Chapter Fourteen: The Council of the Dúnedain
Once the great hall, now dark and quiet. Not for lack of attendance, since no less than thirty men and women sat huddled together at the only table still in place. Whispers, barely; no outspoken word. Here and there a sigh, and surely tears blotted into a sleeve.
The Dúnedain were gathering for council. Even now the last horses were being taken in for the night, and latecomers hurrying to whatever seat they found open. There was no food this night, nor drink, even, and barely a bit of fire in the once-happy hearth.
Haldabar and Pethion sat at the center of the assembled family heads, Dirhael had sought out Ivorwen and settled in a corner with their arms around each other, silent and forlorn. The other weary Rangers had each joined their families as well, and the time had now come for the speaking of news. Haldabar delayed a few moments more, then rose and cleared his throat.
"I would call on the Powers to aid us at this time," he said. A murmur of assenting voices simmered through the small crowd.
"Speak, Haldabar our brother," said Ivorwen. "Tell us all that has passed since the company last rode out. Many of us have heard bits and pieces, but we should all have it alike and whole. Even if this is news we would rather never have heard."
"Indeed," said Haldabar sadly. And he told of the ride, uneventful, the pleasant sense of summer trailing into autumn, and the meeting with the Rivendell riders. "We rose that morning and set off in search of an orc-band detected by our scouts. We came upon them unawares and bested them. Only a handful escaped." His voice broke, and just barely did he tell of the evil mischance.
A wail rose, and several pressed to a tall woman, aged overnight. The sister of the Lord Arathorn finally caught herself and said, "Forgive me, Master Haldabar. Pray continue. Forgive me…"
Haldabar bent forward, his face in his hands. "We were struck as if by the great white sparks of the heavens. We fell into madness. I, myself, wished to die also in that moment." He raised himself with an effort, and continued. "The Elf-Lord Glorfindel finally roused us and called us to order."
A slight gesture to Pethion sufficed for the passing of the word, and he rose to carry on the sad recital. He told of the flight into the forest, the search for a secret grave-site, the laying of their lord on the bed of boughs and rocks. "We felt that no greater sorrow could come upon us, but then the Lady Gilraen arrived with the child…"
"My sweet…" whispered Ivorwen.
"There are not words that can tell of such heartbreak," Pethion carried on sadly. "She was brave, and Little Aragorn—" he lifted his face, smiling through the tears, "such a boy. He gentled Rogarin, who had turned to frenzy. And then we rode to Rivendell."
There was again a murmur, questioning now, and some debating on the reason. "We thought it best to take them there for safe-keeping," Dirhael rose and turned to his kinsmen and neighbors, on one hand and the other, appealing to them for approval. "And perhaps we foresaw that the healing powers of the elf-ladies would be needed… as they truly were."
No less than a dozen voices questioned the speakers, all wanting to know what had befallen the Lady and the child. None of the men had information enough to satisfy especially Ivorwen, but it finally seemed to be generally accepted that the decision had been the right one.
"When will they return?" asked someone.
"That is not the question, Balderan," said Pethion. "They are safe and secret. We are the ones who must trace new paths and build new shelters, deep and hidden. This sanctuary must be closed, each family become again shadowy silent travelers. Caves we shall have, for the keeping of our stores of goods, and huts in the thickness of the forest. We would have all of you ponder on this and choose your spots for passing the winter. Word will be circling among the families at all times."
"And come early spring," Haldabar returned, "we will meet again with the Rivendell riders and go against the goblins before they descend from the mountain passes. We must press them. They must not know what has befallen."
There was some speech more, then the people drifted away in pairs and small groups, to digest all that had been said and would be happening. Soon, on the morrow. Only a few stayed to pursue the matter further. Ivorwen had held her peace while the assembly was being addressed, but she needed answers.
"They mean not to return, is that so, Haldabar?" she directed her gaze at her kinsman and friend.
"You understand, Ivorwen, with your own subtle sight," Haldabar took her hand and pressed it. "They will be safe there, and she will be brought back to a semblance of peace… though I fear that joy is gone from her forever." His body quivered in a deep, shuddering sigh.
"Did you see her, husband?" she turned to Dirhael. "Did you speak with her about this?" She wrung her hands. "I, too, have deep faith in Master Elrond, and the lady Lynael knows her from birth. She, and Larat and Milia, will care for my girl…" her voice dropped and she rocked to and fro. "To be trapped with us and our sorrow in a sad hut through the long winter months… I know this to be an ill road for her. The silence we must now keep would only drag her down to her own early grave." She rubbed her hands over her face.
