some of these sweetmeats?”

 *******

          The afternoon hearing went more quickly than that held in the morning.  The two parties of prisoners were brought forth, and each of the eight Angmarians told the same story:  harvests had been growing increasingly sparse for years, ever since Vanwein had driven Hagmar south into the territory of the Tarks, which was what those of Angmar called the Dúnedain, and had stolen Hagmar’s wife and slain his children.  Not only had the harvests grown worse but the warlord who’d taken Vanwein’s place had consistently taken the greater part of what little the villages around him had gathered for his own purposes, and each year he’d demanded the best of the cattle and horses born.

          This last summer had been the worst they’d known.  There had been a drought, so all were starving.  They desperately needed grain, greens, and meat.  In the end the youngest Men were sent south to see if they could bring home such food as they could find, as well as oxen and horses to pull their plows and harvest sledges.  The warlord’s people had taken the very little that had come from their fields, and their own herds and flocks had been so depleted by the lack of water that they were in desperate straits.  Only, of the forty-three sent south, there were but eight remaining alive, and now the word was that Hagmar himself, who’d taken their luck with him when Vanwein had forced him to flee, had also died.

          “And is it true,” the oldest of the raiders asked, his voice dull, “that he died here three years agone and is indeed mourned by those who had taken him in?”

          Berevrion and his father served as interpreters, although many of the raiders now spoke some of the common tongue.  Berevrion’s father assured them that, yes, he and his family and people mourned the loss of Hagmar of Angmar, who had served them faithfully upon their horse farm.  “He was among the best of trainers for our horses,” he told them, “and he quickly learned how we husband our lands and became our best worker.  All grieve that he is now gone.  But a fever came through that barely touched our own people, but it killed him.”

          “And what did you do with his body?”

          “We buried him as he had wished, in the midst of our horse pastures where he could ever be surrounded by the animals he most loved and that had loved him in return.  He had not wished to lie by our own dead—that he repeated several times.”

          “And what words did you speak over his grave?” demanded the oldest of the raiders.

          “We asked that the Doomsman treat him well, for he had become our friend.  And we asked that the Weaver tell his story joyfully in Her tapestries of Memory, for he was one who deserved a bright remembrance.”

          There was a murmured discussion amongst the Angmarians.  At last one of the two youths who’d been found deep within the rocks by those with whom Aragorn and the younger Rangers had traveled asked, “And what was it that was said over the grave in which you buried our companions?”

          The Ranger who’d spoken over the grave answered him.  “It is a variation of a prayer spoken over the dead, particularly over those we have not known well.  I asked the Doomsman to be merciful toward the young Men who died under our hands, for we saw that they came not merely to kill and maim as is so often true of those who attack us from the north, but in hopes of winning help for their own people.  After all, many of us hated having to kill those who were in your party, but so desperate were they that there was nothing we could do to make them see we would rather have helped them than to slay them so.”

          The young Angmarian turned to face Aragorn himself.  “You pitied the two brothers over whose bodies you stood.”

          “Yes.  Yes, I pitied them, for I had wished not to have to kill them.  I sought to stay my stroke that they might have the chance to realize we wished them no harm.  But one struck down my cousin here, almost killing him, and the other attacked me so hard I could no longer hold back.  It was the first time I have fought against Men, and I found I did not wish to become a possible kinslayer as was true of our Elven forebears.  But I must protect my own and myself, so I struck hard.”  He swallowed visibly.  “I did not desire to kill any Man, but I have long known that the day would come when I must do so.  And so it has.”

          “How was it that you determined we were desperate for aid?” asked one of the Men captured by the other party.

          “How could we help but see how thin you all were, how desperate you were for food and water and animals to work your land and replenish your herds?”  This was spoken by one of the Rangers who’d aided in his capture.  “Those who came before us this morning were thieves and murderers first and foremost.  You focused not on killing but in taking stock and foodstuffs, killing only when it was deemed necessary to protect yourselves and what you’d taken.  Hunger we can understand.  Outright murder simply as policy to aid unnecessary theft is always to be denied.”

          “Then what will you do to us?” asked the oldest raider.

          “That is why you are before us now,” Aragorn answered him, “for us to decide how we are to answer your attack on our farms and outlying communities.”

