Chapter Twelve: There Will Be Healing
Golden rays of late-morning sun played with shadow leaves across Gilraen's sleeping face, as she lay upon a divan on the balcony from her room. Milia plucked slow, liquid notes from her harp, humming softly, seemingly far away. Lynael and Larat watched from the doorway.
"There is tea brewing," said the lady of the herb-lore. "She will wake again soon, and this time she must eat. If not her appetite, this infusion will do it."
"This time we must prepare better," Lynael mused. "We must not give her any slight chance to turn away or relapse again into sleep. She has rested enough, her young, strong body. It is her shattered mind that draws her away from the light of morning."
"But she did come to the balcony of her own accord," said Larat, "and this surely is a good thing. She feels Life calling to her, and answers even without the will to." She turned inside to the teapot and poured out a mug half-full. "Let this cool a bit, and then we will raise her only enough to let her swallow."
A bit of song came from Milia's humming, and the sisters listened in rapture. The High-Elven staves were from Lorien in Valinor, composed perhaps by Estë herself. She sang of deep healing and life reborn ever, circling, altering the balance and then seeking to restore it. "Lovely..." said Lynael. The instant spread and permeated the air about them.
"This breath of ecstasy... Let us stir her now, so she wakes just a little," whispered Larat. The two stepped to either side of the divan and crouched down to Gilraen's sleeping form. "Not the shadow of a tiny smile on her lips, Lynael," she spoke again. "I fear joy is gone from her completely, even in dreams."
"Gilraen, my child," said Lynael softly, "my lady, drink this warm tea, if you please." They raised her shoulders and supported her head, the eyes half-opening under fluttering lids, a small groan escaping her. She would have turned her head, but firm cushions kept her face towards the mug. Before she could muster a protest, Larat tipped the vessel carefully and dribbled the flowery-smelling liquid into her opening lips. "Have a care," whispered Lynael. "She must not choke or cough."
Milia changed her song suddenly, taking up a small flute and twittering out a gay little tune reminescent of spring cavorting. Even the birds in a nearby tree shook their feathers and tweeted back, so catching was the air of the sweet cane instrument. It pierced Gilraen's lethargy and brought her a tiny shudder of attention, with which the skillful healers managed to make her drain the mug to the bottom.
"There," said Larat with satisfaction. "In less time than we can pour out our own tea, she will be asking for a bite to eat. What is there on the tray that hasn't cooled or hardened?"
"Vaneta's sweet cakes, wrapped cunningly to keep warm and fresh," said Lynael, inspecting the tempting bits on the tray. "Good, strong honey, and a tart berry jam... there are bits of several cheeses, though it may not be a wise choice as yet." She took a slice herself, however. "Still, it is so tasty," she continued. "Later it will be good for her to start on cheeses, and then meats again. For now, even nuts we must retain. This gruel is quite cold, and the egg-roll... which is also not good just yet."
"A pleasing aroma... I am hungry..." Gilraen rose to a sitting position and opened her eyes wide. "I will eat, now, my dear ladies..." she reached out her hands to the elf-women, who jumped to clasp and settle her in comfort. Larat arranged cushions for her back and legs, while Lynael opened a sweet cake and poured honey over the two halves. She placed the small dish on Gilraen's lap and took a morsel to her lips. The sick woman hesitated only a moment, then took the bite greedily. One, another, and another with her own hand, while Lynael fixed another cake, this time with the same jam that Little Aragorn had swallowed spoonfuls of, on his cakes, in his gruel, and even licked from his fingers.
At the end his mother, too, licked her fingers delicately and leaned back in content, a small sigh escaping her. "I was hungry, indeed," she said. "I believe I had not eaten since—" she broke off and seemed to shrivel in anguish. Her face began to pucker and tears flooded her eyes. Larat would have moved to her side, but Lynael held her back with a gesture. Milia, too, was still, and the three elf-women gazed solemnly at the grieving girl. Tears came, plentiful and burning, terrible sobs wrenching her body as she rocked to and fro. Half-words spat harshly from her lips, bouts of wailing, curses, even, until finally her storm dwindled down. She heaved a great sigh, and a smaller one. "What is left, now? What am I to do?" She looked straight at Lynael. "Where is Aragorn, my son? Where is the only child I will bring forth in this life?" Her eyes were bitter. "And what have you done with the other one?"
