Chapter Four: My Divine Gilraen's Boy
Arathorn and the Rangers rode east toward the foothills. Outriders and scouts preceded the main force, and good time was made that day. The evening campfires were lit under crafty shrouds that kept them from view, and a pot of water was about to boil when the Eldar hunters arrived to join the band.
"Welcome, kinsmen," said Arathorn, as Elladan and Elrohir dropped their gear and came to his fireside. "Sit, and soon we shall swallow a warm drink."
"The nights grow cooler," said Elladan. "Soon the snows will cover the mountain passes. The orc-band we have been hunting may think to withdraw, and we will not see them again until quickening."
"It rails me to think they will have months to fatten up and mend their weapons," added Elrohir. "They will burrow into their tunnels in the high peaks, and pass the time swilling and stuffing and plotting havoc."
"To no avail, son of Elrond," said Arathorn. "We have kept them pressed into the mountains all this year, and their losses have been heavy. I, too, would see them finished to the last of them, ugly, foul brutes, before the frozen ground and cold winds drive us, as well, into winter hiding."
"How grows our little cousin, the lord Aragorn?" asked the twin wearing a red band across his forehead, Elladan, the chieftain thought.
"Ah," smiled Arathorn, "the boy… such a boy. All learning sweeps into him like a rushing river, and every day he comes forth with astounding displays of the workings of his bright mind, growing by leaps and bounds. He relates random pieces of lore and turns up conclusions unthought of. And he sings, all the time."
"Then he will bring better times to the Dúnedain," joked the other twin, perhaps Elrohir, "for the poor ear of the present chieftain has discouraged the minstrels' spirit of perfection, and few are ever called forward to perform."
"His love of music and grace of composing come from his mother," admitted Arathorn with a smile. "Of late he is singing a ditty of his own, about a wolf-pup he befriended in the forest."
"You jest," said the closer twin, "he has not seen three summers."
"And yet we have all learned the wolf-pup song," laughed Arathorn. "Even I, with my faulty ear."
"Well, we must have it," said the twin with no band. "Let's hear the wolf-pup song."
"Ah, no, my brothers, that can hardly be. You will give me no rest about my faulty ear and my voice like a snuffing bear." Arathorn laughed with them and took a friendly punch from the twin with the band, surely Elladan with that special stab in his blow, even in play.
"The brew, my lords," said the ranger tending the pot on the fire, "is ready. Shall I fill cups for you?"
"A warm welcome indeed," said a tall elf-warrior, coming into the ring of firelight. "I can feel my bone-marrow stirring in relief."
"Well-met, Master Glorfindel," said Arathorn, rising to embrace his princely mentor. He took a cup himself and placed it in the newcomer's hands. "I was resigned to being caught between the twins and their jesting, all on my own. Now perhaps you will aid me in evening out the odds…" There was laughter all around as lifelong comrades settled about the fire, drawing warmth from the cups of brew, sipping the fragrant liquid and nestling the hot metal vessels against their bodies.
"The wolf-pup song, Lord Arathorn," recalled the twin with the red band. "We must have it. I, myself, will not close an eyelid this night unless the query is settled."
"Not a great predicament, since you elves sleep with open eyes…if sleep is what you call it," laughed Arathorn in return.
"This query," asked Glorfindel, "to what does it concern?" He settled back comfortably in anticipation of an amusing pass. Though the Dúnedain chieftain, in his splendor of sixty years, seemed the oldest of the company, the twins still treated him at times like the boy they had only lately been instructing in arms and woodcraft.
"The chieftain claims to have fathered a brilliant bard," said the other twin.
"The little Aragorn is a precocious wolf-pup himself," declared the twin with the band, his eyes twinkling. "But to know is one thing and to contemplate proof is another. We must have the song, if you please, my lord."
"This song is…?" inquired Glorfindel with growing interest.
"My boy, my divine Gilraen's boy, sings from the very first months of his life, making tuneful sounds even before his first word was uttered," said Arathorn simply, his face glowing with loving pride. "Of late he has composed a small song of his own, about a wolf-pup he came upon in the woods one day that I took him riding."
