Part Nineteen:
Calm heads and cool thinking are not traits commonly assigned to those of the Riddermark. They are better known for their fierceness in battle, their dogged determination to stand against even the most outrageous odds, and their intense devotion to family. Qualities that were very much in evidence in the defiant stance of the towering figure of Esiwmas of Rohan.
"My son's life can not be bought." The rolling accent of Rohan lent the words a softness that was in opposition with the grim features revealed by the glow of the oil lamp hanging above the table.
Head bent in respect, Ahmose said, "Nay, honored sir, you mistake my intentions. No price could be set for the service your son has done for the House of Tharan. We seek only to...."
"Do not insult me with your offers." Forcing down the demon of anger born of the Southron's words, the Rohirrim replied, "There is not gold enough in all of Harad to begin to compensate me for the harm you have done my family."
Stepping between the two men, Master Gemthir said, "Let us delay any discussion of this nature until we know the extent of the damage wrought here. What say the healers?"
Fury drained away, leaving only a grieving father. "That he sleeps. There is no visible injury, yet he does not wake." With a sharp gesture, the trader said, "They say it is best to allow him to wake on his own, but...he is slipping away. I can see it. And there is nothing I can do."
Gemthir sighed. When Curthan had knelt beside Estev's still form and pressed probing fingers alongside his windpipe to announce, "Faint, but steady", they had all been hopeful. But with each passing hour, that hope grew ever more frail.
"And Rolfe?"
"The hand has been splinted. He refused the healer's potions and sits at his brother's side even yet."
Esiwmas passed a hand over his eyes. He had been driven from the room upstairs by the need to do something, anything, other than sit helplessly and watch his son sink ever deeper into a sleep from which there was little hope of awakening.
"His loyalty is commendable. The young master does not understand the danger he faced. It has happened before that brother killed brother."
Face flushed with renewed anger, Esiwmas stepped around the tutor to confront the Haradrim. In a deathly still voice he said, "You dare suggest my son is capable of kinslaying?"
"Worse has been done under the influence of the Blade of Nuphar." The Haradrim waited silently until the blond giant before him clenched his fist and withdrew it from the hilt of the long knife at his side. "Your sons, Master Trader, fought evil until the end. Together they stood and defeated it. Their names will be recited with honor by the House of Tharan."
"One must wonder, sir, if it is possible to hear such recitations from the barrow," Esiwmas replied coldly. Turning on his heel, he brushed past the Gondorian and strode from the room.
Ahmose's head dropped to his chest, his black hair shadowing his face. Tilting his head, he could see the locked chest containing the splintered remains of the blade that had been his life's focus. The memory of the day he had given oath to Karif, third son of Gimilzôr, was ever clear in his mind though it had been more than five decades ago. Only a child then, his master had by some fate survived the passing of the Blade of Nuphar. By the blood of his brothers, spilt by the eldest in his initial madness, Karif had sworn to do whatever was required to free the Houses of Harad.
Terrible though the evil of the blade had been this day, there had been times of even greater horror in the past. Whatever the price demanded for its destruction, it was well spent, or so he had always believed.
When the trader discovered the full extent of the part he had played in the events of the afternoon, the man would return to exact appropriate retribution. It would not be denied. If truth be known, death would be a blessing for it would release him from the guilt he would carry always. Young Rolfe had said that there must be another way. Had he been neglectful in seeking other paths? Could one have been found in time to save the young Rohirrim?
"You are certain there is no hope?"
The Gondorian's question so coincided with his thoughts that Ahmose wondered if the man possessed the ability to read another's mind.
"In life there is ever hope." The Haradrim hesitated, and then shook his head in sorrow. "Yet this is less than a fool's hope. For those taken by the blade, death or descent into madness have been the only paths. The latter is not a fate I would wish upon the young one or those who care for him."
"A fool's hope was the salvation of us all, just three short years ago." The tutor's narrow face appeared carved of stone. "As you said yourself, there are forces in this world beyond our understanding, for both good and evil. Let us continue to hope."
"The wise say that one may judge a man's wisdom by his hopes," responded the Haradrim.
Indicating chairs at a small table where rested a tray bearing an earthen pitcher and several cups, Gemthir added, "It is also said that there is no wisdom in useless and hopeless sorrow."
Briefly touching his fingertips to his breast and then his forehead, Ahmose answered, "Then we will not mourn before we must."
The tutor filled a small cup with steaming liquid and passed it to the Southron, waving him into the seat opposite him. Dawn was approaching and who knew what the new day would bring.
Upon a narrow bed, Jesse lay stretched along his boy's side, staring unblinking at the still face. The only indication that the boy yet lived was the slow rise and fall of his chest. Early on, attempts had been made to remove the dog from his chosen position; each time he had returned, silent yet persistent in his devotion, until the large man had sternly insisted he be left in peace.
Beside the bed, his great head resting upon Rolfe's knee, Dog held his own vigil and remembered a tall man with golden hair and the dark night when he had gone where Dog could not follow. The man had left behind an emptiness that was not right; a dog should have a master. For days Dog had been confused, then for a brief moment his man had returned and let him know that he had a new job to do, a new master to care for. Gently he licked the fingers upon his boy's bandaged hand. If Jesse's boy did not awaken, he would offer to share his.
