A Matter of Perspective
The healer's assistant ushered the visiting Rangers out the door, closing it firmly behind them.
Gethron chuckled, "That woman Ioreth has quite the sharp tongue on her – she even shut down Haldon, his charms did not work on her at all!"
"I have to say I do not see that much – Mother managed it only a few times." Tarkil settled back onto his bed. He grimaced as he sipped the willow-bark tea he had been ordered to finish.
"I overheard Haldon mention that Bree barmaid again. Is it true you plan on asking her to marry you, Tarkil?" Angrim asked.
"Aw, do not start that again," Gethron complained. "Give the lad a break! After what we have been through, let them be happy together."
"You of all people should be encouraging him to marry a Dúnadan woman, not a Breelander. Do you realize what that means, Tarkil? It means you will watch her age before you; that she will die forty or fifty years before you. And your children – you doom them to a shorter life, too. You have good blood, son, you are related to the King of the United Realm – there would be plenty of our own women who would desire such an alliance. You should not fall into this Bree woman's traps – marry a woman of the Dúnedain."
"You mean, like Titheniel?" Tarkil snapped at his kin. "I loved her and look what that got me. I left on patrol and came back to find she had invited another man to her bed. Besides, I do not seek an 'alliance.' Haldon can still marry and continue our line."
Angrim snorted. "Haldon does not look to be settling down any time soon. And I take offence to you shoving your responsibilities onto your brother. You are a Ranger and a Dúnadan – you have a responsibility to your people, not just your family."
"Angrim, you are a sour old fool," Gethron argued. "The lad has just been through some of the worst battles either one of us has ever seen – indeed the worst of the age. The King has his crown; the realm is restored. Let him ask Poppi to be his wife." He turned to Tarkil. "I say forget her father. Walk into that house and ask Poppi to marry you; if she says yes, sweep her off her feet and get the mayor or whoever the Bree people use to perform the oaths and get married that day. You asked her father's permission before you left – he has had ample time to get used to the idea."
"Sweep her off her feet? And you call me a fool? Gethron, you have had too many pain potions – or perhaps not enough," Angrim spat back. "That woman will have children that will marry into our line and weaken my family's blood, and all the Dúnedain's. And soon we shall be no different, no stronger, than the Breelanders." He turned back to Tarkil. "We have fought too hard for the realm, too much blood has been spilled for you to water it down by taking that barmaid as your wife."
"If Melian had taken a similar view, where would Aragorn be now?" came a quiet voice by the door. The three men looked up, surprised to see that Elladan and Elrohir stood on the threshold, listening. "If Melian had not taken Elu Thingol as spouse, there would have been no Luthien. If Luthien had not married Beren, there would be no Elwing, no Elros, no Aragorn."
Angrim spluttered briefly before his head rose in response to the challenge. "Where would the realm be today if Gilraen had married a Breelander – we would have no king. And look at what happened when Valacar married Vidumavi – he plunged the realm into the kin-strife and civil war."
Elrohir nodded his head. "Yes but I doubt Tarkil's children could cause such strife. For while he is distantly related to our brother, his line is far removed from the White Throne. Do you say love does not count as a good reason for marriage?"
"He can find love amongst his own kind!" Angrim argued.
"Would you say that to our brother? Tell him to spurn our sister for one of his own kind?" Elrohir quietly asked.
"Would you argue with my sister that she thins our blood by marrying Elessar?" Elladan added.
"That is not what I said, my lords. I would not presume to suggest such a thing," Angrim blustered.
"So the marriage plans between Elessar and Arwen are acceptable to you? You would not argue against the mixing of two bloods at that match? For even though our sister has human blood flowing through her veins as do we, she has the choice to be elf-kind. And by marrying a mortal, she chooses a mortal life for herself and her children. Could it not be argued that she 'thins' the blood of our line?" Elladan perched casually on the end of Angrim's bed. "Should that not be unacceptable to elven eyes? Should we not argue that her marriage to Elessar should be stopped for the same reasons you give Tarkil about marrying this Bree maid? Even though that is a match between two mortals?"
