Many thanks to Inzilbeth and Suzll for their beta assistance. Characters, setting and world belong to Professor Tolkien. I make no claim for profit nor credit for creation. I’m merely enjoying playing with his Ranger.

-o0o-

“Please, you must come attend my mother,” the old woman pleaded, tugging on his arm.

Aragorn had been passing through Archet as he familiarized himself with the region around Bree. In these early days as Chieftain of the Dúnedain, a title that still caught him by surprise at odd moments, he had much to learn about the region’s nooks and crannies, and Archet was the latest nook to explore. If Bree itself had been any example, he didn’t expect much in the way of friendliness, so stooped and ancient old ladies flying from their cots to drag him within was something entirely unforeseen. She all but hung from his left arm as he stared at her.

“Er,” he finally said, cringing inwardly at his vapid response, but he simply couldn’t marshal any sort of reply to this sudden turn of events. He hardly dared speak his foremost thought: if this one is as old as she looks, how ancient must her mother be?

“Come. Please!” she cried, and so vehement was her insistence that he let her drag him inside, only belatedly worrying that this might be some sort of bizarre ambush. It would certainly work, if it was… who would suspect an elderly woman crying over her mother to have evil designs?

Thankfully, no ambush awaited him. As his eyes adjusted to the dim glow of a single candle, he saw sitting in the corner a wizened and withered figure, a woman whose age fell beyond that of anyone’s reckoning, least of all his. He had been raised in Rivendell, among the timeless and unchanging Firstborn, and in his short time among his own people, he had yet to meet anyone who had fallen witless and infirm. Númenóreans tended to keep their youth well into their latter years, and even the eldest among them, his grandfather, Dírhael, was quite vigorous and young at heart. Wrinkled skin and frail bones and drooping lids that covered faded eyes were as yet a mystery to him.

He glanced at the woman beside him and cleared his throat. “Your mother?”

She nodded and pushed him toward her.

He stumbled a bit, then righted himself and took a deep breath. He bowed, then hesitantly addressed her. “My lady?” There was no response and for a heart-stopping moment he thought perhaps she was dead, but then her right hand started waving back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He couldn’t tell if this were some odd sort of greeting, but as her gaze was turned inward, unseeing, he decided it must not be. If anything, it looked to him as if she were dancing to a melody only she could hear. He glanced behind him at the woman’s daughter. “Can she hear?” he whispered.

“Oh, aye. She can hear, and she can see. Some days she even speaks. A word or two, is all. But lately not even that.”

Aragorn nodded. He was still at a complete loss. “What is it you would have me do for her?”

“You’re one of them Rangers, ain’t ye?”

He nodded. “I am called Strider.” The Bree folk, specifically a man in the Prancing Pony, had hung that appellation on him. He wasn’t sure how much of an insult the man had intended. He did, after all, have long legs, and he did tend to walk along rather quickly. He’d thought about it as he slowly sipped his ale, then decided, rather than fight it and perhaps make an enemy, to smile and adopt it as his name. He needed an alias, after all, and Strider suited him better than Bob or Tom or—

He realized the woman beside him was talking and he had no idea what she had said. Mortified, he gathered his wandering wits and gave her his full attention.

“— heard things about you. About Rangers, that is. I’ve heard that they’re scoundrels and thieves, but me mum, she heard once that they… that is, their chief and maybe all of them, have a healing touch, if you take my meaning. So I’ve been waiting for one to come along. You may be a scoundrel, and to be sure, I can’t be certain you’re any kind of chief — you look too young, even for Ranger folk who all seem young — but I wondered, if the tales be true, then maybe you could sort of heal her mind, like.” Her face crumpled. “She… she no longer remembers who I am, you see, and I would dearly love it if she would just say my name, one more time.” She fell silent, her tears speaking for her. As she stood wringing her hands, it seemed to Aragorn that she was wrenching his very heart.

He felt a twinge of panic. Could he do this thing she asked? His foster father, Master Elrond, had taught him well in leechcraft, herb lore and, once he had revealed to Aragorn his true lineage, the healing powers of his bloodline, but to stop time’s thievery, to restore the wits that were lost, to free a fëa captured by its decaying hröa… it was beyond even the greatest healers of the ages. Still, he could not bear to leave this poor woman bereft of all hope. He chose his words carefully. “I do not know if I can do this thing you ask. No one, neither man nor the greatest of the Elven healers, can fully stop the ravages of time.” At her stricken look, he hurried on, “Nonetheless, I will do what I can.”

