Vigil

                                                                        TithenFeredir

Death is not our portion, though we all know it is a path to which a few of us are fated. It is a rare thing, a strange and tragic occurrence of which we seldom speak. So firm is our expectation of endless time that when it is taken away, that much the crueler does it seem. We are so unready for it.

As the bearers hastened by with their burden a cold fist closed on my heart, squeezing it ever tighter until it seemed to cease beating altogether. It was not the blood that horrified me, nor the awful details murmured in taut and muted voices by those who had seen. No, it was the crushed, empty stillness of that form on the litter, of one who had only just left me that morning with ringing laughter and bright, clear eyes.  

He did not seem to notice the impertinent manner in which the healers handled him, the invasions and small cruelties they committed without sentiment or ceremony like workmen toiling over wood or stone. It was driven by urgent necessity, I knew, and yet those things should not have been done in that way---not to my son. When at last the healers were finished with their work I was able to draw near again, barely hearing the grim report they made. The blood was mostly from the boar, they said, where it had run on his spear in its rage. Though dead, the great beast had been carried on by the force of its charge and had buried him as it fell like an avalanche of muscle and bone. After the blood was washed away only bruises and lacerations could be found. No bones had been broken. The hurt he had taken was within, the healers told me. Such wounds are subtle and insidious; a turn toward recovery might not manifest itself for hours, even days, or death might come instead with no signs to tell why. But that was not the worst of it.

I came nearer and froze a little more inside to see upon him a pallor that stole away the fine, fair nobility of his youth. Distant and grim he seemed, as one being slowly drawn off, unwilling, into the dark. I would sooner have listened to cries of pain and held a hand that crushed mine in agony than to see his spirit’s light so smothered, so passively draining away. Indeed, worse still was to find his eloquent eyes motionless and hidden under eerily lowered lids. This more than anything spoke of death hovering near, and my thoughts strayed into fearful imaginings of what lightless road he might be traveling alone. No greater horror could there be than this: to be cut off from the paths of dreaming, to be failing and trapped in absolute darkness beyond the reach of any help or comfort. I would have faced that blackness. I would have gone there if it were possible, but there was no way to follow.

I could only stand by and watch, having no power to do aught else. The hours passed and one by one the others drifted away. Having answered every query they had no more to offer. Only Elrond remained for it was Estel who had fallen in the midst of the hunt, and in front of him had my son crouched to brace the butt of his spear in the ground and face the beast’s attack. Yet even Elrond could do no more than the others. At last I bade him go and rest, for there might be a greater need of him later. So the night went deeper into silence and the air in that room grew heavy, the walls leaned in and time stilled. 

I took up one of his hands in mine. A strong, graceful hand it was, but heavy, lifeless and cold. I sang to him softly, songs he had loved long ago. I told him of my pride in him. I rebuked him for his foolish courage. I begged him to return, but he heeded none of it.

I promised offerings to the Valar, of monuments or deeds or treasure, of anything if only they would give him back to me.

Still the night crawled on and nothing changed. I remained there stubbornly, angrily holding on to hope as if it had, in itself, the power to heal. I resolved to remain so, though I knew my heart would crumble to dust if in the end if it was for naught. So be it, I thought bitterly.

I stayed, keeping watch and insistent hope, until my mind went numb, my eyes became dry and my body ached. None of it mattered. I could not move. At last I glanced dully at the candles on the table. They were now no more than frozen puddles piled up from dripping themselves away. They had burned out, but the room had not darkened. The light of dawn had crept stealthily over the window sill. Now it moved across the coverlet, to the pillow where my son’s head lay. The sun came in to gild his unbound hair with sparks of gold, and infused his pale face with its warm light as if to fill it with life as well. A cruel illusion it seemed at first, but then I saw something: a subtle stir that ended his deathly stillness. His breast rose in a slow, deep sigh and I considered how little thought is given to so vital a thing. It should be otherwise, for are not life and breath all one? How painfully precious that small movement seemed then. My hope swelled, and I suppose I tightened my grip on the yielding hand that rested in mine. His smooth brow furrowed faintly then, and at last the terrible veil was lifted from his eyes. They blinked and shifted and anon chanced to find me. It was not pain or weariness that showed in them, but recognition and the light of his spirit returning. A small, bemused smile curved his lips and he quietly murmured,

“Ada,”

I could find no words for an answer. I had not heard him say that name for centuries.