(AN: Hello again, dear readers. It's been a long time, since I've been working two jobs and have had no time for anything creative: not even my music or my magnum opus. Therefore I decided to return to the old standby: writing pretentious fanfiction in the attempt to reignite my creative juices.)
(This one is another little journey into the legendarium of Tolkien, in a place and time that was very important [and very interesting to me] but hardly touched upon. As usual, all names - except where otherwise mentioned - belong to Tolkien and not to me. Hopefully it will be a bit more optimistic and bittersweet than Servant of Darkness: the Quiet, though we must needs go through dark times [as one must expect]. Enjoy!)
A Father's Trust
Arvedui son of Araphant was king of Arthedain in the 1973rd year of the Third Age: the last of the line of Isildur to rule over the last remnant of the old kingdom of Arnor. He had ruled for nine years, ever since the death of his father, Araphant son of Araval in the 1964th year. Full of sorrow and doubt were those years, for the shadow of Angmar loomed from the iron walls of Carn Dum in the East, threatening to devour the last realm of the Dunedain in the North. There had been war between the lords of Arnor and the dreaded Witch-King of Angmar for over five hundred years: six kings had sat in the High Seat at Fornost Erain and had known little to no peace. Sometimes the servants of the Iron Crown of Carn Dum would marshal their forces and attack Arnor, which had since splintered into three petty kingdoms: other times they would merely raid and pillage, be pushed back by the dwindling might of Arnor, but make no further move.
So it had been for all the long years, and doom hung over the heads of the lords of Arthedain and their people. In dread and terror of such times, few men took wives, and even fewer sons were born; and so their numbers dwindled. But Arvedui, though doom was heavy upon his shoulders, did not falter to the ill-fortunes of the times. Four and twenty years before the Star of Elendil was placed upon his dark head, he married Firiel, daughter of Ondoher the first and thirtieth king of mighty Gondor in the South. Through the years they had remained together contentedly, and she had given him two fine sons: Aranarth, and his brother Aradan born the year afterward. Now that he was King and she Queen of a dying realm, they remained together as a symbol to the people of the enduring and stalwart Dunedain of Westernesse.
One day in the early spring of the 1973rd year of the Third Age, and the ninth year of Arvedui's reign, the King and his Queen stood upon the parapets of the King's Tower in the palace at Fornost. That city was built upon a tall hill, the last remnant of a line of hills that served as the northernmost boundary of the North Downs. The palace stood upon the northernmost side of that hill, and there had been built of old, when this city became the capital of Arnor, a tall tower that offered a wide view of the lands south, east, and west. Westward the rolling hills and green fields went on and on towards the azure blur on the horizon, broken only by two tall shapes that looked like towers of earth rising up suddenly from the ground nigh unto that blur. Those towers were the Kings Crossing, two great statues that marked the place where the Baranduin flowed out of Lake Evendim. Southward the green fields were relatively flat and unbroken, save for mounds on either side of the North Road, rolling down and down until it came to the town of Bree on Bree-Hill, and farther south beyond sight into Dunland and the Gap of Calenardhon on the northern marches of Gondor.
Upon this kingdom Arvedui looked out and pondered, with the Queen Firiel at his side, resting her dark head against his shoulder. They were both of them middle-aged, according to the reckoning of the Dunedain: he was one hundred and nine, and she seven and seventy. Though they had some years yet before the slow decay of time brought the years upon them, the troubles of the dark years had wrought some stress upon them nonetheless. Arvedui's thin face was grim and there was no laughter or mirth within it; and Firiel, though younger than he and still many years departed from old age, had faint lines of care and worry on the corners of her eyes and around her mouth. Yet they were still fair and noble of face: Arvedui was tall, and bore the likeness of Isildur even as it stood carven in the King's Hall in Minas Anor in Gondor, or upon the Gates of the Argonath in the wild lands east of the Misty Mountains. Firiel, though of the line of Anarion, was slightly less tall than he; for her ancestry had been mingled with that of the Wild-Folk of Wilderland, east of the Mountains, in the days of the Kinstrife. Yet they were Dunedain, no less, and they both were dark-haired, gray-eyed, and long-lived.
As they stood, one looking and the other leaning, Arvedui's sea-gray eyes turned eastward. The desolate lands were wide and empty, with dark forests here and there where fell things howled at night; and farther still the land rose up and became rocky and deserted as it passed on towards the northern marches of Rhudaur and the Ettenmoors on the borders of Angmar. Over the lands eastward dark clouds gathered, like the onset of a winter's storm doomed to an untimely fall. Arvedui's brow furrowed as he gazed thither, and he frowned. At his side, Firiel noticed the troubled expression upon her lord's face.
