Chapter Twenty-five: Time Ever Marching (Scraps from Gilraen's Journal)
My boy is thriving, I fight to keep from waning. Not a one will speak of it, but my heart cannot evade the knowledge of this day: a full turn of Arien our glorious sister through still blue Ilmen, and of the stars of Elbereth, have passed since that most evil of days, that which tore from me my heart and laughter.
My ladies, the three wise sisters, have driven me with loving soft force to the kitchens to prepare different tidbits for Estel. For my Aragorn. They claim he must train his palate to Dúnedain foods as well as elven delicacies, as he is of both. A kind way of reminding me that his humankind mortal nature exacts a wise use of our time with him, and an artifice for bringing me to nourishment, I know. I do see through their tender strategies, but nothing in me would arouse resistance to their care. But for my darling mother, they are the best of teachers, companions and guardians.
Vaneta has finally had her way… she has pulled me up into a secret little valley up the mountain, where she and her comrades keep special trees and bees and flowers, those that have their long homes in hot, distant lands. With the greatest tenderness she took me to the bush from which the pearls of shacorot are plucked, and allowed me to touch the plump pods full.
One such pod she deemed ready, and after whispering long with her lips pressed to the slender trunk, she sliced it from the stem with a quick cut. The pod she passed to me for holding, while she took a bit of bee-wax from her pocket and warmed it with her breath, then applied a poultice to the wound.
Vaneta chirped happily as we picked our way back down, explaining to me the great wonders and benefits of shacorot. Goodness knows Estel loves it above all other food-drinks, but now it seems she wants me to partake of today's find. "It makes for joy, this potion from our sweet earth's love," she said, drawing her arm around my waist, "this special sort of love from our Mother Kementari. Do you will?"
What could I say? So tonight I shall sit by her fire and learn the first of the deep mysteries of the magical beverage. If there is joy to be had, I will concur…
Rogarin has changed so. Three summers now without the weight and the hand of his master, and the quiet peace of these valleys. That last… his last battle, has surely gone from his animal mind and his interests now lie in carrying me safely, taking Estel on the whirlwind, and courting the fine elven mares.
There is no fight among stallions, as these are superior horses with consciousness of their own. Most have one mare as wife, and they come and go together, breed foals, raise them and show them their first skills. Rogarin is not yet of this condition, for he was a fiery stallion upon the moors, but his ways are more and more mellow. He has, I have heard, planted his seed in one honey mare he is often with; the elven horsemen await the coming of this foal with great interest.
I have finished today one more leaf of the book of herbs, so the count comes to four tens and seven. Every walk in the woods or up the mountain includes the collection of one, two or three samples of plant-friends that may serve us in many ways. The leaf or flower is then placed between two sheets of parchment and weighted down, so at the end of a fortnight it has been pressed flat; then we fix it to its own sheet, and annotate the place and the day it was collected, together with any other bit of detail regarding that encounter. Given that the flower or leaf will fade, I have added to each a drawing, and color, of it as it was when it was in the earth, growing.
Estel loves it, and spends hours turning the thick pages carefully. When I began to record our findings on these parchment leaves, he would pick out words he had learned and read them aloud, tracing the strokes with his fingertip. Now he reads a great deal of the words, which he has captured one by one as if they were flying insects. Although these he has hoarded and kept for his own, while the little buzzing ones he always sets free.
My son has grown quiet more and more in these years. Always his laughter was my music, as the small child, now his gray eyes search more and his judgment reserved. What he knows, what he remembers, what is forgotten… I hesitate to pry. And my word was given to Lord Elrond, in those terrible days when he sought to keep whole the joy in living of the Heir of Isildur. Of course he was right. He is always right.
Although time seems to stretch away into nothingness, my counting mind forgets never the days -all too few and brief- that lie before us, in which to bring the boy to the man, to the chieftain, to the king. To the king that must return.
End of Book One