Chapter 9 - The Light of Hope

"They’re here! They’re here!"

The children’s glad cries roused them all out of their homes. Denlad followed Dirhael and Ivorwen as far as the door, then stopped, again finding himself hanging back, a stranger standing to the side of the celebration, always apart...

No, not always apart. Had not Ivorwen and Dirhael treated him almost as one of their own these four days of storm and cold? He chided himself for self pity. He was blessed to be here, and he would do well to remember that. He walked outside.

The returning men seemed tired, but triumphant, and from the pelts tied to the backs of the horses, they had good reason. In the noisy melee, he heard snatches of conversation.

"... killed eighteen... left half for those in need..."

"... a few scratches and bruises, for the most part, but..."

"... got four, I think, right off the mark..."

"... blizzard was the worst..."

"... no sign of brain fever in those beasts, thank the Valar..."

"... nearly froze his toes off, thanks to that wool-brained horse..."

"...missed you as well, my love..."

"No, you cannot wear the wolf head... it must be cured first..."

"... tired of Turgil’s cooking..."

Joy seemed everywhere before him, but Denlad found his gaze on Aragorn, who was giving Ivorwen a gentle hug. He looked even more tired than the rest of the men. But as Denlad watched the stiffness in Aragorn’s bearing and movements, he realized Aragorn was more than simply weary: he was hiding pain. Denlad took a step forward, involuntarily, and then he saw it. Aragorn held his left arm close to his side, doing most of the work of untying his pack with his right hand.

So something had happened to his arm. And it appeared that Ivorwen’s sharp eyes had noticed as well, for she stood beside Aragorn, slapping his right hand away from the packs as she motioned Dirhael to come do the unloading.

Denlad wasn’t certain if his help would be wanted, but he pushed nonetheless through the crowd surrounding Aragorn. "Let me," he said softly to Dirhael.

Dirhael smiled and nodded. "Thank you, Denlad," he said.

Aragorn turned, hearing his name. "Denlad!" he cried with a glad smile. "How did you fare in this blizzard? Was your house warm enough?"

"I am well," Denlad said. "I stayed with Dirhael and Ivorwen. But what of you–"

"I am well," Aragorn said firmly. His gaze brooked no argument, so Denlad held his tongue. But he knew he was looking as worried as Ivorwen.

Aragorn looked around at the village and his gaze rested on the as yet unburned bonfire. "Dirhael, can we celebrate tonight, do you think?"

Dirhael nodded. "Aye, if you... that is, the men are not too weary."

"They are not." Again, that note of steel in his voice. Ivorwen’s mouth thinned in disapproval, but Denlad could tell there was aught any of them could do. Aragorn seemed in his way just as stubborn as Dirhael.

"Then, yes. We will celebrate! We still have the roast boar, and the women will make cakes and pies. And there is venison a plenty, and roast goose.  The harvest was not as bountiful as some years, but we still have plenty of vegetables. We will have more than enough to eat without paying for it with the coin of starvation come spring."

"I suppose everyone will think it too late to do Chieftain’s Call," Aragorn sighed. Denlad had never seen him look so wistful.

Dirhael shook his head. "We will do it. It is too important to the children, who were sorely disappointed that you had to leave on this hunt. Too many years have we done without that tradition, so none thought it wrong to delay it."

Aragorn smiled broadly. "Good. I suppose if I’m to do all this tonight, I best get my horse settled and get ready."

"I’ll mind your horse, Aragorn," Denlad offered. He had no idea what this Chieftain’s Call business was about, nor what other duties Aragorn had to perform, but from the tired slump of his shoulders, he needed as much help as he could get. Perhaps if he could do a lot of the chores, Aragorn might be able to take a well-earned nap. "And anything else you may need."

"Thank you. If it pleases you, I would like for you to come by my cottage after you have the horse settled in. I need to speak with you about something."

"Yes, sir," Denlad said.

Aragorn turned and looked at the crowd of joyful faces. "My people!" he cried, and a silence fell. "We are thankful to have returned in one piece–"

"More or less!" Halbarad shouted, to much laughter.