"What darkens your countenance, my lord?" she asked him; her voice was fair and full of pity and mercy. "Do you fear what this storm shall bring?"
"Yes, my lady," replied Arvedui slowly. "I fear that worse storms shall fall upon us, ere this year is done. Arthedain cannot weather this new storm, whatever it may blow."
"If your heart is troubled," Firiel suggested. "May I suggest that you retire to the lower chambers? There you may have certainty of what may be."
The lower chambers of the King's Tower were built into the very bedrock of the northward hills, beneath the foundations of the palace. Of old it had been a secure hold, where prisoners of the Kings of Arnor had been interred. After the fall of Amon Sul, the prisoners had been pardoned and given amnesty, that they might fight to defend the realm against Angmar; but the chambers remained. Into that chamber had the men of Araphor, son of Arveleg II, placed a treasure rescued by his late father from the ruin of Amon Sul at great personal risk and even greater toil.
A seeing-stone: one of the seven palantiri that had been gifted to the Dunedain by the Noldorim and recovered from Numenor ere its downfall in the Second Age. But it was no mere seeing-stone; for since the ruin of Osgiliath during the Kinstrife over five hundred years ago, the stone of Amon Sul was the largest of the palantiri that was not lost. And it had been recovered and brought back to the lower dungeons and kept secret, known only to the King and Queen, and the steward of Fornost: Arvegor son of Eldimir.
But at the suggestion, Arvedui shook his head.
"I know what you wish of me, though you name it not," he sighed. "It is not surety which you would have me seek through the Stone, but succor from my rival. And I say nay, my beloved lady. For wherefore should I grovel before the one who stole what was rightfully mine?"
"It is not groveling to ask for aid in time of trouble, my lord," Firiel replied. "Remember also the words of the lord of Gondor: 'I do not forget the loyalty of Arnor, nor deny our kinship, nor wish that the realms of Elendil should be estranged. I will send you aid when you have need, as I am able.' Surely if you spoke to Earnil through the Stone, he would bring us succor in our time of need."
"If his words were true, then whither has his aid been these eight and twenty years?" asked Arvedui. "He said them but only to appear lordly and generous in his ill-gotten victory."
"Then what does the King of Arthedain say, my lord?" asked Firiel, and there was a hint of annoyance in her voice.
Arvedui sighed and looked out eastward. But though his eyes saw only the wreak of cloud obscuring the distant line of the Misty Mountains, his thought wandered beyond into the untamed and savage Wilderland beyond. Arnor's boundaries did not extend beyond the Mountains of Mist, for there were no portages for ships, as the Dunedain were of old mariners; and there were other realms and wider in those savage lands. Legends spoke of the Woodland Realm of the Elves in Mirkwood, of beast-folk who dwelt in the mountains, descended from the First Men who walked the world in the Elder Days, wild orcs and goblins who had fled into dark holes from the defeat of their Master before the beginning of the Age, great eagles that hated the orcs and men alike, forgetting not the days when they were feared and hunted by them when they appeared. And there were stories of even darker things far beyond in the wastelands of the world.
But of late, there were other stories out of the East less perilous and fearful. Tales of men and of halflings wandering out of the East of the world and settling in the wide country of Wilderland between the Mountains of Mist and the dark and dreadful Mirkwood. Some of these men were noble and valiant, and had no love of the orcs and fought them when they could, and had made pacts with Gondor in the time of the Kinstrife. Thus had the realm of Gondor endured many perils, and even the wicked Wainriders of the East, who had slain Firiel's father and brothers and nephew in the Disaster of the Morannon, had been broken by the might of Gondor's northern allies.
"I say, my lady," Arvedui said at last. "That we must do what we can to hold back this storm. We have made peace with our neighbors, the men of Bree and these...halflings." He said the word with amusement and disapproval. The halflings had settled in Cardolan in the south and the green-fields of Calendrann between the Baranduin, the North Moors, and the Far Downs to the West. They were not great warriors, nor counted among the very wise, and therefore had given little to the crumbling kingdom of Arthedain other than their stout-hearted fidelity and upkeeping of the roads and bridges in their little land.
"The hillmen of Rhudaur have suffered as much as we have, or more," he carried on. "Peradventure they tire of warfare and battle, and are willing to make peace with us. I shall send emissaries to the hill-folk of the Trollshaws, in the hopes of breaking their thralldom to Carn Dum."
