Aspects of Aragorn 5 [new] part 2 "Chieftain of the Dunedain"

[inzilbeth]

   The ridge was little more than a gentle hill, but it was crowned with trees at the top. As Aragorn came closer, he saw that the trees in fact formed a dense line than grew all along the top of a steep bank which stood proud of the land behind. Before the bank, running parallel with it, was a wide ditch. It was only when he climbed up and looked beyond, he could see that the bank and the ditch, in fact, formed part of a large ring, possibly as much as half a mile across, in the middle of which, was the settlement. To the west and north, the village was naturally protected by the hills, but its earthen stockade afforded it some cover from the more open southeast.

 

    From his vantage point on the top of the mound, Aragorn paused for a moment to study the assortment of buildings laid out before him. The houses were simple in design, though their thick stone walls were constructed solidly. They had small, shuttered windows and sturdy black oak doors, but none showed any sign of affluence. The horses of Rivendell dwelt in finer accommodation. Adjoining most of the houses, and so forming small yards, were the barns and stores, many of them just built of timber. Closest to the settlement was the pasture where a few cows and sheep grazed among the more numerous horses. Beyond were the arable fields, empty now except for the stubble, the wheat for next year’s loaves of bread having already been harvested.

 

   In the very centre of the village was a large timber framed building which looked stronger and more sturdily built than any of the others.

 

   “What is that building for?” asked Aragorn as he pointed towards it.

 

   Halbarad followed the line of his finger.

 

   “That’s the Great Hall,” he said. “It is used as a meeting place. Sometimes we have festivities there, though more usually it is where council is taken. And in times of trouble is it a refuge. When the men are away, it is often safer for the women and children to sleep in there together at night.”

 

  “I see,” said Aragorn, wondering if it remotely resembled the Hall of Fire inside. “I should be interested to see it.”

 

   “I shall gladly give you a tour of the whole village,” said Halbarad, “but let’s go and find Dírhael first. Come on.” He effortlessly leapt down from the lip of the mound and together they made their way into the village.

 

   It was very early and there was hardly anyone about. Many of the houses did not even look lived in. Thick cobwebs drooped across the insides of long uncleaned windows. Gates stood propped up on broken hinges, weeds grew around untended doorways. Aragorn’s heart sank as he looked around him. The village did not look a welcoming place to stay.

 

   Suddenly Halbarad turned from the track and said: “Here we are; this is Dírhael’s house.” He led the way around the side of a stone dwelling to the rear entrance. It had a small well-tended garden out the back although, with winter approaching, most of the vegetables had already been gathered in. They found Dírhael working in the barn where he was busily forking out horse droppings from the stalls into a barrow. He stopped what he was doing immediately upon seeing Halbarad and Aragorn. His jaw dropped open and he stared unashamedly. Then, grinning from ear to ear, he rushed up to Aragorn, and, with words completely eluding him, he finally did what he had been desperate to do all last winter; he pulled his grandson into a fierce embrace and called him by his true name.

 

   At last he released him and, stepping back, he bowed his head. “My lord Aragorn,” he said. “I can not tell you what a joy it is to have you in our midst once again. It is eighteen long years since last you dwelt in this village. Oh, what feasting there shall be tonight at your return. You can have no idea, my son, how much you have been missed and how overjoyed everyone will all be at your homecoming.”

 

    Aragorn smiled, a little surprised by all the rather overwhelming goodwill coming his way. He was grateful for Dírhael’s words, though he did not fail to notice the great weight of expectation that lay behind them.

 

    “Thank you Dírhael, I am humbled by your words of welcome, though I fear I am as yet very young and untried. I shall need your guidance and council for a long time hence if I am to be found worthy of the title of chieftain.”

 

    Dírhael looked at him closely for a moment and smiled. “You will do,” he said, “and better than you imagine, I’m sure. Don’t fret, son, there will plenty who will be only too glad to aid you, myself included.”

 

    Aragorn was very relieved to hear it. “Thank you; I will do my very best.”

 

   “I don’t doubt that for a moment,” said Dírhael. “But now you must come and meet Ivorwen. Your grandmother will not believe this unless she sees you with her own eyes.”

 

   Aragorn grinned. “I am very much looking forward to meeting her, I have heard so much about her from my mother.”