"More or less," Aragorn conceded with a wry grin. "And though I should be angry that Dirhael disobeyed his Chieftain..." More chuckles, and Aragorn laid a stern look on Dirhael, who merely smirked back, "we are doubly grateful at your willingness to delay celebrating Mettarë until our return. So now... let us put it off no longer! Tonight, we feast!"

There was a great roar of approval, and then it seemed to Denlad that the settlement took on the appearance of a great ants’ nest disturbed by a mighty giant’s kicking foot. Men hurried their horses to barns or ran toward the bonfire, women toward their homes, and giggling and shrieking children ran in circles unsure where to go first. He could not help but grin at the joyful chaos that Aragorn’s words had let loose.

~~~

"So now that you know of the hard road down which it will lead, do you want to live as one of us, Denlad? Embrace the heritage that is yours, through your mother, by taking the pledge of the Dúnedain?"

They were in Aragorn’s cottage, and Aragorn had just laid out for Denlad what life as a Dúnadan would mean. Denlad was seated at the table, a bowl of hot soup and tankard of ale sitting untouched before him.  Aragorn sat across from him, his grey eyes keen and grave as he waited for Denlad’s answer. The sounds of laughter and singing outside wafted through the closed doors and windows. Now and again a shadow flashed by the window as people ran hither and yon, preparing for the bonfire and the feast. He thought of their kindness, of their courtesies and joy and love for one another. Theirs was a hard life, and often lonely, but when had Denlad’s life not been a lonely struggle? Here at least he might finally know kinship and fraternal bonds...

If they would but accept him.

"I do," Denlad said softly. "I-I feel at home here, or as at home as I ever imagine I could feel."

"But?"

Denlad looked down at his soup. "I do not know if I deserve this."

"I take it you are not referring to the soup," Aragorn said, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"No. I’m referring to the welcome of your people. I know if you approve of me, they will as well, for you are the chieftain, but I fear it might be obedience to your word only, nothing deeper. I do not think I will ever truly fit in."

"You will not. At least not at first," Aragorn said bluntly. "How could you? We cannot tiptoe around the facts: you look different, you were born out of wedlock and know not your father. Your very name brings no meaning to your life, though I have no doubt very soon the name Denlad will stand for honor and bravery. But that is for the future. In the here and now, it will be difficult. There will be those who will be very reluctant to accept you, even at my behest. You have already seen the doubts in their eyes. But know this, Denlad: there are many more for whom those things matter not a whit. Dirhael and Ivorwen, Halbarad, myself.... and many others. Those are the people to whom you will bind yourself, and prove yourself. And those are the ones whom you will call family."

Denlad’s eyes stung. "And if I fail?" he whispered.

"I do not believe you will fail, Denlad." Aragorn stood and walked around the table to lay his hand on Denlad’s shoulder.

Denlad nodded, unable to speak. How he hoped Aragorn was right.

"I have some things for you, Denlad," Aragorn said, moving past him to open a chest at the end of his bed. He handed a blanket wrapped bundle to Denlad.

Denlad took it, casting a questioning glance toward Aragorn. Aragorn grinned. "Go on. Open it."

He loosened the leather belt, and the blanket fell open. The first thing he saw was a pair of boots, the likes of which he had never hoped to own.

"See if they fit. The socks as well."

Denlad wasted no time in scooting his chair back and tugging off his old, cracked boots. He pulled on the socks, then slid his foot into the supple leather. He stood up and stamped his feet to settle them and then walked around the room.

"You need say nothing," Arargorn laughed. "I can see by the way your eyes are shining that they fit."

"Thank you," Denlad breathed. He walked around some more, then leaped in the air and came down. He laughed out loud. "Thank you!"

"I fear the rest in that bundle is not nearly as exciting. Hose and another pair of socks. But they will be a comfort on cold nights."

"They’re wonderful. Did Ivorwen make them?"

"Yes, and the blanket as well."

Denlad put them on the table. He had never known such a Mettarë, but Aragorn was not finished. He handed Denlad a pile of tunics. "Miriel made them," he said, then he pulled out an empty scabbard, finely tooled. He handed it to Denlad.

"But I don’t have a...." Denlad’s words trailed off as he saw the gleaming sword in Aragorn’s hand. "... sword," he finished weakly. "That can’t be..."

"It is. A proper Dúnadan can’t go around without a sword. Take it."

Denlad grasped the hilt Aragorn held toward him and lifted the sword’s point to the ceiling.

"Try it. Test the balance. See if it suits you."

Feeling he was moving in a dream, Denlad moved well away from Aragorn and swung the sword back and forth in a figure eight. It handled beautifully, its balance nearly perfect in his hand. He looked closely at the edge, at the designs etched in the blade, at the silvery wire no bigger around than a single hair inlaid around and around the hilt. His eyes widened. "Is that... is that mithril?"

"Yes, that’s true silver. A single strand only, but finely crafted for all that."

Denlad immediately held the sword out to Aragorn, shaking his head. "No. I cannot. It is far too dear a gift. You... you barely know me!"

"I know you well enough. Keep the sword, for it needs to be used. It was Dirhael’s, an extra one given him by Master Elrond in years past. He would be honored for you to have it, for he knows you will use it well." He saw Denlad fingering the scabbard. "And Halbarad made that for you."

"He did? I will have to thank them both." Denlad laid the sword on the table, then slipped the scabbard onto the belt and swung the belt around his waist. He slid the sword carefully in the scabbard, then walked around the room. Between the new boots and the sword banging against his leg, he no longer quite felt like himself. But he suddenly grinned. Nonetheless, he felt certain he would have no trouble getting used to this new man he was becoming.

"I have more, but they will come later, at the feast. For now, I need you to take that," he pointed to a crumpled bag in the corner of the room, "and fill it with all that’s left in this trunk."

Denlad peered down into the trunk. There was an assortment of coins, small carved toys, necklaces of brightly colored beads, and small bundles of sticks. He hefted one of the bundles. "What are they for?"

"Blessings," Aragorn said cryptically. He knelt down and started handing the items up to Denlad. "Now hurry. This needs to be packed up before we go to the bonfire for there will be little time after. And since I banged up my shoulder, I will need you to assist me after the bonfire is done."

Denlad placed the items into the bag, which was made of a dark burgundy velvet. He had never felt anything so soft. "What do you need me to do?"

"Carry that for me."

Denlad waited but Aragorn did not offer any further explanation. Denlad smiled to himself. Somehow he did not mind wondering, this time.