"But, my lord," Firiel responded. "Your sires have tried for years to extend the hand of friendship to the hillmen to no avail. Remember how Argeleb, the second of his name, your sire of old, was slain by the hill-folk at the crossing of the Hoarwell."
"Yes," sighed Arvedui. "None of the line of Isildur have forgotten the Battle of the Hoarwell, when Rhudaur was lost. But I fear that the hill-men and the Dunedain will destroy one another if we continue to fight as we have done these past centuries. This I shall remind them in my appeal, that we do not destroy ourselves needlessly from ancient grievances."
"But how will you succeed where all your sires of old have failed?"
"By showing them greater regard than have my sires," answered Arvedui.
"How shall you do this, my lord?"
"By gracing them with such an offer against which they would not dare break trust. The hill-men would think little of bringing harm to one of my servants. But if I sent my son, they would know that great vengeance would befall them if a hair of his head fell to the ground."
Firiel removed her head from Arvedui's shoulder and looked up at him, a look of fear in her sea-gray eyes. "Alas that my sons, born of my own body, should hazard so great a danger. If death should come to any one of them, my days would be filled with sorrow until the end. My lord, for the love you bear for me and for your sons, the heirs to your throne, have pity upon the children of your loins. Do not send them into danger."
Arvedui hung his head. "Alas, my lady, it must be so. If I am to be sincere in my gesture of friendship to the hillmen, I must be prepared to sacrifice that which is dearest to me...even if there is no hope." He turned away but said nothing: Firiel did not answer, for a shadow of doom hung upon the countenance of her lord husband. It was a doom whose long-cast shadow had first taken shape before Arvedui was born; and it had followed him for one hundred and nine years and guided his every action and decision. Perhaps it had been part of the allure that had won the heart of Firiel to the proud Arthedain prince, despite their arrangement: the doom-driven warrior of the race of Elendil throwing himself boldly and defiant against hopelessness. She knew that it was useless to attempt to dissuade him, therefore she said nothing: but her fair face fell in sorrow and she turned away. She told him that she was going to give the news to their sons, and he dismissed her as he turned to look at the gathering darkness.
Down the winding stairway within the King's Tower, through a series of stone corridors, and out through a high arch went the Queen. She found her sons in an open-air garden courtyard. Aranarth sat upon a stone seat, pouring over a leather-bound book; Aradan was on his feet, a hauberk of steel rings upon his breast and a sword in his hand. Opposite him was Finrehon, the captain of the King's personal guard, in full uniform save only his helmet - which sat on the walled balustrade of the garden: he also wielded a sword and was in a duel with the younger prince.
Finrehon was the first one to notice the queen's approach; at once he turned his sword's hilt toward her in gesture of readiness of service. Aradan, in the midst of a swing, sent a blow onto the captain's shoulder. The mail hauberk beneath his sable tunic turned the blow, but sent him reeling to the left. Aranarth, upon hearing the commotion, lifted his face from his book and noticed his mother. She was dressed in a gown of crushed velvet, of a hue of blue so deep it looked as black as night: the hem, wide sleeves, and neckline were embroidered with silver, and upon her neck was a silver necklace of cunning Dwarven craftsmanship: for it was forged of true-silver from the Dwarrowdelf, and wrought into many thin wires to resemble white flame wrapped around a sapphire from the Blue Mountains.
"My lady!" Firehon said, after recovering. He took a knee and presented his sword hilt-first again. "What is your command?"
"I trust my son did not injure you too severely, captain," she said sympathetically. "It would be a great loss to my lord husband's guard if the great Finrehon were injured."
"I am well, Your Grace," the captain answered. "I have taken harder blows from the raiders from the hills and lived to tell of them all."
The Queen smiled. "Your valiance is commendable; a tribute to your noble father and honored mother. Is she here?"
"No, Your Grace."
The Queen sighed. "I should like to speak with her." Finrehon's mother, the warden of Annuminas, had been a dear friend to Firiel from the first. In happier days, they had often spent time together, walking along the shores of Lake Evendim or being driven in the King's Wain through the fair countryside of Calendrann. But though the warden of Annuminas was position of little responsibility, and afforded Firiel's friend with much free time, the Queen was as busy as the King, if not busier.
"But for now," Firiel continued. "I wish to speak with my sons." She dismissed the captain, who bowed with his hand upon his breast and departed.
"What would you ask of us, mother?" Aradan spoke up first. Though he was the youngest, he was a man skilled in warfare and quick in action. Such was his manner that those who did not know the royal family would presume that Aradan was the eldest.
The Queen smiled at the promptness of her youngest son: his fealty touched her heart, and though she loved both of her children without partiality, she favored Aradan uniquely, even as Arvedui favored the eldest. "Your lord father has a task for you and your brother: one of the greatest importance."
