Farewell to Fornost

The ragged clouds scudded off to the southeast, chasing the tail of the storm that had drenched him at the ford of the Brandywine.

The wind was chill, though the sun peeking through the tossed sky had an early spring warmth.  Ahead the North Downs rose gently out of the empty plain, retreating to hazy oblivion along the northeast horizon.  At their southern terminus Aranarth spied a familiar shape, dark, hulking, crowning the last rise.

Until today it had been 50 years since he had last come this way.  Then it had been the year after the death of his mother, Firiel.  Today it was a year exactly from the passing of his wife, Lorelyn. 

He eased the horse along the path that still parted the broad areas of shrubs and low trees that mixed with the windswept grass that characterized the plain.  Occasionally there were tumbled stone remnants of dwellings, overgrown with weeds and vines.  Sometimes the pattern of a long abandoned field could be made out, subtle differences in vegetation that caught his keen eye.  Now such endeavors were confined to a scattering of hardy souls well to the south, within a days ride of the East West Road.

A lifetime ago, at least in the span of ordinary men, this had been a battlefield.  The long, heavy broadsword he carried this day had separated many a head of the host of Angmar from their bodies.  Instinctively his hand went to the hilt at the memory, his heart pounding for a moment, then easing back as his fingers unlocked their grip.

He had been young then.  His iron grey hair, shot with silver had then been dark and long.  He still had the powerful shoulders, set like a bull’s on a frame just above average in height. But then, like today, he was built like a stone monolith below those shoulders, along with legs like trees and arms that always seemed to strain the garments he wore. 

Much different than his younger brother Arthed, who was nearly a head taller, but lean, almost wiry, quicker in reflexes than he was though no match in raw strength.  A master with a knife and throwing axe just as he was with the sword and battle axe.  Not that they lacked at skills with other weapons.  As sons of the king they received the best of training.  Even baby brother Ardugan had begun to show prowess with the bow before the kingdom came to an end.

The faintest smile creased the square jawed corners of his weather beaten face.  Baby brother indeed.  The man was over a 100 now.

The clouds were beginning to thin now as the steed began the climb up the slope.  Above and to his right he could see the line of the outer wall that encircled the broad top of the low hill.  Behind it loomed the silent gray hued bulk of the castle and the tall watchtower that overlooked the lands.

He approached the northern end of the wall, the wind stronger now near the top of the hill, buffeting him and whipping the grass as if in some futile assault.  The stones, each easily the length of a man’s arm, had been precisely chiseled and placed.  The height of four men, the wall had taken years to build.  But age, it was over a thousand years old, and a hundred years of neglect showed in the form of cracks and gaps in what had been an implacable defensive façade.  Where men had once stood guard, field now mice made homes in the growing crevices and small birds nested in the larger gaps to escape the winds.     

Rounding the northern bulwark, Aranarth made his way along the long eastern face.  Ahead and below him he could see the remnants of the proud promenade that came up from the south a hundred miles or more from the East West Road.  Now they called it the Greenway, its stones and carefully graded course overgrown with grass and low shrub through disuse.  In its prime, the kings of Arnor sallied forth from Fornost, hooves of their horse sparking on the smooth paving stones, monuments to their deeds lining the way.  Now those monuments slept under weeds and vines, tumbled over by the hordes of Angmar during their short, but destructive occupation nearly a century ago.

Aranarth paused at the entrance.  The portcullis was open, rusting, its mighty chains now frozen in place with the locks, wheels, and pulleys that in the past could raise or lower it in an instant.  His mount edged through the opening, slightly skittish, the muffled clump of its hooves lost in the lonely wind whistling though the opening. 

The moat behind the thick outer wall still bore water, though sluggish and thick with weeds and floating scum.  Aranarth crossed the stone bridge over the mire to the inner wall, a match in size for the outer bulwark.  A hawk cried overhead, wheeling on the wind, seeking out an unwary field mouse.  Aranarth leaned forward and whispered in the horse’s ear, rubbed its long neck and doled out a small snack from a saddle pouch.