 

   Dirhael suddenly looked wistful. “I want to hear all about my daughter,” he said. “But I’ll be patient a few more minutes so Ivorwen can hear your tale was well.” He then led Aragorn through into the house while Halbarad remained in the barn to finish caring for the horses.

 

    Ivorwen was in the kitchen, busy with the daily chores. Tubs of hot water steamed in front of the fire.

 

   “Ivorwen,” called Dírhael, as they came through the door. “We have a visitor.”

 

   “Well, don’t bring him in here; I haven’t washed the floor yet,” said Ivorwen, her voice coming from the pantry beyond.

 

   Dírhael winked at Aragorn. “Never mind the floor. I don’t think our chieftain will be offended by a little bit of mud.”

 

   Ivorwen’s head shot around the door and she stood staring at Aragorn in much the same way her husband had done. She came through the doorway slowly, never taking her eyes off her grandson as she studied him closely. He was more Arathorn that Gilraen in appearance. He had Arathorn’s nose and chin. His hair was the same dark colour as that of both his parents, but his eyes; they were his own. Ivorwen had never seen a man with eyes that burned so. Suddenly she knew, for in that instance she saw it, that he was the one. Here was the living embodiment of that Hope that she had foreseen all those years ago. As Aragorn stood there, a quiet unassuming youth, Ivorwen saw instead a mighty man of great strength and wisdom. In his hand was the Sceptre of Annúminas; the broken sword, reforged, hung at his side, and adorning his brow, upon a slender filet of mithril, was the Elendilmir, its white light blazing forth. She did not doubt that standing before her was the future King of Arnor. The vision faded as quickly as it had come and Ivorwen once again saw a rather awkward young man, smiling at her shyly. She went to him and placed her hand on his cheek and looked into his eyes.

 

   “So Hope has returned to our people,” she said as she returned his quiet smile. “Welcome home, child. Yours will be a long road with much danger and hardship in the years ahead, but I sense that a great strength lies within you.  I believe you will see that road through to its end.” Then her sombreness left her and she laughed gaily. “Don’t listen to this rambling old woman. You must be hungry; let me fix you something to eat. Tell me your favourite foods. Which would you rather, pork or eggs?”

 

~oo0oo~

 

   An hour later, after a breakfast of both pork and eggs that tasted as good as any meal Aragorn had ever had at Rivendell, he set out from Dírhael’s house to meet the other inhabitants of that small village. He was accompanied by both Dírhael and Halbarad, who had joined them again as soon as he finished seeing to the horses. In the next few hours, Aragorn met so many people whose names he had not a hope of remembering, the day remained forever a blur in his memory. He must have met every single member of that small community at least once. Most just took his arm, a few embraced him and a couple dropped to one knee as Halbarad had done and pledged their fealty. All were absolutely thrilled to meet him. He was invited into every home and by early afternoon, he had probably drunk at least a dozen cups of tea.

 

   One or two of the men he already knew from last winter’s patrol, but, having only ever known his mother, the women were a complete surprise to him. Sadly, all too many of them were widows, bravely raising their children only to sacrifice them to the harsh life of their fathers. But it was the children who moved him the most that day. Their optimism and zest for life touched him greatly. They were so small and precious, he wondered how their fathers could bare to be parted from them to spend so long on the patrols. He realised then they probably could not and he found himself considering his fellow rangers with a new respect.

 

       At last they came to a stone house on the outskirts of the village. Although it looked no different from any other, neither Halbarad nor Dírhael needed to tell Aragorn whose home this was.

 

   “May I go in alone?” he asked. Dírhael nodded. “Of course, we’ll wait for you here.”

 

   There were roses growing around the doorway. They looked identical to those that framed the main entrance to Rivendell. Then he remembered, his mother had told him once that she planted them there to remind her of her old home. He felt ashamed to have forgotten. He hesitated at the door, almost reluctant to place his own hand upon the same latch that his parents had touched so often, as if by doing so he might break some spell. But knowing he would draw attention to himself if he stood there any longer, he forced himself to open the door and he stepped inside.

 

   The house lay in darkness as all the shutters were drawn. He fumbled with the catch on one of them and managed to pull it open enough to allow sufficient light to enter. The room was surprisingly clean, though Dirhael had told him Handir still kept an eye on the place. It was very sparsely furnished. There were two chairs by the hearth; the larger one he guessed must be his father’s. He reverently touched the woollen weave of the upholstered headrest, the very place where Arathorn’s head had leant when he sat by the fire in the evenings.