Angrim's jaw briefly hung suspended in mid-air then snapped shut while he considered the Peredhel's words, finding no argument worthy to be voiced.
"We came to say farewell for a while," Elrohir announced, ending the discussion. "We head out tomorrow with the Rohirrim and wished to ensure that you were well before we left. Is there word that you wish sent to your families? Messages can be sent to your settlements should you choose. Tarkil, Haldon has written a short letter to your brother. He has not told them you were wounded; he felt it would worry them too much. But he suggested that you should add a line or two."
Tarkil took the parchment Elrohir held out and neatly penned a few lines at the bottom, assuring his family all was well with both brothers. As he handed it back he wondered, Should I ask if they could send a note to Poppi? Would the elves want to travel to Southlinch?
"You look confused," Elladan noted. "What troubles you?"
"I … I was wondering if you could send a note to Poppi for me." Tarkil ignored Angrim's disgusted snort. "But she lives in Southlinch near Bree, not in the Angle where my family lives, and it might be too much to ask of your messengers."
"Gildor and his people pass through Bree often enough on their journeys between Rivendell and the Havens, I am sure they could arrange to have a messenger sent to her home. If you could provide them with directions, it should arrive safely," Elladan said, holding out an extra sheet of parchment.
Tarkil took longer to compose this message, carefully drying the ink before folding the letter. He took a second parchment and drew a map to her home. "She never believes me when I talk of elves; to have one arrive on her doorstep might make her faint dead away." He grinned as he handed both sheets back to Elladan.
"I shall tell them to be careful not to scare her," Elrohir grinned back. "We will see you again shortly, my friends. Hopefully you shall all be up and about by the time we return."
"What did you write to her, lad?" Gethron asked once the Peredhil left. "Did you ask her to marry you?"
Tarkil just smiled and lay back, pulling the covers about him as he closed his eyes and drifted into sleep, the willow bark tea finally taking effect.
&-&
Tarkil stepped from the Houses of Healing and breathed deeply, glad to be away from the lingering odours and groans and snores of the patients still recovering from the battles.
"Remember your promise now, 'Kil." Haldon warned as they approached the arched tunnel that led to the Citadel. "No practicing with your sword yet, no horse-riding; nothing that will strain you."
"Yes, Naneth. And may I remind you your worries are for nought as I have neither a sword nor a horse." Tarkil replied then sighed in resignation.
They emerged from the lamp-lit tunnel to find a sea of activity in the Court of the Fountain. Tower Guards, Dúnedain, Swan Knights, even Legolas and Samwise all busily worked around the ancient White Tree while Mithrandir and Aragorn stood nearby. Tarkil and Haldon watched the bustle until they saw the Tower guard carefully remove the withered old Tree from its place of honour.
They moved forward to see what would be done with it, even more curious as to what would replace the ancient tree of Nimloth. The Tower Guard hefted its hulk upon their shoulders and reverently carried it through Fen Hollen to the silent street below, treating it as gently as any fallen soldier's body. Both brothers gasped when they saw Aragorn kneel at the hole left by the tree and plant a three-foot high sapling in its place. He smiled and talked with Samwise Gamgee who tenderly patted the soil around its roots while Legolas stroked the sapling's branches and softly spoke to it as if urging it to take root and flourish.
His task completed, the King stood and Tarkil and Haldon pushed closer, staring in amazement to see the single white flower upon the tiny tree, its white petals glistening as bright as any crown. When a light breeze eddied across the Citadel, the leaves danced in the wind, the silver undersides of the leaves sparkling in sharp relief against the dark green on their top.
As news spread throughout the Citadel, soldiers and workers from the King's house poured onto the green to view the miracle of the new White Tree, the symbol of ancient Númenor and descendant of the trees of distant Valinor.
Though the remaining days of June passed swiftly, the Dúnedain of the North became restless within the city. Those who had horses found themselves taking long rides across the Pelennor but Tarkil had to watch them ride to their freedom across the green fields while he stood behind the stone walls. He was wandering aimlessly through the lower circles with Meglin and the others who didn't have mounts when a buzz went through the city. The Dúnedain hurried up to the Citadel, staring out across the fields where they saw Elladan and Elrohir leading the fair folk of Rivendell and Lothlorien towards the gates. They stood back as Aragorn and the hobbits pushed to the walls to gaze out upon the wondrous site then followed as they hurried to the main gate.