"We shall do as our father the King commands," Aradan replied. "Even if he asks us to journey on foot to the east of East."
"I pray it will not come to that," said Firiel. "There is a shadow of evil east of the Misty Mountains, and beyond is the land of the fell Wainriders."
"And what's more," Aranarth spoke up at last. "Our bounds never reached farther east than the Anduin, even in the days of Elendil." Quite unlike his brother, Aranarth was tall and lean and learned in as much lore as the Dunedain of the North still possessed in these dark days.
But Aradan scoffed. "There's not a man alive east, west, north, or south who cares for what you have read in those books. Great deeds win renown and not great words. Which of the heroes of our family are remembered for the great words they said?"
Aranarth's countenance fell, but Firiel came to his defense. "Words carry great power, my son. A word spoken untimely can destroy a kingdom, or save a thousand lives."
"If that were the case, dear mother," Aradan replied. "Why are no such stories of great talkers told, and only those of great deeds?"
"Gather, my sons," said the Queen. "For it may be that you are to be part of a tale of great words that may save thousands."
Aranarth perked up his ears and came to his brother's side before the Queen. Firiel smiled grimly, for the great weight of what was about to befall her was slowly dawning upon her. She told them in brief about the King's command, and that they should make ready to receive the particulars of their task from the King himself. Aradan nodded in agreement and asked to be excused to sharpen his sword. Aranarth, meanwhile, remained in the garden with a crestfallen expression upon his face. The Queen noticed him and gracefully approached her eldest son, placing her hand on his cheek.
"Do not be offended by his words, my dear son," she said. "He speaks after the necessity of our times, and not out of malice against you."
"I know," Aranarth sighed. "Nevertheless, his words are true. I have not been farther east than the woods of Annundir. I fear that I will be useless on this quest."
"Nay, say not so," Firiel replied in comforting tones. "You are more important than you think, my clever boy. Aradan has his arms and his skill as a soldier, but you are well-spoken and well-learned. This is why your Father chose both of you for this mission: you would speak words of peace to the hill-men, and Aradan would protect you."
"I hope that we can live up to the high hopes you and Father have for us."
"You will, my son. Both of you will." She kissed his forehead, then dismissed him with a request to bring Finrehon back to her: she wanted to make a journey to Annuminas to see her friend. Aranarth saluted with his hand upon his breast, a bow of his head, and then departed. When he had left the garden, Firiel smiled grimly and called for one of her maid-servants. The young damsel arrived as instructed and left with the Queen's command to bring her her purse.
It was customary among the Dunedain of all estates to carry a scrip or purse upon a leather thong, which rested upon the waist for the nobles or hung on the shoulder for commoners or those on journey. These varied in elegance and size: the wealthy had smaller, richly adorned scrips made of the finest material, while the poorer Dunedain's purses were of simple leather, or even burlap or cloth, and varied in size depending on the profession of the owner. Most were sealed with a tied string, or had brass buttons for added protection: nobles could afford locks made by Dwarven craftsmen from the Dwarrowdelf, or the saptain - as workers of the clever craft were called from as long ago as the days of Numenor - could weave an enchantment of protection on it, often to humorous or nasty effect for those foolish enough to attempt to steal from it.
Queen Firiel's purse was made of a soft black leather and lined within with silk. In it she carried a few things (for it was small) that were very precious to her: among those things was her silk kerchief, which could also be stored in her bodice if she did not have her purse on hand, as on this day. When the young damsel returned with the purse, Firiel dismissed the maid, then took her kerchief from it and gently dabbed at her watering eyes.
The young men were brought into the King's Hall, where stood the High Seat. The hall was made of white marble, with black columns upholding the vaulted roof on either side of the hall. The High Seat sat upon a dais of many steps, and behind it stood a great stone statue of Elendil the Tall. It had been built by Amlaith, the tenth after Elendil and Arvedui's fourteenth sire, who was the first King of Arthedain after the realm of Arnor was divided following Earendur's death: the statue signified that the line of Elendil endured in Arthedain. The statue's right hand held aloft a scepter, and the left hand held a great sword. On either side of the throne stood the banners of the Kingdom of Arthedain: a great black pennant with a single white star in the center, and above it the device of the House of Elendil; a scepter whose top was encircled by a ring with two serpents' heads devouring a gem, a crown bearing a star above them all, and seven small stars around them in a circle forming downwards from the crown.
