Epilogue

T.A. 2106

It was as close to the edge of the precipice as the horse would go.  But Arahael could see clearly enough now.  Far below, the fresh mound of earth parted the waves of thick dark grass that thrived on the natural spring water spilling from the face of the cliff.  Beside the mound he could barely make out the gentle swell of two earlier graves, almost fully absorbed in the heavy green growth.

He pulled the grey woolen cloak tighter about his head and shoulders.  The wind driven rain was changing over to sleet, a cold sting on his weather-beaten face.  It would turn to a heavy snow overnight, covering his tracks.  

The horse was restless, impatient, standing in the building storm.  But Arahael was not ready to go, not just yet.  He had learned patience and endurance the last fifty years.  It showed in the lines in his face, the gray that had spread through the ranks of auburn hair of his youth, and the eyes that had faded to ashy blue. 

It was his third visit to this place.  He had come with his father and uncle years ago to bury Ardugan who had fallen while saving their lives.  Twenty years later another meeting with his father to bury his uncle, Arthed.  And today, finally, the father was laid to rest with his two brothers in the only place they truly belonged together.

Fifty years.  Now he knew the look in his father’s eyes when they had met at Rivendell before embarking on their journey. 

He would outlive them all from those days, at least those that were mortal. 

Hagar, the boastful young man with the black sword had become a capable chieftan after his father, Breor, had died forty years ago. 

Arahael had made way to their northern realm as he did every several years, the last visit just a few summers past.  Hagar had grown old, his hair long and white, leathery face lined with wrinkles, but a man still hale and full of gusto.  His people prospered, their farms productive, the corrals with their beloved horses straining to contain the spirited colts. 

The old chieftan had died last spring, so the word came.  His eldest son now ruled, a stocky, serious man who had abided their stories and tales cordially enough when he visited in years past.  He would not be unwelcome should he visit again, but the son was a hard, practical sort and saw Arahael as a wanderer, bringing neither trade nor wealth. 

To the south, Eradan was Steward of Gondor, for over 25 years now.  As in the north, Arahael had made it his business to visit this southern kingdom on occasion.  He remembered one of them, over twenty years ago, just after Mardil had passed. 

It had been a warm reunion.  Eradan, his wife,and  a son, Herion, a somewhat distant, haughty young man.  Drianna had recovered from her wounds and had chosen to stay with her brother in Minas Tirith, her hunting skills now applied to ferreting out conspiracies at court, grilling emissaries from the lands to the east and south, and traveling about the kingdom as a valuable set of eyes and ears sensing the pulse of the people.  She had not married, wedding herself instead to the governance of the land and the welfare of its people.

It had been five years since that last visit.  The two of them had already aged, Drianna’s golden hair mostly grey and white, the red streak faded to a dusky amber.  Eradan bore the look of an older man, though his eyes were still full of intensity.  It was a contrast with his own looks, which were slow to change, as was the way with the line of the Dunedain. 

Herion, had since grown into full manhood.  There was something brisk and cool about him.  Perhaps it was a suspicion about Arahael’s motives for visiting, some unfounded fear that he would make some claim to the throne based on birthright.  Or just jealousy that his father should have such warm regard for someone in a past the son could not share.  Whatever the reason, he knew that his welcome would be perfunctory at best once Eradan and Drianna had passed. 

Haldir, the elf, had retreated to Lorien.  He’d heard no word of him since.  Gandalf, he had encountered from time to time, sometimes unexpectedly in the wild or during one of his visits to Rivendell to spend time with his son, Aranuir.  The old man had not changed.

Neither had Elrond or his daughter Arwen.  He remembered her playing with him when he was young, then her doing much the same with his son born over twenty summers ago.  Others would follow down the years, babes growing to youths, becoming men, aging, dying. 

His father, Aranarth, had spent his last years in Rivendell, the old man mellowing a bit, telling tales of a lost kingdom to his young grandson, Aranuir.  They had made a few forays together into the wild, once to the borders of the halfling land, another time south along the flanks of the Misty Mountains.  But mostly the work had fallen to him, occasionally accompanied by one of Arthed’s sons when traveling south and east of Bree.

This was especially true after the death of Arthed ten years ago.  His father’s last surviving brother was the final link, the last man alive with whom Aranarth could share a past long dead to other men.   After that the old man had withdrawn, spending most of his time in solitary contemplation or in the library at Rivendell, hunched over parchments, pen in hand.

And now he too was gone.  And taking with him the memories of the final days of the Arthedain, the last kingdom of the north, the battle with the Witch King, the arrival of Gondor’s mighty host from the sea, Rivendell’s victory charge.   

A fresh gust of wind sprayed a wave of sleet against the sodden cloak.  Arahael tightened his grip on its margins, hunkering slightly in the saddle.

The time spent with his father in the task at Dol Guldur had brought them together after a lifetime of distance.  He had been fortunate to experience an echo of the man who when young, was a prince in waiting, a king designate.  Also lucky to have had the chance to participate in such a challenge to his skills as was the journey to Dol Guldur, and the benefit of friendships forged with others from distant lands.

There would be no such times for his son, Aranuir.  They now called it the Watchful Peace in the halls of Rivendell.  He should have felt some pride of authorship in such a grand title.  After all, it meant a period of restoration, breathing room for elves in their sanctuaries, dwarves delving into the earth in the far north, men building lives in the upper reaches of the Anduin and in the halls of Minas Tirith not far from the River’s exit into the Bay of Belfalas.