Tarkil noticed a change fill his king, a warmth that flowed from his eyes and his being, as he greeted the riders, and that warmth seemed to flow over the city when he took Arwen's hand and led her into the great city.
&-&
Harp and viol filled Merethrond with joyous music as the people of Gondor celebrated their king's marriage and welcomed their new queen. Ladies of Gondor, gowned in their finest, dazzling as jewels long put away were dusted off and shined for the night's festivities, accompanied black and silver-bedecked lords. Swan Knights in their resplendent blue and white uniforms mingled amongst them.
Twenty-eight Dúnedain rangers, clad in their new grey and silver uniforms, clustered at the tables along the side of the hall quaffing their ale. Quiet chuckles could be heard by any who walked near as the Rangers amused themselves by watching the one member of their company who dared attempt the intricate patterns of the dance in the centre of the hall.
"He is a courtly dancer." Gethron chuckled as Haldon bowed to his partner. "The lady seems to be taken with him."
"Miriel? Yes, he has courted her a few times now." Tarkil smiled. "How are you doing, old man? It is good to see you up and about finally."
"My hip still twinges a bit, and the healers tell me I will be able to foretell the weather, but at least I am out of my sick bed. Angrim is becoming quite proficient with his crutches so they are going to release him in a few days, too. I think it is more because he is driving them mad with his constant complaining of feeling trapped inside these walls."
"I understand – none of us are used to being in a city such as this. I miss the fields and the forests back home. And my brother will not even let me ride yet; even though the healers have said I should start doing more." Tarkil sipped his ale as he sat back enjoying the festivities, grinning at the wide-eyed stares of the Gondorian ladies as three elven maids glided by. "I am feeling so cooped up surrounded by all this stone, Gethron. Have you heard when we are to be leaving?"
"Herudil said that we wait for King Éomer to return for King Théoden's body so it might be a few weeks yet." Gethron chuckled as he watched two young ladies sashay past them, eyeing his younger companion. "That's the second time they've gone by, and each time she has smiled at you. I think she fancies you, Tarkil. Why do you not ask her to dance?"
Tarkil smiled politely to the lady but shook his head, raising an eyebrow as she tossed her hair and flounced away. "I shall not dance tonight. There is only one maid I wish to dance with and she is not here."
"You are in love! I guess you will be having your own wedding once we return – though I doubt we will be able to throw one as lavish as this." Gethron drained his tankard and pointed to the elves on the opposite side of the hall, "Can you imagine having the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood as your kin? Talk about intimidating – the poor Captain. Master Elrond as your wife's father would be frightening enough."
"I cannot imagine. Henry is hard enough on me." Tarkil scowled into his tankard. "And we are not married, only courting."
"Well, you are courting his youngest daughter. He probably remembers what he was like at your age and courting his wife – and given what he saw of Haldon's behaviour the night of the attack on their farm, he probably suspects you are just as bad." Gethron grabbed another ale from a passing servant's tray, missing Tarkil's averted gaze when he remembered what Henry had seen Poppi and him doing later that night in the parlour. "Just what did he ask that night, anyway?"
"He asked me how I planned to support her, how old I was, where we would live, the usual questions I suppose." Tarkil sighed. "He was not happy to hear I planned to take her to live in our village. And you should have seen the look he gave me when I told him my age -- he must have thought I am still too young."
"How old is Poppi anyway? She looks about the right age to marry. Her sister looked only a few years older, and she is married with a babe already. What were his objections? Other than taking her from his home, I mean." Gethron chuckled as he pointed to Haldon. "Looks like the lady who eyed you has caught your brother's eye now, but it does not look like his healer friend is too happy about it."
Tarkil smiled and shook his head as he saw Haldon grinning brightly at his new dance partner while Miriel pouted at the side, her arms folded, a frown creasing her brow. "I do not know what it is about him, but he does have a way of attracting the ladies. It has been like that as long as I can remember, though it seems he has played up on it more these last few years." He watched Haldon a few moments more and shook his head. "But he asked Miriel to accompany him, so I take it she believed he would dance only with her. I reckon he is going to have a few sharp words spoken to him before the night's end."