~~~

Denlad held an unlit candle in his hand as he stood by the wood for the bonfire, listening to Aragorn as he spoke.

"... and we now stand, the remnant of the Faithful of Númenor, scattered and few, and just as our ancestors sailed with Elendil and his sons, Isildur and Anarion, to unknown shores, so also do we look to an unknown future. But we look forward with the light of hope, for just as I hold this one candle, so the light of the Dúnedain still shines in Middle-earth, even as the light of the Silmaril still shines forth each night as Eärendil sails among the stars created by Elbereth. Ever have our people found comfort in Gil-Estel, our star of hope, and ever will that light brighten our hearts in dark hours, even as this candle I hold pushes back the dark of the longest night of the year. May the light of hope spread until it burns brightly within every heart." He then turned and touched the flame of his candle to the one held by Halbarad, who turned and lit Dirhael’s, and thus it went around the entire circle of men and women standing in a ring around the piled logs. Turgil turned to Denlad and lit his, and thus the circle was complete.

Aragorn held his candle high. "To the light of hope!" he cried, and laid his candle against the dried moss  tucked amongst the the kindling and larger logs of the bonfire. Everyone followed suit, and Denlad hurried to light his section of the fire. The kindling caught and the blaze flared upward, eating hungrily at the stacked wood. Denlad stepped back away from the heat. He watched with wonder as the flames grew, sending sparks toward the stars. It seemed to Denlad as if those sparks flew all the way to the heavens to kiss the very stars Aragorn said Elbereth put into place. He had never seen anything more beautiful.

After that, there was much cheering and someone brought forth a harp and another a pipe and soon lively music filled the night air. But Denlad’s heart was still too full of wonder and awe, so he found a quiet log to sit on and simply watched the merry making. Soaking it all in, as Aragorn had suggested. Many of the women scurried around setting food on the tables that had been placed along one side of the great fire. He laughed as one woman scolded three little children when she caught them trying to filch a pie. He could not blame the children for trying; looking at the delicacies weighing down those tables was making his own juices flow.