If she was disappointed that he offered such frail promise, she hid it well. “Then, please, yes. Do just that, then. I will pay, of course. Whatever you ask, I will gladly pay.”

He gazed at her with compassion. This woman lived alone with her mother in a rude cot with an earthen floor. The rough-hewn table held but one small bundle of carrots alongside two potatoes. This was no woman of means; nay, he suspected she might not have enough food to get her through the next day. Even if he were in the practice of charging for whatever healing skills he might possess, Elrond would have his head if he exacted any fee from these impoverished folk. “I am merely a Ranger with some healing skills, nothing more. I do not expect payment for extending a simple kindness.”

The tears flowed in earnest down her papery cheeks. She nodded, unable to speak.

“What is your mother’s name?”

“Iris. Iris Heatherfield. You can call her that. No need for fussing with ‘my lady’ this or that. Just Iris. Oh! Oh dear, I never told you my name. It’s Iva. Iva Heatherfield, like me mum’s, of course. I never married, you see, so my name stayed the same as hers. So Iva Heatherfield, that’s me… and oh dear, I’m rambling. I’m so sorry.”

“There is no need for apology. We are well met, Miss Heatherfield. Iva.” He smiled and bowed to her, then turned to the old woman and knelt before her. “Hello, Iris. I am called Strider. Your daughter asked me,” he paused, thinking how best to phrase it, “to visit with you for a little. Would you like that?”

No discernible response. She merely continued her agitated hand movements. “I would like to touch your hand. May I?”

Again, no response, but as soon as he touched her left hand, the other slowed its frenetic waving. He gave her hand the gentlest possible squeeze, fearing even that might break the bones, for they seemed as fragile as a bird’s wing. He felt almost ashamed of the strength of his own hand, so brutish and heavy next to the delicacy of hers. But she surprised him when she squeezed his fingers with not inconsiderable strength. He smiled. “You are strong, my lady.”

Her lips moved, but no sound came out. They simply pursed and relaxed, pursed and relaxed. Her breathing came in small huffs, not enough to make sounds, let alone words. He tried to look into her eyes, but he could only make out the faded blue of the bottom half of her irises. Her frown seemed to tell him she was upset, or in pain, or both. He touched her cheek with the back of his hand, noticing a tear tracking down from her left eye. He kept his voice low, almost a whisper. “You’re crying. Are you sad, my lady?” He brushed away the tear. “Do you hurt somewhere?”

Her expression did not change, though no more tears fell. As she apparently couldn’t speak, he wondered if he dared try to communicate by extending his thoughts into hers. Elrond had taught him about Ósanwe-kenta, and though he had used it often with the Elves, he had rarely tried it with Men, and only then with mixed success as he and his cousin Halbarad tried it on each other. It was improving, with practice, but Halbarad more often than not thought Aragorn’s Shoot the arrow from the trees was There’s a hive full of bees. They hadn’t to this point ascertained where the problem dwelt, whether in Halbarad’s mind or his. If it were his fault, he might easily tell this poor woman he was about to shave the hair from her head and feed it to her as give her any sort of reassuring encouragement. Would that I had more experience with my own, with the Secondborn. But he hadn’t, so best simply to get on with it. He shut his eyes, feeling completely unequal to the task, but nonetheless, he carefully extended his thoughts to hers. He wondered if she would, or indeed could, welcome him. He had no wish to intrude, but he needed to find her spirit. So he gently approached, calling her name with a soft voice that was barely above a whisper. He felt no resistance, but all seemed hazy and lost, a fog bereft of any presence, a miasma through which he could see nothing clearly. He struggled on, calling for her and despairing at finding no one…

But there! As if it were lit by a shaft of sunlight, he saw before him a young woman swinging a shrieking toddler by her arms, round and round in a circle. It had to be a memory of a time long past with her daughter, a memory of a day when all was bright and clear and full of happy promise.

He watched, the joy of it warming him almost as though the sun shone on him as it did on the two before him, but then he came to himself as her fingers tightened on his. He opened his eyes and saw that the agitated movement of her free hand had slowed and changed to a slow, circular motion.

She was smiling.

He knew then that she was, though still utterly lost to this present time, happily living in the long ago, when she found simple delight in swinging her little daughter around and around on a bright summer’s day.

The sting of commingled loss and joy brought him unexpectedly to tears.

“What is it?” Iva demanded. “She’s smiling, but why do you weep? Is something wrong?”

He shook his head as he fought for control. “It is…” He shook his head again and cleared his throat. “Nothing is wrong. I…” He paused. Even if he could put it to words, he couldn’t explain to her what he had seen, still less how he had seen it, for fear of revealing too much about himself. Fortunately he was spared having to frame a reply by Iva’s gasp.