"This doting father takes the boy on his great horse with him, lashed to his body, and gallops the moors without thought of danger," teased the twin with the band.
"The very way he learned himself with us," returned Glorfindel, "or did you not take him many a time on your own swift steed, before you on the saddle, bound safely to your own body, my Elladan?"
"Ha!" though the chieftain. "Elladan. I was right." Aloud he said, "So were we that day trotting under the low branches in the pine forest above a small stream that spills from the Hoarwell." His listeners nodded, and he continued. "A sudden yelp startled my Rogarin, followed by a torrent of fierce growls and furious yapping. Aragorn and I were as surprised as Rogarin, and even more so the tiny wolf-pup we had only barely missed stepping on. My goodness, but he was fierce! Aragorn, thrilled, begged to be put down, so I decided to give Rogarin a rest and see what was about with the pup.
"When he saw us coming at him, he turned and ran yelping into the bushes. Aragorn leaped after him, calling and whistling, and the pup fled to the stream and fell in, such was his anxiety to get away. He was already sinking, and the water was quite cold, when Aragorn reached the bank of the stream. Without a thought, he jumped down and fished the pup out, half-snarling and half-choking."
"And where were you, the father of the boy?" asked Glorfindel, half in jest.
"Watching from the bank," laughed Arathorn, "bent over with mirth, my friend… and so would you have," he finished, wiping his eyes.
"Go on, my lord," said Elrohir. "What came about then with the boy and the pup?"
"We took him and wrapped him in an old scarf. Aragorn dried him as he could, while I built a small fire. The poor little beast was quite withered, and fading quickly. So we forced a drop of cordial into his tiny jaws and put him near the fire, rubbing him vigorously all over… until he suddenly leapt up again barking, and bit my finger." Arathorn smiled and held up a finger with a small scar.
"And Aragorn?" asked Elladan.
"Aragorn pounced on him just before he got away, and brought him snarling back to the fire. He spoke to him firmly, something of a scolding, and… would you believe it?" said Arathorn. "The pup was cowed, perhaps, and subdued. He licked Aragorn's hand and made little whimpering sounds. I held my breath, I tell you…"
"That boy…" said the twins in the same breath. There was a bit of laughter around the circle, but mostly the wonder of the moment. Men and elves drifted into distant memories of their own, and all thought with love of the small boy in the chieftain's sanctuary.
"But shall we have the song, Lord Arathorn?" returned Elladan softly.
"If my lord allows," said the young ranger who had served the brew. "I, too, know the wolf-pup song and can sing it for you. My voice is passing fair, people say."
"A good mind, my young Haldran," said the chieftain, relieved. "And truly a fair voice you have… even with my faulty ear I can vow it is true. So sing for us, if you please."
As the fire died down, young Haldran was called upon again and again to sing the wolf-pup song, complete with clapping and stomping and acting of parts, until night set in and each sought his rest in his own way. Sentries were set, horses bedded down, weapons cleansed and made ready. The morrow would bring hunting, perhaps battle: their life's work, and not a one in all the company ever considered any other.
xxx
Far away, in the hidden valley of Imladris, Master Elrond paced slowly along the path leading to the bridge. Few lights remained in the windows, numerous and variform, but a restlessness had driven him to the walks and gardens; close to the music of the rushing water, touched here and there by crickets chirping, the faraway night singing seemed to belong elsewhere. This place, this spot…here perhaps he could go inside the stirrings in his light-threads, his sense of life and death forces moving both near and far. A sort of darkness seemed to loom over the valley itself, but its center was not close by.