Beneath the statue of his long father sat Arvedui in the High Seat. In his hand was a silver scepter, the same which had been the symbol of the office of the Lord of Andunie in Westernesse that was, and was rescued by Elendil from the wreck and became the symbol of the authority of the Kings of Arnor and an heirloom of the line of Elendil. Across his lap there sat the leather sheath of a sword, which he was eying thoughtfully when the steward Arvegor announced that his sons were ready for him.
"Bring them before me," the King gave the command.
Arvegor bowed, then went into the antechamber before the doors of the hall and returned with Aranarth and Aradan on his left and right. They bowed before the High Seat, and Arvedui raised the scepter before them, beckoning them to approach the throne. They did and bowed once again, keeping their right hand upon the breast as they did.
"Attend on me, Arvegor," the King said. "I have business to discuss with my sons, and none but you and the Queen need know of it."
"As you wish, Your Majesty," the steward deferred, bowing lower. "If I may be so bold..."
But the King silenced him with a wave of his hand. "My answer has not changed. You may tell that to your daughter when you are dismissed. Now be silent as I speak with my sons." The steward bowed, though his countenance was lowered in deep concern and worry as he did. Once he had departed, Arvedui stepped down from the High Seat and approached his sons. They bowed their heads, and he placed one hand upon each of their shoulders.
"My sons, in whom my heart delights," Arvedui began. "There is a task for which I have deigned to elect both of you to see it done. The shadow of war falls down from the Northeast upon the seat of Arthedain; our time may soon be drawing to a close. But the hill-folk of the Trollshaws, those who have long been slaves of the Witch-Lord of Angmar, have suffered as much as we have. Therefore I shall send both of you to Rhudaur to sue for peace with the hill-men: it may be that we may avert mutual annihilation."
"My lord father," Aradan spoke up. "Is this not a task for an emissary, and not the princes of the throne?"
"My son, our sires of old," Arvedui replied. "Have done this, and more, to no avail. But the hill-folk will fear to harm the heads of the sons of the King, whereas they might think nothing of harming an emissary. Indeed, for this purpose I have chosen both of you, my sons. You, Aradan, are valiant with your arms; and you, Aranarth, are cunning and well-learned. One shall speak the words of peace to the hill-men, and the other shall protect him."
"My lord," Aradan answered, taking a knee and holding his sword-hilt forward. "We shall accomplish your task at once. Say the word and we shall depart at once for the Trollshaws."
Arvedui smiled. "Your boldness is commendable, my son. But you do not need to set out at once. There is time enough to depart at first light on the morrow." He placed his hands upon the shoulders of his youngest son and brought him to his feet. Aradan saluted, then walked out of the hall. But Aranarth lingered behind.
"You are troubled, Aranarth?" asked the King.
"I am, my lord," said Aranarth. "Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but I have thought about this task ever since Mother told us in the courtyard. What need is there to send both of us? Do you not fear the loss of both of your sons, should your embassy fail?"
Arvedui sighed. "We shall not speak of us this now. One day, perhaps, you shall know all. Until then, I ask that you obey the command of your father, and your King." Aranarth bowed his head and prepared to leave, but the King bade him wait. "Do this task, my son, and you shall have justified my trust. I shall say no more until the day you and Aradan stand before me."
"As you command, my lord," Aranarth replied, bowing before his father and departed. The King's face was grim and sad as his son departed the King's Hall for his own chambers. His words had stung him to the heart, but he would not share his thoughts with him; not yet, at any rate. Only Firiel knew what lay in the King's heart and mind, for he had opened it to her on their wedding night. At that time, no doom no matter how great gave either of them pause.
Now, thirty-three years later, things did not look so good.
(AN: I hope that this chapter gets everyone's interest. I have a lot to cover and a lot to do in a very short time with these chapters. If you have questions or comments, please leave them in the reviews. I shall answer them in brief in the author's notes, as is my wont. Lengthier answers will be in my PMs.)
(First among my tasks is introducing our characters and giving them personalities, or at least visual descriptions. Arvedui's "thin face" was inspired by his depiction in Battle for Middle Earth II: Rise of the Witch-King, though I feel that he gets a bad rap in most stories I have heard about him. While not ignoring that, as evidenced by his wounded pride against Gondor, I do want to point out that he is not a bad man: he is far detached from the Dunedain in Servant of Darkness: the Quiet, and is much closer to Aragorn in nobility [if not wisdom, as we shall soon see].)
(I also gave a sort of wink and nod for my version of the infamous pocket book from The Hobbit. There will be other such winks and nods to the quirky moments and throw-away lines from the Legendarium that I feel help expand the story. I hope these are to your liking.)