But there was no satisfaction.  He had a son waiting for him on the Greenway, a young man filled with the history of his people, the stories of his now dead grandfather, and the skills of elven warriors and woodsmen.  Energetic, intelligent, earnest, full of promise.

And what did he, Arahael have to offer him?  A kingdom? A great challenge, a quest? The company and respect of men from other lands?

No, there was no realm, no quest.  And the bonds he had forged at Dol Guldur would die with the men of that time, as they already had done with Hagar’s departure.  The same would soon be true with the eventual passing Eradan and Drianna.

His father’s task was to assuage the grief of his own loss; the death of his own father, Arvedui, a kingdom vanished, his own son borne to fostering at Rivendell, the passing of his wife, mother, and brothers.  Yet Aranarth was still strong enough to bind all of this into doing what must be done to allow his own son to have his own life, whatever future it would hold. 

But whatever the price for this, at least the old man had experienced something of a time now gone that he, Arahael, would not have, nor would his son, Aranuir, and those to follow, as far as he could see.  And in that, his task was the harder, finding the means to keep some measure of the fire burning in this worthy son of his.  And it would not come just from idle dwelling on lost kingdoms and bloodlines of the past, though the past was important in framing the future. 

No, it would be on what was, the new life of the Dunedain of the North, one of limits, loneliness, and hardship, maintaining the living link to kings long dead in the event that they might be called on in some distant future time to assume a role larger than chieftan of a scattered people in an empty land.  That was what was in his father’s eyes, the sadness, not over what he had lost, but for the task his son and other descendants would have to continue.

Snow was beginning to mix with the sleet now, wet flakes splatting on the side of his cloak, chilling the flanks of his restless horse.  Arahael opened the saddle pouch on his right, drawing out a package wrapped in fine linens. 

He propped it in front of him, on the pommel of the saddle, slowly parting the folds of the cloth to reveal six beautifully crafted knives with curiously serrated edges.  Even in the gray light of early winter under a cloud filled sky the polished steel gleamed with a life of its own.

Aranarth had given them to him the day that the two of them had buried Arthed.  No words had been exchanged.  He knew then that the decision of their use was his to make as his father would never set foot alive in the place again.  But later he had asked Arahael to bury him there, next to his brothers.  That he had honored, alone, this wet and cold late November day.

Unlike his father, it was not a place for him, belonging to another time, ‘a place for kings and their sons to meet and talk’.  That was the quote his father had repeated in his last days.

Nor was it a place for his son.  He and Aranuir would have to do with what was, with the life they had and would have, however spare and uncertain. 

Arahael looked again at the small oval of the Rendezvous far below him, the freshly turned earth, under which his father slept, the thick green grass now frosting with sleet and snow. 

One by one he removed the knives from their linen cradle and tossed them down, twirling, glinting, through the pelting ice and whirling snowflakes towards the small pond where the silvery spring water collected at the base of the cliff.  A glimmer as each they sank to the bottom after sending up a triumphant last splash.

Then it was done.  He wrapped the linen carefully, compactly, and stowed it back into the saddle bag.  A weight lifted from his heart, one he did not know was there.  The reins tightened in his hands.  His horse sensed the time for movement again and began to back away from the precipice.

His eased his mount along, making way through the windswept bare trees towards the west.  A smile creased his face.  In an hour or two he would meet his son who would be grousing about the cold and wet, the lack of provisions, why indeed they were even here in this wild and empty land.  And he would explain, teaching him, preparing him for his time, beginning the patient process of setting expectations so Aranuir in turn could do so for the son he would have some day, and the sons to follow.

This is what a Chieftan of the Dunedain did, what his son, and those to follow would do.   

The snow picked up in intensity.  It would be several inches deep in a few hours.  Behind him the trail, and history, were disappearing forever under a carpet of white.  Ahead he now knew his father’s way.   

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Author’s Note

The event of Gandalf driving Sauron out of Dol Guldur in T.A. 2063 is mentioned by Tolkien in his Appendices. 

Nothing is said of how this was accomplished.  So, it left an opportunity to develop a full length book about one way it might have been done.  Hence creating the Testament of Aranarth that would be the basis for a story of this event.

As to the characters in the story.   Many were taken directly from the Appendices and Genealogies.  Mardil was Steward of Gondor at the time.  His son Eradan succeeded him.  No mention in the Appendices of any siblings for Eradan was made, though I felt that it was not unreasonable for him to have brothers or sisters.  In this case I invented his sister, Drianna, to play a significant role in the story.

As to the Eotheod, Fram and Frumgar are mentioned in the Appendices.  Beyond that, the genealogy of this northern people, who would later migrate south to Gondor’s northern borders as the Rohirrim, is silent on Fram’s descendants.  I invented Breor, son of Fram and Hagar, son of Breor. 

Haldir, Marchwarden of Lorien, is mentioned in Tolkien’s writings. 

In the Appendices and other writings, Aranarth is said to have had siblings when he fled Fornost as the Witch King’s armies approached.  I named two of the siblings, Ardugan and Arthed, and gave them roles in the story.

Gandalf, Radagast, Elrond and his children, Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen, are familiar figures.   The use of the various species of birds as part of a ruse to trap and destroy the bats and deceive Sauron’s forces was my invention.  I hope readers enjoyed it. 

This will likely by my only work for the Stories of Arda site.  If you have any questions on the story, the characters, or other aspects of the tale, just leave a comment in the review section and I will be glad to respond.

Many thanks to those who have left reviews and questions.  Nothing appeals to an author more than to be read.  And from the hits on the site and comments made, it appears that my tale has appealed to some.  Glad to have shared it with you.