The inner gates, huge oaken doors, two feet thick with massive iron bars bracing it from top to bottom, side to side, were open and sagging on corroding hinges.  Aranarth rode through to the main courtyard in front of the castle. 

The paving stones were rimmed with wild grass and small shrubs tenaciously taking root in the smallest crevices that time could ferret out.  Still, the open space remained impressive, a broad gateway to the many side streets to the left and right of the castle.  In times he could still remember, they had housed granaries, smithy shops, homes of craftsmen and lesser nobles, the ancient burial tombs, and other parts of what had been the capital of Arthedain, the last remnant kingdom of the Dunedain of the North. 

Now the inhabitants were birds, mice, dust, swirling clumps of dead grass, and the ghosts of the past. Their dwellings were hollow stone fixtures long looted by Angmar’s fell hordes and others in more recent times who dared these haunted grounds for a few remaining scraps of booty.   So it was as he tethered the horse and made his way across the courtyard towards the castle which had once been his home. 

The ornate front doors to the great entrance hall were long gone, stripped for their jeweled embossments and rare inlays.  Where the bustle of visitors and hurried urgency of royal business had once pulsed through the hall and up its grand staircase, now only sparrows and field mice ran nature’s errands.  Upstairs he found room after room, empty save for a few tattered remnants of what were once richly hued wall tapestries or portraits once graced with gilded frames.  In others, a few rotting remnants of furniture or fragments of china littered the floor, broken outlines softening under a growing layer of dust. 

Openings in the castle walls let in the gusting wind, no longer restrained by the delicate stained glass work of a thousand years glazier’s skill, now long gone to vandals and thieves.  The bright early afternoon sun still poured through the vacant window frames, catching the dust motes spun up in the chill breeze, creating shafts of light to punctuate the gloomy corridor leading to the base of the watchtower.

The footfalls from his heavily soled, fur lined boots echoed up the spiral stairwell as he made the climb to the top of the tower.  Then it was bright sunlight forcing a squint as he took the last few steps that led up to the flat circular open space surrounded by the stone parapet.

Aranarth’s heavily muscled hands gripped the edge of the stone perimeter, bracing against the wind that swirled and buffeted at this height.  From this perch over 150 feet above the courtyard he could see the distant Weather Hills retreating off to the southeast horizon.  To his left the North Downs rolled away in windswept isolation.  He turned to the west, overlooking the broad gently undulating plain that marched between the Downs and the distant Emyn Uial. At the horizon the Brandywine was a glimmering thread as it made its sharp right turn south, carrying Nenuial’s waters towards the distant sea.

So he had stood here almost a lifetime ago, with his brother Arthed and his father, Arvedui, the last king of Arthedain. 

“My place is here with you, father” Aranarth had repeated, his striking blue eyes challenging, his long, thick black hair whipping in the cold wind.  

“No, my son.  You must lead the family and all that will go with you to the west while there is still time”

“I will not leave you to die” Aranarth insisted

“You will do as you are told!” Arvedui commanded.  A head taller than Aranarth and built just as solidly, his physical presence was intimidating and his anger to be feared, but Araranth, though young, was not easily swayed.  Their eyes locked in a measure of wills that Arvedui secretly admired, knowing that his son would need all his strengths in the years to come.  He turned and looked away to the east.

“Stand with me here Aranarth, and you Arthed” Arvedui said quietly, motioning them over.

“The Enemy has moved on us in sudden force during the last year.  Though we slow his advance, we do so at a fearful price in men.  Our people abandon the lands and flee, some crowding within these walls seeking safety, others off to the west and south.  And it is from the south that aid has been promised from Gondor.”

“Then we should fight!” Aranarth interrupted.

“Your heart denies what your eyes know to be true, son.”

