Chapter Two: Sacrifice

“For thou desirest not sacrifice; else would I give it; thou delightest not in burnt offering. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.” ~ Psalm 51:16-17

7th of Ringarë, 3019^th year of the Third Age, Steward’s Reckoning:

The stranger was very tall, towering an ell above Aragorn, clad in an azure robe that fell to his ankles and belted with a white sash. Aragorn’s first, wild thought was that this must be an Elf. For the stranger was very fair and his golden-brown hair was long and bore elven style front braids. But something told him this was no Elf. He emanated an eldritch aura of power that reminded Aragorn of when Gandalf had unveiled himself as the White of his Order. Unintentionally, Aragorn took several steps backwards, heart hammering in his chest.

 “Who are you?” Aragorn demanded roughly. His throat felt very dry and he swallowed hard.

“I have many names, Child.” The stranger possessed a melodious tenor and spoke Quenya, the High Tongue of the Elves that Aragorn had learned in his youth.

“Yet perhaps the name that suits me best is Vicegerent, for that is what Ilúvatar has appointed me.”

Aragorn’s jaw slackened, a shudder running down his spine. “Manwë Súlimo, the Elder King,” he whispered as he knelt on the damp floor, head bowed, eyes on the Vala’s feet which, strangely, were barefoot.

“Indeed, Child. Though in truth I am more steward than king.”

He watched the Elder King legs come toward him and Aragorn closed his eyes. Clenching his fists, he resisting the impulse to flee. For where would he go? Although the door remained open behind him, even if he made it through, Aragorn doubted there was any place in Arda he could run from the High King of the Valar. He felt a warm hand on his chin and his eyes sprang open. His head was gently forced upward, and he found himself staring into the King of Arda’s eyes. They were the clear blue of summer skies, the irises lambent with their own light.

A description of Elder King from the Elder Days came to him: “His raiment is blue, and blue is the fire of his eyes…”

“Be at peace, Child. I mean you no harm.”

Aragorn gasped as he felt the weight of Lord Manwë’s mind press against his own. He himself could perceive much of the hearts and minds of Men as could many those in whom the blood of Númenor ran true. Yet, despite its gentleness, the touch of the Elder King’s thoughts upon his own felt more alien than any he had ever experienced, more so than any Elf’s. It took all his will to not close his mind against the intrusion, and he grit his teeth, vaguely aware of the trembling in his limbs.

Worse still, Aragorn could sense the terrifying vastness of the Vala’s mind lurking just beyond Lord Manwë’s regard. He sensed, nebulously, how incredibly ancient the being before him was, and he had been raised amongst Elves who counted their age in millennia. For all of his eighty-eight years, Aragorn suddenly felt very young. It was little wonder Lord Manwë called him child. Abruptly, the scrutiny ceased and the Elder King released his hold on Aragorn’s chin. Aragorn found that he was panting as though from great exertion.

“Forgive me, Child,” the Elder King’s smile was both pleased and rueful. “I did not intend to distress you. But know that I do not call you child because of your age, though you are indeed young by the reckoning of my kindred. I call you child because you are of the Eruhíni, and deserve to be acknowledged as such.”

Aragorn nodded, feeling as though he had just passed some sort of trial. Yet he was also filled with foreboding, wondering what Lord Manwë wished of him. Snippets of ancient lays and tales about his distant ancestors flited through his mind: of Tuor and Ulmo, Lúthien and Mandos, of Eärendil and Elwing before the Valar. He shivered slightly, not only from dread but also with cold, wrapping his cloak more tightly about him. The damp floor had seeped through his fine linen trousers and the room had the chill of a cave.

“Stand up, Child,” the Elder King commanded, frowning slightly.

Aragorn hesitated. It seemed impious to stand before the One’s vicegerent. “My Lord, I and my fathers have always feared the Valar,” he replied the High Tongue.

“It is no great thing to be feared, Child,” the Elder King said softly. “Even our enemies do that. You are a mighty King of Men, are you not? Would you have your subjects fear you?”

Aragorn reflected for a moment, gazing up at the Vala towering over him before he answered. “Nay, my lord. I would rather they serve me out of love or, failing that, out of a sense of obligation to the King of the realm.”

“Indeed, Child. Do you think me so different? Would you make one of your subjects kneel on a wet floor when they were already shaking with cold?”

Aragorn felt himself flush. He was about to rise, when, to his surprise, the Elder King bent over and grasped Aragorn’s right hand and helped pull him to his feet. It was a small gesture of kindness yet it seemed strange that the most powerful being in Arda would deign to assist him so. A line from an old story came to mind: “Manwë has no thought for his own honor, and is not jealous of his power, but rules all to peace.” Even so, Aragorn could not help but feel that the King of Aman had better things to do with his time than speak with him.

“Nay, Child,” the Vala’s voice interrupted Aragorn’s musings. “This is indeed as important as anything I might do with my time. I am King of Aman, but am I not also King of Endórë? Should I not be concerned with proceedings here?”

“Of course, my Lord. Forgive my presumption,” he said, feeling disturbed that the Elder King appeared to be able to perceive his every thought.

