Long live the Halflings! Praise them with great praise!
Nine of their original company had they been able to marshal for the final battle before the Black Gate of Mordor, and nine survived. Two lay within the healing tents spread beneath the beech trees, but all would live to return to their homes in the North. Perhaps the company’s distance from their Chieftain in the final battle had returned to the Northern Dúnedain their usual sense of self-preservation—they had been assigned within a greater company of five hundred horse, rather than to ride again into this battle as the very vanguard of Aragorn’s defense. In truth, they suspected among themselves that Aragorn had chosen their place within the ranks full deliberately, wishing to avoid another such culling of the Northern company in his defense as they had known upon the field at Minas Tirith. Yet until this hour he had been theirs, and there was no man among them who would not have traded his life to reclaim that place denied now by circumstance and King.
For King they now had, declared or no. The days of their Chieftain were no more.
Praise them! The Ring-bearers, praise them with great praise!
And Haladan son of Halbarad looked upon the diminutive Ring-bearers, still pale and weak from their great labors, hesitant under the weighted gaze of the crowd, and upon he who sat upon the high seat in acknowledged majesty awaiting them. Aragorn had proven his worth to all those gathered here, in wisdom and battle and healing touch, and sat now the uncontested leader upon their field of victory. He was every bit the King his people had always expected, when that expectation yet dwelt upon a far horizon. Haladan’s pride in the Chieftain of the Men of the North sang in his blood, fierce and glad, and he regretted with every fiber of his being that his father, great friend and beloved kin to Aragorn, was not present to see it. His eyes prickled and blurred, and he knew not whether he fought tears of grief or exultation.
And so the red blood blushing in their faces and their eyes shining with wonder, Frodo and Sam went forward and saw that amidst the clamorous host were set three high-seats built of green turves.
And Eredhed son of Eredhel lay up on his cot staring upon the green bows above, listening to the murmur of the gathered company as the Ring-bearers came among them. He wondered much that those who were so small in both stature and esteem of the world had such great bearing on this victory of the Free Peoples and upon the new Age to come. He had overheard one of the Hobbits speaking with Gandalf before they had departed the healing tents, and hoped mightily that indeed for this small one all sad things might come untrue. If any had earned such a boon, surely it was this Sam and his companion. For himself, Eredhed closed his eyes and allowed himself to be carried upon the tide of the rising cheers and wondered if he would walk again—and if not, how he was to tell his new bride that she had bound herself to a cripple.
Behind the seat upon the right floated, white on green, a great horse running free; upon the left was a banner, silver upon blue, a ship swan-prowed faring on the sea; but behind the highest throne in the midst of all a great standard was spread in the breeze, and there a white tree flowered upon a sable field beneath a shining crown and seven glittering stars.
And Arestor son of Raenadh eyed the standards set upon either side of the great black banner with the white tree, and wondered that the Steward of Gondor was permitted a representative among the high lords yet no man of the North stood in equal dignity upon Aragorn’s other hand. Perhaps their Chieftain—their King—himself was meant to represent them. Indeed, so stern and fair and lordly was he, this man whose lineage had been nurtured and defended by their people throughout the centuries, who had until only recently prowled the wilds with them as a Ranger among his own kin, that no other representative could possibly be desired. He doubted, though, that any here would look upon Aragorn now and be reminded of the Northern Kingdom which stood also among them. They had answered their Chieftain’s call as well as they were able. It was not with the strength of numbers offered by others, but still they had stood with Aragorn in the very face of defeat and somehow now found themselves in the heady disbelief of that end of which their ancestors could only dream. Yet Arestor grieved that in their moment of victory, the sacrifices of their people seemed forgotten.
On the throne sat a mail-clad man, a great sword was laid across his knees, but he wore no helm. As they drew near he rose. And then they knew him, changed as he was, so high and glad of face, kingly, lord of Men, dark-haired with eyes of grey.
And Mardal son of Ivorheld heard gladly the words of admiration spoken by those who surrounded him, the men of Gondor and of Rohan alike, and saw their awe for Aragorn son of Arthorn, his Chieftain and King. The house of Elendil had triumphed, and now took its rightful place upon the thrones of Gondor and Arnor. Its last scion was a man of might and discernment, reared by Elrond Halfelven and learned over the course of decades from within all the kingdoms of Men and Elves. Aragorn richly deserved all praise and fealty offered him. He thought upon the great White City they had so recently visited, and then upon ruined Fornost and the forgotten remnants of Annúminas, and he grieved that Arnor had forfeited its own claim to glory while Gondor endured. Perhaps it may yet have opportunity to return to its renown of old, yet he wondered if it were better than such a King as Aragorn concentrate his focus upon the men of the South rather than spend time and treasure upon a ragtag people who were surely done with their usefulness having successfully provided a King for the throne. He suspected the North had done with its usefulness to him as well, and Mardal wondered if some position may be available in Minas Tirith for even one so Northern and uncouth as himself.
Frodo ran to meet him, and Sam followed close behind. “Well, if this isn’t the crown of all!” he said. “Strider, or I’m still asleep!”
“Yes, Sam, Strider,” said Aragorn. “It is a long way, is it not, from Bree, where you did not like the look of me? A long way for us all, but yours had been the darkest road.”