Off to the east they could all see the implacable foe.  Like a distant dark stain on the land the army of the Witch King massed two days march away, so confident in victory that they made little attempt to hide their presence.  Amongst the snarling orcs and battalions of men turned to evil they had assembled siege engines to batter Fornost’s great walls, and brought great wagons of supplies to sustain them while the defenders rations slowly dwindled.

“Nothing would please the Witch King more than to have us fight him only to have our heads brought to him in a sack.  Nay, we shall cheat him of this pleasure and much more” Arvedui laughed grimly.

“Hadrick! Bring up the cases” Arvedui called down the stairwell.  A tall helmed guard brought up two ornate, polished wooden cases, embellished with ancient runes and exquisitely inlaid with silver and chalcedony.  He gently placed them on the floor of the watchtower.

Arvedui opened the larger case, long and thin, then raised the lid of a smaller, but bulkier case.

“Behold! The Scepter of Annuminas.  The sword that was Narsil!”

It had taken his breath away.  The ancient silver Scepter gleaming in the late afternoon winter sunlight, resting in its deep blue velvet lined walnut case.  Narsil, broken, no longer filled with its terrible shining light, its powerfully forged segments arrayed end to end, the sword that cut the Ring from the hand of Sauron two thousand years past.

“You will take these west, Aranarth, over the Emyn Uial, with those people who will follow you, to the Lune.  And also this...” Arvedui gently removed the silver fillet that held the Star of Elendil, symbol of the northern kingdom’s long lineage.  He placed it in an indentation in the case just below the hilt of Narsil.

“You may have use for that in the days that come” Arvedui spoke gravely.  “But there is now little time for talk of the future, for it is the present alone that must concern you. It will be dark in two hours.  You, Arthed, Firiel, and Ardugan must lead those within these walls west, far from the reach of Angmar, to the Lune if need be, where you will be welcomed by the friends of Cirdan, who awaits the arrival of the host from Gondor.”

“And you, father…?”

“Hadrick and others of the guard will accompany me to the North Downs on swift horses with precious cargo of which I will not speak.  We will draw away some elements of Angmar’s fell horde, allowing you to escape.  With luck, we will join you later amongst the legions from Gondor.  Now go! You have much to do in the next two hours!”

They held each other in a brief embrace, all three fighting back bitter tears at the parting.

Arvedui then stood back looking at them, gray eyes filled, a hint of a proud smile crossing his face, then turned away, staring east again, the wind swirling the blue and silver cape clasped to his broad shoulders, his gloved hands grasping the parapet.

They had set off promptly as darkness fell.  Almost a thousand strong…men, women, children, along with a detachment of the guard.  A rising sliver of moon silhouetted the watchtower for a moment.  Aranarth glimpsed the silhouette of a figure standing alone, hand upraised.  It was the last he would ever see of Arvedui.

It was close to a fortnight of hard travel.  Many who left Fornost with him simply melted away into the plains and woods to the south along the Brandywine, not willing to give credence to the promised aid from Gondor.  Others stayed behind in the Emyn Uial, fashioning rude shelters, awaiting winter’s end, confident that the Witch King would not reach so far west, having taken Fornost.

The rest was history he knew all too well.  Aid did come, a host of a size from Gondor he could have hardly imagined.  Elven forces gathered by Cirdan joined them and, towards the end, Rivendell sent mighty Glorfindel to help deal the death blow to Angmar.

But it had been a death blow to Arthedain as well.  Its people were slain or scattered, its king at the bottom of the Ice Bay of Forochel with the two palantir of the North Kingdom, while its capital, Fornost, lay sacked and pillaged.  

He remembered returning from the battle with Arthed, to the Grey Havens, where his mother Firiel had remained in safety with Ardugan, who had been too young to join them.  There were no war stories to be told, though he and Arthed had killed scores between them.  It was not a time for stories.