There was a step beside him and he looked up, then scrambled to his feet as Halbarad handed him a tankard. "Peace, Denlad. I do not know what lies Dirhael has filled your head with, but I do not bite. Have some ale," he said. "You have found a nice warm spot and I wish to share it. Sit yourself but leave me room."

Denlad perched on the very end of the log, which elicited a raised eyebrow from Halbarad. "I do not think I require that much room." Denlad scooted more toward the center and Halbarad sat down beside him with a sigh. He stretched his left foot toward the fire. "Don’t ever get frostbite, Denlad. I have three toes that sting and hurt worse than Morgoth’s bad tooth right now. I spent the better part of the afternoon soaking my foot in hot water, and still it pains me."

"I’m sorry," Denlad said quietly.

"I will live," Halbarad grinned. "What do you make of all this?"

Denlad shook his head. "It is almost too wonderful to take in."

"Aragorn gives a fine speech," Halbarad said. "You can’t help but stand a bit taller and prouder, listening to him."

Denlad nodded.

"I hope you are finding our little settlement to your liking."

"I am, thank you. Everyone has been very kind.  And I thank you for the gift of the scabbard.  It is truly beautiful."

"'Twas nothing much, really.  I was glad to do it for you," Halbarad shrugged, then took a sip of ale and smacked his lips with a satisfied sigh. "Good this year," he said, then waved the tankard in an all-encompassing gesture. "Better people you will never find. Take Maevor over there. He has three children, a wife who is ill, and yet he still finds time to craft and repair our boots, and he is rarely without a smile on his face."

"Did he make these?" Denlad said, stretching out his legs to show Halbarad his new boots.

Halbarad lifted Denlad’s right foot and looked at the sole. "Aye, he did. That’s his mark, see?"

There was a small star engraved in the sole, against the front of the heel. "The Star of the Dúnedain?"

"Aye."

"Halbarad–" Denlad stopped. He wasn’t sure how to ask, or even if he should ask, but Halbarad was watching him with those keen eyes of his, so he plunged forward. "The star pins you wear... what do they stand for? And how do... how did you get yours?"

Halbarad put his tankard carefully on the ground, then removed his pin and handed it to Denlad. "These are the Stars of the Dúnedain. There is a jewel... the Elendilmir, or Star of Elendil, that the Kings of Arnor once wore, bound to their brow on a silver fillet.  These pins remind us of that emblem, and of our heritage and our hope that someday we might regain all we have lost. My own pin I received from my father, and he from his, and so on. How ancient it is, I cannot say, but I prize it above any other possession."

Denlad carefully turned it, looking at the way the fire glinted along its rays. "It is beautiful." He handed it back. "I suppose, then, that is how everyone has received theirs? Through their fathers?"

"Aye. For the most part."

Denlad nodded, hiding the sudden stab of despair. That was it, then. He might take whatever this pledge was that Aragorn had mentioned, but he could never have such a pin, never be fully equal with these brave men. He blinked several times as the fire blurred. He nodded to Halbarad. "Thank you," he said softly, then hurried away, feeling more than ever an outsider looking in.

"Denlad!" Halbarad cried, but Denlad pushed beyond the ring of people dancing until he was lost in the shadows beyond the edge of the fire. He took several deep bracing breaths of the cold night air and stared at the stars. One shone in the west, above the deep teal and purple of the lingering sunset. He wondered if that was Gil-Estel. "You will have to be my star, Eärendil," he whispered, and then his throat closed, and he could watch it no longer.

"Denlad!" Halbarad’s voice called again. "There you are."

Denlad turned.

"Aragorn needs you. Come along." He grabbed Denlad’s arm and dragged him back to the fire, where Aragorn was standing near the food. "Stay right there until Aragorn bids you come," Halbarad growled, then hurried over to join Aragorn. He picked up a grey bundle from the table and nodded to Aragorn.

"My people!" Aragorn cried, and when he had everyone’s attention, he continued. "We have lit the fire of Hope, and we have enjoyed music and food and even more important, good ale!"

A roar of laughter went up.