“Oh, listen!”

He bent near Iris, his ear to her mouth, and heard a soft humming. It was scratchy and faint, but the melody was clear.

“That’s the song she sang to me when I was a little girl. She’d twirl me around and around until we both fell dizzy on the ground.” She laughed softly, blushing a little. “But, oh dear, I’m afraid it’s a song about Rangers, and how we hoped they’d just run away and not come back. I hope you won’t take it as an insult, but it goes,

Huffity puffity, the Rangers run round,

If they lose their way, they’ll never be found.

So pull your breeches right up to your chin,

And fasten your cloak with a bright shiny pin,

Starry shine, starry bright, the road lies ahead,

Run, Rangers, run, ‘til the sun shines again!”*

He laughed aloud. “I have never heard that, but fear not, I take no offense. I do tend to run a lot.”

“Oh, it’s just a silly song Mum made up one evening after we had seen some Rangers running down the road. I was frightened by them, and she used it to reassure me. She used to do that, make up songs on the spot. That one for some reason struck me as a favorite, so she sang it to me nearly every day. Oh, listen to that! It’s wonderful to hear her sing again!”

He leaned down to Iris again, and sang the song with her, softly. She started beating out the time on the arm of her chair, and then moved her hand to tap him on the shoulder as he sang. She tapped faster, so he increased the tempo, then at the end, when her taps slowed, he slowed with her. When the song ended, she threw both arms in the air and opened her eyes wide. “Iva, Iva, Iva!” she called.

“Oh, Mum!” Iva cried, and Aragorn stepped quickly back as she rushed to embrace her mother. He was nearly undone by that point, so he turned away and walked to the door and looked out into the evening sky. Several deep breaths and a quick swipe of his eyes and he had his emotions under rein again, and just in time, for Iva joined him.

“Oh,thank you, thank you, Mr. Strider. Even if she never calls me by name again, you’ve given me this moment, and I’ll treasure it to the end of my days.”

Still unsure of his voice, he bought himself some time and space by stepping out of the house. He turned to her only when he was certain he could speak. “I think perhaps if you sing to her, and talk of happy days in years gone by, it will help. She may even speak your name again. I cannot say, for I’ve little experience in such things, but… perhaps.”

Iva nodded. She drew her arms around her, warding off the chill of evening. “Are you leaving, then?”

“I must. I have places I need to be.” He didn’t, really, but he feared if he stayed he would be reduced to a sobbing wreck.

“Where will you go? There’s a chill in the air.”

“Like the Rangers in your song, I must run down the road that lies ahead, and hope not to lose the way,” he said with a smile. “Fear not. I know how to stay warm on a chill spring night.” He looked at her, then toward the dark doorway behind her. He felt again the sharp pain of loss, of time’s passing and the fate of mortal Men. But he thought also of hope, of life beyond failing memory, and he smiled. “Perhaps I will sing that to my own children someday.”

He bowed, then left her, and the memory of her tearful smile warmed him as he ran into the night, thinking hard about age and loss and joy and sorrow, but most of all, of Iris and her fëa someday soaring truly free from the captivity of such a living death. And as he ran, he hummed her song under Eru’s starry bright sky.

____________

fëa - “spirit”

hröa - “body”

Ósanwe-kenta - “mind-thought communication”

*Rhyme based (very!) loosely on an English children’s song from BBC’s Quattermass series. It’s not exactly old, being from a TV series, but I liked it and thought, with a few modifications, it would make a cute little ditty an Archet woman might come up with on the spot to entertain her children. The original is:

Huffity, puffity, Ringstone Round,

If you lose your hat it will never be found,

So pull your britches right up to your chin,

And fasten your cloak with a bright new pin,

And when you are ready, then we can begin,

Huffity, puffity, puff!

A word about the inspiration for this story:

Memorybridge.org’s website states, “People with dementia are still here, still reachable at the depths of memory and present beyond the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease, still able to love and be loved.” I’ve long wanted to write a story of Aragorn, as healer, dealing with end-of-life issues such as dementia, and recently I saw a very moving video that completely matched my own ideas of how he might approach and treat such a patient. With the Teitho prompt rattling around in my brain, seeing the video made me realize how captive the spirit becomes as the brain slowly withers, and the idea finally came to fruition.

The video can be seen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CrZXz10FcVM

For more information on Naomi Feil and Validation Therapy: https://vf.validation.org/

And for more information on dementia therapies: http://www.memorybridge.org/