          The oldest raider stood thoughtfully, his eyes fixed for some moments on the ground before him before taking a step forward and saying boldly, “Then let you let these others go, and you may take your vengeance on me for what you have lost and the trouble we have cost you.  Too many of our young Men are now dead at your hands, and apparently needlessly.  Let them return to our people that we do not dwindle to nothing, that our villages not fall to ruin.”

          All considered his proposal for some time before Aragorn again spoke.  “You would offer yourself as a ransom for these others, as few as they are?”

          The Man’s tension could be seen in how straight and stiffly he stood.  “Yes.”  His voice was clearly strained.

          After a moment Aragorn said quietly, “I see.”  He turned to look to his uncle, who had ruled this people for so long.  “May I make the judgment here, my Lord Uncle?”

          “Are you not here to prove that you have the wisdom to offer such judgment, my Lord Nephew?  This is your tribunal, after all.  Go ahead.”

          “Last night you told me that you have held in trust for me lands and farms to provide for me and those dependent upon me, and that those farms hold, variously, produce, grain, fruit, cattle, sheep, swine, horses, and poultry.”

          “And this is true, Aragorn.”

          “May I now dispose of these as I will, as long as I do not short my own people?”

          “How may I say you nay, nephew, when Lord Elrond himself has named you a Man grown, and when you have completed your training mission as a Ranger of Eriador with such distinction as you have?  Plus, are you not now our Chieftain by right of birth and accomplishment?”

          Aragorn gave a respectful bow of acceptance of his uncle’s words, gave a quick examination of the faces of the others at the table, took a deep breath, and turned again to the eldest raider, searching the Man’s face for some minutes.  Finally, he spoke.  “I will accept your offer.  Your fellows may return to their homes, and you shall remain.”  When the other Angmarians cried out in protest or grief, he raised his hand, and they promptly grew silent.  “But know this—you will not be subject to any abuse.  Nay, you shall remain here in our lands, but not as a prisoner nor as a slave.  You shall serve on one of our farms as a paid laborer for a term to be agreed upon between us.  In return, your fellows shall take home with them bags of grain, a number of fowls, and stores of seeds to be planted on their own farm plots.  They shall also take with them cattle, both for beef and for dairy, five pigs, and two teams of horses, and, if you wish, both a small flock of sheep and a dog trained to herd and guard them.  They shall also receive the use of a wagon for the space of three years.  In three years’ time they will be allowed to return the wagon, and to trade any of their surplus with us.  If at that time one of them should wish to trade places with you, then that will be acceptable, and he will take over your duties here in Arnor as you return to your own land and family.  Does this sound fair to you and your fellows?”

          As the Angmarians discussed the proposal amongst themselves, Duinhir asked, “Then you intend to provide this bounty out of your own holdings and farms?”

          Aragorn gave him a wilting stare.  “Did I not indicate that I was planning to dispose of my own property and stores, those my uncle has held in hope for my return to the Dúnedain?”

          “Yes, but….”

          “There is nothing to be complained of here, Duinhir son of Belechar.  Not unless you think to tell another Man grown what he might or might not do with his own.”

          Duinhir sat back, realizing that perhaps arguing with his returned Chieftain might not prove good policy.

          Aragorn returned his own attention to the Angmarians.  “You may consider the goods I give you as wergild for those who died, to provide for not only their families but for all of you.  And I shall send one of my own people with you so that your new bounty is known not to be available to any warlord who might seek to relieve you of what he might consider to be your excess.  Is that agreeable to you?”

          The eight former raiders nodded dumbly.  Never had they imagined that they should be treated so well, or sent home with such riches.

          Aragorn turned to those assembled to observe his first judgments.  “Does anyone here present find my rulings objectionable or consider them too harsh or too lenient?  Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

          No one thought it wise to disagree with their newly recognized Lord.  Indeed, the greater number of them were highly pleased with his sagacity.

          Except that there was an objection—only not from any among the Dúnedain.  The Angmarians had been murmuring quietly amongst themselves, and now the youngest of the raiders stepped forward.  “Young Lord!” he called out in his accented Westron.  “Young Lord!  We cannot accept your wergild.”