Aragorn smiled, then spoke again. "There is plenty of food and drink left, and I am sure the musicians will play for hours yet, but first we must take a moment to make welcome someone who has been unknowingly lost to us these past nineteen years. Any time we can swell the ranks of our people is a time to celebrate. Usually that celebration comes with a new birth, but this time, the new Dúnadan has come to us a man grown. Denlad, step closer."

Denlad gaped for a moment, then joined Aragorn. His heart thumped heavily in his chest. He wasn’t sure he was breathing properly. Aragorn put his arm across Denlad’s shoulders and turned him to face the people. In the moment before Denlad dropped his eyes to his boots, he saw many smiles and a few nods of approval.

"Denlad," Aragorn said, turning him to face him. "You have told me of your wish to live among us, as befits the bloodline of your mother."

Denlad swallowed hard and nodded. His tongue seemed to have cleaved itself to the roof of his very dry mouth and he was certain nothing could ever remove it.

Aragorn seemed not to care that he could not speak. He pressed slightly on Denlad’s shoulders. "Kneel, please," he said quietly.

Denlad dropped to his knees. A hush had fallen, and even the flames seemed to have silenced their roar. Denlad felt a tremor building in his belly, a tremor that swelled and spread to his arms and legs. It was just as well he was kneeling, for he was certain he would not have been able to stand.

Aragorn kept a hand on Denlad’s shoulder as he spoke in a quiet voice that nonetheless carried to every listener. "When a boy reaches his majority, deemed fully grown and steady of mind and arm, whether that be sixteen or twenty-six, he takes the oath of the Dúnedain. Denlad, in speaking with you, and watching you, I deem that the time is right for you to take that oath. But first I ask you: do you wish to become of member of this company? Let your answer be yea or nay, but know that this is something you do of your own free will."

"I-I do. I mean, yea. Yes."

Aragorn smiled down at him. "Very good. This then, shall you swear: Denlad, do you swear to uphold Dúnedain law and tradition, in service to your Chieftain, by your life or your death serving him even as by his life or death he has sworn to serve you?"

Denlad took a deep breath. "I do," he croaked.

"Do you swear to fight the Darkness in whatever form it takes, which is the charge of the Dúnedain, to preserve all that is good and true on Arda, helping those who are in need, protecting those who are weak?"

"I do."

"Will you hold true to your faith in the Valar and Ilúvatar, at all cost in pain, loss of worldly possessions or even death itself, even as did the remnant Faithful of Númenor, who forsaking all goods and lands, held to their faith and thus were spared from the drowning of that isle to build a new kingdom here in Middle-earth?"

Denlad nodded, his mind awash in so many emotions he could barely breathe. "I do," he said belatedly when he realized Aragorn was waiting his spoken reply.

Aragorn placed his hand on Denlad’s head for a moment, then bid him to rise. He did, on legs that were trembling so hard he was unsure he could stand. He saw Halbarad shake loose the grey bundle. Denlad’s breath caught. It was a cloak, just like the rest of the men wore. He shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them. The cloak was still there. Aragorn smiled slightly, his eyes twinkling with quiet mirth. "It is no dream, Denlad," he whispered, then louder, "Turn around."

Denlad did, stumbling a bit, and Halbarad settled the cloak across his shoulders, then handed Aragorn a small box.  Aragorn then stood before Denlad and opened the box. In the moment before tears blinded his sight, Denlad saw the flash of a many-rayed star. He dropped his head, holding himself tightly against the sob building in his chest. Aragorn pinned the star to the cloak, then leaned forward to whisper in Denlad’s ear, "You are a part of us. A Dúnadan. Do not ever believe otherwise."

Denlad nodded, unable to speak, to look up, to even breathe. His starved lungs soon demanded a breath, though, and it came in a great gulping rush. He grasped the star pin, feeling it dig into his palm and the pain steadied him somehow. He took another breath, then lifted his head. "Thank you."

Aragorn smiled, his eyes alight with joy, then he turned Denlad to face the people. "I present to you Denlad, a Dúnadan, and a mighty warrior he will be!" In the clamor that rose up, Denlad’s heart swelled with joy.

He belonged. He was a Dúnadan.

He had his star at last.