“You are king now, Aranarth” 

They’d stood at the rail of a small courtyard that overlooked the harbor at the Grey Havens.  Gondor’s fleet filled it from shore to shore and out the broad estuary of the Gulf of Lhun.  It was a beehive of activity, as men, horses, stores and equipment were coming aboard for the long journey south.

“Nay, mother.  I have ridden the length of the land, first in retreat, then in battle and now in return.  Our people are scattered, dwindled by war, journeyed to other realms, or still in hiding.  The fields lie fallow and untended, the artisans and merchants and their markets vacant.  There is not enough left to make a kingdom.  I will not dishonor my father by assuming such a title.  Arthedain exists only as a place on maps of the past.”

“I am not a place in the past, Aranarth!” Firiel turned to him, her dark blue-grey eyes angry as a building storm.  She drew herself up to her full height, her golden hair streaked with silver, her noble face just inches from his. 

“I meant no…”

“Have a care to think ‘ere you speak again.  I am the daughter of a king of Gondor, whose fleet you see before you, a woman fortunate to marry a noble King of the Northern Dunedain who saved his family at the cost of his own life! True there may not be enough here to call a kingdom, but you are chief amongst all that remain in strength, leadership, and battle skills.  That would be more than enough even if you were not the king’s eldest son!”

Her words were the blade of a sword she had always wielded with a master’s skill.  He stood silently, gripping the rail, knowing the truth of her challenge.

“What you say about the loss of a kingdom is true, Aranarth” she said quietly, turning away from him, looking at the massed ships in the harbor.  “But there are other truths.  What people that remain must be brought out of hiding and sanctuary to resume their lives as best they can.  Where possible, fields must return to crops, livestock recovered.  The whole of what was once Arnor cannot be abandoned to waste and brigands.”

“And I am to do this alone?”

“You, your brothers, other kin of your father who yet live, those few members of the royal guard that survive, and others with noble blood that will follow your lead will do this.”

“To restore a kingdom?”

“Perhaps…some day.  But there will be no restoration if the next in the line of Elendil the Tall walks away from his heritage and the sacrifice of his father.  There will be no future king if the chief amongst us fails to lead and raise sons of his own, fails to protect what is left and what may be to come.”

“It will take time”

“The lifetimes of many men I fear, to undo the years of division, plague, and war.  Do not expect to bask in the glow of victory in this battle, my son, nor encourage such thoughts in your sons whence they may come.  The future of our people will be built brick by brick, yours laid at the foundation, the heights yet to be determined.”

Firiel walked away, having said her peace.  Aranarth had stood in thought, gripping the rail long after the last of the sun’s rays had left the pennants atop the tallest ships in dusk’s shadows.  That was nearly ninety years past.

Now it was the sound of a horse whinnying far below that brought him out of his reverie, back to the present.  The sun was indeed low in the sky but it was not glimmering over the Gulf of Lhun, just struggling to breath light into the empty fortress of Fornost that basked in its rays.   And beneath his grip it was the stone parapet of the abandoned watchtower, not the polished marble rail of Cirdan’s guest house.

It was time to go.  Fornost at night was the home of bats and ghosts.  Though he feared neither, there was little to be gained in tarrying.  Over the long years he had indeed laid the first few bricks of the foundation Firiel had demarked, and the stones of Fornost were not to be amongst them.  As he descended the tower stairs and strode through the empty rooms and halls, he knew this was to be his last visit.

The wheels of Fate were turning forward…he could feel it somehow, moving down an uncertain slope, leaving the past behind.   

He exited the castle, striding out into the courtyard.  His strong russet steed snorted its approval as he mounted and guided it out, beyond the inner gate, over the moat, and through the outer walls.  The last of the afternoon sun caught the first budding leaves on the trees lining the Greenway towards Bree and the Rendevous with his brothers.  As he made his way south down the path the castle slipped from view behind the veil of branches and began its long slumber in the shadows, severed finally from the heart of one of its last living inhabitants.