          Aragorn turned to him with interest.  “Tell me,” he said.

          The young Man was obviously frustrated with his lack of vocabulary, and turned to Berevrion’s father to translate for him.  “Are we to understand that now you are the warlord for this people?” he asked.

          Halbaleg answered for his nephew.  “By right of birth, Aragorn is simply our Lord, both in war and in peace. These tribunals today are to test if his wisdom is sufficient for him to be generally accepted in that role.  Why would you refuse his offer of wergild?”

          The youth shrugged.  “In our land, we have no lords of peace—only warlords.  They are those who are able to draw to them warriors and those who look only to take.  And, when they come, that is what they do—take!  Those of us who wish to merely live on the land lose almost all that we have, year after year, taken by the warlords and their men.  When there is not enough to feed or satisfy all those who follow them, then they threaten us.  ‘We will take what little you have left.  We will burn your homes, your barns, your fields.  We will take your women and your children.  We will leave no beasts to slaughter for your families, or to work your fields.  You will be punished for not having enough for us.’  This is ever their way.

          “Now, think!  The warlords come, and we have crops growing now in our fields and gardens.  We have swine in pens, cattle grazing, fowl in our dooryards, sheep in the hills.  We tell them, this is wergild.  Do you think they will let us keep it?  Will they not simply slay the one you send as a guard and take all they can, and most likely our women and children as well—those children they do not slay out of hand?  That is the way of it in Angmar.

“Your guard might be a mighty warrior.  But even the mightiest Man can be easily slain by a well-aimed arrow.  Our warlords pay their archers well. They shall not suffer him to live to fight them.”

          It was much to think on, and Halbarad could see that his Lord Cousin was thinking deeply on the matter.  At last Aragorn asked, “But what if we were to come to your village as it is now, and carry all within it away—bring them here—south of Angmar, to a new village in Eriador that is yours and yours alone, one that no one else may take from you?  Let the warlords think that we were so angered by your raids upon our lands and farms that we came in vengeance to take what was yours in return.  Do you believe they would follow to seek to ‘free’ you from us?”

          Duinhir rose from his seat.  “And why would we allow enemies to dwell among us?”

          It was the young Angmarian who answered him, his voice challenging.  “If we are enemies, then we have not been good at it.  We left our home almost nine hands of Men.  Now we are not even two hands worth, and most of us were sore wounded—and I by women!”  It was hard for Berevrion’s father to keep from smiling as he translated the youth’s speech to the assembly.

          He continued, “We were told by the warlords that if we were taken prisoner we would be tortured.  We were told we would be demeaned and broken.  We were told that those who were wounded would receive no care—that cow dung and straw would be rubbed into our wounds and we would be left to die with pus leaking out through our skin.

          “And these are proved lies!  Your young Lord himself has seen to our wounds, and what ought to have killed us is healing well.  We have been treated well, fed well, and even given respect we had not thought to know from you.  And you offered us wergild for those who died on this fruitless quest!

          “You ask, young Lord, if our own warlords would follow us to offer us aid should you pretend a raid upon our villages and carry all away to here and give us a place to build a new village that is safe from their thefts.  I say, No!  Why should they seek to bring us back when we did not bring back the animals and food they sent us to fetch for them?  And, yes, that is indeed why we came south to begin with.  We were handed swords—and apparently not all of those swords were that good to begin with, considering how many broke with use—and told, go down into the land of the Tarks and assault their farms—bring back horses, cattle, grain, seed corn, food in abundance.  If we accomplished this, then we might be allowed to keep a portion of what we’d gained for ourselves.  If we accomplished this, then some of us might be taken into the armies, where it was to be hoped we would be fed without shorting our mothers, sisters, brothers.

          “Only, we failed in our task, and most are dead, one of them my father, who never held anything more deadly than a scythe before this.  Our mothers, our elders, the children—they will not be treated well by the warlords when they return when there is nothing more to take from us.

          “Do this thing—go and bring forth those we left behind and what little goods they have that we might indeed live with hope for the future instead of fear for what they will suffer since we did not do the deed they set us.”