 

    As he took in very detail of this room where his parents had shared their married life, he was surprised to find that he felt so numb. The house held no memories for him at all. But he was shocked by how basic and impoverished it was. The boards were bare underfoot and the coverings on the chairs threadbare. He was not expecting there to be the fine tapestries and plush furnishings found at Rivendell, but he had thought that, as the lord of their people, his father might have possessed more of an outward display of the honour he held.

 

   He wandered through to the kitchen. It was so cold and draughty and, to his eyes, seemed very small and cramped. The dresser was plain and simple with none of the elaborate carving found on the furniture at home. On its shelves, proudly displayed, there still stood the tin-glazed pottery on which his mother had once served the meals she cooked for his father. The table in the centre of the room was no more than the four crude legs necessary to hold the scrubbed, slat top at the required height. There were various pots and tubs lying around but no sign of any indoor water supply.

 

    As he looked around the room, slowly he began to understand what Elrond and his mother had tried to tell him about the Dúnedain and why it was that so many people talked of him as their Hope. Unbidden, his father’s words came into his mind.

 

    A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin. [2]

 

    His people were already falling into darkness; he could see this with his own eyes. Their numbers were decreasing every year; the empty houses bore testimony to that unwelcome fact. For years beyond reckoning, Dúnedain children had been too few, a sad reflection of the number of warriors lost and widows made. Unlike lesser men, those widows, his own mother among them, would never take another, having faith as they did that their separation from their beloved husbands was but a temporary one. Unless peace came again to Eriador, in a few generations, the Dúnedain of the North would be no more. Was this then his task, as chieftain, to save his people and restore them to their former glory? He would try, as Eru was his witness, while there was breath in his body, he would try. For the sake of the children he had met today, he would do everything in his power to provide them with a future. The lives of his people might be impoverished, but he knew only too well that their hearts were not. But confronted with the evidence of how diminished the Dúnedain had become, he could not even begin to hope that he would succeed.

 

   The house suddenly felt stifling; he needed fresh air. He quickly opened the back door and rushed out into the yard. The bright sunshine cheered him after the dimness inside and he fought hard to rein in the panic rising within him. He reminded himself, it was not as if he had to achieve all this by next week, or even next year. He took a deep breath and, feeling calmer, he looked around the court yard. Like the house, it provided the bare necessities but nothing more. It comprised a barn with a couple of stables, an empty hayloft and a wood store. In the centre was the well. There was an ancient bucket still attached to its rope, no doubt the very one Gilraen had used to haul up the water for the house. It hurt to think of his gentle mother labouring out here in all weathers. His gaze went further afield. Beyond the yard was the meadow. It was very overgrown. A few scrawny sheep grazed among the abundant docks and thistles. There were no horses there now.

 

   Suddenly he heard the door open behind him and an elderly man walked though the doorway and came to join him. His hair was white and he was bent and shrunken, the skin on his face tough and puckered. Aragorn instinctively recoiled, though he chided himself for doing so. The ageing of men was still something that shocked him.

 

   The old man smiled at him.

 

   “I knew you would return one day,” he said. “There were those who doubted and said we would never see you again, but I always knew you would come back.”

 

   Aragorn smiled at him and hoped his shock had not been too evident.

 

   “You must be Handir,” he said, holding out his hand. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

 

   “And I you, lad,” said Handir, taking his arm. “Now that you have returned, will you be coming to live in this house, do you think?”

 

    Aragorn shook his head, though he was loathed to disappoint the old man.

 

   “I think not, at least not just yet,” he replied. “I can not remain here long; there are other settlements I must visit and the winter patrols will soon be underway. While I am here, I will probably stay with my grandparents.”

 

   “Well, I shall have the place ready for you for whenever you have need of it,” said Handir.

 

   “Thank you,” said Aragorn. “And you also have my gratitude for all you have done here these long years.”

 

   “It’s been no trouble; I’ve always gladly tended the place for my lord and lady. Is she well, your mother? Might she be returning here now you are grown up?”