Dirhael embraced her and joined his body to her swaying motion. "I was so afraid," he whispered. "She seemed not to see me, and she spoke not. Her hand was limp and cold, though her seat in the saddle was steady. She and the boy rode upon Rogarin," he added as an afterthought.
"Before parting, we sent word to her. Only the healers answered, wished us safe passage and spoke messages for you, Ivorwen." Pethion closed his eyes to recapture each phrase. "Seek deep in the firelight to meet us, said one, I believe the lady Lynael. Make a song for the winter snow, said the minstrel-lady…"
"Milia," whispered Ivorwen, smiling despite herself.
"Yes," continued Pethion, "and the lady Larat: Bring us the yellow herb, come quickening… Has this meaning for you?" The three men watched her attentively.
"I must gaze into the fire upon the evenings of winter," she said softly, as if to herself alone. "I must compose a song for one child's joy and another child's healing. And when snows have melted into spring roads, I must come to Rivendell with an herb for Larat's basket, one that grows in the wasteland this north side of the Weather Hills." She smiled again and shook her head. "Those wise, wise ladies," she whispered.
The four gathered around the dying fire. Dirhael blew upon the coals and fed small sticks into the sudden leaping flame. They spoke in low tones, telling further about the painful resolution set forward by the elf-lord.
"This is not to be known by all our people," said Haldabar. "Needless sorrow, useless questions, and finally of no account… for when he returns to us, a man, all will have been restored to him. We shall welcome back Aragorn, son of Arathorn."
"This sacrifice, the secreting of Aragorn, will bear fruit," reflected Ivorwen, "but much must be done to ensure that the sprout becomes a sapling, and thus a tree."
"The Lord of Imladris will spare no effort, and surely we, too, will be called upon to deliver somewhat for his rearing," Haldabar seemed to brighten. "Yes, come spring we shall pick up the scent and carry on."
"We must face a long and cold winter, first," Dirhael mused gloomily. "The signs are there. The bark of the redsom tree, the early flocks of onkers flying south… Even in the days past, before this sadness, there was thought given to our weathering a harsh season. But we were hopeful, then…"
Ivorwen sat up at these final words. "Hopeful," she muttered, "hopeless… thus it was spoken… hopelessness, utter hopelessness…" The men gazed at her.
"What is it, Ivorwen?" asked Pethion, uneasily.
"My brothers, my husband… it was foretold that Aragorn would rise from utter hopelessness, is this not so?"
"It is," said Pethion.
"Were we so, before this day?" she looked from one to another. "We were not. Since the happy time before the birth of Gilraen's son, and more so after, we were as Dirhael has said: hopeful. Only now have we come to the state foreseen by the prophecy: utter hopelessness. So, be it sad or be it loathsome, we are sailing surely. And forget not the rest of the foretelling: Aragorn will rise, it says."
"But all the children that were to have grown up with Aragorn, what of them? The host of the Dúnedain?" Haldabar had his own concerns, having fathered two at his chieftain's urging and a third on the way. "What will we tell them of Aragorn and the Lady Gilraen?"
"Both will be sorely missed, in truth," said Dirhael. "But we must make do with stories and memories… as we have kept alive all the long happenings of our line."
"I believe there is no other youngling in all Imladris…" said Pethion sadly. "Aragorn will be a lonely child."
"I think not. I pray not," Ivorwen gazed into the fire (as her mentor had known she would). "No, he will befriend the children of the Earth. Also, his mind will fly far, and he will have friends among the great ones of the past."
They were silent again, but peace seemed to water their hearts as the warmth of the fire slowly drove the chill from their bones. Each drifted into thoughts and feelings, some shared, some secret, and finally a soft chanting became song, the ancient hymn to Elbereth. When they rose to go and seek their rest, their faces were glowing softly.
"So you need to gather a yellow herb for the lady Larat, Ivorwen?" said Haldabar as they walked along the path to their night's lodgings. "We are due an inspection of Weathertop, you know. Will you ride with us before the ground hardens and the ice bites deep?"
"I will," said Ivorwen, winking slyly at Dirhael. "Such good fortune, a train of strong men to help carry basketfuls of herbs. For once there, why not gather athelas, and svendargan, and... Why are you puckering, Pethion?" Their laughter melted into the night, the stars would seem to have breathed in relief.