His light-mind reached out to his sons, but perceived no strife there; Elrond closed his eyes and let his mind's eye wander over the borders of his secret land. Of late he had shared with others of the Wise, and all had sensed the stirring of a faraway power, an evil one they knew well. The Enemy, whom they named hardly ever, was sending more and more of his servants abroad, trying the defenses of the elven reigns and laying ambushes on the long and lonely roads between them. He sighed and pulled back, remembering suddenly the torment of his beloved wife Celebrian, captured by orcs while traveling to the Golden Wood. The twins had won her back seemingly unharmed, but her joy in the Great Lands was forever crushed and she was so driven by lingering horrors, that only the deep peace of the Undying Lands could heal her. Wife, mother, lady of Imladris…all had fallen away. He seldom allowed himself to recall her sudden tears, the deep sighs shaking her body, the growing pallor; her life force had been violated and she could not mend the rift. She would have gone out like the last spark of a dying coal, and rather than see her decline they had all agreed that she should journey over sea. Even Arwen pressed her to go, assuring her that they would all be together again, perhaps shortly. The age was drawing to a close, for better or for worse, and the greater number of Eldar had the journey on their minds. Not all, reflected Elrond with a smile. His sons, the twins, seemed determined to exterminate the last orc from the face of the land before setting sail into the Uttermost West.
He wondered, at times, about the Undying Lands. He himself had never sailed even to Numenor, in the days when the Dúnedain first returned; or later, when they joined in the war against Sauron. The long, faraway days of his youth had been spent by the sea…he let his stream of memories carry him back to the Havens at the mouths of Sirion, and the isle of Balar. He had in fact been born there, when Eärendil his father and Elwing his mother had met in that refuge after the fall of Gondolin and the ruin of Doriath, and joined their lives forever.
His mind's sight rested for a moment on his beloved brother's face, Elros who had cast his lot with the Edain and sailed away to Numenor as its first king. Why, at times he wondered, did the Eldar seem to choose so readily this putting of sea miles between them, choosing to spend long immortal lives apart…? He shook his head to clear this train of thought away. He knew he would be with Celebrian again. Her pain would have been healed, and she again the wondrous beauty with the silver voice. He wondered if she lived now in the city of Valmar, perhaps in the gardens of Lorien, where she would sleep dreamlessly until mind and body were knit back together and joy born again in her heart. All the songs and tales of Valinor he had treasured upon hearing even from the very first, some had been laid to rest in forgetfulness, others floated still in the depths of his memory and came up from time to time. The great promise, relief from the labors of Middle-Earth and from the pain of loss, which was the way of things mortal.
For this the Valar called our kindred to cross the sea to Valinor, he reflected. Our unaging flesh belongs to the infancy of the world, when all was new and still taking shape. The passing of millennia after the call has settled the ways of the world so, as a flowering of beings that live and die unavoidably. Those of the Firstborn, and of the early days of the Earth, can hardly understand them…excepting perhaps the trees of Kementari that grow huge and ancient.
He reached the bridge and sat for a while, watching the bouncing foam of the river as his mind sought, still, here and there. The Dúnedain, he thought, our final tie to this land of grief. Just as his brother had forsaken elven-kind to lead them into their bright destiny, so now did he delay his own journey to the West. He could not leave them, yet, to face the Enemy alone. The spirit of the Last Alliance lived still, despite the dwindling number of the Eldar, despite the grave disobedience of Isildur…which he paid for, dearly, and all his line.
"To this day!" he said suddenly, aloud. He rose in agitation, striving to find where the words had burst from. He turned and climbed swiftly back to the house, muttering under his breath a prayer, a plea for light, and vision. No one did he see, until his secretary in the antechamber to his quarters.
"I was awaiting you, Master," said the younger elf.
"Bring me water in the silver pitcher, quickly, and the silver basin. Quickly." Elrond took a candlestick and crossed his threshold, whispering still his plea for a blessing. "Varda, Exalted One, send thy light." He settled on a stool before a low table at the opening to his balcony, and smoothed the surface with his hand. He had left the candle by the door, and the only light came from the Lady's stars above.
There was a small knock at the door, and his scribe came in with the silver vessels. "The water, Master," he said, bringing them to Elrond's side.
"Leave them, and go to your rest. I will be reading, perhaps for the night's hours. Go, my friend." The scribe closed the door silently behind him, musing on the choice of his lord's words. Master Elrond would be reading, in fact, but not the scrolls, recent nor ancient: his reading would be into the shapes and shadows revealed in the basin of water, and the great effort required could only mean that urgent matters were afoot. He sighed and settled into his couch and covers. He would know soon enough, as would they all. And whatever came, there was no better haven of wisdom than this, the son of Eärendil.