          There was silence for a time before Aragorn turned to face Duinhir.  “I grew up in the safety of Imladris, in the house of Elrond, and was treated as a son of that house, as if Elladan and Elrohir were my brothers indeed.  I stood with them to see their father treat with those who came from afar to seek his aid and counsel.  I saw him send no one who came for succor away emptyhanded.  No one who was in want or need of aid came in vain to the Last Homely House.  Are we of the Dúnedain to be less generous than the Elves when I have learned that all of the empty lands of what was once Arnor have now come into my keeping to see them filled once more?  The village of Lord Iorgil is a new one, granted in my name by my Lord Uncle to those who have gathered there.  I am told that this is not the first settlement to have grown in that place, and it is to be hoped that this village will be allowed to grow and prosper until it, too, becomes a market town as was true before.  In our training patrol, we new Rangers saw the ruins of several villages and cities, at least one of them destroyed within living memory.  As of this time we have most of our villages set here in the Angle, but I have learned that there are more settlements spread from here to the Firth of Lhûn, most of those necessarily small, hidden, and well fortified.  If the former glory of the Northern Dúnedain is to return, then I am told that it will happen during my lifetime.  But such a triumph will not come to be without allies.

          “These are offering to become such allies.  Are we to deny them the chance to know peace in which to prosper?  As they successfully build their farms and villages within our empty lands, will it not benefit us as well as them?  We will have new trading partners who share our hatred for the greed shown by the warlords of Angmar.  We will have allies who can tell those Angmarians from the much-raided farmlands that they do not have to give the greater part of their yearly increase away to the warlords to the detriment of their own farms and families.

          “As has been pointed out—these were not particularly successful as enemies to our people.  I suggest that we instead help them to become wholly successful friends and contributors.  Let us put some of those empty lands back to use—through their aid and labor.  With our willing help, empty fields should once again be filled with produce, grain, and beasts; and lands long gone fallow should sustain living families and people who will be able to both give and receive to the strengthening and renewal of Arnor.”

          Someone else amongst the watchers called out, “But these are not Dúnedain as we are!”

          Aragorn shrugged.  “Are those who farm along the East-West Road Dúnedain?  Are those who dwell in the Breelands and the Shire Dúnedain?  Or those who have dwelt ever in Tharbad?  But do we not profit by their presence in what we consider to be our lands?  Would you seek to drive the Dwarves out of the mountains north of what was Annúminas or the Blue Mountains?  Would you wish the Elves gone from Rivendell or what was once Lindon?  Is it not mutually beneficial for all of us to work hand-in-hand with one another rather than to seek to force all to be as we are?”

          Murmurs sprang up amongst the witnesses to Aragorn’s first proper judgment. Duinhir had sat down to confer with his closest companions, and Halbarad could see that Aragorn’s last questions had caused many of their people to consider that the world was set to change once more—and probably sooner rather than later.

          At last Duinhir called out, “Where would these farmers from Angmar found their new villages?”

          Aragorn looked toward Berevrion’s father.  “Your own lands are near the northern borders, are they not?  Can you identify such lands as are under my personal authority that I might grant to them, as did Argeleb the Second when he gave the empty quarter that once made up the primary farmlands of Cardolan into the keeping of the Hobbits of the Shire?”

          “Indeed, I do.  East of us toward the Misty Mountains are lands that once were heavily farmed but have gone back to wilderness over the last six centuries.  There are both seasonal and year-round streams to water them, and now much timber as well as open lands on which your father ran his own horse herds and cattle.  They are well north of the Angle, but still close enough for mutual aid and trading when such are needed or available.”

          He glanced thoughtfully toward the Angmarians.  “There is this one other fact that may reassure them that this could be a good place for them—it is in the pastures that I have administered that were of your father’s lands that Hagmar was buried, at his own request.  If they believe that when he fled southwards he took their luck with him, then it is probable that they will find it again in the lands surrounding his grave.”  He relayed the same message to the Angmarians in their own language, and all could see the eight Men begin to smile broadly.

          Aragorn gave another thoughtful nod.  “I ask again:  does anyone here present find my rulings objectionable or consider them too harsh or too lenient?  Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

          This time there was no dissent, but instead widespread approval and signs of affirmation offered to their newly accepted Lord Chieftain.  “You have clearly shown forth the wisdom and courage for which your grandsire and father were well known,” called out Iorgil.