"A tankard of ale that he talks his way out of it," Gethron wagered.
"No bet, old man. I have seen him play this game before – he will soothe the ruffled feathers." Tarkil stood and stretched. "I am going to walk for a bit to get some fresh air then head to bed. I will see you in the morning."
He did not manage to get through the throng before he found his arm taken. When he turned in surprised he saw Miriel attempting to drag him towards the dance floor. "My lady, I do not wish to dance this night."
"Then at least talk with me, please." The healer released his arm and looked at him, confusion in her eyes. "During our walks over the past few weeks, your brother told me that he is related to the king. Does he speak true?"
"Yes, my lady, it is true through our relationship is distant and confusing. Our mother's mother is the King's mother's cousin and our father is a direct descendant of the sixth king of Arnor's youngest son. So though we are not in line for the throne should Elessar be slain, we are related. Indeed many of the Grey Company can claim similar kinship."
"Oh. I had hoped that perhaps the lady Lothiriel might just be attempting to make one of her suitors jealous by dancing with him tonight." The music ended and they watched as Haldon bowed before the lady and escorted her back to her chaperone, lifting two glasses of wine from a servant's tray to hand her one as she laughed at some joke he must have told. Miriel heaved a sigh. "I suppose he might be acceptable to her father as a suitor after all. Your brother is so very handsome and charming, I can understand her desire to have him as a dance partner."
"I doubt my brother would attempt to court the lady, Miriel. Perhaps now would be a good chance to reclaim him as a partner for it looks that he is alone at the moment." Tarkil stopped himself from smirking in amusement as she gasped and hurried from his side. He pushed his way back to the door and hurried from the hall to stand by the battlements overlooking the city, his eyes focussed on the black patch of land that stood out in stark relief against the green surrounding it, marking where the fell beast of the Witch King had fallen. Is Poppi safe even though no Rangers patrol her land? The southerners who attacked her farm are no longer a problem, but what of the others that swarmed that land? One in Bree certainly had an Orkish look to him. Tarkil shivered in the warm summer air as he remembered the farms around Linhir and the brutal atrocities the Corsairs had repeated in farmhouse after farmhouse. Since he had come south and no Rangers were left to protect that land, had something similar happened in Bree? He had heard the Ringbearer named Sam talk about looking into the lady Galadriel's mirror and what he'd seen happening in the Shire. If the Shire is in danger, surely Bree cannot be any safer. I should have stayed. Yet a part of his brain knew that even if he had stayed in the North he would not have been able to protect her – he had originally been ordered to guard between the High Pass and Rivendell, hundreds of miles from Southlinch. The question kept swirling around in his head, is Poppi safe?
"I thought you were heading off to bed, lad." Gethron lit his pipe as he approached Tarkil. The Gondor musicians gave way to the elven minstrels in the great hall behind them.
"I was heading to bed," Tarkil sighed and leaned back against the parapet to face the older Ranger. "But then I started thinking about that farmhouse in Linhir and wondering if Poppi is safe – Bree was still full of southerners when we left."
Gethron grimaced, "That is not a pleasant memory to have on such a joyful occasion as today. And I do not mean to sound cruel, but it does no good to worry about Poppi now, lad. You will not know until we get home, whenever that will be. Just enjoy tonight, do not worry about yesterday or tomorrow. Aragorn finally married his lady Arwen, and the realm has a queen once again."
Tarkil watched as revellers from the wedding spilled out from the hall onto the green. "But was it such a joyful occasion for the Queen's father and brothers to watch? Did you see the look on Lord Elrond's face when he placed her hand in Aragorn's last night upon their arrival? Surely, they cannot be as happy … and it must weigh heavily upon the King as well, to know someone you love is giving up immortality to such a doom as we face. Could you deliver your kin to such a fate, or ask such a sacrifice of someone you love?"