“No forgiveness is required for no offence was intended. Ask your question, Child,” the Elder King prompted gently, regarding Aragorn with unfathomable eyes. “There is no need for fear.”

“Why are you here, my Lord?” he asked with some trepidation, steeling himself.

“Because I wished to speak with the one whom is King of Gondor and Arnor,” the Elder King stated simply.

Aragorn wondered, fleetingly, if Lord Manwë had appeared to any of his ancestors when they had presented their offerings in the Hallow in centuries past. The Archives held no record of such an encounter, yet that did not mean it had never happened before. Perhaps the Elder King had often presented himself to the Kings of Gondor. He found himself glancing at the wall beyond the altar, depicting the relief of Osgiliath in its splendor and wondered how his own reign would one day be remembered.

“Seldom did I speak with your forefathers as I rarely deemed it necessary, Child. But that is not to say that when they offered their sacrifices here they were always as alone as they supposed,” Lord Manwë said with a smile. “Neither were the Kings of Númenor when they made their offerings upon the Meneltarma.”

 “You have deemed it necessary to speak with me, my Lord?” he asked uncertainly.

“You find that hard to believe, Child?” the Vala laughed lightly, a joyous sound that reminded Aragorn of chiming bells. “Your humility becomes you.”

Aragorn was about to inquire as to what Lord Manwë wish to speak about when an icy wind blew in through the doorway. He shivered violently, his fur-lined cloak unable to ward off the chill brought on by his damp trousers. He would soon need to light a fire or start moving to warm himself. He had witnessed Men perish in the Wilds, beyond even his aid, when they had gotten wet in the dead of winter. The Elder King looked at him, concerned, and Aragorn knew he had discerned his thoughts. He looked at his feet, feeling ashamed at his weakness.

“It is not weakness, Child. One does not criticize silver for not being gold. You have limitations, yes, but you also have strengths and abilities that even I do not.”

The Elder King looked rueful as he next spoke. “I ask your forgiveness, Child. It has been many yéni since I have spoken to one of the race of Men. It did not occur to me that such a thing might not be only uncomfortable, but also dangerous for you.”

With that, the Elder King waved his hand negligently and Aragorn felt his trousers become dry almost instantly. He shuddered again. Not with cold this time, but at the seemingly careless display of power. He gazed up at the Lord Manwë in wonder. Aragorn had always believed the tales he had heard as a youth of the majesty and might of the Valar. Yet they had never seemed more true than at that very moment. He bowed, placing his right hand on his heart in the elvish fashion.

“Thank you, my Lord,” he said with all the gratitude he could muster.

Lord Manwë gave a dismissive wave of his hand, as if what he had done was too trivial to warrant any comment.

“Why did you wish to speak with me, my Lord?” Aragorn inquired.

“I have questions I wish to ask you, Child. Such as why you have chosen to reinstate this tradition?” the Elder King asked, gesturing at the altar and the offering upon it, still waiting to be set aflame.

“I thought it was obvious, my Lord,” Aragorn answered, frowning.

“Perhaps, yet I wish to hear your reasoning.”

“I do this because it is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the providence of Lord Eru, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favor. As King, I must do this for my people. Returning to this tradition seemed to me a good way of fulfilling this duty.”

The chamber was suddenly filled with a flash of light so bright Aragorn was momentarily blinded. The offering on the altar burst into flames, hot enough that he felt it from where he stood several paces away. He ducked into a defensive crouch, hand instinctively flying to his belt were a sword ought to have been sheathed. He rose when realized that what he had just seen was lighting striking the altar through one of the shafts in the ceiling. Feeling foolish, he turned to the Lord of the Air, wondering why he had done such a thing.

“It was not I who did that, Child. It appears Lord Eru has found your sacrifice agreeable and has decided to demonstrate a sign of his favor,” the Elder King smiled, sounding pleased.

Aragorn watched the fire consume the offering, a frisson of awe coursing through him.

 Glossary

Ell (English): an archaic unit of measurement, originally approximating the length of a man's arm from the bend of the elbow to the tip of the middle finger: about 18 inches.

Manwë Súlimo (Quenya): The King of the Valar, Lord of the Winds and husband of Varda Elentári, the chief of the gods as it were. 

Vicegerent (English): A person exercising delegated power on behalf of a sovereign or a person regarded as an earthly representative of God, both definitions being true in the case of the Elder King.

Arda (Quenya): ‘The earth’. Can also refer to the solar system. Literally means ‘realm’.

“His raiment is blue, and blue is the fire of his eyes…”: a quote from the Silmarillion.

“Manwë has no thought for his own honor…”: a quote from the Silmarillion.

Eruhíni (Quenya): ‘Children of Eru’. I.e. Men and Elves.

Vala (Quenya): Singular of Valar.

Yéni (Quenya): a unit of time used by the Elves equaling 144 years. Plural of Yén.

Aman (Quenya): ‘The Blessed Realm’. Also called the Undying Lands, it is a continent that lay to the west of Middle-earth, across the ocean. It is the home of the Valar and the Elves

Endórë (Quenya): ‘Middle-earth’.

Note: Aragorn’s response to Manwë is a direct quote fromGeorge Washington: “It is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey His will, to be grateful for His benefits, and humbly to implore His protection and favor.”