And Brendis son of Baladhor looked upon the incredulous joy of their small heroes at seeing the face of his Chieftain, and he knew a fierce satisfaction that they had been saved—that they had come battered but unbroken through their trials, that their home and kin would not await their return in vain. Indeed, a time might now be envisioned, even if it was not yet near, when none (or at least few) would wait in vain for father or son or brother to reappear after long absence, when the sacrifices of a bitterly hard life would not steal away mothers and daughters and sisters from among those who depended upon them. How deeply he longed for that day. The affection between King and Hobbits shone for all to see and he basked in its light, no longer expecting any touch of warmth. Brendis thought of his own father and mother and brothers, and wife, and children, and wondered how it was that having long battled every manner of evil creature in the North, having twice fought the great hordes of the Enemy in the South—having watched his people and fellow warriors fall upon his right and his left—he could not manage to join them.
And then to Sam’s surprise and utter confusion he bowed his knee before them; and taking them by the hand, Frodo upon his right and Sam upon his left, he led them to the throne, and setting then upon it, he turned to the men and captains who stood by and spoke so that his voice rang over all the host, crying:
“Praise them with great praise!”
And Dorhaur son of Daelin thought of his grandfather, and his uncles, and his father, and of all his kin who had spent themselves through the long decades in service of this man and this moment. He was stricken with unworthiness and gratitude that he should be the one chosen to stand now and bear witness to a triumph that belonged so much more to his forebears than to he, and saw himself as part of the long line of his people that had already come and were not yet born, wondered how such an honor to him could have been ordained. His grandfather had been devoted to their Chieftain, had often spoken of his pride in the man Aragorn had become and would yet be. His father and uncles had ridden beside the man and protected him bodily more times than Dorhaur would ever know—even unto the cost of their lives. Watching the King now, he knew that none of his kin would regret the sacrifices made to this end. Aragorn was everything his family—his people—might have desired. It seemed unfair to him that his grandfather and uncles had not lived to see this day, that his father had been kept in the North far from this moment of victory. Yet Dorhaur vowed silently to them that he would stand proud in their place and be to this new Age what they could not now offer.
And when the glad shout had swelled up and died away again, to Sam’s final and completed satisfaction and pure joy, a minstrel of Gondor stood forth, and knelt, and begged leave to sing. And behold! he said:
“Lo! lords and knight and men of valour unashamed, kings and princes, and fair people of Gondor, and Rider of Rohan, and ye sons of Elrond, and Dúnedain of the North, and Elf and Dwarf, and greathearts of the Shire, and all free folk of the West, now listen to my lay. For I will sing to you of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom.”
And Renulf son of Arestor wondered if his father had heard the minstrel’s acknowledgement of the men of the North, and wished too that Arnor had been afforded a place of honor as had Gondor and Rohan, and accepted it. Arestor was jealous of their place in this new Age, ready to push their people forward and to take offense at slights intended or no, but Renulf was too pragmatic to fight the inevitable. The Dúnedain were a fading people, of which nine only now remained within the multitude upon Cormallen field. Gondor and Rohan would accept them, but could surely not see them as an equal. Still, they had endured throughout the long years. They had played their part. From among them the line of Isildur now stepped forth strong and unbroken. If they no longer could boast great craftsmen or lore masters as of old, if they must now take a secondary status to their King’s greater land to the South, yet still they could they stand as a people who demanded respect. The remnants of the Northern kingdom were a hearty breed, determined and unbowed. Their cities would stand strong again, and their children flourish. Aragorn was King not only of Gondor, and he would not be given cause to regret a single moment spent within his old lands.
And when Sam heard that he laughed loud for sheer delight, and he stood up and cried: “O great glory and splendour! And all my wishes have come true!” And then he wept.
And all the host laughed and wept, and in the midst of their merriment and tears the clear voice of the minstrel rose like silver and gold, and all the men were hushed.
And Anladh son of Ardir sat within the cool tent at the bedside of his brother, and listened to the words of the minstrel and the rustle of the wind in the leaves, and let this tale of the great deeds of their own time soak into his soul. Aevar was the poet, the musician—how his brother would hang upon every word and note were he conscious to hear it. He was not, however, so Anladh must remember of it what he was able. He would, of course, butcher it in the retelling, and his elder brother would tease about his inability to carry a tune in a bucket, but still Aevar would appreciate the effort. Perhaps when he was awake and healing Aevar would create his own version of the tale of the Hobbits and the return of the King, and he would polish it upon the return journey, and they would tell it around their campsites and at the hearths of their kin and in the homes of their sweethearts. Anladh longed already for their return—there was in his stern kindred, and in the North’s harsh climes and strange wild beauty, that which would never be matched by Gondor or Rohan or any of the lands between—but that would come in due time. For now, he let the laughter and the tears and the lusty song of all the gathered host lift him and draw forth his own, and when he looked down again he found Aevar watching him drowsily through his single remaining eye.
“Don’t sing,” he slurred, eye closing again. “Prairie dog sings better’n you…”
And he sang to them, now in the Elven-tongue, now in the speech of the West, until their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Bolded words are from ROTK, The Field of Cormallen.