"Tarkil lad, you realize if you marry Poppi, you face a similar fate?" Gethron quietly asked his friend who looked at him in confusion. "Angrim was right - you shall watch Poppi age before your eyes. Breelanders live a much shorter life, lad. If she sees her eightieth year, she will have outlived most of her kind. And you will still be in your prime at that age."
"I thought you were the one encouraging me to marry her, old man! Was that not you defending my choice last month?" Tarkil scowled. "Are you telling me now I should walk away from her?"
"No, that is not what I said. I just want you to be aware of what you face in loving Poppi." Gethron watched the elves perform a graceful dance about the newly planted sapling before speaking again. "I made a similar choice, lad, and it is difficult to watch someone you love fade away when you are still strong. I know you love Poppi, but I want you to go back to her with your eyes open."
"What do you mean you made a similar choice?" Tarkil turned away from the festivities to watch Gethron. "I have wondered about something Angrim said during that argument – he made that comment that you of all people should be encouraging me to marry a Dúnadan? What exactly did he mean by that, Gethron?"
"My wife came from Fornost – she was not Dúnadan either." Gethron sighed. "Her father trapped furs and traded with us for supplies we could bring them from the south – I patrolled the area where they had their trap lines when she first caught my eye."
"I have always wondered at the animosity between you and Angrim." Tarkil said. He frowned as he considered Gethron's phrasing. "Came from, was? You speak in the past tense, old man. I thought you were married still."
Gethron nodded and turned away, his voice gruff. "I am still married, lad; she has been dead fifteen years now, but she is still my wife in my heart. There has not been another since who could replace her." He heaved a great sigh and turned back to face the young Ranger. "You are going to have to face that if you marry Poppi."
The two men stood silently watching the festivities as the joy of the King's marriage spilled down through the levels below. The smoke from Gethron's pipe wreathed him before the gentle summer breeze brushed it away.
"Why today, Gethron, why now? You have known I love Poppi since the Yule, six months have passed; why do you tell me this today?" Tarkil finally broke the silence between them.
"Because we married on this same day forty-five years ago; it would have been our anniversary today."
"She died fifteen years ago, you said," Tarkil whispered as Gethron's words finally sank in. "You were married for only thirty years?"
"Life is harsh in Fornost, lad. She celebrated her thirty-first birthday three days before we took our oaths and that is old for a Fornost woman to marry." He puffed on his pipe a while longer before answering Tarkil's unvoiced question. "I came home from patrol that last winter to find she had caught an ague and died a few weeks after I had left. But I doubt she had many years left anyway, perhaps ten at the most." Gethron heaved another sigh. "This talk is too morbid for the King's wedding day, lad. Let's go see how Haldon is faring with those two ladies of his."
"He is onto a third now," Tarkil half-heartedly chuckled as he pointed at the doors to the hall. "He just came out the door with another on his arm, see?"
"That boy!" Gethron snorted. "He is a bee in a field of flowers, loves each one but cannot decide which one he likes best so he flits from flower to flower sampling them all. He is a lot like your Uncle Barahir, you know."
"Haldon enjoys their company, but he is not as casual with his affairs as he would have you believe. I have never known him to pursue a married woman or one spoken for by another man. He did not press his suit with Poppi once he knew of our courtship. Nor would he would mistreat a lady, despite their fathers' claims." Tarkil followed Gethron as they walked to their quarters. "I did not realize you knew my Uncle."
"We served a couple of patrols together – before your grandfather died and he became the Chieftain of their village. And I did not realize he was your uncle until a few weeks ago when I heard Haldon speak of him." Gethron tapped the ashes out of his pipe. "By the way, do you know who that lady was that your brother danced with earlier tonight, lad? She looked as if she belonged in very high circles of the court from the curtseys and bows the nobles gave her."
"Miriel said that was Prince Imrahil's daughter, Lothiriel. I would wager Haldon behaved himself with her. He would not chance having to face the Prince's wrath." Tarkil looked over to see his brother walking across the Court of the Fountain, arm and arm with the newest lady, an older stern-faced woman in tow. "Come on, old man, I need to get some sleep. I hear this party may go on for days." Tarkil turned his back on the celebrations and closed the quarter doors firmly behind him.