          Halbarad caught the looks of pride and approval showered upon his Lord Cousin by Elrond of Rivendell and by Gilraen daughter of Dírhael and Ivorwen.  No one dares now to question his place as our Chieftain, he thought, as he clapped Aragorn on the shoulder in delight.

 *******

          That evening Halbarad joined Aragorn as the new Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain came to share the final meal prepared in the Elven camp ere Elrond and his people returned to their own lands the next morning.

          “You have done well indeed, my son,” Elrond said in Sindarin as he held his former fosterling at arm’s length, looking upon him in pride.  “No one shall now challenge your right to serve your people as you see best.  And you have bought your people what I foresee will be worthy allies.  We have done rightly to return you to your people when and how we did. 

          “I did well to allow you the right to choose how you would introduce yourself back into the Dúnedain lands—it proved not only politic but also the best means of proving you have the skills needed to protect yourself and those given into your care.  I trust you will go on to fulfill your promise, and that indeed you shall reunite Gondor and Arnor under one rule.  I named you Estel when you came into my keeping, and that hope I now see you sharing abroad.  May it ever be so.”

          Aragorn sighed, glancing at the Elven woman who sat beside his mother, sharing in the last, simple feast he would know with them for some time.  Obviously there was another woman he had hoped to see there.  He turned to meet Elrond’s gaze.  “Thank you, my lord, for your words.  But you know my own hope, and have laid upon me the burden of providing the means for seeing it met.  I fear that it will yet be many years as counted by those of us who are mortal before it can come to be.”

          He straightened and moved back from Elrond’s grasp.  “Bear my greetings back to your fair daughter, and tell her that I shall ever be her faithful knight.”  With that he gave a profound bow.

          “Do not seek to go betimes, Arathorn’s son,” commanded Elrond.  “There is one more gift I was charged to give into your hands this evening.”  He made a gesture, and the woman who sat beside Lady Gilraen reached down to pick up a package that lay at her feet.

Aragorn’s mother stopped her with a word.  “I will take that, Meliangiloreth.  Thank you.”  So saying, she took the package from the Elf and brought it to Elrond, and stood by him as he nodded his thanks before turning to Aragorn.

“Take this.  My daughter bade me give this to you, in earnest of the honor she holds for the Heir of Isildur.”

          Aragorn took the gift tentatively, and carefully unwrapped it.  At last he shook out a tunic of a dark blue decorated with a white tree set with jeweled flowers, with seven shining stars arching over it.

          Halbarad took a deep breath, recognizing the tokens of Elendil.  And with the expression he saw on Aragorn’s face, he at last realized whose presence his cousin had looked for amongst the Elves.

          He’s in love with Elrond’s daughter! Halbarad realized.  Halbarad knew that Elrond had a daughter as well as his twin sons, but he also knew from what his parents had said that she had gone over twenty years ago to visit her mother’s people who dwelt east of the Misty Mountains and had not returned to Rivendell to her father’s house since—or not that they had heard of.  Well, obviously she had recently returned, and not having grown up thinking of her as his sister, Aragorn had been smitten with her!

          The Chieftain of the Dúnedain, wishing to join with the daughter of one of the last of the great Elves of Middle Earth?  No wonder Peredhrion had drawn away from calling Lord Elrond my father!

          Halbarad searched the faces of Elrond and Gilraen.  Aragorn’s mother’s expression was one of pity and sorrow.  That of the Elf was one of compassion.  No, there was more than compassion to be seen there—there was an element of grief, but there was also—hope?

          Halbarad realized that, as had been true of Thingol of Doriath concerning the mortal man who had fallen in love with his daughter Lúthien, Elrond had set a bride price of some sort that Aragorn must meet before he would be allowed to marry the woman he’d come to love.  Beren had been told he must bring Thingol one of the Silmarils from Morgoth’s Iron Crown, a quest the ancient Elf King must have believed would cost the life of this impertinent mortal.  But Elrond’s demanded bride price must have been something that he believed—he knew—that Aragorn could achieve, even if it took decades to reach.

          I wonder just what he has demanded my Lord Cousin must accomplish?

          Whatever it was, Halbarad knew he would do his best to assist Aragorn to reach that goal.