DREAMS: Dréam ne dréose

SUMMARY: Thengel reflects on the course of his life during a momentous occasion.

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Minas Tirith, T.A. 2943:

Thengel stood before the Steward’s Chair nervously waiting for the world to come to a crashing halt... or not. He was not sure about this all of a sudden. The thought of... He took a deep breath and felt his palms become clammy with sweat and groaned inwardly. Not now! Was he not a Ranger of Ithilien, one of Lord Turgon’s trusted captains? He had faced an incursion of Haradi mercenaries with fewer qualms. This was not the end of the world... his world; it was the beginning, or so he hoped.

He remembered when he first came to Minas Tirith some twenty years earlier, running away from a father whom he hated and from a destiny that he feared. Valar! but he had been so young and naive and terribly homesick. He remembered the sense of confusion and unease he had felt when he first came to the White City — the smells and crowds and the immensity of the place; it had all been so overwhelming, that and the fact that he spoke neither Westron nor Sindarin. Turgon had assigned one of his Rangers whose family farmed in Anórien and had dealings with folk in the Eastfold to act as his interpreter, guide and teacher. Anborn was a good man, patient and kind. He never laughed at Thengel’s mistakes, unlike some of the Rangers-in-training and Thengel was eternally grateful for the man, which is why he was standing next to him before the Steward’s Chair.

Thengel glanced at the tall Gondorian, taller than he by several inches, the dark hair and grey eyes looking at him steadily, marking him as being of pure Númenórean blood. Thengel suppressed a shiver at that thought. The ancient Sea-kings were legends even among his own people, yet he now lived among people who could trace their ancestry to those very kings and their followers who fled drowned Númenor to found kingdoms in exile.

Anborn gave the displaced Rohirr lord a brief but warm and supportive smile and Thengel smiled back, though he feared it might have been a little hesitant. He swept his gaze through the chamber. Even after twenty years he still was in awe of this throne room that had not seen its king in over nine hundred years. He remembered how uncouth he had felt when he first came to this place, a beggar bereft of homeland and kin. He had wept tears of joy when Turgon had accepted his fealty and Turgon had not disparaged those tears.

Now he stood before the twenty-fourth Ruling Steward this day and Turgon’s pride and love for him was evident in his every gesture. Turgon had taken him into his own household, treated him as a son and his own son, Ecthelion, became the brother Thengel never had. Ecthelion was standing beside his father as was mete for the heir to the Stewardship and gave him a wide grin and a wink. Thengel remembered to breathe again and nodded, feeling suddenly calmer than he had all morning.

The hall was filled with people. Many of them were friends, a few were enemies, for Thengel had learned early on that one could not have the one without the other. All in all, though, those who were in attendance were there to wish him well and he was grateful. For a second he felt a pang of regret that his family could not be there to share his joy. It was only a fleeting thought, quickly pushed to the back of his mind as other things of more importance took his attention.

Morwen of Lossarnach, for instance.

A rustle among the crowd alerted him to her approach. He turned to face the long nave down which she came, escorted by her father. She was so beautiful and so young. Her lineage was nearly as old and as pure as Turgon’s or Anborn’s. Her hair was raven and flowing past her waist. A wreath of summer wildflowers adorned her head. She wore a gown of blue silk that made her grey eyes seem blue as well. Thengel’s own garb was an ochre-yellow silk undertunic with tight sleeves over which he wore a sleeveless velvet surcoat of the dark green favored by the Rohirrim though it was the White Tree of Gondor rather than the White Horse of Rohan that was embroidered upon it. His head was also adorned with a wreath of wildflowers.

He smiled as she neared him and her own smile was more radiant than the sun’s. When her father placed her hand in his, he forgot all else. He little remembered the ceremony that followed, its ancient words in a Sindarin that was nearly archaic, yet Turgon spoke them with fluent ease. Thengel remembered stumbling over one or two of the phrases while Morwen spoke her vows with the grace with which she did all things.

The ceremony continued to progress in stately elegance. It was different from the less formal wedding ceremonies of his own people, and for a brief moment Thengel felt a pang of regret in the midst of his happiness. Then, just where Turgon would have invoked the blessings of the Valar, the ceremony unexpectedly changed.

The Steward, smiling at the newly minted couple, gestured to his son, who in turn went to the table where the wedding contract was laid out ready for the signatures of the married couple and their witnesses and took up an intricately carved mazer which Thengel, in the general nervousness of the situation, had failed to notice. He noticed it now. It was made of maple and the patina of great age shone in the very grain of the wood. It was carved with scenes of men and women at leisure, many of them playing musical instruments as they sat amidst a lush garden.

Ecthelion handed the mazer to his father and then to the surprise of all the Steward began to sing, not in Sindarin or Westron but in accentless Rohirric, and only a handful of people in the entire hall understood the words. Thengel stood there in absolute shock to hear the heartfelt song of good wishes upon a newly wedded couple traditionally sung at weddings in Rohan coming from the lips of this scion of Númenor:

‘Éadig béo þu, góda mann!

Éadig béo þu, léofe wif!

Langre lisse ic þe ann —

hafa lof and liþe lif!

Dóm is feor þeah dóm sie strang,

Dréam ne dréose nymðe hæl and wynn!’

Turgon then handed the mazer to Thengel with a knowing smile at the younger man’s dumbfounded expression and Thengel had just enough presence of mind to take the proffered bowl and present it to Morwen.

"Take the bowl and drink, beloved," he whispered in Rohirric which she had begun to learn. She did as he bid and then handed it back to him. He drank from it before handing it back to Turgon.

"I now pronounce Lord Thengel of Rohan and Lady Morwen of Lossarnach husband and wife," the Steward of Gondor proclaimed. "May they know only joy."

As the crowd broke into a cheer, Turgon leaned forward and, with a sly smile, said, "Kiss her, my son."

Thengel and Morwen shared a shy smile between them and then they were kissing, all else around them forgotten in the passion of the moment. Thengel reveled in the feel and taste of his new bride. Yes, there had been heartache in the past but it was a minor thing to the joy of the present, a joy that would follow him into the future, whatever that future might bring. Morwen would be the holder of that joy and he knew that as long as they remained true to their love for one another all would be well.

"Langre lisse ic þe ann," he whispered to her.

"Dréam ne dréose," she replied with a smile that he knew was only for him.

"Nai Valar let manátar," Turgon whispered the more traditional blessing, giving them each a hug and a kiss on the brow in benediction.

"Indeed," Thengel said, never taking his eyes off his beloved, and knew the words to be true.

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Dréam ne dréose: ‘May joy not fail’. In Old English dréam means ‘joy, pleasure, gladness, delight, mirth, rejoicing, rapture, ecstasy, frenzy, as well as what causes mirth — musical instruments and song’. The title is taken from a line of a poem written by Tolkien, Éadig béo þu (Good luck to you). The poem was published as part of a collection called Songs of the Philologists (private publication 1936).

Translation of Turgon’s song. The words are borrowed from the same poem:

'Good luck to you, good man!

Good luck to you, dear woman!

I give you lasting joy —

have praise and pleasant life!

Doom is far enough though doom be strong,

may joy not fail nor health and happiness.'

Nai Valar let manátar: (Quenya) ‘May the Valar bless the two of you’.