"That is enough, my daughter," said Lynael seriously. "You are not yourself, and you speak words that later will shame you." The three approached her and took seats at her side and at her feet. "The tiny promise of a girl, name her. There is a small box with the remains, and we will deliver her back to Arda when you say. But, for your own peace, give her the name she would have borne in joy and laughter. Close the circle, and grieve for your daughter and your husband together. For a time, then let the stream carry them to the far circles. Trust in us, Gilraen, as you always have."
There was silence on the balcony, the sun slanted towards the rich hours, and finally the Dúnedain Lady spoke. "I name her Sibilanë, and I give her back to Arda on this day and forever, with thanks for the brief joy she brought me." The elf-women edged softly towards her and embraced her.
"You are beloved, you are the heart of our song," Milia breathed into her ear. The three kissed her and tugged at her hands. "Come," said the songstress, "walk with us in the garden for this hour of gold and warmth."
The tight little group moved silently into the room, then through the door to the hall beyond. The women seemed to glide, and Gilraen did not feel her feet stepping along the floor, nor her weight making footprints even in the most subtle dust. They emerged finally into the garden through a little-used entrance close to this side of the great house, and then the elven healers slowed their pace and stepped back from her.
Gilraen stood and looked about her, up into the trees and farther on to the mountain-side. "This is so lovely," she said. "One would say there is nothing else."
"This is your life now, Gilraen," said Lynael, "another life. Here you will know day and night, and every season and mood of Arda. And they will all come in beauty."
"This is another life," the girl repeated. "May I, then, strike these things of torment from my mind and imagine my love in a faraway land, awaiting me, or trying to find his way back to me?" Her body shook in agitation, her eyes flooding with tears.
"You may do so, my daughter," said Larat seriously, "only if this can be done in joy. No more tears." She smiled and took Gilraen's hands. "Dwell on the great works he is achieving, building a home for you with his hands, stone by stone. Not sadness, but a secret joy... your own, for all the days of your time in Arda."
"Yes," she whispered, her gaze travelling, "I can do this. I can keep the secret."
"You must save your night-times for dreaming, my lady, and not hide in yourself and your thoughts during waking hours." Lynael looked deep into Gilraen's eyes. "You have work to do, of the greatest importance."
"I have work. I have a son to raise, even here."
"That is so, that is the great work. It brings joy to our hearts that you see this so clearly." Milia's eyes sparkled. "We will all help you. We will all teach him. I will bring him to music and poesy, and yourself, my lady... we both, together, with him."
"Yes..." whispered the girl.
"Here in Imladris no enemies can reach you, my child," said Lynael. "But there are enemies within that may harm you and harm us every one, if you allow them." The young woman looked at her uncertainly. "Your enemies, that may drain away your very life and deprive little Aragorn of his mother, as well, are sadness that seeps into the bones; weakness of the blood, from poor eating; senseless, mean, lying visions and whispers that poison the mind and weaken even the resolve of a mother..."
"We will ward them off, your enemies," Larat murmured intensely. "We will be with you every step of the way, in joy and in sorrow, rising and reclining... until you tire of our meddling..." she finished in a joking gesture.
"Never," said Gilraen. "My life will be short enough, to never tire of thy sweet love and company. I will go with thee where I must. Fear not."
They rose and followed the path to a pool of swirling waters fed by an offshoot of the river, shallow and studded with bits of shining crystal that gleamed through the clear water back at the afternoon Sun. "Here we will begin," Larat bent to the water and took some in her cupped hand. "For you!" she laughed, and sprinkled Gilraen lightly to her great surprise. They all laughed, then, even the sad lady, and thus her healing began.