Rolfe stroked Dog's head with his right hand then carefully moved his left onto the arm of the chair. The fingers sticking out above the white bandages were swollen and tender to the touch. The healer would scold him for not keeping it elevated like he had been told and would probably try to force another noxious potion upon him as well. But he would not take it. Not until ... Rolfe could not finish the thought, fresh tears welled up. It was all his fault. He was older; it was his job to take care of Estev. He should have told someone. Made them listen and understand, even if it did make him seem foolish.
"Don't do that, son," Esiwmas' gruff voice broke the silence of the room. "You'll hurt yourself even more if you bang it about."
Startled from his thoughts, Rolfe realized that he had been pounding his arm against the chair. His voice thick with tears, he said harshly, "I should be hurt."
Strong arms lifted the boy from his chair and held him tightly. "No, son. You cannot take the blame for all the evil in the world."
"But what if he dies?" For the first time in that long night, Rolfe voiced his worst fear.
Esiwmas' chest expanded with a long shuddering breath, and a heavy hand was placed upon Rolfe's head as the man exhaled slowly. From the curtainless windows, the gray light before dawn revealed the glittering course of tears upon his face.
"Then my son, we will sing a song for his victory and mourn as we must."
Where he was or how he came to be there, he did not know. Nor was he concerned with such thoughts. All that was important was that he wandered within the most glorious garden he had ever seen. Flowers bloomed everywhere, scenting the air with a heady perfume. Roses, daisies, jonquils and countless others he recognized, though by their size and vibrant colors he knew them to be as unique as those he could not name. The hum of bees filled the air and mingled with the splashing song of the rivulet running alongside the path of white stone. Grass, greener and softer than any he had known before, added a rustling undertone that enticed him to seat himself beneath a towering tree with pale golden leaves.
Time passed, though he knew not how long, and he became aware of a soft rhythmic sound. Not wanting to leave the garden; but drawn to locate the source of the strangely familiar sound, he rose and walked slowly forward upon the path.
At the path's end, or perhaps it was the beginning, there stood a gazebo carved from pale gray stone. Through the latticed sides, he could see two women. One, dressed all in gray, sat upon a low stool sorting through a basket of brilliantly colored yarns. The other was seated before a tapestry loom, one hand tossing the shuttle while the other used a wooden beater to tap down the weft. Without pause she pulled the shed roll toward her and repeated the process.
Climbing the three steps to the gazebo, he hesitated until the woman at the loom turned her head.
"We have been waiting for you, little one."
For a moment he stood bedazzled, her voice was the music of the stream in the garden and her eyes the gray of mist upon the mountains. She smiled and returned her gaze to the strands she wove.
The image of another woman seated before a loom crept into his thoughts and he said, "My mother does that."
"All mothers weave, little one. Be it cloth or dreams." The weaver slowed the rhythm of her hands and motioned to him. "Come, tell me what you think."
Stepping to the loom, he looked upon the tapestry. At first, it appeared only a tangle of thread, but as he focused upon one section the images woven there became clear. A boy upon a horse raced across a meadow dotted with pale yellow flowers. Tilting his head, he looked upon another section. The same blond boy was seated before an open window; a slate on the table before him.
Backing away, he shook his head. "I don't want to see the rest. "
The woman in gray said quietly, "Why is that, little one?"
"Because." He closed his eyes and dropped his head. "Because it's me."
"Yes," the woman at the loom affirmed. "It is the tapestry of your life, thus far."
"I don't want to see it."
Setting aside the basket of yarns, the woman in gray stood and rested her hand upon the boy's cheek. Jerking away from the comfort that flowed from her touch, he dashed hot tears from his eyes.
"No, I don't deserve it. I was so stupid. I believed everything it told me."
"Yet in the end, you recognized the lies for what they were." The weaver pointed a slim, pale finger at a place near the edge of the tapestry. "See, here is the tale. There is no reason to deny yourself solace. You accomplished the task set before you."
Again the gray clad woman reached out to the boy. With his acceptance of her touch, shame and guilt were washed away, though memory of his actions remained for it is only through experience that wisdom is gained. Lifting his chin, she spoke again. No words did he hear, only the music of the wind dancing in the trees and rain upon the surface of a lake. Her gentle smile carried the warmth of spring sunshine and her eyes reflected the light of a child's happiness; the light that once again shone within the boy's.
"Go with the grace of the Valar, little one, for you have done well," the weaver said as the boy stepped back from the other's embrace.
"Go?" the boy asked in confusion. "Am I not..."
"Nay, child, look upon my weaving," chided the lady of the loom. "Can you not see it is far from complete? Many are the tales to be told before this tapestry reaches its end."
"But..." He looked longingly toward the entryway leading back to the garden.
"You shall return to the garden, little one, when your part of the telling is finished. Until that time you must learn to hear the Music of Life, it will fill you with the same peace that is in my lord's garden." Tracing a finger along his jaw, the gray clad lady touched his nose lightly. "But you must take care to heed what you hear."
"Yes, ma'am." The boy ducked his head in embarrassment. "I'll try."
"That is all that might be asked, even of the mighty." Pointing toward a second entryway, one he would have sworn had not been there before, she said, "Your path is there, little one."
As he descended the steps of the gazebo, the weaver changed her bobbin; this portion of the tale would require brighter colors.