 

   “My mother is very well, but I’m afraid I do not know if she will ever return,” replied Aragorn. The eagerness with which the old man asked his questions saddened him. 

 

   “Tell me, Handir, there were horses in this field when I was a child. I have the vaguest memories of a mare and foal. Do you know what became of them?” Almost immediately, he regretted asking the question; he could not help but feel it might be better not to know. He was finding the place depressing enough as it was and horses rarely met peaceful ends.

 

   “Let me think,” said Handir, rubbing his chin. “Old Brethil passed away years ago, but that last foal of hers, now that was a fine animal, fit for a king that one. As I recall, Halbarad’s father, Baranor took him on. He made a great warrior’s horse but he caught the wrong end of a poisoned orc arrow some years back. A great shame that was, to lose a fine horse like that.”

 

   Aragorn nodded. It was as he expected. He had seen enough horses lost to the Imladris scouts this way. It was a constant source of grief to the elves.

 

   “Forgive me, Handir,” said Aragorn, “I must be on my way. But I will come and speak with you again before I leave.”

 

   “I would like that very much,” said Handir, smiling, “I would like that very much indeed.”

 

   Aragorn left the old man standing by the paddock railings and marched purposefully back through the house, deliberately not looking at anything as he went. He had not even been upstairs, but he knew he could not face that today. He was relieved to return to the front porch where he found Dírhael and Halbarad waiting for him.

 

   “Have you seen enough?” Dírhael asked. “You have not been gone very long.”

 

    “I have seen all I wish to for now,” said Aragorn.

 

    Dírhael nodded. He understood. “Now, I’m going to leave you in Halbarad’s capable hands for a while,” he said. “I must return to the Hall to see how the preparations for the feast are coming along. But if I might offer you a bit of advice, may I suggest you get a few hours rest before the festivities tonight? If you don’t mind my saying so, Aragorn, you look fit to drop.”

 

   Aragorn felt his embarrassment showing on his face. What must his grandfather think of his skills when a week on his own in the wild left him utterly exhausted?

 

   Dírhael smiled kindly. “It’s not easy at first, I know. We’ve all been through it. Halbarad, take him home and put him to bed. I’ll see you both later.” With a wave of his hand, he was gone, striding at great speed down the track towards the Great Hall.

 

   After he had gone, Aragorn said: “I confess I am very tired and I would hate to fall asleep during the feast tonight. It is very good of Dírhael to go to so much trouble. It is a shame I was unable to give him warning I was coming but I left home rather sooner than I intended.” Halbarad already knew Aragorn well enough to sense there was a story behind his words, but he also sensed now was not the time to pry.

 

   “It would have made no difference at all,” he said. “We shall have the best feast possible, I can assure you. It has been a fair harvest so the stores are well stocked. There are few enough occasions for making merry and it is not every day that our chieftain returns to us. Come, I’ll take you home so you can sleep for a few hours, though I won’t let you lie too long; you wouldn’t want to miss any of the fun, especially as you’re the guest of honour. We’re going to have such a time tonight.” Halbarad was grinning expectantly now. “There must be at least one barrel of last year’s cider left in store and there should be a couple of pretty girls of the right age for us to dance with if we’re lucky; one for each of us; what do you say to that? Radhruin can wait his turn.”

 

   Aragorn did not entirely share Halbarad’s excitement about the forthcoming festivities. He had a horrible suspicion that he might be expected to make a speech. And as for dancing with strange girls, the thought terrified him.

 

~oo0oo~

 

    Later that evening, Aragorn had to admit he was enjoying himself enormously. He was beginning to think that perhaps being chieftain might not be so bad after all.  The Great Hall did not look remotely like the Hall of Fire, but there was a huge fire blazing brightly at one end and the room was warm and light and dry. The hot, cooked meal was delicious; he consumed plate after plate of the most wonderful food to the point where he could not swallow another mouthful. The drink, if not exactly Rivendell’s finest, had gone down without any difficulty.  He had survived dancing with a couple of girls and had sung songs and laughed happily with his many new friends; all the while, bolstered by the almost tangible goodwill that had enveloped him from the moment he first set foot in the village. What was more; he even had his family with him. 

 

  That night, he had no need to think of his home; he was home.

    

 

[1]   ‘Minas Tirith’         The Return of the King

 

[2]    The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen        The Return of the King